yoditostan

[yoditostan]

too sweet (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: in your fight for survival against a world intent on killing you, you stumble across the humble abode of one joel miller.

warnings: age gap (28/56), post-outbreak, canon divergence (no ellie), canon typical violence, angst, some fluff, smut, cursing, blood, injuries, mentions of dead parents & child, weapons, smidge of voyeurism, inexperienced reader, alcohol (joel & reader are not intoxicated and everything is consensual), unprotected piv, v light choking, 18+ mdni.

notes: so, @perotovar posted a gifset and this idea came to me in a vision. erin, you are a rockstar and i can’t thank you enough for the incredible visuals you provide with your stunning gif work. we love you so much <3 tysm for making these for my header 🥹

a huge thank you to my beta, @macfrog 🫶🏻 max: the time & effort you’ve spent on this for me.. i love you. so much, forever. ty for always being so generous w your brain. so much love goes to @swiftispunk @frannyzooey @joelscruff for their support with my very first real smut 🫡

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

Oh, he’s serious.

“So you’ve decided not to kill me?”

“I still might,” he grunts, dark eyes flashing with a quiet rage

You place the pistol on the sagging wooden table, pushing it with a force that sends it spinning towards him. He pockets it, swallowing thickly.

“Now, you wanna try this again?”

You attempt to speak, but your tongue is stuck. Everything moves in slow motion, blood rushes in your ears, and the world turns black.

///

Smoke.

You can see it: thick and dark against the pearl white sky, snow frozen on your eyelashes. You haven’t felt your toes for a few days now; your fingers numb this morning.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

It can also mean a myriad of other things: raiders, murderers, the worst humanity has left to offer. Yet, the blood stains the ice beneath you as you drag your feet, and you know you’ll take your chances.

You don’t have any other choice.

The wound in your stomach is deep, the result of a skirmish with a raider who thought he’d try his luck with your hard-earned dinner catch. He came off worse than you: dead, in fact, but you’re pretty sure you’ll be joining him soon enough if you can’t stop the bleeding.

Your father’s voice echoes in your head, the peeling wallpaper and damp ceilings of the rotting apartment in which he took his last rattling breaths.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You were eight when the Cordyceps outbreak unfolded. He tried to hide you, left you in your bedroom as he took a shotgun to your mother, the woman you once knew already infected, robbed from the both of you.

You’ve never forgotten the sound, though. The snarls ripping from her throat as she lunged, the thud of her body against the floor. Him scooping you up in his arms, tearing through the end of the world to get you to safety.

The QZ was safe, for twenty years. Bleak, depressing, devoid of any joy; but free from fungus and all the destruction it left in its path. You grew up quickly, earning your rations sweeping streets and shovelling shit. Your father worked himself even harder, going without so you could have more.

He trained you for this: taught you how to handle a gun, to break an arm, to hold your breath and purify water you can drink without poisoning yourself. He sharpened you, honed your skills, all whilst his body was failing him. He gripped your hand the day he died, told you he was sorry, for all of it.

And he left you alone.

You crawled under the wire fencing that night, and you’ve been on the move ever since. Six months of chewing rabbit and washing yourself in streams, hiding in trees and gutting clickers from the inside out. All in aid of searching for that idea of more, the one your father told you must be out here somewhere.

You won’t let it all be for nothing.

And yet, the blood soaks your fingertips as you apply pressure to the wound. The tip of your nose remains numb, and flurries of snow cling to you stubbornly, turning to deadly mush inside your shoes, the hood of your jacket, freezing your spine and shortening your breaths.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

///

Picking the lock of the cabin is easy.

Another skill drummed into you, and one you’re savagely glad for. You can’t feel your digits, of course, but you watch them work of their own accord, the catch springing free.

Sure enough, flames are crackling in the grate of a stone fireplace. The place makes you think of a ski lodge you’d visited when you were young: a thick rug across the floor, a table with cutlery strewn across it, a wooden balcony hung with drying linen.

“Nice,” you whistle lowly, crouched and ready to greet the inhabitants. Your precious pistol is cocked in your hand; a poignant gift from your father. You take a step forward; a droplet of blood splashing against the floorboards.

Your ears are pricked, listening for a pair of lungs, the creak of a boot — any indication that you’re not alone. You’re fighting every natural instinct you have to rush to the warmth, heart beating out of your chest.

Nothing moves. Nobody comes.

You drop your shoulders, breathe in and out, sliding your weapon into the back of your jeans. Later, you’ll picture your father’s face if he’d seen what was to come. The way he would’ve reprimanded you for letting your guard down so easily.

Goddamn gun’s no use in your pocket, sweetheart.

Then, a real voice comes from behind you, still out in the snow. It’s harsh, deep, and unforgiving.

“Hands up, turn and face me.”

You raise your palms, turn slowly on the spot. Your brain works fast: calculating your odds, trying to figure out how — if — you can get the drop on your attacker.

He doesn’t shoot, though. He just stands there, hunting rifle aimed at your head, icy drifts swirling round the both of you. Your feet teeter on the edge of what you now guess to be his home.

He’s a lot older than you, for sure.

Dark hair streaked with grey, thick moustache and slivered scruff adorning his reddened cheeks. His eyes look almost black; set beneath a strong brow with a curving nose, full lips drawn into a scowl. Tall and foreboding, but you note that you’re not scared.

You’ve been trained for this.

He makes a gesture, shaking his head, indicating you move backwards. The man corners you once you’re inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“Don’t even think about tryin’ to shoot,” he mutters, and you shrug, feigning innocence.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the noise rumbling through his chest as he tuts in disbelief. You’re envious of his thick overcoat, the layers he has on beneath it. He’s well-built: broad shoulders and the curve of a belly pushing at his flannel shirt.

That’s good. ‘Least you picked somewhere you might be able to eat a hot meal before he puts a bullet between your eyes.

You’re dizzy from the blood loss by now, the puncture in your stomach draining the fight from you. You lower your arms to your sides, and his eyebrow raises.

“Don’t remember sayin’ you could do that.”

It’s your turn to laugh then, despite your predicament, the fact death could whisper in your ear at any given moment. You’re stubborn as hell and you know it, and you have a feeling he is too.

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

///

You wake up, seemingly, on a cloud — soft sheets and thick pillows, a contrast to the pallet you slept on in the QZ, the forest floor where you’ve been unceremoniously laying your head.

You feel disorientated, a searing pain across your forehead. Your eyes focus: it’s dark outside besides the sliver of moonlight, a total white-out with flakes still falling.

“What.. The fuck?”

You still have your sweater, torn apart and caked in rusted blood. But, beneath it, bandages wrap round your midriff. Panic swims in your chest, bile rising in your throat. You squirm, grasping at the sheets.

Where the fuck are you?

“Easy, easy.”

You stop thrashing. It’s him: face in the shadows of the candle that burns beside him, slouched in a chair at the foot of the bed. Watching, waiting.

“What did you do to me?!” you demand, failing to keep the tremble from your voice.

“I stitched you back up, that’s what I did.”

Swallowing, you gingerly pick at the bandages and gauze, flesh underneath pulled gruesomely tight.

The bastard saved your life. You don’t know why, or how he even had the supplies to, but he did.

“Think I managed to stop the bleedin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I’m still here, so I guess you’re right,” you groan, pushing to sit up against the pillows.

“Try not to move so fast. You, uh, hit your head when you fell. Don’t want you passin’ out on me again.” He stands, gripping the bedpost, fingers curled round the wood. Your fingers find a lump on your forehead, a scab stretched over it, and you wince.

So much for being fucking capable.

“You didn’t need to do any of this,” you gesture around you weakly, rubbing at your temples. A glass of water sits on the dresser beside you, a shirt and a pair of jeans folded at the end of the bed.

“I know that. Not exactly sure you’d have done it for me, either,” he shrugs.

He’s not wrong. You crossed the threshold of his home, ready to murder any and every occupant if you had to. Instead, you collapsed pathetically, and woke up in the owner’s bed.

“Saw you a mile off, kiddo. Tracked you all the way here, to my place.”

You scoff, regretting it when it aggrevates the fresh threads in your belly. “I don’t fucking think so.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and he sits near your feet, glancing toward the window. You recoil slightly, still unsure of him and the sheer size of his body: wide chest, big hands, solid arms you can see tight against his flannel.

“What, you thought I’d just let you walk right in? You think I’m some kinda fool?”

“So why didn’t you just shoot me back then?” you spit, not enjoying the condescension in his tone.

“Well,” he mutters, looking at your blood-soaked clothes, “in truth, wasn’t sure I’d have to.”

You feel exhausted, even after a few minutes of confrontation. The tiredness settles itself deep into your bones: all you want to do is close your eyes, luxuriate in the simple pleasure of a warm bed.

“Look, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he murmurs, heading for the door, and you’re nodding, eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

You’re not even sure why.

“Then what?”

He stops, moonlight seeping through the blinds, illuminating the curve of his nose.

“I’ll bring you some soup. When you’re ready, of course,” he tells you, like it’s the most normal statement in the world. The tears sting, and you let them wash over you as the door shuts quietly.

Soup, in a strange man’s bed. The abnormality of your situation is overwhelming, but even if you wanted to escape, high-tail it out the window like your father taught you, you won’t.

You’d be dead within a few days: a hole in your stomach, concussion fogging your brain, fingers and toes saved from the brink of frostbite.

No, you’ll stay. Make the most of your would-be murderer’s hospitality whilst you can.

You don’t even know his name.

///

“Rabbit? Again?”

“You got a problem with that?”

His fork stabs at the meat on his plate, knife slicing it cleanly. You chew and swallow rhythmically, unsure of why you’re complaining. It’s not like you had ever dined out on fine steak and fries, but you don’t want him to know that.

Joel.

Fifty-six, Texas native, one dead daughter and a missing brother.

Three months have passed, and you’ve grown accustomed to the quiet, robust companionship on offer. His rushed surgery may have saved your life, but you developed an infection soon after, no thanks to the raider’s rusty knife that had plunged into your stomach.

Joel found it somewhere in his heart to keep you alive: sponging you down when fever burnt through you, swaddling you in blankets when your teeth chattered through the night. You floated in and out of consciousness as he pumped penicillin into you - the vials of which you have no idea how he came across.

Still. You were indebted to him, now. Twice.

You discovered Joel hadn’t been here for long before your arrival: nine months, in fact. Setting up a home to sustain himself during a harsh winter, the previous occupants dying of old age. He wanted a base, somewhere to rest and recoup, before continuing on to find his brother, some settlement in Jackson he’s heard whispers of.

Or so he tells you. You choose to believe him, anyway.

You pulled your weight around the cabin as soon as you were able to, heading out on supply runs to the nearby ghost towns when you finally felt strong enough, compiling a mismatched wardrobe and a library for yourself. Joel hasn’t asked you to leave, and you find yourself, inexplicably, wanting to stay.

Warm showers mean scrubbed fingernails and clean hair. Three meals a day mean relaxed shoulders and a full belly. You’ve shed the skin of the girl you were in the QZ, the girl who survived six months alone in the a world that tried so hard to kill her.

You still see her, in the cracked mirror above the fireplace. You know she’ll never truly leave, but you think you like it that way.

It’s quiet, out here. Peaceful, in a way you’ve never known life to be. The snow is still lingering, but Joel tells you gruffly that spring isn’t far away: new life unfolding, all blossoming trees and baby birds. You can’t wait to see it.

If — when — Joel decides to move on, you think you’ll stay. No infected this far north, he tells you. Raiders don’t bother, either. You’d manage, but something in your heart tells you you’d miss him, even with his tightly-drawn brows, monosyllabic answers and permanent scowl.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You hope your father, wherever he is, can see you’ve found it.

///

Joel’s gloves land on the table beside you, leather slapping against oak.

“Thought we could share some of this tonight.”

You look up from the new pile of books he’s found for you: Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, family recipes and guides to grow vegetables. He’s holding an old glass bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside it, label hanging on by a thread.

“Share... With me?”

He lowers himself into the chair beside you with a groan, bones creaking, overcoat discarded. “You see anyone else here?”

Your eyes roll, used to his remarks. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Joel.”

“You ain’t packed your bags just yet,” he counters, and you snap shut the novel you’d been perusing, dust climbing into the air.

“What is it, anyway?”

“This,” he smirks proudly, “is whiskey. Tastes best neat.”

You take the bottle from him, nose wrinkling at the cobwebbed decoration. “You sure it’s still any good? It’s just, you know, I’m kinda unwilling to risk my life again.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “See how it’s unopened? Could be a hundred years old, and would taste just as good as the day it was made.”

“A hundred years old, huh? Means you’ve got about twenty years on it, in that case.”

Joel chews his lip, eyes narrowing at the barb. The push and pull between you both is so familiar now: biting remarks that surely would make others wince.

Not that it matters. No other witnesses exist besides faded smiles in cobwebbed photo frames, and they can’t judge you now.

Sometimes, there’s a twisted, perverse thrill to be had from seeing just how far you can push him.

“‘m takin’ a shower,” Joel mutters, swiping the bottle from your hands. The glass clinks against the chipped china sink, and you watch him rooting around in the cupboards beneath. His shoulders flex as they move beneath his shirt, and you find yourself dwelling once more on how fucking broad he is.

The thought slips away as he stands, two tumblers joining the bottle on the sideboard. Wondering again just why he wants to share it with you, you watch Joel stalk off down the hallway, the sound of the shower humming rhythmically moments later.

You collect your books, decades-old newspaper cuttings acting as place markers. You linger over a novel at the bottom of the pile; a smutty romance you keep well hidden from your makeshift roommate. You save it for after sundown; feeling the blood burn low in your belly when you’re curled in your sheets, poring over line after line of heaving chests, panting moans and torrents of passion.

You’re not sure what Joel would make of that particular title.

You pass the bathroom as you retreat with your stash of new titles, steam seeping out of the crack between the floor and wood. You’re momentarily struck by a startling visual of Joel beneath the stream of warm water, sluicing down the column of his throat, rippling off his collarbones, soaking the dark hair nestled on his sternum.

You flop onto the bed, books clattering to the floor. Stretched out on your back, you stare at the ceiling, longing for a distraction — a way to end the frustration you’re feeling, once and for all.

Where the fuck is this all coming from? Why now?

The lock to the bathroom door clicks in its hinges; you know if you turn your head just a little, you’d be able to see him. So you wait, and you watch him leave, totally oblivious to your staring.

///

For once, you don’t complain about rabbit for dinner.

Tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of your mouth, all your thoughts are occupied by the man sitting across from you. Try as you might, you can’t forget what you’ve just seen: that broad chest, dark hair threaded with silver peppered across his smooth skin, growing thicker over his soft tummy.

The thin, white towel round his narrow hips, only partway concealing a bulge of a certain size.

Come on, you tell yourself. It’s Joel. Just Joel.

Twenty-eight years your senior. Not your biggest fan.

All the self-preservation you’ve built upon, clawing your way out of a place determined to suck the life from you, surviving raiders and murders and a hole in your stomach. You’re not about to forget yourself over a glimpse of skin.

Joel collects the plates when you’re finished eating, clearing his throat loudly. “You alright to get the fire goin’ if I clear up?”

You nod, grateful for a distraction.

Soon enough, flames are crackling in the grate, socked feet folded beneath you. You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood; iron washing over your tongue as Joel takes his place beside you on the couch, whiskey in hand.

“Some people would mix water in with this, but I want your first time to be a good one.”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by the words he’s chosen. He wouldn’t have even thought about it.

Still. It’s not lost on you.

Joel fills your glass first, before tipping his head toward you, swallowing his down whole. You follow his lead, spluttering as the liquid burns your throat.

“Jesus, girl. What did ya do that for?”

He smacks lightly between your shoulder blades, helping you clear your airways. His fingers linger a little, resting at the nape of your neck, and you involuntarily shudder at the contact.

“Can’t be shown up by you, can I?” you jest croakily, regaining a modicum of composure. There’s a warm feeling spreading from your chest; you’re not sure if it’s the drink, or the sensation of his hands on you. Finally.

You nurse the next tumbler, sipping it slowly, learning to enjoy it. You don’t think you’ve ever spent this much time with Joel — unless you’re out hunting together; you shooting, him dressing, or arguing over who’s next to take the linen to the river for cleaning, or the rare few times you’ve watched a VHS with one another, mostly in silence.

“‘s Burt Reynolds. Someone told me I look a little like him,” Joel points at the screen: an extremely handsome moustachioed man swanning around in too-tight denim jeans and a cowboy hat. You snort, almost choking on your beef jerky. “Was that person your mother?”

The television remains silent tonight, though.

It’s just you and Joel, the fire hissing and spitting, and impossible darkness outside. You relax into the couch, warm to your bones. He cricks his neck, groaning in satisfaction. His hands are covered in scars, forearms much the same. You wonder how they got there; how this stoic, brooding man beside you came to be.

“Joel?”

He lifts his head, huge fingers swirling his tumbler in the low amber light. “Hm?”

“Tell me about Texas.”

///

After an hour, the fire has almost died out, the two of you talking too much to notice. Well, Joel’s talking. You’re listening intently, watching his grin grow wide and eyes shine as he tells you stories of his brother and daughter.

“We’d walked for an hour to get these ice cream cones Sarah insisted on havin’. We get back to our street, ‘n Tommy’s showin’ off for one of the new neighbours. Ends up trippin’ over a hosepipe, damn cone went all over him. God, me and Sarah didn’t stop laughin’,” he chuckles, chin resting on his glass.

You can feel it, see it: the raucous, bubbling giggles, dribbling pink splotches of strawberry ice-cream, burning hot sidewalk and the squeak of rubber sneakers.

It fills you with joy and sadness in equal measure. Your own fuzzy memories of life before were never too far away.

“Were you, uh, ever married? To Sarah’s mom?”

He exhales, carding a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Sure was. For about a year.”

You note the way his shoulders slouch, expression unreadable. You almost wish you hadn’t even asked. Still, the liquor makes you bold, so you press a little further.

“Was she your high school sweetheart?”

Joel scoffs. “Now, what would you know about high school sweethearts?”

You move to pour another mouthful into each glass, shrugging. “Hey, I had a boyfriend once — for a few months, at least. Back in the QZ.”

“I ain’t surprised, pretty thing like you. Even if you are a pain in my ass,” he sighs, two thick fingers wrapped round his tumbler.

You’re blinking slowly, registering the fact that Joel just called you pretty. There’s no denying your attraction to him now. The pulsing sensation below your navel is proof enough.

“Okay, so, who’d you lose your virginity to?”

You’re not sure where this line of questioning has come from; all you know is that you’re enjoying yourself.

Joel’s face screws up in disbelief, but he tips the remaining liquid down his throat regardless, glass slamming against the worn wooden coffee table.

“Melissa Horton, summer of 1986. Back seat of my Chevy.”

A giggle bubbles in your chest. It’s just so Joel.

He leans back into the couch, turning to face you. “Let me guess: you lost yours to this boy back home?”

Teeth in your lip, you nod, suddenly shy. “I was eighteen, for fucks sake. Everyone around me was having sex — something to do, I guess, when you’re not shovelling shit in the sewers. A way to feel alive, you know?”

Joel nods, eyes still on you. You look away, face reflected in the blank television screen.

“But there’s been nobody since?”

You shake your head. “Nope. A whole damn decade. What about you, Mr. Big Romantic? Any more hookups in the backseat?”

“Watch it,” he mutters. “I, uh, had someone. Back in Boston.”

You stay quiet, giving him space to continue if he wants to. You’re curious; watching him pick at the loose threads on the couch, moustache quivering.

“Her name was Tess. She and I.. We were together for a long time.”

You nod at his words; some things in this world don’t need explaining. Loss comes in so many different, horrifying forms. Relationships are temporary, connections are fleeting, and nothing lasts forever.

Something you’re trying to remind yourself of right now.

“What was she like?” you ask tentatively.

“She was.. She was somethin’. Brave. Nobody fucked with her.”

You laugh, raising your glass in a toast. “Sounds like I would’ve liked her.”

“I think so too. Wasn’t half as annoyin’ as you are, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t see you kicking me out.”

“Guess I kinda like the company. Even if you are a brat sometimes, baby,” he chuckles, warm and low, gaze noticeably trailing over your body.

Hot hooks of desire claw at your skin, burning inside you like you just sunk the whole bottle of liquor. You feel yourself shifting under the intensity of Joel’s stare.

Baby. That’s new, and you like it.

You let yourself wonder what would happen if you reached out to touch him: slide your fingers in his hair, your lips over his. If you climbed into his lap, tasted the whiskey you’ve shared off of his tongue, instead of from the glass?

Would he let you? Would he respond, in kind?

Would Joel Miller fuck you, if you asked him to?

“Joel, I —“

Then, his face disappears in opaque darkness.

///

The slow, distant hum of the generator is no more: all electricity gone from the cabin, rendering the lamps useless and shrouding you in gloom.

His voice comes from beside you, harsh and agitated. “What the fuck?”

You don’t move, listening as he ambles over to the matches kept above the fireplace, the dying embers below providing little light. He strikes one, and his features are illuminated, contorted with frustration.

“It was your turn to get gas for the generator,” he barks, and his gruffness throws you back in time; back to that first day, his rifle aimed at your head for trespassing into his space.

“Yeah, last week! Check the chore sheet — pretty sure you’ll see your name there instead,” you hiss, Joel moving to light the candles spread out across the room, in case of emergencies.

“Well — you didn’t think to fuckin’ remind me?!”

You get to your feet, incensed by his words. “Since when did that become my job? Don’t get shitty with me because you forgot, asshole.”

The last hour melts away like the flurries of snow across the plains in the weak spring sunshine. Tenderness replaced with fury, soft confessions forgotten, vitriol in the place of poorly-disguised lust.

Because that’s the way it should be, between you and Joel. That’s the way it works.

Right?

You stay rooted to the spot. He shrugs his coat on, muttering to himself under his breath. The fragile candlelight flickers, spidery shadows thrown over the walls.

“‘m gonna go check it. Grab the flashlights under the sink, would ya?”

You say nothing as the door closes, breeze blowing through the cabin as it does so. You peek through the shutters; moonlight sprawling across the mountain peaks, Joel bent in half as he inspects the generator.

Won’t do any good for his back, you muse.

Seeking out the flashlights as per request, you use one to check the chore sheet pinned to the faded cork board. Nothing more than a scrap of paper, jobs childishly divided under the headings of yours and his names.

“That fucker.”

Sure enough, his name is there. Just like you knew it would be.

“You talkin’ about me?”

You squeak in surprise, and he has you pinned, just like the day you arrived here. No rifle or life-threatening wound this time, but the scowl on his face is just the same. It almost makes you laugh, if you weren’t so pissed at him.

“You see anyone else here?”

You parrot Joel’s earlier words right back at him, watching his jaw tick in annoyance. He closes the space between you, your back against the kitchen cabinets.

“Just like I said,” he mutters, something about his tone turning your insides to liquid, a wetness pooling in your underwear. “Y’can be a real fuckin’ brat.”

A beat of silence follows.

A shared look of longing.

A mutual moment of insanity.

Joel tugs you towards him, your lips finding his in the dim light. Fingers scratching against the scruff along his jaw, you moan wantonly into his mouth. His hands slide against your bare skin beneath your shirt, palms so rough, and you break into goosebumps as a result.

You’re not sure if this is borne of building anger, pent-up frustration or both. All you do know is you’re putty in his hands, already so responsive to him as he continues to kiss you so deeply, your head bent back to accommodate his frame above you.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this: these hands that have held you hostage once — then saved your life — are now exploring the most intimate parts of you.

“We’re really doin’ this, huh?” he murmurs, cradling your jaw. Your own fingers drift over his jeans, skating across the hardening length at the apex of his thighs. His thumb lingers on your lips; you take it into your mouth by way of an answer, watching his pupils dilate as you swirl your tongue around it.

You don’t want to beg. You’d never make Joel do something he didn’t want to do — not that the stubborn bastard would let you. You release him with a wet pop, eyes wide and imploring.

“We really are.”

Your voice is quiet, unrecognisable; thick in your throat with unbridled need for him. It’s all the permission he needs.

Joel kisses you again, pushes you gently downwards till you’re laying flat on the dining table. His tongue is still in your mouth until you break apart breathlessly, helping him tug your shirt over your head.

You’re braless beneath it, his huge, warm hands cupping your tits, rough thumbs catching on the peaks, a growl in his chest as he does so. Joel just stares at you, at your chest, eyes blown black in the muted lighting.

“Christ,” he mutters darkly. “So goddamn perfect.”

His words spur you on; back arching off the wood as he bends to smear messy kisses against your throat, leaving sticky trails across your chest and the scar he repaired on your belly as he travels lower.

His fingers wedge between your jeans and the curve of your stomach, pulling you upright. Teeth capturing your bottom lip, Joel works the button open, and you’re shuffling desperately to try and rid yourself of any remaining clothing.

“What is it, baby girl? You want me to taste her?”

“Fuck, Joel. Please — I’ve never —“

“I know, baby. I know,” he soothes, thick fingers sliding the denim over your ankles, hooking into the band of your panties, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

He’s taking his time, revering in the sight of you — but you need Joel’s mouth.

You need his tongue.

Soon enough, you’re laid out naked before him, still stood there with his heavy overcoat and boots on. Joel shrugs it off, moving to hold your legs apart, spreading you open for him.

“Look at that. Know you’re gonna taste so sweet for me, baby.”

He bites into your inner thighs, your fingers threaded through his hair. You’ve never heard yourself make these sounds before — not even when you’ve touched yourself in the dead of night, struggling to remember the feeling of coming undone like this.

Joel licks a broad stripe over your centre, and you’re already convulsing, trembling as he continues to lavish you with his tongue. You watch his curved nose nestled right where you need the pressure, and before long, stars are bursting behind your eyelids as you spasm against his mouth.

“Good girl.”

His voice rouses you from your euphoria, and Joel pulls you to the edge of the table, into his arms. You taste yourself on him as he kisses you; blood simmering hot in your veins. “You okay?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

“Need more.”

Joel studies you for a moment, checking in, then tugs at his own clothing, buttons and boots bouncing melodically off the stone floor. His chest is as broad as you remember, wiry dark hair peppered over his soft tummy, trailing down to —

Fuck.

He’s huge. Stiff and leaking, flat against the curls beneath his navel.

Joel notices your hesitancy, hand under your chin to reassure you. “Hey, hey. Look at me. We don’t need to do this, not if you don’t want to.”

You swallow, take him in your hand. He hisses as you squeeze him, all soft velvet and hard steel. Your voice is barely a whisper, apprehension bubbling in your throat. “It’s just — like I said, it’s been a while.”

His lips press against your temple, your thumb running across the tip of him. You bring it to your mouth, relishing the salty tang across your tastebuds.

“S’okay, baby girl. We’ll go slow, I promise,” he groans, keeping you upright with a hand on your lower back. You nod in consent: Joel wouldn’t hurt you.

You want him. You want this.

He slides inside you inch by inch, letting you feel the delicious stretch and burn, fingernails deep into his shoulder, face in his neck. Good as his word, he takes his time, peppering kisses against your shoulder blade.

His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, both of you sharing in the euphoria. “I want you to watch, baby. Watch yourself takin’ me. See that you can do it.”

So, you do.

Joel whispers in your ear, teeth nipping your earlobe, tongue soothing it over. You’re doin’ so good baby, look so pretty spread open f’me.

You feel yourself growing slicker and sweatier at his words until, finally; he’s fully sheathed inside you.

You’re so full. He’s taken over your senses; plugging you, filling you to the brim. You don’t know where you end and Joel begins. He’s everything you’ve ever known and will do, forever.

“Move, Joel. Please.”

He’s crowding over you, fucking into you on the table he almost shot you over. It’s a heady realisation: you urge him on, and his thrusts deepen, and you’re already cresting the wave, riding the blissful sensation of him inside you.

“Baby, ‘m not gonna last long, squeezin’ me so good—“

Joel’s breathing is ragged, knives and plates falling to the floor as his pace increases. You feel him everywhere, fucking you in a way you’ve never experienced before. You’re so close, and you know he is too. “Here, Joel,” you pant, hand on your tummy, and he nods, sweat sheening across his forehead.

“Want one more from you first, darlin’. Know you can give it to me.”

His hand closes round your throat, claiming you as his own. You bite and scratch and sob in his arms, falling over the edge as your legs shake around him. You can hear Joel, vaguely, calling you his good girl, telling you he’s coming, painting your tummy with it.

Foreheads pressed together, your skin is aflame. You’re sticky with him, drenched in sweat, and sated beyond belief.

He kisses you, tenderly this time. In a way that feels more strangely intimate than anything that’s already passed between you both.

Breathing fresh air into your lungs, you press your lips to the tip of his nose. “Now what?”

He tilts you both back upright with a groan, a soft hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“I’m thinkin’ we do that all over again.”

///

Dawn bleeds through the drapes, fresh blue sky tinged with rose petal pink. Joel’s sleeping arm is banded round your middle, resting above the jagged scar he’d slid a needle through all those months before.

His breath is warm in your ear; back pressed to his chest, the same place you’d both collapsed from exhaustion a mere few hours ago. Joel fucked you twice more, here in his bed, sucking at your pulse points and moaning your name like a mantra.

You untangle yourself from him gently: dressing in one of his discarded shirts, desperately needing to pee and drink something other than whiskey. Downstairs, all remains as you left it. The half-drunk bottle, two tumblers, and hastily extinguished candles.

You stand by the window, gulping thirstily from the glass you’ve poured. The blossoms are burgeoning on the trees, birds collecting what they need for their nests. Joel was right; spring is looming, and you’re glad for it.

It’s truly a sight to behold — you don’t remember it much from your childhood. You suppose life moved too fast to stop and watch it changing right in front of you. It’s a privilege to see it now.

The bottom stair creaks over your shoulder, and soon enough, you’re engulfed in a bear-like embrace. Joel’s palms rest against your tummy, and he kisses your cheek in greeting.

“Hey, you,” you murmur shyly, turning in his arms. Dark eyes still cloudy with sleep, he raises his eyebrows at your choice of clothing, and you smack him lightly on the chest.

“‘Least you could do was let me borrow it.”

“Guess you’re right,” Joel concedes, hands finding your ass beneath the hem. You hiss a little when his fingers dig in to your skin; you’re still so sensitive from his ministrations the night before.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Y’just — last night was really somethin’.”

Eyes rolling, you kiss him chastely, a contented hum reverberating through his bare chest as you allow yourself to be wrapped into it.

He turned you inside out last night; your toes curling, skin soaked with sweat, his name on your lips as you came. You weren’t sure what to expect of him today: whether he’d tell you it was a mistake, it shouldn’t have happened, or — worse — ask you leave.

You knew, though. As soon as you were falling asleep, the way Joel quietly asked you to stay there in his bed with him. Something had changed, had shifted so irrevocably you weren’t sure he’d ever just be simply the man who saved your life again.

He’d snagged a tiny piece of your heart, a fortress you were insistent on making impenetrable. It frightens and excites you in equal measure.

“We better head out soon, get some fuel. Get that generator up and runnin’ again,” he murmurs, squeezing your sides softly.

You blink up at him incredulously, eyebrows raised.

“We? Need I remind you of that damned list one more time?”

You’re laughing as you say it, pushing away from his chest. His hair is rumpled, crescent-moon shaped scars from your nails along his upper arms, a bruise sucked into the column of his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ we scrap the list. Place belongs to us both now, anyway. Ain’t that right?”

His eyes are wide, searching yours, thumbs stroking across your skin. You already feel your body responding to him; a sensation you cannot deny.

You wouldn’t even want to try.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “That sounds about right.”

///

divider by @saradika-graphics & gifs by @perotovar 🤍

[yoditostan]

Sex Pollen Din Djarin one-shot

rating: 18+

pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader

a/n: Okay y'all, I heard you loud and clear and I couldn't focus until I got this outta my tippy tappy fingers. I don't really know much about Din Djarin so sorry if the characterization is all over the place. I also don't know anything about star wars or the show so I'm sorry if there's incorrect lore there.

This is also submission for the 2024 TROPE-OFF

Giving In

You start awake when you feel the rumble of approaching earth, rubbing at your tired face as you watch the Mandalorian seated in front of you guide the ship safely over the ground. 

You barely got any sleep last night, so excited for today's destination. You wince as you shift in your seat, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"Sorry, must've fallen asleep." 

Silence greets you as it often does. The Mandalorian says little and rarely answers your questions. The clang of the ship settling onto the sandy terrain draws your attention to the small window at your right. 

It's a barren backwater planet if you have anything to say about it. Barely populated except for what appears to be a dense section of foliage in yellow and purple. 

There's the echoing of Grogu babbling downstairs in his cubby, falling asleep. As the mechanical staff of the razor crest for the last two months you have no responsibility to the child. Nonetheless like most you were charmed by his sweet disposition and face. 

His father on the other hand...

He may not be a cruel man, but he's certainly an irritable one. Barely talks to you, is often arrogant, grunts at you when you make suggestions on repairs. Sometimes he ignores you altogether. 

You've been with him for two months. two solid months since Karga suggested you for his Crest repair when he visited Navarro. 

Two months since the Mandalorian decided you were worthy of being onboard his ship to do repairs (not that he ever complimented your work) for his sojourn in the outer rim to make good coin. 

Two months of ship repairs, planets, mutual disdain and pog soup eaten in separate parts of the ship. You know he only keeps you around because he refuses to have a mech-droid on board. His infamous hatred of droids is legendary in certain circles. 

"Are we close to Borr'rha?" You ask, sighing heavily when he continues to press buttons on the console while ignoring you. 

Borr'rha is where he'll refuel and where you'll be officially disembarking. You've been counting down the days. You're time as his employee is rapidly coming to an end and you couldn't be more thankful. 

Your personalities don't mix. You're jovial and prone to smiles. He's a buzz kill, annoying and so stringent in everything from his beliefs to arranging exactly where you'll sleep (he sleeps with the child in a comfortable looking cubby) whereas you have a makeshift room designated by curtains. You sleep on a lumpy mattress with thin blankets and flat pillows. 

And you put up with it because you're an orphan with no familial attachments. Because you don't care what planet you visit as long as your purse grows heavy with currency. You don't blink when be brings aboard snarling bounties that growl at you because for every body thrust in Carbonite, your life on Borr'rha is coming nearer and nearer into sight. A childhood dream finally coming to fruition. 

You can't wait.

You've already picked out the sweet little place you'll be buying. When you close your eyes you can picture it there, bathed gloriously in sunlight from the twin suns. 

"Detour."

It's the first thing he's said in hours. His voice is rough and raspy through the modulator. Images of your perfect home become vapor as he speaks. You frown at his back. 

"What? You told me we were going to Borr'rha today." 

Mando doesn't reply. Just stands slowly and when he does he towers over your seated frame (and your upright frame for that matter). 

He's so... big. Broad shoulders, thick beskar covering his body, big feet covered in wide boots. Every part of him seems built to withstand anything. Not one part of him peeks out, not one slice of flesh. He's a mystery both in attitude and looks. 

"You lied to me, Mandalorian." 

You never call him Mando. You've never heard his real name. You don't like to think of him as a person, just a creature that ferries you from planet to planet silently appraising your repair skills. You enjoy that he wears a helmet at all times, it's helps aid in this belief. 

His dark helmet tips down and you know he's staring at you. You obviously can't see his face under the helmet so you don't know if your words have any impression on him. 

They likely don't. 

You know he doesn't like that you talk back to him. He's likely never had to put up with people unafraid of him. You don't think there's actually anything he likes about you. He's so cold to you, so quick to take Grogu from your arms when you play with him. He's made it clear that he doesn't want you ingratiating yourself into his life. 

You take a steadying breath. 

"I'm supposed to be purchasing my own property there today."

"It'll have to wait." 

You bite back your anger. You know for a fact that he holds all the currency. You also know that as per the agreement you signed on, if he doesn't complete all bounty retrieval within your contract time, you receive nothing. These weeks will have been for nothing. 

You watch him approach the hatch of the door, ready to go and retrieve his latest bounty. You slump back into your chair, irritated beyond belief. There's nothing you can do. 

"Don't die," you spit sarcastically over your shoulder at him. 

 It's a habit at this point. Something you started saying your first day and never seemed to let up. You don't know why you bother saying it, other than your own selfishness. If he doesn't come back there's no way for you to leave the planet.

His reply is the same as it always has been since that first day; a tip of his helmet and then he's gone. 

He doesn't mince words. Rarely shares them. His tone always holds affection for Grogu, that never wavers. But for you? His on board employee? There's no warmth, no fuzzy feelings.

You first told yourself it was nothing personal, he's just not someone who needs others. You're his staff. He's your employer. But as his coldness grew you came to realize the Mandalorian held nothing but contempt for you.

And that works just fine for you because you feel precisely the same way about him. 

Din moves through the dense forest, pushing back the large leaves that sweep along his body like loving caresses. He steps into a puddle of mud. He pulls out with a grunt, kicking the excess from his boot. 

He's irritated today, more than usual. You're driving him up the ships walls. It was bad enough when you were talking back to him about repairs, it's quite another this last three days. 

You knew that your destination was fast approaching and your work had grown sloppy. He saw a censor mark flapping back there, improperly secured. It made him irritated. 

It also made him angry when you talked to Grogu about leaving, dancing with the little guy in your arms as you sang about your new life yesterday. Don't you get that it hurts Grogu to think of you leaving? 

Din thinks he can hear something in the trees. The sensor on his helmet shows nothing by heat, but he's sure he can hear something. 

He flinches when something brushes his arm. He whirls to find nothing but a collection of flowers he doesn't recognize. 

He growls in anger as the beeping increases at his hip. The quarry is close, his credits in his account about to increase. That's the reason for his detour, he wanted to make sure to send you off with as many credits as possible. 

You may think he's a monster but he believes in securing you for a profitable future. You'll thank him when you're in your new home, free of financial worry thanks to him. Not that you'll thank him, that's not your style. 

No, your style is laughing loudly, smiling at everything unless you're focused on work. Your style is leaving the fresher floor wet and the mirror fogged. 

He can't wait to be rid of you. 

A sudden flash of color darts between the tree line and Din snaps into action, his long legs silently slice through the tall grass, cutting the creature off. 

He tackles the Zelton easily, a prisoner on watch for stealing an imperial ship. He's run into her before; she must have just broken out of prison. He remembers how hard she fought him last time and he's almost amused that she’s right back being captured. 

He hovers above her, his thighs bracketing her red belly. 

"Hello again, Lummi," he snipes sarcastically. 

He aims his blaster against her forehead between her eyes, noticing belatedly that her scarlet cheeks are puffy, like she's holding something in her mouth. He doesn’t register what’s happening before she gives him a wink and spits directly into his face. A stream of pink shoots up into his mask, through the filtration system. 

He crawls off of her, startled, shaking his helmet from side to side, trying to dislodge the liquid. The filtration system is good, but not good enough for particles that small. A pink blur is blinked from his eyes in the helmet. 

"What was that?" 

She stands and looks at him with infinite amusement.  

"Luxuria Veveritas," she says with glee as she stands, grinning ferally down at him. "Think of it as a little gift from you to me. I always thought it would do you good to get your bolts rattled.”

Din doesn’t recognize the name, but he does feel strangely warm. She prepares to walk away from him and he growls out at her, keeping his voice steady.

"Take another step-"

"In about two parsecs you're not going to be able to stand let alone shoot."

Din is about to prove how wrong she is, raising his arm when a sharp stab goes through his lower belly. He lets out a grunt, dropping to one knee. She laughs cruelly at him, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder in smug victory.

"Better luck next time, Mando."

Lummi scampers off with her long hair bopping behind her. Din tries to aim his gun at her retreating frame but he can't focus properly, the image of his escaping quarry doubling as his vision blurs. 

Pain goes through his abdomen again and he staggers to a stand, his body heavy. He knows he can't head after her; he needs to get back to the ship. He needs the med kit on board. He turns and quickly makes his way back to the ship, his breathing labored as his long legs scissor through the forest. 

There's a strong smell in his helmet, almost choking him. It takes him a few jogging moments before he realizes it's that sweet scent of the oils you use in your hair. Both must be from the same flower. 

It's one of the few things he doesn't mind about your company. On the nights you apply this oil the ship is scented faintly with the aroma of vanilla and jesmin. It's usuallly a calming scent, but this much concentrated in his helmet is making him gag. He's confused when his cock begins to thicken between his legs as he runs for the ship. 

The pain is throbbing below his navel, making his body flame. The brush of his trouser fabric against his cock is making it leak, causing him to groan with every step. 

He needs to get to the ship, he tells himself, to safety, to the med bag he keeps on board. And then an errant thought that slips in, loud and pulsing: 

He needs to get to you. 

You sit with Grogu in your lap, talking to him about the furnishings you'll pick out for your new home. 

"It's going to be so great, finally putting down roots, maybe starting a family," you muse, bopping him up and down playfully on your knee. 

Your confused when instead of his customary grin, he wears a sad look of disappointment. His big ears sinking and his large eyes blinking and wet. 

You feel a strange pull at you, a sadness you weren't anticipating when you thought about leaving. Yes, leaving means saying goodbye to the Mandalorian, but it also means saying goodbye to the tiny baby in your arms. 

You're going to miss him. 

"But you can come and visit as often as you like," you promise him, tickling him under the chin. His large ears perk up at that. 

You're thinking of how you can convince the Mandalorian to bring him by every so often when a clanging startles you. It can't be The Mandalorian, he's been gone too short a time.

Despite this you go to the door with the child in your arms, waiting for the customary knock he taught you before unlatching it. 

Mando at the outside, bent over at the waist. When he hears the door creak open lurches in, pushing past you and falling to the ground. You close the door after him in case there are those in pursuit of him. 

You lock it, moving past him kneeling on the floor in order to get by him with the nervous looking Grogu. 

You put the child back in his cubby, not wanting him to see his father suffering like this. The door swishes closed and then you're back at Din's side, speaking softly. 

"Are you okay?"

No words. Just a sharp shake of his metal head. Instinctively you want to reach out to him to soothe him but that's not how he works. He's not soft and cuddly. Touching him would make things worse, you're sure of it. 

Tears are leaking from his eyes, he can feel them sliding down his cheeks behind the mask. He rarely cries. Hasn't since he thought he'd never see Grogu again. 

But this isn't emotional pain like that. This is an overwhelming throb that aches everywhere, especially between his legs. It makes him double over, his knees hitting the floor of the Razor Crest with a thud. 

Fuck. 

"Can you stand? Can you make it to the cockpit?"

The cockpit has room for him to lay down if he needs to and it's also where the emergency tools are. Bacta, bandages and more. 

Din doesn't move for a moment, his breathing heavy. It's like all he can smell is your skin, all he can hear is your voice and all he wants to taste is your skin. Thoughts that he's denied himself these past two months, pushed to the recesses of his mind because you irritate each other so much. 

You can hear tiny grunts coming through on the modulator. Then he nods, following you up the ladder. 

You verbally urge him into the jump seat, your eyes on his crumpled form. He's doubled over as if he's eaten bad cushnip. He's breathing raggedly, unable to look at you. 

He presses something on his helmet and all the sounds are erased. He's turned off the mic, something he does when he needs to be quiet hunting quarry. Now all you can hear is your own shaky breathing in the cockpit with him. You stand away from him, still unsure of yourself in his presence. 

"Were you hit?"

Din shakes his head abruptly, hands in fists, his head tilting forward. 

"Was it an animal?"

Shake. 

"Do you have any idea what happened?"

Another strained shake of his head and the button at the side of his helmet is pressed again. You hear his ragged inhale. 

"Why is it so warm in here?"

You glance around the cockpit in confusion, raising your hand to test the air. You scurry over to check the temperature control panel when Din groans at you to. 

"It's the same temperature that it always is." 

"It can't be." 

"Focus," you say sharply, confused when he shudders at the sound. "What happened out there?"

"Quarry got me." He groans again. "Spit something on me and--- kriff its too hot in here!"

He drags down the cowl to relieve some of the heat building under his clothing and helmet. And you want to focus on the issue at hand, but the sight of this sliver of flesh has you momentarily immobilized.

Spice.

That's all you can think. His skin is like spice; golden and beautiful. His neck is slick with sweat, dripping down below the fabric. It makes you swallow. 

"I can't breathe." 

You begin gazing around the cockpit for something to help him. You don't have access to any ice or anything that will cool him down. Bacta won’t do anything. You're about to say that, turning just in time to see as Din tear at the cowl around his neck before growing frustrated. 

You watch in silence as Din begins to tear the large gloves he wears from each hand. The leather slaps against the crest floor and all you can focus on is his hands. They're broad, deep shores between knuckles and long fingers. 

Those large hands continue to pull the cowl around his neck and you let out a sharp cry when Din rips the fabric from around his neck. 

"I need .. I-I -it’s so hot," Din stutters, his hands going to tear off his beskar armor piece by piece. You watch in awe as beskar falls to the ground, clanging. Despite this he continues tugging the leg plates, the vambrance, all piling at his feet.

Is he going to get naked in front of you?

Your entire body flushes at the thought of all that golden skin bared to you. It's been a while since you've been taken to bed, you tell yourself, and it’s only natural to respond this way to an attractive body. 

You're distracted by these thoughts as Din carelessly tears away his wrist gauntlet. It flies through the air, slamming into your ankle. A stripe of white hot pain travels up your calf at the sensation of the thick metal and you cry out. 

"Ow!"

You crumple to the ground, holding your ankle in pain, holding in a shriek. You rub at it, tears starting at the corner of your eyes. Your tunic has ridden up, leaving your ankle bare. You see the bruise already beginning. 

Din rushes over, his voice tight with panic.

"I'm s- Are you okay?"

He drops to his knee beside you on the floor. His bare hand comes to touch your ankle, fingers curling around it, but you're pissed off and in pain. 

"Don't!" You say, pushing against his warm hand. "It's fine." 

The second you touch his skin he lets out a hiss, pulling his hand sharply back. You're so taken aback you momentarily forget the pain. 

"What?" 

"Get away from me," Din growls at you, his arms banding around his abdomen. You're confused when you see that the front of his pants have a wet spot. What the fuck just happened? 

Here's tugging the shirt over his head leaving him in only his mesh pants and helmet. For the first time you see him as a man, not some quiet creature that shuttles you from planet to planet, annoying you. He's so broad, his shoulders wide and his waist tapered. He's strong, his arms muscular, his body sturdy. 

He's beautiful. 

Din feels like he's on fire from the inside. Despite coming only moments before at the mere touch of your bare skin, his cock is twitching in his trousers in need. He needs to fuck you. He needs to feel the sweetness between your thighs.

You're standing to one side, eyes wide. You look so concerned, your throat bobbing as you swallow. His eyes follow down the line of your body, watching your breasts lift as you move to survey him. Your nipples are straining through the tunic. 

His body is sweating everywhere, the longer he goes without coming again the more the pressure builds. He needs to come inside you. 

Now.

He's breathing deeply, his glistening chest expanding, making your pulse flutter. He's making breathy whimpers under his modulator, his neck tilted back. You need to help him, you need to focus. He's overheating. 

"The fresher!" 

Din can barely think straight. He's starting to panic that if something isn't resolved soon his brain is going to melt. You seem to sense that he's out of control because you bark at him again. 

"C'mon! Follow me!" 

He lumbers after you like an oversized obedient tooka, letting out small sharp exhales of pain every few steps. You reach the fresher and immediately reach inside the shower, twisting the knob. You test to feel the temperature and then you turn back to him, holding out your arm to indicate he should enter. 

"Get in!"

He's shuddering, feeling that familiar pressure building. Your arm is wet from the water, droplets glistening on your skin. He needs to taste your skin. He steps towards you. 

"What are you doing?" 

He's panting so heavily, his chest heaving and his fists curling and uncurling at his sides. He’s fighting so hard, so hard but he can’t stop. He’s compelled to touch and taste and fuck. Its taking everything in him not to force you to your knees.

"I'm sorry," he whispers through a groan. He turns his face from you, his mask in profile. "I can't... I can't stop this."

He's trying so hard not to touch you, not to do this. He's stronger than this. You don't deserve to be forced into touching him.. You don't deserve to be forced to fix his mistake. 

"What can I do?" You ask, your hands flying to his bare neck.

As soon as your skin touches his all his resolve is gone. 

"That. More of that," Din begs, his husky voice dragging along your spine. "Please."

You've never heard Din ask for anything. But this isn't him asking. This is begging. He's begging you.  

"Please, please," he's murmuring, his hands taking your wrists and tugging you closer to him.  

"What? What do you need me to do?" 

"Touch me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

Everything in him is attuned to you, the need for you overpowering his common sense, his duty, his creed. You watch in shock as he depressurizes the mask, tugging it off and throwing it to the ground. 

You don't even have time to register what he's done or what you're seeing because his hands are gripping your face, his lips smashing against yours. Your cry is muffled as his tongue invades your mouth, desperate to taste every inch. Every swipe feels like cool relief to his searing flesh. 

You cry out in shock, pushing him off of you. Your mouth is wet from his saliva, lips tingling. You breathe shakily and finally your mind registers that there he is, bare-faced and his eyes are so beautiful and so pained that you almost lose your voice. 

He reaches for you again and you shove his bare chest with all you might, startling him and sending him backwards into the icy shower. He grips onto you instinctively for balance, dragging you into the water with him. 

You yelp at the cold sensation pelting against your thin tunic. But he doesn't let you go, he twists you until you're backed up against the metal wall of the shower, your bodies drenched. He's rutting against you, whimpering lowly before his mouth is at your jaw, sucking lightly.

"Mandalorian!" 

"Din," he groans against your temple, "my name is Din."

Din.

This takes your breath away. He's given you his real name. He's touching you in a way that makes you want more. You're confused because he's so irritating to you but he's also so sexy you're having trouble remembering that he shouldn't be touching you like this. 

You can admit there had been a curiosity about him, an attraction you denied to yourself. You thought it was because he was so cold and sharp, but here he is warm and soft and you want more of him. You want to see his face again. 

Now you willingly touch him, hands at his cheek pulling him back to face you. At the sensation of your hands on his flesh Din's eyes roll back in his head and he stops his thrusts against your thigh, trying to hold off the inevitable. You retract your grip.

He's so exquisite, even moreso like this with flushed cheeks, soaking wet, his full mouth dripping with water from the shower. He has facial hair, you see. Dark brown, thicker above his upper lip. His brows saddle and you see the pain and anguish in his face. 

"You're not thinking straight," you inform him. "This... Whatever it is, it's making you lose your faculties."

Din groans, nodding. One hand is above your shoulder, palm flat to hold him upright. You stare into his face, your eyes locked on his. It's there, a building pressure for you at the realization you want to feel more of him. 

But you can't. 

You're sopping wet, your tunic clinging to you, your hair stuck to your body and yet you try to affect a look of leadership. 

"Think for a second," you instruct him. "did the quarry say anything about what she gave you?" 

"L-luxuria Veve-verritas.” Din feels his cock throbbing at your nearness. It takes everything in him to stop from rutting against you. "I've never heard of it."

But you have. Your friend back home took it for over a year. You groan, hands scrubbing your face. Din's brows furrow. 

"What? What is it?" 

"It's popular on Navarro," you explain with a sigh. "A fertility drug. You're going to be like this until you come."

"I have!" Din roars. He points at the soaked trousers he still wears. "I didn't even have to touch myself!"

"Not by your own hand," you sigh. "The drug was invented for impregnation. You need to... Come inside…someone." 

There is a hideous silence, the only sound the still running water from the showerhead. Din swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. 

"How long will it last if I don’t?"

"Twelve hours." 

Din's eyes widen. "Twelve hours of this?" 

"That's only if you don't die before then," you say with a wince. "It's happened before. The blood temperature and..." 

You trail off. Din's eyes rove your body, his intention obvious. You frown. 

"You can stop right there if you think I'm going to let you have your way with me," you snap. "I'm your mechanic, not your Pleasure Droid." 

Din is trying not to touch himself, but he keeps rustling against his pants and it keeps catching the head of his leaking cock. His eyes are fixed on your mouth, your nipples poking through your thin tunic, your sweet face, he can't stop what's about to happen.

He lowers his mouth until it's almost grazing yours as he rolls his hips inside his trousers. His cock rubs against the stiff fabric. He cages you in against the wall, arms on either side of you. You're suffocated by his warmth, the scent of his soap and sweat, the length of his damp curls.

"Say my name," he urges, his voice on the thin edge of demanding and begging. You're hypnotized by the endless galaxy of his eyes.

"Din, I-"

You watch in mute fascination as he throws his head back, groaning lowly as his hips stutter against the air. He shudders, fucking the empty space between you, careful not to touch you as he comes in his trousers once more.  

His head sags forward and he's panting heavily next to you, his warm, bristled cheek almost touching yours.

"You have to stop doing that," you tell him when you find your breath. "Every time you do it makes it worse." 

"I can't help it!"

Din looks and sounds fucked out, his eyes heavy and his skin flushed. You take a moment to formulate a plan. 

"I'll tie you up so you can't move at all and then I'll lock you in here," you reason, trying not to notice how close he is to you. 

"You can't," he rasps, his mouth inches from your face. "It's getting stronger, this feeling."

"So?"

"So I know you're here on the ship," he rumbles. "On the other side of that door. And I promise you nothing is going to be able to keep me from snapping out of my restraints, breaking down that door and fucking you until I'm satisfied. Even if you left the ship I'd easily find you."

You shiver at his words, you’ve never heard Din swear like that. And he said this not to scare you but you let you know the severity of the situation. Your eyes go to his mouth, flicking there and then back to his heated gaze.  

"Carbonite!" 

Din blinks.  "What?"

"I'll get you to the Carbonite chamber! We'll pop you in there for twelve hours and you should be fine when you get out!"

Relief finds its way to Din's face and he nods. It's a long shot but he's desperate. The two of you scramble out of the shower. You pad towards the Carbonite holder in the back of the ship, the both of you dripping along the metal floor. 

But it's building too rapidly, the pull at Din's lower belly now clouding his mind. You're almost at the Carbonite chambers when you feel his strong arms around your middle, dragging you to the nearest wall of the ship and caging you there between his arms.

"What th-"

His wide hands pin your wrists to the wall above your head, his desperate mouth wedging between your jaw and neck. 

"I can't stop," he whines before sucking against your jaw. "Forgive me, please." 

"Din you don't want this," you say, humiliated as well as aroused. 

He hates you! On any other day he would gladly throw himself in Carbonite if it meant not speaking to you. 

"I've wanted to touch you for so long," Din murmurs more to himself than anything. You're confused by this, his mouth still nibbling the flesh of your neck, hands unpinning your wrists to travel along your body. 

"What?"

 "I fantasized about how soft your skin would be but this... " His thumb drags over your pebbled nipples under the damp tunic. "This is better than anything I could have imagined."

Din is rubbing his hips against you, his body feverish with need.

He wants this? He can't be lying, not in his condition. 

You want it too, a voice whispers in your mind.

The one you ignored on the nights you touched yourself to images of his beskar-clad self.  Those you denied when you felt your heart trip when he got a little to close to you during repairs. The feelings you told yourself couldn’t exist because you were so frustrated by him.

And yet now your thighs part willingly, allowing him to nestle between them as his hands explore your body. You encourage it, head tilting back so he can kiss you there more easily. 

But he wants to taste your mouth again, wants the cooling sensation that comes with your tongue dabbing his. He groans as he licks into your mouth, his hands gripping your ass, forcing it against his rolling hips. He's so close to coming again but he needs to do something first. 

His fingers curl up under your tunic, feeling your cunt slick and ready. Through the haze of lust he's shocked at this ready response from you. His fingers marvel at the softness there, the warmth as he slides two inside your dripping slot, the thumb circling your clit. 

You arch back immediately, gasping so raggedly you think they might hear you on the next planet. Pleasure, acute and sharp invades your entire body. 

"I'm sorry," he groans as his fingers begin to thrust in and out of you, mistaking your gasp for pain. "I'm sorry I can't stop." 

"Don't stop!"

You whimper, arms curling around his shoulders. The sound of your whimper makes him need something else entirely. The knowledge that so much has been deprived of him - taste, touch. This is likely his only chance.

He drops to his knees, his fingers still working inside your velvet clutch. He moves his mouth down your body, nipping as he goes. You gasp when he urges your thigh over his shoulder, his mouth coming to envelop your cunt. 

"Din!" 

He flicks his tongue against the pearl of your clit before his fingers and tongue begin to work in tandem, bringing you to the precipice of pleasure. You look down your body to see his dark eyes gazing up at you, pupils blown out, and his vision glassy. 

"For me," he growls between licks as he stares up at you from between your legs. "This is all for me."

You nod, making soft little mewling noises and then with a shuttering cry you come, hips rolling against his pouty mouth, hands gripping his hair as he drinks you down, feeling the heat in his body cooling slightly. 

You're still recovering when he pulls you into his arms, making his way to your makeshift bedroom behind the curtains. 

"I need more of you," he tells you, his growl making your body quiver. You stare up at him as he carries you to the mattress, struck with the intensity of his focus. 

You allow him to take you to the makeshift bedroom. He deposits you in the center before shucking off his trousers and letting them fall to the ground. You can only stare at his beautiful body, the perfect size of his cock, the glow of his tanned skin. 

He urges your tunic off, letting it fall with a splat on the floor of the ship. You're bared to him and Din feels his brows saddle as he crawls on top of you. 

"Mesh'la" he breathes, not thinking. 

You're so fucking beautiful. So perfect for him as you lay there, flushed and ready for him. He wants to take his time licking and sucking every part of you, but time is of the essence. His tip is already weeping. 

He pulls back only so that one hand can snake between legs, lining his aching cock up with your sex. But something of his inner strength stops him, gritting his teeth as he looks at you. You’re flushed, gazing up at him with all the trust in the world. It makes his chest flutter.

"Tell me to stop," he groans, his eyes fiery. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll manage the twelve hours, I'll-"

"Do it," you interrupt him with a breathless nod. Your thighs part, urging him. You need to feel him or you're going to go insane yourself. 

That's all he needs. With your faces inches apart he feeds his cock into you, your eyes locked. The both of you offer little groans against each other's parted mouths as the pleasure ignites. 

"Oh, oh it's," your words aren't there. 

"Good?" 

"More than good." 

Din smiles for the first time and you feel your heart hiccup in your chest. He has a dimple in his cheek, his eyes warm, his nose strong and- 

You cry out as he withdraws and then slams himself to the hilt. He cringes at the force of his need, looking down at you with concern. You're staring up at him, eyes wide, hands splayed loosely above your head on the mattress. 

"Are you-"

"Again," you breathe, hips undulating. "Harder."

Your hands tug his neck and bring his face to meet yours. He exhales in delight as your mouth finds his. He kisses you with need as his hips rock into yours brutally, the slapping sound echoing off the ship walls. You're so wet and warm, he can’t slow down. 

And you take him so well, your legs crossed at the ankle around his middle, your flesh recoiling with every snap of his hips against yours. He moves back on his hands, eager to watch your breasts jostle and your body respond to his.

He plunges into you again and again, the pleasure building. It starts at the base of his spine and the top of his head, a sparkly tight feeling that increases as you bounce under him. 

You can only watch as he tilts back, both sets of eyes going to where you join. You're both slick with sweat, your bodies glistening. When he withdraws you both see him glossy and thick. 

“Need it deeper,” he grunts.

He urges both your knees to crook up over his shoulders, almost bending you in half. He wants to see everything and from this angle your pussy looks juicy and delicious. He wants to taste you again, but the need to come inside you is overwhelming. 

He's never done this without his mask, never in the light. He can see everything and when he thrusts forward and sinks into you from this angle the both of you groan once more at the sight and sensation of him burying himself within you. 

"We look so good together," he breathes, not quite believing it. "So perfect.”

This draws a shaky sigh from you, both in pleasure and delight at his response. Your hand cups his cheek, strangely moved. He grins down at you again and his tempo increases, his eyes fluttering shut. 

"So good," he moans, sending the mattress bouncing as he fucks deeply into you. "Knew you'd feel so good." 

"You've thought about this?" You ask, curious even as your eyelids crash together in pleasure. 

"I’ve thought about fucking you every day," he admits, feeling you tighten around him. "Since the day you came aboard." 

You want to ask him more, but he's hitting that perfect spot and you can feel all rational thought leaving you, replaced with a blissful pleasure that floods your body. 

You come on his cock, your body twitching as you arch up from the mattress. Din watches this in awe of your beauty and open desire, grunting as he continues at that same pace, watching you fall apart for him. 

He feels your walls start fluttering against the head of him and let's out a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Your eyes crack open, your expression a lazy pout. 

"Please Din," you beg, your body coiled. At the sound of his name he moans, you feel his cock piston between your legs in a fervor and then... 

He tenses and comes deep inside you. He floods you, his groans of your name and how good you are are muttered against your mouth. His arms wrap around you and yours around his neck. You kiss him fiercely as he empties himself into you, hips stuttering. 

You take him, and it feels like forever until he shudders to a stop, his leg twitching before he sags against you. Concerned he'll crush you, he rolls back onto the mattress. 

You lay there in silence, noting that he finally appears to be softening. He takes the blanket at your feet and pulls it over the both of you, aware of his modesty. 

You suddenly feel very naked, not just in body. You're desperate to focus on anything side from the fact that your arms touch as you both gaze up at the ships roof, your cunt aching and full of him. 

"How do you feel?"

"Good," he says through a frog in his throat. "The pain is gone."

He turns to look at you and you feel compelled to stare back. 

"Okay good. I'm glad I could help." 

He nods slowly in understanding. You can't stop looking at his face, concerned that he's so beautiful you're never going to be able to forget.  You think of his words only moments before, his hushed confession.

I’ve thought about fucking you every day. Since the day you came aboard.

He looks at you gently, amazed at how beautiful you are. The beauty he's tried to distance himself from through cruelty and isolation. The beauty that distracts him when he should be focused on finding quarry. 

"Wait here."

Din watches as you roll out of the bed, grabbing a towel from your chair to cover yourself and walking away. Left with his thoughts Din feels a strange anguish overtaking him. You’re leaving him, you’re leaving the kid.

He doesn’t want you to go.

You return seconds later with his helmet in your hands, grunting a bit with the strain of the beskars weight. 

"Here," you say awkwardly holding the helmet out to him. "I won't say anything."

Din takes it with gratitude, concern swelling in his belly. He sits up on the bed, the helmet on his lap. You come to sit cross legged on the end of the bed, watching him. 

"Thank you for everything." 

"Of course."

A strange sadness is creeping into your body, a feeling you weren't anticipating. 

Din is crushed, knowing that your time is at an end. You'll never want to talk to him after this. Tomorrow he'll take you to Borr'rha and you'll never see one another again. He tries very hard not to look defeated. 

"I better get back to the cockpit," he rasps. "I know how eager you are to get to Borr'rha."

You watch as he raises the helmet, about to replace it when you lean forward, hand reaching towards him. 

"Wait."

Din stops, letting the helmet fall back to his lap. 

"What is it?" He asks gently, his heart picking up speed as you crawl over the mattress to him. 

He hastily moves the helmet to the side so that you can perch yourself there on his lap. 

To your relief you feel him begin to swell under the sheets when your arms wrap around his neck, a gentle smile on your lips. 

"Just one more kiss?" 

tagging those of you that showed interest!

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @almostempty @bitchesuntitled @honestly-really-magnificent @dindjarinsonlyfans @joeldidnothingwrong @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @eff4freddie @sjc7542 @lizzie-cakes @almostfoxglove @getitoutofmymindwrites @realmamabear79 @cuteanimalmama @djarins-cyare @burningfieldof-clover @swankyorange @thischarmingmandalorian @ashleyfilm @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @cozylittlepigeon @tobethlehem @pastawench @docharleythegeekqueen

Dividers provided by @saradika

[yoditostan]

BLOCK PARTY

written for @auteurdelabre's TROPE OFF! challenge & a special thank you to @jolapeno for coming up with this idea - ilysm!

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 4.6k | TROPE: FAKE RELATIONSHIP CW: Tooth-rotting fluff, so much soft!joel, a tiny bit of protective!joel as a treat.

SUMMARY: After your ex moves into the neighborhood, Joel offers to pose as your boyfriend at the annual block party. It shouldn't be hard to pretend for a night, since he's hopelessly into you.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Joel remembers the day you moved into the house on the corner perfectly—that orange craftsman with the cute triangle yard and a pergola on which the last owners let their wisteria die, left empty for nearly half a year. He’d just gotten home from a job, sweat-stained and spent, desperate for a shower when he’d heard the hum of an unfamiliar car. He’s not curious by nature, keeps happily to himself, but that day he found himself spying out through the picket of window between his curtains, wondering who it might be.

Thank god he did.

Thank god, too, that no one else bought that house. Has a little wrap around porch, a red door. Whole block wanted it—hell, Joel even heard the couple left of him consider it one evening. We could sell, one had said, hushed and conspiratorial, then buy that one.

But they didn’t, and a few weeks later you and your beat-up hatchback rolled up into the driveway, gifting Joel one measly glimpse of the back of your head as you rushed inside. No sight of you the next day; you kept the curtains drawn. But two evenings later a moving truck squealed up the quiet street and Joel, well. Joel happened to be near the windows when the truck happened to stop outside your orange house and happened to catch a look at you slogging down from the porch to roll up the back of the van with a distant grunt, unveiling your boxes and towered belongings.

He was pretty much a goner right then, right there. 

Because you looked miserable, an Atlas lugging the world on your shoulders. Dark shadows clinging to the hollows of your cheeks. Your hair pulled back and greasy, your t-shirt a size too big, puddled at the hem with a stain. And maybe he’s getting soft or was from the start, because against his better judgment and the complaints of all his tired joints, Joel jogged out of his house and right on up to you. Offered to help you carry it all inside.

Took an hour to trek the boxes in, twenty minutes to tetris the couch, and another thirty for the rest of the furniture. One lampshade broke, for which Joel will never forgive himself but you swore it was fine, insisting it wasn’t one you liked, that it belonged to an ex. 

The whole evening sped by and bruised blue, and Joel’s stomach sank just a little when it was done. Though his body howled and ached, he wouldn’t have minded if it’d taken eight more hours to haul all that shit into your house. Might’ve offered to help you unpack if that wouldn’t have been a creepy thing to do.  But you shook his hand in thanks, gave him your name and a stiff smile, promising him dinner, or muffins, or whatever the fuck neighbors do as you walked him to the door with the urgency of a vampire who has only a few minutes left to black out all the windows and doors before sunrise. Hurrying him out, wanting to be alone.

When his own front door was latched, the house dead in its quiet, Joel swore to himself that once you got settled, he’d find some way to tell you that you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, that the caw of laughter you let out when he’d dropped the foot of your couch on his ankle was the best fucking sound even if it did bruise purple and green, that all the furniture you own is somehow perfect and warm and exactly what he’d never think to buy but would love to come home to, and that just shaking your hand made him feel like a kid again. That he’d pretty much do anything to be the one who puts a smile on your face.

But you’ve lived across the street three years now and he’s never told you. 

Can’t now. It’s too late. You’re friends.

And anyway, these days you smile plenty on your own; you don’t need him. Took the better part of a year, but you perked up. Transformed that triangle yard into an Eden, built trellises for sweet peas and tomato vines. Every year, bushels of strawberry plants bloom in summer and rows of squash unfurl in autumn. Stalks of bulb plants flower every month right on cue. Your birdfeeders never vacant, the little wooden house driven into the yard on a stake dizzy with mason bees in spring.

Three years after you moved in, no one would ever believe Joel if he told them how you’d looked that first day. Her? Can’t picture that girl sad. Her? The one who’s always smiling? You’re messing with me.

Now, both of you swaying on his porch swing—looking out into the rutted wasteland of backyard he swears one day he’ll landscape—Joel watches that old shadow cross your face as you lift your lemonade to your chewed-up lips. He can see it. The light in your eyes swishing dark like you’ve drawn the curtains. For three years he’s watched you build yourself up, coax yourself into the sunshine, only to have it extinguished by your ex—an ex who’s moved in just five houses down.

It might kill him to see you like this again.

Joel might kill the bastard just to prevent you any more harm. Burn that goddamn house to the ground. He’s glad that he broke that lamp when you moved in. Not that he says.

“C’mere,” he says, stretching out one arm, and without hesitating—without even turning your head to look at him—you sink against his side, cheek squished to his chest. A torture and miracle, the gift of your touch. How you have, over the years, decided to trust him. 

“Of all the fucking neighborhoods to—” you start to say, but your voice cracks, betrays you, and there’s a jagged edge to your next breath that makes Joel’s whole body yank with pain. “Of all the fucking neighborhoods for him to choose.”

“I know, darlin’,” Joel mumbles, resting his chin on the crown of your head. Praying he doesn’t imagine the way your body deflates at his touch.

“Block party’s gonna suck,” you sigh, and if he closes his eyes Joel can almost imagine that this is something that it’s not. That if he wanted to, he could kiss you right now, touch you properly. Pet and lick and fuck every thought and worry right out of your head. That your heart’s racing even half the speed his is right now. 

You must hear it, he thinks—with the shell of your ear resting so near that traitorous organ—but if you do you don’t say a word.

Joel squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t gotta go alone,” he says. 

This stiffens your shoulders, holds your breath. You peel yourself from his side and evening sun paints your face orange as a clementine, gilds your eyes with tendrils of gold. Your brows pinch together so sweetly, curving down above your nose as a laugh rises to your lips. “Right,” you chuckle. “Sure.”

“I mean it,” Joel says, and takes his arm off you to sit up straighter, rocking the swing. “Could go together.”

He’s not sure why you look so surprised. You’re friends. You go places together. Lunch, the movies, to the grocery store. Shit, you drove him home loopy from the dentist after they cracked out his wisdom teeth. Took photos of him after you waddled him into his house, drugged up and chipmunk-cheeked. Relished showing him every snapshot for weeks afterward, giggling and pinching his face until he blushed. 

Going to the annual block party together seems a hell of a lot more neighborly than that.

“What,” you say, still smiling at him like he’s crazy. “And you’ll pretend to be my boyfriend?”

It’s possible Joel’s heart stops. All his thoughts certainly do. All sound, reasonable logic floats away until all that matters in the world is your face, your gob-smacked smile. The dissonance of what he was offering and what you heard.

“If you want,” Joel hears himself say.

And that’s that. He digs his own grave.

If anyone was around to see Joel’s face when he first lays eyes on the guy, they’d probably assume you used to date the devil himself. Jaw grinding, arms crossed tightly over his chest, every nerve flayed and hair on end—doesn’t seem to matter how much you assured him that your ex isn’t a bad person, Joel hates the guy. If he were a younger man, as reckless as he’d once been, he’d knock the guy on his ass for daring to step foot in the neighborhood, let alone buy up a place.

You’re with Joel in your front yard showing off the mason bees that dart in and out of their paper tubes when something flickers in the corner of Joel’s eye—a man running on the sidewalk, earbuds in, sweat pooled in a V on the front of his t-shirt. He does a double take at the sight of you. 

Joel squares his shoulders.

The guy comes to a jogging halt, pops an earbud out as he calls your name, and Joel’s heart might rip clean out of his chest when your face falls at the sound of his voice, all the pride in your smile snuffed in the blink of an eye. You turn so slowly. Wave a little sheepishly. “Hi.”

“Do you—” the guy starts to ask, his bright eyes flickering between you and your orange house.

You nod. “Three years now.”

His eyes damn near pop out of his skull—this, at least, is one small comfort. He had no idea you lived here. He’s not following you or nothing. As you rub the back of your neck, suddenly quiet, Joel hears your voice in his head saying, You’ll pretend to be my boyfriend? 

Guess that starts now if you wanna sell it. At least that’s what Joel tells himself as he takes a small step closer and settles his hand on the small of your back over your t-shirt. Swears he can feel your every tiny twitch beneath his palm, every degree of your body heat. There’s just one second of lag before you inch closer, too, making a shrew of his nervous heart. Blood races in his veins; his stomach turns to molten gold.

A twitch snags in your ex’s cheek and Joel’s lips tighten, fighting back the smug urge to smile. Tucked against his side, you look up at Joel and he can’t help feeling like next to you is exactly where he belongs. Perfect, you smile before drawing your eyes away, and slip your arm around his waist. 

“Sorry,” you say, grinning in a way Joel’s not seen you manage since this jackass showed up. “This is Joel. My— uh—boyfriend.”

Maybe heaven is one beautiful lie.

Joel must be a greedy man, because he slips his hand up your spine to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest. It’s either the best or worst feeling in the world, the way you don’t resist for a second. The way you melt against him, your hand gripping at the hem of his t-shirt over his hip. 

“Right,” says your ex, still doe-eyed when he meets Joel’s blackened stare. “Clark. S’nice to meet you, man.”

Joel hmphs , gives him fuck all but a stiff nod, and for just one second you turn your face into his chest like you’re trying to smother a laugh. Pride has never filled him quite as quickly as it does now, knowing he’s the cause. That he’s put that smile on you, making you bite your bottom lip. He’s the one who’s made this gentler on your heart.

When Clark takes off again, you and Joel wait until he disappears around the corner to withdraw your arms, then you break into stomach-y laughter, smothering your face in your hands. “Oh god,” you wheeze, your whole face split by joy. “His face. That was—shit, that was incredible. That felt so good.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Joel looks out into the empty street to hide his blush, focusing on the golden light of August’s showboating. It’s a perfect evening, oak trees gossiping in the balmy breeze. It’s small, sure, but knowing he’s made you feel so good sets him on fire, fries his brain. He wants to make you say so good, so good, so good, in every possible way. 

You snort, you’re laughing so hard. 

“Happy to be of service,” he mumbles.

“Jesus,” you go on, and he turns to find you’re wiping your thumbs under your eyes. “That felt so much better than I thought it would. I think you might be a genius.”

Sure, genius. That’s the word for it.

On the day of the block party, you ask Joel to creep across the street at the break of dawn, insisting that people could be setting up, and, wouldn’t it look weird if we didn’t come out of the same house? We have to look like we’re sleeping together, dumbass. He only managed to restrain himself from suggesting that he just sleepover by the skin of his teeth, so tempted by the thought of being close to you at night—even isolated on your couch, so many doors away from your dreams.

But he’ll take the morning. He does. As early light sets the asphalt ablaze, Joel slinks across the road to your house, finds your front door unlocked, and lets himself in. Inside is cold like winter, the air-con cranked, and you’re on the couch in a sweater that’s cuffed at your wrists, coffee smoking in your hand, your legs folded up beneath you, bare.

“Morning,” you say, when you see him, a kind smile on your lips.

Joel shuts the red door behind him, clears his throat. “Mornin’,” he says.

There are hours until the block party begins, so you and Joel kill the morning on your couch watching shitty TV and drinking enough coffee that Joel’s hands begin to shake—though maybe that’s just the cold, the air frigid in a way that transcends summer. Maybe it’s just you. You, transforming leftovers from your fridge into a breakfast hash, rich with cilantro from the plant on your windowsill. You, knocking your knuckles against his arm whenever you laugh at something stupid he’s managed to say or a joke on screen. You, handing him his refilled mug or breakfast bowl or taking them back to wash up, brushing your fingertips against his hand. Every time.

It’s a jolt to his whole system, this small meeting of your skin.

Soon the television is challenged by the din of your neighbors setting up tables and booths and games for the kids—at which you straighten on the couch, craning to peek through one of your picture-frame windows. A sigh blooms from your lips, then you set down your mug.

“Should put clothes on,” you tell him as you rise, legs unfolding. You look so soft. Joel knows you would be. “Gimme a second.”

Then you’re gone, and his head falls down against the back of your couch, the heels of his hands grinding into his eyes. It feels like you’re only gone for a second before your footsteps pinch down the stairs once more. “Headache?” he hears you ask, catching him with his hands still over his eyes. “Did I give you too much coffee?” 

You’re teasing. Joel can hear your smirk as his hands slip back down to his lap, craning over the back of the couch to look up at you, and the world crumbles below him and falls away. Brows folded low over your eyes, you slide your hands down your front to soothe wrinkles from the skirt of your red sundress that only you can see. Slack-jawed, Joel finally manages to sit up, then twists to look back at you properly—perfect, that’s what you are. Every temptation and every vice and every poison he’d willingly drink.

“The dress is too much, isn’t it?” you say, sounding worried now.

He shakes his head, fights not to reach over this goddamn couch and pull you onto his lap. The thought alone makes his cock twitch traitorously in his jeans. You’re close enough that he could. You’re right there.

“S’perfect,” Joel croaks.

You let out a sigh of relief and nod before moving toward the door for your shoes. With his last remaining sense, Joel turns his head just before you bend down to reach for a pair of sandals. This was a terrible idea. He sees that now. A huge fucking mistake. 

But it’s too late to back out now, because you’re already calling him over, sliding your hand into his as you step out onto the porch like this is normal, like you’ve done this before, like you don’t mind his sweaty palm. Outside the street is a racket, a flurry of children chasing each other between driveways and neighbors cracking the caps off beer bottles, a painted banner strung over the road between two maples: 

B L O C K   P A R T Y ! 

He hears you make a quiet hmph sound of amusement as you draw toward the crowd.

Joel waits, but to his surprise, no one asks why you’re here together, why you’re holding hands. Sorta figured you’d have to do the awkward uh, yes, it’s very… new for everyone, but nobody asks. In fact, when you vanish momentarily from his side to get drinks—the ruffle of your dress flirting with the tops of your thighs—someone tuts sweetly to Joel, “I knew it.”

Then you’re back before he can blush, two bottles sweating in your hands, and the neighbor vanishes the second you pass one to him. Your forehead has pinched up with nerves. Must mean you’ve seen him, Clark or whatever, and Joel’s a man of his word—you’ve asked him to do a job—so he glides one hand around your waist and presses his lips to your temple. Mumbles softly, “I’ve got ya,” against your skin as he breathes you in. There’s something sweet in your perfume, he thinks. Lilac or honey.

As if on cue, a soccer ball zips beneath the banner and a moment later it lifts as someone chases after it. Clark, obviously, looks up, sees you in the nook of Joel’s arm, and tucks the runaway ball under one arm without a word, then takes off in the direction he came from without so much as a nod.

Joel feels your chin jut into his chest as you squeeze him, smiling. “This is gonna be fun,” you grin.

Joel takes a deep breath to keep himself from hoping. That glint in your eye—one part mischief and another affection—ain’t good for him, but he can’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth, that instinct to return your smile. “Careful, darlin’,” he mumbles, and as he brushes his thumb across your cheek you lean into his hand. “Face might stick like that.”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “What, you don’t like it like this?”

Though he only hmphs, Joel suspects you know that he does, in fact, like you very much like this: smiling up at him like he’s painted the sky with stars just by standing at your side. 

How quickly the day passes with you beside him. For every year he’s lived in the neighborhood Joel has too attended the block party, but like most obligatory functions, he finds himself worn down quickly, always the first to leave, retreating into the quiet of his house when he’s reached the end of his meager tolerance. When he’s had too many conversations and seen too many faces too close together and he’s desperate for quiet, for sleep.

It’s different with you. You buffer so much of the polite conversations he’s never been good at having with grace and ease, always drawing the focus away from him just as he starts to feel it’s too much, like you can tell when Joel’s at the end of his rope. Sure, he’s still gotta stand there while you chat to whoever about mixed up mail or work or garden soil, but so long as they’re looking at you, that swell of too much never comes. He can just stand there, sipping his beer or lemonade, and focus on the swipe of your thumb across his knuckles as you hold his hand. The heat of your body when you lean into him.

By sundown, Joel forgets that it’s all pretend. He forgets this is nothing but a favor between friends.

Now the food has dwindled, that summer smell of hotdogs dissolving from the air, and all the lawn chairs once relegated to each person’s lawn shuffle into the black street as cicadas form their nightly orchestra. You don’t have any lawn chairs, but Joel’s got two. Always has—he doesn’t know why. Only ever just him at these things.

Maybe he was hopeful, back when he bought them.

It’s hard not to feel—as he drags both out to sit at the back of the crowd—like he was waiting for you. He just didn’t know it at the time.

“So prepared,” you tease him, as you settle into your seats. 

“Keep it up,” he replies, his eyebrows warning in their slow rise. “I’ll take that chair you’re sittin’ on.”

You scrunch your nose. “No you won’t,” you say.

Obviously he won’t. But you don’t have to be so cute about it. 

Then a sudden chorus of children shrieks, announcing the first firework. There’s a hissing, then a dart in the darkness, and a small spark of golden light cracks open overhead. A smattering of applause simmers, punctuated by oohs and awws, and all the kids giggle every time a sparkler booms. Beside him, the glitter of each explosion forms a galaxy in your eyes, your lips parted with wonder. The prettiest thing Joel’s ever seen, just like that first day. After a while you notice that Joel’s not watching the show, and turn slowly to look at him, your expression open and tender.

“Missing the show,” you say.

He shrugs. “I’ll see ‘em next year.”

When you smile, he wants to kiss you so badly his heart might actually stop, strangled by its longing.

But your head whips back at the thunder of a vibrant firework—a dandelion of neon blue and searing white—and the moment passes. Then Joel watches your smile falter as your eyes fall into the crowd; Clark, sitting up near the front of the pack, is looking back at you over his shoulder. Trying to be subtle and doing a shitty job; head snapping away the moment he sees Joel’s glare. 

“Ignore him,” Joel says, and reaches down to wrap a hand around one leg of your chair, dragging you closer to him. You let out a giddy yelp of surprise and draw your ex’s attention again. 

This time you don’t flinch or falter. One glance at the guy and you’re reaching for Joel, fist gripping the collar of his t-shirt to tug him toward you. He’s got no chance to think, to panic; it happens too fast. Your sweet mouth closes over his—not for a peck, but a real kiss. Lips parting to taste his bottom lip, a breathy sigh passed from your tongue to his. Joel’s lost all at once, no use resisting. His hand curls gently over your wrist to keep your grip on him as he tilts his head to lick into your mouth. 

The fireworks fall away.

You taste like lemonade and hops and the raspberry cobbler someone cooked up, and there’s not a cell in Joel’s body that doesn’t swoon at the way your lips chase and melt into his, humming softly against his mouth when he cradles the back of your head in the palm of his hand. How you tug gently at his bottom lip before you draw away, forcing his hand to slink from your hair.

Clark’s staring. Your lips proud and grinning. Plush and kiss-bitten. Looking every bit as calm as Joel feels walloped. You hm smugly to yourself and drop your head on his shoulder, attention once more captured by the crackle of fireworks Joel forgot were happening, and even though he’s a fool for agreeing to something he knew would rip him up, he can’t bring himself to regret it. Not when you’ve kissed him like that. Not when you’re lying against him still, even though Clark has turned away.

The whole rest of the show passes in a dizzy haze. A blur of shattering light, and the heady weight of you leaning against him. Near the end you slip one hand over his knee. Your ex isn’t watching, doesn’t see the way your thumb glides slowly across the denim of Joel’s jeans, intoxicating. 

It feels, or else he hopes, that it’s just for him. 

The night is black by the time he walks you home, all your neighbors disappearing into their darkened houses, his lawn chairs stowed safely on his porch, and even though everyone’s gone when you reach your porch you still don’t let go of his hand until you’re at the door and you have to get out your keys. 

Your lock surrenders with a metal crack and you let your red door swing open. Inside your furniture beckons from the shadowed living room, cozy and soft. But you hesitate in the doorway, looking up at him. Joel has to put his hands in the pockets of his jeans to keep himself from pulling you against him properly, and pinning you to the wall. 

You scrunch your nose at him again. “Thank you,” you say, and your bottom lip pinches between your teeth as Joel’s gaze falls to your mouth. “Was actually pretty fun, in the end.”

Joel nods, drops his eyes shyly to his shoes. “I had fun too,” he manages to say. 

Your sandal nudges the toe of his boot as he stares at his shoes. “Y’alright?”

No, he’s not alright. He knows what it’s like to kiss you now—how the hell’s he supposed to go on living with that, and not ever have it again. “Mhm,” Joel lies, head snapping up to meet your gaze. He mistakes the look in your eyes for discomfort, thinks he must be keeping you from your night, from sleep. That after you were so sweet to him all day, he’s got the nerve to bother you. His heart winces as he forces himself to take a small step back. “Sorry. Don’t wanna keep ya.”

“Oh,” you say, face falling a little. “Okay. Goodnight then.”

There’s no way the pathetic flinch of his lips looks anything like a smile as he mumbles a sorry g’night.  

Then your face shrinks slowly in the closing gap of the door, a darkened look haunting your face that Joel swears—in the split second he sees it—almost looks like disappointment. Like you don’t want him to go. 

When he licks his lips, Joel remembers the plush of your lips, the soft hum you’d made when he licked into your mouth, how you’d leaned into his hand when he cradled your head. How your ex could never have seen or heard any of that sitting so far away. 

Maybe you just wanted to. God, he hopes you wanted to.

So before he can talk himself out of it, Joel’s hand jumps out and smacks flat against your door, holding it ajar. Through the slender gap he watches a grin bolt across your face as you sigh thank god and grab hold of his shirt, hauling him through the doorway to crash your lips against his.

dividers by @thecutestgrotto - tag list & some mutuals!

@ak-vintage @thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @harriedandharassed 

@burntheedges @jolapeno @la-eterna-enamorada29 @iknowisoundcrazy @guiltyasdave

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @sweetpascal 

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @helenanell

@pedgito @pastelpinkflowerlife @jessthebaker @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours 

@noisynightmarepoetry @kyberblade @beezusvreeland @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack 

@pedrospatch @yopossum @toomanytookas @sawymredfox @galway-girlatwork

[yoditostan]

Nine Lives (witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader) - Part 1

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

pairing: witch's familiar!Ezra x witch!f!reader

rating: T (evenual E) MDNI

summary: As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized he feelings for you were more than just affection. The only problem? He's a 300 year old crused witch. Oh, and he's a cat.

contents: age gap (like 300 years), slow burn, yearning, soft!Ezra, probably anachronistic witchy stuff, love triangle (quadrangle?), reader is a millennial but otherwise not described, Ezra is a cat, he won't be forever, this isnt a beastiality thing, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 3.1k

a/n: This one is for all my Thackary Binx girlies. I've had some version of this story in my brain for years now. I'm very excited slash nervous to be sharing it with you!

Thank you @moonlitbirdie and @lowlights for the beta and help with witchy stuff. Thanks @tinytinymenace for suggesting the title and @schnarfer and @whocaresstillthelouvre for listening to me ramble about this.

🐈‍⬛

Connor’s mouth is on you before you can get your key in the door. He’s lucky he’s a good kisser because he spent most of your date talking about his music. You’re lucky you don’t have a guitar because you’re pretty sure he’d serenade you. 

“Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he says after you press him back. 

You laugh, triumph blossoming in your chest.

“At least control yourself until we get inside,” you tease. 

You hold his hand as you let yourself in. It’s quiet and dark now save the little reading lamp beside the faded, floral sofa. You’re relieved, maybe nobody’s home. 

“Cool place,” Connor says wandering in behind you. 

He’s taking in the details of your little apartment— a small kitchen tiled in green and an equally cozy living room. The attic ceilings slant with the roofline. There are pressed flowers and astrological charts on the walls, their frames outlined by the vines of overgrown philodendron. You pull him into another kiss so his eyes don’t linger too long on the books on your shelves, before he wonders why the spice rack is full of jars of belladonna and blackthorn instead of garlic and cinnamon. 

He squeezes your hips and your hands lace through his hair. Connor might not be the one but that’s not what you’re looking for. He’s exactly the kind of guy you won’t feel guilty about ghosting. Until then, he’ll be a good lay. 

He’s got his hand up your shirt when you hear your bedroom door squeak on its hinges. Out saunters Ezra, stretching out his long, black body like he’s just woken up. He was probably dozing on his favorite spot in the bay window.

“Hi, Ez,” you say, stepping out of Connor’s arms. Your cheeks heat, feeling like you’ve been caught doing something obscene.

Ezra brushes against your shins, a move that’s more territorial than it is affectionate. 

“Did we wake you?” you ask, scritching him on the white patch between his ears. 

“This your cat?” Connor asks. 

To call Ezra your cat as if you owned him doesn’t feel right. Even calling him a cat seems inaccurate. Ezra’s been your familiar since you were 18, passed down through generations of your family, but he was once a witch in his own right before being cursed to live in this form for 1000 years. 

“That’s Ezra,” you say, sidestepping the question entirely. 

 “Ez, this is Connor.”

“Hi, kitty. Pss pss pss,” Connor tries, crouching down to offer a hand for Ezra to sniff. 

Ezra does no such thing. He merely looks at him disdainfully, then his golden eyes shift to you with a look that says you’ve got to be kidding me. 

“Want a drink?” you ask, pulling Connor’s attention away. 

“Yeah,” he says. He takes off his jacket making himself at home. 

Ezra never approves of any of your dates and he isn’t shy about letting them know it, scratching up their jeans and hiding wallets under the couch. Once he left a hairball in a pair of new sneakers. As much as it drives you insane, you can’t be angry with him. It’s his job to not only be a companion and do your bidding but also to protect you. Now it feels like you’re bringing dates home to your older brother. Your older brother by a few centuries. He was turned sometime before the country existed. 

As you pour two glasses of wine, Connor slips his hands around your waist and his lips graze your neck. You’re already working up incantations for passion, whispering the words to yourself as he kisses down to your shoulder. The one good thing about being a witch is you can mask even the worst sex with a little bit of magic. Not that you have low expectations for Connor. There’s a promising bulge where you grind your ass back into him.

A crash rouses you from your reverie. 

“Ez!” you bark. 

Ezra has swatted Connor’s phone to the floor. He sits on the counter with a mild defiance on his feline face. 

“That’s ok,” Connor says, retrieving it and turning it over. “He didn’t mean it. Right bud?”

You’re not sure that cats can roll their eyes but Ezra does whatever the equivalent is before turning away with his tail raised to give Connor a full view of his asshole. He hops gracefully to the floor and retreats back into the other room. 

“Sorry. He doesn’t really like…people,” you say. 

“That’s ok. As long as you like me,” he says, pulling you back into his body. 

You laugh at him before you let him kiss you.  

—

“Should we go to the bedroom?” you ask. 

You’re straddling Connor’s lap on the sofa. The strap of your black, lace bra dangles off of your shoulder. 

“Huh?” he replies, as if he’s been roused from a trance. “Yeah.”

You chuckle to yourself. His lips are kiss swollen and eyes dazed. There’s a reason why witches are known to be seductive. Mortals can’t resist the magic.

You slide off of his lap and guide him up towards your room. 

Ezra’s sleeping on your pillow, curled into a soft little ball. 

“Wait here,” you tell Connor, depositing him on the edge of your bed. “Let me just—“ 

You scoop Ezra up and he lets out a yowl in displeasure. You take him to the living room, set him on the back of the couch and he blinks up at you, groggy and annoyed. 

“Exiled once again,” he complains, his human voice a silky southern drawl. 

“Just for a couple of hours. Can you stay out here?” you ask, your voice hushed. 

“Have I not suffered enough?”

“Youre right. It’s so terrible.” You roll your eyes.  “I make you sleep on the couch instead of the bed.”

“Two hundred and fifty three years in this feline form—“ he goes on. 

“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. 

“ —And the true curse is listening to you fornicate with a cavalcade of dim witted mortals,” he goes on.

“Did you say something?” Connor asks. 

You whip your head around to find him standing in your doorway.

“Not to you, hun,” you say. With a flick of your finger, he turns on his heel and goes back inside. You’ll have to cast another spell to rid him of any magical memories.

“I live here, too, little mage,” Ezra says. 

“Well, when you start paying rent, we’ll get a two bedroom,” you quip. 

“That little jest never gets old,” he grumbles. 

He leaps down from the couch and heads to the entryway. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, keeping your words as quiet as you can. 

“Leaving you to your debauchery,” Ezra says over his shoulder and he disappears through the flap in the bottom of the front door. 

—

In the morning, you wake up alone. 

Of course, you got rid of Connor as soon as you were sated. He asked to see you again to which you have a noncommittal answer. 

You’d expected Ezra to return, though. He might complain about being kicked out of bed but he knows nobody stays the night. 

“I only sleep with one man and that’s you,” you joke all the time. 

Each night you rest your chin on the top of his head, his warm body pressed back into your chest. It’s hard for you to fall asleep without Ezra purring beside you.

You linger for a while after getting dressed, sitting in the bay window and watching the leaves begin to fall. The apartment feels so empty without Ezra in it. It’s too quiet. That damned cat has two centuries worth of stories and you’ve heard them all ten times. You’re constantly begging him to shut up. Right now, you feel oddly lonely. 

Eventually you decide that waiting around for him is silly. You’ve got to get to work. Fortunately, you only need to venture down the back stairs and you’re there. Your apartment is in the attic of The Arcane Page. 

You let yourself in and you’re immediately hit by the smell of leather bound books, old paper, and the drying herbs Aunt Margot has hanging from the ceiling. The shop is packed so tightly with rows of bookshelves and oddities, it’s almost impossible to tell that this used to be a proper house. What had once been confined to the front rooms grew to take over the kitchen and sun porch, up the stairs to the bedrooms until the whole thing functioned as the store. 

The old Victorian is just off the main street that’s filled with quaint cafes, gift shops, and antique stores. It attracts all sorts— wannabe spiritual types looking for selenite wands, academics in search of rare books, and old ladies drawn in by the lush garden out front. Witches, too. The basement is full of spell books and strange ingredients, off limits to mortals. 

You hear aunt Margot’s jewelry before she comes into sight, Her gold earrings tinkling, bracelets jangling.

“Morning, dear,” she says, without glancing in your direction. She knows you’re coming before you arrive and not just because she can hear you on the back stairs.

She’s behind the counter in one of her regular linen dresses, dark hair streaked with silver falling around her shoulders. She pours from her porcelain tea pot.  

“Has Ez come down here?” you ask, glancing around the bookshelves to all of his favorite hiding spots. 

“No?” she says. She pushes one of the cups your way. Delicate and decorated with spell work, the scent of assam wafts up to your nostrils. “Percy, have you seen your friend Ezra?”

A little white mouse appears on the counter, paws clutching one of Margot’s rings. He scrunches up his pink nose at the suggestion he’s a friend of Ezra. Margot’s familiar has never gotten along with him. Despite the fact that one of them is a demon and the other is a cursed witch, the old cat versus mouse thing is somehow universal. Ezra’s threatened to eat Percival a hundred times, sometimes leaving dead chipmunks and mice at the threshold of the bookstore just to amuse himself. 

Percy shakes his head haughtily and then wraps his body around Margot’s steaming teacup. 

“He’s mad at me,” you sigh. 

“How come?” she asks, an eyebrow arched curiously. 

“I had company last night.” You put the cup to your lips as soon as the words leave you. 

“Let me guess. Another mortal.” Margot rolls her dark-lined eyes. She leans on the counter and sips her tea. 

You just shrug. 

“Then I don’t blame him,” she says. 

“It’s not the ‘50s. I can date a mortal. Didn’t you read Harry Potter?” you ask, knowing it’ll get a rise out of her. 

“You millennial witches and Harry fucking Potter. 

A mortal—“

“Killed my great great great great grandmother. I know,” you say. As if you haven’t had that fact drummed into you since you were old enough to walk. You decide not to mention how hypocritical it is that Margot dislikes mortals when she’ll happily take their money. It’s not worth it. The two of you have had this argument a hundred times. 

“I like mortals. They’re uncomplicated,” you tell her. 

“Uncomplicated? They’re boring.” She sets down her tea cup. “Have you ever been with another witch?”

Your cheeks heat at the question. Not because she’s your aunt. You’d tell her just about anything and, considering the fact that she raised you, she knows pretty much all there is about you. You’ve had plenty of sex but you’ve never done it with a witch, a fact that makes you feel like a virgin all over again. It’s not for lack of trying. There’s just not a whole lot of hot, single witches in your area. And while you’ve talked about going somewhere where the witches are in excess— Salem, New Orleans, Portland— you’ve always found some reason to stay in the Catskills screwing mortals. 

Luckily, you don’t have to answer Aunt Margot’s question because Percy squeaks and she says, “I know but she won’t.” Then she turns her attention to you and translates, “Percy says you ought to just summon Ezra.”

You frown at him. You could. A simple spell would compel Ezra to return to you but you can never bring yourself to cast it. Maybe if he were just an ordinary familiar, not a witch with his own desires, you might feel more comfortable using magic on him like that, but he has so little of his own. The least you can give him is the freedom to be alone if that’s what he wants. 

“You spoil him,” she tells you. Sometimes you’re not sure if Margot can read your thoughts or if she just knows you well. “He’s your familiar not your roommate.”

You finish your tea and put the cup down on its saucer. 

“You know what? I’m going to shelve some books downstairs,” you say. 

“Oh would you look at that,” Margot says, peering into your empty cup with amusement on her lips. “Maybe there is a witch in your future after all.”

She holds the teacup out for you to see the wet leaves have formed a clump in the shape of a heart. 

—

Ezra’s limping by the time he returns home. The sun has already begun to dip below the trees, painting the sky autumnal shades of purple and orange. Though he resents the idea he’s turned into a house cat, he’d much rather spend the night on the couch than have to do another in the damn woods. No matter how much it hurts. 

“Where the hell have you been?” you ask when he slips back through the cat door. 

You’re immediately kneeling beside him, concern cutting your pretty features. Shame settles between his shoulders. As your familiar, he has no right to disappear for an entire day. He almost wishes you’d punish him— dunk him in an ice bath or beat him with a hair brush like some of his old masters had— but he knows you won’t. You’re too good to him. That’s where he went wrong and fell in love with you. 

It happened slowly. You treated him more like a pet than a servant. From the very beginning, you let him sleep in your bed, drifting off to sleep as you stroked his belly. Sometimes he thought you were the one purring. You talked to him.  Not just about magic but you shared your entire life with him. No witch had trusted him, called him a friend in all the time since he’d been cursed, not until you. 

As you came into your powers and your curves filled in, Ezra realized this was more than just affection. You were beautiful and bold. And he couldn’t do anything about it. 

You’re off limits in every way. In human years, you’re not young but you’re practically a child compared to his 300 years. The bond between witch and familiar is sacred, a line even a witch as forward thinking as you would never dare to cross. And, of course, there’s the little matter of his being a cat. 

“I was getting really worried,” you say. 

“You requested solitude,” he responds. 

You sigh and pick him up, setting him on the counter. 

“You hurt your leg,” you tutt, taking his paw in your hand so you can examine his injury. 

He spent the night prowling the forest, anything to save himself the agony of hearing you with that mortal. In this self pity, he’d picked a fight with one of the feral tomcats that lives in the old graveyard. 

“This is why I don’t like it when you stay out all night,” you chide as you disappear into the bathroom. “Those cats are vicious.”

You return with a small jar of healing ointment you brewed specially for him.  

“I’ve walked this earth a cat longer than those mangey beasts. Longer than I was human,” he says. 

You begin by cleaning the cut, his fur now matted with blood and leaves. Your touch isn’t unfamiliar to Ezra yet he still wonders what it would be like to feel your skin, the softness of your cheek and plush thigh without a layer of fur in between. To hold your hand with one of his own. 

“I’m sorry I kicked you out last night. You’re right. You live here too. And I know you don’t like mortals,” you say, as you clean his wound. 

He’s let you believe that that’s why he’s so petulant when you bring your suitors around. Mortals have never been his cup of tea but he absolutely despises the ones that you bed, humans that have no business being with any witch let alone one like you. 

“They’re below you. You deserve a proper witch,” Ezra says. 

That’s a far more painful reality. Even if he were in the running, which he never will be, There are thousands of witches more worthy of you. One day you’ll find one and Ezra will watch you fall in love. With someone else. He’ll stay the same just as he has all these years, and be your loyal familiar even as you inevitably share less with him. He’ll watch you age and fade. Eventually, he’ll lose you entirely. Perhaps you’ll have a daughter that will take him on as her familiar but he can’t imagine caring for any other witch half as much as he loves you. 

“Come on. You act like you never seduced a mortal,” you say. 

The peppermint oil of the ointment tingles on his tender leg. 

“There was an art to such things in my time. One had to concert more effort than opening an app,” Ezra says. 

You smirk as you finish bandaging him. 

“I got you something. To make up for it,” you say when you’re finished. 

You glance towards the coffee table, a cheeky smile playing on your lips. Ezra follows your gaze to find a tray of take out sashimi waiting there. His stomach growls. Perhaps he is a house cat. He’d forgotten to catch himself dinner.

You bring him over and lift the plastic lid off of the container and Ezra sniffs at the glistening fish. It smells glorious.  

He wishes he deserved you. You know what he is, what he did to be convicted of such a harsh curse and yet you care for him like no other witch has. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat. 

“Is this tuna belly?” he asks. 

“Your favorite.”  

“I suppose I could find it in my heart to forgive you,” Ezra says though you’ve done nothing wrong. 

You scoop him off of the table, cradling him like a baby. 

“Easy on the wound, little mage,” he complains but secretly his heart swells. 

You laugh and kiss the white patch on his brow. 

“I love you, Ez.”

🐈‍⬛

Part 2

I'd love to hear from you! Don't be shy!

[yoditostan]

Birthday Wishes

Pairing: (Hallmark) Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: It's Joel's birthday and he only has one wish.

Warnings: language, hallmark style fluff, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, food and alcohol consumption, anxiety

WC: 5K

Series Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Today was the day.

He was really going to do it this time.

He chickened out countless times already but this time, he was going to go through with it.

He was going to ask you to marry him.

The ring had a permanent home in his pocket by now, always waiting for the 'perfect time', for 'the right moment', and so many passed him by with his fingertips brushing up against the smooth gold deep in his pocket. Like the time he took you to a baseball game and you made it on the kiss cam. Or when you rented a lake house for a weekend getaway and you watched the sunset together from the front porch with a shared blanket draped over your knees.

Goddamnit, he was so nervous it was making him sick. What was he so worried for? He didn't think you would say no, although you haven't even been together even a year yet. Maybe it was too soon for you. He could have asked you two weeks after meeting you and it wouldn't have made a difference to him, he knew right away. But maybe it was different for you.

But on Father's Day, you did admit to wanting kids with him one day. So you must have been thinking about your future together, even a little. Right?

He should just do it right now. Just get it over with and slide the ring on your finger while you slept so peacefully next to him. It wasn't a half bad idea, but he always envisioned his proposal being a little more meaningful, and it felt like taking the easy way out if he just put it on your finger while you were asleep.

You deserved better than that. You deserved a whole speech on why you're so fucking perfect and how much you've changed his and Sarah's lives. And everyone should know it, not just the two of you. Everyone should hear how incredible you are and how happy you were together. If he could, despite his nerves, he would broadcast it on national television.

Then, right as you stirred, the perfect idea hit him like a ton of bricks.

"What're you smiling about?" you yawned when you peered up at him from your pillow.

"Nothin'," he said before slinking back down into bed to wrap his arms around you. You tucked your face into his neck and wedged one of your legs between both of his and it was fucking heaven the way your body fit perfectly against him. Then, you practically jumped awake when you remembered what day it was.

"Happy birthday!" you exclaimed, tipping your head back with a huge smile.

"Thank you, baby," he murmured, pinching your chin and tugging you closer so he could press your lips together.

"Feeling your age yet, Miller?" you teased with a wiggle of your eyebrows, and he laughed, pushing his hips against you underneath the covers. When you felt the growing erection in his sweatpants, you giggled and squirmed away. "Guess that answers that question," you said, tossing the covers off you so you could stand. Joel frowned and reached out for you.

"Where you goin'?"

"I have laundry to do and a whole house to clean, not to mention food to make for your party later," you reminded him. You tugged your shirt over your head so you could put on a bra and clean shirt and Joel groaned from his spot in bed when he caught a glimpse of your bare chest.

"Can't give me twenty minutes 'fore you start all that?"

You had just clasped your bra and held your shirt in your hand when you turned back around, on the verge of telling him you really didn't have the time to spare because you both knew he would take longer than twenty minutes, but then you saw how fucking breathtakingly handsome he looked all shrouded with sleep, hair tousled and voice rough, and you couldn't resist. It was his birthday, after all. With a sigh and a smirk, you jumped back into bed, straddling his lap and laughing when his eyes lit up with delight.

"Twenty minutes - I'm holding you to it."

Thank goodness for Sarah. She helped you clean the house, move the laundry, and then hung all the decorations while you checked on the cake in the oven and began to marinate the burgers, chicken and steaks.

Joel offered to help countless times but you kept refusing. Instead, you pushed him outside to relax in the sun while you worked away in the kitchen. You had the foresight to make two pasta salads the day before but you still needed to cook up the yams, get the dough for the biscuits ready, and chop up vegetables for a green salad.

Luckily your gift, two tickets for really good seats to a basketball game, was small enough to just shove into a card, one which you already wrote a sappy little love letter to him on the inside.

"Alright, living room's all set. What else?" Sarah asked when she breezed into the room. You glanced at the time before looking out the window.

"Can you start setting up the tables and chairs in the yard? The tablecloths are right there," you said, pointing to the pile on the counter which also consisted of paper plates and napkins.

"You got it," she said, but before she jogged outside, you called after her, "You're a lifesaver!"

"I know!" she shouted back, then the sliding door shut, leaving you all alone in the kitchen. You had enough time, you just needed to keep moving, but you did pause long enough to connect your phone to a speaker so you could listen to some music while you worked.

About thirty minutes later, some movement caught your eye through the window over the sink that looked out onto the backyard. You smiled when you saw Tommy and Maria climb the deck stairs to give Joel matching hugs and a small blue gift bag. Maria stepped back when the two men began laughing after Tommy made an old man joke and she caught your eye in the window. She gave you an excited wave and jogged into the house, sliding the door shut behind her and tossing her purse on the table.

"Hey!" she sang out, pulling her hair back. "Give me something to do."

You immediately put her in charge of the salad and the yams while you got all the appetizers ready, eternally grateful for her help. And she worked fast, too. Before you knew it, you had all the appetizers out on the counter ready to be taken outside but guests didn't arrive for another forty five minutes.

"I think we've earned a couple drinks of our own," Maria said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and jutting her chin towards the glass door where Joel and Tommy sat, beers in hand and feet kicked up, relaxing in the sun.

"Hell, yeah," you replied, swiveling around to yank a bottle of wine from the fridge. "White wine good with you?"

"Absolutely," she said, reaching on her tip toes to grab a couple wine glasses from the top shelf of your cupboard.

"Oh, my god, did Joel do these?" she asked when she closed the door and saw the intricate designs carved into the wood. You turned around and nodded fondly.

"Aren't they amazing?"

"Shit, I didn't know he was so creative," Maria said in awe, fingertips dragging over a cluster of little birds.

"He did them in my parents' house, too," you told her as you carefully poured two glasses of wine. "I told him he would make so much money if he advertised that skill a little more, but he said he doesn't want to. Said it would suck all the fun out of it."

Maria rolled her eyes in disbelief before clinking your glasses together and taking a sip.

"Is your family coming tonight?"

You nodded and rushed over to the oven to turn off a timer. "Yep. My parents, my sister, her husband and my niece."

"Anna, right? How old is she now?"

You sighed and took another sip of your wine. "Six months, can you believe it? Cassie's already begging Josh for another one, she's absolutely insane."

"Speaking of," Maria said, nodding out the window. You turned to see your family climbing the stairs of the deck, loudly wishing Joel happy birthday and giving him hugs and slaps on the back.

"Shit, maybe we should take some of these outside," you said, pointing to the appetizers.

"Let's take the cold ones out and leave the warm ones in the oven til more people arrive."

Maria and Sarah were unbelievably helpful the entire party. Sarah made sure everyone had drinks and knew where the coolers were while Maria was constantly picking up after everyone. Tommy even volunteered to grill so you could spend some time catching up with your family.

"Buck, where's Joel?" Cassie asked, looking around the crowded yard. You peered through the throngs of people until your brow relaxed and you smiled, pointing to the corner of the lawn.

"Looks like he's playing cornhole with some guys from work."

"How're things goin' with him, honey?" your father asked. You swirled around and frowned at the term of endearment.

"'Honey'?" you repeated, the word sounding vile on your tongue. "You never call me that. You only ever call me Bucky."

Your dad shook his head and took a sip of beer. "Not true. I call you all sorts'a things."

"No," Cassie said, one hand on her hip and the other cradling Anna. "You don't, Dad."

He rolled his eyes and looked to your mom for help.

"I think Dad's just wondering if things with you and Joel are still going good. He just worries about you," your mom explained, wrapping an arm around your dad's sizable waist. "You know, since moving in together. It's a big step and-"

"And we were thinkin' you might've gotten a new piece of jewelry by now, is all," you dad finished for her.

"Dad!" you exclaimed, face instantly growing hot. Thank fuck Joel wasn't around to hear that. The last thing you wanted to do was pressure him but still, the image of a small velvet box you saw tucked into his underwear drawer when you first moved in danced across your vision. "We are extremely happy, thank you very much. I'm begging you, please don't say something like that in front of him."

"Don't worry, Buck, I won't let him," Cassie promised. "Dad! You can't pressure them like that! Joel's probably just taking his time and not rushing anything because of the whole Will fiasco."

You cringed and looked away at the mention of your ex-fiancé who cheated on you with your ex-best friend back in New York City.

"It hasn't even been a year yet," you grumbled, "I'm happy, he's happy, can we please change the subject now?"

"Of course we can, Buck," your mom said, then patted your dad on his belly. "Did you tell the girls about Auntie Carolyn?"

You breathed a sigh of relief when your dad launched into a story about his sister meeting some guy at church and what a big deal it was for her as it was the first date she had been on since her husband passed away almost twenty years ago. At some point near the end of the story, Joel had sidled up next to you. His arm snaked around your middle and he pressed his lips lovingly against the side of your head, murmuring so only you could hear about what a great party it was and how he was having a fantastic time. You leaned into him, tuning your mom and dad out when the conversation began to dwindle into some dumb argument over which month your uncle died.

"Did you eat?" he asked you, looking down at you like you were the only two people on earth, his deep brown eyes sparkling brightly as they drifted over your face.

"I did, did you?"

"Mhm, ate too much. Everythin' was so perfect, baby, thank you," he said before capturing your lips with his. His mouth lingered a moment too long and if you hadn't already tasted the beer from his kiss, his delayed reaction pulling away would have been your next clue.

"How much did you have to drink?" you giggled, your family now completely ignored. It wasn't your fault. It was the effect Joel had on you, and you wouldn't change it for anything.

"Not that much," he replied, and you scoffed before rolling your eyes. "No, I'm serious. Only had, ah, three, I think. I ain't drunk."

"It's okay if you are, it's your birthday-"

"No, listen to me. I ain't drunk," he repeated, staring you dead in the eye so you could see his vision was as clear as his mind. He couldn't have you thinking he would be proposing to you drunk.

"O-okay," you said slowly, giving him a confused smile before taking his hand. "We should do cake and gifts in case people want to take off soon."

Joel nodded, following as you led him through the crowd to the deck, his free hand raking anxiously through his hair as he tried to remember his speech.

He stood by your side as you gathered everybody around the cake you made, smiling when Sarah had to shout to get everyone's attention while you lit the candles and he tried not to bring attention to the fact his hands were shaking and his breath was growing shallow.

You clapped your hands together loudly, then sang out the first note to Happy Birthday, his friends and family following suit and holding up their phones, snapping pictures and videos when he tugged you into one side, Sarah into the other and kissed the top of your heads. He made eye contact with Tommy and his brother gave him a subtle nod, holding up his phone and making sure he had the clearest angle for when he blew out his candles.

Fuck, he was really going to do this.

When the song ended, he took a deep breath, looking at you once before blowing out the candles. He vaguely heard everyone clapping and cheering, their voices stirring up old conversations again, but he could hardly process any of it through his nerves.

"Here, why don't you let me do that," Maria said slyly, taking the knife from your hand before you could begin to cut the cake. You quirked an eyebrow at her but gave her the knife anyway.

"What'd you wish for, Dad?" Sarah asked loudly, commanding most of the guests' attention. She was giving him a playful smirk, eyes darting back and forth between you while she rocked excitedly on her heels.

It was around that point when you sensed something was going on. The entire moment felt like it was moving in slow motion but in reality it had probably only been a handful of seconds. You looked over at your family, huddled together and smiling and you narrowed your eyes at Cassie, trying to read her mind to no avail.

With your head still turned, you heard a handful of soft gasps and squeaks. Your gaze was still locked on Cassie and in a split second, you saw her eyes drop to somewhere behind you. Her face crumpled and her hand flew up to cover her mouth and you slowly tilted your head to the side. She was happy. Those were happy tears.

Your eyes widened when everyone fell eerily silent and you felt more than saw their eyes on you. Your heart began to beat faster, mind racing and adrenaline shooting through your body when you finally twisted back around.

"Oh, my god!" you exclaimed, voice already breaking when you made eye contact with Joel, who had dropped to one knee while holding a diamond ring with shaky fingers. You slapped both palms over your mouth and you squeezed your eyes shut but the tears still leaked out and trickled down your cheeks. It was actually happening.

Then, you opened your eyes. His mouth was curved into a nervous smile and his eyes were glassy as he gazed up at you from the wood floor of the deck. The blood in your veins was moving so goddamn fast you could hear it rushing in your ears, so you took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. You wanted to make sure you remembered every single second and every single word.

"Hey, baby," he said. His tone was so soft, you almost forgot anyone else was around. It felt like, in that moment, it was just the two of you. You laughed lightly through your tears, unable to keep the smile from your face, so certain it would never, ever fade. He reached up to you with his free hand and you flicked away a couple tears before tucking your hand inside his.

"When we first met," he began, voice trembling a bit, "I know we said we would keep things casual, but, uh... I lied."

A ripple of laughter swept through the crowd and you grinned, unwilling to look away from him.

"I knew the night of our first date we'd end up right here, one way or another. You know why?"

You shook your head, tears clouding your vision, so you blinked them away.

"'Cause I never felt the way I felt that night with anyone else," he told you, his lower lip quivering as his smile slowly began to slip. "It was like... my heart knew 'fore my head I couldn't ever live without you."

"Me, too," you wept. His eyes sparkled and you saw his throat bob before he took a steadying breath.

"You changed my life. You changed my daughter's life, and for that-" he cut himself off, throat closing up and voice growing thick as he took a moment to collect himself. But when you saw two tears trickle down his cheeks, disappearing into his beard, you fell to your knees with him and cupped his face. "I can't thank you enough, baby," he finally whispered. You dragged your thumbs over his damp cheeks, tears streaming down your own face, too, but you didn't care. Joel pressed his forehead against yours for a moment, just a quick second to ground himself before inhaling sharply and leaning back. He held the diamond ring between you, eyes flickering to it briefly, then swallowed nervously before saying your full name, followed by, "Will you marry me?"

You nodded so fast you thought your neck would snap.

"Yes!" you cried out, throwing your arms around him and burying your face into his shoulder. His muscles sagged with relief right before his arms circled you, tugging you closer. Everyone around you was laughing and cheering so you couldn't hear Joel, but you could feel the way his shoulders moved and his chest heaved. Then he shifted so his mouth was next to your ear and you heard his laughter mixed with choked sobs, mimicking your own.

"I love you," you sobbed before finding his lips. "I love you so much," you said while repeatedly planting kisses all over his face. He chuckled and tilted his head back so he could give you one more searing kiss before sitting back on his heels and holding out his hand. You swiped your tears away with the back of your hand, staring at him until it dawned on you what he wanted.

"Oh!" you exclaimed, shakily presenting your left hand to him. He slid the ring on with ease and hummed his approval under his breath when you flicked your wrist around, catching the diamond in the light.

"I love it," you breathed, locking eyes with him. He had the biggest smile on his face, the kind that made the wrinkles next to his eyes scrunch up in the most adorable way. You were about to say more when Sarah tackled him out of nowhere right as your sister hugged you from behind and practically screeched in your ear.

The rest of the party was a blur after that.

The men ended up somehow finding cigars and surrounding themselves with clouds of thick smoke in the backyard while encouraging Joel to take a couple shots of tequila with them.

"Hey, go easy on him! He's old now and he's gotta celebrate later," Tommy joked. Joel whipped around, fucking praying Sarah or your father weren't around to hear that, then shoved his brother in the shoulder, muttering watch it under his breath.

Meanwhile, your family had you cornered in the living room. Your mom had been on the verge of tears since Joel proposed, your sister had passed Anna off onto your brother-in-law so she could admire your ring while already lecturing you on color schemes, band or DJ, and suggesting a few banquet halls in the vicinity that were beautiful but book up fast.

"I've been engaged for an hour, Cas! Give me a break!" you laughed before turning to your dad. "Did you know? Earlier when you were-"

"Nope!" he immediately said, his face all red from the excitement. "Well, I didn't know he was gonna do it tonight but... I knew. Asked my permission the night little Annie was born."

April? Joel had been thinking about proposing to you since April? The love you had for that man was insurmountable.

"Excuse us!" Sarah yelled out, racing through the living room with two of her friends, their phones clutched in their hands and giggling as they headed for the door.

"Uh, where are you going?" you asked when you saw her put on shoes.

She glanced up at you and grinned.

"The school football team's playing a home game, we were gonna try to catch the last quarter so Katy could give Paulie heart eyes from the bleachers," Sarah laughed when Katy shoved her shoulder, her face turning pink.

"Does your dad know?"

"Listen to Buck, already sounding like a stepmom," Cassie whispered to your parents.

"Yeah, he said it was cool. I'll be home by midnight," she replied, then right when she turned towards the door she stopped, swiveling back around and rushing over to you. She threw her arms around your shoulders, squeezing you tight.

"I love you, Bucky."

You kissed the top of her messy curls with a smile before she let you go.

"Love you, too. Be safe."

After Sarah left, a dam broke and other guests began to gather their things to leave, finding each of you to thank you for the party and congratulate you one more time until all that remained were Tommy and Maria helping Joel clean up the yard while you practically pushed your family out the door, insisting they didn't need to help and that Anna needed to get to bed.

When the house was finally silent, you tiredly strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, looking around at the empty cups, plates, half filled bottles of beer and uncovered trays of food. A Happy Birthday banner hung loosely from above your head where someone had drunkenly scrawled congrats! in black sharpie underneath. Crumpled bags of potato chips and spilled drinks littered your counters, but you were happy. You were so stupidly, unbelievably happy that no amount of cleaning up could ever take that away from you.

And surprisingly, it didn't take very long. Maybe it was due to your unwavering good mood every time you tied up a garbage bag or ripped off a piece of foil and saw your beautiful engagement ring sparkling on your hand, but regardless of the reason, you had gotten the kitchen into decent enough shape by ten thirty, just as the sliding door opened.

"Alright. Yard's as good as we're gonna get it," Tommy yawned when he stepped inside, followed closely by Joel and Maria.

"Thank you both so much," you said, giving them each tight hugs before finding your spot next to Joel. He tucked you under his arm and glanced around the kitchen.

"You did all this by yourself?"

"It went fast," you assured him.

He looked down at you and shook his head in disbelief. "Everythin' was perfect, sweetheart," he said. "Don't know what I did to deserve you."

Tommy shrugged on his leather jacket while Maria draped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "Alright, lovebirds. We're gonna hit it. Congrats again and happy birthday, big brother," he said before tugging Joel into a bear hug while Maria gave you another kiss on your cheek. The pair of you walked them to the door, laughing about how drunk one of their buddies from work got and taking bets on whether he would be calling in on Monday. Then they jogged down the porch and the door finally swung shut, leaving the two of you alone for the first time since that morning.

You immediately spun around and snaked your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss.

"I love you," you murmured, and he grinned before slipping his tongue past your lips. Your squeal was muffled when he lifted you off the ground and headed for the stairs. You slapped his shoulders, giggling and squirming until he put you down.

"You'll kill us both if you try to carry me up there," you told him breathlessly. He gazed down at you, dark eyes sparkling and smile stretched so wide, it almost hurt.

"See? That's why I'm marryin' you. You're so damn smart, baby."

You laughed and playfully pushed him away, then carefully walked backwards up a couple steps. "And why am I marrying you?" you teased, lifting an eyebrow.

He made a noise in the back of his throat, following after you with a devious smirk and a predatory look in his eye.

"Get to bed and I'll show you."

Joel couldn't imagine what his life would be like without you. You've blended into their lives so perfectly, it felt like you were always there. He was obsessed with you and he didn't even try to deny it if anyone caught him staring at you from across the room. The way you toss your head back when you laugh, the way your nose scrunches up when you take a sip of something bubbly, the sleepy way you snuggle into him early in the morning when his alarm goes off. All of it. Every single thing.

And, sure, the way his name sounds falling from your lips when he buries himself deep inside you is pretty incredible, too.

"Thought you'd gotten your fill this morning," you whispered in his ear, fingers combing through the curls on the back of his head, pressing him closer so your mouth could drag along his cheek.

"Never," he whispered back, and at the same time plunged into you once again. A deep groan rumbled in his chest, utterly consumed by the way your cunt stretched and pulsed around him, something that's happened countless times by now but never lost its allure.

"You... you feel so good," you moaned, head limply falling back into the sheets as his hips steadily rocked into you, building you up just to tear you back down. You gazed up at him, swollen lips parted, eyes half open, mesmerized by the fact he was going to be your husband. This beautiful man who looked at you like you held the meaning of life in your hands. Who loved you, cared for you, stood by your side through laughter and tears. Who taught you what it meant to be truly loved after your heart was shattered.

This was the man who was meant just for you, you never felt more sure about anything in your life.

"I love you," you whimpered when his hips began to grind into you, giving your clit that extra stimulation you needed to feel your orgasm swell low in your belly, your jaw dropping and your breath quickening with each forceful thrust.

"Love you," he replied, his own focus growing hazy. He nipped at your jaw, kissed your throat, licked into your mouth, needing to taste and feel you everywhere. It was never enough. "Y'so beautiful, so perfect..." he mumbled in between sloppy kisses and sharp gasps. "Y'make make me so happy. I'll never stop lovin' you... shit," he groaned, eyes squeezing shut. You were close. He could tell by the way you trembled underneath him and clenched tightly around his cock.

He let his head fall to your shoulder, driving into you over and over until your legs shook and your nails dug into his back and you cried out his name. His mouth covered yours instantly, swallowing down your moans and whimpers, headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall until his own body jolted forward, stilling and pumping you full of his seed while he whispered brokenly against your lips how much he loved you.

"Fuck," he breathed, pressing his sticky forehead against yours, rolling it back and forth as you each fought for air. You occasionally pecked little kisses at his lips but you were too tired to do much else. You felt like you were melting into the bed, every single muscle loose and relaxed, eyelids heavy and sliding closed.

"I wear you out, baby?" Joel teased when he slipped out of you with a soft grunt. You nodded, breathing in deep when the mattress shifted and the heat from his body disappeared. A moment later you felt him gently spread your still shaky legs to wipe a wet washcloth between your thighs, giving your stomach a quick kiss before heading back to the bathroom. You vaguely heard the sink running, then the familiar sound of him brushing his teeth before the light switch flicked off and he joined you back in bed.

"I'll get up in a minute," you mumbled, turning to bury your face against his bare chest, left hand snaking around his waist, the cool metal of your ring pressing against his skin. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close.

"Did you get everything you wanted for your birthday?" you asked with a yawn. He smiled and closed his eyes, blindly bringing your left hand up to his lips.

"Sure did."

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[yoditostan]

Fixed Up

Pairing: Joel Miller x Jackson!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller may be oblivious to his place as Jackson's most desirable bachelor, but he's not oblivious to you.

Rating: Explicit 18+ (By proceeding to read beyond this warning, you are agreeing that you are 18 years or older)

Content: Everything is great in Jackson and everyone is happy, Explicit Smut (Unprotected Sex, Possessive, Praise kink, Raging size kink as is tradition), it’s mutual but they’re both awkward

Word Count: 3.4K

Masterlist

“So the, um, the…faucet.”

Your contractor nods, mouth pressing into a firm line before he rotates his upper body in the direction of your upstairs bathroom sink. “The faucet?”

“Yep. It’s…” Your thoughts wander, getting tangled up in the streaks of gray in his dark brown curls. In how very nice it would feel to run your fingers through them. “So nice.”

He glances back at you, forehead scrunching in confusion. “It’s nice? I thought you said it was broken.”

Oh, God. Heat rises to your cheeks before you stumble out a quick explanation. “It is! Broken. It’s broken. There’s no, uh, hot water.”

“Oh.” He takes a step toward the object in question, his broad back and shoulders beneath his thick long-sleeve flannel impossible not to notice. His right hand reaches out and turns the handle, waiting a few seconds before running his fingers under the stream of water. “Yeah, that’s pretty cold. Not good in the winter time. I’ll have to take a look.”

He turns the water back off, drying his hand on his jeans. Wide palm and strong fingers carelessly dragging up and down the denim over his thigh as if he has no idea how many times you’ve pictured that same thigh wedged between your own.

Which he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Much to the relief and to the dismay of almost every woman in this town.

Ever since he arrived in Jackson a few months ago, Joel Miller has occupied the top spot on an admittedly short list of eligible bachelors. A shallow dating pool one of many drawbacks of a post-apocalyptic world although you have no doubt he would have done just fine regardless. 

The man is ridiculously competent and unbelievably gorgeous. Older, as well as the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, but what really clenches it for you (pun intended) is that he seems to have no fucking clue that he is the reason why everyone suddenly seems so into home improvement.

There’s practically been a feeding frenzy, Joel’s to-do list a mile long from the moment Tommy mentioned at the town meeting that Joel was a contractor and open to work. Yet the elder Miller brother has greeted every flirtatious look and open invitation thrown his way with crossed arms and a seeming inability to focus on anything that isn’t a two-by-four. Case in point…

“Mind if I take a look real quick at your downstairs?” 

You blink at him, suddenly aware that he’s been staring at you while you were busy contemplating the size of his hands. “My downstairs?”

His brow furrows again. “For the water heater?”

“Oh, of course, yeah. Water heater. Yep.” What if you just threw yourself out the window? “I can show you where—”

“S’alright. I remember from last time.” He gives you a friendly nod before moving to step past you, and, God, the body heat rolling off this man. The smell. Sawdust and mint and… Have you ever wanted someone so badly in your life?

“I’ll just—” you start to say and Joel draws up level to you to listen, peering down at you with those deep set brown eyes, and here is actually the thing that makes you feel so fucking weak when it comes to Joel Miller. 

Those eyes. The sadness in them when he thinks no one is looking. The pride in them when he looks at Ellie. The joy in them when Tommy says something to make him laugh. 

For a man that says so little… simply seeing the way he is with the people he cares about has told you a lot.

“I’ll just be down in the kitchen,” you finish mumbling, cheeks burning again when your eyes drop to his mouth before you make a hasty retreat. “Take, um— Feel free to take your time.”

*****

Damn, he’s rusty at this. 

Joel continues to glare at his open toolbox on the bathroom floor just as he has for the last five minutes, his frustration having nothing to do with its contents or with the job itself. 

This he knows. Twenty years since he last worked full time as a contractor and it’s all come back like riding a bike. 

But figuring out if a woman is interested in him? That is still leaving him feeling completely unequipped.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to shake off the anxious feeling in his stomach before he gets down on the floor and ducks beneath the bathroom sink. Attempting to distract himself with fixing something rather than thinking through the fuck ups in his past. 

Sarah’s mom. Tess.

In both cases, they had practically had to shout at him before he realized they weren’t just being nice. They’d spelled it out for him and yet he’d still fucked up. 

The first he’d given too much of his heart to. The second not enough. Did he really need to go for three?

As if in answer to his question, your soft voice reaches his ears, and he sits up without thinking, smacking his head under the sink. Wincing he peers out into the bathroom, any embarrassment he feels fading with the dull throb when he realizes you aren’t in the room. 

“What the—” He stops, hearing you talking again and spending a good few seconds looking around before he notices the floor vent. 

Must be over the kitchen, he thinks, going back to his task and doing everything in his power not to listen to— “He’s up there working. Just offer him a cup of tea for God’s sake. You can do this.” 

Joel pauses, tool in hand. Is she talking to herself? About me?

“Joel?” Your voice carries again, this time shouted up from the stairs. “Would you like some tea?”

“Alright,” he yells back, reminding himself that you’re only being polite before he quickly adds, “Thank you.”

He’s been trying to remember his manners again, wanting to set a good example for Ellie, so that the town doesn’t think they’re just a couple of feral barn cats. Although some of the thoughts that run through his mind whenever you’re around don’t exactly border on respectful. 

You just have such a sweet way about you. Shy smile, pretty laugh, kind heart. Always helping people out around town and…always looking like something he wouldn’t mind sinking his teeth into. An urge that he frankly hasn’t felt in a while since he’d been so focused on just surviving, but now… his ability to wield a hammer isn’t the only thing that’s come back.

Through the vent he hears the tea kettle go off, a sharp whistle that shocks him out of the images in his mind and prompts him to reach down and adjust his jeans before he gets back to work. 

“Okay, good,” he hears you say, “so now you just take him the tea and try not to stare at his arms.”

His arms? Joel frowns, looking at the sleeves. Did he have something on his shirt? He had showered after working in other houses all day and put on a clean button-up just before coming over but maybe he’d missed something. He’d even thought about shaving before he had contemplated how good you’d look with whisker burn on your neck…on your inner thighs.

“You can do this,” you’re saying, as if you’re giving him the pep talk. “You can—Damn it, why does he have to be so hot?”

The wrench drops out of Joel’s hand as he fumbles, a loud smack echoing into the room that he conceals with a few more random smacks to the pipes.

“Joel?” Your voice comes up the stairs again a moment later. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just…getting this faucet taken care of.” He waits, and he can feel you waiting too at the bottom of the stairs. “How’s that tea coming along?”

“Good, good.”

Hot. Had you called him hot? Maybe you’d said the tea was hot and he’d misheard. Although, speaking of hot water, Joel looks back at the pipes under the sink and immediately notices what the problem is. He grins, finally feeling something other than nerves pooling in his gut. 

By the time you appear in the doorway with two mugs of tea, he’s already packing up.

“You’re done?” He’s pretty sure now that there’s disappointment in your voice, in the slight scrunch between your brows. “That was so fast.”

“Yeah, well…” He takes a mug from your hand. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to be able to fix it just now. Gotta come back to it.”

“Oh?” You look so flustered, as if you’re not sure if you’ve been caught. “I—Really?”

“Mmhm.” He steps closer, still testing. “That little knob under there flips the hot water on. Looks like it’s been tampered with.”

You bite your bottom lip. “Weird.”

Yeah, he thinks, already knowing he’s about to try again even though he still worries he shouldn’t. Weird.

“I’m really sorry,” you mutter, looking away from him only to be confronted with the image of the two of you standing close in the bathroom mirror. Something he’s also definitely noticed himself. “I made you come all the way over here for something so silly. And I know you have a lot to do and—”

“Can I make you dinner?”

Your mouth falls open. And Christ, he likes that mouth. “You want to make me dinner?”

Joel nods, taking a calm sip from his slightly scalding tea as he prays that maybe this time he won’t fuck it up. “As an apology. For taking so long.”

*****

Joel Miller is cooking at your stove, towering over it as he deftly prepares some chicken and veggies. Nothing super complicated since you hadn’t really been expecting a dinner guest, but if he’s the one cooking it, it could be inedible and you probably wouldn’t complain.

He’s still not saying much, seeming to prefer listening to you talk, but you don’t mind. There’s something reassuring about his presence, like as long as he’s here it’ll all be okay. As long as he doesn’t figure out you’re the one who tampered with your sink.

The truth is you’d run out of actually broken things for him to fix a few weeks ago, and after listening to the women in the food hall talk this morning about how excited they were for their appointments with him, you’d felt a snap of unwarranted jealousy. 

Before you knew what you were doing, you were marching up to him and babbling about a hot water emergency.

Has he cooked for them, too? You feel like someone would have blabbed if they’d had Joel Miller in their kitchen, but what if you’re nothing special… 

“You alright?”

You look up to see Joel assessing you from where he’s leaning against the counter, the mug of now cold tea you’d brought him still nearby. Maybe you’re just making a fool of yourself…

“Fine,” you say quietly, sitting up straighter as he plates up the finished dishes and carries them over. “Sorry, was thinking.”

“About what?” He drops into the chair beside you and he certainly looks interested in what you have to say. “Anything I can help with?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “You’ve already done plenty.” The edge of self-imposed hurt in your voice makes it come out sounding wrong and you scramble, “I mean, you fixed all this stuff in my house and now you’ve made me dinner. You’re so sweet to everyone.”

He laughs this time. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You fix stuff for everyone in town.”

He frowns, looking genuinely confused. “That’s my job.”

“Yeah, but you go out of your way for people. All I had to say was that I didn’t have hot water in my sink and you fit me in to—”

“I don’t do that for everybody.”

There’s a beat of silence as he continues to look at you, and you take a bite of steamed green beans just so you have something to do as your heart skips. Of course, they’re good. Of course, he didn’t make you something inedible. So damn competent. 

Because he’s had to be…

The thought intrudes without warning, reminding you that neither of you have found your way here without getting lost along the way. That both of you have had to do what you had to do to survive. 

It’s easy to forget sometimes. Everything feels so domestic in Jackson. As if the world isn’t still burning beyond the gates. As if you hadn’t spent years living on instinct. As if almost everything you gave didn’t end up eventually costing you.

I don’t do that for everybody. Joel Miller just told you that you were in fact special, and all you can think is if anyone has ever told him the same.

“Thank you,” you tell him, not meaning it lightly as you take another bite of food. “I appreciate you taking care of things—of me. Thank you for taking care of me.”

He starts to say something, his serious expression creasing the corners of his eyes. Those damn eyes. They really do tell you everything you need to know.

You get up from your chair before you can stop yourself, closing the gap before leaning down and putting your mouth on his. He’s so surprised that it takes him a full agonizing second before he drops his fork and grabs for you instead. 

Joel starts kissing you back as he hauls you into his lap, a pleased grunt escaping him as he fits you tight against him. One of his hands cupping your jaw, the other spanning your back to keep you in place as he takes the kiss deeper. 

There’s heat to it. Hunger and need and a thrill of desperation that doesn’t make you think twice about letting him strip off your shirt, your fingers fighting with the buttons on his own while his mouth closes over your breast through your bra and you whine his name.

“Fuck.” It’s the first word he’s said since you both started, and for some reason it makes you giggle, your heart melting when you see the answering flash of a dimple on his face. But then he’s standing up, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist for as long as it takes to lay you out on your kitchen table. 

“Fuck,” he says again, remembering the plates when your back hits the edge of one and makes it clatter against the surface. “Should we go up—”

You shove the plates off the table with the sweep of your arm, then go straight for the center clasp of your bra in case that hadn’t been clear enough. 

His eyes go dark as the fabric falls away, gaze raking your skin before he braces himself above you and picks up where he left off. 

“Been thinking about these,” he says, before he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, using his tongue and his teeth until it’s a tight, overly sensitive bud. Satisfied only when he has you whimpering and squirming beneath him, he places an almost chaste kiss on it before he sets out to make the other one match it. “Fuck, been thinking about you so much.”

“Been…” You sigh, liking the way his whispers scratch against your skin as he works his way back up to your mouth. “Been…thinking…about you too.”

He kisses you again, lingering over it while you push his shirt from his shoulders. Your fingers kneading into his muscles, your palms grazing over his warm skin as you let your hands wander. 

He groans, even that touch enough to make him pick up the pace again. He moves down your body, sucking a mark into the soft skin of your stomach, another high on your hip when he starts to tug your jeans down. You arch up to help him, feeling yourself get wet at just the way he looks at you when you’re bare. 

“Christ.” His hands skim up and down your body, possessively squeezing your breasts, your hips, your thighs. “So fucking pretty.”

His tongue presses against his bottom lip as he tugs you to the edge of the table, spreading your legs after he drops back down into his kitchen chair and pulls you closer. Your hands go to his hair and you tangle your fingers in the strands just like you pictured earlier, moaning when he sucks another mark into your inner thigh. God, he’s going to ruin me.

“Staking your claim?” you tease, the sudden intensity of your feelings making you desperate for some form of relief. 

He smirks, looking up at you from his place between your legs before simply stating, “I don’t share.”

“Me either,” you reassure him, and his smile reaches his eyes before he nods. “Good.”

Then his mouth is on your pussy and you can’t think of anything else, his thick fingers spreading you so he can be thorough. His tongue working you until he has to put one hand on your abdomen to keep you still. 

He likes when you say his name, when you moan, when you pull a little too hard on his hair, telling you with a low groan that you can feel. He rewards you by slipping a thick finger inside as he sucks on your clit, by adding a second finger when you come and using it to work you up all over again.

“Need to open you up a little more, sweetheart,” he tells you when he slowly eases in a third as he stands behind you. “That’s it.”

You can’t even remember when he turned you on to your stomach, positioned you so you’re bent over the kitchen table. All you know at this point is that if he doesn’t fuck you soon you’ll go out of what’s left of your mind. 

“Joel,” you buck your hips back into him, and he lightly smacks your ass in warning. A poor one since that only seems to make you wetter and you’re already dripping down your thighs. 

You’re about to make another demand when you feel the wide, smooth head of him at your entrance, and you’re abruptly glad he had the restraint to work you up to this even if you didn’t. You raise up onto your elbows, gasping when you feel the stretch, and he places a reassuring hand on your back to lower you back down. 

“You’re alright. I’ve got you,” he mutters. “Just breathe, sweetheart. Should see how pretty you look on my cock.”

Jesus.

You shift, trying to accommodate him. It doesn’t hurt. He made sure of that, but it’s a lot. So much. And yet, you only want him deeper.

“That’s it,” he says again, stopping once he’s finally all the way inside and bending over you to kiss the nape of your neck. He scrapes his teeth there when you whine again. “Good girl.”

Still covering your body with his, he pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, waiting to see how you respond before he does it again. And again. And again. 

You’re moaning so loud that the neighbors can probably hear you by the time he’s thrusting hard and fast, his left hand on your back again and his right between your legs. Joel ruthlessly pushing you towards another climax because he wants to feel you come on it. 

You hope they can hear you. And him. You hope the whole goddamn town knows by tomorrow morning that Joel Miller is yours.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters again as you start to come, burying himself deep to feel every wave of it before he pulls out. His spend hits your back and ass a few seconds later, his thumbs smearing it into your skin as he lets out a satisfied hum. 

Apparently you’re his, too. 

“I don’t think I can move,” you mutter, and you hear him chuckle. A heartachingly gorgeous sound that you only have a few seconds to appreciate before he’s scooping you up and cracking your heart completely in two with the way he’s smiling down at you as he takes you upstairs.

“Joel,” you say, as you pass the bathroom sink on the way to the tub, “about the faucet…”

He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose, shushing you as he sets you down and reaches for the tap. “I already know.”

[yoditostan]

too sweet (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: in your fight for survival against a world intent on killing you, you stumble across the humble abode of one joel miller.

warnings: age gap (28/56), post-outbreak, canon divergence (no ellie), canon typical violence, angst, some fluff, smut, cursing, blood, injuries, mentions of dead parents & child, weapons, smidge of voyeurism, inexperienced reader, alcohol (joel & reader are not intoxicated and everything is consensual), unprotected piv, v light choking, 18+ mdni.

notes: so, @perotovar posted a gifset and this idea came to me in a vision. erin, you are a rockstar and i can’t thank you enough for the incredible visuals you provide with your stunning gif work. we love you so much <3 tysm for making these for my header 🥹

a huge thank you to my beta, @macfrog 🫶🏻 max: the time & effort you’ve spent on this for me.. i love you. so much, forever. ty for always being so generous w your brain. so much love goes to @swiftispunk @frannyzooey @joelscruff for their support with my very first real smut 🫡

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

Oh, he’s serious.

“So you’ve decided not to kill me?”

“I still might,” he grunts, dark eyes flashing with a quiet rage

You place the pistol on the sagging wooden table, pushing it with a force that sends it spinning towards him. He pockets it, swallowing thickly.

“Now, you wanna try this again?”

You attempt to speak, but your tongue is stuck. Everything moves in slow motion, blood rushes in your ears, and the world turns black.

///

Smoke.

You can see it: thick and dark against the pearl white sky, snow frozen on your eyelashes. You haven’t felt your toes for a few days now; your fingers numb this morning.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

It can also mean a myriad of other things: raiders, murderers, the worst humanity has left to offer. Yet, the blood stains the ice beneath you as you drag your feet, and you know you’ll take your chances.

You don’t have any other choice.

The wound in your stomach is deep, the result of a skirmish with a raider who thought he’d try his luck with your hard-earned dinner catch. He came off worse than you: dead, in fact, but you’re pretty sure you’ll be joining him soon enough if you can’t stop the bleeding.

Your father’s voice echoes in your head, the peeling wallpaper and damp ceilings of the rotting apartment in which he took his last rattling breaths.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You were eight when the Cordyceps outbreak unfolded. He tried to hide you, left you in your bedroom as he took a shotgun to your mother, the woman you once knew already infected, robbed from the both of you.

You’ve never forgotten the sound, though. The snarls ripping from her throat as she lunged, the thud of her body against the floor. Him scooping you up in his arms, tearing through the end of the world to get you to safety.

The QZ was safe, for twenty years. Bleak, depressing, devoid of any joy; but free from fungus and all the destruction it left in its path. You grew up quickly, earning your rations sweeping streets and shovelling shit. Your father worked himself even harder, going without so you could have more.

He trained you for this: taught you how to handle a gun, to break an arm, to hold your breath and purify water you can drink without poisoning yourself. He sharpened you, honed your skills, all whilst his body was failing him. He gripped your hand the day he died, told you he was sorry, for all of it.

And he left you alone.

You crawled under the wire fencing that night, and you’ve been on the move ever since. Six months of chewing rabbit and washing yourself in streams, hiding in trees and gutting clickers from the inside out. All in aid of searching for that idea of more, the one your father told you must be out here somewhere.

You won’t let it all be for nothing.

And yet, the blood soaks your fingertips as you apply pressure to the wound. The tip of your nose remains numb, and flurries of snow cling to you stubbornly, turning to deadly mush inside your shoes, the hood of your jacket, freezing your spine and shortening your breaths.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

///

Picking the lock of the cabin is easy.

Another skill drummed into you, and one you’re savagely glad for. You can’t feel your digits, of course, but you watch them work of their own accord, the catch springing free.

Sure enough, flames are crackling in the grate of a stone fireplace. The place makes you think of a ski lodge you’d visited when you were young: a thick rug across the floor, a table with cutlery strewn across it, a wooden balcony hung with drying linen.

“Nice,” you whistle lowly, crouched and ready to greet the inhabitants. Your precious pistol is cocked in your hand; a poignant gift from your father. You take a step forward; a droplet of blood splashing against the floorboards.

Your ears are pricked, listening for a pair of lungs, the creak of a boot — any indication that you’re not alone. You’re fighting every natural instinct you have to rush to the warmth, heart beating out of your chest.

Nothing moves. Nobody comes.

You drop your shoulders, breathe in and out, sliding your weapon into the back of your jeans. Later, you’ll picture your father’s face if he’d seen what was to come. The way he would’ve reprimanded you for letting your guard down so easily.

Goddamn gun’s no use in your pocket, sweetheart.

Then, a real voice comes from behind you, still out in the snow. It’s harsh, deep, and unforgiving.

“Hands up, turn and face me.”

You raise your palms, turn slowly on the spot. Your brain works fast: calculating your odds, trying to figure out how — if — you can get the drop on your attacker.

He doesn’t shoot, though. He just stands there, hunting rifle aimed at your head, icy drifts swirling round the both of you. Your feet teeter on the edge of what you now guess to be his home.

He’s a lot older than you, for sure.

Dark hair streaked with grey, thick moustache and slivered scruff adorning his reddened cheeks. His eyes look almost black; set beneath a strong brow with a curving nose, full lips drawn into a scowl. Tall and foreboding, but you note that you’re not scared.

You’ve been trained for this.

He makes a gesture, shaking his head, indicating you move backwards. The man corners you once you’re inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“Don’t even think about tryin’ to shoot,” he mutters, and you shrug, feigning innocence.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the noise rumbling through his chest as he tuts in disbelief. You’re envious of his thick overcoat, the layers he has on beneath it. He’s well-built: broad shoulders and the curve of a belly pushing at his flannel shirt.

That’s good. ‘Least you picked somewhere you might be able to eat a hot meal before he puts a bullet between your eyes.

You’re dizzy from the blood loss by now, the puncture in your stomach draining the fight from you. You lower your arms to your sides, and his eyebrow raises.

“Don’t remember sayin’ you could do that.”

It’s your turn to laugh then, despite your predicament, the fact death could whisper in your ear at any given moment. You’re stubborn as hell and you know it, and you have a feeling he is too.

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

///

You wake up, seemingly, on a cloud — soft sheets and thick pillows, a contrast to the pallet you slept on in the QZ, the forest floor where you’ve been unceremoniously laying your head.

You feel disorientated, a searing pain across your forehead. Your eyes focus: it’s dark outside besides the sliver of moonlight, a total white-out with flakes still falling.

“What.. The fuck?”

You still have your sweater, torn apart and caked in rusted blood. But, beneath it, bandages wrap round your midriff. Panic swims in your chest, bile rising in your throat. You squirm, grasping at the sheets.

Where the fuck are you?

“Easy, easy.”

You stop thrashing. It’s him: face in the shadows of the candle that burns beside him, slouched in a chair at the foot of the bed. Watching, waiting.

“What did you do to me?!” you demand, failing to keep the tremble from your voice.

“I stitched you back up, that’s what I did.”

Swallowing, you gingerly pick at the bandages and gauze, flesh underneath pulled gruesomely tight.

The bastard saved your life. You don’t know why, or how he even had the supplies to, but he did.

“Think I managed to stop the bleedin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I’m still here, so I guess you’re right,” you groan, pushing to sit up against the pillows.

“Try not to move so fast. You, uh, hit your head when you fell. Don’t want you passin’ out on me again.” He stands, gripping the bedpost, fingers curled round the wood. Your fingers find a lump on your forehead, a scab stretched over it, and you wince.

So much for being fucking capable.

“You didn’t need to do any of this,” you gesture around you weakly, rubbing at your temples. A glass of water sits on the dresser beside you, a shirt and a pair of jeans folded at the end of the bed.

“I know that. Not exactly sure you’d have done it for me, either,” he shrugs.

He’s not wrong. You crossed the threshold of his home, ready to murder any and every occupant if you had to. Instead, you collapsed pathetically, and woke up in the owner’s bed.

“Saw you a mile off, kiddo. Tracked you all the way here, to my place.”

You scoff, regretting it when it aggrevates the fresh threads in your belly. “I don’t fucking think so.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and he sits near your feet, glancing toward the window. You recoil slightly, still unsure of him and the sheer size of his body: wide chest, big hands, solid arms you can see tight against his flannel.

“What, you thought I’d just let you walk right in? You think I’m some kinda fool?”

“So why didn’t you just shoot me back then?” you spit, not enjoying the condescension in his tone.

“Well,” he mutters, looking at your blood-soaked clothes, “in truth, wasn’t sure I’d have to.”

You feel exhausted, even after a few minutes of confrontation. The tiredness settles itself deep into your bones: all you want to do is close your eyes, luxuriate in the simple pleasure of a warm bed.

“Look, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he murmurs, heading for the door, and you’re nodding, eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

You’re not even sure why.

“Then what?”

He stops, moonlight seeping through the blinds, illuminating the curve of his nose.

“I’ll bring you some soup. When you’re ready, of course,” he tells you, like it’s the most normal statement in the world. The tears sting, and you let them wash over you as the door shuts quietly.

Soup, in a strange man’s bed. The abnormality of your situation is overwhelming, but even if you wanted to escape, high-tail it out the window like your father taught you, you won’t.

You’d be dead within a few days: a hole in your stomach, concussion fogging your brain, fingers and toes saved from the brink of frostbite.

No, you’ll stay. Make the most of your would-be murderer’s hospitality whilst you can.

You don’t even know his name.

///

“Rabbit? Again?”

“You got a problem with that?”

His fork stabs at the meat on his plate, knife slicing it cleanly. You chew and swallow rhythmically, unsure of why you’re complaining. It’s not like you had ever dined out on fine steak and fries, but you don’t want him to know that.

Joel.

Fifty-six, Texas native, one dead daughter and a missing brother.

Three months have passed, and you’ve grown accustomed to the quiet, robust companionship on offer. His rushed surgery may have saved your life, but you developed an infection soon after, no thanks to the raider’s rusty knife that had plunged into your stomach.

Joel found it somewhere in his heart to keep you alive: sponging you down when fever burnt through you, swaddling you in blankets when your teeth chattered through the night. You floated in and out of consciousness as he pumped penicillin into you - the vials of which you have no idea how he came across.

Still. You were indebted to him, now. Twice.

You discovered Joel hadn’t been here for long before your arrival: nine months, in fact. Setting up a home to sustain himself during a harsh winter, the previous occupants dying of old age. He wanted a base, somewhere to rest and recoup, before continuing on to find his brother, some settlement in Jackson he’s heard whispers of.

Or so he tells you. You choose to believe him, anyway.

You pulled your weight around the cabin as soon as you were able to, heading out on supply runs to the nearby ghost towns when you finally felt strong enough, compiling a mismatched wardrobe and a library for yourself. Joel hasn’t asked you to leave, and you find yourself, inexplicably, wanting to stay.

Warm showers mean scrubbed fingernails and clean hair. Three meals a day mean relaxed shoulders and a full belly. You’ve shed the skin of the girl you were in the QZ, the girl who survived six months alone in the a world that tried so hard to kill her.

You still see her, in the cracked mirror above the fireplace. You know she’ll never truly leave, but you think you like it that way.

It’s quiet, out here. Peaceful, in a way you’ve never known life to be. The snow is still lingering, but Joel tells you gruffly that spring isn’t far away: new life unfolding, all blossoming trees and baby birds. You can’t wait to see it.

If — when — Joel decides to move on, you think you’ll stay. No infected this far north, he tells you. Raiders don’t bother, either. You’d manage, but something in your heart tells you you’d miss him, even with his tightly-drawn brows, monosyllabic answers and permanent scowl.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You hope your father, wherever he is, can see you’ve found it.

///

Joel’s gloves land on the table beside you, leather slapping against oak.

“Thought we could share some of this tonight.”

You look up from the new pile of books he’s found for you: Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, family recipes and guides to grow vegetables. He’s holding an old glass bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside it, label hanging on by a thread.

“Share... With me?”

He lowers himself into the chair beside you with a groan, bones creaking, overcoat discarded. “You see anyone else here?”

Your eyes roll, used to his remarks. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Joel.”

“You ain’t packed your bags just yet,” he counters, and you snap shut the novel you’d been perusing, dust climbing into the air.

“What is it, anyway?”

“This,” he smirks proudly, “is whiskey. Tastes best neat.”

You take the bottle from him, nose wrinkling at the cobwebbed decoration. “You sure it’s still any good? It’s just, you know, I’m kinda unwilling to risk my life again.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “See how it’s unopened? Could be a hundred years old, and would taste just as good as the day it was made.”

“A hundred years old, huh? Means you’ve got about twenty years on it, in that case.”

Joel chews his lip, eyes narrowing at the barb. The push and pull between you both is so familiar now: biting remarks that surely would make others wince.

Not that it matters. No other witnesses exist besides faded smiles in cobwebbed photo frames, and they can’t judge you now.

Sometimes, there’s a twisted, perverse thrill to be had from seeing just how far you can push him.

“‘m takin’ a shower,” Joel mutters, swiping the bottle from your hands. The glass clinks against the chipped china sink, and you watch him rooting around in the cupboards beneath. His shoulders flex as they move beneath his shirt, and you find yourself dwelling once more on how fucking broad he is.

The thought slips away as he stands, two tumblers joining the bottle on the sideboard. Wondering again just why he wants to share it with you, you watch Joel stalk off down the hallway, the sound of the shower humming rhythmically moments later.

You collect your books, decades-old newspaper cuttings acting as place markers. You linger over a novel at the bottom of the pile; a smutty romance you keep well hidden from your makeshift roommate. You save it for after sundown; feeling the blood burn low in your belly when you’re curled in your sheets, poring over line after line of heaving chests, panting moans and torrents of passion.

You’re not sure what Joel would make of that particular title.

You pass the bathroom as you retreat with your stash of new titles, steam seeping out of the crack between the floor and wood. You’re momentarily struck by a startling visual of Joel beneath the stream of warm water, sluicing down the column of his throat, rippling off his collarbones, soaking the dark hair nestled on his sternum.

You flop onto the bed, books clattering to the floor. Stretched out on your back, you stare at the ceiling, longing for a distraction — a way to end the frustration you’re feeling, once and for all.

Where the fuck is this all coming from? Why now?

The lock to the bathroom door clicks in its hinges; you know if you turn your head just a little, you’d be able to see him. So you wait, and you watch him leave, totally oblivious to your staring.

///

For once, you don’t complain about rabbit for dinner.

Tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of your mouth, all your thoughts are occupied by the man sitting across from you. Try as you might, you can’t forget what you’ve just seen: that broad chest, dark hair threaded with silver peppered across his smooth skin, growing thicker over his soft tummy.

The thin, white towel round his narrow hips, only partway concealing a bulge of a certain size.

Come on, you tell yourself. It’s Joel. Just Joel.

Twenty-eight years your senior. Not your biggest fan.

All the self-preservation you’ve built upon, clawing your way out of a place determined to suck the life from you, surviving raiders and murders and a hole in your stomach. You’re not about to forget yourself over a glimpse of skin.

Joel collects the plates when you’re finished eating, clearing his throat loudly. “You alright to get the fire goin’ if I clear up?”

You nod, grateful for a distraction.

Soon enough, flames are crackling in the grate, socked feet folded beneath you. You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood; iron washing over your tongue as Joel takes his place beside you on the couch, whiskey in hand.

“Some people would mix water in with this, but I want your first time to be a good one.”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by the words he’s chosen. He wouldn’t have even thought about it.

Still. It’s not lost on you.

Joel fills your glass first, before tipping his head toward you, swallowing his down whole. You follow his lead, spluttering as the liquid burns your throat.

“Jesus, girl. What did ya do that for?”

He smacks lightly between your shoulder blades, helping you clear your airways. His fingers linger a little, resting at the nape of your neck, and you involuntarily shudder at the contact.

“Can’t be shown up by you, can I?” you jest croakily, regaining a modicum of composure. There’s a warm feeling spreading from your chest; you’re not sure if it’s the drink, or the sensation of his hands on you. Finally.

You nurse the next tumbler, sipping it slowly, learning to enjoy it. You don’t think you’ve ever spent this much time with Joel — unless you’re out hunting together; you shooting, him dressing, or arguing over who’s next to take the linen to the river for cleaning, or the rare few times you’ve watched a VHS with one another, mostly in silence.

“‘s Burt Reynolds. Someone told me I look a little like him,” Joel points at the screen: an extremely handsome moustachioed man swanning around in too-tight denim jeans and a cowboy hat. You snort, almost choking on your beef jerky. “Was that person your mother?”

The television remains silent tonight, though.

It’s just you and Joel, the fire hissing and spitting, and impossible darkness outside. You relax into the couch, warm to your bones. He cricks his neck, groaning in satisfaction. His hands are covered in scars, forearms much the same. You wonder how they got there; how this stoic, brooding man beside you came to be.

“Joel?”

He lifts his head, huge fingers swirling his tumbler in the low amber light. “Hm?”

“Tell me about Texas.”

///

After an hour, the fire has almost died out, the two of you talking too much to notice. Well, Joel’s talking. You’re listening intently, watching his grin grow wide and eyes shine as he tells you stories of his brother and daughter.

“We’d walked for an hour to get these ice cream cones Sarah insisted on havin’. We get back to our street, ‘n Tommy’s showin’ off for one of the new neighbours. Ends up trippin’ over a hosepipe, damn cone went all over him. God, me and Sarah didn’t stop laughin’,” he chuckles, chin resting on his glass.

You can feel it, see it: the raucous, bubbling giggles, dribbling pink splotches of strawberry ice-cream, burning hot sidewalk and the squeak of rubber sneakers.

It fills you with joy and sadness in equal measure. Your own fuzzy memories of life before were never too far away.

“Were you, uh, ever married? To Sarah’s mom?”

He exhales, carding a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Sure was. For about a year.”

You note the way his shoulders slouch, expression unreadable. You almost wish you hadn’t even asked. Still, the liquor makes you bold, so you press a little further.

“Was she your high school sweetheart?”

Joel scoffs. “Now, what would you know about high school sweethearts?”

You move to pour another mouthful into each glass, shrugging. “Hey, I had a boyfriend once — for a few months, at least. Back in the QZ.”

“I ain’t surprised, pretty thing like you. Even if you are a pain in my ass,” he sighs, two thick fingers wrapped round his tumbler.

You’re blinking slowly, registering the fact that Joel just called you pretty. There’s no denying your attraction to him now. The pulsing sensation below your navel is proof enough.

“Okay, so, who’d you lose your virginity to?”

You’re not sure where this line of questioning has come from; all you know is that you’re enjoying yourself.

Joel’s face screws up in disbelief, but he tips the remaining liquid down his throat regardless, glass slamming against the worn wooden coffee table.

“Melissa Horton, summer of 1986. Back seat of my Chevy.”

A giggle bubbles in your chest. It’s just so Joel.

He leans back into the couch, turning to face you. “Let me guess: you lost yours to this boy back home?”

Teeth in your lip, you nod, suddenly shy. “I was eighteen, for fucks sake. Everyone around me was having sex — something to do, I guess, when you’re not shovelling shit in the sewers. A way to feel alive, you know?”

Joel nods, eyes still on you. You look away, face reflected in the blank television screen.

“But there’s been nobody since?”

You shake your head. “Nope. A whole damn decade. What about you, Mr. Big Romantic? Any more hookups in the backseat?”

“Watch it,” he mutters. “I, uh, had someone. Back in Boston.”

You stay quiet, giving him space to continue if he wants to. You’re curious; watching him pick at the loose threads on the couch, moustache quivering.

“Her name was Tess. She and I.. We were together for a long time.”

You nod at his words; some things in this world don’t need explaining. Loss comes in so many different, horrifying forms. Relationships are temporary, connections are fleeting, and nothing lasts forever.

Something you’re trying to remind yourself of right now.

“What was she like?” you ask tentatively.

“She was.. She was somethin’. Brave. Nobody fucked with her.”

You laugh, raising your glass in a toast. “Sounds like I would’ve liked her.”

“I think so too. Wasn’t half as annoyin’ as you are, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t see you kicking me out.”

“Guess I kinda like the company. Even if you are a brat sometimes, baby,” he chuckles, warm and low, gaze noticeably trailing over your body.

Hot hooks of desire claw at your skin, burning inside you like you just sunk the whole bottle of liquor. You feel yourself shifting under the intensity of Joel’s stare.

Baby. That’s new, and you like it.

You let yourself wonder what would happen if you reached out to touch him: slide your fingers in his hair, your lips over his. If you climbed into his lap, tasted the whiskey you’ve shared off of his tongue, instead of from the glass?

Would he let you? Would he respond, in kind?

Would Joel Miller fuck you, if you asked him to?

“Joel, I —“

Then, his face disappears in opaque darkness.

///

The slow, distant hum of the generator is no more: all electricity gone from the cabin, rendering the lamps useless and shrouding you in gloom.

His voice comes from beside you, harsh and agitated. “What the fuck?”

You don’t move, listening as he ambles over to the matches kept above the fireplace, the dying embers below providing little light. He strikes one, and his features are illuminated, contorted with frustration.

“It was your turn to get gas for the generator,” he barks, and his gruffness throws you back in time; back to that first day, his rifle aimed at your head for trespassing into his space.

“Yeah, last week! Check the chore sheet — pretty sure you’ll see your name there instead,” you hiss, Joel moving to light the candles spread out across the room, in case of emergencies.

“Well — you didn’t think to fuckin’ remind me?!”

You get to your feet, incensed by his words. “Since when did that become my job? Don’t get shitty with me because you forgot, asshole.”

The last hour melts away like the flurries of snow across the plains in the weak spring sunshine. Tenderness replaced with fury, soft confessions forgotten, vitriol in the place of poorly-disguised lust.

Because that’s the way it should be, between you and Joel. That’s the way it works.

Right?

You stay rooted to the spot. He shrugs his coat on, muttering to himself under his breath. The fragile candlelight flickers, spidery shadows thrown over the walls.

“‘m gonna go check it. Grab the flashlights under the sink, would ya?”

You say nothing as the door closes, breeze blowing through the cabin as it does so. You peek through the shutters; moonlight sprawling across the mountain peaks, Joel bent in half as he inspects the generator.

Won’t do any good for his back, you muse.

Seeking out the flashlights as per request, you use one to check the chore sheet pinned to the faded cork board. Nothing more than a scrap of paper, jobs childishly divided under the headings of yours and his names.

“That fucker.”

Sure enough, his name is there. Just like you knew it would be.

“You talkin’ about me?”

You squeak in surprise, and he has you pinned, just like the day you arrived here. No rifle or life-threatening wound this time, but the scowl on his face is just the same. It almost makes you laugh, if you weren’t so pissed at him.

“You see anyone else here?”

You parrot Joel’s earlier words right back at him, watching his jaw tick in annoyance. He closes the space between you, your back against the kitchen cabinets.

“Just like I said,” he mutters, something about his tone turning your insides to liquid, a wetness pooling in your underwear. “Y’can be a real fuckin’ brat.”

A beat of silence follows.

A shared look of longing.

A mutual moment of insanity.

Joel tugs you towards him, your lips finding his in the dim light. Fingers scratching against the scruff along his jaw, you moan wantonly into his mouth. His hands slide against your bare skin beneath your shirt, palms so rough, and you break into goosebumps as a result.

You’re not sure if this is borne of building anger, pent-up frustration or both. All you do know is you’re putty in his hands, already so responsive to him as he continues to kiss you so deeply, your head bent back to accommodate his frame above you.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this: these hands that have held you hostage once — then saved your life — are now exploring the most intimate parts of you.

“We’re really doin’ this, huh?” he murmurs, cradling your jaw. Your own fingers drift over his jeans, skating across the hardening length at the apex of his thighs. His thumb lingers on your lips; you take it into your mouth by way of an answer, watching his pupils dilate as you swirl your tongue around it.

You don’t want to beg. You’d never make Joel do something he didn’t want to do — not that the stubborn bastard would let you. You release him with a wet pop, eyes wide and imploring.

“We really are.”

Your voice is quiet, unrecognisable; thick in your throat with unbridled need for him. It’s all the permission he needs.

Joel kisses you again, pushes you gently downwards till you’re laying flat on the dining table. His tongue is still in your mouth until you break apart breathlessly, helping him tug your shirt over your head.

You’re braless beneath it, his huge, warm hands cupping your tits, rough thumbs catching on the peaks, a growl in his chest as he does so. Joel just stares at you, at your chest, eyes blown black in the muted lighting.

“Christ,” he mutters darkly. “So goddamn perfect.”

His words spur you on; back arching off the wood as he bends to smear messy kisses against your throat, leaving sticky trails across your chest and the scar he repaired on your belly as he travels lower.

His fingers wedge between your jeans and the curve of your stomach, pulling you upright. Teeth capturing your bottom lip, Joel works the button open, and you’re shuffling desperately to try and rid yourself of any remaining clothing.

“What is it, baby girl? You want me to taste her?”

“Fuck, Joel. Please — I’ve never —“

“I know, baby. I know,” he soothes, thick fingers sliding the denim over your ankles, hooking into the band of your panties, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

He’s taking his time, revering in the sight of you — but you need Joel’s mouth.

You need his tongue.

Soon enough, you’re laid out naked before him, still stood there with his heavy overcoat and boots on. Joel shrugs it off, moving to hold your legs apart, spreading you open for him.

“Look at that. Know you’re gonna taste so sweet for me, baby.”

He bites into your inner thighs, your fingers threaded through his hair. You’ve never heard yourself make these sounds before — not even when you’ve touched yourself in the dead of night, struggling to remember the feeling of coming undone like this.

Joel licks a broad stripe over your centre, and you’re already convulsing, trembling as he continues to lavish you with his tongue. You watch his curved nose nestled right where you need the pressure, and before long, stars are bursting behind your eyelids as you spasm against his mouth.

“Good girl.”

His voice rouses you from your euphoria, and Joel pulls you to the edge of the table, into his arms. You taste yourself on him as he kisses you; blood simmering hot in your veins. “You okay?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

“Need more.”

Joel studies you for a moment, checking in, then tugs at his own clothing, buttons and boots bouncing melodically off the stone floor. His chest is as broad as you remember, wiry dark hair peppered over his soft tummy, trailing down to —

Fuck.

He’s huge. Stiff and leaking, flat against the curls beneath his navel.

Joel notices your hesitancy, hand under your chin to reassure you. “Hey, hey. Look at me. We don’t need to do this, not if you don’t want to.”

You swallow, take him in your hand. He hisses as you squeeze him, all soft velvet and hard steel. Your voice is barely a whisper, apprehension bubbling in your throat. “It’s just — like I said, it’s been a while.”

His lips press against your temple, your thumb running across the tip of him. You bring it to your mouth, relishing the salty tang across your tastebuds.

“S’okay, baby girl. We’ll go slow, I promise,” he groans, keeping you upright with a hand on your lower back. You nod in consent: Joel wouldn’t hurt you.

You want him. You want this.

He slides inside you inch by inch, letting you feel the delicious stretch and burn, fingernails deep into his shoulder, face in his neck. Good as his word, he takes his time, peppering kisses against your shoulder blade.

His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, both of you sharing in the euphoria. “I want you to watch, baby. Watch yourself takin’ me. See that you can do it.”

So, you do.

Joel whispers in your ear, teeth nipping your earlobe, tongue soothing it over. You’re doin’ so good baby, look so pretty spread open f’me.

You feel yourself growing slicker and sweatier at his words until, finally; he’s fully sheathed inside you.

You’re so full. He’s taken over your senses; plugging you, filling you to the brim. You don’t know where you end and Joel begins. He’s everything you’ve ever known and will do, forever.

“Move, Joel. Please.”

He’s crowding over you, fucking into you on the table he almost shot you over. It’s a heady realisation: you urge him on, and his thrusts deepen, and you’re already cresting the wave, riding the blissful sensation of him inside you.

“Baby, ‘m not gonna last long, squeezin’ me so good—“

Joel’s breathing is ragged, knives and plates falling to the floor as his pace increases. You feel him everywhere, fucking you in a way you’ve never experienced before. You’re so close, and you know he is too. “Here, Joel,” you pant, hand on your tummy, and he nods, sweat sheening across his forehead.

“Want one more from you first, darlin’. Know you can give it to me.”

His hand closes round your throat, claiming you as his own. You bite and scratch and sob in his arms, falling over the edge as your legs shake around him. You can hear Joel, vaguely, calling you his good girl, telling you he’s coming, painting your tummy with it.

Foreheads pressed together, your skin is aflame. You’re sticky with him, drenched in sweat, and sated beyond belief.

He kisses you, tenderly this time. In a way that feels more strangely intimate than anything that’s already passed between you both.

Breathing fresh air into your lungs, you press your lips to the tip of his nose. “Now what?”

He tilts you both back upright with a groan, a soft hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“I’m thinkin’ we do that all over again.”

///

Dawn bleeds through the drapes, fresh blue sky tinged with rose petal pink. Joel’s sleeping arm is banded round your middle, resting above the jagged scar he’d slid a needle through all those months before.

His breath is warm in your ear; back pressed to his chest, the same place you’d both collapsed from exhaustion a mere few hours ago. Joel fucked you twice more, here in his bed, sucking at your pulse points and moaning your name like a mantra.

You untangle yourself from him gently: dressing in one of his discarded shirts, desperately needing to pee and drink something other than whiskey. Downstairs, all remains as you left it. The half-drunk bottle, two tumblers, and hastily extinguished candles.

You stand by the window, gulping thirstily from the glass you’ve poured. The blossoms are burgeoning on the trees, birds collecting what they need for their nests. Joel was right; spring is looming, and you’re glad for it.

It’s truly a sight to behold — you don’t remember it much from your childhood. You suppose life moved too fast to stop and watch it changing right in front of you. It’s a privilege to see it now.

The bottom stair creaks over your shoulder, and soon enough, you’re engulfed in a bear-like embrace. Joel’s palms rest against your tummy, and he kisses your cheek in greeting.

“Hey, you,” you murmur shyly, turning in his arms. Dark eyes still cloudy with sleep, he raises his eyebrows at your choice of clothing, and you smack him lightly on the chest.

“‘Least you could do was let me borrow it.”

“Guess you’re right,” Joel concedes, hands finding your ass beneath the hem. You hiss a little when his fingers dig in to your skin; you’re still so sensitive from his ministrations the night before.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Y’just — last night was really somethin’.”

Eyes rolling, you kiss him chastely, a contented hum reverberating through his bare chest as you allow yourself to be wrapped into it.

He turned you inside out last night; your toes curling, skin soaked with sweat, his name on your lips as you came. You weren’t sure what to expect of him today: whether he’d tell you it was a mistake, it shouldn’t have happened, or — worse — ask you leave.

You knew, though. As soon as you were falling asleep, the way Joel quietly asked you to stay there in his bed with him. Something had changed, had shifted so irrevocably you weren’t sure he’d ever just be simply the man who saved your life again.

He’d snagged a tiny piece of your heart, a fortress you were insistent on making impenetrable. It frightens and excites you in equal measure.

“We better head out soon, get some fuel. Get that generator up and runnin’ again,” he murmurs, squeezing your sides softly.

You blink up at him incredulously, eyebrows raised.

“We? Need I remind you of that damned list one more time?”

You’re laughing as you say it, pushing away from his chest. His hair is rumpled, crescent-moon shaped scars from your nails along his upper arms, a bruise sucked into the column of his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ we scrap the list. Place belongs to us both now, anyway. Ain’t that right?”

His eyes are wide, searching yours, thumbs stroking across your skin. You already feel your body responding to him; a sensation you cannot deny.

You wouldn’t even want to try.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “That sounds about right.”

///

divider by @saradika-graphics & gifs by @perotovar 🤍

[yoditostan]

Pairing: Din Djarin x female sex worker!reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 3.1k Content Warnings: touch-starved Din; reader is blindfolded; smut Summary: Mando makes regular visits to the healing baths. Note: A big thank you to @frannyzooey for always enabling my depravity and finding the dope ass images for my header ❤︎

He always waits for you inside the door.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, when you’re surprised by the unexpected touch the first time. A light hand cups your elbow, guiding you to the middle of the room, until you can feel the smooth tiles that mark the edge of the sunken pool with your bare toes.

The marble is slick with condensation, heated by the same geothermal source that warms the spring water. The air is steamy and humid, braided with the rich scents of cardamom and argan oil, of rose from the petals you know are strewn across the surface of the bath. Candles flicker languidly in the shadowy corners of the room, but you can’t detect any of their light.

When you lower yourself to the floor—carefully, blindly—he checks the tightness of the black silk wrapped around your eyes with gentle fingers. He reassures himself it’s secure, that you can’t see a thing through the fabric in the dark, hazy room. A reassurance he needs every time.

You come to expect it. To expect him.

He’s consistent. He’s hesitant.

It takes dozens of visits before he lets you join him in the bath. You always offer; he always refuses—politely, always so politely: a no, thank you, eventually paired with a fleeting touch. A warm hand placed over yours. Two fingers stroked down the red silk of your dress. If you’re lucky, a squeeze to the thick of your thigh or a graze of your cheek. His denial is so soft, so warm—so regretful—that you ask every time just to hear him want it.

When he inevitably says no, you sit behind him on a velvet cushion on the edge of the pool instead, swathed in the inky blackness of your blindfold, your feet dangling in the warm water, and work scented oils into his skin and tension out of his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his back, his chest. Your existence is reduced to tactile information, your world narrowed to the sensations in your hands—the textures at the tips of your fingers. The taut muscles of his shoulders, the raised scars that litter his arms and chest, the hair dusted over his pectorals, the callouses on his palms. All slick with water, slippery with massage oil.

The helmet stays on for the first handful of visits. You know by the modulated sound of his voice, by the brush of beskar against your wrist when you work a knuckle into the base of his stiff neck. It disappears somewhere around the tenth visit. When he meets you at the door, your name sounds markedly different. You don’t mention it, don’t draw attention to it, but you do enjoy the unfiltered, raw quality of his voice from then on.

The noises he makes when you touch him are always better than you remember. Their tone and cadence mark a gradual progression from high strung and uneasy to mellow and sedate as the tension coiled in his muscles dissipates under your hands. The harsh exhales devolve into low groans, quiet grunts. Sounds of pleasure waited too long to be had, of physical release so desperately needed. Every once in a while, when you work out a particularly stubborn knot, he murmurs a hushed, rumbling oh, fuck.

Once, when you earn a delicious moan paired with a strained, needy fuck, just like that, he bites off the last word so harshly that you know it was involuntary.

It turns you on more than the touch of any client ever has.

Even with the blindfold, you can feel the burn of his eyes on your skin. Its weight is familiar from the start, when you meet him at the entrance to the baths, the echoing stone entry hall with its gilded fixtures and branches of guttering candles. A balled fist rested on the counter, he nods at you in all his armored glory, a cordial gesture that seems to gain gravity and intimacy each time he offers it. The black visor follows your walk down the long hallway to your rooms, dips to your hips when he thinks you’re not looking. Heavy, substantial. Pressure that could be measured, harsh enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

It stays on you until you shut the door between you, leaving you in the antechamber to tie on your blindfold and him in the main room to undress.  

When you knock and enter, you can still track his gaze despite the layers of black silk—the feeling of it like a searing brand. Settled on your face when you smile up at him. Dragged over the curves of your breasts when you shamelessly tip forward to trail fingers through the water and they just barely begin to spill over the low cut of your dress. Trained on the movement of your tongue when you part your lips and lick a slow, gratuitous line over the bottom one. Riveted to the dark space between your legs when you spread your knees unnecessarily wide and the fabric of your thin, short dress rides up your thighs.

You tell yourself not to hope for more.

Then one day he shows up, and you can tell something is off. His usual steady, controlled energy has been replaced with a pent-up buzz. He’s worked up. You can hear it in his clipped words, feel it in the extra touches. The hand on your lower back guides you to the pool almost hurriedly.

His shoulders are even tighter than usual when you get your hands on them, his back a series of stony knots. He groans when you work at the tension in his neck, your thumbs digging into the tautness at the base of his skull. And when you offer yourself this time, feeling optimistic that you’ll get your most reluctant no yet, a strong hand guides you slowly and wordlessly down the smooth stone steps to join him in the water.

Reflexively, you pull your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind you before the hem can catch in the water. You lose his touch in the process, but a path of goosebumps down your body echoes the course of his gaze as it pulls along your curves. You can feel his attention, his captivation at your nakedness in the fervent tension that snaps taut between you.

His invitation is so unexpected, though, that once you’re standing in the hot, waist-deep water, you’re stunned motionless. Disoriented. You don’t know where he is for a moment; you feel his hot gaze everywhere, all at once. You never actually thought you’d get this far with him, and now it feels daunting—the darkness of blindfold, the ever-changing line of his limits and preferences. You feel untethered.

Until the water shifts and he touches you.

“Beautiful,” he says, damp fingers following the curve of your cheek so lightly you can only just feel them.

You take his hand in both of yours and kiss his palm, soft lips brushing over rough skin. He catches you under your chin, and one fingertip traces your lips, his other hand settling on your waist, flexing. 

You don’t want to push him too fast, and you also want to take full advantage of this opportunity while you finally have it.

You part your lips, and his fingers still.

You let your tongue peek out to circle the pad of one finger, inviting. To your delight, he responds by carefully pushing two fingers into your mouth. When you close your lips around them and suck, he lets out a broken, pained sound, pressing down on your tongue lightly before he eases them back out and drags a wet line down your chin to settle his hand around your throat. 

You smile up at him, unseeing, as you trail fingers down his chest, the soft give of his stomach, dipping below the water as you reach the ridge of his hipbone. Moving slowly, always slowly, so he can stop you if he wants to.

Sure enough, his hand finds yours, trapping it against his skin. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to," you interrupt. "I want to touch you.”

It’s an understatement. There isn’t enough time to share all the myriad ways you’ve fantasized about touching him.

“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you walk in here in your armor,” you say, letting your voice pitch low. “What you’d feel like under all that metal.”

His hand disappears, and yours slips further down the v of his hips to wrap around the base of his cock. Hard, thick, big like you knew it would be. 

“I think about it every time I work my way down your chest. How easy it would be to slip my hands lower...to see if you enjoy having my hands on your body as much as I do.” 

He breathes out slowly, but his whole body is rigid as you drag your other hand over his shoulder, down his chest, a granite statue under your touch even as you start to work him over in long, luxurious strokes. 

“I’ve been dying to know, Mando.”

His cock twitches in your hand, his skin hot and slick as it pulls over his hard length. He isn’t relaxing into your touch like he usually does, and this white-knuckled, shallow-breath, penitent version of pleasure is not at all what you’d intended for him, what he deserves.

You tip your face up toward his. “I need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

A rough exhalation. Noncommittal, a little wry.

You step closer, gingerly moving into his space. He lets you. The water shifts around you as you move into him, close enough that your breasts brush his warm body and you can place a soft kiss on his chest. His ribs expand in a rapid, deep inhale, a rough hitching breath, and his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck.

You press him backward with a palm to his sternum, and he resists reflexively, his feet planted firmly. A man not so easily moved. Who is used to doing the telling, not being told.

“Sit for me?”

He relents with a hum, going pliant for you as you back him up to sit on the submerged marble bench. He helps you climb up, strong hands guiding your movements, settling you onto your knees in a straddle over his lap.

You dip your head to find the crook of his neck and lavish open-mouthed kisses on his throat, below his ear, automatically respecting the limits of where his helmet would be, as you move your hand between your bodies. You’ve never touched above his neck and won’t change that now, even though you’re dying to trace the contours of his face, to fit your lips to his.

Perched over him, you can feel his body gradually relax under your attention, his posture softening, his breath dropping into a more natural cadence. His hands find your hips, your thighs, slide back to grip your ass, as you begin to increase the pace of your stroke.

“Have you, Mando? Have you thought about this?”

You feel him nod once against the side of your head. Jerky, frantic.

“Good,” you purr into his skin, letting your teeth drag over his collarbone.

He groans, his hips lifting off the bench to push himself into your grip harder. The heat that always simmers in your core when you’re around him grows and spreads. It’s overwhelming—so much of his bare skin on your bare skin, after so long with so little. Almost feverish as you move together in the hot water.

Your hand pauses mid-stroke; his hands tighten in protest, sliding you a tiny bit closer on his tense thighs. “Do you think about me?”

His ragged breathing stalls. He nods again. “All the time.”

You hum, pleased, and resume the tight pull of your fist. Your own arousal is approaching a blistering point, so hot and bright, and he’s barely touching you—one hand on your ass, the other dragged up your body to palm your breast, his strong thighs pressed to the inside of yours. He rolls your nipple between two fingers, and you gasp. 

“Feel so good,” he rasps, the heavy weight of his hands reverent as they catalog the slopes and rises of your body. “Just like I imagined.”

You can’t help but think about how easily you could sit on his cock right now. All it would take is a slight shift and tilt of your hips and you could catch the blunt head at your entrance. He’d stretch you so deliciously—that girth and length—but your wetness would let you work yourself down onto his lap until he was filling you completely. You’d fuck an orgasm out of him, riding him until he found his release in the tight clutch of your body, milking his cock until he shuddered from the oversensitivity.

One day. Maybe.

He’s close—you can tell by the strain in his voice, by his ragged breath, by the way his hands tighten on your ass. By the way he wraps one large hand around yours on his cock, tightening your grip. 

“Just like that.”

You’d give anything to see his face when you feel the urgent flex of his hips as he fucks into your joined hands, the jerk and shudder of his large frame as it curves over you, his forehead dropping to rest heavily on your shoulder as he moans brokenly through the pleasure. It’s the most intimate part of all of this—so human, so trusting. So tempting to reach up and touch his face, to put detail to what you’ve imagined so many times.

You regret that your hand is submerged in water, that you can’t feel his hot release slide over the dips and swells of your knuckles. That you won't be able to lick it off your fingers—to taste it, for your own pleasure and for his. To listen to the sounds he’d make as he watched you eat his come.

Instead, when it’s over, when he’s finished, the weight of his forehead lifts from your shoulder and his touch abandons your body. You resist the urge to search it out, to ask for it back.

You imagine how he looks unwound underneath you, his head tipped back against the edge of the pool, muscles slack. His body finally truly relaxed.

Your part is done. 

He’s never spent this long here, and you imagine he’s hyperaware of that. Always on a timeline. Some small part of you thought maybe—hoped—this time would be different, that maybe he’d linger, that maybe he’d want to touch you. You slide backward off his lap to take your leave reluctantly, but when you reach blindly for the edge of the pool, there’s the sound of quick movement through the water and he closes a hand around your wrist.

Relief courses through your veins.

He doesn’t say anything, just guides you. You can’t tell what his aim is until he arranges your body over his just so—just the way he wants you. He has you straddle his lap backwards this time, your back flush to his chest, your knees opened wide by the spread of his legs between yours.

You think about what he does for work, the command and skill it requires. Those capable hands and sure grip have wrestled so many bounties into submission—into handcuffs, into rope bindings, into his carbonite chamber—and here they are exerting their power and ability for the sake of your pleasure. Blunt instrument, suddenly fine.

His breath is hot by your ear, his heavy hand settling meaningfully on your inner thigh. “Can I—?”

“Yes. Fuck, please—”

You guide his hand between your legs, desperate, and his mouth finds the back of your neck. His mouth. Stubble scrapes across your skin, soft lips molding to the contour of your shoulder. The heat that’s been building in your body, that started as a low smolder in your core, has been growing to a rolling boil the whole time you were touching him. And his mouth on your body? Like striking a match to gasoline.

The reality of the situation, the surprise of this touch, ratchets your arousal to a precipitous height. It’s the sheer brazenness of it—the unflinching way he’s taking such a huge step. In the name of your pleasure, of his desire to taste you.

The offering of such intimacy, a secret shared.

A warm tongue blazes a lazy trail from the notch of your vertebra to your nape as two fingers slip into the slit of your sex, beginning a slow massage of your clit. Your mind goes blank.

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he makes you come, how little time it takes with his hand between your legs and his lips on your skin. He fucks you with two thick fingers, another swirling over your clit, and you wonder vaguely how he knows how to curl the two inside you just right against your g-spot.

You reach behind you to grip the back of his neck as you arch, your hips circling. He hooks his chin over your shoulder and you go molten at the thought that he’s watching himself finger-fuck you to climax.

“Are you going to—?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Good.”

It's said through clenched teeth, a gritted jaw. He’s deriving so much pleasure from your pleasure, it's dizzying.

Teeth close over your shoulder and he bites down as you begin shudder and shake, as you clench and spasm around the thrust of his fingers—as you listen to his voice break on a groan as he feels it and draws it out—until the pleasure wanes and you melt back against him, boneless and sated, his strong body an anchor underneath you in the water.

You pant together, your head tipped back to rest on his shoulder, and all you can think about is how fucking close his lips are to yours. You could turn your face and kiss his jaw. He could angle your head and push his tongue into your mouth so easily. You’re so pliant; you want it so badly.

You consider asking. And then you consider the fact that he’s likely thinking about the same thing—your closeness is palpable, the tension a live, shivering thing—and he isn’t doing anything about it. He isn’t fitting a hand to your cheek to maneuver you just so.

You won’t ask for something he isn’t ready to offer.

When he finally does let you go, this visit that was so different from the others ends the same. He guides you back to the exit and hands you the robe that hangs by the door. As he helps you shoulder it on, he murmurs a sincere thank you, accompanied by a rumble of your name.

There’s one notable difference: as you're walking through the doorway, he catches your hand and squeezes it fleetingly before letting it drop.

The door shuts behind you with a click.

As always, a stack of credits far too high will be left in the room for you, and just like every other time, you’ll wait impatiently for his return. 

[yoditostan]

[yoditostan]

A Soft Place To Land

pairing: frankie morales x gn!reader

rating: F (this is really just 579 words of fluff, frankie strips but it’s not sexual)

a/n: the autumn chill is making me romantic for my fictional husband and this is what came of it

frankie masterlist

It was late into the evening when the headlights of Frankie’s truck shone into your living room window. It had been raining all day, autumn finally settling in with an icy chill. You knew how tired he must be, spending his day in the cold, damp body shop he co-owned with Santiago, dealing with cold, damp, impatient customers for the last ten hours.

You, on the other hand, had the day off and never once had to step foot outside the warm and cozy confines of your home. You busied yourself with chores, cleaning the house more deeply than you had in a while, maybe even since you and Frankie first moved in a year and a half ago. Now, fresh out of a warm-vanilla scented bath, you laid reading on the plush sofa Frankie insisted on buying despite it’s hefty price tag, feeling cozy in a pair of soft, fleece-lined sweatpants and a white, cotton long-sleeve.

When Frankie walked in, he looked just as glum as you predicted, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he kicked his boots off by the door while meeting your eye.

“Fucking cold out there,” he said, earning a frown and a nod from you. “You look cozy.”

“I am cozy,” you smiled, curling your finger at him to beckon him closer. Frankie obeyed, walking over to you and bending down to capture your lips for a sweet, icy kiss that left you shivering. “You’re freezing.”

“Let me in, then,” he said, yanking on the blanket covering most of your body.

“You’re dressed in your work clothes,” you giggled, batting his hand away.

“Fine,” he said, standing upright. You watched him with amusement as he started to peel off his clothes layer by layer until he was left in just a pair of black briefs and his socks. “Can you let me in now?”

“Fine,” you sighed, pretending to be burdened by his need to be close to you, when in truth it was what you loved most about him. Throwing the blanket open, you spread your legs to give him room to lay between them, Frankie’s head resting on your chest. You threw the blanket back over him and set your book aside to hold him for a minute, your fingernails lightly grazing the plains of his toned back while he slipped his icy hands underneath the dip in your back, hugging you closer to him. “How was it today?”

“Shitty,” he mumbled sleepily, his cheek squished against your sternum. “Got yelled at.”

“Cunts,” you spat, earning a chuckle from your husband.

“Missed you, baby,” he mused, turning his face to press a kiss over your heartbeat. “So warm…n’ soft.”

You couldn’t help the cheesy grin that spread across your face at the sound of his sleepy voice, your fingers lifting to lightly scratch at his scalp.

“Mm,” he hummed, squeezing you tighter. “Could fall asleep like this.”

“Go ahead,” you murmured, lightly tracing the ridge of his brow with your fingertip.

“Okay,” he said, nestling into you. “Wake me up if I get too heavy.”

“Mmkay,” you smiled, scratching his scalp once more before picking your book back up and resuming your place, Frankie’s soft snores the only sound in the world to you.

Though you wished he never had to face the cold at all, you couldn’t help but admit that you adored being the warmth he came home to every night.

A soft place for him to land.

[yoditostan]

the growth! for both of them, chef’s kiss

and Frankie licking his fingers clean after touching you 💀 I need him to lay on me like a weighted blanket after all that

let it snow (iii) [frankie morales x plus size f!reader/ofc]

written w/ @lowlights

summary: After your fight with Frankie, you're left wondering if everything you've been feeling between the two of you was all in your head. Frankie, meanwhile, just wants to know what he'll have to do to fix this mess he's made. rating/warnings: E [angst, fluff, FEELINGS, pov switches, cheesy holiday things, smut, unprotected PIV, frankie morales pussy eating king, frankie morales idiot man] wc: ~6.3k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! heyyy so it's been exactly one year since i posted the first part of this fic and i am SO sorry about that lmao. me and laura both had a hell of a 2023 that made co-writing much harder than anticipated, so i idk how many of y'all are still here for this, but if you are? lord i hope this was worth the wait. because damn that was a hell of a thing to leave y'all hanging on and we are so sorry. i take full responsbility for any typos and missing words or whatever chaos, i was too excited to post it lol. dividers by @saradika-graphics my beloved<3

masterlist | series masterlist | part i | part ii

An eerie silence filled the truck, interrupted only by the crunch of gravel and snow under the tires. The inn grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, and Frankie couldn’t get away fast enough. He laid on the gas pedal as he shifted into third gear. 

Betrayed. Used. Lied to. Just like before. 

He gripped the steering wheel with such force his knuckles turned white, thoughts racing as he replayed the conversation over and over again, her words swirling amid the tempest in his mind. 

He’s my ex-boyfriend. 

I don’t owe you anything, Frankie. 

She had laughed at him; laughed like his heart wasn’t about to spill out of his chest and stain his shirt crimson. Amy used to laugh things off, too, always with a convenient excuse the moment he questioned her. 

But she wasn’t Amy, was she? 

Frankie pulled over and took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Had she laughed at him?

With some distance between himself and the inn, that pigheaded indignation started to clear. 

Frankie was a stubborn man; he knew this. That mulishness kept him in a relationship that died a long time before they finally called it quits, regardless of how miserable it’d made him. Was it going to prevent him from starting something good, too?

But what the hell else could those texts have meant? 

She’d never mentioned anything about some asshole ex-boyfriend. He swallowed, throat dry as he realized he’d never really asked her, either. He’d been too busy living their little snowglobe romance, too elated that a beautiful woman might be so interested in him, even knowing as much of his past as she did. 

Asking what he did before this. Offering to help with all his tasks around the inn. Helping pick out a tree for his daughter she hadn't met. It wasn't like this was some torrid, passionate affair, either--they hadn't even had sex. 

"Fuck," he muttered, looking at his phone--the one she'd so sweetly teased him about--and dialed the only person he could count on to tell him how much of an idiot he'd been.

“‘Lo?” Pope’s groggy voice greeted him.

“Hey, man,” Frankie said. “Time is it over there?”

Frankie heard grumbling and bedsheets rustling. “Lucky you didn’t wake up the missus,” Pope groused. “It’s seven AM.”

“Seven AM? Up and at ‘em, you lazy fuck,” Frankie goaded because he could never pass up a chance to give his best friend shit. 

“Ah, I miss you, too. What the fuck do you want?” 

Frankie chewed his lip, trying to figure out how to best approach the subject of Girl Problems about a woman Santi’d never met. 

“I think I fucked up,” Frankie said.

Santi groaned. “Not the goddamn coke ag—”

“No, it’s not the fucking coke, man. Listen.”

Santi listened with very few interjections, too preoccupied with the coffee maker Frankie could hear in the background. 

“So,” Pope said after long, noisy sip of coffee. “Let me make sure I get this. You meet a pretty damsel in distress, shack up with her for two weeks, get along great, by some fucking twist of fate she likes you back, and then you bail at the first hint of a problem. Am I getting this right?”

“I…yes,” Frankie grumbled. It sounded so much worse when it was repeated back to him. 

“And you accused her of lying when she tried to explain? And you got pissed when she told you to fuck off. Is that everything? ”

“Hm,” Frankie acknowledged. 

“You needed to wake me up for this?”

Frankie groaned again. “What do I do?”

“You know what you do. Go back and beg forgiveness, pendejo. On your shitty knees. You got scared, man. I get it. She sounds…too good for you, the way you describe her. But damn, maybe you need someone too good for you.” 

Frankie grunted because it was easier than admitting Pope was right. “How’s Yovanna?” He asked instead. 

"Not pissed off at me," Pope laughed.

Frankie hung up a few minutes later with his stomach in knots. 

He needed to apologize. He wanted to apologize. Accepting that she might not forgive him was the hard part.

“You need to try,” he said to himself, turning his truck around and heading back to the inn. “You have to try.”

He tried to rehearse what he'd say on the drive home, but everything came out wrong. Nothing felt adequate. He also practiced his reaction for when she inevitably told him to get lost because she never wanted to see him again. 

He did not, however, prepare himself for what he found when he arrived—an empty attic, cleared of every bit of her presence. The bed neatly made, no lotion by the nightstand, no face down well-read book on her pillow, no hoodie on the floor. Her bags were gone; even her toothbrush had disappeared. It was like she had never even been there. 

She wasn't even answering her phone.

Claws of panic sunk into his chest--she couldn’t have gotten far on foot, right? Unless one of the guests had given her a ride somewhere. Or, and his stomach twisted at the thought, maybe she'd told Alba and Ollie what had happened and they'd helped her. 

Frankie trudged back down the stairs, hands shaking as he opened the door. 

Of course it would be Jason who inserted himself into something delicate and new and ruined it. What the fuck did he mean he couldn’t wait to see you? He knew you weren’t in Atlanta anymore, and now here he was still making your life miserable eleven hundred miles away. You chose not to call him—instead, you sent a text that just said FUCK OFF, blocked his number (for good this time), and went back to your current predicament. 

Frankie had been so quick to believe the worst. Almost like he'd been waiting for you to disappoint him. 

Like he'd wanted you to.

You should focus on keeping your things off the floor.

You bristled at the way he’d spoken to you; as if you were a child and not a woman he’d invited into his bed. Anger helped, so you held onto it as long as you could, picking up all the things you’d scattered across his space and shoving everything into your bags. You’d put your things into one of those empty closets on the floor below and hope no one got too mad about it, at least until you figured out where to go from here. 

Asking if they had an empty room would be embarrassing, but what else could you do? You still needed a place to stay for a couple of nights. And Frankie, clearly, did not want you anymore. 

There was always that other place--the one across town where he'd threatened to stand guard if you insisted on getting a room. You doubted that offer was still good.

As the anger dwindled, you searched your memory for something you’d missed, something you should’ve picked up, but you couldn’t think of a thing. All the signals he’d given you were good, up until that very last fight. 

He didn’t want to sleep with you, you thought. 

You’d brushed that off on him being the kind of guy who took his time with someone new. But then, of course, he’d mentioned other women he’d brought up here, hadn’t he? And you doubted they were just here to stay until their cars were fixed. 

So maybe that was it. Just another asshole in a long line of assholes who took some weird pleasure in screwing with you. 

Alba caught you just as you’d opened the attic door to go downstairs.

“Hello, dear,” she said, taking in your puffy eyes and disheveled appearance. “I was just on my way to see Frankie about a leaky faucet. Is everything okay?”

“It’s…do you have any rooms available?” You asked, avoiding her eyes. 

“One just opened up, but why don’t we go have some tea first? I just restocked,” she said kindly. You didn’t really want tea, or to talk, but after everything she and Ollie had done for you, you couldn't refuse her.

“Sure,” you sighed.

The kitchen was in the back of the house, off a hallway next to the dining room. It offered a little more privacy than the rest of the house, especially when there were no meals to prepare for the moment. You’d snuck away here a few times to get a moment alone. It smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg, and now peppermint as your herbal tea brewed in your cup. 

Alba didn’t ask you what happened; didn’t push you for information. She just sat with you, asking about your new job (ugh) and what you’d been planning to do for the holidays had you not been stuck here (double ugh). 

“I don’t know what happened,” you blurted out eventually after a lull in the conversation. Alba said nothing. “I got a text from my stupid ex-boyfriend messing with me and Frankie thought we were still together, and I don’t know. He wouldn’t even look at the phone.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, lifting her cup and taking a sip. “He wouldn’t look at the phone?”

“I mean,” you said with a long-suffering sigh, “I tried to explain that my ex was just being a dick—sorry—and I held the phone up to show him the texts and he wouldn’t even look at it. Like, he’d already made his mind up and he didn’t want anything to change it or something.”

Alba sat down her cup, her eyebrows pinched together and head cocked to the side. “What’s Frankie told you about his past?”

You sat up straighter. “Well, I mean, I know he was in the military. I know he has a kid and an ex-wife. I figure…I don’t know, it hasn’t even been two weeks, and we’ve been busy.”

Alba nodded. “I ask because there are things in Frankie’s past that it doesn’t seem like he’s told you, and I don’t know if he’s comfortable telling you, so I won’t. Things that might make him a little skittish when it comes to finding someone he really likes, or might love. Things that might make him get in his own way.” 

You raised your eyebrow at her vague, ominous explanation. 

“I don’t say that to scare you, dear. I just think it’d be worth trying to talk again when he comes back. After he’s cleared his head,” she said. Your stomach was in knots again, but the peppermint tea helped. “He didn’t know about your ex-boyfriend?”

You shrugged. “No. I figured that was a lot to throw on him.”

“Maybe he felt like you’d kept it from him. You know men get these ideas,” she said, shaking her head. You weren’t sure exactly what ideas she was talking about, but she was right about one thing--you hadn’t shared much about your past yet, but that wasn’t unique to Frankie. Sharing too much always scared people. 

“So I should just wait, you think?” 

“Couldn’t hurt,” she said. You sighed. 

“I don’t even know where he went.” 

“Don’t worry yourself. He’ll be back. Besides, I know where he lives,” she winked.

“Thanks for the tea, Alba. I’m gonna…I think I’m gonna go do some thinking.”

Frankie had almost given up looking for her. Alba and Ollie were nowhere to be found, either, and none of the guests had seen her in the last few hours, either. 

Feeling defeated, he decided he'd go back to the attic and wait. Maybe she'd come back. 

His heart leaped into his throat when he found her sitting on the bed, her feet kicking back and forth as she stared out of the window, apparently so lost in thought she didn’t hear him come up the stairs. 

That last step, though—the one he’d needed to fix for ages—creaked loudly enough that she whipped her head around, eyes wide and weary. She offered a timid smile, like she was afraid he’d start yelling again. 

He really fucking hated himself for that. 

She stood, hands shoved in her coat pockets. Their eyes met and he was sure she had been crying.  

“I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.” His shoulders tensed as he waited for the verbal lashing that he deserved. 

She took a deep breath. “Yeah. You did.” 

“I’m an idiot,” he said, taking one tentative step towards her. 

“Yeah, you kinda are.” 

He took another step, and she didn’t move. 

“I understand if you want nothing to do with me after that. You shouldn’t want anything to do with me,” he said, pulling his hat off and running a hand through his hair. She still wasn’t yelling. He twisted the cap in his hands and took a deep breath. “But can I just—can I explain?”

“Of course, just…please don’t yell anymore. Just talk to me, Frankie. What did I do to make you think I’m a liar?” 

“Nothing!” Frankie said, desperate to find the right words. She deserved to know the truth. “You didn’t do-fuck, it was all me. I took out my stupid fear on you. I got scared. You said your car was gonna be ready and I thought, well, this is the end of it. And then I saw those texts, and I don’t know, I think it just gave me a reason. Me and Amy…I don’t mean to say I didn’t have a part in that relationship falling apart. I did. 

But she gave up on us and didn’t even tell me, and I thought we were doing okay. We went to therapy, we went on dates, we were happier. Turns out she was happier because she’d found someone else. I didn’t want to be that someone else.”   

He fell silent, searching her face for any hint of what she might be feeling and wringing his hat. She closed the gap between them in two quick steps, laying her hands over his, calming his fidgeting like she always did. 

“I’m not her, Frankie. I would never do that to you. Or anyone.” 

“I know. I know that. So fuckin’ sorry,” he mumbled. “Don’t deserve you.” 

“Hey,” she ducked her head, trying to make eye contact. “Hey, look at me. Please?”

As if he’d ever deny her another thing. 

She cupped his face in her warm hands, so close he could smell her perfume, and he let himself lean into her palm. “I understand why that scared you. I should have told you about Jas—”

“No,” he said, curling his fingers around her wrists. “You were right. You didn’t owe me anything and—”

“Let me finish, please.” He fell silent again and nodded. “You shared so much with me, and I didn’t do you that same courtesy, and I understand it felt like I was hiding something. You have your baggage and I have mine. But you have to let me explain. You have to listen to me, okay?”

He nodded so vigorously that something in his neck popped. If she was giving him a second chance, he’d do anything she wanted.

“I will! That won’t ever happen again. And I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry I got scared. I’m sorry I yelled at you. You should hate me—I’ll never, ever do that again. That wasn’t me.”

Frankie cleared his throat, blinking away the tears stinging his eyes. He didn’t like that man—the man who yelled and sneered and found reasons to pick a fight. He didn’t want her to know him, not even the small glimpse she’d gotten a few hours ago. 

“I know it wasn’t,” she said, still rubbing her thumb over his jaw. “Can I give you a hug?” 

He didn’t answer, just pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, ducking slightly to press his nose into her cheek. She pulled back after a moment and looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes dropping to his lips. Frankie swallowed thickly, suddenly very aware of her breasts pressed against his chest. 

She bit her lip and giggled, and Frankie had the overwhelming desire to worship her. Not that he hadn’t wanted to all this time; he’d kept himself in check only because he didn’t want to make her feel like he expected anything. She leaned up and kissed him, the softest whimper escaping from somewhere deep inside of her, and he let himself squeeze her tighter. When they broke apart, she looked up at him again, eyelids heavy with need.

“Baby,” she breathed. “Please.”

It might have been too soon, but you didn't care. 

You'd folded the moment he walked into the room with rosy cheeks and brown eyes full of contrition and hope. And thank the stars he’d apologized, begged for your forgiveness, explained himself as well as he could because you didn’t know if you had it in you to tell him off the way you'd planned.

Frankie was a good kisser, you knew that simply from all the kissing you’d done over the last few days, but you realized quickly as he sealed his lips over yours now—he’d been holding himself back. Your hands dropped to his waist, fingers curling through his belt loops and pulling his hips closer as he slid his tongue over your lips, a mess of teeth and tongue as you granted him entrance with a sigh.

He pushed you back toward the bed, a frenzy of needy groans and warm breath on your neck, fingers scrambling at the button of your jeans. Frankie stopped, took a deep breath, and you hoped—prayed-he hadn’t changed his mind. “You want this?” He asked. “Is it too soon?”

“Please,” you murmured, eyelashes fluttering. “I need you.”

Frankie overwhelmed you, distracting you so much you couldn’t even worry about the things you might have done before. Not with the way he yanked your pants off and fell to his knees, spreading your legs and nuzzling the embarrassingly damp gusset of your panties. 

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, licking at the wet fabric. “Gonna take care of you, don’t worry. Gotta get you ready first.”

The last of the cold winter sunlight bathed him in its glow, bouncing off of his red cheeks and illuminating the strands of silver in his hair. His eyes were closed as he pressed kisses to your inner thighs, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin, teasing you.

“Frankie,” you whined. He chuckled as you slipped his fingers through your hair and gave it a light tug. Yes, you were impatient, but could he blame you?

“Just let me look at you a minute, baby, hm?” He asked, his voice rumbling in his chest as he pulled your panties down. “Lift that cute ass up for me. Good girl.” 

God.

All the doubts you'd had before vanished as he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes roaming your cunt like he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

“Goddamn, baby. So wet for me,” he murmured, sliding his thumbs up and down the outside of your lips and tugging gently. If it were anyone else you might snap your legs shut, close the curtains, throw a blanket over both of you—but this wasn’t just anyone.

 You only squirmed as the cold air hit you, desperate for relief. “Frankieeeeee.” You whined more obnoxiously, but he just chuckled again. 

“All right, baby girl, all right.”

He let you go to take his shirt off, shushing your protests with gentle reassurance and throwing your legs over his shoulders. He was warm and strong against you, nuzzling your pussy and breathing you in. 

And then you felt his tongue, wet and soft, lick up your seam until he brushed your swollen, needy clit. You bucked your hips, hands pulling his hair at the electric shock it sent through your body.

“Fuck, baby, you taste so fucking good,” Frankie groaned. His hands were curled around your legs, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. You let go of his hair and tugged one hand away, lacing your fingers with his. He whimpered and squeezed, his tongue pressing firmly into your clit as he shook his head left to right. 

It was hard to keep your hips still, but he didn’t seem to mind it, just whispered encouragement into your pussy as his tongue dipped down to your entrance and slipped inside. “Take what you need, baby, fuck my face. Wanna make you come so fuckin’ bad.”

His nose nudged at your clit, providing just enough stimulation to drive you wild. His long tongue curled inside of you just far enough to brush something that sent tingles all the way up to the top of your scalp. You shivered, crying out a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth before the whole goddamn inn heard you. 

“Shh,” Frankie murmured, pulling his tongue out and drifting back to your clit, rubbing frantic circles with his tongue. “Fuck I wish you could scream, baby, bet that sounds so damn pretty.”

“Frankie, I need—I need, um—” You clenched around nothing, your brain too focused on the feeling of Frankie’s tongue to get out any coherent sentence. He gazed up at you, eyes glassy, looking just as lost as you felt. 

"Tell me. Tell me and I can give you whatever you want,” he said, his thumb taking over for his tongue as he waited for your answer. You squeezed his hand, still laced with yours. 

“Fingers, please, Frankie,” you sobbed, and a ravenous grin spread across his face. 

He let your hand go, slipping one large finger inside of you, moaning at the way you felt clenching around him. “You want another one?” He asked. 

You just nodded and whined, too overwhelmed for words. He slid a second finger into your cunt, twisting his wrist and curling up into that same spot his tongue hit earlier as he dipped his head back to your pussy. 

“Come on,” he grunted. “Come for me. Want you to come all over my face. Grind on it if you need to, that’s it, use me, do what feels good—”

Both hands pulled at his hair, pushing your hips up and doing exactly what he told you. You didn’t know how he was breathing like that, mouth and nose pressed entirely against your cunt, but he seemed more interested in making you feel good than getting oxygen. 

You felt him murmuring, the vibration of his voice rippling against your core, and with one last firm stroke, your legs locked around his head, eyes rolling back and walls shaking around his fingers as you gushed and gushed.

“That’s my girl,” he groaned, pressing delicate kisses to your thighs and clit. “Fuck, look at you, look at that, my good girl, look how much that little pussy needed that.”

“Frankie,” you whimpered, reaching for him with pleasure running through your whole body. He pulled his fingers out of you, at your side in an instant. 

“What is it, you okay?” He asked, eyes all wide with concern. Arousal still pulsed through you, and you pulled his fingers to your mouth, licking yourself off of him. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You giggled, pulling his face to yours and kissing him hard. “That was fucking amazing, Frankie.” 

His ears went pink and he smiled boyishly, like he was pleased to have helped. You lay next to him, foreheads touching as you caught your breath.

“Take off your clothes,” you said softly. Frankie, always the good soldier, obeyed. Your eyes went wide at the sight of his cock, thick and long and leaking, peeking from his foreskin and standing rigid against his soft belly. “Now take off the rest of mine.”

He took your top off, not bothering to undo the clasps of your bra as he yanked it right over your head. Normally you’d cross your arms over your belly—normally you’d keep your top on the whole time—but he wasn’t your shitty ex, and he groaned at the sight of your tits, grabbing a handful of each and kneading them.

“You like those?” You teased. 

“Nice fuckin’ tits. Nice everything. Gorgeous everything,” he said, leaning down to draw your nipple into his mouth. “You’re so pretty.”

“You’re pretty, too,” you said, unlatching him from your nipple and crawling further up the bed. “Now come fuck me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, but stopped when he was hovering over you, nudging your legs apart. “I…shit, I don’t think I have a condom.”

After everything, you did not care one fucking bit about a condom. “I mean…I have an IUD. And I can bring up the app my last test results were on. So, if you—”

“You trust me?” He asked. 

“Should I not?” You shot back. Frankie didn’t answer, just grinned, kissed you, and pulled your legs around his hips. 

“You ready for me, baby girl?” He asked. You eyed his cock, wondering the same thing. 

“Go slow?” You asked. 

“I will,” He said, reaching down to spread your slick around, pressing his fingers back inside of you. “But you’re so wet down there. Feel like I could slide right in.”

Frankie notched himself against you, pushing in slowly, his eyes bulging at your warmth. He shut them tight as he pushed further, and any stretch went away quickly, giving way to a delicious fullness. He bottomed out and dropped down, caging you with his arms and pressing his lips against yours as he started moving. 

“Feel so fucking good,” he groaned. His eyes were still closed, eyebrows smushed together in concentration. “Feel too fucking good. Dunno—fuck, shit, baby I don’t know how long—”

But it excited you, driving him that crazy, making him feel so good he had to concentrate to keep himself from coming. He tried to pull out, but you crossed your ankles around his lower back and pulled his hips back to you. 

His eyes opened to find you and your devilish grin egging him on. “Just fuck me how you want to, Frankie. Fuck me like you want me, please,” you begged. “Fill me up. I need it.”

Frankie’s eyes flashed, nostrils flared as he kissed you again, picking up his pace and slamming his hips against yours. “Yeah?” He asked. “You want me to fuck you like that? Want me to fill you up with my come? Make your pretty pussy leak with it?”

You must have hit a nerve—all you could do was hold onto him as he fucked you, kissing your lips, your face, your neck—

“Gonna, oh shit, baby, gonna—”

“Come,” you murmured softly against his mouth. He came with a low groan, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth until he was finished. You smirked at the feeling of him trickling out of you, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you. 

“Ah, fuck,” he panted. “Shit. I should—couldn’t help myself. Pussy felt too good.”

You smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. 

“I’m flattered,” you murmured, because you were. “You liked filling me up.”

He slipped out of you, and you whimpered at the loss of him. “I, uh, have a thing about it,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Wanna do that again.”

“Me too, Frankie.”

“Gonna make it better,” he mumbled, nosing your neck, as if it hadn’t been amazing. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” You teased.

“Don’t care.”

Frankie rolled off of you, his eyes scanning your body as he cupped your breast with one big palm. 

“Why’d you stay?” He asked, looking away from you. “After I was such an asshole, why’d you stay?”

“Well, I was on my way out to see if Alba had any rooms available yet, and she made me go have tea with her. And we had a talk, and she said there were…things…in your past that might make you react differently.”

“Is differently code for ‘like a piece of shit’?” 

You huffed a laugh. “I don’t know, Frankie. That’s just what she told me. So I came back and waited for you because I didn’t think you’d been yourself. I wasn’t gonna leave. I was just mad.”

He furrowed his brow and frowned. “Where’s all your stuff then? It was gone when I came up here the first time looking for you.” 

“Oh, um,” you started, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I packed everything up, you know, right after, thinking I would find a different room and then just left it in case you…you know, in case you weren’t interested anymore.”

Frankie’s face crumbled, and you wished you hadn’t said anything about it. “I’m such an asshole,” he said, rolling off the bed. “I’m such a fucking—where is it, where’s your stuff?”

“It’s in the closet at the foot of the stairway—Frankie! Wait!” 

He was across the room in just a few strides, halfway down the staircase before he stopped. 

“...You’re naked,” you pointed out. 

You heard the sound of his footsteps climbing back up, giggling before he’d even reached the top. Your tummy flipped at the sight of his red cheeks and sheepish grin as he climbed back into bed, blanketing you with his warm body. 

“I should clean you up first anyway,” he murmured, peppering kisses down your body until he was back between your legs, watching himself drip out of you.

“Yeah,” you said. “You should.”

Several hours later, Frankie finally made his way downstairs, finding Ollie tinkering with the hot water heater. Ollie wordlessly handed the wrench over to Frankie and stood back to watch. 

“Little late today, Frankie.” 

“Yes, sir, sorry about that,” Frankie responded without turning around. He had no idea what Ollie had been trying to fix; nothing was wrong with the ancient appliance. 

“I heard a truck peel out of my driveway earlier. Made quite a ruckus,” he tutted. 

“Yes, sir.” The old wrench clanked as Frankie tossed it down into Ollie’s rusted metal toolbox. 

“You do something stupid?” 

“Yes, sir,” Frankie responded without hesitation. Ollie nodded and ushered him into the small sitting room down the hall. 

Like a kid called into the principal’s office, Frankie stood awkwardly until Ollie gestured for him to take a seat. A small fire crackled in the brick fireplace, but it wasn’t the cause of the heat that burned Frankie’s cheeks.  

“I’m sorry, Ollie, didn’t mean to be so late.” 

Ollie sighed and pursed his lips. “You know as well as I do the reason I sat you down. Has nothing to do with being late.” 

Frankie nodded. “I know.” 

Ollie continued. “You don’t speak much of your father, and I get the feeling that he isn’t around too much, if at all. If I had to guess, he took off when you were little and never looked back.” He paused and stared at the flames, clasping his hands in his lap. 

“You ran away this morning, and I would bet everything in my pocket that something with her scared you off.” 

Frankie’s silence was all the confirmation Ollie needed. 

“But, here’s the difference. You came back. Son, listen to an old man who has made more mistakes than you could ever know.” Ollie leaned forward. “Don’t run away from her. And if you do, dammit, you come running back as quick as you can. Hear me?” 

Frankie swallowed the lump in his throat. “I-yes, sir. Never again.” 

Ollie settled back in his chair, satisfied with his answer. “Good. Now go make sure she knows that.” 

Frankie’s alarm woke you just before the sun rose. 

You groaned and threw an arm over your face as the bed shifted beside you and Frankie pulled you into him, still very naked. After the previous day’s events, he’d spent the night on his knees—quite literally—worshiping you, wordlessly begging forgiveness. You’d been more than happy to let him grovel, but after keeping each other up half the night, leaving this warm cocoon would be a herculean effort. 

“Morning,” Frankie murmured, kissing the back of your neck, one hand wandering down your torso. You shuddered, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his gentle fingers. You squeezed your thighs together, unsure how you could possibly want more after everything last night and whimpering as his stiff length pressed against your back. 

“Morning,” you breathed. 

“Everything okay?” He teased, coaxing your legs open. “Something you want?”

There was no way your pussy could take more, not after last night, but you wanted it anyway. And from the way he throbbed against you, so did he. Frankie dipped his fingers between your swollen lips, retreating as you hissed from the sensitivity. 

“Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” He asked.

“I’m okay,” you said, pulling his hand back. “Just be gentle, please, Frankie, I need it.”

He groaned against you, rubbing gentle circles around your clit and shushing your whines as he slid one finger inside of you. “You can take it, baby girl, doing so good for me. Poor little thing. Can’t get enough, can you?”

You wanted to slap him a little, the cockiness evident in his voice, but he was right. “No,” you whimpered. “Need you. You could—fuck—you could fuck me again if you want. S’okay if it hurts a little—”

Frankie rutted harder against you, his cock slipping between the cleft of your ass as he sucked on the back of your neck. “Don’t wanna hurt you, baby, just want you to feel good,” he gritted out. “You feel so fucking good like this. So fucking soft, how are you so fucking soft?”

You felt it happening suddenly, built up out of nowhere, your cunt pulsing softly as you reached up and tugged at his hair, whining into his mouth. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Good fuckin’ girl, that’s right, perfect little pussy sucking me right in—fuck—”

Frankie pressed his hips into you, grinding his cock against your ass as his release splashed across your back. He groaned, his sweaty forehead pressed against yours as he gently pulled his finger from you and brought it to his lips to lick it clean. He turned over and dug around on the floor until he found his undershirt from the day before, wiping himself off of you before he turned you over and kissed you hard. 

“Hi,” you giggled. 

He nuzzled you. “Hey,” he sighed. “Fuck me, I can’t get enough of you.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you teased, breathing him in as the sun’s rays filtered into the room, bouncing softly off his cheekbones. You kissed his nose and cheeks and chin and he blushed, bashful at the attention. 

“I gotta go do some stuff around the inn,” he lamented, as though leaving this bed was the greatest of tragedies. “But you stay here in bed, okay? And I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Oh, you don’t—”

“Please let me take care of you,” he said softly. You swallowed your protests. 

“Okay, Frankie,” you said, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I need a really long shower anyway, I think. I’m covered in come.”

Frankie laughed as he rolled out of bed to take his own shower. You stretched as you watched his cute bottom disappear into the bathroom. 

Taking Frankie’s order very seriously, you lazed around after your shower. Your phone rang just as you were dozing off. According to Cal, he’d moved your car up to first in line since you’d been so patient with the process, and he knew you needed to get home. You thanked him enthusiastically, ignoring the nervous pit growing in your stomach. 

You’d hoped to have a few days of distance from the argument if only to let the dust settle before talking more about it. What if he wasn’t completely over it, and it just upset again? And what if you both realized that there was nothing really anchoring you here? 

There was barely time to worry about it before you heard the door open and close, followed by his heavy footsteps up the stairs. It was now or never. 

He was smiling, gripping in his big hands a couple of bags of something that smelled incredible. You savored this moment, this second of time when he was so happy to see you, holding it safe in your heart to remember in case everything came crashing down.

“Hey, Frankie,” you said, setting your phone down. 

His smile slid off his face as he clocked your concern, setting the bags down and coming to your side. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” you said, swallowing thickly and chewing your lip. “Um, Cal called. My car’s ready now.”

Frankie’s eyes softened. “You didn’t wanna tell me,” he said, and you couldn’t deny it. 

“Frankie, I just—I thought there’d be a little more time, you know? For everything to calm down,” you explained. “I don’t wanna leave yet. Or ever.”

It was the first time you’d admitted that out loud, fully aware of how ridiculous it was to tell a man you’d only known a little less than two weeks that you never wanted to be without him. 

“I don’t want you to leave yet, either. Or ever,” he said. “But I know you have to, and that’s okay. That doesn’t mean we can’t be together. I know I was an idiot, but you’re not that far away. And I think I love you, Dash.”

The room stilled with his confession, and you cocked your head, a smile spreading across your face. 

“Look, I know that sounds ins—”

“I think I love you, too, Frankie.”

He let out a shaky sigh, the tips of his ears flushing red. 

“Yeah?” He asked. 

“Yeah.”

Your heart was beating out of control, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but that was okay. Frankie Morales loved you, and you loved him, and you’d work the rest of it out. 

“So,” he said, pressing his lips to yours and drawing you closer. “I have a question for you.”

“What’s that?” You asked, throwing your arms around his neck. 

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

part i | part ii

[yoditostan]

Season 4 ep 1, Din goes on a quest to find Grogu a nice crib but Grogu refuses to sleep in it — Abigail Larson

[yoditostan]

hi everyone <3

i wanna make another support post for our darling @lowlights. if you aren't aware, things have been a little rough for our girl medically speaking.

she got diagnosed with cancer not too long ago and she recently had to get surgery earlier this month to remove the tumor.

we had hoped this would solve the problem but, unfortunately, it turns out that type of cancer laura has is extremely rare. so rare that even the doctors are scrambling to figure out a treatment plan.

so everything is a little up in the air right now and we honestly have no idea what the future might look like for the next couple of months. laura is already back at work (because capitalism is a nightmare especially for sick people) but she doesn't have any more paid leave left and won't get paid again until january (which is honestly fucked up. we hate her bosses, booooo).

anyways if you can spare any extra money right now and send it her way, it would be very much appreciated!!! if you can't donate (completely understandable, times are hard!!) please reblog the post and spread the word, she needs as much support as possible right now. thank you <3

[yoditostan]

— BLEED FOR ME MASTERLIST

[complete] | [playlist] | [preview]

mand’alor!vampire!din djarin x f!reader

rated e - 20k

prompts: vampire!au + “i would burn the world for you.” + vampire has a taste for specific blood + revenge + (one-sided) enemies to lovers (+ 2 to be revealed!)

tags: vampire!au, blood/drinking blood, shared memories, angst, death/violence, biting, body worship, possessive!pleasure!dom!din, implied aphrodisiacs, mind meld, praise kink, oral, piv, marking

For the haunted hoedown, hosted by @psychedelic-ink and @inklore! References some themes from this fic & also inspired by this post.

When it's revealed that the Mand'alor is seeking a companion, you find yourself among those hoping to be chosen. A life of luxury in exchange for your blood seems a fair trade - even if you're hiding a closely-kept secret. One that would certainly put your life in danger.

Though, you are not as alone as you think.

Because he has one, as well.

❧ part i

❧ part ii

❧ part iii

❧ part iv

❧ part v

❧ epilogue

❧ just a taste - vampire!boba fett x f!reader

(And a huge thank you and lots of love to laur and sil for making such an amazing event!! 🥀)

[yoditostan]

daydreams

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak Jackson Era

Summary: It's been years since Joel's kissed anybody, and your lips are all he can think about.

Tags/Warnings: Soft, Touch-Starved, Pining Joel. Grumpy x Sunshine. Resolved Tension. Mentions of alcohol and food consumption. Brief mentions of sexual desire. Entirely in Joel's POV. No mention of Reader's age or appearance other than wearing lipstick in one scene.

Wordcount: 6.4k

A/N: Really enjoyed exploring an entire Joel x Reader fic all in his head, focusing on how he falls in love with Reader. Big thank you to @joelsgreys who was excited about this idea with me, and @cupofjoel who always inspires me with her own amazing work (and that Clicker joke she made that ended up in this fic hehe)!

Here's my Kofi if you're interested in supporting my work further💜

Beautiful dividers by @saradika

Masterlist

People fucking love you.

It was the first of many things that Joel was burdened to discover about you, small facts and inconsequential incidents about who you were as a person that floated around in his subconscious until they burrowed under his skin, much like you did.

He could remember checking his patrol schedule on the board one chilly autumn day. A scarf that was decades old but new to him, too soft for his rough skin, was wrapped around his neck and keeping him warm while he peered over the heads of two men crowding in front of the arranged names.

Despite Joel’s size, he had always been good at not being seen if he didn’t want to be, at least when it counted. It was a harder habit to keep up with in Jackson, a place where everybody wanted to know anybody at all. The feeling of at least one set of eyes on him at all times when he walked the streets was an odd juxtaposition to the foreign comfort that radiated inside the town’s tall walls.

Not a watch kept on him, but curiosity that peered at him around every corner. He had thought it would die down eventually, but it lingered with a stubbornness even years later.

Now though, both men didn’t have a care in the world for his presence behind him, crowding around the board and a pair of names he couldn’t quite glimpse until one of them turned, jumping at the sight of the unintentionally imposing figure at their back.

“Oh!” the man let out a noise of surprise before recomposing. He was a newer patrolman, his name starting with a C, Chuck or something. “Joel, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”

The familiarity in the way his name is spoken makes Joel bristle for a moment, but he calms his raised hackles before it can be noticed.

Back in Boston, his name had been a familiar one spoken too. But hints of apprehension, even fear crept around the syllables of those who knew it, those who had heard it whispered in the alleys of where he’d left somebody’s blood splattered against the dilapidated brick walls.

“Hey,” the other patrolman offers in greeting when he notices the pair aren’t alone anymore, and Joel nods, glancing towards the two names their heads had been bent down around when they moved out of the way.

There’s a name he doesn’t have a face to place to it, another person new to patrol. He’d only seen the name in passing on the board each time he checked assignments recently, though this time it's right above his own, listed as his partner on his next route.

“Lucky man,” the other patrolman says with a clap to Joel’s shoulder, and he hates it, jaw setting tight enough that the first patrolman gently nudges his friend away with a wary look.

“I’m always stuck with Willy,” the first one says, and Joel glances back towards the board, searching for that name and seeing it paired with Chad. Names for faces, a common courtesy in the settlement, one he still had a hard time keeping up with sometimes, even years into being here. “Been dying for a chance to head out with her.”

There’s a gesture back towards the name paired with Joel’s, and he stares at the letters written into the thin wooden plaques that are used to arrange assignments on the board. Stares so much even as his fellow patrolmen leave, chattering amongst themselves about Joel’s new partner as he frowns in confusion over why it wasn’t his brother’s name.

“You could use some friends,” Tommy explains with a jovial smile when Joel shows up on his doorstep to question him about the change, though there’s an undertone of ribbing to his tone that makes Joel glare at the younger man. “I figure she’s the perfect one to bring you out of that stubborn shell.”

Joel scoffs at that, brows still knitted together in frustration as he gets ready for bed the night before he’ll have to wake up early to head out with this unknown person on patrol. He’s annoyed over the idea of something as irrelevant as socialization trumping protection on his route, frustrated that he’d have to watch his own back for the dangers only a human could pose, as much as the trail ahead of him for Infected.

But then he meets you, and he understands.

At least, Joel understands why those men had been jealous of his patrol partner when he shows up at the assignment board the next morning, hoping to grab a hot drink in one of the thermoses provided before heading out. He prays for at least the last dregs of some coffee when he sees a small gathering of other patrolmen, including the two from before. All smiles and laughter, until one turns their head towards him.

Joel meets your eyes for the first time, a smile gracing your face as he does so, and he understands.

“Joel Miller,” is the first thing you ever say to him by way of greeting, uttering the syllables in near disbelief, like he’s some fabled myth you’ve finally caught a glimpse of. There’s an infectious, positive energy in the way you say his name to him, in the way you say everything, he’ll come to find. Like there’s things in the world still worthy of being spoken with such excitement. “Good to finally meet you.”

He just nods, eyes flickering to the disappointment on the faces of those gathered around you as your attention focuses solely on him. You move closer, holding up two thermoses in hand, Joel’s gaze narrowing down to them as you gesture with each and ask, “Coffee or tea?”

With a blink, he stares at each before looking back up into your face, noticing the hint of amusement across your features as his lips part, and the first thing he utters in your presence is an awkward hedge of, “Uh.”

Your lips quirk up into a wider smile, and Joel notices then that for all its brightness, it's almost half a smirk. There’s humor in your gaze, and he feels those sharp hackles of his start to rise again until you clarify kindly, “Which do you prefer?”

His brows knit together, looking back down into your hands, and he realizes you’re offering him the choice of which one he wants for the morning.

“Coffee,” he says instantly before his mind can catch up, and the point of your teeth peek past your lips now in a grin when you pass the thermos to him.

“Smart man,” you comment in passing, oblivious to how the two simple words will stick into his mind and replay themselves in the exact tone of your voice for weeks to come. “I prefer tea, anyway.”

You raise your own thermos to his, eyes twinkling with that same good humor, that warm mirth that suddenly makes Joel’s stomach flip when you add, “Looks like the start of a beautiful partnership.”

It is.

Joel hates to admit it, but you work startlingly well together.

He’s paranoid at first, glancing back over his shoulder at you every now and then, but your eyes are always trained on the area around you, keeping diligent watch. Except for when he’s staring at you for too long, for reasons he doesn’t know yet, or is too stubborn to believe.

You somehow always catch him in those stolen moments, smiling at him when he whips his head back around to refocus on the trail in front of him. Sometimes there’s a soft chuckle under your breath when he does so, and those are the times he stubbornly faces ahead for the rest of patrol, so you won’t see the heat creeping into his face that he curses every time you bring it out of him.

He’s too goddamn old to be blushing like a schoolboy, but around you, his body betrays his age and does it anyway.

Sometimes you talk to him. Joel can’t figure out for the life of him why. You certainly aren’t the type to ever be searching for conversation, a whole host of willing participants to speak with you gathering around you every morning before you set out for patrol with him.

But you talk to him anyway. Offer things about yourself and ask him questions in return, ones he hardly answers with more than a few words, if he even replies at all.

That doesn’t bother you. You continue the conversation, and though he barely says a thing, you manage to make him still feel involved. Like you’re not just talking at him, but with him.

It’s just something about you, Joel eventually realizes. There’s a charm about you that goes beyond just a natural charisma. It’s a force of gravity, as inexplicable as it is irresistible, pulling in those around you, and they don’t even care. They want it.

Because you’re not simply bubbly and friendly, but you’re warm. Warm and bright, pure sunshine that brighten up the shortening days, and at some point through that fall of patrolling with you, Joel finds himself riding beside you instead of in front of you.

He nods more to what you say, following along better to whatever stories you’re sharing that morning, tales you never seem to run out of. He starts to answer your questions with sentences instead of words. Sometimes, he sneaks glances at you, and he’s always shocked in the moments when you’re already looking at him.

At first, Joel thinks he’s caught you in those moments. But you just smile at him when his eyes meet yours, unbothered by him noticing your attention on him, and he’s the one turning away yet again, facing the trees away from you so you won’t notice what that soft laughter of yours does to him.

You’re also more than capable in a fight, proving yourself time and time again in sticky situations, and soon enough, Joel doesn’t really mind waking up those early mornings when he knows you’ll be waiting for him with a thermos in each hand. He looks forward to an unnecessary apology on your lips if there’s no coffee that day, and the way you make him take a hot drink anyway—sometimes a pastry too, gently chiding him on taking better care of himself.

“I need you all big and strong for patrol,” you teased him once, but you still glance up and down his body with an appreciation he doesn’t think should be for him, even as he greedily drinks it in anyway. 

Then you wink, and he finds himself unable to make eye contact with you for the rest of the day.

Even then, he knows you’ll have his back, as he has yours.

Yeah, you work well together.

So well, in fact, that he finds his mood takes a sharp decline when he checks the assignment board months into being on patrol with you, and sees Tommy’s name paired with his again.

It makes sense. Winter arrives in Jackson, and with it, increased numbers of Infected on patrol. Joel needs to work with Tommy to clear out the routes hit the worst by hordes, for the good of the settlement.

Joel had never hated practicality before, but he does in that moment he first sees your name paired with Chad.

Chad, the young man with a stupid grin on his face while his buddy expresses jealousy over the “luck” of his assignment, and Joel hates the feeling of the same jealousy curling in his gut.

He hates it when you’re not waiting for him in the mornings. Hates it when your smile isn’t for him, when he’s not listening to your voice express every emotion imaginable in whatever story you’re telling him.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s feeling, doesn’t know that he’s lonely until he’s waiting for Tommy one morning when his brother kisses Maria goodbye before going on patrol.

It only hits him then, with the warm, open affection Tommy gazes at his wife with before leaving, and how she watches him with fondness as he goes. Only then does he feel the hollow ache in his chest, a gaping hole that’s only caved in deeper when your presence came and went.

He’s still thinking about it that night when sleep won’t come to him. Rubbing together his lips, chapped from the cold winter air from being outside all day, he wonders when the last time he’d had another mouth pressed to it.

Jesus, when’s the last time he kissed someone?

It’s a stupid thing to think, an embarrassing thought that has him turning onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. His arms outstretched beneath it, he groans into the fabric, trying to shove away the emptiness even as it continues to ache.

It fucking aches, and it shouldn’t. He was too old, had gone through too damn much to even care about kissing anybody.

So he tells himself he doesn’t. Convinces himself he couldn’t give less of a fuck about not being able to remember the last time he’d kissed somebody. Pretends he doesn't care about holding another person in his arms, lips pressed together just for the sake of it.

Joel likes to think he does a pretty good job of not caring about it, up until the next time he sees you.

You’re standing at the table of food and drink before patrol, eyes scanning over the pastries available with an intense look of deliberation for what you were craving that morning. When you find what you want, your lips part, tongue darting out to lick them in anticipation of your treat, and Joel’s blood runs hot in a way he thought himself no longer capable of.

He watches with rapt attention as you bring the scone to your mouth for a bite, how crumbs of it flake off onto your lips while you nod in satisfaction at the taste.

It’s a taste Joel wants to capture for himself. He wants to find the sweetness of the pastry on your lips, to press his mouth to yours and have you fill that emptiness, to have you soothe that ache in him with the exploration and discovery of you.

“Joel Miller!”

He blinks, hazy vision refocusing on the tantalizing soft look of your lips to see them curved up into a smile, and his eyes flicker up to see you looking right at him as you call to him, speaking his name like he’s still some legend you can’t believe exists until you see him again.

Yet again, he’s caught right in the center of your web—so many times now, that he almost starts to wonder if he willingly walks into it. Merciless to whatever you intend to do with him now that you have him right there, right where you want him.

But you just smile, head tilted with your gazes locked together, and suddenly he doesn’t care if you trap him or if he’s giving himself to you. You have him, and that’s enough.

Then, your lips part, tongue catching those crumbs still stuck to the corner of your upper lip, and Joel’s own lips part, breath hitching through them.

You notice.

You have to notice, because the edge of your smile curls up even more, eyes striking with the joy of a newfound discovery about the stoic man you’d found steadfast by your side for months of patrol, a silent presence now outright ogling you the same way everybody else did.

Everywhere you went, you were sure to find people lazing about in the warm rays of sunlight you cast from your very soul.

Joel wondered if you ever got tired with how much you gave. 

How much everyone took.

And now here he was, taking just the same. Your stunning vision reduced to an idle daydream, one you’d caught him in the very first moment he’d had it. 

Joel thought about what he must look like to you then. Just a lonely old man, longing for a touch. Like a mangy stray turning up at your doorstep, desperate just for the offhand chance of an ounce of kindness you had made the grave mistake of showing him before.

Because now he would always be back, aching for more.

Pathetic.

He turns from you at the sharp voice of self-hatred in his mind, walking away at the same moment you take a step forward. Joel brushes past those other souls just as eager, just as desperate for your attention as he tries to get far away from what you make him feel.

But it stays knotted up in his chest, ever more evident in your absence, the memory of your smile like a pain throbbing in his bones, ringing in his mind when he brushes off Tommy’s concern with a gruff “doesn’t matter” before heading out.

Because it doesn’t.

It doesn’t matter.

But it does.

Jackson had not only brought safety and comfort, but the luxury of wanting.

And, dear Lord, he wanted.

He hasn’t stopped wanting, not since that first morning when he really noticed the curve of your lips, the shape of them taunting and tempting him. 

Now he notices them every time he sees you. The slight quiver of them in a brush of cold winter wind, and how you pull a tube of homemade chapstick out of the pocket of your jacket to run over them. How you rub your lips together to spread it along each gorgeous line and indentation before popping them out with a smack, and Joel nearly fucking moans at the sight the first time.

God, he wants so badly.

He needs, he thinks sometimes, on the coldest, darkest nights. Thoughts of your mouth and what it would be capable of plaguing his mind as he breathes hotly into his pillow and tries to stay still, tries not to rut into the mattress just from the thoughts of what a simple kiss from you would feel like, giving and taking until it was impossible to tell where he ended and you began.

Because it was you.

It was always you.

Some days, it’s all Joel can think about. Your eyes, your hands, your laughter, but most of all, every bend and curve of your lips. 

It’s embarrassing how much just the mere thought of you consumes him. 

And it’s frightening, the power you would have over him if daydreams ever became reality.

What makes it even worse, is that he thinks you know. Joel’s almost sure of it, the way your eyes linger on him whenever you pout or purse your lips together at something especially grumpy that he says.

It’s like you’re doing it on purpose now, and he falls for it anyway, gazing at the fullness of your mouth, the most beautiful color he’s ever seen, with an aching want that he pretends never happened when it turns up into a smile.

Time and time again, you catch him wanting.

And you let him.

You never make a move to stop him, to call him out on it. Instead, you feed the fire, with a kindness in your smile and a mischief in your eyes that Joel is fucking addicted to.

If all you’re doing is stringing him along, he’s more than willing to let you do it, if it only means that the joy that lights up your face whenever you see him never dies out.

He sees it again one afternoon when he runs into you on the street, a bundle of produce from the greenhouses tucked underneath one arm that he almost offers to carry for you by some forgotten reflex, manners he used to have, when you distract him with a question of, “Are you going to that dinner for the patrolmen Maria is putting on?”

“Uh.” Joel winces at how he always finds himself hedging around you. He doesn’t think the things he’s said in your presence is enough to fill a page, even though you’ve plagued his thoughts enough that he could write a whole fucking book on you. 

There’s already a little smirk on your face as he hesitates, and he clears his throat, shifting on his feet with startling uncertainty you always drag from him as he finally responds gruffly, “Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“Great!” you chirp, your free hand patting him on the chest as you move to brush past him, fingers idling on the buttons of his flannel, gliding down along them in a way that sets all his nerve endings alight. “Save me a seat, would you?”

His body turns with the motion of you stepping past him to watch you go, breath caught in his throat as he wonders if you’re joking or not.

Regardless, he saves you a seat when that night comes.

It’s not like anybody wants to sit with him anyway. Most of the others seem to avoid him like the plague. Even years into being in the town, and Joel still feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb.

He doesn’t blame them. Even with his rough exterior growing softer than it had been in decades, he was a shit conversation partner. Joel just didn’t know how to do the things that they did anymore, not amongst strangers. He was happy enough with his own people, and he wishes that he was back home, playing guitar or watching movies with Ellie instead of sitting here alone, reminded constantly of everything he was lacking in.

When he’s asked if the seat next to him is taken so somebody can sit with their friend, Joel hesitates, resisting the urge to just get up and leave altogether when a familiar voice rings out, “It is!”

His head turns, and there you are, face aglow with a warm smile when you round the table towards him, and Joel is already halfway up out of his seat before he even realizes what he’s doing.

Your smile turns to him, eyes brightening with a spark at his quick movement that makes his heart pound in his chest, before you’re taking the back of the chair from the other patrolman’s grasp with a sweet, “Thanks, Astrid.”

When you start to pull the chair back further to sit, Joel takes it from you to do it for you, and it’s the first time he sees genuine surprise flash through your eyes. Still, you smile, and there’s a quiver of excitement to your lips that turns his aching into a yearning the longer he looks at them.

It’s also then when he notices that they’re painted, a shade of lipstick that fills them out further, complimenting your beauty with the way you had dressed so finely for the occasion tonight.

To sit next to him?

The question of futile hope echoes in his mind as you sink into the chair with a grin you’re trying to hide, and his hands are shaking as he pushes the chair in and takes his seat next to you again, something he also tries to hide as he folds them together and tucks them under the table.

When a bottle of wine is offered around, Joel can’t hold in a quiet chuckle at the way you jump in excitement for a glass. It's tilted in your fingers, the liquid swirling gently around the glass before you take a sip, and he’s enraptured by the sight of your lips wrapping around the rim, unable to glance away from the mark you leave on it once you set it back onto the table.

He’s fixated on that lipstick stain, can’t fucking look away from the shape of your lips painted onto the glass, and Joel starts to vividly imagine you leaving that mark on him instead. He wants evidence of your kiss all along his skin, down the collar of his shirt, smeared across his own lips as he takes your mouth in his, again and again.

He wants those marks trailing down, down, wants those painted lips teasing him until it smears all across that pretty face, wants them wrapped around his—

“Joel.”

His head snaps up, catching the gaze of his brother across from him. Tommy’s brow arches in question as he asks, “You good?”

“Yeah.” Joel clears his throat when his voice comes out thick, shifting in his seat while his folded hands move into his lap, shifting the napkin to help his new…issue. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“Really?” Tommy asks, his gaze one of suspicion, and maybe a bit of amusement as he drawls, “‘Cause I asked you if you wanted a glass of wine about three times, and you didn’t respond.”

Joel pales at being caught, jaw ticking with annoyance at the glee in his brother’s eyes when they snap to you sitting beside him, and he reasserts roughly, “I’m fine.”

Tommy backs off then, turning his attention somewhere else, and Joel almost relaxes until you hold your glass out to him and offer with a smile, “Want to try some of mine?”

The look in your eyes when the blood rushes back into Joel’s cheeks is nothing but goddamn trouble, and he fucking loves it.

You watch him as he stares at the mark of your lips on the glass. He imagines what it would be like to wrap his own lips around it, wondering if he’d taste you with the wine, and he quickly clears the lump that tightens in his throat before mumbling, “No, thank you, ma’am.”

A grin plays on your lips at that, and he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more in his life than to kiss you at that moment. He wants to grab your face and pull you into him so fucking bad, wants your mouth to claim him, bruise him, make him hurt until he heals.

Instead, he keeps his hands to himself, still folded in his lap in a vice grip over his napkin now when you tease, “Ma’am, huh? I think I like that one.”

You wink, and all the blood flooding into his face suddenly rushes south.

Without a doubt, you had him completely fucked.

You talk to Joel the entire night.

Your head is turned to him throughout dinner, and you ask him more questions than ever before. Unlike your patrols, where you were content to tell stories, and he content to listen, you gently prod him to tell you his own. 

Joel’s voice is quiet when he assents, the low, gentle timbre hardly audible over the din of conversation around the long table. He’s sure he must be boring, a drab collection of colors long washed out in comparison to your blinding vibrancy, but you may as well have been the only two in the room with the way you listen to him.

You’re leaning in with your chin resting on a closed fist, nodding along to what he says with eyes dancing over his face so intently, as if to memorize him the same way he did you.

He’s surprised that he wants you to.

At the end of the dinner, when everybody’s bellies are full and they’re filtering out the door, Joel isn’t even shocked that he’s unwilling to leave your side. Though he is startled when the question slips quietly past his lips, “Mind if I walk you home, darlin’?”

You look back from where you were grabbing your jacket with wide eyes, stunned at the unexpected question and the pet name that had escaped him without a second thought. For a moment, he’s worried he finally scared you away, but then you smile.

“I’d like that.”

Joel nods, trying to calm the racing of his heart as he gently tugs the jacket from your grip and helps you put it on. He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through you when his fingers brush against your skin, and suddenly there’s a feeling of anticipation simmering low in his belly, a warmth that spreads through his chest when the two of you stroll under the streetlights and eventually reach your doorstep.

You don’t let him turn away.

Somehow, he ends up on your couch. His boots and coat are left by your front door as he sits next to you, a glass of wine finally in his hand to ease the strain of his nerves. Your legs are tucked comfortably underneath yourself, the side of your face resting on the back of the couch, gazing up at him as you talk about nothing in particular.

You never seem to run out of questions for him. He answers the ones he can, and you’re not offended when he avoids the others. 

Tonight, Joel asks you questions too. Things he once thought didn’t matter anymore, but right now, he wants to know them all—where you grew up, your favorite movie, the concerts you’d been to before the world went to hell.

It becomes a back and forth—you ask him a question, he answers. Then it’s his turn to ask a question, and you answer.

Hours go by, wine is refilled, and when it’s your turn again, you ask him with such startling gentleness, “How long has it been since you kissed someone?”

Joel freezes.

His breath catches in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to look at you. He knows that when he does, he’ll see for sure that you’ve been aware of his pining, his fantasies, all along, and he doesn’t think he can face that.

Instead, he takes another long sip of wine, swallowing down the liquid courage before he answers lowly, “It’s, uh...been a while.”

Silence falls between you then, with more weight to it than any before in that night, and he has to fill it. So he does with the first thing that springs to his mind, “What about you?”

You hum thoughtfully, even as his heart lurches in his chest when the question spills from his lips. He can’t believe he actually fucking asked that, and then you actually answer it, “A couple months ago.”

Joel’s head snaps up, eyes glancing over your face as you trace the rim of your glass with a thoughtful expression.

“Was it…” he hesitates, before deciding he may as well say whatever he wants now that he’s already gone ahead and fucked it all up by asking about it in the first place, “good?”

“Nah,” you sigh, shrugging casually as you smirk in amusement at the recollection, “it’s like he was eating my face.”

Joel snorts at that, brow arching as he retorts dryly, “You go on a date with a Clicker or somethin’?”

You laugh then, head tilting back with the joyful sound, and he realizes it’s something he wants to hear for the rest of his life, even as you playfully nudge his shoulder and mutter, “Shut up.”

He chuckles along with you, looking back down into his glass as a sigh falls from his lips, and he mumbles more to himself than you, “Not sure I’d be much better, at this point.”

Suddenly, you shift beside him, pulling his attention back to you as you sit up straight. There’s a spark of interest kindling in your eyes, one that makes his throat go dry as your eyes slowly scan over his face, down to his lips.

They part under your attention, and your pupils dilate in the darkness of the room, pulling a soft exhale from Joel’s mouth at the sight of you wanting.

You.

Wanting.

“I don’t know about that,” you murmur as you set your glass down on your coffee table, then do the same with his, tugging it easily from his grasp before leaning in towards him. “But we could find out.”

Joel licks his lips, and you’re on your hands and knees now, crawling towards him on the couch as his eyelids flutter and he rasps out, “I—darlin’, I don’t think I—”

“You don’t want to?” you whisper, stopping instantly at the idea of going too far, and horror rushes through him at the thought of you believing he didn’t want you.

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. He exhales heavily into his palm, trying to find the words before he removes it to admit, “I just…don’t think it’d be that enjoyable for ya.”

You scoff, leaning forward to settle on your knees right beside him, fingertips finding the edge of his jawline. They run across it, and Joel’s eyes fall shut, sighing from the sensation of being touched after so long, of it being your hands on his face when you cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones so softly. 

You stroke his skin like you were holding something delicate, and not a living, breathing instrument of death with the scars to prove it right under your palms.

What did you see in him?

“Joel,” you breathe, and a whimper gets caught in his throat, his eyes blinking back open, struggling to refocus on you under the heavy heat of the moment. “Do you want to?”

He doesn’t have to think twice, doesn’t even want to as his voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, a desperate beg of, “Yes.”

Your lips are on his then, and his hand finds the small of your back, tugging you into him as he groans into the mouth he’s been dreaming of, day and night, for months on end.

Joel tries to be gentle with it, but it feels so fucking good, and God, now his hands are shaking. He has to grip onto your waist tightly to anchor himself to the moment, to remind himself that you’re there. This isn’t one of his vivid daydreams, or images that taunt him in his sleep that he’ll wake up painfully hard from.

No, you’re here, lips pliable and just as wanting as his when his tongue tentatively traces the shape of them, knowing the curve of your mouth from long stolen glimpses even with his eyes closed, even through just the touch of his lips to them alone. 

Your mouth opens eagerly, and he licks into it, moans deeply into the sweet taste of you. His hand slides up your back to cup your neck, fingers tangling into the back of your hair as he tugs you forward by the waist until you’re settled in his lap, so he can wrap you up and pull you into him completely.

When your lips leave his, he tries to chase them with a whine stuck in the back of his throat, and he can feel that pretty smile pressed to his skin when you kiss along his bearded jaw and down the strength of his neck as it strains under your attention. 

Joel’s head falls back, sinking into the couch with the feeling of your lips descending, until there’s a sweet bite of pain that pulls his lips apart. It tugs a throaty grunt straight from the pit of heat building in his lower stomach, his hips bucking up hard into your own.

His hands are clutching your waist, the sweet syllables of your name pouring from his mouth like a prayer. The sound of his desperation, his need for you vibrates against your lips as you suck a mark on his neck, your tongue flattening against it and pulling another weak bucking up of his hips.

Your head lifts, gazing down at him with lidded eyes and a giddy smile at this mountain of a man you’d pulled apart and wrapped around your finger so easily, before you tap that very finger against the same spot on your own neck.

Joel’s jaw drops.

“I—sweetheart, I—”

He can’t find the words, can’t explain how he’s afraid he’s far too rough to do such a thing. It’s been too long, he’s out of practice, and the last thing he wants is to hurt you.

You just smile down at what he leaves unspoken, some look in your eyes that makes him tremble as you brush your hands through his hair and whisper, “You’re capable of much more softness than you realize, Joel Miller.”

A warmth eases his concern at your words, and he lets you guide his face to your neck, his lips finding your skin for a tentative kiss there. You’re putting yourself in his hands now, trusting him not to break you, just as he trusts you to lead him through this forgotten territory until it was familiar to him again.

Joel breathes you in, large hands grasping at your back as he pulls your body firmly against his, tongue darting out to taste your skin before he bites down softly.

There’s a moan that floats from your lips then, the most sweet, seductive music to his ears that’ll replay in his mind for nights to come, and Joel sucks at the skin, eager to leave his mark on you as you did him. He’s grasping desperately at your body now as you grind down into his lap, unwilling to ever let you go now that he has you.

Heavy breaths fill the air as you bring his face back up to yours, and you just kiss. Lips swelling from the attention, and Joel never wants to stop, even though he knows he’ll have to eventually.

When he does, the two of you finally needing to actually catch your breath, your forehead rests against his with a quiet sigh. It sounds dangerously like contentment, and it takes a moment before Joel realizes that such a thing isn’t so dangerous anymore.

Your nose bumps against his, and he whispers hoarsely, “How was that?”

You laugh, sounding just as breathless and raspy as him, and he can’t stop the goofy smile that stretches across his face when you hum, “Mm, I’ll need more evidence before I draw any conclusions.”

Joel’s lips meet yours again, a softer kiss shared this time, leaving the promise of more that he’d never thought he’d be able to make before he pulls back, and your smile returning his own tells him all he’s ever needed to know.

“That can be arranged.”

[yoditostan]

something wild and unruly [western!joel miller x f!reader]

summary: At Madame Aurelie's Secret Garden, men pay for beautiful courtesans trained in pleasure to give them whatever they want. And all Joel Miller, infamous outlaw and gunslinger, ever seems to want from you is a warm bath and quiet conversation. ratings/warnings: E [reader is a sex worker in a parlor house in the late 1800s and we are playing fast and loose with the realities of ALL of this mmk, use of the word "whore", angst, descriptions of sex work, references to losing a spouse and infertility, grief, arguably weird power dynamics, joel in the old west is just as grouchy and stubborn as the one in the apocalypse and is a little scary for a sec, lots of sexual tension, a single handjob, joel gets several baths like a baby lamb, mentions of blood and violence] wc: ~10k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! i'm not apologizing for word count anymore this story slaps and you should read it. i played rdr2 and then i had to write this. i think his voice moves a little between game joel and show joel, but i pictured him as both as various times. he's like a little blend. kissing @starlightmornings on the mouth for the beta and all her sweet encouragement<3 and to all of YOU who hyped this up for me, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. Also, sex work is work and we support sex workers in this house.

masterlist | joel miller masterlist

“He will be good for your first.” Madame Aurelie speaks in a soft French accent as she gives the strings of your corset an extra tug. Your lungs scream as your ribs compress against them, organs shifting to accommodate the unfamiliar shape around your waist. Whoever stares back at you from the mirror, the woman with her painted red lips and breasts pushed to her chin, is no one you’ve ever met.

Your first.

“Why’s that?” You ask, ignoring the screams of mercy from your lungs. 

“He is a pussycat,” she says with a wink. That could mean anything coming from Madame Aurelie. “You will see.”

Your feet drag with every step up the stairs, lingering on the landing as you stare down the hall to the room you’ve been assigned for the evening. 

The only thing that keeps you moving is the knowledge that Madame Aurelie will put you back to work as a bar girl, no questions asked, if you turn around and tell her you’ve changed your mind. 

It doesn’t make you any less nervous about selling your body for the first time. 

Though you could argue, maybe, this isn’t the first time. That most of the women you know and love sold their bodies in one way or another. Sometimes to men they wouldn’t meet until their wedding day and sometimes to men with whom they went to the same schoolhouse.  

Or they were like you and married the first man your father could convince of it, simply because he and your mother were tired of caring for you. 

That brief union to the nephew of your father’s best friend taught you a single lesson—marriage is, at best, an overly cordial transaction. Maybe not for everyone, maybe not every single marriage in existence, but for girls like you? Girls like you settled down with inoffensive men who read their Bibles and went to church and unburdened your family of your troublesome existence. To thank the nice boy for agreeing to such a sacrifice, you’re to lay still and moan at the right time, and he might give you some money and pretty clothes. 

If you’re lucky, he’ll give you a baby, and you’ll have something to pour all that unwanted love onto.

Your husband had been one of those men; polite, if distant, and he gave you flowers on your birthday for all three years of wedded bliss. Your mother promised you’d grow to love him, and you tried to. You did all the things you’d been told to do to make him fall in love with you, but you may as well have been invisible most of the time. 

Most of it, you think, had to do with your failure to give him a son. Or a daughter, for that matter. It didn’t seem to matter how much you prayed or how often you let him into your bed, every month you bled, and every month he looked more and more disappointed. 

Every month you breathed a long sigh of guilt-tinged relief. Pregnancy and all its wonders scared you, no matter how much your mother insisted on it being a miraculous experience. 

And then, three years into your marriage, he had the very bad manners to go off and die from consumption, leaving you with nothing. He’d hidden his debts well, and the bank had no qualms about leaving you a penniless widow. 

You had two choices: hope another man would want to marry a twenty-seven-year-old widow or find your way alone. 

The thought of starting over with someone new made your skin crawl.

So you headed west after you heard it was lawless and wild and even women could make it on their own out there. Neither of your parents would think to look for you in a house of ill repute. You started as a saloon girl at Madame Aurelie’s Secret Garden, serving drinks and cleaning in exchange for a place to sleep, until Madame Aurelie herself took a liking to you. 

“The men love a girl who looks like she’s never been properly fucked,” she’d said. You’d choked on the drink she’d handed you. After all these months serving drinks to cowboys and traveling salesmen, her language still scandalizes you. 

And yet, you cling tight to her every word. Everything she says makes more sense than anything in the Book of Revelations.

The more experienced girls get a room to themselves on the third floor, but that would come with a level of seniority you do not intend to reach. For now, you'll rotate with other newer girls in the smaller rooms.

Madame Aurelie had you practice all week long—looking seductive, sounding seductive, pouting your lips out just the right way, spreading your legs just enough to entice but not enough to be lurid. 

“There are plenty of places they can go for something quick and dirty,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “That is not what we do here. We give an experience.” 

The Garden may well be a house of ill repute, but its flowers are well-tended. 

Word has it that she owns the building. It lights up something inside of you, the idea of a woman owning anything. Maybe you’ll ask her about it one day, once you’ve impressed her enough. 

For now, you have a gentleman to take care of.

Situating yourself on the bed in what you hope is an aloof, seductive pose, you wait for him to knock. It’s quiet today, but it’s only six in the evening. The cowboys and farmers’ll be coming in soon, and the merchants, too, once the shops close. 

So who is this, you wonder, here with the sun still out?

As if on cue, the clattering of boots on stairs reaches your ears. His gait is slow but noisy, growing louder on the wood floor as he approaches. Three sharp wraps on the door echo through the room. 

“Come in,” you say in your throatiest voice that doesn’t sound anything like you. The door clicks open and the man standing there is not what you’re expecting, so broad his shoulders take up most of the doorframe. “Pussycat” isn’t the word you’d have used. 

“Ma’am,” he grunts, taking off a black gambler’s hat and holding it over his chest. 

He has manners, at least.  

And Good God Almighty, is he handsome. His graying facial hair gives him a more distinguished air than he probably deserves, but his dark, round eyes are almost boyish.  

He sighs and runs his hand through matted waves. Those broad shoulders and chest taper off to a narrow waist, and it might not be such a chore, seeing this one naked.

You’re supposed to be doing something here, too. You shoot up from the bed, concentrating on not tripping over your feet.

“I’m Sugar,” you offer, but that’s not your name at all. 

You suspect you don’t know anyone’s real name here. Madame Aurelie prefers it that way.

He nods but doesn’t introduce himself, so you push on.

“I was told you wanted a bath, too? Before or…?” You trail off. It occurs to you that it might offend him, implying that he’s dirty. He is, of course, but you’ve been bought and paid for, and he can fuck you in whatever state of hygiene he’d like.

The ghost of a smirk slides across his lips.

“Now’s good, Miss Sugar.” He says “Miss Sugar” like he’s put a spoonful of it in his mouth, rolling the little grain around his tongue like a forbidden treat. You ring a bell for one of the boys to bring up a few buckets of hot water, then set to work filling the bath with oils and soaps that bubble and foam. Your hands shake, but he doesn’t mention it.

He doesn’t speak at all, actually, and still doesn’t offer a name.

You ponder what it could be while you work—Buck? Levi? Arthur? He doesn’t look like an Arthur.

When you’re satisfied with what you’ve done, you turn around to find him already naked. Your eyes, of course, go straight to his cock. 

How could it not? 

You’ve only seen one other, and your late husband’s was not quite so impressive. Blood rushes to your face and you look away again as you try to reassure yourself.

This is what’s supposed to happen. 

He walks past you and climbs in, sighing as he sinks into the water. 

“Would you…would you like me to wash you?” You ask. 

“I’d’ve gone somewhere much cheaper if I didn’t, darlin’,” he says. A nervous titter slips out of you, and you shake your head as you grab a washcloth and a bar of soap. 

Hair first, unless he tells you otherwise. You pour the water over his head, carefully avoiding his face, and rake your nails across his scalp. He doesn’t make a sound, but his eyes close as you reach the soft nape of his neck. 

“Good weather we’ve had lately,” you say. Madame Aurelie instructed you to try to make small talk any time you weren’t…busy. 

“It makes them feel important,” she’d explained. “Men love to feel important. But don’t chatter too much—just give them an opening and they will do the rest of the talking. Believe me.” 

That philosophy, apparently, did not apply to this gentleman. 

“No need for all that,” he grunts. You freeze, opening your mouth and closing it again.

This is off to a real good start. 

“Sorry, mister,” you say. He turns his head and you pull your soapy hands back, waiting for another reprimand, but his soft, disarming eyes calm your racing heart. 

“Didn’t mean nothin’ personal by it, Miss Sugar,” he says. “Just ain’t in the mood for conversation.”

You nod. “Yessir.”

So you focus on your task instead. It’s relaxing; the plink! of the water trickling down his broad shoulders into the tub, the bath oils slick between your palms rubbing over a constellation of scars on his otherwise soft skin. You almost forget what you’re here for until your hand disappears under the water as you reach his midsection.

“Is there anywhere I should give…extra attention to?” Your breath hitches at the end of the sentence. Your toes curl in your boots as he gazes down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. 

“Just the regular amount of attention everywhere’ll be fine.”

He’s an older man—maybe he’s just not ready yet. As your hand slides down to his thighs, though, it’s clear that’s just not the case. He’s hard as iron, but you don’t linger, despite the almost inaudible grunt he gives. A few simple passes with the washcloth and it’s on to his legs. 

When you brush over his knees, he tosses his head back as you apply the slightest pressure. 

“Felt good,” he says when you glance back. You do the same thing a few more times, and to his other knee, and the tension between his brows melts away completely. 

“You got trouble with those?” You ask, then hastily add, “I’m not bein’ nosy—it’s just, I can add in a little massage for a nickel.”

“You new around here?” He asks, disregarding your questions completely, and your smile falls. 

“That obvious?” You ask with a self-deprecating chuckle. He lifts his arm from the water and hooks his finger under your chin, pulling you around to meet his eyes. Anticipation crawls up your spine, your breath coming in short puffs. 

That might be the corset, though. 

“Just got a sparkle to you I don’t usually see ‘round here is all.” He searches your face, but you don’t know what he’s looking for. 

“How often are you here?” You ask, grabbing a towel from the stool next to you as he stands up.

“Oh, every few months, I reckon,” he says. He steps out and since the day isn’t too cold, you take your time drying him off. He watches you with a relaxed mouth and soft eyes, and something in his posture makes you a little braver. 

“That the only time you bathe, mister?” You ask with a sly grin, looking up through your lashes. He doesn’t smile, but you hear something like a chuckle unstick from his throat. 

“Only time I get a proper one, anyway. S’why I come here.”

He’s dry and warm now, and you expect he’ll lead you to the bed to have his way with you now. He’s sweet, if gruff, and you hope that’ll translate to how he treats you. 

Maybe you won’t have to pretend too much. 

“It’s a performance, Sugar. Make them believe,” Madame Aurelie’d said.

“I ain’t never been much of an actress,” you’d told her, but she’d just waved you off.

“Ah, but it does not have to be a very good one. A little goes a long way.”

He looks you over in your corset and your petticoat, and sets his hands on your shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over your skin. “Thank you very much, Miss Sugar,” he says quietly, reaching for his clothes. “You have a good evening now.”

Your throat goes dry. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. He’s supposed to take you now, and you’re supposed to pretend he feels so good you can’t help but scream his name. 

Not that he’s given you a name to scream.

Maybe he has a type, and maybe you’re not it. The other girls told you some of them were picky. 

“Was I—do you want me to send someone else? If I’m not pleasin’ to you?” You ask meekly, swallowing your humiliation. “I know I said I’m new—but it’s not my first time, I know how to—”

“No, that’s all right,” he says, pulling on his boots. “You’re more than pleasin’, Miss Sugar.”

He puts on his hat and walks out with a final nod in your direction before he shuts the door. 

Of all the things you’d expected to feel tonight, rejection is not one of them.

Madame Aurelie wastes no time bursting in a few minutes later, her brown eyes eager for information.

“So,” she asks. “How’d it go?”

“He just wanted a bath,” you say. She gives you a smirk and nods. 

“He only ever wants a bath,” she laughs, offering you a cigarette. You take it, shaken enough from your first venture into this business to indulge.

“He was…very sweet,” you say. 

“He’s a decent sort, that Joel Miller,” she says, and something clicks in your brain. You’ve heard of him. You’ve heard a lot about him. 

“The outlaw Joel Miller? The gunslinger? The murderer? Wanted in six states? That’s him?” You sputter. Madame Aurelie laughs again and fans the smoke away from her face. 

“Rumors! Most of it, anyway,” she says but doesn’t specify which part. “He is not wanted in this state, and we’re gonna keep it that way, darling. He lived a rough life. Lost his daughter before she was sixteen, and her mother before, during childbirth.” 

“You sweet on him, Madame?” You tease.

“Who wouldn’t be? My Martin wouldn’t like that very much at all, though, would he?”

“I suppose not,” you murmur.

“Do not get too used to it. We don’t get a lot of his type here. He left you a tip,” she says, handing you a stack of bills. 

“For me?” You ask, eyes widening. 

“Mmhmm,” she says. “And here’s the rest of your cut.” She slips another stack in your hand and tells you to go up and get some rest. You got off easy tonight, and she’s glad for it. 

That night you stare up at the ceiling, adrenaline coursing through you—you’d made more money tonight than you’d ever even seen before. 

And that Joel Miller—you hoped he’d come back. Mysterious and brooding, just like all the heroes in the cowboy novels, but much kinder. 

The thought of his fingers on your shoulder is enough to make you shiver, enough for arousal to replace that adrenaline, and as your hand slips under your thin cotton nightdress, you thank the Lord that the girl who shares the bed next to you is otherwise occupied for the evening. 

“Mr. Miller requested you,” Madame Aurelie says. 

That was nothing new—the regulars all have their favorite girls.  

You aren’t anyone’s favorite yet. 

It isn’t a big deal to you, the job gets done, you get paid, and no one has complained. Being someone’s favorite is last on your list of concerns. 

You wouldn’t mind being his favorite, though.

After triple-checking your appearance, you make it up the stairs in half your usual time. 

He makes it to the room before you this time, towering over you when he throws the door open. His eyes are sharp and so much darker than the last time. One hand curls around your bicep and he pulls you into the room behind him before he sticks his head out of the door and looks around with swift, purposeful movements. 

“Is everything—”

“Anyone follow you up here?” He asks. 

“No…not that I know of.” You cross your arms, all that excitement turning to cold dread. “Somethin’ I should know?”

He gives the hallway one last look and slams the door behind him. Something dark and angry pours off of him, and you don’t know him well enough to judge where he’s directing that rage. You never could stand when a man raised his voice or slammed a door, especially not here. Madame Aurelie protects her girls as best she can, but could anyone stop the man in front of you if he really got it in his head to hurt you?

Your heart slams itself against your ribcage as you take a step back from him.

The sudden movement breaks whatever hostility had taken hold of him. He takes his hat off, holding it to his chest as he shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Sugar,” he says in a soft voice. “Don’t mean to frighten you. Had a run-in with some jackasses full as a tick and didn’t want them comin’ in here and causin’ trouble in your establishment.”

The heart settles itself as you take a deep breath and smile. “That’s all right, mister.”

“It’s Miller,” he says. “Joel Miller.”

“Nice to meet you proper, Mr. Miller,” you say, smoothing the front of your petticoat. “You just want the bath again?”

He nods, his cheeks flushing red. “I know it’s unusual.”

“Hey now,” you murmur, approaching him slowly. “I don’t think it’s unusual at all.” His lips twitch and you resist the urge to cradle his face in your hands. “Let me get that bath ready, all right?”

Joel undresses just like last time, no shame at all as he lowers himself into the bathtub. You start slowly this time—if this is all he wants, you’ll make it the best goddang bath he’s ever had. A massage is extra, technically, but you’re happy to keep it between the two of you. 

His muscles melt as your fingers dig into his slick skin, and anything left of that dangerous energy from before melts off of him, too. He sighs and groans, and every little noise is a victory. You work him until he’s boneless, like melted candlewax in your hands. He even lets you kiss his damp forehead and smiles fondly as you stand to fetch a towel.

He dries himself this time, but before you leave he catches you by the wrist. “I really didn’t mean to scare you earlier, Miss Sugar. Take this, would you? For your trouble.” His eyes are soft and round again as he folds an ornate gold pocket watch into your hand. It’s the prettiest thing anyone’s ever given you, including your wedding ring. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. “I’ll see you next time?” 

“I hope so, Miss Sugar.”

“Where’re you off to?” 

Tommy’s nosier than usual these days. Used to be he’d just wave and nod, tell Joel to be careful and come back with something good. But Tommy Miller’s better at reading his brother than anyone in the world, and he must see the eager look in his eye as Joel sets off. 

“Need to go into town,” Joel says vaguely, swinging one leg over a chestnut Morgan and patting her neck as he settles. “I’ll be back in a few days. Keep an eye on things here?”

“I think Tess has that handled,” Tommy says, a wry smile at the upturn of his lips. “You’re goin’ to see that girl, huh?” 

Joel shakes his head, but Tommy keeps on. He means well, his brother, but Joel doesn’t want to hear it. “I’m sure she’s a nice girl, Joel, but since when has fallin' for a whore ever worked out?”

Joel’s jaw ticks as he glares down at Tommy. “Ain’t about that,” he says, dismissing his concerns. “Got some business to look into.”

Tommy raises his hands and shakes his head. “All right. Don’t go bein’ reckless is all I’m sayin’. You got that kid now—”

“Ellie’s damn near an adult,” Joel says, not bothering to hide his irritation. “She can handle herself just fine.”

But as he looks across the camp to where Tess sat with Ellie demonstrating the proper way to clean a rifle, he can't say that with any certainty. Ellie's barely older than his Sarah was when he lost her, and she was just a little girl then. Smuggling, stealing, sometimes killing--this is no life for a kid, no matter how much of it they try to shield her from. It's just easier to pretend she isn't. 

Still, he can trust Tess and Tommy, and he’ll only be gone a few days. And he isn’t lying about that business—a bounty’ll bring in good enough money that Tommy won’t be able to say anything about it. 

“Be careful, brother,” he says, and Joel just nods, digging his heel into Starfire and setting off. He doesn’t know how much longer they can stick around these parts, anyway, not as a group. Folks go around kicking up dust and putting a target on their backs, and sooner or later they’ll need to find a new place to settle. 

He stews over Tommy’s wording the entire ride. Even if it’s true. Even if that’s what she’s chosen to do, even if she didn’t mind. Tommy said it to make a point, and he’d made it well. 

He never gave himself a chance to get attached before, rotating venues and girls while he indulged in the closest thing to intimacy he could bring himself to receive. 

It’s not real if they’re getting paid.

But then she happened.  

At first, it was curiosity—he requested her that second time because he wanted to know if she would stick around. She’d been so new, hands shaking as she ran the cloth down his legs like she’d never touched a man before. 

Now he just likes her company. Now he finds reasons to go into town and for an hour or two with her. He books her the whole night, even if he shouldn’t, even if he never stays that long. 

Less time for her to be with other men. 

Joel has no right to jealousy, but his heart doesn't seem to care too much about that. He tries not to think about what the rest of her time there is like because it just makes him want to break the closest thing to him. 

He calls her Sugar like she asks, Miss Sugar because he was raised with manners, but he’d like to know her real name one day. He wants to know what she smells like in the morning, what her skin feels like under his lips, what she tastes like.

And he can’t goddamn let himself have any of it. 

He tries to imagine her sleeping outside, but it makes no sense even in his fantasies. She’s meant for plush cushions and red silks, not dirt and snow and low-life criminals. 

“Hi there, outlaw,” she purrs as he opens the door. His eyes drop to her lips, then the curve of her breasts, wondering what they’d look like out of that corset. He could see them if he wanted. He could rip it off of her—he could push her to the bed, spread her out underneath him; show her exactly how much he wants her. 

And she’d let him because paid her.

“Everything okay?” She asks, the question tinged with uncertainty as he realizes he’s been standing there for too long. 

“Just fine, Miss Sugar. Come on in,” he says, shaking his head. “Had a long ride here, I guess.”

She looks at him with soft eyes, and he wants to believe that concern is real. Couldn’t he pretend, just for now?

“Come on, big boy,” she says, unbuttoning his shirt for him. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

He lets her take care of him, trying to swallow his urge to undress her, too. His life is full of blood and pain and gunshots, and she is warm and much too soft for it. He opens and closes his fists with indecision, and she tuts at him. 

“Those hurtin’ again, too?” She asks because she’ll rub his knuckles if they do. It’s easier than telling her the truth. 

“Yes ma’am,” he says as she kneels and urges him to sit on the bed so she can take his boots off. He catches her cheek and rubs his thumb across her jaw. 

“You look real nice today, Miss Sugar,” he says, and for a moment she smiles as though she needed to hear that. 

“Bet you say that to all the girls you visit.” She still teases him delicately, still wary to push a button that might make him angry. 

She’s afraid of him, and he’s all too aware of it. 

“Ain’t got any other girls,” he says, and it’s true. “'Less you count Ellie, and she’d kill me quick if I ever said as much.”

She furrows her brow, and it occurs to him—he’s never mentioned Ellie. 

“Who’s Ellie? If you don’t mind me askin’?” She asks, shrugging off her coat to reveal smooth shoulders and soft arms. He wants to tell her, but it feels too personal now. 

“Just a girl I know,” he says, clearing his throat. She doesn’t pry, but he can see she wants to. 

“All right, mister,” she says. “Time to get you clean.”

Her strong hands and nimble fingers dig at sore spots, exquisite torture as she loosens muscles he’s never been able to reach. He sinks further down until the water laps at his beard and sighs as she scrubs his scalp with her fingernails. 

Joel wants to talk more, but he’s the kind of tired you feel in your bones, the tired that won’t be ignored no matter how much he sleeps. And he doesn’t sleep much these days, anyhow. That’s what twenty years of living like this’ll do to a man, he supposes.

He doesn’t know how Tess does it. How she manages to have a plan for everything, how she’s kept them all from being hanged or worse all this time. He reckons if he had to have all the answers all the time, he’d have turned tail and run by now. It was bad enough being the one to carry the orders out—he can’t imagine coming up with them.

Tess has never even mentioned his visits here, but he suspects when he returns this time, she’ll have something to say. Now that he’d brought back a foul-mouthed teenager, Tess wouldn’t be happy he’d gone off and left her there, no matter how much she liked Ellie. 

“All right, outlaw, you’re all cleaned up. Anything else I can do for you?” She asks, and he knows what she means. She asks every time, and he always tells her no. 

He gazes down at her fooling with the buttons of his overshirt, and he pretends for a moment that she's his wife and it's the morning and she's getting him ready for an honest day's work. 

The delusion vanishes as quickly as it came. Nothing’s ever been that simple for him.

But he can pretend. 

“Come sit a minute,” he says. Her head snaps up, and the look on her face is so alarmed it makes him chuckle. “That a problem?”

“‘Course not,” she says, shaking off the surprise. “Not a problem at all. Should I…?”

He answers by unbuttoning his shirt again, stripping down to his union suit and slipping into the ornate bed he’d never used. It’s odd, considering that she’d seen and touched every part of him, how very naked he feels.

“You, too,” he says.

She strips out of her petticoat and corset, which always looks so uncomfortable, and she really is the barest he’s ever seen her. His eyes trail over her body, admiring her. She moves more fluidly, less restricted without those extra layers. For a moment, she looks like that girl he met the first time he came to her. 

“C’mere,” he says quietly, and she crawls into bed with him, fitting herself against his side and cuddling against his chest. 

“Is this okay?” She asks, and he pulls her closer to him. 

He wants to feel all of her, but he can’t make himself do it. If it’s the last time he sees her, he wants it to mean something. He wants to talk to her, tell her things about himself she’s always gently poked at but receded if he gave any signs of discomfort.

So he does. 

They talk late into the night, shifting positions now and then when his back starts to protest. They talk for so long his throat gets scratchy and dry, so he asks her more questions about herself. 

“You like it here, Miss Sugar?” He asks after she's finished telling him about her favorite books, and how she wishes she had more time to read these days. She gives a dry laugh and rolls onto her back to look at the ceiling. 

“It’s all right. Not my first choice, but there ain’t mucha anything else around here. It was either try to find another husband or die an old maid, so I chose neither. At least here I can make my own money.”

He rubs his thumb and forefinger down either side of his mustache, frowning. 

“Another husband?” He asks. 

“I was married before,” she says, still looking up at the ceiling. “He died. Bank took all the money.”

She says it so plainly it takes him by surprise. He doesn't know what to say at the best of times, and especially not now, so he says nothing. Instead, he tugs on her hand, a silent plea to come back to him.

“But one day,” she says, crawling back up to him and settling herself on his lap, straddling his hips and laying her head on his shoulder. “One day I’m gonna save up enough to buy some land. They let anyone own land out here, gunslinger, did you know that?”

“Mmhmm,” he says. She’s so close and warm, wrapped around him like this. He breathes her in and closes his eyes. “What you got planned for that land, Miss Sugar?”

He wants to kiss her so badly. 

“Gonna have a little cabin built up the mountain. I already know how to fish, and my daddy used to take me huntin’. He didn’t have any boys. And I can grow a good garden. Before my husband died I had onions and carrots goin’ real strong,” she says. 

“Why didn’t you stay with your folks?” He asks. She leans back on her thighs and considers him for a moment. 

“I wanted to live for myself, I reckon,” she says. “If I’d stayed they’d have just found some old widower to put a baby in me. Or try to, anyway. I never…” She trails off and looks away from him.

“And you don’t want that?” He asks. 

“No,” she says. “I don’t. What about you, Joel? How come you don’t settle down?”

“Only one way of livin’ for a man like me,” he shrugs. She bites her lip like she means to ask him something. “Why? You want me to come help build that cabin?”

“I’d pay you real good,” she says. “I think it’d be nice, me and you. I don’t even snore.”

She sounds serious; she means to offer him a place in her little dream. He closes his eyes and pictures it—maybe Ellie’s there, too, and she teaches Ellie to read. 

I’m sure she’s a nice girl, Joel, but since when has fallin' for a whore ever worked out?

His brother’s words come unbidden, and Joel’s eyes fly open. “Ain’t much of a carpenter,” he says gruffly, dismissing her offer of domesticity and peace. 

She isn’t serious. She’s just good at what she does.

But he swears the light in her eyes dulls a little more. 

“Well, all right then,” she says, shrugging and changing the subject. 

They fall asleep, eventually, and he leaves before she wakes up.

He’s never been any good at goodbyes.

He’s gone longer this time. 

You ask after him around town, but no one’s heard from him, not even the mail clerk. 

“You that hard up for customers?” Your bartender, Teddy, asks.

“Of course I’m not,” you snap, scowling at him. “I…was just curious. He just ain’t been around.”

“Worried about him?” Teddy asks, not unkindly. 

“S’pose,” you shrug, wrapping your shawl around you as the doors open, bringing a strong gust of wind with them. “Gets cold quick around here, y’know.”

You keep the pocket watch he gave you in a drawer next to your bed in the room you shared with a girl who called herself Ginger. She’d had her own encounters with Joel.

“He ain’t never gave me nothin’ so nice as that for my trouble, Sugar. He must like you,” she’d said when you came back with it that evening. You brushed her off.

“He just felt bad for scaring me. And he was awful scary,” you admit. Ginger shook her head at your protests. “Did he ever…did he ever let you touch him?” 

“Lord no,” Ginger says. “He’s wound about as tight as a nun’s twat—”

“Ginger!”

There are fewer travelers in the cold months, and for the first time in almost a year, you have time on your hands. Since you can read, Madame Aurelie has you help with the books, but otherwise you’re free to do whatever you want. 

You’ve never been able to do whatever you want. 

It hits you, one day, that you don’t even know what you like to do. When you were married, you’d sew and cook and garden and keep the house like a proper woman. But you never much liked any of those things. 

When you were a girl, though, you’d read and dream about going on the adventures in your story books. It’s hard to remember the last time you read something for fun. 

A man comes through town with a cart full of books every few weeks. It’s full of trashy romance and cowboy dramas and even penny dreadfuls that’d made their way across the ocean, and you buy up as many of them as your arms can hold. 

It’s not an ideal life, but at least you can escape now and then. 

Sometimes you read to Ginger. She’s an excellent audience, gasping and clapping at just the right places, her “oohs” and “ahhs” filling your heart with warmth.

“You do the voices so damn good, sugar cube!” She says. 

If you close your eyes, it’s almost like being back home, reading adventure stories to your little sister by candlelight hours after you were both supposed to be asleep. 

Sometimes these moments are the only thing that get you through the day. 

He comes back just as the ground thaws. 

You try to keep your cool; to pretend it’s not him you imagine when there’s another man inside of you. 

He opens the door, covered in blood.

“Ain’t mine,” he says as your mouth drops open. “Not all of it, anyway.”

“Lord above, Joel Miller, are you okay? What happened?” You ask as he tosses his empty holsters on the bed. No weapons allowed in Madame Aurelie’s establishment. 

“Nothin’ out of the ordinary,” he says, but his split, bloody knuckles tell you otherwise. 

“Joel—”

“Please,” he says quietly. “Please, Miss Sugar. I’m all right.”

His tone disarms you as he pulls your chin up to look into his eyes.

“If you say so.” The bath’s already full of warm, fresh water—he always pays a little extra for it. 

It’s been just over a year since you became his favorite girl. Neither of you mention how long it’s been since the last time he was here, or how he’d batted away the idea of a simpler, kinder life with you. 

You suspect the offer of it is what kept him away for so long.

He’s silent today, brooding as the water turns pink with blood. The baths have become your specialty—the men like your sure grip and the way you listen. Sometimes they want sex after, sometimes they just want to talk. Regardless, he’s not the only one who calls you his favorite these days. 

But he’s still yours, and it’s as infuriating as it is painful.

All the others are married and miserable, complaining about their wives and lamenting how they wish they’d found a woman like you when they were younger. 

Did your husband do that, too? Visit parlor houses and complain that you didn’t keep the houses tidy enough while he was buried inside another woman? Do they all do that? 

Joel doesn’t have a wife or a business to complain about. Would he, if he did? 

You like to think he wouldn’t. You like to think that if he had a wife he wouldn’t even be here, and you’d have never met him. 

Your thoughts drift to the last time he was here, when he pulled you in bed and held you there and talked and talked and talked until you’d opened your mouth and stuck your foot in it.

It’s foolish to fall in love with clients. Even you, with all your romantic notions, know that. And you won’t be here forever. Once you get enough money saved you’ll leave and buy yourself a place high up in the mountains. You’ll live off the land; learn how to hunt and fish. 

And you’ll never see Joel Miller again. 

It shouldn’t sting so bad to think about. He doesn’t even know your real name. He could be lying about everything and you wouldn’t know the difference. 

Some foolish hope tells you he isn’t, though.

You grab a bottle of cheap whiskey to clean the congealed blood from his knuckles, biting back your questions about what happened. He hisses at your delicate dabs to his wounds but doesn’t protest. 

“Thank you, Miss Sugar,” he says. You wish you could tell him your real name, but at least you like the way he says it. He still cradles it on his tongue like something precious, like he relishes saying it out loud. 

“You can just call me Sugar, you know,” you say. “No need to be so formal.”

That pulls one of those vague smiles from his lips as he nods. “All right, then, Sugar.” 

Furtive glances to check for bruises yield nothing. Someone got the mess knocked out of him but didn’t seem to land any blows on Joel at all. 

His mood hasn’t lifted any at all, even with one of the shoulder rubs you’d started throwing in for free. Free in theory, at least; he always gave you some trinket worth more than a whole night with you afterward. 

He’ll never tell you what happened, even if you beg him, and you think it’s because he wants you to see him as anything but the man he is. But you like him just the way he is, and you wish you could just say that. 

He trembles when you reach his inner thigh, letting out a noise between a gasp and a grunt. You’ve never heard that noise from him before, and goes straight to your core, warmth and need blooming between your legs. His tired eyes meet yours, and they’re begging for something. You can help, can’t you? You know what would relax him, what would take all the stress off of his tense shoulders.

“You can let me help, if you want. It’s okay,” you murmur, waiting for his permission. 

“Please, Sugar,” he says in a low rumble. You move slowly, giving him a chance to change his mind.  

You can feel yourself throbbing the second you wrap your hand around the base of him, saliva pooling in your mouth as he twitches. He makes no noise as you stroke him; he doesn’t even move, but his hands grip the side of the tub so tightly that his once-blood-red knuckles have turned white with strain.

He’s still denying himself. 

“It’s all right,” you murmur, scooting close enough to lay your head on his shoulder, right in the crook of his neck, your lips just centimeters away from his warm, wet skin. You don’t kiss him, but you’d like to. “Relax.”

He lets out a shaky sigh and turns his head toward you, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closing as his breath ghosts over your skin. His lips are centimeters from yours.

Rarely do you watch any of the other men like this. Now and again some lovely thing you can’t keep your eyes off of shows up, but it is, for the most part, very much a job. 

You couldn’t look away from him or his fluttering eyelashes if you wanted to. He lets out a soft grunt, his nose scrunching as his teeth dig into his bottom lip to keep from crying out. 

This big, strong, violent man reduced to a quivering mess with just your hand. 

He throws his head back, exposing the corded muscles of his thick neck and shoulders, finally letting a harsh grunt slip from his throat. You swallow as he grabs at the strap of your bodice, pulling you closer and gazing at you with hooded eyes. His hand trails down to your low, flimsy neckline and he cups your breast through the fabric with his rough, wide hand. A soft, needy whimper tears from you, and he squeezes. 

“Gonna—gonna—”

But you already know, his cock throbbing and pulsing in your hand. “Come on,” you whisper, urging him on. “For me, just for me.”

He makes the most beautiful noises as he bucks into your hand, eyes closed and still clutching at you. Your eyes sweep down to his waist underwater where his release is still coming as he shudders beneath you. 

You brush his hair from his forehead as he catches his breath. For once, he’s fully at ease, mouth slack and eyes heavy, the lines between his brows almost invisible. 

When he opens his eyes all the way to look at you, you’re suddenly aware that you’re still holding him. You let him go and pull away, putting on a nervous smile. His face is inscrutable, and you don’t know where to go from here. Not with him.

Most of the time, you leave after this, wishing the man a good day and a cheery “Hope to see you again soon!” But this is Joel, and Joel’s different. 

Joel’s different. 

He doesn’t say anything, either, as he rises from the water and grabs the towel from the stool, stepping out and drying himself. He says nothing as he gets dressed, pulling out a wad of bills and separating a stack. 

“Thank you, Miss Sugar,” he says, holding it out to you. He frowns when you don’t reach for the money. “Somethin’ the matter?”

He doesn’t invite you into his bed like last time; doesn’t even ask how you’ve been. You don’t know what you thought would happen, or what you expect of him. He's paying you for the service you provided, just like he always does. 

And you must have done a good job. He even gave you a tip.

It’s silly. You knew better. Know better. You know why he’s here, what he came for. It just took a while for him to warm up. There’s no reason you should be upset, no reason you should have assumed he thought of you as anything other than a whore he visits from time to time. 

You plaster on the smile you keep ready for everyone else and take the money, still not quite sure what's happening in your head. “Nope! No, sir. Nothin’ at all. I’m…happy to help. Hope to see you again soon!” You say with that false cheer reserved for everyone but him, turning on your heel and heading toward the door. 

It isn’t fair to be upset with him. This was a business transaction. Always had been. Just because you jerked him off this time didn’t mean anything had changed. It just meant he needed something different. 

Your job is to give him what he needs. 

You’re his favorite girl in the parlor house, and that’s all. 

Ginger finds you on your bed holding that gold pocketwatch he’d given you so many months ago. The one you’d mistaken for a gift. 

“S’wrong with you?” She asks, unlacing her bodice and sighing. 

“Nothin’,” you say. You’re not the youngest girl here, but you’re certainly the most naive. The last thing you need is Ginger finding out about your thing for Joel.

She is, unfortunately, way ahead of you. 

Ginger’s red hair tumbles down her shoulders as she unpins it, coming to rest on her ample breasts. She has child-bearing hips and a soft tummy, and as she curls herself around you in your bed, you inhale the scent of jasmine she dabs between her breasts and on each pulse point. You’d never smelled jasmine before you met her, and you think if you should leave this place, you’d never smell it again without thinking of her. 

“Is it that Mr. Miller?” She asks softly. You don’t want to answer—you don’t want to admit how stupid you’ve been. But Ginger’s kind and patient and her green eyes are easy to lose yourself in.

“Oh, Ginger,” you sigh. “It ain’t nothin’ for me to be upset over. I did my job, and that’s it.”

“He took you to bed?” She asks, surprise evident at the uptick in her tone. 

“No,” you laugh. “No, I just…gave him a little extra in the bath today, and he left. Paid me good for it, too.”

“Then what are you so upset for?” She asks, pressing her cheek to the top of your head. “If you just did your job and he paid you good and it was fine.”

You breathe deep, already regretting what you’re about to admit. 

“I reckon I thought he liked me, after all this time,” you admit, your voice catching in your throat. Ginger doesn’t say anything at first, and you wait for her to scold you. 

She never does. 

“I’m sorry, Sugar,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Her sympathy opens a floodgate, and the tears you’d been holding back seep out as she whispers soothing words to you. 

“It’s happened to everyone,” she says, and she calls you by your real name. “We can talk to Madame Aurelie, ask her to put him with someone else. She protects her girls.”

You think about it for a split second—you know Madame Aurelie is a good woman with a ferocious heart—but ultimately, you decide not to. If he’s gone for as long as he was before, you’ll have time to get past it. You’ll mourn whatever you thought you had with him the way you mourned your poor husband, and you’ll move on. And maybe by the time he comes back, you’ll be long gone to that place in the mountains he didn't want anything to do with.

The next morning Madame Aurelie gives you a package in brown wrapping, secured in string and tied off with a bow. A scrap of paper sticks out from underneath the twine.

“Your cowboy left it for you as he was leaving. He looked quite sad,” she says.

You pull at the end of the string and it comes apart, a leatherbound book staring back at you. 

It’s a first-edition printing of Little Women with a signature in loopy handwriting on the front page.

L.M. Alcott

You shudder to think where or how he got this. It doesn’t make any sense—why wouldn’t he just give it to you himself? The scrap of paper that falls on the floor as you turn the book over catches your eye. It has another message, this time in hasty cursive. 

Meant to give you this last night. Wish I could be better for you. 

-J

You wish you could be better for him, too.

Joel never gets that look on her face out of his head. That crushed disappointment when her eyes drifted to the second stack of bills in his hand. 

Her tip. 

He meant it as a compliment. He meant it as a way to thank her. He meant it as a way to show he still understood the relationship, that he wasn’t foolish enough to fall in love with her, that he hadn’t spent months and months thinking about her. That it didn’t make his heart float right out of his chest watching her clean his wounds and wrap his hand. 

By the time he’d gotten dressed enough to go find her, she’d disappeared, and he’d almost gotten in a fight with one of the big guys the madame had stationed around the place. That makes him feel better when he thinks of it—at least she has people to protect her. 

And then he had to leave. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, and if Tess ever found out she might wring his neck for stopping in when he had business the next town over. 

He left the book with one of the other girls and hoped it made its way to her, and he moved on with a pit in his chest. She’d taken care of him, and he’d acted like it was nothing. 

It haunts him when he thinks about her, so he doesn’t. He distracts himself in every way possible. He doesn’t even know if he should go back to her—if some line had been crossed just like he feared from the beginning. 

Everything he touches falls apart. 

Eventually, though, he needs to go back. He needs to see her and explain himself before it eats him alive.

“She’s not here anymore,” Madame Aurelie says. 

“What do you mean, ‘she’s not here’?” He demands, maybe a little too aggressively. 

Madame Aurelie shrugs, unperturbed by his outburst. “She made her money and she moved on. That was always part of the deal. She didn’t tell you?” 

“Haven’t been around,” he mutters. 

The older woman looks him up and down with a pitying smile. “I noticed. She liked you, you know.”

“I know,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Shit. Pardon my language, ma’am.”

She shrugs again. “Last I heard she was to buy a parcel of land further up the mountain. Maybe she’s still around there. If you are that distraught.”

He realizes he doesn’t even know her real name. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says before he departs. He pauses. “You don’t happen to know her real name?”

Madame Aurelie gives him a sly smile and beckons him closer. 

It’s not much, but it’ll get him started.

It’s harder to leave than you expect. You’ve grown so close with these other women, especially Ginger, and they’d become a strange patchwork family. But no matter how many times you tell Ginger it would be fun to be two women on the frontier surviving on their own with no men to answer to, she doesn’t want to come live in a cabin in the woods.

You’re only half-joking about your offer. 

Madame Aurelie was so gracious about it all, even writing recommendations to the bank to start a line of credit. It was her suggestion, rather than buy the land and a house outright, to pay it back over time. And then, should you ever need any more credit, you’ll already be in good standing with them. 

You leave her with a hug and your real name, just in case. 

Joel never came back, but you didn’t expect him to. It must have clicked in his head, finally, that you’d gotten attached to him. And it wasn’t like it was hard to find some pretty girl to bathe him. 

It hardly matters now. It’s just you and this little cabin surrounded by pine trees and evergreens and the quiet rush of the stream out front. The little kids call you a witch when you go into town for supplies, but the shopkeep is perfectly happy to take your money. He doesn’t care if you’re a witch or a whore or a widow. 

Winter’s already creeping in, and as you’re chopping firewood to last those long months, you can’t help but think of Joel. He’d disappeared all last winter; he must have some place he goes. Him and that gang of his. 

You’re jolted out of a sound sleep, slumped over in a rocking chair next to the fire. Your ears prick up, listening for any slight sound. Something creaks just outside your front door, and you tiptoe to the cabinet you store your rifle in. The curtains are drawn, closed off enough that no one would be able to see in, but it keeps you from seeing out, too. 

You're more than used to all manner of creatures wandering onto your porch, whether hungry or just curious, but their little footsteps don’t sound like boots on wood. Before you can think too much, you pull the door open and pray it’s some lost hunter. 

Light from your fire and kerosene lamps pour out and wash over his face, half-shrouded by the hat pulled low on his head. But it doesn’t matter. You’d recognize those lips anywhere. 

“Joel?” You ask, still pointing the rifle at him.

“Whoa now, Miss Sugar,” he says, hands raised. “S’just me.”

You lower the rifle but narrow your eyes. It doesn’t feel real. You’ve never seen him out of the confines of that room at the Garden, and it’s like some figure from a dream just walked out of your head and onto your front porch. He’s not supposed to be here. 

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” You demand. It’s not that you’re not pleased to see him—you’re not sure what you’re feeling right now. “How did you find me?”

Joel brings his hands to his sides and tucks his thumbs through his belt loops. “You mind if I come in?”

The cold hits you for the first time since you opened the door. You stand aside and let him. He takes off his hat as he walks in, eyes darting around your messy little cabin. 

“Wasn’t expectin’ company,” you explain, but he shakes his head.

“It’s a nice place,” he says quietly, and it warms you to your core. 

“Thank you. Can I get you some tea? Whiskey?” You ask, very conscious of how ill-fit your home is for guests. 

“Wouldn’t say no to whiskey,” he says. 

Neither of you speaks as you settle down at your table. You’re still not entirely sure he’s real. 

“What are you doing here, Joel?” You ask again. 

He takes a sip and grimaces, the cup clattering against the lacquered wood. “Needed to see you,” he says.

“Might be a while before I can get that bathwater warmed up,” you quip, and his lip curls in a smile. 

He lets out a long breath before he answers. “I needed to…I had to tell you. I didn't mean to hurt you,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows. “And I think I might’ve that night.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks and you wave your hand. “Oh, don’t worry about—”

“Please, Sugar,” he says, then shakes his head. And then he says your real name, and it knocks the wind out of you. “I got…I got these feelings for you. And they got me all messed up, sweetheart, they got me actin’ foolish. And when you…when you did that…”

You don’t like to think about it much. When you woke up that next morning, eyes puffy from crying yourself to sleep, it was guilt that consumed you. You’d pushed him too far, too quickly, overwhelmed him with the sexuality your mother shamed you for when all he’d wanted was your companionship. 

It was silly, considering your choice of profession, but it still ate you up. He’d trusted you.

“I’m sorry for that,” you murmur, taking a drink of your whiskey. “I am.”

He moves so quickly it makes you jump, suddenly right next to you, taking your hand in both of his. “Sorry? Why are you sorry, darlin’?” 

“For pushin’ you,” you say, eyebrows furrowed. “You never wanted that before, I should have just let it go. I thought you were just…punishing’ yourself or somethin’.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says firmly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I wanted that. I wanted that bad, sugar. I swear it.”

You nuzzle him, gathering the courage to ask what you need to ask. “Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I’m a fool,” he murmurs. “And because I don’t deserve you. And I thought you were…I didn’t know if you were bein’ genuine. You gotta understand. I didn’t wanna be the man who fell for—”

“I know,” you say. Because you do know. You know he didn’t want to be the man who fell for the girl he paid to lie to him. “But I ain’t that good an actress, Joel. And I meant every single word. I meant what I said that night. I meant that you could be here with me. I like you how you are, Joel, just like this.”

You know what he’ll say before he says it.

“I don’t belong here, in this life. I am not a good man, and you deserve better. I don’t know no other way but this one, you understand?” 

You reach up and thumb his jaw, and he leans into the palm of your hand. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Joel Miller. You come when you want, stay when you want. I never wanted to take care of a man anyway.”

He pulls back and searches your face, a smile playing delicately on his lips. You want him to kiss you so badly. 

You almost stop breathing when he does. 

For such a violent, bad man, he kisses you like you’re made of spun sugar, gentle and cautious against your lips. He tastes like whiskey and smells like cold mountain air, and you’d like to sink into him, to live in this moment forever. When he pulls away he’s smiling, eyes twinkling. He’s so handsome it makes you ache.

“Don’t like you livin’ up here alone,” he tells you, out of nowhere. 

“I think I’m doin’ okay,” you laugh. 

“You are. You are somethin’ else, sugar.” He frowns. “Can I still call you that?”

“I think, Mr. Miller, you might be the only one who makes it sound that nice. So I’ll allow it for now,” you tease. You stand up and glance at the bedroom door. “Stay with me tonight. It’s cold out. I got a spare bed if you need it, but it’s warmer in mine.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that, ma'am,” he says. 

You fall asleep curled around each other, so close your lips touch. 

In the morning you’re not surprised to find the spot beside you empty, but you find a piece of paper with a post office box address and a hastily scribbled note.

Not any good at goodbyes, so I ain’t saying goodbye. I got someone I want you to meet. You can contact me at this address. Be there before winter starts proper. 

Your head hits the pillow with a thunk and you pull the note to your heart, basking in the golden morning sunlight streaming through your window. For the first time in your life, everything is exactly as it should be. 

[yoditostan]

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: E

A/N: Thank you to the incomparable @bageldaddy who not only looked this over for me, but who also inspired the entire idea by being such a inspiring, delicious Joel Miller whore. This one is for you ❤

--

“Stop squirmin’,” he scolds, a hard hand on your hip. 

You’re trying not to, but tension builds between your bodies, the solid wall of his chest rising and falling along your spine. So close you can feel heat leeching through his clothes, his warm breath skims along the nape of your neck and a damp throb beats thick and distracting between your legs. 

Slow, steady breaths are all you have, and so you take them. 

In and out. In and out. 

His hips shift when he zips up the sleeping bag along the side and when his lap nudges you from behind, you hold your breath and clench your eyes tight, your thighs squeezing together. 

The masculine scent pressed into his clothing fills your senses, the strength in his solid form enveloping you in a protective press when he slings his arm around you in an attempt to get comfortable, and struggling to quell the need building deep between your hips, you squirm. 

Waiting a beat, you do it again. 

“Come on now,” he scolds, impatience slipping into his tone. “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s all we got. You need more room, or somethin’?”

That drawl of his is driving you crazy, just as arousing as the constant frown you know he has on his face right now. His sternness shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, and yet it constantly plagues you: is he always this stern? In every situation?

“No, I’m good,” you reply, letting out a sigh. 

You’re really not, but in order for you to be okay, he’d have to be outside the sleeping bag, and so you try to still yourself again, focusing on the sounds of the night. 

Weeks spent traveling together, it’s now a familiar background that often lulls you to sleep: the soft chirp of crickets, the rustling of leaves, the creaking of trees as they sway gently in the breeze. Up until now, you’d gotten away with sleeping separately on the ground but tonight marks the first truly cold one of the season and when he rolled out the single sleeping bag, you bit your lip. 

“It’s a double,” he said gruffly, kneeling to spread it out. “Plus, it’s all we have.”

You knew it would be a tight fit, but this is unbearable. 

His hand twitches, the heavy weight of it brushing just underneath your breasts and your nipples tighten into sensitive peaks underneath your layers. His hand is so close, you can’t help but imagine how it would feel if he slid it up just enough to touch you. 

Taking another slow breath, you try not to move. 

“You sure we can’t light a fire?” you ask.

“Now why am I gonna tell you no?” He sounds exasperated, a tone he uses more often than not with you. 

The closeness of his mouth to your ear has his deep voice sending a shiver through your torso every time he speaks and needing him to be quiet if you’re going to survive this night, you don’t answer. 

He lifts his knees, the front of his thighs coming in contact with the back of yours and the brush of his lap against your ass has you biting back a moan that almost crawls out of your throat. You fit the cradle of it perfectly, and if you really focus, you swear you can feel him through your layers of clothing. 

With that image filling your mind, you try to press your thighs together in hopes of relieving the ache between them, but not only does the squirming ratchet the heat higher, it earns you another scold.  

“You gotta stop.” 

A slight plea to his words, his hand settles on your hip again, but this time his fingers accidentally brush the hem of your shirt up in his haste to stop you from moving and you bite your lip at the warm, dry heat of his palm on your bare skin. All sensation centers on that point of contact, and you feel a fresh wave of dampness creep into the crotch of your underwear. 

“Sorry,” you apologize quietly. 

Restless with want, arousal blooms through your system: starting slick and sticky between your thighs, it spreads low and heavy between your hips, travels with tingling heat through the tips of your breasts, and envelopes your head in a dazed cloud of need. You close your eyes, attempting to will it away, but it only makes all your other senses heighten. 

You feel his presence even more: the weight of his arm around you, the damp heat of his mouth near the delicate skin of your neck, the sound of his breathing. Moving on their own accord, your hips shift again, connecting with his and he lets out a sigh.

“You sleepin’ on a rock, or somethin’?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow. Taking the space he’s left, you roll onto your back to face him and instant recognition registers on his face. He frowns, his stern expression causing another wave of sticky wetness to gather between your thighs. 

“That why you’re so squirrelly?” The register of his voice has dropped lower, more intimate in the darkness yet no less forgiving. “If so, you’ll just have to deal with it later. You ain’t the only one who’s uncomfortable here.”

Your eyes drop down from his face to where you think his crotch must be, automatically seeking confirmation of his words as if you could actually see anything and his head tilts in silent reprimand at the action, his frown deepening. 

“I told you no.”

He did. He said it weeks ago after you kissed him by the fire, again after you took his hands in yours and pressed them along your body in the saddle, again after you kissed him with urgency after a close call in the last town. Every one of those times he responded with his own need: blatant and wanting, all low groans and rough lips and hands and touches, until he pulled himself back. 

“Wouldn’t be right,” he said.

“I’d be takin’ advantage of you,” he said. 

Like you didn’t know your own body. Like you couldn’t make up your own mind. 

He looks down at you for a long moment, the silence heavy between you in your wordless standoff and right when he’s about to lay back down, you speak. 

“Please.”

You almost don’t recognize your voice with how helpless it sounds, breathless with need. 

Dark eyes searching yours, they study your own for a weighted beat and the thing that’s been growing for weeks between your bodies pulls taut: a string, ready to snap. 

You throb and ache, squirming next to him. So, so empty. 

“If I do it, you’ll go to sleep?”

“I promise,” you hastily agree.

His jaw shifts under his sparse beard, his expression contemplative and then his eyes scan the darkness around you for a moment, making sure it’s all clear. 

“Undo your pants.”

You’ve never obeyed a command faster in your life, already reaching under the covers to fumble with your belt. Your fingers trembling, his dark eyes drag down the parts of you he can see and his hand covers yours, stopping you. 

“So needy.” The words are said to himself with a slight shake of his head that has you squirming again, and he pushes your hands out of the way, making room for his own. There is a weighted feel to them against your skin where his knuckles brush against your belly, his fingers working open the button of your jeans and you let out a shuddering breath, the liquid heat between your thighs flaring bright. 

Jeans open for his access, he keeps his eyes on your face when he slowly slips his hand down the front of them, pushing beneath the band of your underwear. When his fingers find the damp, warm heat that greets him, a pained look crosses over his features. 

“So fuckin’ wet, and I ain’t even hardly touched you yet.”

He is touching you, you want to argue, but the words are caught in your mouth when he slides his hold lower, his broad hand cupping you wholly between your legs. The thick tips of his fingers press heavily against your entrance, and you widen your legs to give him more room. 

“Goddamn,” he breathes out, swallowing hard. 

His middle finger dips into your slick seam, immediate wetness covering the digit before he drags it through your folds with a testing stroke and your back nearly arches off the ground, needing so much more yet not being able to breathe with what he is doing. He slips it inside you, just down to the second knuckle, and then he’s sliding his soaked finger up to your clit, finding it with ease. 

Your hips jerk up to meet it, the calloused pad of his finger providing instant relief. Your head falls back, your throat straining with the effort to be quiet. 

“Feels good, huh.”

There is a smugness to his tone that you think faintly should bother you, but it doesn’t. Instead, your body responds in a wholly different way, wanting nothing more to find out what else he seemingly already knows about how to make you feel good. 

“Tell me, or I stop.” 

The harsher tone of his words brings you back to the present, and you frantically nod, eager to obey.

“Yes. Yes, it feels good.” The roughed pad of his middle finger is swirling firm, neat circles just over your clit, the texture and intensity just right and when you answer him, he rewards you with a second finger. Arching your hips into it, your mouth drops open, a silent cry forming in your throat. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises, his hooded eyes looking down at you. 

His fingers speed up, quickly slipping down between your thighs to coat his fingers with arousal before bringing them back up again and your hands find his wrist beneath the sleeping bag, holding on while he swirls, swirls, swirls. 

So wet you can hear it, you’re sticky and slick underneath his touch, and it’s almost clinical  with how quickly he’s going to make you come. Your thighs starting to tremble, his dark eyes never leave your face and chasing his touch, you focus on the centered need he’s building deep within you. 

Still so empty you could cry, your breasts tighten under your sweatshirt, and when you imagine how the cold air would feel on them paired with the contrast of his hot, wet mouth, you pull tight with your release, your hand tightening in its hold on his wrist. 

“It’s –,” you beg him, “I’m so close.” 

Your mouth slack as his thick, calloused fingers work, work, work, he dips his head, his mouth resting just beside your ear. 

“Come on, honey. Just give it to me. I know you want to.”

The rough rasp of his voice is deep enough to pierce through the fog he’s built in your brain, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt to hold onto something as you start to tip over the edge. Right when you’re on the cusp, he slides his fingers lower and fills you swifty with three and the startled cry that breaks free from your throat doesn’t even hit the air before he covers your mouth with his. 

He swallows every low moan, every hitch in your breathing, every hot puff of air you let out as he pumps his fingers to wring every last drop of release from your trembling body and even when he slides his fingers out, his mouth still doesn’t stop. Coated with your slick, his hand smears damp across your jaw as he presses you into place and takes, his tongue sliding hungrily against yours. 

Your own taste is thick on your tongue when he pulls back, and breathless and spent, you’re finally blissfully pliant and loose beside him in the sleeping bag - but not for long. 

Slipping his fingers into his mouth, you blink your damp eyelashes up at him as you watch him suck on them with a low, satisfied groan. The lewd action paired with the deep sound, his eyes are still on your face when he pulls them from his mouth to reach back down into the sleeping bag.

“Feel better?” he asks, and though you don’t even know how to begin to answer that question, you find yourself nodding anyway.

As if nothing happened, he grasps your jeans and gives them a perfunctory, swift tug, putting you back together. Lifting your hips in a daze, you let him. 

Satisfied, he positions you on your side again, facing away from him and settling down behind you, he drags you tight to his chest with a thick arm banded around your waist. 

A thick, solid heft is felt between the two of you, pressed against your ass and his usual gruff voice softens, but only just. 

“Good. Now go to sleep.”