a sea of waves, we hug the same plank

marla | 19 | drabbles + fics

[blossomarlia]

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welcome to my blog! i'm marla, i used to have a blog on here and it got deleted so i'm just restarting it here- this may mean reuploaded stuff, but also plenty of new drabbles and fics! thanks for stopping by <3

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[blossomarlia]

ahhh hiiii i just read your most recent james fic and it was soooooo cute omg i loved it so much!!! i started checking out your other fics and omg i actually remember reading your remus one about r! not being sure if she was invited to things and rereading it was sooo good so cute, i remember reading it for the first time too its so good ahhh

anon!!! this is the sweetest thing ever thank you so much, appreciate you and all the lovely ppl who have given feedback so far ❤️❤️❤️

[blossomarlia]

your fic about james was sooooo adorable!

aw thank you! it’s definitely one of my favourite drabbles i’ve written so far so i’m glad you like it <3

[blossomarlia]

are you planning on continuing black firs? no pressure obvs

hiii yes! i think i definitely am, it’s been summer where i am and i’ve been lacking the inspiration moody weather gives me, but i think i’ll be getting back into it soon :)

[blossomarlia]

hi :) could you please wrote one with james where the reader always assumes he's kidding when he flirts with her (bc of previous bullying) so then when he asks her out she doesn't go? can be any setting!

hey lovely!! i know this is very slightly different from your request, but i hope you like it anyway <3

james potter x fem!reader

tw: previous bullying, negative thoughts about appearance and self

summary: James Potter has been playing a cruel joke on you for weeks, flirting and asking you out. only, it isn’t a joke at all

“Go, Prongs! Just do it, so we can all go for lunch.” Sirius Black is audible even from fifteen rows up.

“What if she’s working today? That’ll be awkward.”

“She isn’t, I asked.”

Apprehension and hope coil themselves around your chest, the latter probably wasted. James Potter tends to bring it out, anyway.

You pretend not to watch him leaving his circle of friends where they’re standing at the front of the lecture hall. Although you’d been told that social cliques weren't ranked by popularity or coolness in university, their group stands out as the exception to the rule. They’re all beautiful, intelligent, constantly at the centre of attention and wearing it well. Even the quietest, Remus, seems to attract a level of admiration that you aren’t familiar with.

The four that are actually enrolled in this subject- James, Sirius Black, Marlene McKinnon and Dorcas Meadowes- are frequently joined at the end of the lecture by the rest of their throng, before they all set off for lunch. You take the same route as they do, since you work at their preferred cafes on most weekdays. It’s become an awkward arrangement. Even more awkward since James has started amusing himself by sitting with you instead of his friends, here or on the train to the cafe, as if you’re some sort of social experiment.

It’s not as if you’re as objectionable now as you were in high school. You’ve started taking better care of your skin, eating foods that make you feel more alive, and your scant friends from school tell you the difference is noticeable. You don’t find yourself repulsive the same way you once did. But any progress you’re making in starting to like and look after yourself is constantly disrupted by James Potter’s mockery.

At least three times each week, he goes out of his way to approach you and pretend to be flirting. No matter how kind or grumpy you are, no matter how much makeup you’re wearing, he finds it worthwhile to spend hours talking to you and making jokes about how much he likes you. It’s cruel, you know, but he’s got the kind of charm many popular boys do, wherein you can never work up the courage to tell him to piss off, and you can’t quite let go of the hope that someday you’ll look nice enough that he realises you’re not just a joke. He also has a talent for seeming like he’s genuinely interested, luring you into the trap of a conversation that feels truly meaningful to you. It’s only when he goes back to his own friends and is greeted with laughter and Prongs, what’s the point of just talking to her all the time? that you’re made aware how little it means to him.

“Hey, shortcake.”

His usual name for you. You swallow, preparing for hurt, and force a smile.

“James.”

He grins. “You’re not working today?”

You nod. Sirius, who almost never even looks at you, had asked if you were scheduled for a shift today. You’re glad you aren’t. James refuses to let up on the conversation until you’ve clocked on, and even then he orders about five coffees just so you’ll need to bring them over and humiliate yourself further.

You don’t know why he’s chosen you. Then again, you never knew why boys picked you to make fun of. Maybe James noticed that you looked at him more than usual when rugby training ran late, and he had to come to class in his workout clothing. Maybe his friends have a running joke about your not-completely-made-up crush on him. You just wish he wouldn’t be so mean about it.

“Bummer. What will I do without my favourite waitress to annoy?”

You press your lips together. Yet again, the most difficult part about James Potter making fun of you is how much he can sound like he means it.

“I don’t know.”

He ducks his head to catch your eye when you look down. “Not to worry. I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh, what?” You ask feebly.

You can hear the laughter edging his voice. “Would you want to grab a coffee together sometime? Maybe tomorrow, after our workshop?”

The boys who have teased you like this in the past have always spent much less effort building up to the inevitable peak of the joke. James must have a lot of time on his hands.

You frown, your disappointment slipping through for just a moment before you school your expression into something more neutral. He laughs, sounding confused. You wish you could hate him.

“Sure, James, why not?” You say tightly. It’s what he wants, the only thing that will end this joke properly.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound convinced,” he says breezily. “No pressure, sweetheart.”

But there is pressure, with all his friends pretending not to watch the two of you talking and preparing to laugh when James relays your agreement. The only thing that could be worse is if you said no, and the ugly side of his ego reared its head. You’ve never seen James be unkind to anyone in your class, except you in this extended prank, but you know the kind of spite that rises in boys if they’re rejected by a conquest they were never serious about. Boys in high school have called you enough vile things for you to learn that usually, it’s easier just to agree and let the humiliation of it wash over you.

“No, it’s fine. I want to go out with you.” You force another smile and pull down the hem of your shirt. “Tomorrow sounds good.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” James says. He turns to the front of the lecture hall and gives his friends a thumbs-up, which makes Marlene laugh. You feel your face heat. No matter how much you’ve become used to this, it doesn’t stop being hurtful. You wish you could ask him why he’s chosen you. Your looks and personality can’t be so terrible that you deserve this. “Sorry,” James says sheepishly, noticing your embarrassment. “They’ve been telling me to ask you out for ages.”

“Right. Okay, well, bye.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” James’ smile is blinding. You don’t know how he can look so warm when he’s being so mean.

Walking past his friends at the front of the room is uniquely difficult. They’re exactly the sort of people you wish liked you. They all seem to have so much affection for each other. It’s painful to feel like the only person they’ll be unkind to, for their shared entertainment. You wonder what mistake you made, what misstep caused them all to be nice to you sometimes, and then mean again when it’s funny.

You’re late to your workshop, and in a bad mood. Your tights have ripped on the outside of your thigh, where you scraped against a sharp bush. It still stings even after you’ve washed and put bandaids on the small cut there. You’ve run out of shampoo, so your hair has gone one day too long unwashed, and you feel oily and unclean. Your eyes itch. All of it gets worse when you see James across the room, sitting with his friends and watching you as soon as you step into the room. You take a deep breath and sit in the back corner, as far from him as possible.

“Did you sign the attendance form?” The other boy on your table whispers, sliding the paper across. It’s the only reason you’re here. You sign it and hand it to your professor, increasingly nauseated.

You can’t do this. You don’t want to stick around and watch him leave the classroom like nothing’s happened, or worse, treat this all like a prank you should be laughing at, too.

Fifteen minutes pass, and you wait for James and his friends to be focused on something Sirius is telling them to slip out of your seat and walk out the door. The hallway is empty, which is lucky, since you’re not sure you could stomach anyone seeing how close you are to crying.

In the spirit of the day’s unluckiness, you aren’t afforded privacy for long. Near the back doors of the building, you bump headfirst into Lily Evans and send the papers she’s holding flying everywhere.

Lily, redheaded and glowing, is president of just about every club the university offers, and can frequently be spotted with the same group you’re currently trying to escape. You heard a rumour once that she and James used to go out before she started dating her now-girlfriend, Mary.

She says your name, surprised.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble. You kneel to gather her papers, made up of mostly posters to sign up for the university newsletter she manages. “That was stupid of me.”

“Don’t be silly,” she shakes her head, “I need to watch where I’m going. You don’t need to pick these up, lovely.”

“It’s okay.”

She seems to notice your expression, and puts a hand on your shoulder. You look at her, humiliation prickling down your spine at your obvious upset. You wish she didn’t know who you were. You wish she wasn’t so nice if it isn’t real.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep, sorry. Just feeling unwell,” you tell her. It isn’t completely untrue.

“You have your history workshop now, don’t you?” Lily says, gently rubbing your shoulder. It’s a long time since anyone’s touched you so softly. You wish you were friends. “Should I let James know you aren’t feeling well?”

You stiffen. “Why would you do that?”

“Weren’t the two of you supposed to go out later?” Lily’s brow furrows. “He told me you’d made plans.”

You stand abruptly, passing her the posters you’ve managed to gather. “Well, we haven’t. Why would he ever ask me to go out with him?”

Lily opens and closes her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused. I-“

“Sorry about the posters. I have to go,” you huff, stepping past her and out the doors. She says your name again, but you don’t look back.

It’s a miserable afternoon. A storm rolls over the city more quickly than you can make it to the station, and the rain is so heavy that several trains are cancelled due to flooding on the tracks. You’re soaked to the skin and shivering by the time you realise it’s been forty minutes, and class has probably finished. You wonder if Lily told James what you said. He’s probably having a big laugh about it with his friends now, saying he'd pay to see your reaction when you realise it wasn’t real.

You don’t cry until you get home, worried that he’ll turn up at the station or on the overcrowded train to witness it. Your roommates, if they hear your upset, don’t care. They tend to operate on their own schedules, and have little interest in what you’re up to. You’re both grateful and grieving for it. You wish you had a group of friends to tell this to, people who would reassure you that you’re not so obvious a target as the pattern has indicated. You wish you had someone who loved you, to tell you that they’d never joke about something like that, that their feelings are genuine. You wish, you wish, you wish.

You hadn’t planned on going back to university the next day, but there’s a football game on the telly that your roommates and their friends won’t listen to without the maximum volume. You don’t complain, just pack up your books and head back in the direction of campus.

The weather has cleared, and you’re not feeling so weighed down by what happened yesterday. Hopefully, James has purged whatever desires he had to humiliate you, and now you can move forward in anonymity. You consider asking the admissions office if you can switch classes, but you’re not sure it’s necessary. James and his group will probably leave you alone. It’s the way it usually goes.

“Hey! Shortcake!” You hear heavy footfalls behind you, and your stomach twists with anxiety. Shit. Even if your shared degree doesn’t have any classes today, James almost always has rugby practice on campus. You should’ve guessed. “Hey, slow down!”

You do slow down, but not by much. James is panting when he catches up to you, still dressed in his rugby uniform and smelling far better than anyone should when they’ve been doing hours of training.

“What is it?” You ask, more sharply than you think you’ve ever spoken to him.

“What happened yesterday? You just disappeared. Are you alright?”

How can he make his eyes so tender when you know he doesn’t care? A surge of frustration rises in your throat.

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Well, no it isn’t,” he gives you a half-smile, confusion etched across his handsome features. “We never got to go on our date. And Lily told me-“

“Who cares what Lily told you?” You snap, crossing your arms and coming to a stop. “I’m sorry I ruined your fun, James, but it’s been weeks of this and I’m not in the mood to be the punchline to some stupid joke.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking-”

“Please, please, just stop it!” You push your hair back from your face, hating the emotion in your voice. “I know you don’t actually like me, and I know you never actually wanted to go out with me, and I’m- I just want it to stop, please. I’m already having a hard enough time meeting people, I don’t need you making fun of me too.”

James is quiet long enough that you start walking again, but before you can get very far he’s caught you by the elbow. You gasp, mostly at the way his touch seems to burn your skin. He lets go immediately.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, rubbing your elbow self-consciously.

“Can we talk? Please?” He says softly, searching your face like you’re hiding something. You feel the reverse, less burdened by pretence than you have been in weeks. It feels good to be angry at him, even if it’s painful at the same time.

“Fine.”

You go with James to sit at a bench along the edge of the path, sheltered by a tree with long, weeping limbs. The earth smells fresh from the rain.

“I didn’t know you felt as if I was making fun of you,” James begins carefully. “I never wanted you to feel that way.”

You almost roll your eyes. “I know. The whole point of the joke is that I don’t know I’m being made fun of.”

James scrunches up his face as if the idea is crazy. “What joke? What do you mean?”

“James,” you plead. When he looks no closer to admitting anything, you sigh. “Do you honestly think I ever thought you would genuinely flirt with me? Want to get to know me? Ask me out?” You laugh, but it isn’t as flippant as you want it to be. “I’m not stupid.”

“I never thought you were stupid,” he says immediately. “Why wouldn’t I do those things? Do you- have you thought this whole time that I haven’t really been interested in you?”

“It really doesn’t matter, James.”

“It really does. Is that how you’ve felt?”

You go to confirm the affirmative, but pause. It occurs to you that none of the other boys have ever cared this much about maintaining the lie, or about talking to you after the joke is through. “Isn’t that the truth?”

“No, not at all! Who told you that?”

You swallow, hard. “Nobody.”

“Why did you think it, then? Didn’t I seem genuine?”

You search your mind. Your face feels hot. “When you asked me out, you were laughing. Your friends were laughing.”

“Because I was nervous! And they were laughing because they found it funny that I’d been putting it off for so long- I usually rush into things. Talking to you without confessing my feelings has been a challenge in restraint, sweetheart.”

“What?” You swallow again, finding your mouth dry. You blink quickly. “So… you haven’t been joking?”

He shakes his head immediately, looking vaguely dismayed. “On my mum’s life, never.”

Prongs, what’s the point of just talking to her all the time?

You laugh again. It’s more out of disbelief than anything. “I’m so stupid.”

“You aren’t. You’re smart, that’s one of the reasons I like you so much. There must be a reason you didn’t think I was being serious,” James says.

“Besides the fact he was sitting right next to you?” You joke weakly, startled when he smiles like it’s actually funny.

“Yeah, besides that.”

“Look, a lot of boys used to ask me out as a joke in school. I’m not paranoid.”

“I’m not saying you are, but-“

“And I’m not very attractive, James, it isn’t crazy for me to assume you weren’t doing the same.”

He frowns, sobering up. “It is crazy. Firstly, you are attractive, and I don’t think you should speak that way about the girl I fancy.”

You have no idea how to respond to that, so you shrug.

“Secondly, those boys were twats who probably liked you and weren’t brave enough to own up to it.” He sees your skepticism and relents, “Even if they weren’t, it’s a horrible thing to do and was only about them, not you. I’m sorry it happened. Fuck them.”

“Fuck them,” you agree quietly. This has become an overwhelming conversation in a vastly different way than what you’d imagined. James is a very surprising person.

“I’m sorry if I seemed like I was joking, when I was talking to you this term. I think it was only because I was nervous.”

“I was nervous, too,” you admit. “Because I thought you were pretending, but also, I thought you were only doing it because you’d found out I had a crush on you.”

James does a very bad job trying not to look delighted. You feel warmed the same way you do walking into a cosy café in winter, from the outside all the way in to your bones. “Shut up,” you tell him.

“I didn’t even say anything!” He says brightly. “You had a crush on me?”

You shrug, refusing to look at him. All the anger you’d felt, and the drive you’d had to tell him off for it when you sat down, has gone out of you. Your mind is a whir of all the memories you’d categorised as unpleasant over the past few weeks, suddenly through a warmer lens. You imagine James’ friends laughing after class about how long he’s taking to ask you on a date, instead of how long you’re spending falling for the joke. You remember the way they’d exchanged glances whenever he went over to sit with you on the train, and imagine that it’s because they know how much he likes you instead of how much contempt they have for you. You almost feel guilty for assuming such horrible behaviour of them, despite how real it had felt at the time.

“Was that past tense?” James interrupts your thoughts. You frown at him.

“What?”

“You had or have a crush on me?”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t know right now. This is very weird, James, give me a minute.”

“Okay! Okay, sorry.” He holds up his hands in surrender, leaning back against the bench and whistling lowly. “I think I must be the most oblivious bloke on this entire campus.”

You hesitate to agree when you’ve spent the past weeks believing something you’d completely made up.

“Not really. Are you sure you actually want to go out with me?”

He nods without hesitating. “I would say obviously, but-“

“Not to me.” You finish, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“Not to you, right. And you’re the only person who matters. I really am sorry.” He touches your shoulder. You don’t move away, even though it burns the same way it did before. It’s not a bad sort of heat. “Not that you should’ve had to, but why didn’t you call me out on it sooner? You must’ve been so miserable thinking I was dedicating all this time to bullying you.”

You think for a moment. “I think it’s usually easier if I go along with it. People don’t get offended if I don’t ruin the joke. I was pretty rude to you, to be fair. I thought it would’ve scared you off.”

“When were you rude to me?”

“Just the other day, at work.”

“What, when you said the café was closing at closing time?”

“…Yes. I didn’t say it as nicely as I could’ve. And other times, too.” It had been closing, truthfully, but it was the first time you hadn’t let James and his friends stay an hour late in a desperate bid to seem likeable. “I told you I had to focus on my notes, once.”

“In the middle of a lecture!” James is laughing, or trying not to with little success. It doesn’t feel like it’s at your expense anymore, so much as it’s at the situation. It is a little ridiculous. “I can’t believe that’s what you considered being rude, shortcake.”

“You never thought I seemed too suspicious of you?”

“It didn’t occur to me, given that you didn’t have something to be suspicious of, as far as I knew. I just thought you were shy.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Oh.”

“Are you secretly a massive extrovert? Honestly, babe, if I’ve been seeing the worst version of you these past few weeks, I must really be into you, because I think you’re wonderful just like this.”

Babe. That’s a new one. “I’m not an extrovert, I don’t think.”

James sighs like it’s a relief. “Good. I’ve got enough of them around, anyway.”

You smile, turning your face away. “You’re being so nice to me.”

“Yeah, and I’m breathing. And talking. Easiest things in the world,” James says, which is very cheesy and also quite nice. “Would you look at me?”

You do as he asks.

“Pretty girl,” he tells you, or calls you. You must look stressed by the compliment, because he laughs and cups your left cheek in his warm hand. “You’re such a sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” you protest quietly, but don’t move away. He has lovely eyelashes, and tiny freckles across his nose. His brown skin seems to glow, even in the shade of the tree.

“Can I take you on a date? Genuinely?” He raises his eyebrows in question. You can’t stop the corners of your mouth from turning up, even as you think about it for much longer than you need to. He traces lines on the soft skin under your eye with his thumb. “I really mean it.”

“Okay,” you agree. “You can take me on a date. Genuinely.”

He laughs happily, and leans forward before you can react. It’s only a kiss on the cheek, and then a quick one on your forehead, but they’re dizzying all the same. You know he must see you blushing.

“Thank god that was all so straightforward,” he jokes. You roll your eyes, letting him pull you to your feet as you stand. He shoulders your heavy bag of books before you can. “D’you want to go and study with everyone? They’re just in the library.”

“Are you going to be there?”

He looks over his shoulder. “Rugby training isn’t technically finished yet. I just saw you walking past, so-“

“I’ve taken you away from training?”

“You didn’t take me away. Anyway, they all know I have a thing for you, lovely, it’s alright.” James grins. “If you want to study in the stands for the last half hour of training, we can go and hang out with the group afterwards?”

You think it’s charitable for him to call them the group and not just my friends. “Do you think that’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. They all really like you- what, don’t tell me you didn’t know that, too?”

James looks so aghast that you can’t bring yourself to admit that you thought they all only tolerated you as part of James’ joke. “No, they’re all really nice. They do always seem sorry for me.”

“Only because I’m always flirting,” James says easily. “Lily says I’m torturing you.”

“You were.”

“Not in a bad way, though, yeah?”

You sigh, exhaling some of the hurt of the past few weeks. James has a really kind face, when you look at it properly. Soft eyes without a trace of malice. He’s the sort of boy you’d only fantasised about going out with, to prove to yourself that you were worth more than joking about.

You smile. “Yeah.”

The two of you walk back to the rugby stands together, and the sun comes out.

[blossomarlia]

Obsessed with your writing <3 This might be an odd request, but could you write one where the reader has sort of a weird relationship to sex (seeing it as something expected of her / she's failing if she doesn't follow through) with any of your characters?

not an odd request at all! i’m sorry it’s taken so long, and the writing might not be quite as good as i’d hoped, but here you are xx

sirius black x fem!reader

tw: mentions of past toxic/abusive relationship, negative thoughts around sex and roles in relationships, some mild beginnings of smut

summary: you worry you’re not doing your duty as Sirius’ girlfriend. he assures you that there’s no such thing

You chew one of the cords of the hoodie you’re wearing and stare guiltily at the bathroom door Sirius has disappeared behind. It’s been almost twenty minutes since he turned on the shower; twenty-two since he invited you to join him and, stupidly, you shook your head.

In the week since the two of you did anything more than kissing, Sirius hasn’t complained so much as he’s made a couple of jokes about your lowered libido, but now that he’s out of sight (and unable to track the spiral of worry contorting your features) you’re wondering if he’s really been upset all along. It wouldn’t be unlike him to make jokes instead of actually confronting somebody, though you’ve been exempt from that behaviour since you started going out.

Anyway, this isn’t something he should have to bring up, in jest or otherwise. You’re sure you’ve been stupid, missing signals of discontentment from him, when you haven’t been doing your part to keep things good between the two of you. With your latest relationship, you’d been in the habit of getting undressed as soon as you got home, no matter how badly your muscles or mind were aching.

The only time you’ve ever seen Sirius angry was when you told him some of the things that boy would say to you- not the things about sex, just about you. You tend to date boys with tempers, you know. At least Sirius has well and truly learned to control his, or at least to outweigh it with kindness and humour. You don’t dislike that he feels things strongly- maybe it’s because it never means he’s going to take it out on you, something you weren’t quite so secure in before.

The shower turns off, and your stomach sinks. You’re not particularly in the mood, and haven’t been all week, but it seems suddenly cruel of you to have let your own hesitations stop you from keeping Sirius satisfied. You’ve not been together so long that you’ve been able to measure the time before he starts getting agitated, but it can’t be long now. Every man has his limit.

“Alright, lovely girl?”

You blink, a little startled by the light of the bathroom spilling into the darkened living area. You’ve been sitting here while the sun sets.

“Sorry,” You get up to switch on the lights, “Yeah. Are you hungry?”

“Only for you,” He jokes, but it’s an opening.

“Oh?” Turning from the wall to face him, you half-force a smile and shift your weight to one hip. “Dinner can wait, if you want to…?”

Sirius gives you one of his nice smiles, though it’s less laced with want than you were hoping. “You were just saying before that you were starved. Did you end up ordering the Thai?”

You press a palm to your forehead, closing your eyes. If you were looking to find out what Sirius looks like when he’s properly annoyed with you, today is a fantastic effort.

“I’ll do it straight away, I’m sorry.”

“What’re you apologising for?” He says softly, walking towards you. His towel sits low on his hips. He looks good, and you like him so much that you might love him, but you don’t feel the pang of want that would make this all so much more seamless. You feel embarrassed, dirtied before anything’s even happened.

“I don’t know where my mind was. Let-“ You clear your throat, looking up at Sirius through your lashes. “Let me make it up to you?”

Boldly, you hook a finger in the spot where his towel meets his hip. Sirius’ eyebrows shoot up. You feel your face heat and colour- is this too much? You know he must want sex, but does he want a girlfriend who wants sex, or just one who will let it happen when he decides it’s the right moment?

“My shy girl,” He laughs fondly, kissing your cheek and then your lips briefly. “I’ll order dinner, then we’ll do whatever you want.”

Or whatever you want, you supply silently, without much resentment. Maybe you hated your ex-boyfriend for it, by the end, but he was mean and callous and smug. You don’t honestly think Sirius would be anything more than disappointed if you didn’t follow through on the sexual part of your relationship. You don’t intend to find out until you have a proper reason to abstain.

You take off your hoodie and wait in the bedroom while he chats to the waitress at the Thai restaurant. You’ve ordered from there enough times that they recognise your voices, and Sirius’ face when he greets them at the door. You think about a third of the people working there have a crush on your boyfriend- not that you mind. He’s very easy to fancy.

Sirius appears in the doorway a moment later and proves your point, soft and rumpled in the black t-shirt he’d left over the back of the sofa, boxer shorts, and damp hair that curls at his cheekbones. You admire the line of his shoulders to his waist, his thighs that have grown muscular from football training with James. His beautiful face, his dark eyes, his perfect jaw.

“You’re so pretty,” He tells you. You wonder if he’s read your mind.

“Stop.”

“Stop telling you how-“

“Just come here? Please?”

He does as you ask, cheeks dimpled and the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly. You touch your fingers to his cheek once he’s over you.

“I- I want to be with you,” You whisper.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt the smoky haze of your last relationship on the edges of your mind. You think maybe it’s just a way of keeping things safe, of blocking out whatever part of you doesn’t really want this. It’s easier, definitely.

“It’s been ages.”

“A few days isn’t ages, as much as it feels like it.”

“That’s too long to make you wait.”

Something in your self-punishing tone makes Sirius pause. “…It really is okay, though.”

“Um, yeah. I know. Can you kiss me?”

He obliges, though not before he’s settled his sharp eyes on yours for a second that snares you like a fish on a hook, unable to descend back into the fog your mind had habitually prepared. You wish he’d just do it, so you’d feel like a good girlfriend to him, and could justify asking him to hold you tonight. You just want it to be over. It feels horrible to be waiting for such a thing.

Sirius is a good kisser, and you think you could enjoy this if it was all you were doing. But you know what comes next, and it feels more wrong than it ever has, so you know you aren’t kissing him back like you usually do. Maybe it helps that you’re often on the shyer side, and he’s used to hesitancy when you really want something.

You move your hand down his back, thumbing at the edge of his boxers and sighing when you feel him stiffen slightly against you. You’re trying to go lax, trying not to feel like you’re going to start drowning any moment now. You never remembered it being this difficult before.

“I want you so badly.” You pull back to murmur, staring at the space between your chests where his silver chain falls and catches the light. “I just want you inside me.”

“Hm. You’re usually much more patient than this, angel,” he responds in a matching tone.

“Not today, I guess,” you blink. “Can you please?”

Sirius kisses you again with less heat, more reluctance. He’s not enjoying this. You need to convince him that it’s okay, that your comfort is less important than he thinks. You wish he wasn’t so good at reading your expressions.

“I want to go quickly, I don’t need anything else. Or- or I can-“

“Why do you want that?” Sirius interrupts casually, verging on suspicious if you listen closely.

“I don’t know, I just do.”

“… Hold on.Talk to me a moment, sweetheart.”

“About what?”

“Is something else going on?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“It feels like it is. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing’s-“

“Nope. Try again.”

You push at his chest. “Sirius-“

“Humour me.”

Despite his casual tone, you feel sweaty, and silly, and the next part comes out without you meaning it to.

“Why can’t you just fuck me and get it over with?”

There’s a horrible, humid silence.

Sirius rolls off you and shuffles away enough that his skin isn’t touching yours at all. “What does that mean?” Sirius’ voice is thick with a frown and all the feeling behind it. When you meet his eyes, with some difficulty, his brows are drawn together and dimples disappeared. “What do you mean, ‘get it over with’?”

You understand why he might be getting angry. It was definitely the wrong thing to say; redundant, if he were the sort of guy who didn’t much care if you enjoyed yourself, and hurtful, because he is. You knew that. You knew that it would matter for him, and you’ve gone about this like he’s somebody else. It occurs to you that you could’ve played your part much more enthusiastically if you’d just sucked it up a bit.

You close both eyes. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. We can keep going.”

“I think that’s off the agenda for the moment, actually.”

Sirius sits up and stares at the patch of bed between your bodies. He has a talent for being impassive in the moments when you’d most like to know what he’s thinking.

“I’m sorry.” You try again, voice wavering. Sirius pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sirius, I- I know we haven’t done this in a while, and-“

“What do you mean?” He looks down at you sharply, and you’re startled by the rush of humiliation you feel.

“I know I was being, um, stiff, and awkward. I didn’t mean what I said about getting it over with, I just meant that I wanted to get to the part that’s good for you. I’m really sorry. I-”

Sirius holds out a hand, and you stop. “Please don’t keep apologising. I’m not angry with you. You haven’t- you aren’t doing anything to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply, more to please him than because you believe it.

He pushes some hair back from your face and looks like he’s thinking very carefully about what he wants to say next.

“Do you…” He pauses, and thinks. You study a tattoo of two stars just under his sternum. “Do you feel like you have to have sex with me, even if you don’t want to?”

“No, Sirius, I didn’t mean that.”

“But is it true?” He taps your chin with one finger, catching your eye. “Please tell me. I won’t be cross with you.”

You worry you’re going to start crying if he keeps looking at you like this. You’ve only ever exchanged secrets for more secrets with Sirius, telling him about your ex-boyfriend only when you were having the sort of chat where he might tell you things, too. You’d feel like you were bombarding him if you’d brought it up on your own. Not because of anything he’s said, you’re just afraid of tipping the scales and becoming a burden.

“I’ve never felt like that before,” you tell him truthfully. “I’ve always wanted sex when we’ve done it.”

“Until today.” He finishes for you. You give a noncommittal jerk of your head.

“I’m- look, if I’m making it so that we’re only having sex once a month, it’s like we’re an old married couple. That’s boring.”

“It wouldn’t be boring, but that also isn’t what’s happened. Why is it a problem that we haven’t done it in a few days?”

“Because I’m your girlfriend! I’m not meant to be slacking off from-“

“What, like it’s a job?” Sirius visibly bristles. “There’s no such thing as slacking off if you don’t want to-“ He closes his mouth and rubs a hand across his jaw, softening. “I’m sorry. I interrupted.”

“It’s okay.”

“It isn’t. I want to hear why you feel this way.” He inhales and exhales twice, with a purposeful evenness. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I won’t interrupt again.”

You look down and twist the edge of your sheet around one finger until it hurts. “It’s not a job. Like I said, I like being with you. But I also want to be a good girlfriend, and if I’m forcing you to abstain from sex just because I don’t want to do it, that’s selfish. Or, you know. Not good.”

There’s another pause, wherein Sirius unwinds your finger from the knot you’ve made and takes a few more very deep breaths. You try to follow the same rhythm.

“You’re never doing anything wrong, or selfish, by saying no to sex,” Sirius begins quietly. “You have to understand that. I never want you to feel otherwise.”

“I didn’t try to say no, though. I initiated it.”

He looks sadder than he is angry, which is confusing. You want to be able to apologise and make this go away. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with not wanting sex. Did you initiate it today because you actually wanted it, or because you felt like you had to?”

You don’t trust yourself to lie without crying, though the truth still comes out shaky. “I don’t know. The second one.”

“Have I said something to make you feel that way?” Sirius asks, his voice turned tender with worry. “Did I make a stupid joke- I did, yeah?”

“No, it’s just that-“ You pull your knees closer towards your chest, curling in on yourself- “I guess I thought this was the way things are. Not because of you.”

You can see on Sirius’ face that he understands what you’re saying, the past relationship you’ve only told him fragments of. He swallows.

“Okay. Okay, well that’s bullshit, baby, so you’re aware.” Sirius almost never calls you that. When he’s drunk, maybe, feeling especially mushy. You don’t dislike it. “You never have to do anything you don’t want to do, and I really wouldn’t be upset with you if we never had sex again. That’s not all you are to me.”

“I don’t think you’re that shallow,” you rush to assure him. “But it’s a part of our relationship. I usually want it.”

“-And it’s fun, but it’s not something I need to be with you. It isn’t- it isn’t a duty you have to perform, whether you initiate it or I do. I don’t want to do it if you’re not into it, full stop. Ever.”

You open your mouth to respond and find that you’re unsure what to say. Sirius, in his usual fashion, has more ready.

“Even if the idea didn’t start with me, I don’t think my jokes this week helped, angel. I’m sorry. I never want you to feel any kind of pressure to do anything you aren’t all the way into.”

You lean forward and kiss the dip between his collarbones, then rest your forehead against the same spot. Sirius strokes the back of your head. “I don’t even know why I haven’t been in the mood this week. I’d have felt better holding off if I had an actual reason for it.”

“Not feeling like it is an actual reason,” Sirius says, a little more sternly. “You never have to justify not being in the mood. Even if it’s been months, or years. Eons.”

You know he’s trying to make you smile. “Mm. Okay.”

Sirius pulls back and ducks his head so you’re forced to make eye contact again. It’s easier when you aren’t quite so teary. “You’re on board with all this, yes?”

“Yes.” You nod. He seems satisfied enough with it, though you’re doubtless he’ll want to talk more about this another time.

“You never need to feel guilty about it. Besides, I have a left hand. I can sort myself out easily enough.”

You groan, punching him gently as he wiggles his eyebrows. “Sirius, gross.”

“What? It’s all natural, part of the circle of-“

“Stop!” You squawk, catching his hand before he can jab at the curve of your stomach. “I promise, I get it! No sex necessary, you’re happy having a wank.”

“No sex necessary,” he confirms amusedly. “I don’t want it unless you do.”

You reach for him, and he pulls you close, your legs piled on top of each other. It feels better than anything has for days, almost completely free from the guilty feeling that you should be repaying such softness with something else. You hope the tendrils of doubt that have kept their hold on you will drop away with time.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” you say after a moment.

His brows crease. This close, you can count the wrinkles there before they fade back to smooth skin. “Don’t be, lovely. You didn’t know how I would react.”

“But I know you’re kinder than him. I shouldn’t have assumed that of you.”

“Luckily,” Sirius traces your jaw with his slender fingers, “I’m far too convinced of my own saint-like qualities to take anything like that personally. And it’s only his fault, not yours. He’s the one who made you think it was normal.”

You wonder if this is the right moment to tell Sirius you love him. Not just because he’s been so sweet to you, but because it’s how he always is. You’d been told by friends of friends that he was a spiky, sharp sort of person, but he’s not. Or rather, not only that. And you like his sharp edges for more than just their contrast against the warm comfort he contains and exudes. You hadn’t known someone could feel exciting and secure all at once, until him. You want to tell him so.

But the doorbell goes, and with a smile like he knows what you were about to confess, Sirius detaches himself from your cuddle.

“That’ll be the Thai. Do you want to choose a film to watch while we eat, angel?”

You smile, perhaps more brightly than the question warrants, and nod. There’s time for love confessions later.

[blossomarlia]

please come back

back now! sorry for the massive hiatus but back in writing action w more marauders content coming ur way soon

[luveline]

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐋𝐚𝐩

Clark stays the night for the first time. fem, 3k. [explicit] 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Are you bringing the briefcase?” 

“What’s your obsession with the case?” Clark asks. 

You shrug, tipping your head back to give him a better view of your eyes, widened in a mock-doe ogling, like he’s the biggest, brightest thing in your universe. It’s not that far from the truth. 

“I like the case,” you confide, bedroom eyes and a fresh coat of lipgloss waiting to be kissed off, ‘cos you know he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything about it. And because it’s nice, so nice, to see the way his face splits into a smile. He’s like sunshine bearing down on you. 

“Then it’s coming with me. Go get your coat, Peitho.” 

“Who’s that one?” you ask. 

“The goddess of persuasion…” —he leans down to breathe your air, just for a bit— “…and seduction,” he finishes, kissing your nose quickly. “Get your coat. Let’s go.” 

You collect your things into your bag and put on your coat. Clark presses a hand to the line of muscle between your shoulders, leading you out of the Daily Planet and toward the tram. You take it down to the station on your block, and Clark convinces you to double back for the greengrocers. Or, he grabs your hand and pulls you along, citing a deep need to find some snow mountain garlic. You make a boy risotto once and he thinks he calls the shots. 

Your love story with Clark isn’t exactly convoluted. He made you coffee and brought you out in the sun to watch ducks in Centennial Park. You’d teased him with delicate outfits and long stretches, had occasionally brought him dinner. And it isn’t a long story, either. It’s been, what, three weeks? Nearly four? Too long to be this nervous, and yet. Clark squeezes your hand as your heart trips for the third time in as many minutes, caught on the sharp cut of his jaw and his messy curls. He doesn’t say anything as you weave between tight aisles looking for the specialty foods, but you get the sense that he knows you’re nervous. 

“I can’t believe you remembered where I got the garlic,” you say conversationally. 

“It’s rare, right? From the Himalayas.” 

“Did I tell you that, too?” 

“Your article, honey,” Clark says, his eyes tracking the jars of preserves and a row of open-basket offerings. “Single clove, golden… ah-ha!” He lets your hand fall to grab a paper bag and the tongs buried within. This basket has a plastic covering over the top that clicks and folds upward, releasing a heavy scent. 

“Careful, Clark, it’s like, a billion dollars per pound.” 

He shakes his head, unworried. “How much do you need for the risotto? Tell me when. And don’t short it.” 

You decide not to short it —you’ll pay. But when you and Clark get to the counter, baggie of garlic, fresh oregano, ginger stems and tangerines dumped unceremoniously onto the counter by the cash register, he bats your hand away with the most aggression he’s ever shown you and offers the clerk his card.  

“I don’t like mean Clark,” you murmur, squinting in the sun as Clark shepherds you back outside. 

“No? You should get used to him.” 

“Didn’t peg you for a bully, Kent.” 

“I’m not.” He swings an arm over your shoulder, careful not to hit you with the groceries (what a loser!). “I could never bully you, you’re too nice. And who will make my dinner, if you’re upset?” 

“So funny.” 

“I know,” he says against your cheek. Your skin warms under a prim kiss. His lips part and the wet of his tongue doesn’t touch you, but you can feel it regardless, the humidity of his breath rolling over your skin. 

“Off!” you demand. 

He grins and takes back his arm. “Off,” he says, looking very much like he’d like to kiss you again. It’s awful how palpable the need is on his face. You ignore it as best as you can, too worried he’ll get you home and kiss you against the door, fumbling blindly for a bed he’s never seen. 

He’s less desperate than you’re making out. In fact, if Clark wants to seduce you is anyone’s guess. He holds your hand down the street to your apartment building, laughs lightly when you tug him behind the staircase toward the back, and holds your handbag while you rummage for your keys without protest. 

He places his case, your bag, and his shoes at the side table on the way in. You try to see your trimmings through his eyes, hand on his arm to balance as you pull off each of your shoes. You like the process of it, your fingers in his muscle, his eyes on your knee as you bring your foot up behind you, and your fingers as you slide them into the back of your shoe to tug it off. You like the sound they make as they topple to the floor, and the way you slip across the floor as Clark gathers you up for a hug right there in the door. His hair makes a sound as it falls around his face, Clark burying his nose in the side of your head. You hold his back. Feel for ridges. Find thick layers of fabric in the way. 

“Wanted to do this all day,” he says. 

If it weren’t so endearing to be wanted, you’d laugh. Clark doesn’t make you guess about his affections. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met, if only for his honesty. His earnestness. 

You duck your head into the curve of his neck. “Smell nice,” you mumble. 

“Are you tired?” 

“No… You’re… putting the moves on me.” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” His laugh vibrates at your temple. 

“Can you make me dinner?” 

He pulls away from you to hold your face. “Yeah, I can make you dinner.” 

The plan had been Clark would come over and you’d make dinner, considering your expertise. A chef’s column for the biggest news outlet in Metropolis doesn’t come easy. You’re good at what you do. And that risotto had been half the reason Clark fell in love with you, if he’s to be believed. (Though he doesn’t say love.) (The other half a thin, pale skirt.) 

Clark is a quick study. Your cooking lessons have helped him some. It’s nice to see him in your kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at you as he talks, stripping out of his suit jacket and rolling up his perfect white sleeves.

He gets broth up his arms and on his tie. You stand in front of him with the heat of the stove kissing your side and carefully work the knot from his neck. 

“Kiss?” he asks. 

You use his tie to guide him down. 

—

Clark brought his pajamas in the briefcase. 

He made you garlic butter and pesto by hand, plated up your risotto with a kiss. He hoisted your legs into his lap when you’d started to falter during the movie and he’s rubbed them until you’d dozed, and now he’s in the shower, having taken his pajamas and his shower things with him. His shampoo had been macadamia and argan oil. 

And his pyjama pants are blue. 

He rolls into your room with wet hair slicked to his neck and roughly towel dried at the front, blocking the TV with his height, a pair of socks still held in his hands. “I put my clothes in the laundry. Is that okay?” 

You’re hoping you hadn’t left your delicates at the top of the bin. “Yeah, of course it is. I’ll wash them before bed, they’ll be dry again before morning.” 

He shrugs. “I brought slacks for tomorrow.”

“How much fits in that briefcase?” 

“You’d be surprised. Move over?” 

You shuffle to one side of the bed so Clark can sit down beside you. He seems large against your headboard. You trace the curve of his neck to a relaxed jaw. There’s no stubble there when you run over his skin with your fingers, but there’s a teeny-tiny spot of blood under his chin. You wipe at it until it comes off. “I’d kiss it, but I’m worried it’ll get infected.” 

“Kiss me anyway,” he says, lifting his chin. His collar is tacky with water. 

You lift yours in turn to reach, lips pressing with the utmost care to his chin as he wraps an arm behind you. You can’t see the cut, but you worry you’ll hurt him if you aren’t careful, and he feels your hesitation under his hand. 

“It’s okay. You can’t hurt me,” he says, like this is normal to say, like it doesn’t have your heart cradling itself in the heat of your stomach. 

You kiss him again, then his neck, the column of it solid beneath your lips. You wait there with your nose tip digging in, but he doesn’t say anything. 

A small gasp floods from you as he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his arms, on top of his legs, long and lithe and dipping the mattress underneath him. Your face falls flat against his collar, warm to damp, startled but far from unhappy by his sudden show of strength. He closes his arms around you and hugs you. In a moment, his nose rubs itself against your cheek in a nuzzle. It’s animalistic only in the sense that it’s without thought, his nose rubbing into the same spot over and over again. 

He doesn’t moan, but nearly. The sound he lets out is one of relief. Like you’d evaded him all day, and this is a victory. 

“Is this the part where we start telling each other secrets?” he asks.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly. 

“I didn’t know how badly I needed this.” 

You needle your arms behind his back to hold him, too.

“Do you…” 

“What?” he asks. 

“It will sound like I’m flirting, and I am a little, but it’s a genuine question, okay?” 

“Alright,” he says. You can tell he’s not about to laugh at you, which is nice. 

“Do you work out?” 

He smiles against your cheek. “Some. In the morning, when I can. I lift weights.” 

“I know that– I realise it’s a silly question. I don’t think people tend to look like you naturally.” 

“Is this still part of the genuine question?”

“No, this is the flirting.” 

“Oh, gotcha.” He knocks under your chin lightly. 

You look up to let him kiss you. 

He makes another wretched sound, like the beginning of a groan half-smothered by your mouth. Clark parts his lips, turning his head to the side, the taste of him pressed into your tongue as he breathes you in. It is incredibly foreign to be breathed in while you’re kissing, but Clark pulls at your back like he’s worried you’ll move away, feeling and breathing, sudden fingertips tumbling down your back. 

“Where are you going?” he whines. 

“You’re tickling me.”

“On accident. You really are Peitho, you know. She’s cunning and cruel when she wants to be.” 

“Don’t pressure me.” 

“Now that’s not funny, is it?” he asks, grinning as you lean down slowly. 

“Let me feel your heart.”

You press your fingers to his pulse. He lets you count the beats, says, “That’s sixty seconds,” like he’d known you would struggle to time it with your fingers. 

“I think you’re dead at a hundred.” 

“What’s that mean, doc?” he murmurs. 

You stroke his jaw with the flat of your nail. Not teasing —thinking. 

“I think I need to shower, too,” you say. He knows why. His eyes go lax behind his glasses with fondness. “Okay?” you ask, tapping his glasses with your nail gently. “You can clean the smudges off of your glasses while I’m gone. How’d they get this dirty, that’s crazy.” 

He rubs the small of your back with pressure. “I think it might’ve happened when I tried to get my face in your neck. And your ear. And, you know, your head.” 

He sounds delightfully bashful. It begets another kiss. 

You lose time in his lap. Really, you’d stay. But you need a minute in the shower to breathe through your nerves, and Clark is remarkably in touch with feelings, so he kisses you and sits up to encourage you away. “Go on. I’ll be here.” 

“Don’t look through my stuff. Promise?” 

“Sure,” he says, like a liar. 

You come back some twenty minutes later in your nicest pointelle pyjamas, skin slicked with a tiny bit of body oil and lotion atop it that smells of figs, ‘cos it’s the only one Clark’s ever mentioned liking aloud. He doesn’t skimp on compliments and loves to tell you that you smell good, but the fig one, the first time he smelled it, stopped him cold side by side on a couch in the coffee shop by his apartment. “What is that?” he’d asked. 

Your smug smile drops. “Clark,” you breathe. 

He pulls your teddy bear by the back and makes him wave. “Hi, honey.” 

“You found Charlie.” 

“You were hiding him.” 

“He was tastefully placed on my desk.” Where you’d hoped he wouldn’t be seen.

Clark pets Charlie’s downy head. “How could you hide him? He’s lovely. He told me–”

“Charlie didn’t tell you anything, he’s my teddy.” 

“Since you were young?” he asks. 

Charlie’s all worn around the armpits, the fur kissed anxiously from his cheeks. “I’ve always had him, yeah.” 

“I think I’d be remiss not to tell you that you look beautiful,” he says, “and Charlie says the same.” 

“Don’t talk through my teddy.” 

He presses Charlie to his chest like he’s a baby.

“He loves you.”

It turns your heart. You’d been ready to lay back in his lap and have him kiss you dizzy, tucking curls behind his ear to whisper saccharinely into the shell of it, but you’re thinking now that you want to curl up with him and find that box of chocolates he’d given you last week (for looking oh so morose for all of five seconds, apparently) to share. Have him rub your arms as you pretend to watch a movie. 

“Okay. Okay, come and hug me,” you say, leaning against your desk expectantly. 

Clark is up in three seconds flat. 

—

You wake with a start. 

There’s a shape beside you in bed, turned toward you, so close to you that you struggle to see him beyond the dark curls of his hair against your flowered pillow case. 

He has freckles on his shoulders. You hadn’t seen them last night in the dark, or even in the lamplight Clark begged for, just to see you, of course I want to see you, you’re beautiful like this, and they surprise you. There’s a handful of them across the hills of his shoulders. Barely any at all, but enough to kiss. 

He feels your mouth and wakes up quicker than you’d wanted. 

“Shit,” he says, grappling backwards for his glasses on the nightstand. 

“Clark?”

“Sorry.” When he turns back to you, he’s wearing his glasses again. You frown.

“What’s wrong?” 

Your stomach hurts. Like, hurts, the explanation loaded in one fell swoop. He slept with you and he didn’t mean to stay because he hadn’t ever meant to stay–

“No, sorry, nothing is wrong.” Clark clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wake up badly, sometimes.”

“Was it me?” 

“No.” He smiles like you’re the sun, blinking sleep away lazily. His eyelids and mouth are both puffy with it. “No, of course it wasn’t you, come here. I slept well.” 

You’re aware, then, of his missing shirt, the way your thigh slides between his as he pulls you tight to his chest. 

Just like that. 

You press your face to his shoulder, rather than let him see your expression. The night before comes back to you in a heated rush, every soft touch and softer kiss. You shudder under his tracing patterns.

“Can see you better like this,” Clark says, bringing his hand to your cheek to angle you in the sunshine.

You’re too tired to move, but you want to be kissed. Fortunately, your boyfriend is as generous as he is kind, and he promises to do all the hard work. “You can make yourself comfortable, honey,” he murmurs, turning you onto your back with an easy strength.

You cover your mouth with your hand. 

Clark can see your smile regardless. “So pretty,” he says quietly, kissing your chest, glasses slipping down his nose as he cranes his neck further.  “God, you’re perfect like this.” 

“You didn’t kiss me good morning,” you murmur, mostly to tease him. 

“I will.” His hand finds the pulp behind your knee. “I will. I promise.” 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! this was two requests (here and here) put together thank you both<3 

[blossomarlia]

hi!!! pls do another joel drabble the first one was so cute! maybe something like noticing the reader is really anxious and looking after her? can be established relationship or not idm

hi, sorry it took so long but here is what i came up with! hope you enjoy :)

joel x fem!reader warnings: reader suffers from anxiety, use of pet names

“Need you to relax before we head back,” Joel tells you, pulling his gloves on after filling out the patrol log. “Can’t be out there with a gun f’you’re all antsy.”

“I’m not antsy,” You lie, twisting your winter-chapped fingers together. The truth is, you’ve been on edge for no reason at all since you left Jackson this morning, and you’re worried you’ll be sick if you can’t get back to your house within a few moments. 

You know there’s no guarantee either way; you’ll likely be just as shaky and worried in your bed as you are in the cabin that marks the edge of your patrol route. You’re no stranger to anxiety attacks, to sudden bouts of nausea and the sensation of your throat closing around your tongue, but the worst of it is the hours spent feeling as if your bones are shaking themselves loose. You can’t shake the trembling that you aren’t doing so much as feeling under your skin. 

You hate that you don’t know what causes these bouts of anxiety. It would be better if you could pinpoint a problem and remove yourself from it, but you’ve tried taking time off patrols and meditating and eating healthily and doing breathing exercises, and none of it works. The nerves return, sometimes so badly that you can’t leave your house at all. It’s probably just existing in the apocalypse, and you can’t do much to change that.

Then there’s the issue of your patrol partner. It’s no secret that Joel Miller scares you- you know Tommy’s told him so at some point since your first patrol, since he’s become markedly more careful. It makes you worry that he thinks you’re weak. You’re not weak, only nervous. And Joel may not be hostile anymore but he’s not what you’d call friendly, so you’re stuck in a liminal space between thinking he hates you and thinking you’re nothing to him and very occasionally wondering if he knows how much time you spend thinking about his hands.

“Looks like we’re a few hours ahead of schedule,” He says, glancing at the clock on the wall, which gives no indication of the actual time. “Sit down, drink some water.”

“I’m really okay,” You insist. “We can head back.”

“D’you hear what I said? We ain’t going back with you like this.”

You try for cluelessness. “Like what?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Sit.”

You sit. If there’s one thing that makes you more anxious than silent Joel, it’s stern Joel, and you don’t want a lecture like the one you got on an early patrol when you failed to tell him about the deer you’d seen before you fired your gun at it. (‘Lecture’ is generous; you feared he might actually shoot you himself). Either way, you wish you’d been assigned a partner who you’re less worried about disappointing. 

You’re lost in thoughts, bouncing one leg at a million miles a minute, when Joel returns from the other room with your canteen of water and a can of tomato soup. 

“Drink, I’ll warm up some food,” He says. You frown at the canteen he’s holding out to you.

“You didn’t need to get this for me.”

He grunts. “Did it anyway. Drink, alright?” 

You manage to meet his eyes and are taken aback by the softness you find in place of irritation. He’s not angry, as you’d expected, or seeming even vaguely annoyed by the delay. He nods in approval when you take the water and drink a little. 

“Good. Keep goin’.”

You stare determinedly at your lap so he won’t see the heat in your face.

A luxury of Jackson is access to electricity that now spans almost twenty miles in each direction; this cabin is no exception, and Joel gets the stove going quickly. You watch him peel off his gloves and winter coat, dressed underneath in a dark blue flannel. It’s a nice colour on him, you think, one you haven’t seen before. He’s usually in green.

Seriously? You sigh shakily. You’re like a kid with a fucking crush, noticing what colours he wears. Pull yourself together.

The weight on your chest that had lessened for a moment has returned full-force by the time Joel comes back with soup in two bowls. You’ve got both hands pressed cruelly to your collarbones, trying to resolve the simultaneous emptiness and fullness. 

Joel sits down before he speaks. “Can you eat somethin’?”

Your voice sounds funny and high when you reply, “I’m actually feeling a little nauseous, sorry. Must’ve been the stew from last night.”

“...The stew.”

“Yeah.” 

“Right.”

You don’t sound very convincing at all, and if his tone is anything to go by, he doesn’t think so either. You can feel Joel watching you. “Sorry.”

“Don’t need to be sorry. Have you eaten anythin’ at all today?” You think, then shake your head. Joel tuts. “Why not?”

You look at him with no small amount of effort. “I didn’t feel very hungry.”

He doesn’t look impressed. “Haven’t eaten a thing all mornin’ and you only just told me?” “It wasn’t a secret. I-” You swallow, feeling your face heat even more. “I don’t know. Sorry.”

He studies you for a long moment, and you wonder if you’d feel the heat radiating from your face if you pressed your hand to it. Finally, Joel clears his throat.

“Look, darlin’-” What? “-It ain’t your own fault that you’re… skittish, but you gotta tell me if it’s a… bad day.”

You feel momentarily more panicked, searching for the judgement you’re sure must be lacing his words. Joel’s not what you’d call kindly on his good days, and though his eyes are soft and he doesn’t seem angry, you can’t make sense of how gentle he’s being. There must be something you’re missing.

Strangely, the realisation that he’s noticed how ‘skittish’ you are feels like both an intrusion and a warmth. You don’t like what he’s noticed, but the fact that he’s noticed anything at all and taken it into account is nice. Darlin’ is even nicer. You wish you could tell him so without wanting to be swallowed by the snow outside.

“A bad day?” “Mm. Ellie gets ‘em plenty, though less than she used to,” He says, with faint pride. “Just helps to know- we can work things out, take it a little slower.”

“It’s really not something you have to plan around. I don’t want to be a-”

“Quit tryin’ to make this a bigger problem than it is,” He interrupts firmly. “Just- take a beat, relax.” Easier said than done, when he’s looking at you like that, soft and scary and stern and kind. It’s true that Joel seems to be acting as a sort of anchor; his presence is a weight pinning you here, stopping you from drifting away. Slowly, the muffled sound of wind outside drowns out your own heartbeat. You can feel your fingers again, and your lungs no longer feel as if they might push their way out of your chest. 

“Soup’s gettin’ cold,” Joel says. You look at the steaming bowl. Usually, it’s hours before you can work yourself out of a fret like this one. Despite how nervous he makes you, Joel somehow has a balm-like effect on your actual anxiety problem. “Eat a little, I’ll go and-”

“No!” You say before you can appeal to the logical, normal-person part of your brain. You flush. “I- if it’s okay, could you stay?”

Joel clears his throat, nodding. “Alright, darlin’.”

You exhale. “Okay. Okay, thanks. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” He reminds you, mouth tilting in a suggestion of a smile. “Just eat up. Breathe. Relax.”

You’ve never been what anyone would call a rebel; then again, you’re not exactly a rule follower either. Joel’s soft, stern authority is the first you’re completely willing to obey- you take a deep breath and roll your shoulders back. “Thank you for being so kind,” You manage, when your eyes are glued to the floor rather than his. 

“Ain’t any trouble with you,” he replies gently. “Take it easy.”

[blossomarlia]

Hi don’t want to be weird to ask this, but will there be Black Firs chapter 3rd soon. I love it😭

hi, it's not weird at all! i'm so flattered that you asked :) i have a few series in the works at the moment so it might take a minute, but rest assured it's on it's way <3

[blossomarlia]

Black Firs | Chapter Two

Joel Miller x fem!reader

[series masterlist]

Synopsis: You and Joel follow a lead to a town a couple of hours from home.

Chapter content warnings: murder case and all involved, use of 'kid' and 'darlin'', mentions of dug use and dependency

word count: 6.9k

Once the chief has looked over the hastily-written paperwork, raising her eyebrows at the first paragraphs of your transcription, she folds the notebook closed and looks at you across the desk. 

“If I send you to Aberdeen with Miller, will I have two more murder cases on my hands?”

“Not if you tell him not to be a dick.” She gives you a look. Unfortunately, you both respect and like Servopoulos too much to leave it at that. “No, chief.”

“Good. We’ve found out which hotel the girl’s been staying at in town- you’ll both need to take the other, cheaper option. Can’t spook her.”

You shrug. “I’ve stayed in shitty motels before.”

“We don’t need much background from Hui, but she was the only one sober and outside of the friendship circle; it’s important we get all we can on the night Samuels died..”

“Do you suspect someone in the group?” “Not really, but we can’t rule it out.” Tess reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Miller showed me your theory about Brodie Hill, and the two in Montana. It’s good that you picked up on it- but don’t jump to conclusions.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. I’m reminding you- don’t get carried away with a theory, or you’ll start trying to make the pieces fit into the shape you’re looking for.”

You pick at the hem of your shirt, nodding reluctantly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. I gotta go smoke, you gotta get on the road. I’ll see you tomorrow night for the follow-up on Hui.”

“You got it, boss.” 

Your partner eyes the pillow you’ve tucked under one arm with unveiled disdain. “Are you aware that most motels provide bedding?” You smile sarcastically. “Yes, Miller, I am. This is for sleeping in the car.”

“What, suddenly you can’t drive?”

“You’re just so good at it,” You head around to put your overnight bag in the back, whistling when you see the bottle of whiskey your partner has in his own. “Big night planned?” “Shut up and get in,” He says gruffly. “I’ll need that shit to deal with you.”

“Don’t be so sure. You’ll have the dulcet tones of Pearl Jam to help out,” You say happily, sure you’re about to be told to put that goddamn casette back in your bag where it belongs. When Miller is mysteriously silent. You frown. “What, no arguments?”

He grunts. “Just don’t start singin’ along.”

“I won’t if you don’t,” You assure him, “But I can’t make any promises when I put on the Smashing Pumpkins’ stuff.”

He exhales as if relieved to complain about something, glaring at you over the top of the car. “You’re not playing that shit while I drive.”

“Please tell me you’re not one of those people who think they’re a Pearl Jam ripoff.”

He scoffs. “Don’t just think it.”

Inside, the car’s already warmed up- you’re glad Miller decided to put the heaters on before making you freeze to death, this time. He gets in, still scowling, and you smile.

“You know you don’t have to choose, right? You’re allowed to like both- they’re good bands.”

“Believe me,” He says, as condescendingly as is possible, “You’re wrong.”

He’s clearly getting more annoyed at your laughter, but it’s hard to help it. You’d previously assumed Miller switched off like a computer whenever he isn’t at work; the idea of your lieutenant sitting down and listening to the same bands as you- having human opinions about said bands- is ridiculous. “I guess we’ll find out. The drive’s almost three hours, right? Plenty of time to get through both albums.”

“No.”

“C’mon, Miller, it’s educational!” “No.”

“If you just open-”

“Put on the Pearl Jam cassette before I throw both out the damn window,” He demands grumpily. You oblige, propping up your pillow in the passenger seat and turning up the volume. 

Twenty minutes in, you’re no more sleepy than you were, and keenly aware that Joel Miller is not only not complaining about the music, he’s actually enjoying it. His left hand taps a steady rhythm on the steering wheel, his right holding a coffee cup steady on his lap. A part of you is disappointed; annoying your lieutenant can be the fun, and you’d packed a few cassettes as an insurance policy in case your stellar conversation skills dried up. Another part of you feels strangely pleased with yourself. The last part is close to ovulation, so you ignore whatever it’s telling you entirely about his hands and forearms and smell and-

Pull it together. You pinch your own arm until Miller catches you doing it and gives you a judgemental look. “The hell’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

The winding highway starts feeling like a maze, all fenced in by towering firs. You stare into the forest, trying to find gaps between trees, but the wood and green needles go on forever until they turn to black shadows. It’s somehow both comforting and terrifying; there’s so much that could happen, that does happen, which you cannot know about. Your entire career is dedicated to the pursuit of finding out, of answering questions, but the woods provide too many for you to think about. Whoever killed Lou Samuels could be out there. You’d never know.

Abruptly, the music doesn’t feel like enough of a distraction. You stare at Miller until he notices and becomes irritated by it. “What now?”

“What’s Ellie doing tonight?”

“She’s stayin’ with my brother for a few days.”

Tommy Miller has only come to visit your town once since you moved, but you remember how often he smiled and laughed, and how many times you wondered whether he and his older brother were truly related or it was some big prank. They look similar enough, and share an accent, but otherwise it’s as if they’ve lived completely different lives. You know from eavesdropping on Miller and the chief’s conversations that Tommy’s got a kid on the way- he’ll be a good dad, you think. To his brother’s credit, they’d have at least that in common.

“In Wyoming, right?”

“When did I tell you that?”

You raise both hands defensively. “He stole one of the donuts Detective Burrel brought in, I did some investigating, sue me.”

Miller is unconvinced. “You’re real fuckin’ nosy, you know that?” “Hence my career,” You retort lightly. “Is she taking a greyhound, or something?”

He frowns at you like you’ve accused him of putting her in a cardboard box and posting it without a ‘FRAGILE’ label. “Tommy had business in Seattle, he came down a few days ago. They’ll fly back up together.”

“Nice. What does he do in Wyoming?” “Don’t pretend you didn’t find out snoopin’ around in our family business.”

“Just making conversation. Construction, right?”

Miller nods, as pleased as always to be continuing a conversation with you (not at all). “He and his wife have a place up there, run a company that does a lot of ski chalets, all that.”

“You used to help run it too. Why’d you leave?” He frowns across at you, “Jesus, girl, how much did you look into this?”

“...A little. In my defence, I was bored and I did it to all the people on the force. You’re not alone.”

“That ain’t quite as comforting as you think it is,” He grumbles. A new song starts, and he turns up the radio for a few seconds before turning it down again. “I quit the business because I needed to look after my- myself, and it hadn’t taken off yet. We were still based out of Texas, weren’t gettin’ consistent work, I knew signin’ up for the force would pay the bills.”

“Why this town, though? It’s not exactly close by.”

“I knew Tess from a while back, she reached out. Wasn’t a hard decision. I had nothin’ keeping me in Texas once Tommy got the resort opportunity out west.”

“Do you regret quitting, now that he’s going so well?” You worry Miller’s going to think you’re judging1 him, but there’s no defensiveness when he shakes his head. “Don’t regret givin’ Ellie a place she can depend on staying, friends she likes. She hasn’t had enough of that.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have picked you as the type to adopt a kid. You don’t really seem to like a lot of people.”

“Ain’t strictly true. Just don’t like you.”

“Aw,” You coo. He grimaces. “Okay; What made you decide to do the whole foster care thing?”

“Ellie.”

That’s more human tenderness than you want Miller to be capable of. “Be a little more vague, please?”

“Is this a damn interview? Enough questions about me,” Miller grouches. 

“It’s called a conver-”

“Why’d you move to town?”

Surprised, you shift to face him, arms crossed. “Look who’s taking an interest.”

“Don’t start.”

You sigh. “Some shit happened in my hometown and I had to get away, start fresh. I asked for a transfer anywhere and Servopoulos was the only person who wanted to take me on, and… here I am, free to be a pain in your ass until retirement.”

“Didn’t want a big city job?” “I like… knowing people, communities. I don’t work as effectively if it isn’t personal.” You listen to the music for a beat, chewing on your lower lip. “Guess I haven’t done that well at knowing anyone yet. Kind of awful at it, actually.”

Miller furrows his brow. “You’re doin’ fine.”

“I don’t know anyone- or, hardly anyone, aside from Edna and your kid. I…” You trail off, conscious that your lieutenant probably has very limited interest in a pity party. “I’ll make more of an effort as soon as this case is closed. You can hold me to it.”

He breathes deeply, rubbing his temples with one hand while the other remains steady on the wheel. “I ain’t the right person for that, darlin’. I’m-”

You both seem to realise what he’s said at the same time. The car becomes a lot less comfortable, very quickly, and you clear your throat. “Uh- right, yeah, guess not.”

The quiet weighs down the space like it’s been filled with wet sand. Fuck, why couldn’t you have made a joke, called it out when he said it? You’ve always been just fine making him feel awkward; when it’s mutual, you realise, it’s intolerable. 

The album finishes and you fumble with it for a moment, swearing under your breath at the million buttons on the dash. Miller swats your hand away and manages to eject it immediately.

“Thanks.”

He nods once, determinedly refusing to look your way. You consider getting out the Smashing Pumpkins cassette, but you’re sort of worried he’s going to drive the car into a tree if you do. You settle for staring out the window; it’s only the early evening and already it’s getting dark outside. Under the bright headlights, the road is slick with rain and the yellow lines turn to ribbons, curving and breaking. You flip up the collar of your jacket and bring your knees to your chest, shivering at the thought of the night air and not even a little bit at the memory of how he sounded saying darlin’ in his honeyed accent.

“I could go for a donut,” You say in a (failed) attempt at being casual. To his credit, Miller takes the bait as he usually would.

“Goddamn stereotype,” He mutters. 

You shrug. “Not my fault it’s accurate. If you see somewhere, can we pull over?” “You see any donut shops in the fuckin’ forest?”

“Hence my use of the conditonal tense, genius.”

He tuts, rolling his eyes. “No, I cannot pull over. We need to get to the motel before it’s too late to book a room, and this rain,” He leans forward as if the sky will offer him a timer on the storm, “Isn’t makin’ it easier. Have to drive a lot slower than usual.”

“As if you’re usually a speed machine. My grandmother could beat you in a drag race, and she’s been dead fourteen years.”

Miller doesn’t like that joke very much. “No donuts.”

By the time you finally arrive at the motel in Aberdeen, only half due to your own subpar navigational skills, it’s eleven o’clock and neither you nor Miller are in the mood to talk at all. The teenager sitting behind the front desk is mercifully uninterested in hearing why two rain-soaked cops have shown up so late at night.

“We only have one room available,” He informs you, without a trace of sympathy. You stare at him like he’s going to burst out laughing and admit it’s a prank- no dice. “The place doesn’t look that busy,” Miller protests, “Surely you can spare-”

“One. Room. Available.” The teenager emphasizes. “We had someone file a complaint about bed bugs? Not true, by the way. Anyway, we had to deep clean one side of the motel, so we have three rooms, total, and two are booked out for the next-” He checks the clock above the door- “Two hours and fifteen minutes.”

Somehow, your lack of desire to use rooms that have just been rented by the hour outweighs your desire to see the back of Miller, though it’s a close bet. “Is it two beds, at least?”

“Yeah. King singles, too, so you can stretch out. We only offer five star service here at-”

“Great.” You force a smile, holding out your hand for the keys. “We’ll take it.”

The room you’re shown to is damp, smells vaguely of mold, and has a large yellow stain on one corner of the ceiling. You dump your bag on the bed furthest from the door- if anyone’s going to deal with a criminal breaking and entering, it’s going to be the guy who refused to stop at the 24-hour-diner you passed twenty minutes ago. Never have you missed Edna’s so much.

“Idyllic,” You comment. He grunts and turns on the radiator.

“Maybe we would’ve got a different room if we’d arrived when we were supposed to.”

“As if either of the other rooms would be better than this. Let’s just hope Springs McGee next door stops being so enthusiastic before midnight.” You grimace, trying to tune out the sounds coming from the neighbouring room. “I’m starving, I’m gonna go look for a vending machine. You want anything?”

Miller makes a face. “You’re goin’ out there right now?” 

He’s only on edge because it’s storming so hard and he thinks he saw a group of people hanging around the edge of the parking lot. He must’ve checked he locked the car about four times. 

“I didn’t see any food in your bag alongside that whiskey bottle- which is where, by the way? I’m thirsty, too.”

“You’re not drinking my whiskey.”

“Not right now, but I could be if you want to show how much you appreciate me coming along on this trip?” You smile as widely as you can. “I don’t appreciate you comin’ along.” “Okay, lone wolf,” You scoff. “Whatever, I’m gonna buy a soda.”

He holds out a hand, and you pause. “I’ll go.”

“What? I can-”

“I’ll go. You got a problem with that?”

You shrug. “Fine. Have fun.”

Miller refuses the change you give him, so you stuff a few dollar bills in his bag and go about getting ready for bed. Sitting in a car, especially when it’s largely in tense silence related to your coworker and almost-enemy calling you nice things, is surprisingly exhausting. 

In the tiny bathroom, you wipe off whatever makeup didn’t disappear in the fog and rain, smoothing moisturiser onto your skin in small circles. It’s not unusual for you to fall asleep on the couch at home, poring over old and new case files, but you like pampering yourself when you have the chance. And the cold dries you out; it feels like a luxury to massage sweet-smelling lotion into your hands. 

Your pyjamas present a new issue. Having anticipated a private room, you’ve packed your rattiest sweatpants and tank top. You’re well aware that there’s no reason you should want to look good in front of Miller, and yet… you wish you’d picked something a little nicer. A matching set you don’t own, something that says I’ve got my shit together. 

You sit in front of the radiator with some case files on Brodie Hill, stuff you’re definitely not supposed to have. You keep thinking back to what the chief said about making theories fit, but is that really what you’re doing? Surely it’s unique enough to matter- rope being left on the neck of the victim. And your town is small, smaller than it’d need to be to become a coincidence. 

Your reading is interrupted by Miller’s return. He throws a Diet Coke and two packets of chips into your lap. “What, they didn’t have regular?” He sits on the edge of his bed. “You like diet better. Are those the files on Brodie Hill?”

“Yeah, and I’ve already imagined your lecture about it so you can let it go. Weren’t you gonna get something to drink?”

He gives you a blank look. “No.”

“Then why’d you even go?” You spin where you sit, frowning up at him. “I was fine to do it.”

“So was I.”

“But you didn’t get anything.”

“So what?”

“So, why’d you even-”

“It’s been a long day. Can you give it a rest for five goddamn minutes?” He snaps. 

You glower, moving to your own bed and opening the chips as noisily as you can. He’s the one not making any fucking sense, and now you’re being treated like the asshole? You crunch on some chips while he gets changed in the bathroom and wonder whether he’d know it was you if you put crumbs in his bed. Given that he’s trained as a detective, your conclusion is an unfortunate affirmative.

Another unfortunate development? Joel Miller in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Shit. You take one look at him and huff, rolling over. 

“What?” He demands gruffly. 

You search for a reason to avoid looking in his direction that doesn’t sound like it’s not fair for you to look good and be the most annoying person I’ve ever met. “You’d make a terrible roommate. Want to spent a little longer in the bathroom, Miller?”

“I was five minutes.”

“Oh, now you’re in the mood to argue?”

He pauses for a moment. You imagine the way he folds and unfolds his hands into fists when he’s really annoyed. “Just- get some rest.”

“Trying to, if you’d shut up.”

“Hey.” Miller says your name like he’s trying not to lose it.

You roll over just to frown at him. “I stand by that. Honestly, Miller, you’re too talkative.” He matches your expression tenfold, and you sense that he is maybe even less interested in this than you are. You sigh and turn onto your back again. “Sorry. I’m being a dick. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, you and me both, kid.” You can feel his eyes on you like weights. “You have an alarm?”

“Shit. I knew I forgot something.”

“S’fine.” He holds up both hands when you sit up. “I’ll wake you.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

He nods. You pretend not to look at him until he turns off the lights.

You don’t sleep well, and neither does Miller, so around five a.m. the two of you give up on rest entirely and go to get coffee. The rain is so thick you can hardly see twenty feet ahead of the car. Luckily, your lieutenant’s navigational skills far surpass your own, and you’re pulling into the diner parking lot within minutes. 

“What do you want?”

“Um, probably something off the menu I haven’t seen yet?” You rub your face, far too mindful that your lack of both sleep and makeup have turned you into a complete mess. “I’m not staying in the car.’

“It’s raining pretty hard.”

“Please don’t let this be a Wizard of Oz joke.”

“It’s not a joke. I…” He shakes his head, swearing under his breath. “Fine. Come with me, get soaked to the skin, the hell do I care?”

“What do you care? What’s your deal?”

He pulls on his gloves. “No deal, kid, was just tryin’ to do the polite thing and- you know what? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Just get out of the car.”

You try your best not to find his sudden mood swing amusing, but he’s so fucking grumpy. It’s like dealing with a teenager. You tell him as much, and he shows how funny he finds that by slamming the car door on his way out. 

The diner’s mostly empty, except for a couple of lone truckers and a young woman sitting at the bar. You follow Miller inside, making sure to kick the backs of his boots as you go. 

“Get us a booth, I’ll grab menus,” You say, exceptionally politely, when he rounds on you. He takes it the wrong way anyway.

“Remind me which one of us is the lead on this case?” “Remind me why that matters right now?” Your impressions of his accent are definitely improving. “Off you go.”

Grumbling the whole way, he does as you’ve asked. A waitress comes around and pours coffee into your mugs, and just to spite him you go to pour salt in Miller’s- unfortunately, he chooses that moment to come back with menus in hand, and elects not to believe your story that you thought the salt shaker was just extra coffee flavouring. 

“Would I lie to you, lieutenant, of all people?”

He doesn’t bother responding to that question, shoving a menu in your face and sitting opposite you. “Get somethin’ filling, those chips from last night won’t get you through the day.”

“What are you getting?” “Don’t know yet.”

You drum your fingers on the tabletop. “Time is of the essence, Joel.”

“We on a first name basis now?” He frowns at you.

“What, was there something else you wanted to call me?” You cock your head, eyes wide. Miller looks sort of like he wishes he could punch you in the face. Satisfied, you drag a finger blindly down the menu and settle on a viable option. “I’m getting waffles with syrup and bacon.”

“Are you eight years old?” “Mhm. Total prodigy for my age.” You smile as the waitress takes your orders. Miller gets toast with butter, and you add two extra scoops of ice-cream to your waffles, ignoring his tutting. 

While you wait for the food, Miller drains his coffee and surveys the diner like an axe murderer is going to jump out at the two of you. Although yesterday’s conversation didn’t exactly end well, you dislike the silence and elect to try again. 

“What’s your favourite colour?” “Stupid question.” 

Oh, great. That went perfectly. “I don’t think it’s stupid. I once met a guy whose favourite colour was orange, and then he ended up in prison- happy coincidence, I guess.”

“Bet he didn’t think so.”

“Yeah, not really,” You prop your head on one hand. “Okay, so no dice on colour. Favourite song?” “You have an issue with peace and quiet, or something?”

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”

He leans back, crossing his arms and glancing around for a second before he responds, “I like… Pearl Jam.”

“Yeah, we established that. Any songs in particular, or…?”

“No.”

“It’s incredible to me how bad you are at answering questions,” You muse. “Okay, whatever. No, I don’t enjoy quiet, especially from you because it usually means you’re being judgemental.”

“That’s not-”

“To be fair, you’re also judgemental when you’re talking. Has anyone ever told you to work on that?”

Joel narrows his eyes. “No.”

“Huh.” 

The food arrives- not as good as Edna’s, but still delicious after such a meagre dinner last night. For his part, Miller chews on his sad slices of toast and stares at your waffles, but he’s decided on a weird loyalty to his breakfast; offering him a bite of yours earns you nothing but a fierce glare and dogged refusal. Even attempting to put some waffle on his plate gets your fork slapped away like you’re trying to poison him.

You down a few more cups of coffee before you finally feel jittery enough to start the day, while your partner matches you drink for drink and seems no less moody. The truckers filter out of the diner, and the final other customer gets up to leave as well. You frown; you recognise her from a group photo attached to her file, the same uncertain smile on her face as she looks up. “Cheryl?” “Do I know you?” Her accent is a rounded English, far from what you’d anticipated. She’s got mascara smeared under both eyes.

You stand up. “No- I’m a detective. Lieutenant Miller and I need to speak to you about Lou Samuels.”

The remains of the smile drop. “What about him?” You hear Joel getting to his feet behind you, and she shrinks back as if spooked. He’s not a small guy, and whether you know him or not, he’s intimidating. Miller’s only truly soft features are his eyes, when you get close enough- something Cheryl currently isn’t.

“Would you take a seat, please?” He asks.

“Am I in trouble?” She asks in a small voice. Sending a glare over your shoulder, you shake your head and try to look as kind as possible. 

“Not at all, I promise. We’re sorry to ambush you like this, Cheryl- we just need a little information for a case.”

“Information on what?” Cheryl looks down, swiping self-consciously at her face. “I-I wasn’t mixed up with those boys, I was in town for less than two months.”

Her wording strikes you as odd, but this isn’t a conversation you can have in the doorway of a diner. You try to keep your expression as friendly as possible. “That’s completely fine. We won’t be long. Can I get you anything- coffee, a milkshake?”

“...A hot chocolate would be nice,” She says quietly. 

“Perfect.” You sigh, relieved. “My coworker- Joel- is gonna grab us two of those, and we’ll find somewhere comfortable to sit. Okay?”

You aim a smile at Miller, who does an okay job of pretending it doesn’t piss him off to be sent away. You’ve got an anxious and upset teenager to look after, and however he feels towards you, he’s not going to make it worse. You’ve seen him work with kids before. 

Cheryl hugs herself, dressed only in a thin sweater. Her hair looks unwashed, her skin slightly sweaty. Her hands shake. You recognise the symptoms of withdrawal within seconds. 

“Here,” You pour her a glass of water. “Are you cold?”

She shakes her head. Miller returns and you slide around the booth - the last thing this girl needs is to feel attacked  by two cops from one side. Cheryl sips the water, bloodshot eyes flickering between you and your partner.

“Cheryl, if you’re not feeling well, we can do this another time,” You say. 

“I feel okay,” She whispers. “I’m okay.”

You nudge the glass of water in her direction, and she takes another, longer gulp. “You can be okay and still need a little time before talking to two cops. My partner here isn’t exactly easy on the eyes, right? Takes some getting used to.”

Miller grunts, side-eyeing you, but it has the desired effect; Cheryl laughs, and you see her relax slightly. “He’s okay.”

“That’s very generous of you,” You grin. “Look, we can call you a cab if you’d like to get some sleep at your hotel, or we can order you some food. I noticed you didn’t have any empty plates over there- have you eaten since last night?”

She hesitates, like she’s expecting to be in trouble, then shakes her head. 

“Do you like waffles?” 

“...Yes, I like them. But you don’t need to buy any for me, I can-” She falls silent, picking at one of her sleeves. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Willing to bet you’d feel better with somethin’ in your stomach,” Miller says gently, more so than you expect. You glance up at him; he’s caught the symptoms too, it seems. “I’ll go get you some waffles, alright? They looked pretty damn good.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She waits for Joel to head off again, and sniffles. “I promise I don’t usually look like this.”

“You’re fine- nobody looks their best anytime before ten a.m.,” You pat her shoulder. “What’s happened? Rough night?” She eyes your badge, and you sigh. “I’m not here to get you in trouble, I’m just checking you’re okay. None of this is on the record.”

Cheryl hesitates, tucking her hair behind both ears. “I- uh, I took some stuff.” She looks up as if gauging whether you’ll put her in handcuffs. When you don’t move to, she continues, “I heard what happened to Lou before I left. It kinda messed me around, he- um. I guess I went a little too crazy last night- I go sick in my room and my hotel kicked me out.”

Miller arrives back at the booth with the hot chocolates, and Cheryl becomes wary again. You give him a warning look before saying, “Lieutenant Miller isn’t going to get you in trouble, Cheryl. He’s cool.”

While he clearly rejects the idea of being described as ‘cool’, Joel nods. “Like we said, you’re not in trouble. Whatever happened, we want to help.”

You place a gentle hand on Cheryl’s shoulder, keeping it there when she gives no sign of being uncomfortable. “Can I tell him what you told me?” When the girl nods, you summarise, “Cheryl’s been feeling pretty down since she found out about Lou. Last night things got out of control, and she’s been asked to leave her hotel.”

“That’s way nicer than the way I said it.” She attempts a smile. 

“Sounds like you’re havin’ a tough time,” Joel says, “Don’t blame you at all, kid.”

“You have any friends in town?”

Cheryl shakes her head immediately. “I thought I did, but- um, no.”

“How about somewhere else? Seattle?”

“I-” She swipes under her nose- “I have a cousin there, yeah. That’s where I’m supposed to be, I just- I stayed longer in your town than I thought I would, and I guess now I’m sort of stuck.”

Miller frowns, but not unkindly. “You ain’t stuck, just a little delayed. Look- my partner here needs to talk to you about Lou, but how ‘bout you give me that cousin’s number and I’ll work out how we can get you there today?” “Really? You don’t have to-”

“Really,” He says firmly. It’s sort of nice, how easily he slips back into a fatherly role even when it’s not his kid. You saw the same thing when Ellie’s friend Dina got her camera stolen- she walked into Joel’s office beside herself, and emerged laughing with an invitation to a movie night at their place. It’s as if Miller’s divided himself into different personas; father, lieutenant, brother… asshole, in your case. 

Cheryl has the number and name written out in no time, and he heads off to get things arranged. You drink your hot chocolate and sigh. 

“You guys are both so nice,” She says shyly. You smile- nice isn’t the first word that springs to mind when you think of either Joel Miller or yourself, but it’s enough that this girl thinks so. “I’m glad you found me. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’m glad we found you too. You okay for me to record this? Just let me know if you want to talk about something off the record.”

“Okay.”

You nod, clicking the tape into place. “Okay. First off, how long were you working at the bar in town? Their records weren’t super organised.”

She thinks for a second. “I think it was seven weeks to the day. Yeah- I’m sure about that.”

“Great. How many customers would you usually have on a Wednesday night? Can’t have been that busy, right?”

She nods. “Yeah, not that many. It was usually just Max’s group and maybe a couple of other guys.”

“Max’s group? That’s Max Latimer?”

She hums the affirmative. You remember Max’s face from a few of the later photos of Lou and Jordan, the tallest of their group. He always stuck out as seeming the least awkward, the most happy to be photographed even as a middle schooler- blond, tanned, distinct from the other similar-looking boys. You must’ve seen him around town, though you can’t recall ever interacting. 

“You said you weren’t mixed up with the boys- what kind of stuff would getting ‘mixed up’ mean for that group?”

“Oh- I don’t really know. They just seemed different, kinda like outsiders in town,” She says. “Some people said they were weird, like, they all only ever spoke to each other. Intense, I mean.”

“And Lou was a part of the group, as far as you could see?”

“Yeah, he- um, he was usually the first one there, though.”

“Huh. Did he drink before they got there?” Cheryl nods again. 

You suck on your cheeks, thinking. “Did he come in much without his friends?”

“Sometimes the other staff talked about it, so… a little. But it was usually just Wednesdays,” She says. “He was nice.”

Sensing you’re reaching a breaking point of background information, you squeeze Cheryl’s shoulder again and look down. “Okay, you’re doing really well. Just a little more, okay?”

“Okay.”

“On the night of the sixteenth, did anything seem different? Any conflicts within the group, or with other customers?”

She stiffens. “No, nothing like that. It was all normal.”

“And Lou came in early?”

“Y- no, actually,” She furrows her brow. “Well, five minutes before everyone else. But he got there and went straight to their usual table, he didn’t come to the bar at all. He would- uh, he would usually talk to me a little.”

“What kind of stuff did he talk about?”

Cheryl shrugs. “Normal stuff. He was sad he never went to college or really left town, he wanted to hear about all the places I was heading.”

You picture Lou Samuels in his yearbook, the photo they used for the news segment on him. His parents- or lack thereof- couldn’t provide anything, so somebody from the school sent in the picture. He was only twenty-one when he was killed. You feel a sudden wave of sympathy for the young man, only a couple of years below you, who felt stuck in a small town so early in his life. It hadn’t been too late until it was. 

“Did he have something keeping him in town?” “Yeah. Or, I don’t really know, he didn’t want to talk about it. Her.”

You raise your eyebrows. “There was a girl?” By all reports, Lou Samuels had one girlfriend in junior year, Cat, who now shares a permanent residence with a close friend. 

“I think so. He was really shy about it.”

“Did he tell you anything we could use to find her?” You recognise the urgency in your own voice and take a deep breath. “Sorry. This could be important, Cheryl, so if there’s anything you can think of…”

“I really don’t have anything, I’m sorry,” She answers guiltily. “I- I never pushed the topic, all he ever said was that ‘she’ wanted him back home for the time being, that being away would be too difficult.”

“That’s okay,” You say, forcing a friendly smile onto your face. “You’re being really helpful. Do you know around what time Lou and his friends left?”

“Before midnight. I didn’t look at the clock.” She works her hands up into her hair, looking increasingly upset. “God, if I’d known… I would’ve taken notice of so much more.”

“You’ve noticed plenty, alright?”

“But if I’d just-”

“Cheryl.” She peeks out from behind her hands. You give her what you hope is an encouraging look. “It’s my job to find out this sort of thing, yeah? Not yours. You’re giving us really valuable information, you can’t possibly be expected to take notice of tiny details when people act the way they always do. Now, I think we’ve had enough of this interview- unless there’s anything else you want to add?”

She shakes her head, eyes wet. “Just that he was a really nice person. He didn’t have any enemies, he was always kind to me. He… he noticed, when I was struggling a bit to fit in with the other bar staff.”

“It sounds as if you two were good friends. I’m sorry you lost him, Cheryl.”

She sniffs, blinking quickly. “Thanks.”

You look up, finding Joel already watching from a few booths away. You inhale deeply, guiding Cheryl to her feet. “Looks like Lieutenant Miller’s organised things. I’m gonna give you my number and the number of the police department, you just call us if there’s anything else.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it, I’ll let you know if I come up with anything,” Cheryl hugs herself. You pull down her sweater where it’s ridden up at the back and pat her shoulder. 

“You don’t have to. If you want to not think about it, there’s nothing wrong with focusing on feeling better.”

You pass her off to Joel, who gives you a brief nod before leading Cheryl outside. He’s called her a taxi to collect her things from the hotel, and bought a ticket on a bus this afternoon that’ll take her to Seattle. Her cousin, having been sick with worry, is extremely on board with taking Cheryl in as long for as she’d like to stay.

“That was good- quick organisation, I mean,” You tell Joel on the winding drive back to the motel. “Lucky her cousin came through.”

“Took some convincin’,” He admits. 

“Did you use your scary voice?” He gives you a look. “I don’t have a ‘scary voice’.”

“You absolutely do- it even freaks me out sometimes. So did you?” “...Yes.”

You smirk. “Nice. D’you think she’ll be okay?”

“Her cousin seemed to think the kid was some kinda deviant, which she obviously isn’t.” 

You suppress a smile at how protective he’s immediately become of a girl he met half an hour ago, nodding along. 

“After I told her about the situation at hand, though, she came ‘round. Said she had a spare room and would help Cheryl find a job. You gave her a contact number for the station?”

“You know I did.”

“Mm. You-” He taps the steering wheel, jaw working- “You were good in there, by the way. Kept her calm enough.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew, don’t be nice to me. I’ll assume you’re an alien and shoot to kill.”

“Wasn’t bein’ nice. It’s the truth.”

“Whatever.” The window is cool against your skin, soothing. “Thanks. I felt sorry for her, she shouldn’t be wrapped up in this with the shit she’s clearly already working through.”

Joel hmphs his agreement. “You recognised her symptoms fast.”

“Thanks,” You repeat, more stiffly. If he’s not going to ask a question, you’re not in the mood to give an answer. “I had a hunch.”

“She give you anythin’ useful?” “Kind of, yeah,” You say. “It’s all on the tape. I’ll let you do the transcription this time.”

“Real charitable of you, darlin’. I’ll get it faxed to the chief before we head back.”

“Well, you know me.” You glance over at Miller- if he notices the name this time, he doesn’t comment, and you’re unwilling to break his suddenly reasonable mood. And you don’t mind, not really. “You want me to drive back? You can choose the music.”

“It’s fine, I’ll drive. Coffee’s on you.”

“I already owe you one anyway. How much was breakfast?”

He does a very bad job of acting like he doesn’t hear you. “I called Servopoulos while you were talkin’ to Cheryl, by the way.” “Yeah, she tell you about my promotion?” “Gettin’ moved up to full-time pain in my ass?”

You laugh. “Yeah, that one.”

“Not this time. She did say you’ve borrowed three cold case files from the archives and she needs them back by tonight.” You try not to shrink in your seat at the sternness in his tone. Scary voice. “Also, she’s heard back from the Montana departments.”

“And?”

“One of the cases could match up, but it ain’t certain. We know the object used for strangulation was left at the scene, but whether it was left on the victim’s neck is a separate issue.”

“It didn’t say on the case file?” You sit up impatiently.

“No.”

“Oh, helpful.”

Joel looks peeved. “Look, we didn’t have to follow up on your hunch. I’d say I’m mighty helpful, so you could start actin’-”

“Jesus, Miller, I don’t mean you. I was talking about the Montana department, I- I appreciate you guys following up on it. Seriously,” You hurry to correct him, suddenly and inexplicably worried about seeming ungrateful. “Can we find out more?” “Maybe. Might need to head over there ourselves, so it’d mean another road trip.”

“Mm. That’s okay,” You say. 

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows as if he’s surprised. You suppose you are a little, too; there’s no part of this trip you’d define as good, and yet somehow you’re less than eager to get back to the office. Maybe it’s just because you’re getting away from your daily routine; maybe it’s because you weren’t expecting to tolerate the lieutenant so well. More than tolerate him, even. 

“Yeah. You’re not so bad if you aren’t being as chatty as usual.”

That earns you a huff of a laugh, and you pretend the subsequent glow in your chest comes purely from the hardworking heaters in the car.

previous // next

hope you enjoyed! as always, please send an ask / comment with any thoughts you have :)

[blossomarlia]

Black Firs- Masterlist

Synopsis: The newest detective in your small-town department, you find yourself working on a disturbing murder case with your moody and perpetually-irritated lieutenant, Joel Miller. But as the investigation unfolds, you find yourself interrogating your complex relationship with your case partner. [90s small town detective AU, heavily inspired by Twin Peaks]

Chapter One: Partners

Chapter Two: Motel

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

[blossomarlia]

Black Firs || Joel Miller

fem!reader x Joel Miller

[Series masterlist]

Synopsis: The newest detective in your small-town department, you find yourself working on a disturbing murder case with your moody and perpetually-irritated lieutenant, Joel Miller. But as the investigation unfolds, you find yourself interrogating your complex relationship with your case partner. [90s small town detective AU, heavily inspired by Twin Peaks] word count: 5k

Chapter content warnings: description of murders involving strangulation, misogyny/treatment of women typical of the late 90s, liberal uses of surnames, age gap romance (reader is 23-25 and Joel is in his 40s), joel calls reader 'kid' on several occasions, reader is able-bodied and can put her knees up to her chest, excessive coffee, complete lack of knowledge surrounding actual police operations/procedures (sorry). 'reader is able-bodied and can put her knees up to her chest, excessive coffee, complete lack of knowledge surrounding actual police operations/procedures (sorry).

20th October, 1996

“Jesus, and I thought my machine made bad coffee,” You wrinkle your nose, dropping the styrofoam cup into the trash. The kid working on the other side of the front desk, Ellie, nods and points to her own cup, branded with the logo of the diner down the road. You push aside any notion that she’s too young to be drinking that shit- you were doing worse at sixteen, you’re pretty sure. “Nice. Is Miller in?”

She gives you a look, like she already knows about whatever shit you’re going to bring into his office. “Yeah, he’s in. You wanna wait for him to finish his coffee?”

“Nah.” “Good call. Doesn’t make a fuckin’ difference anyway,” She sighs, dialling his office number. “Hey- yes, already. She’s on her way in.” 

“Tell him it’s urgent,” You insist, leaning against the desk. 

“Uh-huh. Yeah, she says it’s urgent?” Ellie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, Joel, more urgent than all the other times. You wanna let her in or should I give her the go-ahead to use the battering ram?”

There’s a brief pause. You used to worry that Miller hated you, but you’ve since learned he’s just as moody with everyone. You just happen to be exposed to it on a higher frequency than most. It's also possible that he does hate you- you've decided the feeling is somewhat mutual.

“Okay. Okay. Yes, I’ll come say when I’m going to school. Am I three years old?” Ellie puts down the phone and looks at you. “Lieutenant Miller will see you now. He’s in a mood.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

“Hey, tell the chief I’m doing a good job? I’m gunning for a raise.”

“You got it, boss,” You grin. You shrug off your thick jacket as you pass your desk, frowning at the mess that greets you- the version of yourself that works late nights clearly hates you. You’re lucky the chief, Tess, couldn’t give less of a shit so long as you keep buying her a beer at the end of a Friday night shift. 

Miller is sitting behind his desk when you step into his office, pretending to look over case files. He always likes to act as if you’re interrupting something every time you walk through his door, despite having likely arrived no more than ten minutes ago. He’s just a dick like that.

“What is it?” 

“Got that nose job I was telling you about.”

“Nice try.” Almost every morning, you walk in and try to make him look up from his work. Your most recent success was the tiny mannequin you wrapped up like a baby and stuck a radio into- Ellie helped out with the sound effects. “What’s the issue now?”

“Well, please don’t be so inviting,” You say, taking a seat opposite him. “Might file a complaint with HR.”

“Is it about the Samuels case?”

“...Not exactly.”

He glares, finally abandoning his paperwork and taking off his glasses. “Not exactly?” “Well, I think it’s connected. Look-” You fish around in your bag for a few moments, eventually depositing some newspaper clippings on his desk. “Two cases in Montana, same MO as Lou Samuels and Brodie Hill. It’s got to be the same guy!”

Miller sighs as if it’s a great burden to be presented with new evidence on a case he’s personally been supervising. “An MO of strangulation on a few cases- one of which was twenty-two years ago, by the way- doesn’t prove correlation. And I thought I told you to leave this case in the office last night.”

You shrug. “I was doing unrelated reading, it isn’t my fault I happened to see a pattern.”

“Ain’t your fault, my ass.” He reads through the clippings, and you study the wooden desk so you won’t think about his glasses and how he looks in them. Miller’s unfortunate good looks rarely distract you from his dogshit personality, but you’re only human; you get caught off guard sometimes. 

“And those can’t be the only ones. They were a couple months ago, and now we’ve got Samuels four days ago. Maybe our guy’s doing some kind of fucked-up road trip, right?”

The lieutenant doesn’t like it when you’re enthusiastic about cases (or anything, for that matter). He gives you a look that says as much. “This ain’t proof of anything- we’ll send somethin’ to their local offices, but don’t get your hopes up. Strangulation isn’t unique, kid-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“-Someone gets drunk, gets mugged on their way home, loses their life over it. It happens.”

“It doesn’t happen here. And you’re simplifying it on purpose just ‘cos you don’t want to talk to me right now; you know the rope isn’t normal.” You frown, crossing you arms and leaning back. “Both the people in those newspapers were killed the same way- or, at least, strangulation is listed as the cause of death. What if it’s the same? I mean, rope left on a victim’s neck? It’s weird.”

“We can’t operate on assumptions here, you know better.”

“But what if?”

He rolls his eyes. “If it is, we’ll get the feds comin’ in here and taking over.”

“Cool.”

You both look up; Ellie’s standing in the open doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s too good at sneaking up on people to be employed by a police department, but she’s Miller’s kid and only works the desk when Maureen, the usual receptionist, can’t come in. You’re the last person who’s going to file a complaint.

“Hey, kiddo,” Miller says, softening immediately. You rarely see the two interact except over the front desk phone, and you don’t know what to make of the version of Joel Miller who shows himself when he’s around Ellie (and occasionally the families of victims). It’s unnerving. “You heading off?”

“Yeah. Jesse’s outside, so…” She scuffs the toe of her sneaker into the carpet. “Is the FBI coming?”

“No,” He says, at the same time you shrug. You feel his glare without turning around. “You don’t need to worry, alright? ‘Sides, what did I say about eavesdroppin’?” She lolls her head to the side cluelessly. “Don’t repeat anything to your friends?” “Don’t do it, period. And don’t repeat it to your friends, you got it?” “I got it,” She nods. “All my psycho killer theories will come purely from my own theorizing. If you’re on the lookout, there’s this one really creepy kid at school who I think is probably-”

“Better not leave Jesse waiting,” Miller interjects firmly. “You got lunch money?”

“Duh. Bye,” She says, and disappears. You turn back to face him, amused by how quickly he’s reverted to scowling. 

“I can communicate with other state departments without needing to go through the feds, right?” 

You feel vaguely embarrassed about the question- reminders of your comparatively new career as a detective always feel like you’re asking people to patronize you. You’re one of the youngest in the office, having transferred here following three years as an officer, after realising you no longer wanted to be near anyone from your hometown. You like being unknown; you hate that most people deem you incompetent the minute they meet you. Despite his shitty moods and questionable attitude towards respecting proper processes, at least Miller never dismisses you purely because of your age. He’s taken the time to find an extensive list of other reasons. 

“Right. I’ll get the autopsy reports, let you know.”

“So kind to me. You’re like Mother Theresa, seriously.” He is unamused.

“Just finish doing that paperwork pilin’ up on your desk before you work any more on this case.”

“And he’s concerned about my organisation? I hit the lieutenant jackpot,” You say sarcastically. 

“Out.”

“You got any spare coffee for-”

“Out. Christ.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

You only get halfway through clearing your desk before you find something more interesting to do- listening in on the chief’s meeting with Miller. You purposefully claimed the spot closest to her office windows, not that they’re ever less than soundproof. You settle for shitty excuses. 

“Hey, chief, thought you might want some coffee,” You say. “Oh, sorry- were you in a meeting?”

Servopoulos glances at her full jug of coffee. “Sure was, but that’s alright. Actually, this is perfect timing.”

“No,” Miller says firmly. “No.”

“Any way I can help,” You say sweetly, ignoring him. 

“Someone needs to be Lieutenant Miller’s deputy on the Samuels case, get some more info from the circle of friends who were there that night. How much paperwork do you have to do?”

“Almost none,” You lie. In your defense, there’ll be plenty of time after you clock off tonight. “I’m available for anything. Almost anything- I won’t listen to country music in the car. I know how you Texans are.”

Servopoulos smirks. “I’ll leave the two of you to fight that battle yourselves. Grab the files on these guys, look for a story first and inconsistencies second; they were probably all drinking, we’re unlikely to get a clear minute-by-minute.”

“Well, Miller would know all about being drunk,” You tap the small print-out of his twenty-year-old mugshot that Servopoulos has pinned to her corkboard. Upon finding the records of his public intoxication misdemeanor in Texas from two decades back, you charitably printed out a copy of his mugshot for every staff member in the office and anonymously deposited them on each desk. Tess is the only person Miller couldn’t intimidate into getting rid of it. 

“Sounds like an admission of guilt to me,” She looks pointedly at the picture. You look as innocent as you can.

“What, the pictures? Me? I’d never disrespect my lieutenant. Honestly, chief, I’m hurt.”

Tess chuckles, and Miller gets to his feet. You can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. 

“Don’t have too much fun out there,” She tells you. “I’ll need the statements from his friends and the bar staff by the end of the week. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Yep,” Miller grunts, and leaves the office without looking at you. 

The trees crowding the mountains around you point to the sky as if in warning; there’s a storm coming. The heaters make the inside of the car windows fog. You fight the urge to ask Miller for a sip of his coffee to fight the drowsiness hitting you. You pass two yellow schoolbuses and imagine what it’s like to spend your entire life in this part of the world, cold fog and crisp forest air and the same town of just two thousand people. You’ve spoken to some older folks who’ve only left once or twice on trips to Seattle.

You glance at the digital clock. It’s only nine. Without any intention of breaking the habit, you regret staying up working last night, and stifle a yawn in the sleeve of your jacket. 

“Tired?” Miller says, smug bastard. 

“Bored, actually. Aren’t there any cassettes in this thing?” You examine the glove department again, but no dice. Apparently detectives only drive in moody silence. “How do you usually pass the time?”

“Thinking.”

The drive to the first friend’s house is almost two hours. Surely Miller can’t stay quiet that long. 

“Well, don’t hurt yourself, man,” You sigh. “...Have you heard back from the Montana departments?”

“In the last forty minutes? No.”

“You don’t need to sound so enthusiastic about it.”

“Do you need to be this goddamn sarcastic?” “Yeah.”

You watch his jaw working. “Fuckin’ kid.”

“Speaking of kids- don’t call me that, by the way- how’s Ellie finding school? She said she kinda hated last year.”

“You talkin’ to her about school now?”

“She’s technically my coworker. We chat.”

Miller’s hand flexes around the wheel. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, forearms browned and littered with tiny white scars. Jesus Christ. You look out the window. 

“She’s doin’ fine. Gets good grades, she’s smart.”

You nod. He’s right; anyone would know that from one conversation with Ellie. “Is she gonna join the force?”

“Hope not.”

“Why’s that?”

Miller couldn’t be more obvious about not wanting to have this conversation, but you care very little. It’s the first time you’ve discussed anything but work or how irritating he finds you. 

“She’s good at drawing. Real good. I’m tryin’ to convince her to try out for some art schools, do somethin’ she actually likes.”

“She doesn’t like this stuff?”

“I don’t think it’d be right for her. She’s been through too much to be stuck dealin’ with this shit.”

You know as well as anyone else in town that Ellie’s not his biological kid. If calling him by his first name wasn’t enough of an indication, she told you a while ago that she bounced around the foster system for fourteen years before he adopted her. That’s enough information to understand why Miller feels the way he does. 

“I get it. Did she do the pictures you have on your desk?”

He looks at you, albeit briefly, and you think it’s the first time it’s been out of something other than exasperation. Maybe it’s odd that you’ve noticed the few frames on the lieutenant’s desk; you suppose it’s mostly because he doesn’t have any family photos, so the two pictures- butterflies and a giraffe- stuck out to you. 

“...She did.”

“They’re beautiful.”

As if it’s a strain to say the words, he says, “I actually agree.”

“Do they mean anything? Like-”

“No.” He interrupts. Like a sheet pulled from the line, whatever peace had entered his expression drops away, returning it to his usual frown. “Focus on directions, I don’t know where the hell I’m goin’.”

You know that’s not true, but you also sense you’ve crossed a line without meaning to. Consulting the map seems like the best option. “Uh, you stay on this highway… kinda forever. At least another forty minutes.”

“Alright,” He says stiffly. “Keep an eye on it.”

“For forty minutes?”

“Until we get there.”

Silence fills the car again, and this time you don’t break it. 

Lou Samuels’ friend, Adam, spends your entire introductory spiel staring at your chest. You must clear your throat at least seven times, to the point where his mother asks if you’d like a cough drop, but eventually you decide to pretend he’s just interested in your police badge and get the hell on with it. 

“Lieutenant Miller and I are only here to get our background figured out- you aren’t in trouble, but we’ll record with your consent,” You explain as kindly as you can. You have to keep him comfortable, that’s what the briefing says. “We’re so sorry for your loss, Adam.”

“My- oh, yeah, Lou. Yeah, he was a nice guy.” Adam’s eyes shift briefly away from you to glance at Miller, then back again. “You’re super young to be a detective, right? Like, our age.”

“Were you close?” Miller says, ignoring the comment. 

“Kinda. We had the same group of friends, but it wasn’t like we were hanging out one on one. I’m still sad he died, though,” He’s quick to add, before returning his gaze to you- he does you the courtesy of pretending to look a your face, this time. Small victories. “Uh, I haven’t seen you around much. Where are you from?” “Out of town.” You smile politely. “But- if it’s okay, we’re here to talk about Lou. On the night he passed, did you-”

“We don’t have to talk about Lou right now, though,” Adam gives you what he clearly considers to be a winning smile. “I just feel like I don’t even know who you are, is the thing.”

“Sorry, Adam, if we could just-”

“No disrespect, of course,” He says, glancing at your chest again. You fight the urge to zip up your jacket. “Just don’t know how I missed a pretty face like yours around town. Do the rest of the police get any fucking work done?” He laughs, clearly expecting you to do the same. “Maybe we could go talk about Lou over dinner, or something?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m sorry-”

“Would you go and ask Adam’s mother if she needs anything?” Miller interrupts you. You stare at him. “I think she was in the kitchen. Let Adam and I have a few words.”

“But-”

“That’s an order, detective.”

Without speaking, you stand, skin burning with embarrassment and anger. You feel like a stupid rookie again, new to the department and constantly pushed aside in favour of your male counterparts. One of the main reasons you’d wanted to transfer to the department of this town was that it’s chiefed by a woman; nobody’s ever given you the type of shit Miller just did. 

Adam’s mother, Mabel, is a sweet woman who provides you with no information aside from her opinions on the new supermarket being built in town (she thinks the all-glass storefront detracts from the mystique of seasonal fruits and vegetables) and several photo albums filled with photos of Adam and his friends as kids- she spends at least ten minutes talking about a so-called 'striking resemblance' between Adam and Lou, which is obvious only to her. You’ve only one thing to abate your frustration, and that’s the three cups of coffee she readily gives you. 

When he and Adam are done, Miller downs a cup himself and thanks Mabel for her time. He’s remarkably polite for someone you’ve spent the past thirty minutes convincing yourself is satan incarnate. You fight the urge to shout at him all the way to the car.

The moment he shuts his door, however, you round on him. “What the fuck was that?” At least he doesn’t do you the disservice of playing dumb. “He wasn’t focusing with you in the room. We needed information on that tape, not some fuckin’ boy trying to make a move.”

“And that was my problem? I had to be banished to the kitchen with the other woman? Fuck off.”

Miller narrows his eyes. “Did you want me to kick out the witness instead?” “I wanted-” You make a sound of frustration through your teeth, hitting the dash with both hands. “Fucking- I wanted you to give me some credit! Don’t fucking- dismiss me like that!”

“You’re yellin’ because I dismissed you?” He says, disdain obvious. 

You scoff. “I’m yelling because you’re an asshole, Miller.” You take a breath, hating the feeling of being the more upset of the two of you. “I’m capable. I could’ve handled it. You may think I’m fucking- fucking green, annoying, emotional, incompetent, whatever, but I’m a damn good detective and you can’t treat me like shit in front of a witness.”

He pauses. You don’t even know what you want him to say, what you want him to do. You’re mostly just mad you aren’t somebody the first fucking witness on this case could take seriously. 

“You’re right,” Miller says finally. You blink. “It wasn’t right, how I went about it- I’m sorry.”

You swallow, nodding jerkily. “Apology accepted, I guess.”

Slowly, he pulls out of the gravel driveway and back onto the road. You examine the tape recorder he’s put between you- he got twenty-six minutes of footage. You pull it onto your lap and exhale, rolling your shoulders back. It’s never helped your I-can-handle-it cause to be emotional in front of a colleague. 

“I’ll do the transcription.”

“It’s my job, fuck off.”

“I’ll-”

“No.”

“Fine,” Miller agrees irritably. You fall silent again, unused to a lack of argument. The car is only just starting to warm up, and you hug yourself. Sometimes the damp fog blanketing this part of the world feels as if it’s wrapped itself around you, an invisible and biting second skin. You tend to prefer the cold; still, there are times you think you’ll die if the sun doesn’t appear soon.

He reaches over and turns up the heat. 

“Thanks.”

“Sure,” He grunts. You look at him, see the tension lining his broad frame and the grey threading his dark hair. You’re no photographer besides a few high school projects, but you’d sort of like to see if you could capture the way he looks at things. There’s so much in every shift of muscle, everything contained in his dark eyes. “What is it?”

You turn away. “Nothing. Did you get anything good from Adam?” “He left before the rest of his friends, said he didn’t think Samuels was any drunker than usual.”

“But the blood reports-”

“-Showed unusually high alcohol levels, I know. Adam claims he rode his bike home around eleven-thirty, putting Lou’s death twenty or so minutes later.”

“That’s not a long time to get a lot drunker.”

“Exactly. Time of death wasn’t up for debate, though.”

“Who was working the bar? They’d remember how many drinks they had, whether there were any issues with other customers.”

“One of the out-of-towners. Left a couple days ago; Te- the chief paged me while I was interviewing Adam to confirm.”

“Shit,” You swear. The bar in town brings in a lot of people from out of town, backpackers passing through who want a few days’ work. “What do we do?”

Miller exhales heavily. “The chief’ll want us to track her down, interview her. Might be an overnight trip.”

Whatever Miller salvaged with his apology, you’re by no means excited at the prospect of a road trip. You’re pretty sure he feels the same way.

“Nobody else can go?”

“We were assigned this case,” He says flatly. You cross your arms. “If you have an issue, take it to the chief.”

“I don’t have an issue.”

“Uh-huh.”

You press your lips together, determinedly not rising to the bait. The resolve doesn’t last long. “Do you have an issue?” “No.”

“Right. Thought not, seeing as you’re always so nice to me.”

“Ain’t my job to be nice.”

“What is your job, again? Inspirational speaker?”

He glares at you sideways. “Would you give it a rest?”

“Hey, you wanna know something weird?”

“Probably not.”

You roll your eyes. “About the case, asshole.”

Miller nods his assent reluctantly.

“Adam’s mom showed me all these photos of them as kids- Lou and Adam, I mean. All the way from when Lou’s family moved here, to middle school. Then…nothing.”

“What, you think they had a fallin’ out?”

“Not if they were together the night Lou died. But something changed after Adam moved further away. He didn’t just stop taking photos with Lou, he stopped taking photos with anybody.”

“Did you ask his mother about it?”

“As in, was I too overcome by womanly emotion to do my goddamn job?”

“No. You know that-”

“Yes, I asked her,” You lean back in your seat. “She gave me nothing, said it was just boys growing up and growing apart. And they were together just the other night, there’s no evidence they didn’t work it out.”

Tiny pinpricks of rain start hitting the windshield and trickling in long lines down your window. The surrounding forest blurs into a mass of green and brown, water turning dirt to mud and evidence to nothing. It rains almost perpetually, here; whatever shreds of truth might cling to the body and surroundings of a victim can be washed away within hours. 

You imagine Lou Samuels as they found him, lying face-down in the narrow space between two buildings with a water-swollen rope tied around his neck. If one of the shopkeepers hadn’t been cleaning her gutters, it could’ve been another day before anyone discovered his body- maybe more. You think of your own dingy apartment, your solitary life outside of work, and wonder how long it would take anybody to find you.

“For the record,” Miller startles you out of your morbid line of thought, “I don’t think you’re incompetent. On the fresh side, sure, but you’re not stupid.”

It takes a few seconds for you to understand that he’s attempting a compliment. “...Uh, thanks. Look, I know I’m younger than you, but I’m not naive.”

“You’re what- twenty-four?” He glances your way. “I don’t think you’re too young to do good work, so you can stop gettin’ defensive. All I’m saying is that there are things you learn on the job- things you can’t pick up in just a few years.”

“Like what?”

“Respect for your elders, first off,” He says pointedly. 

“Of course.”

“There are other things,” Miller shifts in his seat. “How to handle guys who won’t stop starin’ at your- at you, is another one.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“Did I say it was?” When you don’t reply, he continues, “You didn’t want to make him mad by callin’ it out- that’s fine. But you came across as nervous. You apologised twice, asked for his permission to return to the matter at hand.”

“The briefing said to keep him comfortable.”

“That doesn’t mean letting him think he’s in charge. You gotta learn the difference between the people you stand up to, and the kind of people you allow to think they’re steering,” Miller says firmly. “That’s the shit that you get with age.”

You don’t know what to make of his tone, the smugness you search for but cannot detect. Is he genuinely trying to help you, or is this a patronization? You're bemused, and you don't know where to start figuring it out.

“So which are you? Do I stand up to you, or let you think you’re steering?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You watch the way you talk to your lieutenant.”

You head to the diner over lunch to transcribe the recording, cringing at your own apologies and stammering at its beginning. You hate to admit anyone else is right- especially Miller- but you get what he was saying. By asking Adam for permission to get back to the matter at hand, you were telling him he was in charge. That doesn’t stop you from feeling a wave of frustration when the lieutenant orders you to go to the kitchen.

You hear the door click closed over the tape, and a brief silence. “Why’d you tell her to leave?” You can hear the smirk in Adam’s voice. 

“Listen to me,” Miller says, so quiet you have to turn up the volume of the tape in your shitty headphones. “You keep trying to make a fuckin’ move on my detective, I start feelin’ a lot less sure that you’re the kind of guy who we want to keep comfortable. You want me to bring you back to the station to talk to Chief Servopoulos, or you want to do this in the comfort of your own home?”

There’s a pause, then Adam audibly swallows. “We can do it here.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, tell me everything you did on the sixteenth.”

Huh. 

You pause the tape, draining your coffee. Should you be more annoyed? You’re pretty sure this counts as fighting your battles for you, something you’re opposed to on principle. Did he do it so you’d listen back and feel guilty for yelling at him? No- he said he would do the transcription. 

Frowning, you tap the end of your pen against the notebook. This makes Miller confusing- and he’s not supposed to be that way, he’s supposed to be an asshole, plain and simple. 

“You want anything to eat, hon?”

You startle at Edna’s voice- the owner of the diner can be counted upon to appear at the exact moment your stomach starts grumbling, whether you’re aware of it or not.

“Uh- yeah, actually, could I get a number three?”

“Yeah, you-”

“Sorry, can I make it two of those?”

“Sure, hon. Who's the lucky person?"

"Just my coworker," You reply, perhaps a little too quickly. Edna smiles knowingly.

"Any coffee with those?”

You sigh. “You must know the answer to that one.”

Mouth watering at the smell of the two bacon and egg rolls tucked into your bag, and identical coffee orders in a brown cardboard tray, you walk the five minutes back to the station. Your notebook and the tape are tucked away, protected from any rain, but you still take off your waterproof jacket and cover your bag just in case- it’s only partially out of fear of a soggy bread roll. 

Miller looks unsurprised to see you entering his office, but that quickly changes when you drop lunch onto his desk alongside the tape and transcription. 

“What’s this?”

“A bomb. What do you think?” You sit in the chair opposite him and slide the coffee across the table. “Did you know we have the same coffee order?”

“Why would I know that?” He takes a sip, eyes on yours. “How do you know that?”

“I happen to be incredibly observant. I did the transcription, by the way. Interesting.” 

To your satisfaction, Miller is about as good at pretending he doesn’t care about that as he is at pretending he doesn’t like the coffee you got for him. 

“You want an award for doin' your job, kid?”

You ignore the name in favour of taking a bite from your own lunch, tipping your head back. “Oh my god. Thank you, Edna.”

He's so rigid it's almost awkward. You grin. “Are you here for a reason, or just to distract me?” 

You cock your head. “Oh, I’m distracting you?”

It’s easy to act like it’s funny- it comes naturally- but you want to ask him what he means almost as badly as you want him to think you couldn't care less either way.

“Irritating me, more like,” He says stiffly.

“New for us,” You reply, relaxing a little. “Any more intel on the girl behind the bar?” “Her name is Cheryl Hui, she’s a nineteen-year-old on a gap year. English.”

“Do we know where she is now?”

“Some of the other staff think she was headed for Seattle, but she had a friend from Aberdeen.”

“That’s where we’re going, then.”

He nods, running a hand through his hair. “Seems that way. Did you fill out the paperwork from the interview today?”

“No, seeing as I wasn’t permitted to conduct the actual interview,” You snark. His expression pinches, and you groan. “I’ll get it done.”

“You do that. And pack an overnight bag.” There’s a lull, and you keep eating your roll until he clears his throat pointedly. “Anythin’ else?”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“Then what the hell,” He asks (rudely), “Are you still doin’ here?”

You walk out backwards just so you can glare at him. 

next chapter

credits for the beautiful dividers to olenvasynyt :)

Thanks for reading the first chapter- let me know what you think in the comments/my asks box. See you in the next chapter when we head to Aberdeen.

[blossomarlia]

hey, i saw you were writing for joel miller and it literally made my day <3 if you're comfortable, can i request one where maybe reader is younger and is his neighbour and she just flirts w him? idk if this is useful at all, just rlly want to see your version of joel!!

hi thanks for your request- i'm pretty new to writing joel so lmk if you have feedback!

joel miller x younger!reader

warnings: obvious but not super-weird age gap, smoking

The cigarette sits unlit between your lips as you lean over the edge of your porch. It’s a warm night, and still you’re close enough that Joel sees the goosebumps raised on your bare arms in the soft blue light. The windchime hanging from the wooden slats above you casts striped shadows over your face.

“It’s my favourite one,” You say, a smile in your voice. “Don’t stop playing.” 

He keeps his face purposefully impassive, hands still and silent on his guitar. “Didn’t know you were listenin’.”

You shift, and your teeth are bright when you grin. The summer moon softens harsh edges, dilutes the sharp tang of the world you’re surviving in, mellows the usually-tense air between you and Joel. He’s been determined to find you annoying since you moved into the house next door; it’s easier in the daylight, when you aren’t rumpled and carrying a sweet and familiar smell on the breeze from your porch to his. 

“Please keep going,” You say. “I’ll trade you- a song for a smoke?”

He stares at the pack of cigarettes you’re offering- homemade with practiced hands, clearly. You must’ve traded something special for these. “Who found you tobacco?”

“Not tobacco. Raspberry leaf and thyme from the greenhouses, and some lavender,” You respond easily. "It's good for stress."

Your porches are close enough together that if Joel reached out, he could take the pack from you, but he shakes his head and the distance remains unclosed. 

“Don’t smoke,” He lies. If it’d been one of Eugene’s mix he might’ve considered it. “An’ I don’t sing for strangers.”

You press a hand to your heart in mock-offence. “Is that what I am?” “Well, we ain’t friends.”

“I wasn’t planning on ‘friends’,” You say evenly, then laugh at yourself. “Although I’ll take what I can get. You’re kind of intimidating, you know that?”

Joel grunts. He knows well enough.

“Thing is, Tommy tells me you’re actually a total softie if I just try hard enough.”

“Tommy likes to talk a lot of crap,” Joel mutters. He puts his guitar down against the edge of the bench he’s on- it doesn’t seem like he’ll be playing much more tonight. You light the cigarette in your mouth, inhaling with closed eyes. Joel looks away. “It’s gettin’ late. I should-”

“You usually play until the early morning,” Your gaze lands back on his face, full of something bright. “Don’t tell me I’m the intimidating one, Miller.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. “Like I said, audiences aren’t my thing.”

Maddeningly, you seem to find him funny. “I promise not to clap.”

“I’m not playin’ for you, kid.”

“Kid?” You repeat near-silently, eyes still on his. Joel feels the challenge without knowing what he’s being challenged for. You’re goddamn impossible. He wants to know what you’re thinking and hates that he does, hates that he’s distracted by you, hates that he knows he’ll think about this for days to come. 

“What’d you mean, that was your favourite one?” He asks, knowing he shouldn’t.

You cock your head. “What?”

“You said, it’s my favourite one. When you came outside.”

“Oh. I meant the song- it’s my favourite of all the ones you play. It’s so pretty, kinda familiar. Was it popular Before?”

He swallows harshly, reminded uncomfortably of your age while simultaneously diverted by the line of your neck and collarbone, illuminated in the gentle night. “I guess.”

“You guess,” You muse lightly.

“You must listen to me play pretty often, to have favourites.” He sounds fuckin’ stupid, even to himself. Jesus. Just go inside. 

“I guess,” You repeat his words back to him. “It gets hot in my house in summer. I crack my window open at night and I hear you playing.”

“I’ll stop f’it wakes you-”

“I like hearing you, actually,” You interrupt softly. “Please don’t stop.”

Joel is silent for a long moment. A cricket takes up its guiro-song from somewhere near your letterbox. “Alright,” He says. 

“Alright,” You nod once. 

Another breeze spinning from you to him, and Joel recognises the sugary jasmine and clean coconut scent of a lotion he brought back from a supply run to a mall. He’d usually dismiss something like that, but Ellie convinced him to bring it back for the hygiene pile in town. Joel’s intrigued by the sweet-smelling luxuries that you allow yourself, the lotion and cigarettes and candles you keep at your windows. There’s something sharp in Joel that likes the idea of bringing you things you enjoy, making your world even softer and sweeter. 

He sighs. He must be losing it, if it’s taken all of ten minutes for his brain to take him in this direction. What Tommy would say, if he knew… 

Joel pulls his guitar back onto his lap. “You don’t say a goddamn word,” He says as gruffly as he can. “And I keep playing.”

You make a very obvious effort not to look pleased. “Okay.”

Joel takes another breath and focuses on anything but you, practiced fingers pressing the strings of his guitar as he starts playing again.

[blossomarlia]

hi! i loved your drabble about james x reader after the party, it was so cute :) if requests are open, could i please ask for fem!reader who has a tricky relationship with her parents, and maybe she and james go for lunch or something aand it goes badly? just like him comforting her and telling her she's not in the wrong if that makes sense. no pressure!

hi, hope this is sort of what you wanted!

james potter x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of poor relationship with family, especially mother

Driving with James is almost never quiet. He’s always got something to say, or you have, or the two of you are listening to one of several CDs Remus burned your favourite songs into. James insists that you’re in the passenger seat, so you can choose the music more easily, so you can talk with your hands the way you do, so you can doze off after work. You once drove six hours together and it passed like thirty minutes, your conversation was so easy. 

Now, you stare out the window and pretend you haven’t been wiping away tears for the fifteen minutes since he pulled out of your family’s driveway. For his part, you don’t think James has noticed your upset; he’s been gripping the steering wheel with both hands and breathing so evenly that it must be intentional, clearly lost in his own thoughts. You hate this tension, hate that the discomfort and hurt of lunch has infested spaces beyond the dining table of your childhood home. 

It’s absurd, in hindsight, that you were so hopeful. You don’t know why it keeps happening, why you let it. You’d thought maybe with James there, with any stranger but especially one so bright and warm, they’d hold back. You were wrong. 

Things began pleasantly enough; after stressing about timing, you’d arrived ten minutes early and brought an apple pie James had helped you make this morning. Your mother enjoys reminding you that guests don’t get invited back if they don’t show how grateful they are for an invitation with some sort of gift. You wonder why it matters to you that being re-invited to your family home is so important, but it is. Even just as a guest. 

You’d helped in the kitchen while your father watched television. James tried to help, too, but was turned away. You’d felt the air shift as soon as you were alone with your mother. 

It’s nothing against you, not in the slightest! Only, young men like that aren’t often in it for the long term with girls like you.

You’d frowned, pretended not to know what she meant. It was only the same thing she’d said about both other boys you’d brought home.

You’re a nice girl, but what can you truly offer him? He’s good-looking, wealthy family, and you said he plays rugby? Sweetheart, you never want to be with somebody because they’re settling. That’s just my opinion.

The meal itself was worse. Despite your pleas, your family remarked on James’ family, their standing and their properties and how your father felt about James’ mother’s charity. Everything was said perfectly pleasantly, but you were humiliated. When it came time to criticise your shortcomings, you couldn’t muster a single protest, eager to redirect their scrutiny of your boyfriend to their usual commentary on you. Your hair, your clothing, your weight, your job, your flat- it didn’t end, not until you’d helped your mother wash up and James made a stiff excuse about needing to be back in London by five o’clock. 

You know you must’ve let him down terribly. With your friends, you’re never the type to take anything lying down, more sure of yourself and able to let banter slide off you like water. You feel as if you’ve tricked James, somehow, now that he’s seen the way you truly are: silent, unable to stand up for yourself. You’re embarrassed of yourself more than your family. Humiliated worse than you’ve ever been.

You sniff, and it must be the first James notices of your tears because he pulls over to the emergency lane immediately. “Oh, my girl,” He leans across the center console and gives you as nice of a hug as he can from a somewhat awkward position. 

“Sorry,” You say, crying properly now. It’s harder to hold back when you see the worry on his lovely features. “Sorry, I’m overreacting.”

“Not at all, angel,” He says immediately. He rubs his hands firmly up and down your sides. “I’m sorry, I should’ve paid more attention to how upset you are. They were horrible to you.”

“They were just-” You begin, but the excuse doesn’t come. You’re sure you had one ready to go, some explanation or justification for today. “I don’t think they’re trying to be hurtful. They’re my family, I love them.”

“I don’t care what they were trying to do,” James frowns, “It was awful, the way they spoke to you. I wish I’d said something more.”

You shake your head, feeling panic seizing your lungs even after you’ve left the house. During the meal, you’d felt nauseous the minute James spoke up- he’d only said that’s not fair over some half-true comment your mother made, but your heart seized as if he’d thrown a dish of food at her.

“No, it- I didn’t want it to become an argument. I asked you not to.”

More kindly than you feel you deserve, James doesn’t comment on your half-panicked texts to him under the lunch table. You hate the knowledge that they’ll exist there forever, that the next time he opens your contact he’ll be reminded of how feeble you’ve been. 

“Are they always that way?”

“I don’t know,” You sniff again, swiping under your nose. “I think- I think sometimes they’re better, but I don’t know. I wish I’d stood up for myself more when I was younger.”

“None of this is your fault,” James is quick to assure you. “It wasn’t your job to do that, they shouldn’t- I don’t understand how anyone can be so cruel to you. You’re so easy to be kind to.”

“They aren’t cruel, they’re just-”

“They are,” He insists, sympathy and regret lining his face. “I wish you’d stop accepting it, sweetheart.”

It stings, and James sees your reaction but you jump in before he can elaborate; “I’m sorry I didn’t stand up for myself. It must’ve been disappointing.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when you glance up he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. You feel terrible- you know James didn’t mean it that way, and you’ve been unfair. He sighs. “I’m disappointed by the situation, not by you. Never by you. I hate that this is so normal for you, my darling, that’s all.”

He’s so lovely that you cry again, and James rubs your back as you do. He’s a dream; you’d imagined as a younger person that all the awful stress and pressure of your family meant you’d someday meet someone perfectly gentle and kind, and subsequently hated yourself for creating such an unlikely fairytale. You didn’t believe in people like James until you met and loved him, didn’t think you were the sort of person who attracted them. 

“We don’t need to visit them again,” James tells you quietly when you’ve calmed down a bit. “I don’t want you to think you have an obligation to them; if it doesn’t make you happy to be there, we’ll make excuses. Blame me- say I have chronic food poisoning, or something.”

“I think that’s called an allergy, Jamie,” You sniff, holding one of his hands in both of yours. You stare at the lines of his palm, though you can’t remember what each one is supposed to mean. “I-I want to be a good daughter.”

“You are a good daughter, better than they deserve,” He says. “But you’re the only person you’re going to spend your entire life with, the only one you really have to be around every day. It’s okay to put yourself first.”

“I can’t just never see them again.”

“No, I know that. That’s alright.” He swipes his thumbs gently over the soft skin under your eyes. “Just give yourself a break, yeah?” You take a shaky breath, nodding. “I love you.”

“And I love you, angel,” He smiles warmly. “As do many, many other people. My parents won’t stop hassling me about when I’m next bringing you over.”

You laugh wetly, more pleased than you want to reveal. “Really?”

“Yeah. You’re the only person who can rival Dad’s croquet skills, and he needs humbling.” You both laugh, now, and James cups your face in both hands as he kisses you. “My brave girl,” He says, still so close you feel the shape of the sentence against your skin. “I hope you know how loved you are.”

You don’t respond; you aren’t sure what you can say, and James understands either way. He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes as he moves back to sit in his seat. He doesn’t let go of your hand the whole way home.

[blossomarlia]

love ur fics so far! do you think you'd ever do multipart series?

i definitely would, and am!! i've got a few in the works at the moment, but as usual my requests are open so if there's anything you'd like to see please send it to me :)

[blossomarlia]

hi bit a of weird request but would you be able to write one where fem!reader is walking home from a party and feeling kind of insecure/sad but james sees her and like cheers her up?

hi! hope this is kind of what you wanted, thanks for the request <3

james potter x fem! reader

warnings: mentions of slut-shaming/victim mindset, reader is drunk and a bit insecure, excessive use of pet names

You try, uselessly, to pull your thin shirt across just a little more of your chest, skin sensitive and prickling with goosebumps as another chill sweeps through the lamp-lit street. You hadn’t expected the cold to affect you so quickly; at Marlene’s party, a combination of alcohol and crowded bodies had kept you perfectly warm. You’d felt warmed inside, too, confident and sparkling, for most of the night. You suppose the cold isn’t helping to remind you how that ended, either.

“You’re certainly putting on a show,” someone said. “Looks like you’re up for just about anything.”

Thankfully, Emmeline and Mary had been standing nearby, and the anonymous plus-one was treated to a thirty-five minute lecture on respect before being sent home. You tried to laugh at his expression and the bitter apology he threw your way- you did, really, but the damage was done. Worse, when you looked around and realised that almost none of your friends were dressed in quite the same calibre of party outfit as you were. 

“What, you’re worried you look too hot? Relax, babe.” Marlene had said, trying to make you feel better. It would’ve worked if you hadn’t had quite so many ciders, and spent half an hour already feeling rotten. Mary, not realising that it had actually upset you (to be fair, you’d done nothing but pretend to be fine) said that to cover up would be proving him right, and how could you ask Marlene for a spare t-shirt after that? It would be vindication for everyone who thought the same thing as that stupid boy, wouldn’t it? 

Now, freezing cold and barely halfway to your flat, you’re completely confused as to why you decided to abandon your cab home. You remember saying something about needing fresh air to the driver, and then you’d paid and he drove off without a second thought. Your friends would be worried sick if they knew you were out here all alone. And dressed like this, too, a mean little voice adds. Really, what do you expect to happen?

It’s not true or fair, you know, but this entire night hasn’t been anything like what you’d imagined when you were putting on makeup and getting dressed, and you’re so cold that your teeth are chattering, and it’s all making you feel awfully close to tears. 

“Hey!” You stiffen, seeing yourself briefly silhouetted against the pavement by headlights behind you. You turn, tense and worried, and squint at the man sitting in the front seat.

“James?” You gasp, a hand on your stomach as you try to swallow the panic climbing your throat. “I thought you were- how are you here?”

James looks very worried and quite guilty, too. “Sorry, angel. Should’ve turned my high-beams off.” If you were sober and quite a lot happier, the endearment would make you smile- James’ habit of referring to everyone by a pet-name is one of the most lovely things about him. “I live this way, remember? I was supposed to be picking Pa- Sirius up, but he’s decided to stay the night at Marls’.”

You know their nicknames for one another- everyone does. Padfoot, Moony, Prongs. You don’t know what they mean, and don’t really need to, but it’s sort of nice that James always makes the effort to use Remus and Sirius’ real names when he’s talking to those outside their trio. Maybe he’s unaware that he does it, but it’s as if he’ll do anything to avoid people feeling excluded. 

“Sorry,” You say, voice suddenly wobbly, and close your eyes tightly. You hear James’ door open and then his footsteps as he comes towards you- you expect his touch, and wouldn’t hate it but wouldn’t want it like you usually do, either- but then he’s draping something warm and soft around your shoulders. You open your eyes. You’re wearing one of his jackets, soft brown corduroy that reaches the tops of your thighs. You think you remember him saying it belonged to his father; Fleamont and Euphemia Potter are known within your circle of friends for being generous with their belongings. You think Lily was wearing one of Euphemia’s scarves in her ponytail tonight.

You sway in your heels. Why didn’t you take them off? Your feet ache terribly, another hurt to add to the list. You press a fist to your chest, willing yourself not to start crying in front of James, who is undoubtedly the nicest boy you’ve ever fancied. 

“Will you let me drop you home? It’s too cold, you’ll get sick,” He asks gently, as if to prove your point. 

“Okay.” 

You sniffle. “Oh, sweetheart,” He says. 

You’re bundled into the car, still shivering, and James reaches into the backseat to get a jumper- why he has so many articles of outerwear in his car, you’ve no idea- and puts it across your bare legs to warm you up. He turns the heater up the whole way and pats your shoulder before he shuts the door.

You look at him as he sits in the driver’s seat, your hands clammy and face raw with upset. “I’m really sorry. This is so embarrassing.”

He gives you a bemused half-smile, shaking his head. “How’s that?” “I’m not sober. And I’m hardly wearing anything.” The second part comes out much quieter, but somewhere between Marlene’s flat and this car you started feeling very sorry to everyone that you’d put on such a ‘show’, or whatever, tonight. Would it have been so hard just to wear jeans? You feel ashamed, dirty, embarrassed. People have probably been whispering about it all night.

James doesn’t start driving yet. “Are you okay?” He asks, more serious than you’re expecting him to be. “Did something happen?”

“No- well, yeah, but it was…” You squeeze your eyes closed again, pressing your fingertips cruelly into your lids and regretting it when they come away stained with mascara. You must look a sight. “Nothing bad happened, I just wish I hadn’t worn this.”

You glance at James to see him frowning at you, but he quickly smooths his expression. Great, he’s judging you too. “Why not, sweetheart? You look gorgeous. I hope someone told you, even if I wasn’t there to say it.”

You look like you’re up for just about anything, the other man’s voice echoes in your head. You take several short breaths. 

“I just should’ve worn something else. I feel- um.” You rub your hands across your face. “There were just- this guy made a comment, I don’t know, it hurt my feelings. It’s silly. I’m drunk.”

You’re slightly startled to sense James tensing beside you, even across the console of his car. His hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Who was it? What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” You reply, truthfully to the former question and not to the latter. “It doesn’t even matter.”

“Is he still there?”

You’re worried James is going to turn around and go back to the party, he sounds so incensed, and when you look at him he’s wearing an expression that you’ve never seen before. You shake your head. “He’s gone. The girls made him. I- please can we just go? Sorry. It’s not worth talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” James blinks and gives you an apologetic smile, pulling back onto the street and waving a hand in front of the heater nearest you. “This working alright? Are you warm enough?”

“Loads better, thank you.” 

You drive in silence for five minutes. You want it to be comfortable, but your mind keeps spinning itself back to just about anything, and it’s getting more and more difficult not to cry. You’re grateful when James says your name.

“Do you want to listen to some music? You can choose anything,” He offers, opening the glove compartment in front of you with his eyes still on the road and revealing an extensive CD collection. “I bet you have good taste.” You look through the jewel cases, bemused but flattered by this assessment. You’re pleasantly surprised. It doesn’t take long for you to pick something, and James nods his approval.

“Good choice, angel,” He smiles over at you. It’s beginning to rain, the droplets scattering shadows across the car with each streetlamp you pass. They look almost like freckles on James’ face. “What’s that look?”

You realise you’ve been staring, though there’s nothing to indicate any sort of judgement in his tone. You look at your lap. “Nothing, sorry, I’m just… um, thanks for driving me. It was really kind.”

“You’re easy to be kind to,” He replies lightly, as if it’s nothing at all. 

There’s another pause, perhaps more comfortable. 

“That idiot who hurt your feelings,” James says eventually, “Was wrong. Whatever he said, he was wrong.”

“You can’t know that. Maybe he was exactly right,” You say, and don’t quite manage to laugh it off. 

“I can’t think of a single bad thing he could’ve said that would’ve been true,” James retorts immediately. You look at him. “Truly.”

His softness is persuasive, even if he’s not trying to get information out of you. “He said that my outfit made it look like I was up for anything,” You admit, and your face heats in shame. Dread, too, that James will remain silent and unable to disagree, after all. 

He’s frowning deeply when you glance at him. “What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means, James.” 

There’s a moment where you worry he’ll make you spell it out, but then he huffs out a breath and nods, eyebrows knitted together. “Yeah, I do- I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s a ridiculous thing to say to someone. What a dick!”

“I don’t think everyone found it ridiculous. I mean, it’s- it’s not really my most conservative outfit, is it?” You joke half-heartedly. Why am I arguing this? Why did one stupid boy’s comment ruin my confidence so completely? 

“So what?” James counters, “What does it matter what you’re wearing? I- well, it matters to me because you look gorgeous, you really do- but it doesn’t say anything about what you’re ‘up for’!”

“I know that,” You say quietly. 

“I really hope you do, angel,” He sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re- you don’t deserve that. I’m sorry he was so awful. No wonder you're upset.”

“It’s fine; I’m being a bit dramatic. I’m drunk.” “There’s nothing dramatic about being hurt when someone’s said something hurtful, it’s the most normal reaction” James says firmly. “It’s not a weakness, Y/N.”

“It’s just- I don’t know why I’m letting it affect me like this. I know it’s bullshit. If he’d said it to anyone else I’d’ve been one of the people shouting at him.”

“You’re a selfless person,” He says like it’s an immoveable fact. “It can be easier to stand up for other people than yourself; you’re only human.”

“Thanks, James.”

“No need to thank me, lovely girl.”

He starts talking about other things: rugby, a film they’re showing at your local cinema, a new bakery that’s popped up down the street from him. You’re struck by how much care he expresses with every detail; he’s liking rugby, but he worries the early wakeup times mean he’s disturbing Remus and Sirius in the mornings, neither of whom enjoy getting up before ten o’clock; he’s interested to see the film because Mary went on a spiel about its other iterations and interpretations by directors, and he wants to understand what she was talking about better; the new bakery is owned by a man who used to work with James’ father, but always had a knack for pastries and has spent years saving up to buy a place. It was James who told him about the shop being leased. It’s as if his entire world, his life, is constructed out of the love he has for his friends, and you find yourself capable of relaxing, smiling, laughing, the rest of your night momentarily discarded. 

James can’t come in for tea, but he does walk you to your door and refuse to take back the jacket.  “It looks good on you, angel. No surprise,” He grins.

You step forward, emboldened, and kiss him on the cheek. You hope you’re not so tipsy that his blushing is imagined, though he does stammer slightly before clearing his throat and speaking again.

“I should go home to Remus, he was expecting me a while ago. Will you be alright?”

“Yeah, should be,” You look up at him, wishing he didn’t have to go. “Thanks again.”

“Enough thanking. Would it- could I give you a ring tomorrow? Just to-”

“That would be really nice,” You respond, a beat too quickly to be nonchalant. You both laugh. If tonight hadn’t been what it was, you think you might like to kiss James properly. Instead, “Maybe… um, I could buy you something from the bakery to make up for all this?”

James’ brow furrows at the last part, but he’s relievingly open to your suggestion. “I’ll be paying, sweetheart, but it sounds like a plan. I’ll call in the morning to sort it out?”

“Okay,” You smile.

“Okay. Goodnight, angel.”