Construction Corner Series Masterlist (AU Joel Miller x Female Reader)
Fandom: The Last of Us/Pedro Pascal
Pairing: TVhost!Joel Miller x divorced!Female Reader
Summary: AU where nothing bad happened in 2003. It is now 2007 and Joel Miller is the host of a popular home renovation show. When he discovers that his married producer is now divorced, will sparks fly?
Rating: Eventually Explicit (18+ only. NO MINORS)
Content Warnings: Inaccuracies about filming a tv show and about construction. Pedro character cameos. Reader is divorced and in her late 30’s, but otherwise a blank slate. Specific warnings provided for each chapter.
Author’s Note: a couple of quick notes before you dive in. Clara’s (ofc) internal thoughts are highlighted in purple to make them easier to spot throughout the story. English isn’t my first language, so if you notice any awkward phrasing or grammar mistakes, please be kind. I’m always happy to learn and improve. I really hope you enjoy it. ❤️
Word count: ~7k
London had always felt like the kind of city that smiles politely while judging you mercilessly. Cold, elegant, chaotic, and armed with that uniquely British brand of understated superiority, it somehow managed to make you feel like a southern impostor. It didn’t matter how well dressed you were, how perfect your hair looked, or how much you’d spent on perfume—you still looked like you had wandered into the wrong film, surrounded by an army of trench coats and black umbrellas.
I’d been there for four days for work, helping launch a campaign for a Spanish luxury brand that wanted to “position itself in the UK market.” The client’s exact words.
Four days of endless meetings in conference rooms where someone clearly had a pathological fear of being cold, because the heating was set somewhere between the Sahara and the surface of the sun. Four days of smiling politely when all I really wanted was to roll my eyes so hard they’d disappear into the back of my skull. Four days of speaking English until my jaw actually hurt. And four days pretending I adored this city’s godawful weather, where the rain came at you sideways and sunshine was little more than an urban legend.
I was exhausted. Professionally. Socially. Spiritually. Pick one.
Four days of nodding enthusiastically at creative ideas that should never have made it past the first PowerPoint slide. Working in advertising means applauding ideas you secretly hope will die in the next meeting. Four nights of eating depressing supermarket meal deals on the edge of my hotel bed. Four days of answering emails with my “delighted to help” voice while looking like I was one minor inconvenience away from setting the building on fire.
Mostly, though, I was tired of being Clara. Competent Clara. Pleasant Clara. Efficient Clara. The charming Spanish woman everyone loved working with because she never complained, never lost her patience and always had everything under control.
Apparently “warm Mediterranean energy” is a full-time job. Nobody tells you that when you start your career.
That night, I decided to say to hell with it all and treat myself. I found the Electric Cinema in Notting Hill. They were showing In the Mood for Love.
“Perfect. Two hours of exquisite longing, breathtaking cheongsams, and enough beautifully repressed desire to make my own emotional baggage feel oddly manageable.
Two hours without talking to anyone. No emails. No presentations. No pretending to care about quarterly conversion rates. Just me, an outrageously overpriced gin and tonic and a love story where nothing ever quite happens.
Some people meditate. I watch Wong Kar-wai films and call it therapy.”
I arrived with plenty of time. The cinema was half empty, as you’d expect on a Tuesday evening in February. I bought an outrageously overpriced gin and tonic because if I was going to have a professional existential crisis, it might as well involve good gin. Then I settled into a red velvet seat near the back.
The place smelled of old wood, overpriced popcorn, and that unmistakable London damp that felt like it had signed a lifetime lease on the building. I sank into my seat, closed my eyes for a moment, and let out the kind of sigh that resets your nervous system. Pure bliss. A few seconds later, I felt the seat beside mine dip under someone else’s weight.
I frowned. There were five completely empty rows. Apparently, personal space was no longer a universally shared concept. I glanced sideways. Rookie mistake. I nearly spilled my drink.
“Fuck. If someone was going to ignore five completely empty rows to sit beside a stranger, they really had no business looking like that.”
He was tall. The sort of man who somehow occupied more space than physics could reasonably justify. He wore a dark jacket over a black sweater that fit him far better than was strictly necessary. His hair was slightly tousled, he had the kind of stubble that looked entirely intentional, and he had the deeply unfair face of a man who looked permanently exhausted and somehow only became more attractive because of it.
He smelled of cedarwood, expensive cologne, and the quiet confidence of a man who had almost certainly never bought shower gel on offer.
“Relax, Clara. You’re thirty-five. You have two degrees, a master’s, a decent salary and an impeccable tax record. You’re not about to lose your dignity because an absurdly attractive stranger decided to sit next to you. Even if he does smell criminally good.”
I forced myself to look straight ahead and crossed my legs with a dignity I definitely wasn’t feeling. Unfortunately, my brain had already abandoned any pretence of behaving like a responsible adult.
I’d come here to have an elegant existential crisis while watching In the Mood for Love. Instead, the universe decided to sit a dangerously attractive man right next to me. Somewhere, it was laughing its head off.
Then he turned slightly towards me.
“Hi,” he said, his voice low and just rough enough to be unfair.
He smiled. It looked like the sort of smile that had ruined perfectly sensible people before.
“Hi,” I said.
There it was. A complete sentence. Remarkably, I’d managed to sound like a fully functioning adult instead of someone who’d just forgotten how breathing worked.
“Easy, Clara. You’ve negotiated six-figure budgets. You’ve survived clients who use the word “disruptive” without irony. You can survive twenty seconds of polite conversation with one obscenely attractive man...
Or not.”
His eyes dropped briefly to my gin and tonic before finding mine again. He had a curious way of looking at people. Never too much. Never too little. Just enough to make you feel as though, for those few seconds, you were the only person in the room. It was deeply inconvenient.
“Excuse me,” he said with disarming politeness. “Can I ask where you got that drink?”
I smiled, oddly grateful that the universe had handed me a completely neutral topic of conversation.
“Right over there.” I nodded towards the little bar. “In this lighting it looks like a portal to another dimension, but I promise it’s real. And they make a surprisingly decent gin and tonic, which, in London, already feels like a minor miracle.”
He laughed softly.
“Thanks.” Another smile. Slower this time. “I reckon it’s already looking up.”
He got up with that same unhurried ease that seemed to define everything he did and came back a couple of minutes later with a pint in his hand. As he sat down, his knee brushed against mine. Neither of us moved. He took a sip of his beer without taking his eyes off me.
I smiled back with the precarious composure of someone making a heroic effort to appear perfectly normal while slowly becoming aware that the warmth creeping up her neck had absolutely nothing to do with the gin.
“Thanks. I needed that,” he said, his voice somehow even lower than before.
“Cheers.” I lifted my glass towards him. “Let’s hope the pint lives up to the evening.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But it’ll certainly improve my chances.”
Then he looked at me again. Calmly. As though, in a cinema full of empty seats, there genuinely wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.
“Fantastic, Clara. You came here to switch off after four days of meetings. It’s been, what… six minutes? And you’re already wondering what it would feel like to kiss a complete stranger. Outstanding work.”
The film began, and for the first few minutes, I actually managed to pay attention. The cinematography was so beautiful it almost hurt to watch. Almost. Because ignoring the man sitting beside me was rapidly becoming a full-time job. Every small movement he made had the deeply irritating ability to pull me out of the film for a split second.
Then, halfway through, just as Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung passed each other in that impossibly narrow corridor—the one that somehow manages to contain an entire love story in a glance—he leaned ever so slightly towards me. Just enough for me to hear him.
“I had a feeling this wasn’t your first time seeing it.”
His voice, that close to my ear, sent a slow shiver down my spine. I turned just enough to look at him.
“A few,” I whispered. “And somehow it gets more beautiful every time.”
He smiled to himself.
“That’s a good sign.”
“Of what?”
“That it can still surprise you.”
I wasn’t entirely sure why that answer pleased me as much as it did.
“It’s deeply annoying how beautiful this film is,” I whispered, turning my attention back to the screen.
He nodded thoughtfully.
“I always leave feeling like I’ve missed something,” he said quietly. “Even though I could never tell you what.”
I smiled into the darkness.
“And then you go home half expecting to fall in love the moment a Wong Kar-wai soundtrack starts playing.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. The kind that barely made a sound and somehow still became part of the film.
“I don’t know…” he said after a moment turning his head slightly towards me. “I sometimes think the problem is that we don’t pay enough attention to what’s already right in front of us.”
For a second, I completely lost track of whatever was happening on screen. Because, honestly… I wasn’t entirely convinced we were still talking about the film.
“Men who can talk about cinema without disappearing up their own arse are genuinely dangerous. I’d already learned how to deal with the pretentious ones. Brilliant.
Turns out the man with the smile that had almost certainly ruined lives also had impeccable taste in films. The universe remained impressively committed to my downfall.”
We kept talking in whispers for the next several minutes. About the cinematography. The silences. The way longing somehow managed to become the film’s real protagonist. Every now and then we’d fall quiet again, letting the film reclaim our attention before one of us leaned over to whisper another thought. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like talking to a stranger.
Every time he leaned over to whisper something, his shoulder brushed against mine, and my stomach immediately forgot it belonged to a thirty-five-year-old woman with a mortgage and two university degrees.
“I don’t usually talk to strangers at the cinema,” he murmured after a while. “I’m blaming the film.”
I glanced at him. In the dim light, his eyes somehow looked even darker.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered back. “I don’t usually talk to absurdly attractive strangers who decide to sit next to me when there are five empty rows to choose from.” I tilted my head ever so slightly. “I suppose we’re both having an unusually out-of-character evening.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Absurdly attractive?” he repeated, casually glancing around the auditorium. “Did someone else come in while I wasn’t looking?”
The laugh escaped me before I had a chance to stop it.
“Oh, for God’s sake…” I muttered, covering my eyes for a second. “That was definitely supposed to stay inside my head.”
“I’m very glad it didn’t.” His smile broadened just enough to betray how pleased he was with himself. “That’s done wonders for my ego.”
I shook my head, laughing quietly.
“Clara.”
“Harry.”
He held out his hand. I took it. His hand was bigger than mine. Warm. The sort of hand that could probably have sold moisturiser in an advert. Unfortunately, my brain was already busy wondering what else it might be good at.
“Focus, Clara.”
He committed the unforgivable offence of not letting go straight away.
“Harry. Of course. Because naturally this man couldn’t possibly be called Dave. Or Mark. Or Steve. No. He had to be Harry. A name that somehow suited a man who looked as though he could undo a bra clasp simply by maintaining eye contact. To make matters worse, he had a voice that ought to be traded on the London Stock Exchange.
And he kept looking at me as if I’d somehow become the only person worth paying attention to. Terrible idea. An absolutely catastrophic idea. Because my brain—never exactly famous for its restraint—had already packed up for the evening.
I was no longer wondering whether he kissed well. That ship had sailed. My imagination, ever the overachiever, had already produced a full-length feature film. The version of Harry living rent-free in my head, incidentally, had considerably fewer manners than the one politely sipping his pint beside me.
To be fair, I’d already managed to mentally undress him with an efficiency I’d never once demonstrated while putting together a PowerPoint presentation. I had absolutely no business wondering what his hands would feel like on my waist. Or whether that voice would sound even lower with his mouth an inch from mine.
Embarrassing. People say maturity brings self-control. What absolute rubbish. All it really gives you is better vocabulary for your fantasies.”
The credits began to roll, but I stayed exactly where I was. I needed a minute to process not just the film, but the fact that I’d just spent the last half hour whispering to Harry as though we’d known each other for years.
“Well done, Clara. You came here for a quiet night on your own and somehow ended up flirting your way through In the Mood for Love with a man who could probably make a Buddhist monk lose his train of thought. Very mindful. Very zen.”
Harry turned to me with that same easy smile. The sort that never asked for attention because it somehow already had it.
“That was even better than I expected,” he said quietly. He held my gaze for a beat before adding,“And I’m not just talking about the film.”
I smiled despite myself. This man was becoming a problem.
“Thanks for indulging my running commentary,” he said, slipping his coat back on. “Most people spend the whole film wondering why they paid to sit next to someone who’s apparently incapable of keeping a thought to herself. So, I think I got lucky.”
I looked up at him.
“Lucky?”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Finding the only person in the room who made the film even better.”
I slipped my coat on.
“I talk during films too,” I admitted. “Usually it’s just to mutter passive-aggressive comments about the script like the bitter professional I’ve apparently become. Tonight was a definite improvement. I didn’t even tell anyone to shut up.”
Harry laughed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We stood at the same time. For a second, neither of us moved. It was one of those strange little pauses that only happen when two people are both waiting for the other to decide what happens next. Harry looked at me with that same easy smile.
“I’m glad I sat next to you, Clara.”
It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t rehearsed. It sounded like the simple truth. Which somehow made it even harder to answer.
I busied myself fastening another button on my coat. Eye contact suddenly felt like an unnecessarily ambitious goal.
“Careful,” I said, glancing back at him. “Keep talking like that and I’m going to start thinking you’re secretly a poet hiding inside a very expensive jacket.”
A slow smile spread across his face.
“Not a frustrated poet.” He held my gaze for a moment. “I just don’t tend to rush off when I’m enjoying the conversation…”. His smile deepened, almost imperceptibly. ”…or when I find myself in particularly interesting company.”
He didn’t look away. Not even slightly. Which meant he saw the smile before I could hide it.
“Traitor.
Interesting company. Of course. “I just don’t tend to rush off when I’m enjoying the conversation…” Honestly, the man flirted like he had a degree in it.
And there I was, mentally translating every perfectly composed sentence into something with considerably fewer manners. Because where Harry said, particularly interesting company, my brain heard: “I’d absolutely wreck you.” Brilliant. Five more minutes and I was going to need either a cold shower…or a priest. Jury was still out.”
We walked out of the Electric Cinema together. For the first few seconds, neither of us said a word. The heavy front door swung shut behind us with the satisfying thud only old buildings seem capable of producing, and the February air immediately reminded me that London had absolutely no interest in making anyone feel welcome.
Portobello Road was almost deserted. The streetlamps washed the pavement in soft amber light, while the neon signs outside a couple of pubs still stubbornly refused to admit the night was winding down. Without either of us mentioning it, we naturally fell into step. I glanced back at the cinema.
“I loved that,” I said. “This place has actual soul.” I smiled to myself. “Unlike those giant multiplexes where it feels less like you’re going to watch a film and more like you’re checking in for an MRI.”
Harry laughed.
“That’s… surprisingly accurate.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “It’s one of my favourite places in London.” He glanced up at the building as we walked. “It opened as a theatre in 1910. Then it became a cinema. Then a theatre again.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s survived just about everything.” His eyes lingered on the old façade for another second. “I like to think places like this hold on to something.” I looked at him. “The people who pass through them, I mean.”
I smiled sideways.
“That’s dangerously poetic for a man who was insisting five minutes ago he wasn’t a frustrated poet.”
He laughed under his breath.
“I’m still not.” He let the silence settle between us for a moment. “But think about it.” He nodded back towards the cinema. “How many first dates do you reckon started in there?”
I followed his gaze.
“And how many of them ended terribly?”
Harry smiled.
“Probably most of them.”
We walked on in silence. I wasn’t sure why, but that thought stayed with me. So apparently he wasn’t just absurdly attractive. He was also the sort of man you wanted to keep talking to until every pub in London had called last orders.
“This was becoming a serious problem. Good-looking men were supposed to disappoint you within the first ten minutes. That was the deal. Harry, apparently, had missed the briefing.”
Just then, the sky remembered we were in London. It opened. Properly. Rain came crashing down without the slightest warning, the sort of downpour that feels less like weather and more like a personal grudge.
“Oh, fuck…” I muttered, looking up at the sky before turning back to the street.
Portobello, which had looked almost cinematic half an hour earlier, suddenly resembled the opening scene of a very questionable crime drama.
“I’ve definitely seen this street looking prettier,” I said. “Right now it feels like Jack the Ripper’s about to appear round the corner offering you a suspiciously cheap kidney.”
Harry laughed, that deep, easy laugh that always seemed to start somewhere in his chest.
“That’s a shocking lack of respect for British heritage.”
I shook my head without a flicker of remorse.
“None whatsoever.”
He looked up and down the deserted street. I laughed. Far more than the joke deserved. Almost as if London had taken his comment personally, the rain suddenly came down even harder. I opened my umbrella. Harry glanced at it before looking back at me, one eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement.
“Do you always carry an umbrella?”
I smiled with all the self-satisfaction of someone who’d spent years learning that lesson the hard way.
“Always.” I shrugged. “I’m Spanish, not delusional.” That earned me another laugh. “After four work trips to London, I accepted defeat. Professional trauma can be surprisingly educational.”
Harry smiled.
“Then I suppose I’m going to have to take advantage of your excellent planning.” He nodded towards the umbrella. I smiled. “Does that smile mean you’re willing to share it with a complete stranger?”
I pretended to consider it.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s an umbrella. Not a marriage proposal.”
Harry pressed a hand theatrically to his chest.
“What a devastating disappointment. I’d already started planning the wedding.”
He stepped in beside me. All at once, the umbrella seemed far too small. His shoulder brushed mine with every step. Our arms bumped together now and then, neither of us making the slightest effort to create more space. The warmth coming off him felt almost unfair against the damp February air. Rain, old timber from the market stalls… and that maddeningly expensive cologne of his. I realised—far too late—that maintaining my dignity became significantly harder when the man in question smelled like that. Harry glanced sideways at me.
“I’m starting to think I’m having an unusually lucky evening.” I turned my head. He was already looking at me. “Not everyone gets rescued by a woman who carries an umbrella…” He paused just long enough for the corner of my mouth to betray me. ”…and who also happens to be particularly interesting company.”
I laughed under my breath.
“Careful. Sarcastic women are dangerous.” I held his gaze for a beat longer. “First we make you laugh…” I tilted my head, unable to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. ”…then we absolutely wreck your peace of mind.”
Harry didn’t answer straight away. Rain drummed steadily against the umbrella, wrapping the two of us in our own little pocket of silence. He kept looking at me. As though he were giving my warning the consideration it deserved. Then, very slowly, he smiled.
“I’ve been making questionable decisions all evening.” A beat. “Funny thing is…” His gaze never wavered. “…I wouldn’t change a single one.”
My stomach did an entirely unnecessary somersault.
“The man flirted with the same effortless ease most people reserved for asking what time it was. Which, frankly, felt like a design flaw.”
For a while, neither of us said anything. The rain softened the world beyond the umbrella into little more than blurred lights and distant traffic. We kept walking. Slowly. Neither of us seemed particularly interested in being the first to end whatever this had quietly become. Harry broke the silence.
“So…” He glanced at the umbrella. “Are you always this prepared…”. A tiny smile. ”…or is this a special privilege reserved for wandering around London alone?”
I turned to look at him. He was still smiling. Not smugly. Just… curious. As though he genuinely wanted to know the answer.
“I’m always prepared.” I tightened my grip on the umbrella. “I have a healthy dislike of pneumonia… and unpleasant surprises.” My eyes drifted over him, slowly enough to make absolutely no effort to hide it. “Although…” I smiled. ”…I have to admit tonight’s surprise is already standing under my umbrella.”
Harry let out a quiet laugh.
“I hope that’s not a complaint.”
I tilted my head.
“The jury’s still out.”
One eyebrow arched.
“Oh?”
“I haven’t decided whether you’re a very good idea…” I let the sentence linger for just a fraction too long. ”…or an exceptionally bad one.”
His smile widened almost imperceptibly.
“And how long does this deliberation usually take?”
I shrugged.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How dangerous the candidate appears to be.”
Harry lowered his eyes for a moment, as though genuinely weighing the evidence against him. When he looked back at me, there was that smile again. Calm. Unhurried. Entirely too attractive. His gaze lingered on mine for a beat… before dropping, almost absent-mindedly, to my mouth. Just for a second. Long enough for me to notice.
“In that case…” His eyes found mine again. “I suspect I’ve got quite a lot of work to do.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Just then, headlights appeared at the end of the street, cutting through the rain. An Uber slowed to a stop beside the pavement. Harry glanced towards it.
“I think that’s mine.” He looked back at me. There was the briefest pause before he spoke again. “If we’re heading the same way…”. He nodded towards the car. ”…we could share it.”
He waited. Patiently. No expectation. No awkwardness. No hint that saying no would disappoint him. Just an offer. As though the decision genuinely belonged to me.
“Because apparently being absurdly attractive wasn’t enough. The bastard also knew how to invite a woman into a taxi without making it sound like an invitation.
Sharing an Uber with a man I’d spent the last forty minutes mentally undressing? Objectively… an appalling idea. Was I going to say yes? Obviously.
My judgement had packed its bags and quietly drowned itself somewhere in the Thames about half an hour ago.”
I looked at him, one eyebrow lifting, despite the far less dignified reaction my stomach had decided was appropriate.
“And you?” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Do you always strike up conversations with strangers after whispering to them through half a film…” I let my eyes linger on his for just a beat longer. ”…or is inviting them to share your Uber reserved for particularly memorable evenings?”
Harry laughed softly. He didn’t look away.
“Not always.” A pause. “Only when the stranger makes me forget I was perfectly happy going home on my own.”
I smiled despite myself. My eyes dropped for a moment before finding his again.
“You’re making it awfully difficult to keep pretending I’m still undecided.” A smile escaped before I could stop it. “You’re dangerously good at this.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Occupational hazard.”
I laughed.
“And what’s your occupation?”
He held my gaze for another second.
“Improvising…” A tiny pause. ”…when it’s worth it.”
I felt my stomach flip. The man had an infuriating talent for saying exactly the right thing… and then stopping just before he said too much.
“You’re dangerous, Harry.”
I shook my head, smiling, and gave him a light nudge with my knuckles against his arm. His eyes dropped briefly to my hand before lifting to meet mine again. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not so sure.” He shifted just enough to keep us both beneath the umbrella. Just enough that his shoulder brushed mine again. “I think you’re the dangerous one, Clara.”
I looked at him in exaggerated disbelief.
“Me?”
A quiet smile.
“I’ve known you for less than an hour…” He paused. His eyes searched mine for the briefest moment. ”…and I’m already questioning how I thought tonight was going to end.”
My breath caught.
“Mother of God. That was blatant flirting. Not even subtle flirting. Actual, full-blown flirting. And the worst part? It didn’t sound rehearsed. He seemed physically incapable of saying anything unattractive.
At this point, my common sense had quietly excused itself… and my libido had very kindly held the door open for it.”
The Uber pulled up beside us with a discreet beep, breaking a silence that had started to feel dangerously close to becoming something else. Harry raised a hand to the driver before opening the rear door for me.
“After you.”
I smiled as I climbed in.
“What a gentleman.”
“I’m doing my bit to preserve the species.”
As I was about to climb into the car, Harry rested one hand against the top of the open door, stopping me for the briefest moment. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t have to. I looked up. He was already looking at me. Really looking at me. Like he’d forgotten there was anyone else on that street.
“You can still change your mind.”
His voice was quiet. Almost lost beneath the rain. There wasn’t the slightest trace of pressure in it. If anything, it sounded like he wanted to make sure the choice was still mine. I felt a smile tugging at my lips before I could stop it.
“Harry…” I shook my head slowly. “If I’d wanted to say no…” My eyes drifted briefly to the waiting Uber before returning to his. ”…I’d already be in a different car.”
Neither of us moved. For the space of a heartbeat… we simply looked at each other. His eyes searched mine with that same quiet patience he’d shown all evening. Then, almost absent-mindedly, they dropped to my mouth again. Just for a second. Long enough for my pulse to stumble. When he looked back at me, that slow smile appeared again. The one that seemed to arrive only after he’d decided something.
“I’m relieved to hear we’re having the same conversation.”
I climbed into the back of the Uber, making one last heroic attempt to hold on to a shred of dignity. It lasted approximately three seconds. Harry slid in beside me, and the back seat immediately felt smaller. Or perhaps it was simply that the man occupied far more space than should have been legally permitted for the sake of my emotional wellbeing.
The door clicked shut. Outside, rain continued to drum steadily against the windows.
“Evening,” the driver said, glancing at us in the rear-view mirror.
“Where to?”
Harry didn’t answer straight away. He was still looking at me. Not the driver. Me. As though he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the car.
“The Claridge,” he said at last. “Please.”
The Uber pulled away from the kerb, gliding through the rain-soaked streets of Notting Hill. For a little while, neither of us spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Quite the opposite.
Silence had quietly become another way of talking. Harry turned to me, his expression softer than before.
“Do you know what the strangest thing about tonight is?”
I smiled.
“Go on.”
He held my gaze for a moment.
“I went to the cinema hoping to see a good film…” He paused. His smile was almost imperceptible. ”…and it turned out the best part was the person sitting next to me.”
I felt warmth rise all the way to my cheeks.
“You don’t waste much time, do you?”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“No.” He gave the smallest shake of his head. “I’m just being unusually honest.”
I held his gaze. Longer than I probably should have. And for the first time that evening… I wasn’t entirely sure which one of us was venturing into dangerous territory.
“That’s even more dangerous.”
The corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.
“For which one of us?”
I laughed quietly.
“The committee’s still in session.”
Another one of those deep laughs escaped him. The kind that somehow seemed to settle somewhere beneath my ribs.
“Let me know when they reach a verdict.”
I let my eyes wander over him before meeting his gaze again. There was no point pretending anymore. I was enjoying this far too much.
“I can’t promise an unbiased decision.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
His smile softened.
“I didn’t get the impression you were an impartial woman.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm.” Barely a second passed. Long enough for my heartbeat to become inconveniently noticeable. “I think you make decisions with your head…” His gaze drifted, almost lazily, to my mouth. It lingered there for just a heartbeat before returning to my eyes. ”…until someone gives you a reason not to.”
His eyes lifted to mine again. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to. The silence between us no longer felt empty. It felt… dangerously full of possibilities.
“Mother of God. That was the most shamelessly elegant chat-up line I’d ever heard. And the worst part? He was absolutely right. My brain had been trying to regain control for the past twenty minutes. The rest of me had filed a formal objection.”
summary: i do not know what it is about you that closes / and opens; only something in me understands / the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
(or: one afternoon on patrol, your friendship with Joel tips into something else)
|| SMUT MDNI 18+ little angst, little fluff, its got it all, baby! please! read! all! tags! friends to lovers, joel is touch starved, jackson!joel, soft!!!!!!joel, joel is bad at feelings, im so fucking in love w him, anxious!joel, << ive loved discovering this part of him lately, lonely feelings and thoughts, existential thoughts, 1 mention of an age gap, joel feelin guilty whats new, reader feels inept, but reader is capable!, independent!reader, strong!reader, and there was only one bed sleeping bag!, kissing, intimacy, pinv, uhh slightly animalistic moments of smut, praise kink as always cw: animal death (very brief), some dialogue reflective of self destructive tendencies, reader feels very alone ||
a/n: title is from a poem / yr honor I literally love this man down bad ok? / originally named “joel miller actually likes you” in my docs if that gives you any idea of what this entails
wc: 8k
Joel Miller didn’t really do friendship.
And it could’ve been a symptom of twenty years of the world turning neighbor against neighbor or perhaps he’d just always been wired that way. An introvert with a streak of cantankerousness that flared, especially on the wrong day. He knew the folks of Jackson liked him enough to call him over to fix their things, to offer coffee beans or a cold beer or a slice of pie in return for the work he did. He liked doing it. Afterall, he liked being useful. It gave him a quiet satisfaction of knowing he was part of a community, even if he didn’t have what most people would call friends. He was aware that he was no ray of sunshine, and maybe a bit irritable. And when the job was done, people didn’t usually ask him to stick around, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t sure what he’d have to say, anyway.
But there was one exception.
One person—besides Tommy and Ellie—whose name he didn’t mind hearing when patrol assignments went out. One he didn’t meet with a groan or an eye-roll. The rare soul he could spend a long stretch of miles beside without feeling the itch to fill any silences.
You were different from most of the people that Joel had met in his fifty something years. Independent and tough skinned but kind to the bone. You didn’t talk much, which suited him fine, but when you did, you were… hell, you were funny. You caught his awful dad jokes and lobbed better ones back when the mood allowed. You liked to learn, took pointers without bristling—though you rarely needed them. And when he offered a tip, whether it was coaxing a stubborn fire to life or stripping a rifle, he could tell you appreciated it. You could shoot straight, move quick, scavenge smart. You were steady in a panic and didn’t fold in a fight.
It was strange— enjoying someone’s company the way he did yours. Strange enough that Joel sometimes caught himself wondering if you felt the same.
This summer had been the nastiest so far in Jackson. The heat blazed during the day, pressing against the mountains until the nights split open with storms, leaving behind a heavy, lingering damp that clung to the air in a way the northwest rarely did. It turned the woods thick with biting insects, the trails slow and mud-ridden, and the nights long and restless.
You were moving slower than usual, trailing behind Joel as you rode toward an abandoned lookout the patrol log had marked to make usable again for training new members of the community. Both of you knew it would take the better part of the day, and you’d packed in case it took longer: a sleeping bag rolled tight behind your saddle, extra rations stowed away. The dark clouds that were stacking over the far mountain range promised a storm you didn’t want to be caught in unawares.
He couldn’t say exactly what it was, but something about you felt…off that day. You were quiet, which wasn’t anything new, but the air around you carried a kind of unease he couldn’t place. For one, you hadn’t laughed at his god awful joke twenty minutes ago.
How you like your eggs? ‘Cause it’s hot enough I could damn near fry ‘em on my back right now.
Wasn’t his best work by any means, but he’d only said it to crack a smile on your face, but nothing ever came of it. He was almost certain you hadn’t even heard him, your mind a thousand acres away while your horse kept close behind his.
Joel slowed, reining in his steed until you drew up beside him. Ahead, the field opened into low brush, not tall enough to hide the cabin on its stilts. A weathered A-frame, the kind that had once been rented out for weeks at a time to families looking for mountain air in summer, or skiers in winter. Back when the world still turned like it should.
“What d’you say we run a perimeter check? I’ll take south, you take north. Meet in the middle. Blow the whistle if—”
But you were already nodding, turning your horse to the right and breaking off without a word.
Joel’s eyes stayed on you as you rode away, his stare heavy between your shoulder blades. Something about you was wrong today in a way he couldn’t shrug off. You weren’t just quiet. It was like you were somewhere else entirely, moving like the work in front of you barely registered. Normally, you’d meet his eye before splitting up, maybe toss him some dry comment to show you’d heard him, double check he had ammo in his gun or water in his canteen. Now there was nothing.
He didn’t like not knowing what was going on in your head. Not out here.
Still, he turned his horse toward the south side of the ridge, keeping his rifle close, boots shifting against the stirrups as he started down the slope. The air felt thick enough to press against his skin, and every sound—or lack of one—seemed louder for it. He kept his eyes moving, ears tuned to the treeline. For a while it stayed still and empty, the kind of quiet that made a man think that, just maybe, it’d be an easy sweep. He could picture the rest of the evening like this, eventually getting to the cabin and filling the log book with no sightings to report, working through a few repairs the rest of the day before splitting rations and building a low fire inside with you. It was almost enough to let himself breathe.
But then came the shrill of your whistle.
Cutting through the mountain air, all thoughts of finding you and splitting a strip of jerky over a well-earned cup of coffee went out of his head faster than a landslide. His horse, trained to react, lunged forward, ears pinned, muscles coiled and driving hard toward the sound. Joel leaned into the motion, tightening his grip on the reins as the world narrowed to a tunnel of wind and pounding hooves. His heart climbed high into his throat, his stomach dropping hollow beneath it, and still he forced the air steady through his lungs, urging the animal faster, faster, until the ground blurred beneath them.
North of the cabin now, his eyes raked the tree line, desperate for a glimpse of you. What he found instead made the blood in his veins turn heavy—your horse, crumpled in the grass, flank torn, eyes blank and lifeless, a knot of runners hunched over it, feeding. They didn’t look up, he was no use to them now.
Your scream cracked the air, and Joel yanked the reins hard, swinging the horse toward the sound. You came into view in a break between the trees, boots sliding in the mud, shotgun bucking in your hands as you fired into the group closing in on you. They were too many, shadows spilling from the undergrowth, and still you fought, the wild light of survival blazing in your eyes.
Joel fired his gun into the mass as he closed the distance, each shot punching a hole in the tide until he was on you. His arm shot out, grabbing you at the elbow, yanking you forward in one hard pull that hauled you up and across the saddle behind him.
He heard the breath knock out of you, but you managed to haul yourself up, seated behind him, your arms securely around his waist as the horse tore through the trees. Branches whipped past, the infected howls fading behind you but never enough to ease the knot in his chest. You were pressed tight against him, your breaths ragged and hot in the heavy summer air, and Joel kept his eyes on the path ahead, willing the trail to hold until they had four walls between you and the world.
When he finally made it to the safety of the A-frame, Joel didn’t waste a second. He turned toward the oncoming hoard that followed, yanked the lighter from his pocket, and set the rag of his Molotov ablaze. In one smooth motion, he hurled it at the advancing infected. The bottle burst in a roar of fire, and the snarls and shrieks of the fungal creatures were swallowed by the crackle of burning flesh.
Finally inside, he let you down from his horse in the stale basement garage. The air was full of breath; the horse’s throaty heaves, Joel’s bullish breathing, and your short, panicked lungfuls. Sweat dripped from every pore in the room, dripping to the floor as Joel hefted himself down to the ground, staying by the horse’s saddle for his canteen. He threw it to you, and you caught it, unscrewing the cap and sipping slowly.
Your eyes stayed wide, fixed on nothing, like the last ten minutes were playing over and over in some loop you couldn’t step out of.
“What happened?” he asked finally, voice low, his own breathing still heavy but beginning to steady. He worked at the tack while he waited, pulling the straps loose, setting the weight down in the corner.
“I…” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “I thought it was fine. Jasper was—he knew something was there, and I didn’t listen to him. Oh god, Jasper—”
The words broke apart and you sucked in air too fast, your mouth opening in a soundless, gaping cry before it collapsed into sobs. You folded in on yourself, shoulders drawn up, forehead bent toward your knees.
“Hey, hey,” Joel murmured, stepping closer. “S’alright, you didn’t know. I shouldn’t have let you go alone, I should’ve helped—”
“i don’t need your help, Joel.” The snap in your voice was sudden, sharp, cutting between you like a knife. Your teary face turned up to him, eyes narrowed, cheeks hot and wet with anger.
Joel felt the sting of it in his chest, his head drawing back as if you’d struck him. You’d never spoken to him that way before. Never once had you been cruel to him, not even in jest.
“What the hell’s gotten into you today, girl?” His tone sharpened, though he hated himself for it, the old reflex of defense coming too easy. He could feel his temper straining at the leash, the collar of it cinched tight around his throat. Always there, always needing to be held short. With you, it usually heeled: quiet, watchful, content to sit at his side like a domesticated dog. And maybe your outburst had startled the beast, yanking the chain from his grip before he could close his fist around it.
“You should’ve left me out there, asshole. I had it.”
“S’that why you blew the whistle then?” His voice climbed with the words, “Sure didn’t look like you had it.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered! No one—” Your chest was rising too quick, too shallow, and he knew that sound, that pace, that look. He’d worn it himself, alone in the dark, waking from dreams that clung like a second skin, haunted by the things he could never take back and the ones he knew were still coming, no matter how hard he fought.
“Hey—” He said again, leaning down toward you, hands reaching.
“Don’t!” you cried, jerking back. “Don’t you hear me? It wouldn’t have fucking mattered. No one gives a shit, no one cares. No one even likes me. I have no one, Joel. If I didn’t make it back, no one—n-no—” your words punched into sobs, your fingers pushing into your eyes as if to stop the tears from falling.
The words landed heavy, his jaw tightening against the ache. “That ain’t true, darlin’—”
“You’re the only—” You cut yourself off, as if the words caught on your tongue, your mouth stitched closed for a heartbeat. Your breathing came hard and uneven, tumbling over itself. “You’re my only friend. And you don’t even trust me to handle my own shit. I’m useless. I’m useless.”
“You’re not—” He stopped, his throat locking around the rest. God, he was so bad at this. Watching you split open in front of him was like watching his own reflection splinter, all those same cracks he carried, all the same thoughts he’d fought down for years. This independent, capable, stubborn person—someone who could hold their own in a fight, who people relied on—sitting here convinced she had nothing to offer. It was baffling. And it made sense in a way he hated, because he’d known that angry, digging feeling all the same.
And now here you were, the one person he’d trusted, the only person he had left, looking at yourself the way he’d looked at himself for years. It was breaking his fucking heart.
He wanted to tell you everything he saw in you: your grit, your quickness, the way you made his worst days bearable. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was kneel there, feeling as useless as you swore you were, wishing he knew how to make you believe otherwise.
You hid your face in your hands and sobbed harder, the sound tearing through the quiet. Joel only knew one thing for sure, and that was to sit down beside you against the wall and wrap his arms around you. He pulled you in, and you let him—thank God. He wasn’t sure he’d survive another lashing of rejection from you.
Your head found his chest, fingers clutched in his shirt. His hand settled over the crown of your head, stroking gently as you buried your face against him. You were still streaked with blood and mud, but he didn’t give two shits. This, he could offer, and so he gave it.
Eventually, your sobs ebbed to uneven sniffles, to a cough, to steadier breaths. You looked up at him from the concrete floor of the stupid A-frame’s basement, and Joel felt things he’d told himself long ago he’d never feel again.
Because yes, you were his friend, he thought—through and through, the only person he could stand to be around outside of his family, both blood and chosen. But in moments like this, when the fight had gone out of you and you let yourself lean into him, there was something else stirring in him. He found himself looking at you longer than he should, noticing the curve of your cheek where it pressed into him, the way your lashes clung together in damp points. You, the sure-footed girl who maybe wasn’t so sure of her place after all, and yet to him you had never seemed more certain, more unshakable. He felt it like a pull, the quiet realization that somewhere along the way, he’d stopped seeing you as just someone to watch his back. And now he wasn’t sure what to do with that.
He smoothed your tear-stained wet hair back behind your ear, letting you sink deeper against him until your head rested in his lap, your body curled on the floor beside him. He kept his hand moving through your hair, eyes on your face.
“Somethin’ happened before we left, huh?” he asked quietly.
Your lip quivered, and you nodded.
“You wanna talk about it?”
You shook your head quickly, then stopped, rubbing your eyes with a groan. “It’s so… so stupid.”
Joel stayed quiet, still combing his fingers through your hair.
“I was gonna watch a movie last night with Ellie and Dina, and… they never came to get me. This morning I heard them laughing about the actors. I guess they’d watched it together. Didn’t bother to tell me where they were meeting, didn’t check in—nothing. I don’t know if they just didn’t want me there, or if they forgot about me, and…I can’t decide which feels worse.”
Joel couldn’t help it, he chuckled.
“Don’t be an asshole,” you snapped, “Just cause she’s your kid doesn’t mean—”
“No, no, it ain’t that,” he said, a laugh tugging at his voice as you swatted his chest. “They like each other, darlin’. I think it was—”
“Yeah, I like them too. I thought they liked—”
“No, I mean… Baby, they’re datin’. I think it was a date.”
You froze mid-shove. So did he, though not for the same reason. He probably shouldn’t have told you Ellie’s business at all, but he’d wanted that look off your face. The one you’d worn when you thought they’d left you behind. But that thought barely got half formed before the other one shoved it aside—he’d called you baby. It had come too easy, too natural, like it had been waiting there for years, lodged behind his teeth. And now it was hanging in the air between you, and all he could think about was whether you’d noticed, whether you’d say something, whether he wanted you to.
“They… oh,” you breathed, stuffing your fingers in your mouth as you stared up at the ceiling.
Mmhmm Joel hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching.
He let you turn it over for a while, watching as exhaustion softened the sharp edge in your eyes. The glossy look no longer from tears but from your mind going far away again.
Then, quietly, before he could stop himself, he said quieter than anything, “You’re my only friend too, you know that?”
Your gaze found his. He pushed past the instinct to shut up. He had to tell you. Had to.
“Only person I like bein’ around, really,” he admitted.
He watched your eyes search his, catching the way the dark light around you softened their edges and pulled out every shade. The only sound in the room came from the horse in the far corner, shifting its weight and tearing quietly at the weeds sprouting through the cracks in the foundation. Joel’s hand stilled in your hair, his palm resting warm against the back of your head as he watched your reaction.
“You’re the only person I like being around too,” you whispered.
Joel felt something shift in him then, small but deep, like a weight sliding into place where it didn’t belong but somehow fit too well. He didn’t know what to do with this…awareness of you that went beyond the easy camaraderie you’d built, beyond the trust earned on patrols and quiet rides. It wasn’t even sudden or new to him. More like noticing a trail he’d been walking for a while without ever looking down at his feet. He’d told himself you were his friend, his only friend, and that was true. But here you were, looking at him like you meant it when you said you liked being around him, and he felt… seen. In a way he didn’t often let himself be.
It stirred things he wasn’t sure he wanted stirred—things he thought had no place in him anymore. Affection that ran warmer than he knew how to name. A pull toward you that was as much about the way you laughed at his worst jokes as it was about the way you were looking at him now, open and unguarded.
Your hand came up suddenly, fingers brushing through his beard. You shifted, propping yourself on your palm resting on the far side of his thigh as you looked up at him. There was something in your eyes that set his pulse knocking harder against his throat.
Your hand lingered in his beard, thumb brushing slow over his jaw, and Joel fought the old, bone-deep urge to pull away the way he would have with anyone else in the world. That instinct had been carved into him over twenty years. But he wanted to stay still for you, let you explore, let you rediscover him. He was human, after all, though the act of being touched for anything beyond survival felt so foreign it left him almost dizzy, a kind of nausea born from hunger gone on too long. The feeling of someone reaching for him, wanting to map out the planes of him, wanting to know him.
You moved again, only a fraction, leaning in just enough that he felt the change in the air between you. His breath caught, but he didn’t move—afraid to spook whatever moment was blooming here, afraid he’d shatter it by reaching back. You whispered something, your sweet breath feathering over his lips, curling under his nose until he found himself breathing it in, drawing in the warmth you exhaled.
He blinked when you pulled back the smallest inch, realizing you just asked him something. Hm? he murmured, his voice catching on the sound.
“You…only like me…” you tilted your head, tongue dipping out to moisten your bottom lip and oh, you were teasing him— “as your friend?”
His throat worked, and your hand trailed down his jaw, lingering along the scruffy line of it before sliding to the column of his throat. You let your fingers rest on the rise and fall of his adam’s apple, the shift beneath your touch as it moved down in one measured glide.
“What do you think?” he said, voice rough as if he’d been screaming.
Mmm you hummed, eyes downcast, lashes fluttering as they lowered. Your gaze settled on his mouth, fingertip rising again to trace lightly along the curve of his lips, brushing the place where they parted under your touch. His heart was hammering now, wild and unsteady, like he was sixteen again, green and made anew by you.
Then, his mind suddenly made of cotton and clouds, you leaned in and touched your lips to his. The faintest, most careful press, warm and tentative, as though you were asking him a question without words.
His hand lifted of its own accord, settling against the back of your head again, holding you there, keeping you. He kissed you back, just a little deeper, but he let you guide it, his heart pounding so hard he was certain you could feel it where your palm rested on his thigh.
Joel thought he might’ve been going insane. So many big, scary feelings colliding in his head, so many thoughts that made his chest feel tight, that he’d spent decades keeping at arm’s length. What this meant, what you meant, what this would all be. It was terrifying to even look straight at, because if he did, he might see the whole truth laid out and there’d be no taking it back. He’d wanted this, wanted you. Longer than he’d let himself believe. And fuck, he was so scared. Scared of reaching for it. Scared of letting himself want it. Terrified that the wrong move would spook you, the one person he felt really knew him.
Then you moved, crawling into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, fingers sliding into his hair as your mouth found his again and all rational thought slipped from him for the moment. This kiss was hotter, more urgent, your tongue gliding against his, and Joel couldn’t hold back the rough, needy sounds that rose from his throat. He ate at your mouth, hungrier than he’d ever been in twenty years, all tongue and teeth and need. Spit slicked your lips, the sweet salt of it clinging to his tongue as your mouths met again and again, each kiss landing with wet, messy sounds that seemed to echo in the quiet room.
He tore back, gasping, eyes locked on your shining, kiss bitten mouth, fighting the near uncontrollable urge to devour you whole. “C’mon,” he rasped, trying to find reason in the fog. “Let’s get settled in, we need to do a sweep and—”
You were already pressing kisses into his beard, catching the corner of his mouth.
“Baby,” he said, voice straining as he tried to keep his head, “we gotta make sure everything’s safe. Then we can have some dinner, make a fire.”
Mmhmm, you agreed, catching his bottom lip between yours, sucking lightly, and it sent heat rushing down his spine. Joel groaned, his hands gripping your hips in the desperation to keep his head on straight.
He gathered you up in his arms and stood, lifting you easily, his knees protesting as he carried you through the dim room beneath the house. The stairs groaned under his boots as he ascended, sunlight spilling above through the cabin’s wide windows as he made his way up into the main area, setting you down on what had once been a kitchen counter. Then he stepped back, pointing a finger at you like you were a wild thing he couldn’t trust to—
—“Stay,” he said.
You crossed your arms, kicking your legs idly.
“I’ll be back,” he warned, turning away. Before he’d made it two steps, he spun back, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you deep, getting one last taste before facing his tasks.
“We’re gonna eat,” he murmured between quick, greedy kisses. “We’re gonna set up for the night,” another kiss, slower this time, “and then we’ll finish this.”
“Promise?” you giggled.
His mouth curved, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I always keep my word.”
“I know,” you said softly, biting your finger as you looked at him.
And that made his heart thump hard enough he swore you could hear it in the space between you.
Eventually, Joel made his way back after sweeping the cabin and checking the exits, finding you in the kitchen, unpacked and bent over a fresh log book. His sleeping bag was already unrolled from the saddle, backpacks open with gear and food laid out in neat piles, a small fire in the old, dusty hearth with a covered pot above the embers. He stepped in behind you, leaning just enough to glance over your shoulder at the page.
Horse lost. Infected in woods around. Cabin swept and safe.
A soft, heavy sigh slipped from his chest before he could stop it. He pressed a kiss into your hair, the scent of smoke and summer still clinging to you. “M’sorry about Jasper.”
You nodded, gripping the pen a little tighter before turning toward him. His hands came up to your arms, thumbs stroking slow, the golden-pink sunset spilling through the windows and painting the room in a warm blush.
“I, uh… got the can of pork beans cooked. Apples aren’t too bruised. Coffee’s on.”
“Music to my ears,” he grumbled, pulling you gently against him. “You okay?”
You nodded again, but still didn’t meet his eyes, and it made his heart constrict. He reached up, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face until your gaze met his. And God, you were so damn pretty it almost knocked the thoughts from his head—the way your skin still seemed to glow even after the tears, the way your eyes caught the last of the light, bright and alive.
“People do like you,” he murmured. “They like you a lot.”
“People, or just you?” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, “Both.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, sliding your arms up around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair.
“You did a good job today,” he said, his eyes glued to yours so he knew for a fact you heard him. And when you tried to pull your chin away, your eyes moving across the room, he pulled you back. He leaned down and pressed a slow, tender kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he’d been holding it all day. You hummed softly at the feel of him, fingers curling into the hair at his nape and giving the slightest tug. When he drew back, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, savoring the warmth he left behind.
“I promised we’d eat first,” he murmured.
“Then hurry up and eat, old man,” you teased, the smile in your voice tugging a matching one from him.
For the rest of the meal, he felt your eyes on him. Every bite he took, you watched, your fingertips sometimes drifting along his jaw while he chewed. He watched you back, the familiar lines of you somehow new again—reborn before him. A reflection of himself in so many ways, yet so different. Stronger. Able to keep going, to shoulder what felt impossible, and somehow still meet his gaze with that spark that made him wonder how you carried so much without breaking.
The sun eventually sank behind the ridgeline, leaving the cabin wrapped in shadow. The only glow came from the hearth, the fire low but steady, its light breathing over the walls in slow, uneven pulses. Outside, rain began to fall in a steady curtain, the sound filling the quiet between you. Every so often, lightning split the dark, a stark, silver flash that lit your face for an instant before the thunder rolled in, low and deep enough to stir the floorboards.
At some point, the meal had gone untouched, mugs cooling on the table. Whatever small tasks there had been to keep hands busy were left where they were, and you found yourselves simply… watching each other. The stillness between you felt heavy, charged.
Joel had your hand in his now, his thumb working slow circles into the back of your palm, as if feeling for something beneath the skin, and you let him. You were quiet, steady under his touch, letting him explore the rough ridges of your knuckles, the way they gave way to the delicate skin of your wrist. His fingers moved gently, almost reverently, and the longer he looked the more he realized how little of you he’d really touched before now.
It was odd. Part of him thought, yes, this was it. A natural progression of things between two people who respected each other, who knew each other better than anyone at the bottom of the mountains behind those big fences. Two people who trusted each other, who looked after each other for this long.
And yet, the other part of him recoiled at the thought—who did he think he was, taking advantage of your trust like this? You were younger, thrown with him on a patrol by nothing more than chance long ago. You trusted him, and now he was thinking about how it would taste in his mouth.
It was as if you could hear the clanging of it all in his head—the rusted gears grinding against one another after too many years without oil, a machine long unused and suddenly put to work again.
You took his hand in yours now, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing the pad of his thumb, your eyes steady on his. “What’s goin’ on in that big head, hm?” you asked, the words quiet, almost coaxing, before you pressed another kiss to the tip of his index finger.
He shook his head.
“You trust me?” you asked.
“With my life.”
It was the plain truth, he barely had to think on it.
“Then trust me to know what I want—who I want—regardless of anything trying to tell you otherwise.”
“How did—”
“I know you, Joel Miller,” you said, almost with a sigh. “Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.” You kissed his palm, your mouth warm against the worn skin, and traced along the lines carved into him, your lips following the curves as though you were reading him. He wondered, briefly, what you might find there. If the notches in the lines gave away the years he’d spent half alive, hollowed from the inside, wearing the shape of the person he’d long lost hold of. He wondered if you’d notice where the course shifted, where the tide had turned. How much of him had been remade because of you—your steadiness, your light. A friend, a truth teller. Someone who saw him as he was, and somehow, still wanted to look.
“Yeah, I reckon you do,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I…I feel the same. About you.”
“Then you know I’d never lie to you.”
He nodded, still trying to wrestle the thought down his throat. A long pause rented the room, only the cracks of embers and the rain on the roof filling it.
“Think it’s time for bed, don’t you?” he said at last, his voice a touch rough, like he wasn’t quite sure how to bridge the space between what had just passed and whatever came next.
Your eyes lifted to his, and for a heartbeat he was certain you saw more than he’d ever meant to let slip. More than he’d ever wanted anyone to see—but then again, you were the only person he’d want to see him like that. As he was.
“I think so.” you whispered back.
He moved around slowly, as if cautioned by some nervous creature in his midst, to the open sleeping bag you’d laid out in the hours before. You both seemed to hesitate as he knelt onto the plush padding above the floorboards, the wood creaking in complaint, not unlike his joints. Something about it felt like a threshold—this shared bed, this shared space. It was stepping into the unknown, a closeness neither of you had crossed before.
You followed him, equal in your nervousness but far more graceful, easing yourself down as the firelight painted your face in amber. Joel lowered himself beside you with the stiffness of a man too aware of the nearness, lying there in a strange stillness, eyes to the ceiling. Shadows fluttered in and out across the beams above, stirred by the dance of the fire.
“Joel,” you finally said quietly. The sound of it sent his heart pouncing into his throat.
Mm? He couldn’t form words just yet, your arm much too close to his.
“What do you think happens when we die?”
His head turned toward you sharply, the swish of the sleeping bag loud in his ears as he found your profile, half outlined in pale moonlight and half blazing in the fire.
“Why you askin’ that kinda thing?”
You turned your head to look at him, his mirror, your eyes as curious and forlorn as he felt. Like the dawn after a storm.
“I don’t believe in heaven.” you began, just a whisper, “or hell.”
Your teeth caught your bottom lip, testing the taste of a confession he knew was on the tip of your tongue. Joel wished, more than ever before, that he could read your mind now. That he could slip inside your thoughts, see the landscape of them for himself. To settle them, quiet their worrying.
“But…” You gnawed your lip now, nerves and some quiet ache knitting themselves into your brow, and Joel turned onto his side to face you fully. His hand came up, thumb coaxing your lip free, brushing the line of your chin as though he might smooth the uncertainty from you.
Your fingers came up to his wrist, delicately holding him in place, tying him to you, “But when I’m with you…it’s the closest thing I’ve ever come to believing in something after all of this. A quiet, some sort of… of peace. And sometimes I wonder…” You closed your eyes briefly, gathering yourself, before finding him again with a gaze soft enough to unmake him. “like maybe I died a long time ago, and no one told me. And this is where I was sent. To be beside you.”
Something in his chest pulled so hard he thought it might tear him in two. He didn’t trust his voice to survive the weight of what he wanted to say, so instead of saying anything at all, he crushed your lips to his. You responded with equal fervor, your eyes screwing shut, brows threading, the look he knew he mirrored in his own features.
You opened for him, mouth parting and tongue reaching, and he swallowed the gift of it. His hands framed your face, calloused palms spanning your cheeks as he tipped your chin higher, taking more of you, drawing you deeper into him. He was so hungry—God, he was starved— for this, his gut rolling with the ache of it, all heat and reverence a tsunami in him now. Your soft, breathless sounds filled his ears and lodged somewhere in his chest, determined to pull more from you. He shifted enough to lay over you, and you cradled him between your legs, wrapping around him.
His mouth broke from yours only to map your skin with open, wet kisses at the hinge of your jaw, the warm slope beneath your ear, his tongue tasting the quick thrum of your pulse. You dragged your fingers into his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan. Yes, yes, mark me. Make me yours.
His hands roamed with greed of something long denied, gripping your ribs and pressing your hips to his, squeezing the flesh that shown from your shirt riding up. He tugged it higher, then stripped it away entirely, throwing it aside before bending to take your breast in his mouth. Lips latched with a hunger that only that wanton creature in him knew—not with anger now, but hunger. He wasn’t sure how much chain to give it, how much slack on the leash. It had been so long, so long since he’d let it feast like this. Years of pacing behind his ribs, gaunt and bone thin from neglect, now fed and watered in the sanctuary of you.
Your gasp sharpened into a moan when he moved across your chest, kissing and biting the soft valley between before taking your other breast, teasing the peaked bud with his teeth. Your fingers curled deeper in his hair, and his eyes, surely black with need, met yours.
“I love you,” you whispered suddenly, your jaw slack, eyes glazed in heat.
He paused, only for a moment, because yes, yes. It was all so clear. That was what it was, what it had always been, seeded quietly between you and now breaking open to bloom.
He kissed up your neck, nibbled your chin, and pressed his lips to yours gently before opening his mouth and letting the whole of him pour out as he said:
“I love you.”
You kissed him harder, the sound of lips and spit and moans filling his ears in ecstacy, your voice breaking between, “Say it again,”
He chuckled, all throaty and broken, hands smoothing down your body to grip the meat of you, pulling into him, “I love you,” he said, “‘Course I do,”
“Again,” you chanted, breath hitching when he grinded his throbbing lap against yours.
“I love you, baby,” he said, teeth and lips moving to your neck again, fumbling with his belt, your pants, his zipper.
Soon, the absence of clothing made everything heightened and so fucking needy. Every place his skin met yours felt electric, like sparks leaping from one body to the other. He was determined to open you, to split you around him, his cock now aching with the mere thought of you, thick and heavy between his thighs as he pulled your legs up the expanse of his body, feet dangling over his shoulders, hugging your knees to his chest while you lay back, breathless and heated.
You breathed in, hiccuping softly, hands traveling up the length of his arms, over the thickness of his fingers where he held you, finally reaching for his face. He leaned in, desperate for the touch, your delicate fingers tracing the slick, sweat damp skin there as if memorizing him in the dark. Every ridge of cheekbone, every rough line carved by years.
“Please,” you whispered.
He nodded, kissing your limbs. His mouth lingered at the side of your knee, lips brushing over the tense muscle before moving higher. Up to your calf, the scrape of his stubble leaving a faint burn in its wake, then to your ankle, his mouth pressed warm against the delicate bone there.
When he reached the instep of your bare foot, he kissed it as though it were as sacred as your mouth, a quiet hum leaving him as he nipped gently. His hands slid down the front of your thighs, pulling you open wider. One stayed on you, hugging the tops of your legs to his body, the other moving to wrap around himself, sliding gently against your glossy folds. You were pooling with want, the shlick of arousal a symphony to his ears with your pleas and mewling below him. He breathed you in, hot and ragged, and throbbed against you, circling the head of his cock on your bundle of nerves before moving lower.
He looked up at you, the sharp gasp he pulled from your lungs was enough to make the beast in him strain harder against the leash.
“Just the tip for now, baby,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Just to get you ready for me.”
You shook your head quickly, words tumbling out in broken breaths. “Wan-want it all.”
“I know you do, sweet girl. Gotta take our time, don’t wanna hurt you.”
You whined and thrashed a bit, needy and pettish, the wriggle of your hips almost enough to undo him then and there.
He tsk’d softly, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him, and he pressed another kiss to the side of your leg before pushing just barely inside. Your hands gripped his forearm where it still clasped your knees to his chest, nails dragging over the coarse hair there. He eased another inch in, pulled back, then rocked forward again—gentle, testing, opening you up. He should have taken more time. Should have eaten you first, worked you open with his fingers until you were ready for him. But the want was too loud now, too deep in his marrow. He was half-man, half that chained beast in his mind, behind his ribs— crazed by your need, by the tight pull of you already wrapping around him.
“Please, Joel… I’m ready,” you whispered, a moan slipping out as his hips rolled once more.
“Yeah?”
“Yes!” you squealed, talons sinking into the meat of his arm.
“Okay, okay,” he conceded.
He wrapped his arms tighter around your legs, locking you in place as his hips surged forward. The stretch tore a strangled sound from both of you, and he swore he could feel the mouth of your womb kiss the tip of his cock. Your walls hugged him, pulling him in deeper as he rested there. He dug his teeth gently into your calf as he watched your face, your features twisted with strain and bliss.
“So fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he rasped, kissing your bitten flesh, unable to stop the words from pouring out of him, his mouth slack and brain gone to the fog of arousal. His syllables slurred past his mouth before he could catch them, “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, prettiest fuckin’ pussy too.”
“J-Jooooel,” you mewled, hands scrambling for something to hold. He dropped one of his hands to catch them, threading his fingers through yours and bringing your joined hands to his lips as he leaned forward. He pushed down, bending you in half, knees to chest, kissing your fingers where they held his broad palm between them. He set an easy pace, enough to keep him tethered to reality for a bit longer. A gentle push and pull, your walls hugging him, demanding to keep him in deeper.
“How you feelin’ sweetheart, hm? How’s that feel?”
“So—oh godddd,” you moaned, “so full, Joel,”
“I know, I know… doin’ so good for me. My good girl,” he cooed, watching your brow pinch, your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your eyes threatened to roll back.
“Focus. Right here—eyes on me, baby.”
You forced them open, only for them to widen when he pushed in harder, deeper, a deliberate thrust that made you squeal and clutch at him: one hand still trapped in his grip, the other clawing at his arm, his neck, the rough of his beard.
“Tell me how good of a girl you are," he demanded voice nothing more than a growl, “tell me,”
“I’m…I’m…”
“‘I’m a good girl’,” he practiced, "ain't you, baby? Repeat it.”
“I’m your good girl.”
How could one fucking word completely undo him?
“That’s right, honey. That’s it.” He continued a rhythm that had you keening, your legs tightening around his neck as your voice climbed. Yours, yours, yours, you breathed, eyes rolling, your heat fluttering around him. He pushed in harder, deeper, peppering kisses along your fingers and the round bones of your knuckles, his beard scratching just enough to make you shiver.
“Love you so much, sweet girl,” he murmured into your skin. “Come on, come for me now, be my good girl.”
You shook your head, a whine catching in your throat as your hips rolled to meet his, your fingers tightening in his grip.
“No?” Joel questioned, a breathless laugh pushing out of his lungs.
“Wanna—” you swallowed another moan as he drove into you, still pushing your knees tight against your chest. His mouth hovered so close to yours that he could have stolen the breath straight from you if he leaned in just a little further.
“Wanna come with you,” you mewled, hands slipping from his to tangle in his hair, both of them dragging him down until his mouth hovered over yours. One lean, one slip of his tongue across your lower lip, and he’d have you. But then, your voice was soft, pleading, begging as your lips brushed his, moving around the words: “Let go for me, Joel… give me everything.”
And he knew, knew you saw every part of him, every piece he kept buried— and that you knew him better than anyone had ever known him. A mirror, a reflection. Like staring into still water and not just seeing himself, but the thing that he’d been missing all along. All this time, he thought he was the one with his fist around the chain of the dog that paced in his chest, but it was you. And you were unleashing him now, taking off the prong, the muzzle, setting him free.
He drove into you hard, letting your legs fall to hook around his hips, sinking into the cradle of you. His hands found your head, the back of your skull fitting into the breadth of his palms, it belonged there, and then he took you, giving you everything he had. Skin slapping skin, mouths colliding, teeth catching, breath tangling— he fucked you as your head tipped back, eyes gone white, cresting and crashing and falling apart around him, your voice a raw cry of his name. And he followed, spilling into you with the same sweet abandon you’d pulled from him, every last shred of restraint gone.
The room was steeped in breath and sweat, the air still trembling from the rampage of Joel’s heart against his ribs. Only, this time, the feeling that followed was a quiet, reverent solace, a sort of beauty in its newness. He lifted his head from where it had fallen in the crook of your shoulder, tracing a path of soft, long, wet kisses to your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose. You hummed, the sound lush and frayed, your voice rasping with the aftermath of his name.
“You are everything,” he whispered, soul bared now, holding the mirror to you. Look, look, see where we are the same.
Your eyes opened, only slivers of color, the light of the moon and dying embers catching in them and returning to him. You kissed him softly, your mouth finding the bristle of his beard, the ridge of his cheek. You drew his head lower, brushing your lips over the delicate flutter of his lashes, the slash across his nose.
“And you…” your voice broke, reformed into something raw, “you’ve always been there, haven't you? Like calls to like.” You searched his face as if the truth might try to hide from you now. But he couldn’t. You saw him now, and there was nothing left for him to hide. And, as if reading his mind, you said:
“We are the same, aren’t we, Joel?”
The rain answered first, slowing against the roof, the roll of thunder climbing further away and over the mountains. Somewhere outside, a branch scraped against the siding in the wind, a faint, rhythmic sound that kept time with the pounding in his chest.
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
listen idk what happened to me during this I feel like I was in another dimmension with all the shit I was throwing in here. hope you enjoyed :'')
thank you my loves @dixonsdarkelf & @dixons-sunshine for giving this a read before it was anywhere close to ready! love you!!!
Tags: minors DNI, alcohol use, marijuana use, overpriced hotel, female masturbation, male masturbation, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, cum eating, tummy grinding, multiple orgasms, tit sucking, one night stand
WC: 5.4k
Summary: A bad storm hits California, causing you to pull off into the nearest hotel. The cost of the room at the luxury resort is shocking, but what's even more shocking is who you end up sharing it with.
A/N: This is my first time writing Dieter and I had so much fun with it! I hope you all enjoy this smutty lil one shot. 😘
Divider: @/saradika-graphics
AO3 | masterlist
It was the worst storm in years. Living in California, you were used to some of the extreme heat and wildfires, but true thunderstorms were less common. You hadn’t been prepared as you were making the trek back home to the Los Angeles area from your friend’s place in San Diego. The rain was coming down so hard that you had your windshield wipers on full blast and still could hardly see the road ahead of you.
When changing lanes almost caused you to slide right off the highway, you decided the drive just wasn’t going to work and followed the exit signs to a hotel nearby - Fairmont Grand Del Mar. The Mediterranean-style resort that you pulled up to felt way more luxurious than you had been looking for. You wondered briefly about driving back out on the road and going to another hotel, but the storm was worse than ever and you figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least see how much a room would run you.
As you pulled up further to the circle drive, you could see the lush gardens and sweeping estates. A valet hurried out from the large palatial doors and walked around to your driver’s side window. You rolled it down, relieved to be under an awning.
“Hello, ma’am. Welcome to Fairmont Grand Del Mar. I’d be happy to take your keys for you... May I?” He glanced down at the door handle, his hand hovering while he awaited your confirmation.
Not sure how to explain that you just wanted to check the price of a room, you simply nodded your head and stepped out of the car when he opened the door. After handing him your keys, you stepped through the large doors, smiling briefly at the bellmen as they ushered you in.
The hotel receptionist smiled at you as you crossed the expanse of the ornate lobby. You walked underneath the concave ceiling with golden chandeliers hanging above you. Your wet shoes squeaked against the black and white tiled floor as you passed by a series of sleek couches and armchairs. Other guests sat in some of them, snacking on warm nuts or sipping a fancy cocktail. A fireplace burned off to the side and you were relieved when you finally stepped onto the rug leading up to the large check-in desk.
The receptionist didn’t greet you until you moved closer, an animated smile plastered on her face. “Welcome! Do you have a reservation with us?”
“No, I was hoping you might have a room left.” You had your bag slung over your shoulder, only containing your clothes from the previous day and some of your toiletries.
You hadn’t heard another guest step up behind you as you waited for the receptionist to check on the availability of a room. Her nails clicked against the keyboard and she looked up at you with that same smile on her face. “Looks like our only room left is the paseo suite with two queen beds.”
“Okay, and…how much is that?” You tried to not sound apprehensive, but you figured a suite in a place like this would be a pretty penny.
“$2,900, ma’am.”
“A night?!” An involuntary gasp left your mouth and you heard the snicker of a man behind you. You turned to look at him, ready to tell whoever it was off, but there was something strangely familiar about the man in front of you.
He was wearing a loose flannel that was only half-buttoned, revealing his bare chest. His hair was wild, as though he had run his fingers through it without taming it at all. He wore jeans that hung low on his hips, his round tummy pronounced overtop. He had a playful smirk as he acknowledged you.
“Split the cost?” His playful smirk almost turned more smug as he cocked his head to the side and spoke with a slight slur.
“What?” You furrowed your brow, trying to understand what he was getting at.
“The room.” He nodded his head toward the receptionist then looked back at you. “I need one. Seems you do, too. We could share.”
“Share?” Your voice conveyed your surprise as you held back a scoff. You shook your head. “No, I-”
“Raining even harder than before,” he cut you off. “Everyone’s gonna be filling up every hotel in the area.” He shrugged his shoulders, stepping in front of you and pulling his credit card out from his back pocket. “You wanna take your chances, be my guest. But I’m staying here.” He held out his card to the woman who was nervously looking back and forth between the two of you.
There was no point in arguing it, even though it came across as completely entitled. You had no intention of paying for that room yourself, so you simply shrugged at the receptionist as she took his card and ran the payment for the suite. She confirmed your suspicion as she asked the man for his information and he gave his name - Dieter Bravo. She pulled out two room keys, handing them to the man. “Here you are, Mr. Bravo. Please don’t hesitate to let the concierge know anything you might need.” Her eyes were apologetic, but she still wore a professional smile as she looked at you.
You were about to give up on the whole ordeal as you readjusted your backpack over your shoulder and turned around, not at all surprised that yet another Hollywood A-list actor was haughty and chauvinistic. You’d only taken a couple steps in the other direction when you heard his voice again.
“Don’t wanna share?” When you turned around, he was holding a room key out towards you. His posture was casual, almost slumped, as though he was truly indifferent as to whether you accepted his invitation or not. There was something about his ambivalence that allowed you to feel a little more safe, so you sighed, reaching out and taking the room key from him.
“I uh…don’t think I can pay you quite half, though. Or, I could, it would just need to be in install-”
He interrupted you again, this time with a shake of his head as well as his hand raised in the air to signal you to stop. The audacity caught you off guard and you froze, your eyes wide as you watched him.
“It’s on me. Just don’t clear out the mini bar, and we’ll call it even.” He picked up his duffle bag and headed in the direction of the luxe elevators. You walked after him.
“Even? What is that I’m giving you?” Your stomach knotted at the idea that he might expect sexual favors from you. Dieter wasn’t unattractive. On the contrary, you’d seen him in a movie last year with one of your girlfriends and had giggled most of the time about how cute he was. You’d always had a thing for dad bods and even now found yourself averting your eyes to keep yourself from checking him out. But you were not into one night stands, even with celebrities. And the idea that he might expect that from you gave you the ick.
“Company,” he said with a shrug, stepping onto the elevator as the doors opened. He held his hand out, keeping the doors ajar for you to follow him in.
You only hesitated for the briefest of moments before following suit, standing on the opposite side of the elevator as you responded, “Company?”
“Yeah.” He pressed the button for the second floor. “I’m between gigs right now, been traveling solo for the past couple weeks.” He looked in your direction, an unassuming expression on his face. “It’s been nice, but I wouldn't mind the company of a pretty lady like yourself.” He smiled as he finished his sentence.
Your mouth opened, but the words didn’t come readily, and before you could figure out what to say, Dieter’s expression shifted into one of concern.
“Oh, not like that. Not like that. We don’t have to have sex.” The way he just said it so bluntly had you surprised, but he sounded truthful. “We could just watch a movie or something. Not one of mine, though,” his voice became dry and serious, “I don’t watch my own shit. Just wipe, flush, and move on.”
“O-okay.” You exhaled and stepped off the elevator when the doors opened. You glanced down at the room key to see the number. 211. Dieter walked behind you as you moved toward the room and used your key to enter. He reached out, propping the door open as you walked in. Your jaw dropped, astonished at the size and opulence of the room.
There was a living area with a fireplace, a couch, and two sofa chairs. A flat-screen television was mounted above the fireplace with an ornate gold frame surrounding it. Built-in bookshelves bracketed the lit, crackling fireplace. Behind the couch was a dining area with a mahogany table and tufted chairs surrounding it. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the center. Running along the dining area were two large glass doors that opened out onto a private balcony.
You looked back at Dieter, clearly appearing awe-struck. “This is insane. Do you regularly stay in rooms like this?”
Dieter nonchalantly closed the door behind him, dropping his bag onto the floor and stepping into the room to explore it with you. He looked around and shrugged. “Usually, yeah.”
You shook your head at his lack of a reaction and moved toward the glass doors, gently pushing them open to take in the view. It was dark and rainy still, so you couldn’t adequately appreciate the gardens that were down below. The balcony had an awning that covered a firepit and two chairs. The wind and rain still wouldn’t make it suitable for an outside fire, but you were sure that it would be a lovely place to hang out.
Dieter stayed inside while you explored the balcony. He took his bag into the bedroom, and by the time you came back inside, he was exiting the bedroom, now wearing striped pajama pants, a loose grey t-shirt, and a green fluffy robe.
You couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous sight. “Those look…comfortable.” You covered your mouth with your hand to fight a second snicker.
Dieter tilted his head to the side and then down, peering up at you over his brow as he remarked, “Since when is being comfortable a crime?”
You chuckled, “It’s not. I just…didn’t expect to see you like this. That’s all.” You shut the doors to the balcony and walked past him into the bedroom.
“I’ll let you get dressed in peace, but I expect some pretty impressive pajamas for how hoity-toity you’re being right now.” He walked over to the couch, plopping down lengthwise and lazily reaching for the remote as you closed the bedroom door.
Of course, the bedroom was just as beautiful as the rest of the room. Two ornamental queen beds were separated by a mahogany nightstand. There was a dresser with another television mounted above it, as well as a work desk. Another set of double glass doors were on the far wall, leading out to the same private balcony.
You shrugged off your backpack, pulling out your pajamas from the night before. They were unremarkable, but at least a matching set. You stepped into the bathroom connected to the bedroom. It had a huge, deep tub with jets, and a variety of bath salts and soaps lined the edge. You stood in front of one of the sinks, checking your makeup and hair. When you walked out to the bedroom to grab your toiletry bag from your backpack to freshen up, you could hear Dieter on the phone in the other room.
“Yeah, she’s cute…I dunno…Nah, she didn’t seem interested…I’m so horny, thank god there’s two beds…”
You couldn't get over how brash he was. Still, part of you felt flattered hearing his lewd statements. Tiptoeing back into the bathroom, you touched up your makeup and brushed through your hair. Part of you felt a little silly for doing your makeup at this hour, knowing you would likely be going to bed soon, but being in the presence of a celebrity felt like an appropriate reason. After brushing through your hair, you put it up in a ponytail and then went back out to where Dieter was.
He was flipping through channels as you emerged from the bedroom. He lifted his head, glancing over the back of the couch at you. “Ohh, fancy with your matching jammies.”
When you walked around, able to see him fully, you saw that he had his pant legs pushed up, revealing his tall grey heather socks as he rubbed at his shin. His back was propped against the armrest and he had a gleam in his eye as he watched you take a seat on one of the sofa chairs. He removed his hand from his leg, instead tucking his arm up and behind his head as he continued leaning back.
“What do you wanna do?” He asked as he lifted his head, looking back toward the bar cart and mini fridge. “You drink?”
“Sometimes,” you responded, glancing over at the bar cart yourself.
“Well,” Dieter sat up on the couch, swinging his legs to the side and jumping up. “Let’s make tonight one of those times.”
You watched as he poured two tequila shots, bringing them over with an eager smile on his face. He set one on the table in front of you, sitting down on the end of the couch nearest you and holding out his own glass.
“To unexpected evenings,” he said, his eyes focused on you.
You smiled with a small huff of a laugh and picked up your glass, clinking it against his as you mirrored his sentiment.
“So,” he said as he set his glass down. “You live around here?”
You playfully responded, “If I did, I don’t think I’d be crashing at an overpriced hotel.”
Dieter laughed, standing up with the glasses and carrying them back over to the bar cart. “I suppose that’s true.”
You elaborated, “I was leaving my friend’s place in San Diego, trying to get back up to Los Angeles. I’m assuming that’s where you live, too?”
“One of the places,” he said as he poured two more shots.
You scoffed, “Oh, right.” Moving your head side-to-side and in a faintly sarcastic voice you continued, “Famous actor and all…I’m sure you have houses all over the place.”
He chuckled as he carried the probably-too-expensive glasses back over. He shook his head, “It’s not like that. Just have a place in my hometown and also on the east coast.” He handed the glass back to you. “And it’s not as glamorous as it seems.”
You laughed at that, really laughed. “I don’t believe that. Celebrities say that, but if I had enough money for a place on both coasts, I think I’d be pretty happy.”
“The money’s nice, sure,” he answered with a shrug, leaning back against the couch as he held his glass propped on his raised knee. “But when you don’t have someone to share it with, shit kinda sucks.”
There was a pause between the two of you. The shared eye contact turned to a downcast look at the floor as you took in what he said. You realized how presumptuous and callous you came across.
“I’m sorry, I just assumed with all the movies and stuff you did, that you were sort of always with people…” You looked back at him. He was tilting his glass back and forth, watching how the clear liquid sloshed.
“When I’m filming, sure. But it’s usually pretty quiet between filming…everyone’s busy, you know? I still manage to find…company…from time to time.” He smiled, and it was obvious what he was hinting at. “But it’s not the same as having a companion or some shit.”
You nodded and gave a slightly nervous laugh, “So uh…is that what I am? Company?”
He didn’t answer you directly. Instead, Dieter sat up, both feet on the floor as he leaned towards you with his glass in hand. “To company.”
“To company.”
After the second shots were drunk, you started to feel the buzz. You put your hand up as you said, “I think that’s it for me. Not looking for a hangover tomorrow.”
“Aww, that’s no fun!” Dieter stood up, walking over to the mini bar and picking up a KitKat. “Want anything?”
You leaned to the side, getting a look at the goodies lined up neatly. “Umm, I’ll take the peanut M&M’s.”
He snatched them up, bringing them over to you then plopping down and ripping into his chocolate bar. “Well,” he said, taking a big bite of the chocolate, “you know what will help the hangover?”
You didn’t respond, just continued watching him apprehensively as you popped a candy into your mouth.
Dieter set his chocolate bar on the table and walked into the bedroom. You heard the zip of his duffle bag and then watched as he returned with a small container, popping it open to show you an array of joints.
“You live in Cali, so I’m assuming you smoke.” He watched for your reaction, and when he saw you smile, he nearly jumped for joy. Pulling out a lighter from his pocket, he nodded toward the double glass doors. “Let’s go!”
The rain had seemed to die down a bit. It felt like more of a sprinkle now, as the wind carried the occasional light mist over the two of you. You stood huddled under the awning, separated by just a couple inches as Dieter lit the joint, taking two large drags, and then handing it to you.
It was good weed. The heat of it warmed your chest and you watched the bubble of smoke drift off as you exhaled. The first hit was already helping to calm some of your leftover nerves as you handed it back to Dieter.
“Waddya think?” He took another puff, blowing the smoke away from you before looking back at you. There was a friendly twinkle in his eyes and it made you feel comfortable around him.
“It’s good,” you remarked, taking it as he handed it to you and inhaling deeply. “My friend had some at her place, but it was kinda shitty.”
Dieter laughed, taking the joint back. “Yeah, well. I don’t waste my time with shitty weed.” He took a drag. “Life’s too short.”
With the rain clearing up, you could see the gardens better. They were beautiful. The two of you enjoyed a moment of silence, just listening to the rain and the burning of the joint with each puff. Nerves started to churn within you again and you looked over at Dieter.
“I, uh, should probably mention that I don’t really do one night stands.” The words hung in the air for a moment. Dieter took the last drag of the joint, stomping it out on the patio.
He shrugged his shoulders, turning to open the door. “Sure.” He walked inside without another word. His response had you hesitating. It seemed so nonchalant that you couldn’t tell if he was annoyed, or truly just did not care.
But when you walked back inside and saw that he was casually eating his KitKat again, it seemed that he had simply moved on from the whole thing. You were grateful to be past the awkward moment.
“Wanna watch a movie?” He was pouring himself another drink. He hardly seemed to be feeling the alcohol or the weed, and it had you wondering for a moment how often he partook in substances.
“Sure, but uh,” you glanced toward the bedroom and back at him. “Could we watch in the bedroom?”
Dieter looked up after pouring his drink with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh! Not-not for…just-” You took a breath, realizing how awkward you sounded. “It just sounds more comfortable and weed makes me sleepy.”
He laughed softly and nodded. “Sounds fine by me.”
The two of you got situated in your separate beds. The table dividing them was fairly narrow, leaving the beds only a couple of feet apart from each other. Dieter had the remote, switching through the different movie options. It was easy for the two of you to agree on a comedy to watch, and you pulled the blanket around you, settling in and noticing how your high made you feel heavy against the mattress.
Your body felt relaxed, including your mind, and it was only about half an hour into the movie before you felt yourself starting to drift. You didn’t hear when Dieter turned the television off, or when he got up to go to the bathroom, turning off all the lights and returning to bed.
You hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep until you woke up a couple hours later, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. The room was mostly dark, except for the glow of the moon through the large glass doors as well as a small light emanating from the alarm clock. You looked over at Dieter who seemed to be sleeping. He was turned on his side facing away from you.
Settling back down in bed, you noticed the persistent pull between your legs. When you turned on your side, your thighs closing together, the tingly sensation only worsened. Fuck. It wasn’t uncommon for you to become insatiably horny after smoking weed, but you were hindered by the fact that you were sharing a room with someone who was practically a stranger.
You lowered your hand down your torso, slipping it between your legs and pressing gently. The slight pressure both offered some relief, as well as made you want more. You glanced over at the bed beside you again. He wasn’t moving aside from the gentle rise and fall of the blanket draped over him.
Closing your eyes and moving onto your back, you let your legs fall open as your fingers started to explore. You slid your middle finger through your folds and down to your aching core. You sighed at the continued relief as you used your fingers to gather some of your slick and move it up to your perked clit.
Rubbing small circles, you hadn’t noticed that you were softly whimpering until you heard the bed beside you creak. You froze, afraid to even look over. The seconds dragged on as you waited to see if you heard anything else. Your hand was still between your legs that were now slightly closed. You bit your lip, pressing down again and then gasping at the throbbing that you felt.
Then you heard it again, the sound of fabric moving, as if a blanket was being moved, or an article of clothing. And then, it was quiet, but you were sure you heard it, the sound of a man exhaling.
Your body was frozen again, but you still managed to glance over. Your eyes widened, both in an attempt to see better in the dark, but also because you were shocked at what you did manage to make out.
The blanket was pushed down around Dieter’s thighs and there was a noticeable tent in his pants. You watched the rhythmic movement as his hand moved up and down, restrained from the fabric. Your eyes finally traveled up and you saw that he was looking back at you, also with your blanket pushed down and your hand between your legs, slipped underneath your satin pajama pants. His pupils were blown out, desperation etched into his features as his eyes moved up and down your body, then back to your face, as if seeking permission.
You bit your lip again, rubbing another circle on your clit and this time allowing an audible whimper to slip out. Dieter groaned at your noises, clearly turned on by the scene in front of him. It spurred you on to continue your movements, even using firmer pressure so that your back arched and your legs clamped together.
“Fuck,” you heard Dieter whisper. It looked like he was trying to pick up the pace of his movements, but his pants were preventing him from jerking off in the way that he would like to.
In hopes he would follow suit, you removed your hand so that you could push down your pants and underwear, kicking them off and letting them fall to the ground. You kept the blanket pushed down as well, completely revealing your soaked cunt in the moonlight as you returned to touching yourself.
It took nearly no time at all for Dieter to eagerly shuck off his pants, allowing his thick cock to bounce up and lay erect against his torso. He took it back in his grip, holding it firmly as he twisted his hand up and down. You could see the precum glisten in the ray of moonlight that shone across the room.
His satisfied groan from the feel of his hand wrapped around his cock made you squeeze your thighs even tighter. You didn’t want to come yet, so you slowed the movements of your fingers, just keeping yourself on the brink. You could feel his gaze on you, and you looked over at him again.
The low rumble of his voice cut through the quiet night as he spoke, “Push inside, baby.” His features were soft, but there was still a crease between his brows as he focused on his pleasure. He was watching you tentatively, not sure if he had crossed a line.
You reassured him by whimpering as you pushed your middle finger inside of your tight pussy, feeling the velvet slick of your walls. Closing your eyes and tilting your head back, you began to slowly finger yourself. The silence in the room allowed for the sounds of your wet cunt to travel, and Dieter moaned, stroking his cock quicker.
You watched as he moved the precum around the tip of his cock with his thumb, then resumed his firm strokes. His balls lifted up with every pump of his cock and you could practically feel yourself salivating. His cock was beautiful and you could only imagine what it would feel like inside of you.
“Another one,” Dieter managed to rasp out as he fucked his fist.
Obeying, you slipped a second finger into your pussy. “Oh my god,” you moaned as you fucked yourself quicker. “Dieter…”
“That’s it, baby, say my name. Oh, shit.” His jaw was tense as he squeezed his cock, trying to stave off his own orgasm.
“Dieter, Dieter…” The palm of your hand rubbed against your clit as you fingered yourself. Your hips were grinding up into the air, seeking as much friction and sensation as possible. “Ohh, I’m getting close…”
“You can do it, come on, come on baby, fuck!” You could hear the rhythmic slapping as Dieter fucked his fist. His balls were tightening as he neared his peak. “Let me hear you come, wanna hear all those pretty sounds.”
“Ohhh!” You moaned and whimpered as your orgasm crashed over you. It was a strong one, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you as your walls clamped around your soaked fingers.
Dieter came with a loud grunt as his cum shot out, coating his chest and stomach and then dribbling over his knuckles. You watched, continuing to pulse and clench at the delicious sight. Your pussy was still throbbing and because of the weed, you still didn’t feel satiated.
He exhaled, looking over at you and noticing your fucked out yet still needy expression. Your chest was rising and falling as you bit your lip, looking at all of the cum decorating his torso.
He didn’t say anything, just nodded with his head, an invitation for you to join him. There was only a split moment of hesitation before you pushed off from the bed, slinking across the floor and crawling up onto his plush mattress. He smiled warmly, his eyes wide and seeking as they traveled across your body and then down between your legs.
Without any more direction, you decided to take matters into your own hands and straddle him. Swinging one leg over his and climbing up his body, your wet cunt pressed down against his tummy. He groaned, feeling just how soaked you were.
“Damn…” he exhaled with a smirk.
Your cheeks reddened just slightly, but then you moved your hips. The sensation was overwhelming as you felt your own arousal combined with his slick. “Oh fuck…” you gasped out as you continued grinding on his stomach. The coarse hairs of his happy trail tickled your clit each time you pulled your hips back, and when you moved them forward, you felt your hole clenching around nothing. Your hands were planted on his chest as you looked down at him desperately.
“Fuck, you’re hot.” His hands came to rest on your hips as he looked at you.
You could feel his spend coating your pussy as you continued to grind against him. The added slickness felt incredible and goosebumps arose across your body, hardening your nipples into two peaks that were now visible underneath your thin satin pajama top.
Dieter’s eyes moved there immediately and his hands traveled up. His fingers gently tugged at the hem of your shirt. “This okay?”
You nodded eagerly and then he gripped the bottom of your top, pulling it up and over your head. He looked at you one more time as he started to lean forward toward your tits. You nodded again, but this time with a whimper as you slowed your movements against his tummy.
He moved his hands to your lower back, supporting you as he sat up slightly so that he could take one of your nipples in his mouth. The warmth of his mouth had you moaning again as your hands moved to the back of his head, running through his curls.
“Mmm…that feels so good…” Your hips were slowly moving in circles against his tummy. Dieter leaned back, pulling you down with him so you could continue grinding as your tits hung in his face. He sucked on them eagerly, switching back and forth as his hands accompanied the movement of your hips.
You finally got the angle just right, tilting your hips and feeling the plush of his lower tummy rubbing repeatedly on your clit. “Ohhh…oh I think..I think I’m-”
You stopped talking, focusing on the overpowering feeling of your second orgasm that was beginning to take shape. Your fingers pressed against his chest as you began to quiver against him. You could feel his half-hard cock nudging your ass as you continued to ride him through your waves of pleasure.
“Oh, just like that…god, you look incredible…” Dieter’s eyes were glued to you, watching your mouth drop open and your eyes squeeze shut as you released your arousal all over his stomach. He reached a hand down, dipping it between your bodies and then bringing his fingers back up. They were shiny with your combined wetness and your mouth stayed open as he slipped his two middle fingers inside of your mouth, wiping them against your tongue.
“Mmm,” you moaned, swallowing down the salty and sweet taste.
When you finally composed yourself enough to slide off of him and look at him, he was giving you a dopey smile, still laying back against the pillow. “Feel good?,” he asked.
You nodded and laid down beside him. He moved his arm out, allowing you to sidle up to him and rest your head on his shoulder. He smelled good, and the warmth he offered had you closing your eyes again already.
He chuckled, “Hey sleepyhead, I think I’m gonna need a shower after all that.” You opened your eyes and looked down at his chest and stomach that were glossy from your combined arousals.
Blushing, you looked up at him and asked, “Can I join you?”
“Hell yeah.” He got out of the bed, taking your hand and walking with you to the luxurious bathroom. His cock was slowly coming back to life and you didn’t miss the mischievous smile on his face as he turned the water on and looked back at you. You decided that maybe you could be flexible about your one night stand rule.
Tag List (usual list as well as those who showed interest): @untamedheart81 @shadowqueen2024 @shrewdreader @m3rdim @milla-frenchy @honey-moon-13 @tateypots @rawndoldersupremacist @david-10ninch-blog @cordycepskiss @whorefordaveyork @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @millermouth @pearlessance
Summary: You take up boxing in an attempt to find a hobby and have something new to do that dulls the monotony of grad school. Enter Joel Miller, your instructor.
Rating: Explicit (18+), MDNI
Chapter Length: 4k words
Tags: boxing AU, joel is your boxing instructor, slow-ish burn, eventual smut, slight age gap (reader is 27, joel is late 30s/early 40s), no outbreak au, unresolved sexual tension, romance, boxing terms galore, single dad joel
a/n: i'm really excited for this story - i think it's the most time i've spent planning something out (which i rarely do lol)! as always, please let me know what you think.
Series Masterlist
The only reason you pick boxing is because you find a Groupon for it. You've been meaning to develop a hobby, something to distract you from endless research papers and grading AI generated homework but grad school barely pays and apparently every hobby in Austin requires a two-hundred dollar a month commitment and your stipend isn't so generous. So when you come across a Groupon for six boxing lessons you think, alright. How bad could it be? At the worst, you suck but you only pay ten dollars a class and at the best, you might even be good at it.
You park in the mostly empty lot, and glance around. It's a strip mall but not quite. There's a frozen yogurt place with a flickering OPEN sign and a bored looking teenager inside, mindlessly scrolling on their phone. To its right, there's a laundromat with whirring machines and the smell of detergent seeping through the crack of the entrance. On its other side is Miller's Boxing Club. The sign looks freshly painted, dark red letters against a starch white board. You can't really see inside it, the lights too dim in the already grey weather. You grab your gym bag and make your way towards the door, your heart thumping against your chest. You're not sure what to expect with the voucher having no details about who would be your instructor. You hadn't thought to ask when you had booked your first session online either. You can't back out now so you steady yourself, and then pull the door open. A bell dings as you enter. At the counter, is a man with biceps that reflect all the boxing he probably does. He looks up as you make your way further inside, a pair of glasses perched on his strong nose. He looks like he might be in his late thirties, at most early forties. His beard and his hair are dark brown and he has a strong jaw. It's a juxtaposition to his mouth, which looks soft and pink. He's handsome, you think and that does nothing to ease your nerves.
"Hello," you say, voice croaky from disuse. You haven't spoken to anyone today, now that you come to think of it. You had spent the whole day in your office working on a paper, only leaving when you knew you had to head out to make it in time to be here. "I'm, uh, here for my first session."
"Right," the man says, accent drawling. "You must be —" he adds, saying your name and you nod, giving him a polite smile.
"I'm Joel," he introduces. "I'll be trainin' you. I see from your intake form that you've never boxed before."
"Yeah," you say. "Wanted to try something new, I suppose."
Joel nods, looking down at the computer screen. His expression is serious as he types something and you watch his broad hands, how he types with a single finger. You look away, taking in the gym. There's a boxing ring in the middle, elevated above the ground. There are also sections quartered off with mats on the floor and a shelf of dumbbells and barbells.
"I'll just need to put your card in the system so I can charge you," Joel says and you nod. You reach into your bag, pulling out your wallet and the printed out coupon.
"I also have this," you say, gesturing to the slightly crumpled paper. "I wasn't sure if you actually needed the coupon but better safe than sorry, right?"
Your nerves have begun to ease. While Joel doesn't seem like the friendliest person, he also doesn't seem like he'd be rude or condescending. At least you hope not. You watch his brows furrow as he reads the paper before he looks up at you, a confused expression on his face.
"I don't know what this is," Joel says and whatever nerves have dissipated come back in full force.
"It's a Groupon," you say and you might as well have spoken a different language based on the lack of recognition on Joel's face. "It's, um, it's a coupon. It says that this boxing gym was having a special. Six classes for sixty-five percent off."
"Think you might be mistaken," Joel says, brows still furrowed. "There ain't anythin' like that here."
You open your mouth and then close it, unsure of what to say. What can you say? That you had triple checked the posting and then some? That you had made sure not once or twice but thrice, that you had picked the right location? If the man that runs the place is telling you you're mistaken, then maybe you are. You're about to apologize for the trouble and pay sixty-five dollars for a class you can't afford when someone beats you to it.
"Dad!" a voice says, and then a young girl comes out of what you assume is the office. Her curly hair is pulled into two braids and her eyes are hazel compared to Joel's brown, but they're just as big as his. "The Groupon's valid."
You watch as Joel looks to his left, his eyes falling on her. He reaches up, running a hand through his wavy brown hair. His bicep flexes as he does it and you shift your gaze, focusing on the girl.
"Still don't know what that is," Joel says and the girl huffs, rolling her eyes. She looks at you with an expression like can you believe this guy and it makes your mouth twitch in a smile.
"It's a thing, dad," she says. "Uncle Tommy said it'd be good for business so I helped him set it up."
"Tommy said runnin' six private sessions for ten bucks each would be good for business?" Joel asks and you can feel something like embarrassment settle in your gut. It's the implication of it, that you might be cheaping out, that has you feeling this way. Technically you are, but you're a grad student on a stipend. It's not like there's an abundance of money. Plus, Groupons are completely normal. It's not your fault that Joel, apparently, has never needed a coupon for a workout class before.
"Yes, dad," the girl says, sounding exasperated. "He said you wouldn't agree to it which is why we didn't tell you. It brings people in. People who've never done this before but might want to after."
She pointedly looks at you and Joel follows her gaze, his dark eyes settling on you.
"Right," Joel says, still sounding unconvinced.
"I can just leave —" you start to say but the girl shakes her head.
"No!" she says. "You don't have to. Dad'll do it. Right?"
Joel nods, but he doesn't look pleased.
"Sure," Joel says. "You need to change or anythin' or are we good to start?"
You look down at your leggings and baggy tee before meeting Joel's eyes. He's still watching you. His gaze is unwavering and you've never been one for eye contact.
"I'm ready," you say and he nods. He takes his glasses off before he stands up. He's even bigger now, tall and broad everywhere. You glance at his daughter and there's a pleased smile on her face.
"Go do your homework, kiddo," Joel says and she groans.
"Fine," she says. She looks at you now, giving you a gentle smile. "Good luck. I'm Sarah, by the way."
You smile back, feeling your nerves settle. She seems sweet and surely Joel had some hand at that, so perhaps your initial analysis of him was correct — not friendly but definitely not going to point and laugh when you inevitably slip and fall or something.
"Nice to meet you Sarah," you say. You tell her your own name and she grins before bounding off, back into the office. Joel clears his throat and you look back at him. He cocks his head towards the gym and then turns around. You follow, assuming that's what he means for you to do. Unsurprisingly, he does not immediately lead you to the ring. Instead, he leads you to a corner of the gym. He turns around to face you, and you stand up straighter, wondering if he's doing some sort of internal assessment.
"So you've never boxed before," Joel says and you nod even though it isn't a question.
"Guilty," you say and Joel doesn't laugh but his mouth does twitch in an almost smile.
"We'll start with a warm up," Joel says. He reaches for something on a shelf before handing it to you. It's a jump rope.
"You know how to jump rope?" Joel asks and you nod. "Okay, five minutes of this and then we'll do some dynamic stretchin' before we begin. Sound okay?"
You nod. He stares at you expectantly.
"Right," you say. "I'll just start then."
You begin to jump rope and twenty seconds in and you realize that maybe it's been too long since you've done active cardio. You mostly go on long walks when you need to wind down and sometimes you'll do a yoga video on YouTube if you have the time and energy. A minute in, you have to take a break, already feeling sweat bead at your forehead.
"Sorry," you tell Joel, who isn't watching you but instead looking for something in a cupboard. "Haven't done this since I was twelve."
"S'okay," Joel says, looking back at you. "Just do what you can. I'll let you know when your five minutes is up."
His reassurance helps you relax. You were expecting some sort of disappointment or maybe Joel telling you to buck up and keep going. So it's nice that he sort of lets you be. You huff your way through the next four minutes, lungs burning a bit when Joel lets you know that it's time. He walks you through some stretches which feel a lot more familiar, almost like the yoga videos you do. Finally, you get to the boxing part and there's a buzz of excitement inside of you. You've always loved learning new things. It's part of the reason why you went to grad school.
"We'll start off with your stance. Balance is just as important as bein' able to throw a punch," Joel says, coming to stand in front of you.
"That makes sense," you say. "How do you want me?"
You only realize what you've said once the words leave your mouth and your eyes widen. You can feel your ears burn and when you look at Joel, his mouth twitches before he schools his features into something neutral.
"Keep your feet shoulder width apart," he instructs. "Like this."
He demonstrates and you watch before you try it yourself. Joel looks at your stance, carefully taking it in before he nods.
"S'important to stand your ground," he says. "If you lock your knees straight it gives your opponent the chance to knock you over. Bend them a bit."
You follow his words, lowering your stance a bit.
"Good," he murmurs, circling you. You ignore the low tone of his voice, focusing on staying balanced. "Now take a step back with your left foot. Just a small one."
You do, raising your heels when he tells you to do so.
"How's that feel?" he asks and you shrug.
"Sorta unnatural," you say, and to your surprise, he huffs a laugh through his nose.
"Mhm," he says. "It'll take you a bit to get used to it but the goal of it is that you're light on your feet. It'll help you to dodge and move around without actually bein' able to run away."
"Oh," you say, your stomach churning. "So, I'm going to fight people then?"
"At some point in this, we'll spar," Joel corrects. "Just to make sure you're gettin' what you're supposed to do. It's nothin' violent and I'll be gentle with you. We'll go real slow at first."
"Oh," you say again, ignoring the way your mind immediately latches onto his words and the less appropriate contexts he might use them in. "That seems more reasonable."
"Sure is," Joel says. "Now I want you to move back and forth on your toes. Just in place."
You do, trying not to feel stupid. When you signed up for boxing, you sort of expected to go straight into throwing punches and dodging things. Not light jogging in place like a rocking horse.
"Like this?" you ask and Joel tuts.
"No," he says. "You're puttin' too much pressure on your toes. You need to balance on the front half o' your foot. It's not tip-toein'."
Joel comes to stand in front of you. You stop your movement, and watch as he takes his stance. He transforms when he does it, his face pulling into something focused. He straightens his torso, bending his knees and moving back and forth. You look at his feet, watching how he places them. You try again, and he stops demonstrating, watching you.
"Better," he says and the praise feels good even if it isn't all that much. "Now bring your arms up, keep your elbows tucked towards you."
You follow suit.
"This is how you protect yourself," Joel instructs. "In our next session, I'll teach you how to jab. For now, I want you to practice movin' front and back for a bit. I'm goin' to observe and then I'll let you know when to switch to left to right. It's the same foot movements, you're just movin' your stance a bit to make your feet further apart. I'll show you when we get there."
And he does. You and Joel spend the next thirty minutes moving forwards and backwards and then left and right. It feels silly at first but by the end of it, you find yourself more sure of your stance. You feel less stiff too. Joel watches you through it, correcting you gently with his words. By the end of it, you're out of breath but more confident. You can feel your heart beating in your chest and sweat gathering at the nape of your neck, where your hair is gathered into a low bun.
"Good," Joel says. "You're movin' more fluidly, we can continue workin' on it next week. I'm goin' to teach you how to wrap your hands now. Part of boxin' is wearin' the gloves but you still have to protect them. The gloves can only do so much."
"Right," you say. You wonder if now might be a good time to mention that you've never broken a bone in your body and because it's never happened in your twenty-seven years of living, you sort of have an irrational fear of it. You look up at him instead, waiting for his next instruction. He picks up a roll of what looks like gauze, his brows furrowed as he unravels the end. Then, his singular focus is back on you.
"I'll wrap your right hand to show you," Joel says. "S'that alright with you?"
You nod, unsure why he's asking. So far, he's spent the whole session telling you what to do with no permission. It's only when he takes a step forward and takes your right wrist in his hand, do you understand what he was really asking permission for. To touch you. His hand dwarfs your own, and you can feel the callouses on them as he turns your hand over in his.
"Do you need me to hold it in any specific way?" you ask, mostly to distract yourself from his warm palm. He's standing closer to you now. So close that you can see the brown of his eyes so clearly.
"Nah," Joel says. "Just need you to flex your fingers slightly, not too rigid. I still need to be able to move 'em around."
"Okay," you say. "Just let me know if I'm doing anything wrong."
Joel hums as he nods.
"You start by puttin' your thumb through this loop here," he says as he moves the band over your thumb. He's gentle as he adjusts the fabric and you make sure not to keep your fingers too flexed. "Then we have to wrap your wrist. I'll do three times since you're not goin' to be fightin' anyone."
You watch as he wraps your wrist. His knuckles are slightly swollen, you note. Likely from all the punching he must have to do.
"How's that feel?" Joel asks and you move your wrist around.
"Sort of stiff," you say honestly and Joel's mouth twitches in an almost smile.
"That's expected," he says. "The wrist wrappin' is for support. You'll get used to how it feels and we can adjust as we go along."
"Now we're gonna do your knuckles," Joel says, and he talks through how to wrap the back of your hand. When he gets to your fingers, he's even gentler in his movements. He parts them slowly, asking you to flex them more. You try to memorize how he loops the muslin material between your fingers. When he gets to your thumb, he pauses.
"Your thumb's the most important," he instructs, and is it you or did his voice get lower? You look up from his hand to meet his eyes, his gaze already on you. "You have to make sure you're securin' it well so it doesn't bend when you're sparrin' or throwin' a punch. Broken thumbs are no fun for anyone."
"Agreed," you say. The last five minutes have been far too intimate and Joel is far too handsome for you to be normal about it. You can feel your ears go hot, and you clear your throat. "So how do I protect my thumb?"
"This might shock you but you're goin' to have to wrap it," Joel says and it takes you a second to realize he's made a joke. A laugh slips out of you and Joel smiles now, a real thing. He has dimples.
"Wrap it twice at least, but I recommend three times," Joel says as he takes your hand and does exactly that. "It might feel weird at first but I'll get you used to it. Once you're done with the thumb, you have to secure the wrappin' around your wrist again. Just like this."
He presses the hook and loop strap together, fastening the wrapping to your hand. You flex and are surprised to find that you can still move your knuckles fairly well. You flex your palm into a punch, tucking your thumb against your palm.
"It's not as bad as I thought it would be," you say, looking up at Joel with a smile. He nods but he's reaching for your hand. You let him take it.
"We'll get to this but never tuck your thumb into your palm," he says, gently prying your fingers apart. You can feel the heat of his skin even through the many, many layers of fabric. "S'how you break it. Too much force and you'll pull it right out of the socket."
You watch as he tucks your fingers, pressing them tightly into your palm. You try not to think of how much bigger his hand is compared to yours, his fingers long and thick and his palm broad and bruised. Then he places your thumb on the outside, pressing it down so it's against the knuckle of your index finger. His touch is so gentle compared to what he's showing you to do.
"How's that feel?" he murmurs and you look up at him, meeting his gaze. His thumb is still on your own, but there's no pressure now.
"Good," you say, nodding. His eyes trace over your face before he nods. He lets go of your hand and takes a step back.
"Good," he echoes. "That's all for today."
"Oh," you say. You glance at the clock and to your surprise, it's been an hour.
"The next five sessions will be a bit longer, we're lookin' at closer to an hour and a half," Joel says and you nod.
"I saw that on the website," you say. "Do I just continue making bookings online?"
"You could," Joel says but you can tell it's not his preference with the way his brows furrow.
"Or we could just settle on a day and time for now. I can let you know if there are any changes to my schedule and you can do the same," you say and you watch the tense lines of his forehead relax.
"Thank you," he says. "The bookin' system's new and I ain't the biggest fan of it. Not so great with technology but my brother insists on it."
You smile, nodding. He waits for you to unwrap your hand, and once you're done, you hand him the band of cloth. He places it on the bench and leads you to the front desk.
"So every Thursday at 5 pm," Joel says and you nod. You watch him slip his glasses on and type something into the computer. "Alright. I have you in the calendar."
"Thank you," you say, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "I'll see you next week then."
"See you then," Joel says. He's watching you intently, brows furrowed. You're not sure you can get used to his singular focus. You wonder if the other people he trains are ever momentarily distracted by his big, brown eyes or his pouted mouth.
When you get into your car, you let out a sigh. It's been way too long since you've been with anyone, let alone been attracted to them and now you're flustered by your boxing instructor. You spend the drive home thinking of what you can scrounge up for dinner to distract you from Joel's big hands and his rather quiet, steady demeanour. You're pretty sure you have mushrooms in your fridge and you always have a jar of pasta sauce so you could make something akin to pasta, granted that'll only be possible if you have actual pasta which is something you always run out of. It's just as you pull into your parking spot, that your phone buzzes. You look down at the cracked screen and your brows furrow. It's from an unknown number.
You pull up the hand brake and then grab your phone, unlocking it quickly. You open the text notification.
[(512)-110-0932, 6:13 pm]: This is Joel Miller from the boxing gym. I got your number from your intake form. If there are any changes to your schedule, you can just message me here and we can figure it out. - Joel
You laugh out loud. Of course Joel is the type of man that signs off his texts even if he's given you his full name in the actual body of it. You save his number under Joel (Miller Boxing Club) before you reply.
[You, 6:15 pm]: Sounds good, thanks Joel! Have a good night.
He replies almost immediately.
[Joel (Miller Boxing Club), 6:15 pm]: 👍 You too. - Joel
If you hadn't met Sarah earlier, you'd swear he was a dad just from his emoji choices. You tuck your phone into your pocket and make your way into your apartment. You also tamp down the excitement it gives you, having Joel's number. This is just boxing lessons, you remind yourself. Boxing lessons with a very attractive man who happens to text like an eighty-year old. It's going to be perfectly fine and normal. You're going to be perfectly fine and normal.
Synopsis: Embattled survivor, protective older sibling, surrogate parent, town leader, skilled craftsperson. Fifty something Di has a lot more in common with Joel Miller than either of you would ever admit. An enemies to lovers romance that proves it’s never too late for love.
Warnings: MNDI, 18+ story, mature themes, canon gore and violence, character injury and death, eventual smut, PTSD, cursing, alcohol consumption, enemies to lovers, Joel Miller x you but has a nickname Di that is used sparingly, physical descriptions include being in her early fifties who is tall, strong, physically able, has greyish hair and some tattoos
Chapter Summary: Di has her hands full looking after her sister and nephew. As she witnesses the growing rift between Joel and Ellie, she starts to see him in a new light
Masterlist
Previous Chapter
Chapter 3
Joel walks down the street, contemplating whether to go for a drink or to see whatever movie they're putting on in the town hall. Tommy mentioned that Maria and Benjie are going with him. Maybe Ellie will be around though, she won't want him to be there.
Your nephew brushes past him in a hurry, muttering "Sorry" to Joel as he strides towards the shooting range.
Joel doesn't know much about him, but from what Ellie said before, he's a level headed boy.
A while later, you're coming towards him, your brow furrowed as you rush down the street past him.
Joel hesitates, thinking of walking right on and ignoring you but he can't.
He clears his throat before calling back to you "Lookin' for your nephew?".
You turn to where the voice came, and you can't conceal the look of urgency on your features.
"Did you see him?"
Joel simply tells you "He was goin' towards the shootin' range if it's any help".
Your eyes widen in surprise. "Oh…thanks, I'll try there first" you manage to say.
Joel just nods and goes towards the bar.
You go to the shooting range and Joel's right, there's around six or seven of Joshua's friends practising. As you approach, their talking is loud and boisterous with Darren telling a story. Simon spots you and beckons to Joshua, who rolls his eyes, muttering "Shit".
You stand there with your arms folded until he eventually puts his gun down and walks over to you.
"What now? Are you not even letting me practice?" he asks with his jaw set .
You shoot him a look of annoyance, shaking your head "You know I wouldn’t do that. I need you to come home, your mom is asking for you. She heard us arguing".
He rolls his eyes, muttering "fuck" to himself and he runs off to retrieve his gun. You both walk home together in silence. You pass by the hall and it's full, playing some loud movie.
Joshua rushes straight to his mother's side and envelopes her in a big hug, saying "Mama, I'm here. Everything's ok".
Your sister relaxes, leaving out a sigh of relief. She reaches up to gently touch his face, "Oh, my boy, I'm so glad you're here".
You give them a moment so you step into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. You notice the burnt pastry on your apple pie from earlier.
You can master a lot of things, but baking is not one of them.
When Joshua comes into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a brief hug, whispering "Sorry Didi, I didn't mean to upset Mom…or you".
You smile sadly, brushing his hair off his forehead, "It's ok. No harm done." Resting your hand on his cheek "I love you Joshie."
"Love you too" he says with a hint of sadness in his voice. You know he'd do anything to go on patrols.
You do your best to salvage the apple pie and Gigi blows out her birthday candles. The three of you attempt to eat the dried out pastry. It's like chewing cardboard but Gigi seems happy and that's all that matters.
“Mmm, delicious” Gigi tells you, trying to be kind.
You and Joshua look at each other and all three of you start laughing.
After a while, Joshua tells you he's going back to his friends.
"Have fun!" you call after him.
He is a good kid and you understand where he's coming from. After all, when you were his age all you wanted to do was spread your wings and live your own life.
If not for Joel, it would have taken a lot more time go find Joshua so you owe him big time.
You don't like owing anyone anything, but especially to Joel.
You go with Gigi to see the doctor about her eyesight and it's not good news. As well as her degenerative eye disease, he tells you both she has developed a cataract in both eyes but they don't have the facility to operate.
You clutch Gigi's hand as she takes in the news. She starts to tremble but you try to steady her, stroking her finger with your own in soothing motions. The doctor gives you some privacy and you hear her shudder. You don't know what to say. She sits in the chair for a moment and you stay with her.
Eventually her breathing evens out. She turns her face towards you and almost pleads "Can we go for a drink? Like old times?"
You agree, knowing the Tipsy Bison should be practically empty at this hour.
Once she's perched on a bar stool, she comes alive, chatting to Seth about his grandkids as she proudly talks about Joshua.
You can't help but smile, the old her is still there, your vivacious little sister.
After a couple of drinks, it goes to her head. Before long, she's giggling so you decide it's time to go home.
As you're leaving the bar, your shoulder collides with Joel's.
You both mutter "Sorry" and as you try to keep going, Gigi gets a second wind.
"Who do we have here? You sure sound handsome…" she says, her voice sultry as she tries to make out his shape.
He blinks at first and she carries on, "So you're the strong, silent type? That's your type isn't it Di?" as she leaves out a flirtatious giggle.
Joel can't resist a smirk at this, "Nice to meet ya Ma'am, I'm Joel Miller".
"Oh so you're the famous Joel, I've heard so much about you…I'm Gigi, Di's sister" she answers.
Joel glances at you "Huh, that right?"
You feel your cheeks burning, remembering all the times in high school your sister mortified you in front of a boy.
Why the hell is it having an effect on you now?
You mutter in frustration, "Come on Gigi, now is not the time".
"Fine" she reluctantly says as she flutters her eyelashes at him coquettishly, "Until next time, Mr Miller…"
Joel smiles again as you can't meet his eyes.
Gigi's facade slips as she tries and fails to find the door handle.
Instinctively you reach for it but Joel gets there first.
He gives you a slight nod, which you return, to your surprise.
Gigi exclaims, "Now that's a gentleman!"
Once you're outside, you ask her "What was all that about?"
"Oh nothing, just wanted to have some fun, lighten up Di" she replies.
Although her bravado soon fades as the news she got earlier sinks in. She doesn't say anything else until you're back home.
Joel stays at the bar, minding his own business. He never met your sister before. He could see how protective you are with her.
At that moment, you march back in and Joel watches on as you go straight up to Seth, who's busy shining glasses. You mutter something to him and he just shakes his head.
You make a circular motion and Seth just nods. You start looking under the tables and chairs, pulling out each chair with a creak.
He glances over, seeing your head bobbing up and down as you scour the stone floor.
This goes on for a few minutes, you really don't give up.
Eventually you exclaim "Ah ha!" as you hold up a necklace in victory and Seth gives a thumbs up.
You hurry out the door without a glance in his direction.
You hold your grandmother's necklace tightly in your hand as you sprint home. Gigi decided to wear it and the clasp is faulty.
You add it the ever growing list of things to fix so you put it in your workshop for safe keeping.
You were aware Joel was sitting at the bar, watching you go around on your hands and knees. At least he didn't offer to help, you don’t need it.
You're in the stables one morning, checking in on the new foals and talking to Jill the vet about training them. The tiny foals are barely standing on their feet but you know a good work horse when you see one.
When Ellie comes in you hand her the saddle that you repaired for her. She's impressed how much you've improved the tatty old one.
She mentions that she's waiting for Tommy, saying they had arranged to go for a ride together.
She starts feeding some of the horses while she waits so you go back to your conversation with Jill.
Everything seems calm until Joel walks in instead.
You and Jill can't help but watch on.
Ellie looks furious and genuinely disgusted to see him.
She angrily kicks hay on the ground with her boots.
She defiantly tells Joel "You can fuck this ride, I'm not ever going with you."
Joel is crestfallen, as he holds his hands up in defeat, "Tommy didn't think I should…I hoped-".
She cuts him off with a deathly stare, "Well you were fucking wrong, you shouldn't have come…I'm gonna give Tommy a piece of my mind"
His head is bowed, "Alright, it was my mistake…"
"Sure was…" as she breezes past you, leaving him standing there.
You glance up, seeing a profound look of sadness on his face.
His eyes lock onto yours for a brief moment.
He knows you heard it all.
He leaves without another word, his head bowed.
You're shocked to see that and what's surprising is that you feel sorry for him.
Joel trudges home, stung by Ellie's reaction. How the hell did he think she'd agree?
For fucks sake, he should have listened to what Tommy said "Give her space. No good bugging her. She'll forgive ya sometime".
He thought maybe if they were on their own, she'd listen to his point of view but no, she hates him and that's that. He goes home, but it's too quiet. It's only him and his thoughts. He moves from room to room, pacing around frantically.
Joel can't rest, so he goes to the shooting range, lining up some old cans and picking them off one by one. The place is empty. He takes a deep breath, with the weight of the gun in his arms, he doesn't think of anyone or anything in that moment, just focusing on the target. The bullet hits the can in the middle, causing it to land on the ground behind with a crunch.
He keeps going, standing the cans on the fence over and over, once they are all hit. He's not sure exactly how long he's there, only that his supply of bullets is getting low.
He hears voices coming nearer but can't recognise who it is until he sees you and your nephew arriving, guns slung over your shoulders.
He really didn't want to see anyone.
Not you, not after the way you'd looked at him in the stables earlier.
He immediately packs up his guns and puts away what's left of his bullets.
You do a double take when you say in surprise "Joel!"
He puts up his hand in acknowledgement briefly, muttering "See ya" and walks off, his head bent down and his shoulders hunched.
You watch his retreating figure but go back to instructing Joshua. You can't imagine what Joel must be going through. You hope he didn't leave on your account.
Joshua is getting more confident with his gun, hitting most of the targets without too much effort. It hasn't changed your mind though.
As far as you're concerned, he has a long time to go before going patrolling yet. You feel proud at how much he's improved, but it's worries you too.
Next chapter
Tag List: @aheavylid, @shadowqueen2024
Likes, comments and reblogs are really appreciated
If you enjoyed reading this, please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag list
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: It’s time for Joel to head back to jail, but the day of reckoning is fast approaching.
Warnings: 18+only.
A/N: Finally managed to get back to this one! I’m going to try and manage expectations (and my sanity) a bit more by saying I’ll aim to post at least every other Friday. If I can post once a week, then I will 🥰
Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
Monday evening rolls around before it feels as though you’ve had time to process anything.
These last few days have felt like a whole marriage lived in miniature. The togetherness, the conversations, the love-making…a moment in time of the whole life you might have had unspooling all at once, bright and desperate and doomed, because on Monday evening your time’s up and Joel has to ride back into town and give himself up to the sheriff's office to await the outcome of the trial.
You’ve known it was coming – of course you have. But when Joel had helped you up into James’s brougham for the ride home, you’d pushed the thought from your mind, consumed only with the true purpose of the stolen hours you’d been granted. And now…now reality looms like a harbinger of death over what has become so sacred.
It sits on the ranch like a shadow the whole day long. Joel had risen before dawn and done more work than three men – mended the pasture fence, reshod a mare, split a winter's worth of wood and stacked it under the lean-to against the day you might need it and he might not be there to swing the axe. You had watched him from the kitchen window through the long bright morning, stripped to the waist in the heat, driving himself at the work like a man trying to leave his hands' labour behind him in the very grain of the place, and you had understood that this was how he was saying goodbye to it.
To the ranch. To the life. To the small chance that he might not come back to any of it, despite how positive you’ve both allowed yourself to feel in the cocoon of one another’s embrace.
The afternoon comes too fast.
He comes in at four o'clock, washes, and puts on one of his good shirts. Then he comes into the kitchen where you’re stood at the table not doing anything at all, only standing with your hands flat on the warm scrubbed pine, and he stops in the doorway, looks at you, and neither of you say a word.
"Please,” you whisper, your voice coming out cracked. "Don't say it's time yet, Joel. Not yet."
He crosses the kitchen in three strides and gathers you into him.
You press your face into his chest, wind your arms around his ribs and hold on the way a drowning woman holds a spar. His arms come around your back, his beard presses into the crown of your hair and he holds you just as hard. For a long while the two of you stand there in the afternoon kitchen holding on and saying nothing, because there’s nothing to say that will make it smaller than it is.
"Darlin’, we have to go soon. If I ain’t through the Sheriff’s door by sundown he can send men out here, and I won't have men ridin’ onto this place after dark with you and Sarah in it. I'll go on my own two feet or not at all."
"I know. I just…I don't want you to go, Joel." The words tear out of you. "I know I have to let you. I know there's no help for it. But I don't want you to go and I’m not going to pretend that I do."
His arms tighten. "Good," he says roughly, "don't pretend. I couldn't stand it if you pretended. I’m done with any kind of pretendin’ for the rest of my life however long that turns out to be."
You laugh at that – a wet, broken thing – tip your face up, and he bends his head, and kisses you in a quiet and terrible way, a long careful pressing of his mouth to yours as though he means to learn the shape of it and carry the shape of it away with him into the cell. You kiss him back the same way, memorising, hoarding, and when he draws back at last his eyes are wet and yours are streaming.
"Where's Sarah?" you manage.
"Nappin’. Clean wore herself out helping me stack the wood." His thumb wipes at your cheek. "I know it goes without sayin’ darlin’, but if anythin’ bad does happen, Sarah’s yours – you understand me?”
"Joel…"
"When I'm gone, whatever happens at that trial – she's yours. You’re my wife, in every way possible now, so nobody can take her from you. She's yours. And this place is yours, free and clear, whatever…" His voice catches. "Whatever they decide about me."
"Stop." You catch his face in both hands. "Stop talking like a man saying goodbye, Joel Miller. Stop it! You didn't do the thing they're saying you did. You defended this family. Any man in the county would have done what you did, and you know that James is positive about the outcome. We have the town council on our side, and you are coming home."
"You believe that," he says, eyes searching yours.
"I believe it with my whole heart. And I thought you did too."
"I do, I…want it to be true."
He bends and presses his forehead to yours, and the two of you stand there breathing the same air in the afternoon kitchen until the light through the window begins to gild toward evening and there’s no more putting it off.
You wake Sarah together, which is the hardest part. She comes up out of her nap warm and rumpled and slow to understand, and when she does, she comes apart in a way you haven’t expected. She flings herself at Joel, burying her face in his neck, unwilling to let go. He sits down on the edge of her bed and holds her and rocks her, and his own face is a thing you have to look away from.
"Don't go, Pa, please don't go. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Don't go!"
"Babygirl, look at me." He draws her back and thumbs the tears off her cheeks. "You listen to me now. I have to go and talk to some men in town about what happened. That's all. And they're gonna talk it over, and they're gonna see that your Pa did right, and then I'm gonna come home. You hear? I'm gonna come home."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"I don't know exactly, babygirl. But soon. And while I'm gone you gotta help out, okay? And you say your prayers. And you know what you can pray for?"
Sarah hiccups. "A baby sister?"
Joel's face breaks and mends in the same instant. "You pray for whatever your heart wants, babygirl," he says, thick. "You pray real hard and God’s gonna hear you.”
He holds her a long while more. Then he stands, sets her small hand into yours, and looks at the two of you standing there together in the failing gold light and something passes over his face that you’ll carry with you the rest of your life.
"My girls," he says.
Then he nods and goes outside to help Tomás with the wagon.
****
The ride into town is made mostly in silence.
Joel handles the reins and you press against his side on the wagon bench with your hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the country going by gold and green and heartbreakingly beautiful in the last of the light, Tomás silent in the back.
For some reason, you find yourself memorising it – the way the live oaks throw their long shadows across the road, the way the cicadas saw in the heat, the way the dust rises gold behind the wagon wheels, the warm hard press of Joel's arm against your side, and the smell of him. You memorise his profile against the gold light, the rough dark beard, the eyes fixed on the road, the small muscle working in his jaw.
"Darlin’..."
"Yes?"
"When this is over…"
"When this is over," you interrupt, "we are going to have the rest of our lives, Joel Miller, and I intend to be a very great trial to you for every day of them."
The corner of his mouth pulls. "That so."
"That is so. I’m your wife proper now and you’ll be sorry you ever wished me to speak my mind."
"I'll never be sorry for that." His hand leaves the reins a moment to cover yours in the crook of his arm. "Never once. Whatever comes, I want you to know that. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I lost Tess and I need you to know it before I go through that door."
The gold country blurs through your tears.
"I love you, Joel," you say, “and I need you to come home to me."
"I'll do everything a man can do to come home to you," he says, not quite a promise because he’s too honest a man to promise what he can’t command, but as near a promise as the truth allows and you took it and hold it.
Sawyer’s Creek eventually appears on the hazy horizon. The same townsfolk who watched you leave a few days ago now watch you return with wide-eyes and whispers behind hands, but you lift your chin and look none of them in the eye.
Joel draws the wagon up before the sheriff's office and sets the brake. He sits a moment with the reins in his hands looking at the building, and you feel the breath go out of him. Then he wraps the reins, climbs down and comes around to lift you down, his hands spanning your waist and setting you on your feet in the dust of the street.
He nods to Tomás and doesn’t let go of your hand as you go up the steps to the door.
Inside, Sheriff Hayes is sat behind his desk, and when he sees you, he nods briefly, an acknowledgement of a bargain made and kept. In the corner, you see James leaning against the wall, a glint of satisfaction present in his eyes.
"Mr Miller,” James says, coming forward to shake Joel’s hand. "You're a man of your word. I told the Sheriff you'd be here by sundown on your own two feet and here you are. That counts for something."
"Mr Oliver." Joel nods in return.
"Well." Sheriff Hayes rises from behind the desk. “I'm as sorry about this as I was the last time, but I have to do it. Come on back, Joel.”
The moment arrives and though you thought you were braced for it, you realise you’re not. Not now, after everything. Joel turns to you, takes your face in both his hands, and looks at you as though he means to take the whole of you with him down the corridor and once more into the dark.
"Joel…" Your voice won’t hold. "Joel, I…"
"Darlin’, you listen to me now. You go home, take care of my girl and take care of yourself – just like you did last time. You eat and you sleep even when you don't want to because I need you strong and I need Sarah minded and I can't do either of those things from in here. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes,” you swallow hard, “Yes, I can do that."
"That's my girl." His thumbs wipe at the tears streaming down your face. "I'll be alright in here, just like I was before. It's a few days and then the trial, and then…"
"And then you come home."
"And then I come home," he says, and he kisses you, long, hard and desperate, one hand fisting in your pinned-up hair, the other splayed wide against your back crushing you into him.
You kiss him back with everything you have, both of you knowing it has to last and neither of you able to make it enough, and it’s Hayes clearing his throat who finally, gently, ends it.
"Come on now, Joel, before it gets harder.”
Joel draws back and presses his forehead to yours one last time, his breath shuddering against your mouth.
"I love you," he says low, just for you. "Don't watch me go through that door.”
You shake your head fiercely. “I watched last time and I’ll watch this time too.”
"Darlin’…”
"I'm not going to look away from you, Joel Miller. Not now, not ever. If you're walking through that door I'm going to watch you do it with my eyes open, and I'm going to be standing right here when you walk back out of it. That's my promise."
Something breaks and blazes in his eyes.
"God, I love you," he says.
Then he lets go of your face, steps back, squares his shoulders, and turns to Hayes.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Hayes nods and opens the door. You watch your husband walk through it, watch as he turns back once and lifts his hand, before the door closes behind him.
Then comes the sound of the cell door - the iron scrape and the heavy clang and the turn of the key, ringing down the corridor into the office, into your chest, into the marrow of you. You stand and listen to your husband being locked away, and something inside you that had the fortitude not to break the last time, but doesn’t possess that same fortitude now, gives way.
James catches you before you can fall and sits you in a chair by the window. He crouches in front of you, letting you weep and not saying the useless things men say. Not telling you to hush or be brave or that it will all come right, only staying there, crouched before you, with a steady hand on your shoulder while the storm of it goes through you.
Because he knows what these few days have meant.
Hayes reappears, and, seeing how it is, pours a tin cup of coffee and sets it wordless on the ledge near your hand, retreating behind his desk to give you what privacy the small room allows.
It passes the way even the worst of things pass. You come back to yourself by degrees and wipe your face with the back of your wrist, drawing in a shuddering breath.
"Forgive me, Mr Oliver."
"There's nothing to forgive, Mrs Miller,” James replies. "I've done this work for a long time with a good many wives. There's not one of them didn't do exactly what you just did. You go ahead and feel it. It means you've got something worth feeling it over. That'll serve you in the days coming."
“But…before…”
“No talk of before,” he shakes your shoulder gently. “We’re living in the here and now.”
You nod and meet his gaze. "How many days? Don't spare me because I would rather know the shape of the thing than imagine it worse in the dark."
His eyebrows lift with something you might call amusement.
"That is exactly what I wanted to tell you. Word came in on the noon rider to say that the judge will be here in three days' time."
You stare at him. "Three days?”
"Yes,” he nods. “Three days and then we can hold the trial. I know three more nights in that cell sounds like a cruelty when you'd take him home this minute if the law let you, but this is a good thing. And if I do my work the way I mean to do my work, then at the end of the fourth day, your husband walks out that front door on his own two feet and rides home with you."
“You truly believe he'll be acquitted?”
“Mrs Miller, I’ve already been given a letter from the leader of your town council vouching for your husband.”
He looks at you levelly, and you understand that he’s a man who chooses his words with care and doesn’t spend hope cheaply.
"I don't tell people what they want to hear. I tell them the truth. Three days, and then we have a fight I mean to win."
You close your eyes.
Three days.
It has a shape now, a bottom, and an end you can see – with hope shining.
"Thank you," you say calmly. "Thank you, Mr Oliver. You cannot know what it is to have a shape to hold onto instead of the dark."
"I have some idea." He rises and offers you his hand, drawing you to your feet, steadying you until he’s sure your legs would hold. "Now, I saw your man through the window, and he’ll be able to drive you home. I'll come out to the ranch tomorrow to go over the particulars of the day with you – what to expect, where you'll sit, what the lawyering will look like so none of it takes you by surprise. Between now and the trial you're not going to sit alone at that ranch imagining the worst. You're going to be busy helping me build the thing that brings your husband home.”
You look toward the mouth of the brick corridor, where the shadow had swallowed Joel whole.
"Sheriff,” you say tightly, regaining the strength you know you possess. “Before I go, may I say goodnight to my husband?"
Hayes looks up, mouth opening as if to refuse, then sighs and rises from his chair. “You seem to like asking me to break the rules, Mrs Miller.” He shakes his head. “Two minutes.”
You nod and wait for him to open the door, then move pass him down the now familiar corridor, the other cells empty on either side, until you reach the bottom. Joel rises from the cot to greet you, his hands going around the bars.
“Darlin’…”
“I had to tell you,” you say hurriedly. “Mr Oliver says the judge will be here in three days. Three days, Joel. He says if he does his work you'll walk out on the fourth day and come home."
You felt the breath go out of Joel, the naked relief of finally having a date to keep in mind.
"Three days.”
"Three days, my love."
He shakes his head. "I thought it might take longer. I thought…but this way, Sarah won't hardly have time to miss me again. Three days and it's decided, one way or the other. I can do three days standin’ on my head. Three days is nothin’. You go home tonight, and you tell my girl it’s only three more sleeps and then her Pa’s comin’ home.”
"I will,” you nod.
“Then, maybe…” he pauses, almost bashful, “maybe we can get to workin’ on that baby sister she asked for.”
Emotion swells in your chest, tears jump into your eyes and all you can do is nod.
“Three days,” he says, bending to kiss your fingers. “And then I don't ever leave you again as long as I live."
You press your mouth to the gap in the bars and Joel presses his to it in somehow one of the truest kisses you’ve ever been given. And when you draw back, you’re both weeping and both, underneath the weeping, lit up from within by that hard bright number.
Three.
"Go on now,” Joel says. “Go home to my girl…our girl. I'll see you first thing, when they bring me to wherever it is they’re plannin’ on holdin’ this thing. You be in the front row where I can find you."
"I'll be in the front row. Eyes open."
"Eyes open." The old lazy, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. "That's my girl."
You make yourself let go of his hands and it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all that long hard day, harder than watching him walk through the door, because now you truly know the shape of what you’re letting go of and you know it’s only for three days and even three days is three days too long.
But you let go, and you step back, keeping your eyes on him until Hayes’s broad body comes between you and gently turns you back up the corridor toward the office and the door and the purpling evening beyond.
James walks you out into the evening light and Tomás immediately jumps down to help you into the wagon.
“Thank you,” you say to the lawyer. “For everything.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he nods sagely.
Then Tomás clicks his tongue and the wagon leaps into life, setting off up the Street and out of town. You don’t look back. You look ahead, up the darkening road toward home, toward Sarah, safe with Maria, who needs to be told three sleeps, toward the ranch and the split wood stacked under the lean-to and the bed you’ll lie in alone tonight.
But only three more nights, only three, and then the trial, and then Joel will come riding home to his girls at last.
The first stars come out over the live oaks, and you ride home through the warm Texas night holding the hard bright number against your heart like a coal against the cold.
summary: You run into Joel at a grocery store in Austin.
Or, you’re a tennis champion and Joel’s no longer your coach. Now, he's something else.
tags: tennis au, female reader, hurt and comfort, mentions of power dynamics, dom/sub undertones, smut, praise kink, thigh riding, p-in-v sex, age gap (reader is 29, joel’s 59), mentions of complicated relationship with food, miscommunication, RESOLVED FEELINGS, romance
rating: 18+, mdni
previous parts can be found here:
part i
part ii
tag list: @fairytale07 @buckyandlokirunmylife @onlythehobi @martuxduckling @he-is-the-destined @sadpetalsstuff
a/n: thank you guys so much for your support and for reading! i can't believe i have a tag list for this!! i wanted to get this out sooner rather than later and ended up writing most of this this weekend. credit to pinterest for the pictures on the banner.
and credit to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!
i've mentioned it in the tags but also wanted to bring it up here but there are some mentions of reader having a complicated relationship with food (she's an athlete and has some feelings of guilt). it's nothing super detailed but i did want to include an additional warning just in case so please do read with caution if this is something that you're sensitive to.
anyways, here's the final part. i hope you like it, please do let me know!
Austin is muggy. You’re not used to the heat even though you’ve been there for ten days now, but your tank top is stuck to your skin, damp everywhere. You’re an athlete so sweating is something you’re used to but it’s the heavy blanket of humidity that you cannot stand. It feels like a weight over the whole city as you make your way into the H-E-B that’s a ten minute drive from the apartment you’re renting but a sixty minute walk. You’re glad you took Tommy’s advice to rent a car. You’ve only been to Texas a handful of times for training or events but those had been shorter stints. This time you’re here for almost two weeks, inaugurating a training camp for a tennis academy in Austin.
The air condition inside the store is a blessed relief and you shiver as the cold air passes over your shoulders. You grab a basket and make your way towards the fresh produce. You’ve been out of groceries for a few days now and you’ve grown tired of ordering take-out so you decided, at 3:38 pm, that you’re going to make dinner. From scratch maybe. Staring at the brightly coloured vegetables in front of you, you realize that there’s a flaw in your plan. You have no clue what you want to make for dinner. You also barely know how to cook. To be fair, you never had to learn, moving from home cooked dinners to trainer-approved meals. You wrack your brain for a recipe, something that you know you won’t half burn or undercook, and as you do, you swing the empty basket in your hand. The movement helps you think, just like when you’re on court with your racket. This time however, you forget to account for the fact that you’re in an aisle of a grocery store, so when you’re on your fifth swing and third potential dinner idea, you feel your basket thump into something. You’re quick to turn around, an apology already tumbling out of your mouth when you meet a pair of familiar brown eyes.
Joel looks shell-shocked to see you, his eyes wide like his hand has been caught in the cookie jar. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, just over a year ago in that godforsaken hotel room. It curls around his ears, the top of it pushed back, away from his forehead. It looks damp, as if he’s just showered but it’s more likely from the humid heat outside. You take him in, looking at the t-shirt stretched across shoulders and the faded pair of jeans he has on. He’s wearing boots, even in the hot summer weather and for a second, it feels like nothing has changed.
He says your name, breaking you out of your thoughts.
“Joel,” you say, looking back at his face. “Sorry for hitting you with the basket.”
It’s silly but what else can you say? The last time you had a conversation had gone so poorly and you haven’t spoken since save for a few texts leading up to his retirement to help coordinate things with Tommy. He had tried, the first time he had seen you after but you didn’t want his gentle voice telling you he was sorry. Telling you that he couldn’t do this and that it was a mistake. Looking at you with his kind, sympathetic eyes just like he did in his hotel room. So you had cut him off, strict and rigid in a way you had never been with him before. Joel being Joel, had respected it and not spoken a word of it after that point.
But now, thirteen months later, you’re face to face with him in the biggest grocery store you’ve ever set foot in and you’re not prepared. Not one bit. He clearly isn’t either, if his wide brown eyes are anything to go by. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Joel surprised in the years that you’ve known him.
“Joel?” you say again and that snaps him out of it. He blinks, holding his basket tighter. You see the flex of his bicep beneath the soft cotton of his grey t-shirt and look away quickly, back at his face. It’s not much better. He’s handsome as ever, his beard more grey than brown now. There’s a bead of sweat near his temple, right where a soft lock of brown curls over his forehead.
“Hi,” he says, voice familiar and warm all at once. Your stomach swoops and you push down the feeling. “Uh, didn’t know you’d be here.”
He says it like you both keep in touch, like you tell him about your plans.
“In Austin?” you ask and he shakes his head.
“Nah, Tommy told me about that,” he says and it makes sense but you wonder how it came up. You know that Tommy’s aware of you and Joel having some sort of past and you trust that Maria hasn’t told him the details of it but you can’t imagine him bringing you up to Joel. “Just didn’t expect you to be here.” He gestures to the store around him and it’s so absurd that you want to laugh.
“I needed stuff for dinner,” you say. “Been having too much take-out and Coach Carter’s gonna kill me if she finds out I’m ordering in for the fifth night in a row.”
It’s a joke but there’s some truth to it. You’re an athlete and precision is necessary, in playing and in everything else. There’s only so many boxes of take out you can eat before the guilt begins to creep in. You’re used to it by now but it’s something that’s always on your mind. Something you don’t think you’ll grow out of. You’ve made your peace with it.
Joel however, doesn’t laugh. His brows furrow, mouth pouted.
“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her,” he says, voice serious. “‘Sides, you can eat whatever you want.”
It takes you back to the days of when he was Coach Miller. When he would gently direct you towards better patterns.
“I know,” you say, voice sharper than you intend. You don’t want his gentleness anymore, you don’t need him to be there for you like that.
“How are ya?” he asks. His eyes trace over your face, like he’s trying to catalogue it. “I saw your last game. Real good stuff.”
You wish the praise didn’t get to you but it leaves you glowing on the inside. You nod.
“Thanks,” you say. You clear your throat. “I’ve been okay. I hope you are too.”
He nods, looking down at his basket. He opens his mouth, about to say something but you beat him to it.
“It was good to see you, Joel. I’ll see you later,” you say. It’s an empty goodbye but you don’t know how to make small talk with Joel and you’ve been working hard to push down the feelings he brings up. You turn around, heading aimlessly towards whatever aisle is furthest away from where Joel is. Maybe one more night of take-out isn’t all that bad. And like Joel said, what Coach Carter doesn’t know won’t hurt her. You wander further down the cereal aisle, taking in all the multi-coloured boxes and trying to ignore the fact that Joel is the closest he’s been to you in a year. You reach out for a box of Lucky Charms, turning the box over and focusing on the ingredients list so you don’t do something silly like go find him. You’re reading about the Iron levels, which are surprisingly high, when you hear your name being called. You turn around to find Joel standing there, red basket still in his hands.
“Come over for dinner,” he says. His voice is gruff but there’s an undercurrent of nervousness there. You open your mouth to say something but you’re at a loss for words.
“Joel,” you start, unsure. He shakes his head.
“Jus’ think about it,” he says. “I can send you my address.”
You nod, eyes wide. He looks like he wants to say something else, but after a pregnant pause he nods.
“I’ll see ya,” he says, turning around. You watch him retreat, shoulders held rigid. The tension runs through his body. You place the box of Lucky Charms in your basket and do another walk through the rest of aisles. You consider it. You’ve thought about what Joel’s house was like a lot. Much more than you’d care to admit. You’ve wondered whether it’s sparsely decorated, whether it’s warm browns and greens or some sort of bachelor pad although you doubt it given his two girls. You’ve met his daughters just once, a few years ago, and even then Sarah had already moved out for college. By now, Ellie must have been gone too. You ponder it some more, walking through each aisle before you make your way to check out.
By the time you’ve handed over your card to the grouchy teen at the counter, you’ve already texted Joel to tell him you’ll be there by seven.
You pull up to a ranch-style house in a fancy suburb of Austin at 7:07 pm. Your palms are sweaty and your heart is thumping against your chest, almost as if you’re about to play a match. You had spent a solid fifteen minutes contemplating what to wear, like a teenager about to go on a date, before you realized that this wasn’t that. Joel probably wanted to clear the air, make things less awkward. Maybe Tommy put him up to it. You had settled on a long, flowy skirt and the same tank-top you had worn to the supermarket. Jeans might have been a safer option but it was too hot, even though the sky was pinkish. Sun or not, Texas was hot as hell. You had also picked up a six-pack of Coors Light, remembering how Joel had balked at the idea of wine at some charity event once. It felt odd, showing up to his house empty handed, and you were only doing it to be polite. At least, that’s what you told yourself, as you locked your car and walked towards his porch.
You take a deep breath and then ring the doorbell. It opens so quickly you wonder if Joel had been waiting by the door all this time. He looks at you, eyes moving from your face to your feet before moving back to your face again. You feel conscious now, observed in a way only Joel has ever made you feel.
“You came,” he says, almost in disbelief. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Well, I did say I would,” you say. Maybe this was silly. Maybe he didn’t think you’d actually show up and now you seem too eager. Too needy. As if he’s realized that he’s kept you waiting on his porch, he quickly steps to the side.
“Come in,” he says, gesturing with his hand. He takes the six-pack from you as you step inside, your fingers brushing. His hands are warm for the brief moment that they graze yours and you tamp down the feelings building up inside of you.
“Considered bringing you wine but I didn’t want you to throw a hissy fit,” you say, aiming for a joke. Your chest cracks open when you see his mouth lift in a half smile.
“Gives me a headache,” Joel says. “And it makes my face warm. Don’t like it.”
“Or you’re being a baby,” you say. You’ve never teased Joel like this. Sure, you’ve laughed at teasing remarks Coach Carter or Maria made, but the only two times you’ve had him outside of a professional setting had been different. Intense and burning. There was no space for teasing.
“Watch it,” Joel says, but there’s no threat in his voice and he’s still smiling. It makes your stomach flutter. Then, as if you both remember the reality of the situation, a silence falls over you. Joel clears his throat, shifting a bit on his feet. He’s changed out of his t-shirt from the grocery store, wearing one with a collar instead. He’s also wearing dark-wash jeans. You wonder if he spent fifteen minutes contemplating what to wear too.
“I’m still workin’ on dinner but you could keep me company?” he says, more like a question than a suggestion. You nod and follow him. The corridor that leads to the kitchen is lined with photo frames. Dozens of them. You didn’t think Joel was a picture person but there’s so many, ranging from him and Sarah when she was just a baby to him with Ellie at a soccer game. He’s smiling in all of them, the dimple on his cheek on full display. There are graduation pictures, photos from fishing trips and silly ones of Sarah and Ellie pulling faces at the camera. It makes you smile. His house is warm and lived in, muted greens and soft browns seeming to be the colour scheme. Almost all the furniture is wooden, and intricately designed.
“Nice chairs,” you say, running a hand over the stools that line the breakfast bar. The wood is smooth to the touch. The kitchen is warmly lit and smells like marinara sauce. The nerves you had felt earlier are slowly dissipating in the glow of Joel’s house.
“Thanks,” he says. He hesitates before he speaks again. “I, uh, I made ‘em.”
Your eyes widen. “You did?”
He nods, looking a bit embarrassed. It’s not often that Joel Miller is bashful and it delights you.
“What are you, some secret wood-worker?” you ask and he shrugs.
“Not a secret,” he says. “I just enjoy it. Gives me somethin’ to do with my hands.”
You nod. You run your hand over the chair once more, feeling Joel’s gaze track your movement. “Well, if you take commissions, I’ve been looking for a coffee table for ages now.”
It’s a joke, or at least you mean it to be. But Joel shakes his head.
“I’d do it for you for free,” he says, voice serious.
“Oh,” you say, clearing your throat. “Thank you.”
He nods. He turns around, towards the stove. It’s one of the fancy ones that has a water tap and you watch as he turns the lever so that the pot fills with water. You keep watching as he reaches towards a jar, taking a heap of salt and pouring it into the pot. The muscles of his back flex as he does and you clear your throat again, feeling flushed.
“What’s for dinner?” you ask as Joel turns around.
“Just pasta and salad,” he says. “Nothin’ fancy. I don’t cook much and I’m better on the grill.”
“Pasta’s good,” you say. “And I haven’t had a salad in a hot second so I think it’s due time that I eat some vegetables.”
You watch as he walks towards a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of red wine.
“So you do drink wine,” you say as he twists the cork.
“Nah,” he says. “Got this for tonight.”
Joel has always been good at being direct. He always says what he thinks, rarely mincing his words. When he was your coach, it’s what made the two of you work so well. You let his words sink into your mind. He bought the wine for you, is what he’s saying.
“That was kind of you,” you say. You watch as his brows pull together and you know you’ve said the wrong thing. You sound surprised, like you don’t expect his kindness. It’s not how you intend it to come off but you know it’s how Joel hears it. Silently, he pours you a glass and you take it, allowing the rich warmth of it to settle your nerves. Joel cracks open one of the beers you bought him, taking a long sip. You watch his throat bob as he swallows and look back down at your glass.
He moves back to the stove, pouring pasta into the now boiling water. You watch as he stirs the sauce simmering on the burner next to the pot. You wonder when he’ll bring it up. Your past. That night at the hotel over a year ago. You don’t want to ruin the moment, speak too soon, so you give yourself something to do. You come to stand next to him. He looks at you as you stand over the stove.
“Anything I can help with?” you ask, hoping he gives you something to do so you have something to occupy your hands with. As if he’s reading your mind, he glances down at the way your hand is clenched around the stem of the wine glass.
“Why don’t you stir this for a bit? I’ll toss the salad,” he says and you nod, grateful. You stir the sauce, hearing him shuffle around. He comes back to stand next to you a few minutes later, so close you can feel the warmth of him as he reaches over to another jar before sprinkling some herbs into the sauce. You inhale, and your stomach grumbles. You feel yourself flush and Joel chuckles.
“Hungry?” he asks, voice warm.
“What gave it away?” you say, and you glance up to see the same dimple from all those pictures on his cheek.
“C’mon,” he says, gently nudging you out of the way. He turns the heat off of the burner and quickly drains the pasta before plating everything up. He brings it to a small table that you hadn’t noticed before. It’s a deep brown. Cherry, you think. Or maybe mahogany. You’ve never been good with this stuff.
“Did you make this too?” you ask as Joel pulls out a chair for you. You sit down, watching as he nods. He places a plate in front of you, before going back to the counter to bring your glass of wine and the bottle as well. Only then does he take the seat across from you. The table isn’t that big, so you’re still fairly close. It feels like you’re on a date and you push the thought out of your mind as quickly as it came to you.
You spear some pasta on your fork, taking a bite. It’s rich and warm, spicy but not overly so. There’s also a richness but the herbs cut through so it isn’t overly so. You make a noise of content, a hum really, looking up at Joel. He’s already watching you, his plate still untouched.
“This is amazing,” you say, mouth still half-full. “Like, insanely good Joel.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, voice gruff. He watches as you swallow, eyes tracing the movement of your throat. You look down at your plate, taking another bite. You feel warm, and it’s not from the wine. He starts eating too, and it’s silent but not uncomfortably so. There’s a familiarity to it, as if you and Joel do this all the time. It makes your heart skip in your chest. You have to stop thinking like that.
Dinner passes quietly, but the questions in your mind keep rattling over and over. Why did he want to do this? Why hasn’t he brought up what happened yet? Did he really just want a dinner like the two of you were friends? Did Tommy put him up to this to smooth things over? You decline seconds when Joel offers, suddenly needing to talk to him. Or really, needing him to talk to you. You watch as he takes your plates, running the tap over them as he leaves them in the sink. You help, taking the salad to the counter.
It’s quiet as he cleans the counter, and packs away the leftovers and you sit in the silence, watching him. You know it’s coming. Whatever this was for, the conversations to be had. You know he’ll let you down gently, apologize, ask if you two could be cordial. Tell you he never meant to hurt you because you know he didn’t. Joel isn’t cruel. And you’ll nod, smile maybe, tell him sure, we can be friends. And then you’ll go another year without seeing each other, probably longer. And you won’t ever feel his mouth against yours, or his hands against your skin again.
When he’s done, he clears his throat. He stands across from where you’re seated, at his kitchen counter. You feel goosebumps erupt on your skin, suddenly nervous. You don’t want to have this conversation. You don’t want his rejection. So you speak first, beating him to it.
“I just wanted to say that we’re good, Joel,” you say. “It’s kind of you to invite me to dinner and I appreciate that you’re trying to smooth things over but we’re good. The past is in the past, and I’m not mad at you or anything. And I know I seemed upset in the hotel that night but I get it now. It wasn’t serious and I shouldn’t have mistaken it for something it wasn’t. I mean, we’re both adults right? We can be normal about it. I can be normal about it.”
It’s pindrop silence after you finish talking and your whole face feels hot. You watch a dozen emotions pass over Joel’s face and his jaw clenches. He takes a deep breath. He says your name so softly you wonder if you’ve imagined it.
“Really Joel,” you say, trying to smile. “I mean it.”
He shakes his head, hands clenched where they settle on the counter.
“Sweetheart,” he starts and the endearment makes your stomach clench. “I need you to understand somethin’. That night, I should have stopped you. I should have told you the truth.”
You’re confused now, brows furrowing.
“I’m in love with you,” he continues. His voice is wrecked and his brown eyes are wide, almost wet. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I’d care to admit. Since before that first time. I could never say no to you and I was selfish. I took whatever moments I got and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, not when I wasn’t clear with how I felt.”
Your mouth forms a perfect ‘o’, your eyes probably as wide as saucers. Your ears are ringing, and you feel overwhelmed. With relief and shock.
“You’re in love…with me?” you ask.
Joel nods, looking wrecked. “I am. And I shoulda told you before we slept together. And I shoulda never let you leave last year. Should’ve kept you with me.”
“Oh,” you say. A warm feeling unfurls in your chest. “I didn’t know. I thought, last year…I thought you were letting me down easy. Telling me you were retiring and all that.”
“I know,” Joel says, voice rough, sounding frustrated. His hands are still clenched and you want to reach for him, press your mouth against his knuckles. But you need to have this conversation first. “I didn’t realize it at first, thought you were mad at me for leavin’. I knew we couldn’t be together so long as I was your coach but since I was retirin’ I thought maybe we could finally work it out. But then you were upset with me, rightfully so for the way I sprung it up on you. And I thought you maybe felt like I was takin’ advantage.”
You shake your head immediately. “You would never do that, Joel. I never thought you did. Ever.”
Finally, he smiles softly. “I know, sweetheart. Tommy tried to talk some sense into me but I didn’t wanna upset you anymore. So I thought I’d give you some space. Let you move on. You don’t need an old man like me.”
You scoff. “You’re stupid if you think I don’t want you. If you think you’re too old or whatever. Or if you think I’m over you.”
“I’m selfish,” he says. “I saw you today at the store and before I could even think it through, I asked you to come here tonight. Just so I could get some more time with you.”
“Well I’m glad you did,” you say softly. You stand up now, walking around the counter. You stand behind him and wrap your hands around his waist. You inhale the familiar scent of his cologne and laundry detergent. “I love you too, Joel.”
You feel him sag against you, like a puppet without strings. His hand enclose around your own, squeezing. You lean your forehead against his back, blinking away the wetness of your eyes. He turns around, so that you’re facing each other. He pulls you close with a hand on your hip, wrapping the other around your back. You tuck your face against his chest, smiling when you feel him press a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Will you stay?” he asks, voice gentle. You look up at him, his eyes so warm.
“The night?” you ask and he shakes his head.
“As long as you want,” he corrects. You smile and press a kiss to his chin.
“Okay,” you say, nodding. “Can I stay the night though? Don’t really feel like driving back.”
He chuckles, nodding. Then you feel him stiffen. You pull back to look at his face.
“I didn’t invite you here for that,” he says and he looks…shy? It makes you laugh, feeling affection swell in your chest.
“I know,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He nods, looking relieved. He presses another kiss, this time to your mouth. It’s warm and tender, and when he pulls away, the apples of his cheeks are red.
“I wouldn’t mind though,” you say. “If we did have sex.”
“Sweetheart,” Joel says. “It’s been an emotional night. I don’t want you to regret this.”
You think you finally understand all of Joel right then. Beneath the hard exterior and gruff voice, he has his own insecurities. All this time you had thought it had just been you, stewing in your thoughts about the two of you and hoping that it had been something more. And Joel had been thousands of miles away, hoping for the same. You pull back, cupping his face.
“I would never regret this,” you say. “Even when I thought this was some fling for you, I didn’t regret it.”
He runs a thumb over your cheek, finally nodding. You lean forward, tugging him down. He comes easily, and then you’re kissing. It feels like when the sunlight filters through the leaves on a spring day, after months of dreary cold. It feels like coming home. You pull him closer, pushing a hand into the hair at the back of his head. He tilts your head, urging your mouth open and you moan as his tongue prods against your own. Joel kisses you like he’s starved, pulling you so close that each point of your body is pressed together. You feel the broadness of his chest pressed against yours, the bones of his hips against your own, the heat of him right against you. You tug at his hair and he groans, pulling back. His mouth is red and wet and he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon. You’re sure you look the same. He smiles so wide, so open, that it cracks something open in your chest.
“I’m real happy you’re here, sweetheart,” he says. “I thought about you everyday. Every single day. Tommy was growin’ sick of me, called me a lovesick puppy more times than I care to admit.”
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic,” you say and you feel his chest move as he chuckles.
“Yeah, well,” he says, looking bashful. You laugh, tugging at a curl of his hair and he smiles.
“I expect roses everyday and breakfast in bed,” you say, joking. Joel however, nods, so serious.
“Anythin’ you want,” he says. “Anythin’ at all.”
He cups your face in both his hands, pressing another kiss to your forehead. And then to your left cheekbone. And then your right. And then the tip of your nose. And then to your jaw. Your eyes flutter close as he presses kisses down your neck and then back up to your face. You finally stop him with a hand in his hair, pulling him away. His eyes are molten when they meet yours.
“Take me to bed, Joel,” you say.
Joel presses you into the bed. You’re both naked and you missed this feeling. The broad warmth of him, the thickness of his stomach, his strong arms. Everything. He’s kissing down your neck, and takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking. Your hips buck, back arching.
“You’re still so sensitive,” he murmurs and you moan. His teeth scrape against your nipple and he groans as he feels you grow wetter against his thigh. You grind your hips down against him, lost in the pleasure. He pulls away, but not before pressing a gentle kiss to your breast. He leans back on his knees, pulling your hips down, firmer against his thigh. You keep moving, looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes. Your clit rubs against him just right and it’s almost exactly like the first time you both had sex except this time, there’s no grief or desperation. This time you know you’ll do this again and again and again and Joel will always be here. He stays there for a while, watching as your hips move faster as you chase your orgasm. He flexes his leg, the muscles of his thigh moving so they touch your puffy clit just right. Just as you’re about to come, he pulls his leg away and you let out a noise that makes him chuckle.
“Joel,” you beg. “Please.”
His pupils swallow most of his brown eyes so that they’re nearly black. He runs a thumb over your clit so lightly that it’s not enough. You moan, bucking your hips.
“Poor thing,” he says, and you grow wetter, smearing against your thighs. “You need it so bad, don’t you?”
You nod quickly. You had thought about Joel like this more nights than you’d admit. He’s always been a commanding figure, but like this during sex, it’s somehow amplified. And you love it. He lets you turn your brain off and he knows exactly what you need, sometimes before you even do. He runs his thumb down the seam of you, gathering the wetness. He brings it to his mouth, sucking you clean off his finger.
“I need you to say it with words, baby,” he says after, and you feel yourself glow at the term of endearment.
“I need you inside of me,” you say, unabashed and unashamed. “I’ve waited so long.”
And you mean it. The closest you had gotten to him actually fucking you was after you had won the US open but even then, you hadn’t felt him inside of you yet.
“Yeah?” Joel asks but you see his composure slipping. He’s throbbing, hard and red and his hands are clenched where they hold your thighs open against his legs.
“Yeah,” you say, breathy. “Please, Joel.”
He nods, reaching for something on his bedside table. Dazedly, you watch as he rips open the condom with his teeth and it makes you throb. He rolls it on and you’re too far in to help. To do anything really. You watch in a trance as he adjusts your legs around his hips, holding you open for him. You’re pliant as he looks down at you, where you’re swollen and slick, and he groans. He finally pushes in and you throw your head back. He goes slowly, inch by inch, so that you have time to adjust and you feel it as he breaches you. You shift your hips, trying to get him deeper but he stills you with a hand on your stomach.
“Sweetheart, if we go any faster, I’m goin’ to embarrass myself,” he says, voice wrecked. His hair is a mess, grey curls in a halo around his head. His cheeks are flushed red, the colour running down his chest too. You nod, moving your hand so it presses over his own on your stomach. Finally, he bottoms out. You both look down to where you’re connected, and he groans when you clench. He shifts his hips, slowly thrusting and you push back against him.
“Joel,” you moan and the hand on your hip tightens. You hope it bruises. He starts moving with precision, reaching a spot inside of you that has you seeing stars. You’re so wet that every thrust fills the room with the slick sounds of your bodies moving together.
“How’s it feel, sweet girl?” he asks, leaning down. His stomach presses into your own, both your hands trapped between the two of you.
“So good,” you say. “Feels so good, Joel. I've wanted this for so long.”
He nods, watching you.
“Me too, sweetheart,” he says and that’s when you come for the first time. You clench and your back arches, as you wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. He keeps moving, letting you ride it out. When your eyes flutter open, he’s watching you, something like awe in his expression. You press a kiss to the first part of his face you can reach and he smiles. Then, you clench once more and his smile falters. He groans, hips twitching.
“I dreamed of you,” Joel says. “All the time. Not just this. But taking you out to dinner, having you in this house. All of it.”
It’s a tender confession. His voice is wrecked. You smile.
“You can,” you say. “You can take me out and bring me home and do anything. I want it,” you say and he presses deeper into you. Your eyes flutter close, and you shift your hips, trying to get him as deep as possible. He groans.
“I think you’ve got one more in you,” he says, moving up and away, kneeling again. You want to argue, pull him back so he’s pressed to you. So that you can feel his entire body weight on you. But he’s already pulling you so your legs are wrapped around his waist. You’re speared open on him. He looks down, watching your slick slip out of you, coating the two of you in your wetness. He thrusts, sharply and you moan. Your hands are still pressed together on your stomach, right above where you’re both joined together.
“Remember what I said last time?” he asks and you do. You nod, dazed. “Say it,” he says and it takes you a second to find your voice.
“That I’d feel you here,” you say and he hums in approval.
“Where, sweetheart?” he asks and your legs shake. He stills inside of you.
“Right here,” you moan, pressing down on his hand which presses down on your stomach, and you feel the pressure building. Tears cloud your vision, so overwhelmed with need to be consumed by this. By him.
“Good girl,” he says and he starts thrusting. Your whole body shakes.
The pressure inside you keeps building and then you tip over, orgasm crashing into you. You clench around him and he groans, speeding up his movements. Your face is wet and you hadn’t even realized you were crying until you feel Joel lean down, pressing kisses to your cheek, where the tears have wet your face. Perhaps it's the mindblowing orgasms that are the reason for what you say next.
“Next time, I want to feel you inside of me. Just you, nothing else,” you say. “I want to feel you fill me up so I can feel it right here.” You press his hand down on your stomach once more and he groans.
He thrusts once, twice and then stills, pulling your hips down against him so your torsos are pressed together entirely. His face is tucked into your neck and you run a hand through his curls, gently tugging as he rides out his high. It could be minutes or hours when he pulls away and out, leaving you feeling empty. You’re not sure where he gets the towel he uses to gently wipe you down from but you’re glad all the same when you feel less sticky.
He settles down against you, pulling you to him so your chest is pressed against his own. He presses a kiss to your chin, and then your mouth, so gently that it makes you shiver.
“Okay?” he asks, voice slow and warm like a bath on a cold winter day. You nod, smiling.
“I’m happy,” you admit, watching as a smile blooms on his face. His crows feet are more pronounced now, and it makes you ache with tenderness.
“Me too, sweetheart,” he says. It’s quiet for a few moments but then Joel shifts.
“I was thinkin’,” he starts. “When you head back, I was thinkin’ I could come with you. And maybe, if you’d like, you could meet Sarah and Ellie.”
“Yes,” you say, almost immediately. “I’d like that very much.”
He nods, but his eyes search your face.
“I don’t want any more miscommunication,” he says. You nod. “I’m askin’ you to be my girl.”
It’s earnest in a way Joel rarely is, and you wonder if your cheeks might stay frozen in a permanent smile.
“I figured, old man,” you say, voice gentle. “And I’ve wanted that for a long time.”
Joel’s smile falters.
“If I hadn’t been such an idiot -” he begins but you cut him off.
“None of that,” you say. “We’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
You press a kiss to his cheek. This is the most you’ve ever kissed anyone in your life. Finally, he nods.
“So do you want me to call you Coach Miller in bed?” you ask, if only to lighten the mood. Joel shudders and you laugh.
“Please don’t,” he says, sounding pained. You keep laughing and he pulls you closer by the waist, his fingers flutter against your sides, making you squeal. He keeps at it, unamused by your joke.
“Mercy,” you half-scream when you can no longer take it. You're both flushed, hair messy and probably too sweaty for your own good. But your heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time and from the look in Joel’s eyes, you think it might be the same for him.
“I love you, sweet girl,” he says, wrapping an arm around you.
BEAUTIFUL ENDING !! they were both so stupid and wasted time but i love them so much !! another 10/10 fic crossed off my tbr. see you for the next one 🤩
Summary: Post-Part 1/ Season 1 AU where Joel lives. Jackson is thriving and survival has finally started to look like living again. A slow-burn Joel × Female Reader built on years of trust, new political tensions inside Jackson, and the quiet moments that make the loud ones matter. Featuring MC, Joel, Ellie, Tommy, & Maria, among others & OCs you'll (hopefully) grow to love, and an eventual romance that's earned, not rushed.
You sit in your reading chair sipping a cup of tea, morning light spills through the windows causing particles of dust to sparkle in the stillness. You flip through some of the records you requested from Maria. As you review the pages, you jot down a few notes on previous successful pairings, open heifers, pregnancy rates, etc. trying to determine what breeding schedule will provide the highest yield of calves next year because the more calves that are born, the more food Jackson will eventually have.
You glance at your clock that now reads a quarter ‘til eight. You tuck the files back into the manilla folder, setting them aside for later before putting your boots on and starting your walk across town.
-
The council office is quiet this morning. Most of the doors stand half open, a few people drift in and out with ledgers tucked beneath their arms, exchanging quick greetings before disappearing into other rooms. You pass Tommy’s office on the way to the map room – papers litter his desk; lumber and tool supply lists, building requests, etc. but the chair sits empty. Tommy never has been one to sit around and stare at paperwork; like Joel, they both prefer to be out using their hands.
When you reach the map room, the door is already open. Zeke looks up from a table scattered with more patrol journals.
“There you are!” He greets kindly.
He closes the notebook he’d been reading and gestures toward the chair opposite him.
“Hope I didn’t steal too much of your morning.”
You offer a friendly smile, “You didn’t.”
“You sure?”
“I would’ve been mucking stalls.” You shrug.
A grin tugs briefly at one corner of his mouth.
“I’ll try not to disappoint, then.”
You settle into the chair as he slides a worn patrol log across the table toward you.
More colored pins dot the large map mounted behind him. Some mark checkpoints while others trace trade routes or supply runs. A handful are connected by thin lengths of twine that stretch across the valleys surrounding Jackson.
The system is tidy and methodical, still obviously growing.
Zeke reaches over and flips open the patrol log he just slid your way.
“I’ve been comparing reports from the last few months. Most of these are straightforward.”
You glance down, looking at the notes scribbled on the pages.
Checkpoint inspected.
Fence intact.
No unusual activity.
Routine.
He turns a few pages before stopping again.
“But then I come across entries like this.”
You lean closer, immediately recognizing your own handwriting.
Tracks noted.
No infected encountered.
Patrol rerouted through Alpine Valley.
Zeke taps the margin with the end of his pencil.
“It says you rerouted...” His eyes lift to yours, “...but not why.”
You read the entry once more before sitting back in your chair.
“If I were planning a trade caravan,” he continues, “I’d probably send people straight through here.”
A small smile touches your lips, “And we’d probably tell you not to.”
He nods. “Exactly.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to second-guess patrol decisions.” His hand rests lightly on the open page. “I’m trying to understand what experienced patrols know...”
He searches for the right words, “...that never seems to make it into the reports.”
You narrow your eyes just a fraction, understanding Zeke’s misperception before speaking.
“Because the patrol reports aren’t meant to replace judgment.”
His pencil stills.
“Right, that does make sense.” He confirms before continuing.
“So why reroute an established trail? That seems… risky?” he asks.
“Because sometimes...” You pause, searching for something that can actually be written down.
“...you notice things.”
“Like?”
“The horses.”
He looks up.
“The horses?”
“They’re usually the first to know if something’s wrong.”
He doesn’t interrupt, his eye contact showing that he’s listening intently.
“I’ll feel Magnolia tense before I hear anything. Sometimes Phoenix refuses a trail he’s walked a hundred times.”
“You trust that?” He asks, tone genuinely curious.
“I pay attention to it.”
You fold your arms loosely. “Animals notice things we don’t – the smells, the sounds… a change in the wind.”
His pencil scratches steadily across the page.
“What else?”
You stare at the large map on the wall behind Zeke.
“A valley that’s too quiet, no birds, no elk, no fresh tracks where there should be some.”
You tap one finger lightly against your forearm.
“A gate standing open when you know it was closed last week.”
He nods slowly.
“And if none of those things are there?”
You hesitate for a moment.
“...Sometimes something just feels off.”
A faint smile crosses his face before he says, “I was wondering when we’d get to that.”
You can’t help smiling back.
“I figured you’d hate that answer.”
“I don’t, actually.” He says sincerely as he sets the pencil down for the first time since you’d arrived.
“I just don’t know how to write that into a report.”
“You can’t.”
A thoughtful silence settles over the room before Zeke speaks again.
“I’m not trying to replace patrol judgment.” He repeats, hand resting on the journal now.
“I’m trying to ensure the safety of not only my caravan teams, but also, anyone else who ventures beyond the wall.”
You consider that for a moment. It isn’t an easy thing to argue with.
“No report’s ever going to replace experience,” you say. “But if it gets someone asking the right questions before they leave the gate...”
You give a small nod, mostly to yourself, “...that’s worth something.”
His expression softens – not triumphant, just appreciative.
He reaches for a smaller notebook resting beside the patrol logs. Not an official ledger but his own.
He writes a single sentence, pauses to underline it once, then quietly closes the cover.
Experience fills the gaps between the facts.
-
Later that morning, the familiar aroma of the barn fills your nostrils as you take a deep breath in. Comfortable. Some things never change.
You barely make it through the doorway before spotting Marcus leaning over the stall door, elbows resting on the weathered wood.
His entire attention is fixed inside.
“...Well, would you look at that.”
You follow his gaze as you approach him.
The mare dozes quietly in the corner while her black colt explores the stall. His legs with four bright white socks still seem far too long for the rest of him. A wide blaze runs between his curious eyes and down his delicate face. One is a deep and familiar brown… the other is an incredible shade of blue that catches the light each time he turns his head.
He noses experimentally at a pile of straw before startling himself when it shifts beneath him.
Marcus grins.
The colt wanders confidently toward his mother before misjudging the distance entirely and bumping shoulder-first into her front leg. The mare barely reacts. Just lowers her head to nudge him gently.
Marcus chuckles. “Still working on the whole coordination thing.”
“Give him another week and he’ll think he owns the place.” You say.
“I kinda hope he does.”
The words leave Marcus so matter-of-factly that they make you smile.
For a few moments neither of you says anything. You both watch as the colt finally discovers his own tail, twists awkwardly to investigate it, and nearly loses his balance in the process.
Marcus laughs under his breath.
“I’ve watched him for... probably twenty minutes. I was supposed to be organizing tack.” He admits rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly before finally turning toward you.
“Oh – uh...”
His eyes flick briefly around the barn.
“Where’s Joel?”
“Construction detail, helping Tommy with some project.”
Marcus nods. “Oh, got it.”
You begin gathering a few empty feed buckets from the aisle, Marcus follows suit.
“Patrol isn’t the only job around here. We work on a rotation.” You explain, “Three patrol days on. Two days inside the walls. Then the weekend off – usually.”
He watches as you stack the buckets together, handing you the ones he’s collected.
“I guess I never really thought about what you all do when you’re not out there.”
“Whatever needs doing – barn duty, construction, fence repairs, livestock care, inventory… if something breaks, it gets fixed.”
Marcus smiles. “Sounds kinda nice.”
“It is.”
He hesitates again.
“Can I ask you something?”
You glance up.
“Shoot.”
He lowers his voice instinctively, as though Joel might somehow overhear from the other side of town.
“...Do you think Joel’s gonna like me?”
You blink once, looking at Marcus more closely now before laughing quietly. You can see the anxious look in his eyes.
“That’s your concern?”
“I know it sounds stupid…”
“It doesn’t.”
Marcus looks back toward the stall.
“I’ve heard stories.”
“Yeah, everyone has.” You say.
“I just...” He shrugs; eyes trained on the ground. “Guy’s kind of a legend.”
You set the buckets aside.
“Marcus.”
He looks at you again.
“Don’t try to impress him.”
“...No?”
You shake your head.
“Just do your job.”
He waits, expecting more.
When none comes, he frowns slightly.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You don’t have some secret?”
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “If you try too hard, he’ll notice.”
Marcus’s expression falls.
“Oh.”
“But if you show up, pay attention, and do the work...” You take a breath. “...he’ll notice that too.”
Marcus considers that for a long moment. “...I can do that.”
“I know.”
Before either of you say another word, a tiny whinny draws your attention back toward the stall.
The colt has somehow managed to wedge himself halfway beneath his mother’s neck in search of the easiest possible path to milk. You watch as the mare patiently shifts her weight, accommodating him without the slightest hint of annoyance.
“We better get back to work.”
Marcus nods quickly, “Yes ma’am –” he catches himself.
“Uh… I mean, doctor.” He winces. “…Sorry.”
You laugh, “First name’s just fine.”
Relief washes over his features, “Right… thanks.”
-
A couple of hours later, you sit in the tack room with a damp sponge in hand and saddle soap made from goat milk in your lap. You work on the bridles with delicate strokes, hydrating the leather. The bits are also cleaned; you pick off old grass stains trying to make them look new again. In this world, being resourceful and caring for what you have is non-negotiable.
The barn door creaks open; you hear familiar heavy boots approaching across the wooden floor. A few seconds pass before Joel’s tall figure stands in the aisle facing forward. In his hand he’s carrying an old lariat. He turns his head looking around before spotting you in the small space.
Joel strides over to the tack room, he settles his shoulder against the doorframe. Sawdust clings stubbornly to the green flannel shirt he’s wearing, the sleeves are rolled up nearly to his elbow.
“Construction finally throw you out? You ask impishly.
“They ran outta lumber…”
You raise an eyebrow at that.
“…They ran outta Tommy.” He admits, shifting to place the rope on its hook just inside the doorway.
A quiet laugh escapes you.
“That sounds more likely.”
Joel’s mouth twitches at one corner.
“Figured I’d check on Phoenix before lunch.”
Before you can answer, Marcus appears several feet behind Joel, he looks around awkwardly with a manure fork in his hand.
“I, uh, finished mucking those runs like you asked.” Marcus declares.
That’s when Joel turns around to look at him.
“Mornin’.” Joel says.
Marcus answers a little too quickly.
“Morning.”
Joel nods once before his attention shifts toward the commotion in the nearby stall. The colt has discovered a new game. Charge three steps, stop abruptly, spin clumsily on his haunches, repeat.
Each attempt ends with an enthusiastic buck that lifts all four tiny hooves off the ground for approximately half a second before gravity reminds him, he is, in fact, only four days old.
Joel watches the performance in silence.
The colt lands awkwardly before recovering and immediately trying again.
“...He’s got determination,” Joel observes.
“Not much else,” you reply chuckling. You continue rubbing the leather in your hands. Joel looks around before eyeing a few feed sacks across the aisle.
“Mind givin’ me a hand?” Joel says suddenly.
Marcus blinks.
“…Me?”
“Unless someone else showed up.” He says as he nods over to the feed sacks at sit across the aisle, “need those moved.”
“Oh.” He hurries over, nearly stepping on the manure fork in his hand. He sets it down against a stall, both palms raised up for a few seconds at it urging it to stay in place before quickly turning toward the sacks.
You bite the inside of your cheek. Joel either doesn’t notice...or rather pretends not to.
“Carry those over to Phoenix’s stall.”
Marcus scoops them up.
“Yes, si – “
He catches himself.
“...Joel.”
“Mm.” Joel hums.
Then, off he goes. Joel watches him disappear around the corner before speaking quietly enough that Marcus can’t hear.
“Kid’s nervous.”
“Oh, you noticed.” You say in a semi-sarcastic tone.
“‘Course I noticed.”
You stand, adjusting the straps of the freshly cleaned bridle before hanging it neatly on the wall.
“He thinks you’ve already decided whether you like him.”
Joel lets out a low huff. “Ain’t got enough information for that.”
You roll your eyes slightly at that, a smirk emerging on your lips.
A comfortable silence settles between you. Outside, the lunch bell rings once across town and the sound drifts through the open barn doors on the spring breeze.
Finally, Joel pushes away from the door.
“C’mon.”
He nods toward the aisle where Marcus has just returned.
“Let’s go get somethin’ to eat before Tommy finds another project.”
You fall into step behind Joel. Marcus stares at you like a deer in the headlights as you pass him. You give him a subtle, quick nod of your head encouraging him to come along.
He sits in a corner booth, red vinyl cracked from overuse and love. A cigarette dangles from his lips, unlit and bobbing as he breathes.
He can feel his jeans growing tighter around his groin, watching the half naked women walk around and spin on metal poles.
The club is dark; red, blue, and purple strobe lights flashing with the beat of the music he can feel vibrating in his chest. A tall building, each floor determining the rank and service you get (each more expensive than the last). Servers hand out drinks and food, wearing nothing but high heels and fishnets.
He feels out of place, almost like a creep sitting in the corner and just here to jerk off in his place, leave his cum on the seat, and head for the exit as quickly as possible.
There’s only one reason he’s even here tonight, and it’s for you.
You’re the face of Velvet Noir: on every advertisement, the center of every stage, the name that’s talked about the most.
He wanted to see what all the fuss was about and that’s what he’s here to do.
The lights dim, music and chatter dying when a singular spotlight aims at the red velvet curtain. Slow, sultry music begins to play, two dozen girls walking out in unison; all clad in dark angel outfits that leave little to the imagination. The last one to come out is you, swaying your hips in the most enchanting way.
Immediately, Clint feels his mouth salivating, pants unbearably tight around his growing erection. He shifts subtly, palming himself over the denim and watching you with intensity.
All of you dance the practiced routine, spinning, dropping, and flexing on the pole. Though you stick out the most.
He stares at you with laser focus, openly gawking at the jiggle of your tits and ass as you move around.
A group of men in the front let out wolf whistles, throwing money onto the stage and literally howling.
He doesn’t hear any of it, too busy trying to figure out if you just winked at him or not from your place.
The other girls go off to the opposite catwalks on the stage, getting close to the crowd, dancing provocatively.
You stay center stage, using your thighs and hands to climb all the way to the top of the pole. You flip upside down, spreading your legs wide open and shaking your ass. The move is hypnotizing, making Clint place a hand over his mouth to distract himself. It doesn’t really work.
Suddenly, you loosen your grip and drop. People gasp and shoot up from their seats, but you catch yourself just before you hit the floor, flipping and landing into a split. A smug smirk is on your face from everyone’s reactions, standing up ass first before you spin around stage again.
Slowly, the girls make their way back towards center stage, scowling at you as your movements become fueled by the crowd. You slip one strap of your bralette down, teasing before grabbing one of the bills on the floor and tucking it into your g-string.
He watches your backside when you turn around, your hands deftly unhooking your bra and tossing it. The lace lands directly on the table in front of him, people hooting and hollering at your audacity.
His breath catches faintly, unsure of what to do yet. Though, he does grab it and put it in the pocket of his leather jacket when another guy stands, eyeing the piece you just threw.
Summary: Six months on and yet another misunderstanding causes tension between you and Din.
A/N: 18+only. I mean, it was inevitable, wasn’t it?
Part Twelve IIII Part Fourteen
Din Masterlist
➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰
The Crest hums around you in that low, familiar way – the kind of sound that's stopped being noise and started being a heartbeat. You've lived inside this hum long enough now that on the rare nights you sleep planet side, the silence keeps you awake.
It’s not that the cabin Karga’s given you isn’t nice or, ever so slightly, starting to feel like home now that you’ve painted some of the walls and bought some furniture – but this ship, the place where you met and fell in love with your husband, will always be the place you feel most comfortable, regardless of what anyone says.
Outside the viewport, hyperspace streaks itself into long blue threads, ribboning past in their hypnotic slow-motion lunge. Your boots are up on the console and one hand rests on the swell of your belly because lately your hand finds its way there on its own, like it's been reassigned without asking.
Six months and you still catch yourself startled by the shape of you. By the way you have to lean back a little further in chairs now and the way your centre of gravity has wandered off somewhere ahead of you, like a small impatient scout. By the way Din looks at you when he thinks you can't tell he's looking, which – honestly – is most of the time, because he’s wearing a helmet, and you can never tell where his eyes are, he knows it, and he uses it shamelessly.
You can feel him looking now.
He's in the pilot's seat beside you, gloves off, the instruments murmuring to themselves. The nav display blinks its slow blue pulse and somewhere behind you, in the hold, something settles with a small metallic clink, which you decide not to think about because you don’t have the energy to go and investigate.
"You're quiet," you say.
"Mm."
"That's quieter."
The modulator carries a breath that might be a laugh.
"I was thinking about the bunk," he says.
"Romantic."
"About the bunk," he repeats, patient, "and where the cradle goes."
You smile, because you’re glad he’s at least on board for that. Again, not that you haven’t accepted that, practically, the cabin will be your baby’s primary home, but you can’t help the slight thrill that runs through you at the thought of your little family roaming the galaxy together.
He's been sketching one for a week, lines and angles, beskar reinforcement at the corners because of course if there is any problem in this galaxy Din Djarin does not believe can be solved by the application of beskar, you’ve yet to find it. You've watched him erase the same curve four times trying to get it right – the slope of the inner wall, where a tiny shoulder might rest. He thought you were asleep at the time, but you weren't.
"There's room by the ladder," you offer. "If we move the crate of detonators. Which, incidentally, we should probably move regardless of the baby."
"Mm." The blue light slides across his visor in a long, unbroken stripe. "I was thinking closer to the bulkhead. It’ll be warmer there and when she’s old enough to stand, the rungs will be in reach."
"Old enough to stand and climb a ladder on a gunship. I mean, that sounds..."
"She’ll need to learn the ship."
"She’ll need to learn not to fall out of the ship."
He tilts his head – that small Din gesture that on anyone else would be a shrug. "Both."
You let your hand drift in a slow circle over your belly. The baby's been still for an hour, which always feels longer than an hour. Any minute now she’ll wake up and start kicking your bladder like it personally insulted her, and you're almost looking forward to it. You like the moving better than the not-moving because the not-moving makes you hold your breath and think about scenarios you’d rather not think about.
"We could put the chest under the bulkhead bunk," he goes on, thinking out loud, which is rare for him. It means he's been thinking for days and the thinking has overflowed as the time when the thinking requires to crystallise comes closer. "We can move the spare ration crates to the lower hold. The vibration is less near the bulkhead so she’ll sleep better."
"You've thought about this a lot."
"Yes," he replies, as though not thinking about it would be farcical.
You laugh, and the laugh catches in the soft fullness of your ribs and turns into a hiccup. His hand twitches toward you on the armrest, is she alright, is she alright, is she alright, the muscle reflex of a man who’s spent the last few months unsure whether you breaking would be something he could fix. You take his hand before he can decide whether to extend it, and put it on your knee, because his hand on you anywhere calms him, and tonight you want him calm.
"Tell me more," you say. "About the bunk and the cradle. Tell me what you're picturing."
He doesn't answer fast, turning questions over the way he turns a blaster over before he cleans it. You used to find that maddening, but as the months have gone on, you find it tender.
"I picture her small first," he says. "Small enough for me to carry against the chestplate. I’ll need to pad it, on the left side, where the seam’s rough, but I have an idea for a liner.”
"You've already designed a liner?"
"Yes.” He pauses on your look. "You asked."
"I did, so keep going."
"I picture her learning the sound of the engines the way I learned them as a foundling. The Tribe ship was bigger, but the principle’s the same. A child should know the sound of their home well enough that they wake when it changes. And I picture her learning the tools next, when she’s four, perhaps. She’ll know the names – the difference between a hydrospanner and a fusion cutter. She’ll know not to touch the carbonite controls and by six, she should be able to strip a blaster and reassemble it. Slowly, with help."
"Okay."
"By eight she’ll begin the resol'nare…"
At that, you go still.
It's a tiny stillness, the kind he probably doesn't catch through the wall of the beskar. Your hand stops moving on your belly, the hum of the Crest seeming louder all of a sudden, filling the cockpit like water filling a cup. Like the sound has nowhere else to go and so it goes into you.
"The resol'nare," you repeat carefully.
"The Six Actions."
He says it like he's reciting something he learned before he could read, because he is, and he did and seems excited at the prospect.
"Language. Armour. Defence of self and clan. Raising children in the Way. Contributing to the welfare of the clan. Rallying to the Mand'alor when called."
He pauses.
"The first two come earliest. It’s best to start with Mando'a in the home from infancy. Her first words should be ours. I've been…I've been practicing so I don't fumble the lullabies."
Something in your chest does a slow, awful tilt – half a melt, half a stagger.
The melt is for the image of him alone in some quiet corner of the ship, mouth shaping syllables behind beskar, getting the cadence right for a baby that doesn't exist yet.
The stagger is for the rest of it.
"Din."
"She’ll have a small set first. Soft pieces, foundling-grade, until the bones thicken."
He's still talking, and you realise with a kind of slow horror that he's not pitching this to you, he’s sharing it. The way you share a plan with a partner you assume is already inside the plan with you. The way you talk about repainting a room you both already agreed to repaint.
The way he did when he made the lists.
"The helmet comes later and not until she asks for it. The Armorer was clear with me about that. It's not the same for a biological child as it was for me. There's a…a ceremony. I've already spoken to her about…"
"Din."
The second time stops him. He turns his head, the visor finding you, and you take your boots off the console and slowly set them on the deck. You sit up, as much as a six-months-pregnant body sits up, which is to say you list forward like a cargo ship adjusting its load, and look at him.
"When did we decide that?"
There’s a long pause and you can almost hear him reviewing the conversation, looking for the moment he might have missed it.
"Decide what?"
"That our child is being raised Mandalorian."
The cockpit goes very quiet. Even the hum seems to hold its breath, though that's probably your imagination.
"I…" He stops and starts again. "I’m Mandalorian. My child is Mandalorian."
"Our child."
"Our child is Mandalorian."
"Din, we’ve never had this conversation."
"We’re having it now."
"No, we’re having a fight now, because you skipped the conversation."
His hands have gone still on the armrests and you know him well enough to know that means he's recalibrating something deep. Something he didn't know needed to be recalibrated until just now.
"I assumed," he says finally.
"Yeah."
"I…" He shakes his head. "I didn’t realise there was an assumption to make."
"That's the problem."
"Cyar'ika…"
"No, don't cyar'ika me into agreeing with you. I'm not…Din, I'm not saying no. I'm saying I never said yes. There's a difference and it's a big one and you don't get to skip over it because you've already picked out the lullabies."
You sigh heavily.
“We’ve been here before, with your assumptions.”
"You don't want the child to be Mandalorian,” he says, flatly.
"I didn't say that either."
"Then what are you saying?"
You exhale and feel the breath all the way down in your back, somewhere beneath the place where your spine has been protesting for two weeks. The baby chooses this exact moment to wake up and roll, a long slow somersault that punches a knee into your ribs, and you make a small involuntary sound and press your palm flat against the curve.
Din's hand twitches toward you and then stops, hovering, uncertain whether comfort is allowed mid-argument. Uncertain whether he's still allowed to touch what he might have just lost a little ground with.
You take his hand and put it on your belly. Because that part, at least, isn't in dispute, and you would never let him think it was.
"I'm saying," you tell him, quietly, "that this baby is half me. And you have a whole Creed, Din. You have a whole…a whole world you want to hand her. Language and armour and a clan and a Way. And I love that you want that. I love that you've been practicing lullabies, don’t get me wrong…”
"I didn’t…"
"I love that you want to give her what saved you,” you barrel on. “I love that you have a tribe that would catch her if anything ever happened to us. I love that you've thought about the padding on your chestplate. Do you understand how soft my whole body went when you said that? Don't answer, I'll tell you. Very soft, embarrassingly soft."
"Cyar'ika… "
"But I have things too. I have where I came from. I have stories my mother told me at night that I want to tell our child – stories that are not in Mando'a and don't have any armour in them. I have a name I want to give her that isn't Mando'a. I have…”
And this is perhaps the biggest part of what you need to say.
“Din, I have a face. I want to be able to nurse our baby without taking a vow first. I want to look at her while I'm feeding her in the middle of the night, and I want her to look at me. I want her to see my face when I sing to her. I want to know what her face looks like when she smiles at me. And I don't know if any of that fits inside the Way you're describing, and I need you to not assume.”
His hand is still on your belly. The baby kicks against it, you both feel it at the same time, and his fingers twitch – that small involuntary marvel he can't help, even six months in, that small oh of a man who keeps relearning that there is a person in there, an actual person, who will one day have opinions and preferences and possibly bad taste in music.
You watch his thumb stroke once against the cloth, slow, like he's apologising to the baby for the volume of the adults around her.
"I don’t… " he starts, and stops, choosing words like he's choosing stones to cross a river, testing each one for whether it will hold his weight. "I haven’t raised a child before."
"Neither have I."
"I was raised by the Tribe."
His voice through the modulator has gone lower, the way it does when something costs him to say.
"I don’t know another way. When I imagine our child, I imagine…I imagine teaching her what I was taught because it’s what saved me. There was a moment, when I was placed in that bunker by my parents when I thought no one was coming. I remember it. I remember the sound…the sound of monsters coming to take me. And then they came. And after that, I was never alone again. I don’t know how to give our child less than what saved me from that. I wouldn’t know how to look at her and know I had withheld it."
You hear yourself make a small sound that isn't quite a word and put your other hand over his, on your belly, so both of yours are wrapped around his one. His fingers shift, just a little, threading through yours, and you can feel the slight tremor in them.
"That's not less," you say softly. "What you want to give them isn't less. I'm not asking you to give them less. I'm not asking you to leave any of that out. I'm asking you to make room. For me and mine. So our child gets both of us, not just the louder one."
"You think I’m the louder one?"
"You're the one with the helmet. The acoustics alone…"
He laughs properly this time and the hand under yours flexes once in acknowledgment.
"I don’t know how to do this," he says, looking down now, the visor angled toward your joined hands. "I don’t know how to raise a child in two ways. The Creed is…it’s not a thing you do halfway. The resol'nare is six actions, not three. I can’t teach her to defend the clan only on the weekdays. I don’t know what it looks like to…to share this. To make the Way one ingredient in a larger meal. I don’t know if it’s even possible. The Armorer would say it’s not..."
"What would you say?"
"I would say," he says slowly, "that I don’t want to lose either of you. Not to a question I refused to ask."
You feel the heat rise behind your eyes and blink it back. You’re determined not to start crying in the middle of this conversation because you have a thread to hold and you mean to hold it.
"Okay," you say. "Then we start there. Not with the answer, but with the question. With the willingness to ask it out loud, with words. Probably more than once. Probably a lot of times, between now and when this child is old enough to strip a blaster."
"I should’ve asked."
"Yeah."
"I’m asking now."
"I know."
"I just…don’t have an answer to give you tonight.”
"I'm not asking for one tonight."
He's quiet and the Crest continues its comforting hum. The blue threads streak past and somewhere behind you, you hear another clink of metal and make a mental note to investigate once this conversation is over.
"What are you asking for tonight?" he says finally.
You look at the visor and the long blue threads beyond it. You think about the cradle he's sketched four times, trying to get the curve of it right and the padding he's designed for the chestplate. You think about the lullabies he's been practicing in private so he wouldn't fumble them, alone in some quiet corner of the ship, for a person who doesn't exist yet but who he’s already preparing to love out loud.
You think about the boy who remembers the sound of the monsters.
"Tonight I want us to sit here with your hand on my belly until she goes back to sleep and you to lean your helmet against my forehead. And I want you to know that we're going to figure this out, you and me, because we have three more months and then the rest of our lives, and I’m not doing the rest of my life with someone who decides things about our family without me. And you’re not doing the rest of your life with someone who decides things about our family without you. That part goes both ways, I promise."
"You promise?"
"I do."
Slowly, the way he does everything that matters, he leans forward. The beskar catches the blue light in a slow-moving stripe as he lowers his head. You lift your chin to meet him, and the smooth cool curve of the helmet's brow comes to rest against your forehead. One hand stays on your belly and the other reaches up and cups the back of your neck under your hair, thumb settling against the small hollow behind your ear where he knows – because he’s learned you the way he learned the Crest, sound by sound – you like to be held.
You close your eyes.
His breath through the modulator is a soft, even rasp. The beskar between your foreheads is a small held boundary, and somehow, tonight, it doesn't feel like a wall – it feels like a promise he’s keeping, a thing he hasn’t asked you to be part of but hasn’t asked you to give up, either. He’s here. All of him he can give tonight, he’s giving. The parts of him that are yours are yours, and the parts that are the Creed's are the Creed's, and tonight, sitting here in the blue hum, that division doesn’t feel like a wound. It feels like the shape of the man you chose.
You breathe it in, your hand tightening on his over your belly.
The baby chooses that moment – because your baby has, apparently, a sense of theatre already – to give a slow luxurious roll under both your palms. Din's fingers twitch, he tilts his helmet down and his voice through the modulator goes softer than you’ve ever heard it, softer than the static should allow, softer than any machine ought to be able to make a voice.
"Su'cuy, ad'ika," he says. “Hello, little one.”
His mouth shapes the word behind the beskar, careful and unhurried, like he's been practicing this too.
"Buir and buir are here. We’re talking about you. About what to give you. It’s a long conversation that we’ll have many times. But don’t worry, you’ll know us both – know both our voices."
Buir and buir. Both parents. He says it out loud, puts you in the same word he uses for himself, and it lands in you like a small warm stone at the bottom of a well.
"Buir," you echo softly, trying the shape of it. "That's me too?"
"That’s you too." The visor lifts, finds your face again, and even through the black of it you can feel him looking. "If you want."
"I want."
His thumb strokes once across your belly whilst the other, at the back of your neck, curls into your hair.
Nothing is decided. Nothing is fixed. The conversation isn't over – there will be more of them, dozens, hundreds, a long quiet careful thread of them woven through the next three months and the rest of your lives, every one of them a small renegotiation between his Way and your stories and the small third person who will, eventually, have a Way and stories of her own to add to the pile.
But his forehead is against yours through the beskar, and his hand is on your belly and yours is on his, and he’s just called you buir through the vocoder with his voice cracked, and you have just called yourself the same. And somewhere between the two of you a third small heartbeat is doing its quiet competent work of becoming a person, untroubled by Creeds, untroubled by names, untroubled by anything except the warm dim sound of two voices it already knows, finally talking to each other instead of around.
"Stay like this a minute," you whisper.
"As long as you want, cyar'ika."
"A minute. And then another minute. And then… "
"And then another."
"Yes"
You don't move and neither does he. The beskar between your foreheads is warmed by the closeness of the man inside it. His breath through the modulator is a soft even rasp you match yours to, without meaning to, the way you’ve long since learned to match his. His hand is warm on your belly. His hand is warm on your neck. The baby is still.
Outside, the stars stretch on, blue and patient and uninterested in any of it, which is, somehow, exactly the right audience.
Over the Andes | Frankie Morales x ofc/f!reader | 3,9 k
Summary: Santi arrives in Tampa, and reader has an important conversation with Di.
Content warning: Mentions of a breakup and divorce.
Reader here is more of an ofc, written as a reader insert. She will have some description and a backstory but has no name.
A/N: You might feel like not much happens here, but we are getting to know our character a little better, and giving them time to get to know each other.
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
Main masterlist | Series masterlist | Read on AO3
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Di and you are lying down on a blanket, the remains of a picnic around you. The sun is setting, and there is a light breeze caressing the grass around you. It's a quiet spot, a little park Di found one day, a little ways away from both your places, but it's calm, not too crowded, and beautiful. Both of you are happy to enjoy this moment, a quiet bubble in your busy lives. With an arm thrown over your eyes, you feel sleep dragging you down its path when Diana breaks your near slumber.
"Why did you and Eric divorce?" She almost sounds like a child, asking a question that has been bugging her for some time, something she can't make out by herself and finally resolves to ask you.
"Huh?" Yet, for you, the question comes out of nowhere, and it takes you a moment to comprehend the words. Your arms fall off your face, and you blink in the diminishing sunlight, staring at her.
"I mean, I know what you told me, you just drifted apart, fell out of love, yadi-yadi- ya." She isn't looking at you, her face is still turned toward the sky. "It's just… You were such a perfect couple."
"Obviously not." You can't help your snicker. But she turns her head to look at you, and you see something more in her eyes, something almost like betrayal.
"You were my role model."
That stops whatever you were about to say, the way you tend to dismiss the conversation, deflecting with a joke. "Di, I… I don't know what to tell you."
"I mean, it always felt a little strange. One day you two were living together, happy and in love, after probably one of the best weddings I've ever been to, and the next day, you call me and tell me you are getting a divorce."
"It didn't happen in a day, it took longer than that." You frown, grasping an errant thought: that maybe you hadn't really told Diana everything. Not that you deliberately hid anything.
"But what happened? I mean… I always looked up to you both. I know you think I'm in my slut era, that's been lasting for decades," she laughs with something that sounds almost deprecative, and you want to interrupt, but she goes on, "I always felt like, one day I could have what you had. And now I don't know."
"Di, where is this coming from? It sounds so sudden." You sit up, and she mimics you, both sitting with crossed legs, facing each other.
"Benny and I had a fight." Her eyes drop to the ground, and she quickly adds, "Don't worry, it's all good now, but it made me realize how much I care about him, and I don't know… Is it all worth it?" Her eyes look up to you, and you see that child all over again.
"What did you fight about?" You can't help but worry. Diana just shakes her hand, a way of saying it's not important.
"Oh, it's silly; we both kinda got in our heads, because we haven't really been official, you know. And it escalated until we both realized we really just want to be a couple." Her smile betrays her happiness at saying the word out loud.
"Wait, does that mean I'm finally going to meet him?"
"Yeah… maybe." You throw an empty bag of chips at her.
"OK fine! We are thinking of doing it soon. Try to organize something where he could bring his brother and friends, and I could bring you. That way we could all meet each other."
"When were you going to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now!"
A moment of silence follows, while you both share a smile. You know you owe her a better explanation, because you want her to understand, and you also want her to be happy. You take a big breath and start.
"It's true, we did fall out of love. But we also still love each other, just not romantically."
"I don't get it."
"We still have a lot of respect for each other. And you can't erase a decade of being together, of being in love for most of it."
"But that's the thing, you were together for so long, why didn't you... I don't know, try harder?" She looks apologetic as she says this, not wanting you to feel hurt by her words, but also really wanting to understand.
"I know, but we met young and grew apart. It's true!" You exclaim when you see Di roll her eyes, "We just didn't really realize it until it was too late. And we did try, but… but I don't know what to tell you. We became roommates, not lovers anymore. We didn't have the same interests, we didn't want the same things. It was fun when we were younger, but as we grew older, we grew apart. And I think we just didn't notice until one day he mentioned wanting to move to another place, sell the apartment, and buy a house. And I didn't. That started a conversation, one which made us realize how different we wanted our future to be. And that's that. There was no big fight, no cheating, just a slow realization that we weren't in love anymore, and that we didn't really want to fall back in."
"That feels so sad."
"It is, but also, it's not? We were together for more than 10 years, and most of our time together was wonderful. I have so many fond memories of him, and I'll always want the best for him, and him for me. There is no regret, I don't think I wasted years of my life with him." You reflect on what you said, trying to see if there is a better way to explain things, but there isn't. That is exactly what happened. "I maybe wish we had realized a little earlier, and I wouldn't have gone so long without sex." You can't help but add a little joke to diffuse the small tension.
"Really! How long has it been?"
"Well, now it's fine. I did go on a few dates before moving here, at least I scratched that itch." You hear Diana whisper "slut" under her breath, and you laugh before continuing.
"Before that, I don't know, it's like we didn't want to, didn't even think about it. We maybe had sex 2 or 3 times a year."
You sigh. "I don't know what else to tell you, it just happened. What was harder was when I noticed most of my life had evolved around him. And that's partly on me, because I was fine with not having too many friends. And I did make my own and still keep in touch. But I wanted to find myself again."
"And you aren't mad he's with someone again, so soon?"
"We divorced almost a year ago, I'm fine. He met her while we were figuring things out, and he told me right away he was starting to feel something for someone else. Was I thrilled at the time? No. But angry? Never. And she's really great. Not my type, we won't become friends, but she is perfect for him, for who he is now."
"You act so wise, it just feels impossible to be in love and then not be anymore." Her voice is still laced with regret and a little bit of uneasiness. You want to reassure her, want her to understand that it was worth it, whatever the outcome was.
"Diana, while we were together, we were good, happy. We can still be your model. I actually think the way we broke up is also great. And I still believe in love."
"With Frankie?" Her sly smile makes you feel flushed.
"Shush, I don't know. He's fine." You wave your hand, trying to chase the subject away.
"He's fine," Di repeats, mocking you. "So fine that you lent him a book, and are what, texting now?"
"I already admitted to liking him. I just don't know if he likes me. We're just friends."
"Friends, fuck this! The guy is flirting, and you know it." She throws the bag of chips back at you.
"Maybe… But I think I like this part. I'm enjoying the status quo, not really knowing, for the moment. It's like a shy flirt. And if it doesn't go further than this, then it's fine, really. I'm not pursuing him for my next love story, I'm just happy being friends with him, and maybe more."
"Don't you want to fuck him?"
"Of course I want to! Girl! I saw him piloting a helicopter! Can you imagine what it's done to me?" You groan, lying back dramatically and then sigh, "He was so hot, being so competent and all."
Di lies back again and sighs, "I want to see Benny train people, and watch him work out. I would climb him like a tree."
"You are already fucking him."
"Yeah. But not enough." You both giggle like teenagers talking about their crushes.
"¡Holà pendejo![Hello, asshole!]" Frankie exclaims loudly when he sees Santiago coming through the sliding doors after customs. He and Mia went to greet him at the airport, and have been waiting a little out of the way, Mia in his arms, holding a sign they made together displaying "Bienvenido, Tío Santi! [Welcome, uncle Santi!]"
"Frankie, it's so good to see you! Mia, ¡princesa! ¡Has crecido un montón desde la última vez que te vi!"[Princess! You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you]
But Mia is a little shy, she hasn't seen her uncle in 6 months, and even if she remembers him and has talked with him on FaceTime many times, she still feels a little apprehensive.
"Muñequita, ¿puedes decir hola a tu tío? [Sweetie, can you say hi to your uncle?]" Frankie murmurs in her ear when he senses her discomfort, her head buried in the crook of his neck. She starts by shaking her head, but Frankie gently rubs her back to comfort her, and she eventually turns her head to look at the adult standing in front of her with a kind smile and manages a timid "Holà tío."
"Did you make this pretty sign for me? Can I see it?" Santi asks kindly, reverting to English in case it helps the little girl. She hands him the sign, which is now all crumbled from the motion she made to hide in her father's arms, and he compliments her, admiring the drawings she made around the words that Frankie wrote. "It's beautiful. Can I keep it?"
"Yes." Her shyness is slowly ebbing away from the kind words she received.
"I'm going to cherish it. Let me put it in my bag to keep it safe," Santi reverently folds the sign and puts it away.
Frankie can't help the fatherly pride he feels watching his daughter overcome her shyness. He wouldn't have pushed her, but he wants to make sure she is comfortable. And soon, as they walk toward the car, Mia is babbling away while Santi asks her questions, and the sound of their laughs combined makes Frankie's heart swell with content.
After arriving home and putting Mia to sleep for her afternoon nap, the two friends finally settle outside to catch up. They are sitting on the back porch, watching the water, coffee in hand, the sliding doors behind him open, in case Mia calls for him.
"Have you taken Mia on the boat yet?" Santi breaks the silence that until then was only disturbed by the distinctive song of a <type of bird>.
"No, I'm afraid she's too little. I don't think I can sail and watch out for her at the same time."
"What if we went together? Just a small trip on the bay to see if she enjoys it? That way you can finally put your sailing license to the test."
"I've sailed plenty, thank you very much. But yeah, that would be great." It puts Frankie at ease, knowing he can count on his friend for a few weeks. Not that he couldn't have asked Will, Benny, or Tom. But he knows how Will and Benny are busy, and he doesn't trust Tom on a boat yet. And having Santi at home, it's different, it's showing his daughter what true friendship is like, and also knowing she will be spoiled rotten by her tio. Of course, the best way he can show his appreciation is by saying, "So, when are you finally getting your own place?"
"I'm barely here, and you are already kicking me out?" Thankfully, his friend knows exactly what these words mean, especially when they are underlined by a squeeze on the shoulder.
"I have a few places I need to look at, see if the pictures are true." He trails a bit before adding, with something like awe in his voice, "Yovanna wants to go back to school. She started a nursing degree in Australia, and she wants to finish it here and eventually specialize to become a Midwife. She's already in touch with the school, so I'm here to look for a place close by." The smile on his face tells Frankie that his friend is finally letting himself be happy.
"How about the money?" They never really speak about that, and Frankie knows Santi isn't reckless, but he wants to make sure his friend is doing well, see if he can help in any way.
"I'm fine, don't worry. I took plenty of well-paid contracts and barely touched the money. I have plenty to get us a good place, even something for Yov's brother; he still hasn't decided if he wants to come. I have everything sorted immigration wise, so we should be good. "
"What about you? What are you going to do?"
"Honestly?" The sigh Santi lets out holds a lot: uncertainty, even some shame. "I don't know, whatever I can help with. I'm tired of moving around, chasing guys, but I don't know what else to do. Are you hiring?" Santi's eyes turn expectant.
Frankie laughs. "I don't really know what the hell you could do there. But I can look around if I hear about anything that could fit. Maybe ask Will and Benny, they might have an idea. And they know a lot more people than I do."
"Thanks, I need to find something. I can't stay idle, it'll kill me." The desperation in his words is palpable. All of them have had action ingrained in their habits for so long that even if they had the money to do nothing, none of them really could. Frankie was the perfect example.
"Believe me, I get it. It almost did for me." He will always feel shame for the few months when they got back from Colombia, the moment that changed everything, his own life being at the forefront of the list of things he could have lost.
"Mi llave [my friend], I think you were a warning for all of us." Santi squeezes Frankie's shoulder. "But you are also the strongest, Frankie. And I hope you never forget it."
Frankie snorts dismissively. Yeah right, none of you are addicts." But Santi shakes his head, his hand still on Frankie's shoulder, not letting go.
"We all carry something from our years of service, and we all have our own form of addiction. Do you think me running around the world, trying to set things right, was healthy? You and Will are the ones who showed us the way. Showed us there is a life outside of our own trauma. Look at Benny with his fighting. And now his training, he seems to need the adrenaline of the fight. And Tom with his ventures–"
"And his drinking." Frankie cuts in; at one point the guys need to see it's a problem.
"That bad?"
"He says he stopped, but doesn't want to get any help. So I'm not very sure."
"Shit…" Santi shakes his head, but isn't deterred from his speech. "Well anyway, what you overcome is more than any of us could have done. And we all looked up to you when we saw you struggling and succeeding. I know I did. I always will."
Frankie feels his throat constrict, emotions swelling his heart, he's about to deny it, try to say something, but Santi cuts him.
"Don't. It's just the way it is." Frankie nods, finally accepting it.
"So, tell me more about your pretty meteorologist. Have you gotten better at flirting?"
"Vete a la mierda [Fuck off]."
"No? Come on! Tell me!"
"It's just that I'm technically her boss, even if she doesn't know that. And even if I am just a coworker, it can still be an issue."
"Fuck that, don't try to find excuses!"
Thankfully, a loud"Daaaaaaaaad" saves Frankie from finding an answer.
Another week ends, and you are already at Joe's securing a table, waiting for your colleagues to unwind after a stressful few days, the last of the summer storms making everyone's work more difficult.
You know Frankie is flying and will join you soon. Alysha, being on vacation this week, picked up the sunset tour he usually forgoes in the weeks he has Mia, but he mentioned having a friend to help. Colin would join you later, from a meeting downtown. Joan had promised to arrive soon, she wanted to finish sorting out the archives room before leaving for the weekend.
As you are waiting with your drink, sitting at what you now think of as your favorite table, you get a text from Colin saying his meeting is running late and he won't be able to make it. Almost at the same time, Joan announces she has a personal emergency, a friend needing her support. Fred had declined, having already plans, which meant that you were about to end up alone with Frankie. Which makes you feel very nervous. Despite how cool you acted with Di, you are very flustered at the idea of being alone with him. Part of you is excited at the prospect, and part dreads it, wanting nothing more than to run away.
Before you can text him to let him know, wanting to give him the choice to cancel, Frankie shows up, a drink in his hand, and sits in front of you with a large smile. The water to his back, and the light from the setting sun, shines softly, highlighting the brown of his hair and his golden skin. Your heart flutters at the sight, and you are speechless for a second, admiring him in the glow of the evening. Until Frankie asks, "Where is everyone?"
"Oh, they just all texted to cancel. I was about to tell you in case you wanted to…" You let your voice trail, not knowing how to finish.
"Oh!" he seems a little caught off guard, but soon an easy smile spreads on his face. "Their loss, I'm happy to have a drink after the week we had."
"You mean the weather? Or is there something else?"
"My whole life! As I mentioned, I have a friend over for a few weeks. I love him, and it's great to have him over, but he spoils Mia and makes my life difficult." You can tell from his tone that he is, in fact, very happy and loves every moment.
"I'm sure you hate it." You tease, and he answers in the same tone.
"Yeah, it's really the worst." He grins at you and starts regaling you with tales of the latest mischief Mia and his friend, whom he calls alternatively Santi, Santiago, and Pope, until you have to ask him if it is indeed talking about the same person.
"Sorry, Pope is his call sign, from the army, his name is Santiago, Santi is what we usually call him."
"You have a call sign? What is it?"
"Catfish." He seems a little embarrassed, which prompts you to ask more questions.
"Why? Because you are a good swimmer? For the whiskers?" Each time he shakes his head, smiling, but refusing to give you any indication.
"It's a whole story, and maybe one day you'll earn it." Frankie finally relents, but refuses to say more when you beg and even ask what you need to do to earn the privilege of hearing the story.
It feels like the best date you've had in years. Except it isn't one. It's just a drink between two colleagues who are maybe also friends, and who might both be attracted to each other.
You know your attraction is getting stronger, but on his side? It's still hard to know. You suspect there is, by the way he looks at you, something. But the conversation always stays on safe topics, such as work, books, movies, food, his daughter. Never about past relationships, never any innuendo that would be borderline flirting. Yet you can feel something in the air, it's almost tangible. There is attraction, you are almost sure. It makes you want to seek more, leave the status quo, and see if there is something and where it could lead you both.
But it's getting late, so tonight won't be the night. Tonight you enjoy the end of your drink, laughing and saying goodbye a little awkwardly by your cars, a hand wave, almost turning into a handshake, when it's clear both of you wanted to hug.
"Have you met up with the guys yet?" Frankie asks Santi over dinner.
"Not yet. I had both Benny and Will on the phone. Benny mentioned there was a fight next week, a guy he's been training for some time. He said we could all meet there."
"When will it be?"
"Saturday night, fight starts at 8 PM."
"Sounds good, I can make it. Mia will be with her mom that night."
"Great! Just like old times."
Frankie can't help but remember the last time they all went together to a fight, when Benny was still competing. The moment when Santi came to ask them for their help. And judging from Santi's face, he is also remembering that same moment. When asking for help for a recon mission turned into
And even if they are mostly all doing well, sometimes Frankie wonders if he had the chance, would he do it again? Is money worth what happened to them? The guilt, the way it broke the dynamic of their friendship? He doesn't have an answer.
"What are you doing next Saturday?" Di doesn't even say hello when you answer your phone, straight to business, as always.
"Eating pizza while I watch a movie probably. Why?"
"Do you want to see two men beat the shit out of each other?"
"That sounds very appealing."
"Yeah, I know, but think of the smell of sweat and stale beer!"
"You know the way to my heart."
"Benny will be there."
"Now you got me interested!"
"I told you he was training a guy, well, next Saturday is his first fight since he got into training. I know it's not really our scene, but his brother and his other friends will be there. I thought it could be a good opportunity for everyone to meet. Without the pressure of a dinner or a drink at the bar."
"Of course I'll come! I'm not letting you have all the fun alone. Plus I'm curious, I've never been to a fight. I don't know if I'm going to like it, but at least I'll have tried!"
"Great, I'll send you the details!"
Spanish translation:
muñeca/muñequita: literally doll, sweetie
Mi llave: my friend (literally my key), Colombian
Vete a la mierda: Go to hell, Fuck off
taglist - Please let me know if you want to be removed it's not a problem, or if you want to be added: @iknowisoundcrazyreads @lillaydee @littlemisspascal @harriedandharassed @sunnytuliptime @picketniffler @sawymredfox @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @half-moon16 @sin-djarin @hanahleah @missadangel @simpingforjoel @aurorawritestoescape @kirsteng42 @annwrites24 @vodkaandpizza @quinnnfabrgay @littlepedrito @petalsinblood @savedyounine @isabellaboo2025 @copperhalfcent @the-blind-assassin-12 @madpanda75 @anoverwhelmingdin @inept-the-magnificent @perpetualharpyresonance @ashleyfilm
Summary: You help Alex practice a harder cello piece. But this practice is somehow entirely different from the previous ones.
Warnings: established relationship, MDNI (+18), swearing, subby Alex, sensory deprivation kinda (Alex is listening to music here), dry humping, fingering, brief oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, aftercare
Word count: 4k
Author's note: Look, I don't have anything to say. I think we all saw what we did yesterday, and immediately got obsessed. Did I write this during the night and fucked up my sleep schedule again? Maybe. But I think it was worth it. My darling Cha (@bergamote-catsandbooks) thank you for being so excited to beta read this story. Love you! 💜
The house is quiet. Quieter than on most days.
There isn’t any music echoing off the walls, no sound of cello creeping around every corner and the occasional curse of Alex when he misses a beat, or he makes a mistake.
It seems too odd. Your ears are already used to the constant loudness in the house, and now it is almost like it is haunted.
You shake yourself back to reality, giving the soup another stir in the pot before you reach to turn off the stove. You move to take a spoon from one of the drawers. The smells in the kitchen makes your mouth water, and your moves are maybe too quick as you taste the still too hot food.
The moment the spoon touches your lips, you hear a loud and frustrated sigh coming from the living room.
Well, maybe today isn’t as peaceful as you thought it would be.
You swallow that spoonful of soup, humming at the taste before you put the used spoon in the dirty dishes. It clatters against the plates, but you’re already out the door, worry filling you as you round the corner and your eyes fall on Alex.
You furrow your brows, not noticing anything unusual. Alex is laying on the couch, headphones on, tapping on the bunch of paper in front of him in his lap with a pencil. You almost swoon at the way he looks like. Black tank top with gray sweatpants. One of those outfits he wears when he’s not in his practice room, playing on his cello in just a shirt and his underwear.
“Alex,” you call out, but quickly realize that he can’t hear you because of the music playing in both his ears.
So you walk through the room, your bare feet tapping on the wooden floor quietly as you get closer. When you arrive beside him he still doesn’t look up, and as you sit down a soft breeze hits you through the open window behind the couch.
“Alex,” you try again, leaning closer to him.
When he still doesn’t pay any attention, not even turning his gaze towards you for a second, you do something that you immediately know you would regret after.
You take hold of the bunch of paper in his lap, placing it on the coffee table in front of you, followed by his pencil too.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he asks confused, brows furrowing, making the lines between them deeper.
You reach to push back his headphones, letting it hang around his neck as you look at him. “Lunch is ready,” you announce with a soft smile, pushing back a strand of hair that fell in front of his forehead.
His hands fall back onto his stomach, and with a frustrated sigh he throws his head back against the pillow. “I was in the middle of analyzing a very hard passage,” he murmurs under his breath, and you immediately feel guilty for interrupting him.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you couldn’t have known,” he shakes his head, lifting his head and looking at you. With one hand he reaches out, holding you by your waist and pulling you suddenly towards him. To prevent falling across him and landing on the floor, you throw your leg over his lap, straddling his hips. When your eyes fall on his face, you see a wide grin paying on his lips. “It’s okay.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs, his arms circling your middle and pulling you down to his chest. You rest your head in the crook of his neck as much as the headphones allow, and you listen to the music playing from it, the pace too fast, notes flying so quickly you can’t even understand how someone is able to play that.
“What is it?” you ask, curiosity winning as you glance up at him from behind your eyelashes.
“Saint-Saëns, Cello Concerto No. 2, Op. 119,” he answers immediately. Your eyes widen at his precision for knowing the exact passage, and you smile up at him.
“Sounds complicated.”
“That’s why I’m analyzing it first. I may understand harder works, but not this one. The notes I’m making don't make any sense,” he explains, his thumb drawing small circles on your back.
“And it’s making you frustrated because you want everything to go perfectly on your first try.” It’s not even a question. You know him so well now, to understand that he’s a perfectionist, when it comes to his playing and music.
“At this point you know me better than me," he chuckles. He angles his head so he can place a soft kiss on your temple, hugging you tighter.
You stay like that for a few minutes. Him holding you, the music playing beside your ear, the occasional chirping of birds creeping through the window, filling the room. But no matter how peaceful the moment seems like, the position makes your legs go numb, so you start squirming in his lap, trying to find a better one.
As you move, you feel his hands tightening on your waist, and he lets out a low groan. “Shit. Stop moving around, baby.”
You look at him confused for a second, not understanding why he says that, but then realization dawns on you when you push yourself back to sit in his lap again. You can feel something hard under you, pressing against your center. You look at him with a surprised expression, but then a satisfied smile stretches across your face. “You’re hard.”
He tries to ignore your statement, clearing his throat as he looks up and down your body. “This is my shirt. The one that I played in yesterday.”
“Don’t avoid the conversation,” you warn him, leaning close so you are hovering above him, steadying yourself with your hands on his chest. “You’re hard just by me moving around a little in your lap.”
“That wasn’t moving around a little. You were basically dry humping me. Of course I get hard.”
“Oh, Alex. I see some concepts are not clear for you. This is what dry humping is,” you shoot back with a wicked smile, starting to move your hips around in his lap, dragging the most aching part of your body across the hard line of his cock in his pants, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh at the feeling, the thin fabric of your underwear not blocking the sensation.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips and guiding your movements as he occasionally lifts his hips to match your rhythm.
When he closes his eyes and throws his head back, you suddenly stop. He tries to thrust up again, but you lift off of him enough that he can’t reach you, and he looks at you with a wounded expression. “Why did you stop?”
“I thought you wanted me to stop, no? You said it moments before.”
“No, hell no. I don’t want you to stop. The music must have got to my brain for saying that. Too many notes, too many sounds, too many—”
You don’t let him finish the sentence, capturing his lips with yours. He groans into the kiss, and you take that quick moment to take control, slipping your tongue past his teeth. His hands wander down from your back to your ass, squeezing down hard when you teasingly nip at his bottom lip.
You can feel his hands moving again, up under your — technically his — shirt, caressing your back before he moves them to your front, moaning gently when he realized you don’t have any bra on. He immediately starts playing with your breasts, the callouses on his hands rough against your skin, but still igniting a fire on the path he takes with them.
You can feel the wetness between your thighs, and maybe because of the lack of oxygen getting to your brain because of the kiss, or because something else entirely, you get an idea you never had before.
You break away from him with a soft gasp, taking in a deep breath as you look into his eyes, seeing only hunger and desire burning in them, his soft brown eyes turning almost fully black.
When you feel like your brain can function again, you reach for his headphones, taking them off from around his neck, but not putting them down behind you on the coffee table. You just hold them while he looks at you with confusion. You nod towards his tank top. “Take it off.”
He complies without a sound, taking his hands from under your shirt and sitting up so he can quickly get out of his tank top, throwing it to the side. When he is done, he lays back again, his hands finding their place again on your waist.
You lift the headphones a little in the air, hovering above him again. “So I hear this piece is very fast. Must require some amazing finger work,” you wonder, and you watch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I wonder how yours is compared to it.”
Without warning you take hold of his left hand, guiding it down along the waistband of your underwear until you dip it into the fabric, his fingers immediately swiping across your wetness. He moves to dip his fingers lower, but you stop him with a soft squeeze on his wrist, and you hold up the headphones in your other hand. “You’ll follow this pace, alright?” you ask, and lift it to put it on his head, but he is the one stopping you now.
“I won’t be able to hear you that way.”
“Take it as a challenge or an experiment,” you answer. “Imagine a deaf musician. They simply rely on their feelings and eyes. They feel the vibration of the strings under their fingers, see where they’re supposed to hold them down. You feel too, no?” you ask, bucking your hips into his hand, his fingers gliding across your folds again.
“I do,” he nods, his voice strained.
“Great. Good thing you have this piece on repeat.”
You place the headphones on his head, pulling them over his ears so he can only hear the music and nothing else. You nod at him, and he dips his fingers between your folds, swiping them back and forth until his index settles on your clit, drawing slow and tight circles over it.
But his pace is not matching the music you heard coming from his headphone earlier, so you lean down next to his ear, lifting one side of the headphone so he can hear you. “I don’t think the music is this slow.”
That is all you say before placing the headphone back on his ear and leaning back again. At your words his finger immediately speeds up, following the pace of the piece in his ear. His eyes are studying your reactions closely, and you can see them glint when your mouth opens around a soft moan, your eyebrows running together.
You reach to unbutton the shirt you have on, giving him a free sight of your bare breasts, and he doesn’t miss a beat as he sits up to take one of your nipples in his mouth while his right hand plays with the other. His tongue circles around the hardened nub while his index finger wanders downwards towards your entrance. You hold on to him with your arms around his shoulders, and you tilt your hips a little when he eases one finger inside of you, a soft moan leaving your lips.
He starts to move it in and out of you to the music, and you can already feel your walls tightening around his finger, your orgasm building up faster in you than you expected.
It doesn’t take long until he adds a second finger too, and you look down at him.
He is now resting his chin on your sternum, your nipple still glistening from his saliva. But in his eyes you see such concentration like you never saw before. He is looking out for every small breath you let out against his face, every time you open your mouth when you moan, every time you furrow your brow at the sensation growing in you.
And you know he can also feel the way your walls are tightening around his fingers.
So when the music hits another fast point and he picks up the pace of his fingers again, you let go. You fall forward, letting your forehead rest against his while your orgasm washes over you. Your thighs are shaking slightly around his, but he holds you up, slowing his fingers so you can ride out your high without him overstimulating you.
When you feel like your body can work again, you lean in to kiss him. He reciprocates it, pulling his hand out from your underwear to place it on your thigh.
When you pull back, you also push off one side of his headphones. “And how is your timing?”
“What do you mean?” he asks confused.
“Your timing. When you have to hold down the note, or jump into a passage,” you explain, trying to sound like you understand everything about his world.
“It’s pretty good I guess,” he shrugs, still looking at you with furrowed brows, trying to guess where this conversation is going.
“How about we practice that too?” you ask, slowly climbing off of him to lay down on your back. He follows you, hovering above you. “Do you want the underwear to stay?” you ask, hooking your thumbs in the waistband.
“No, not this time,” he shakes his head, his answer coming out breathless. You start pushing the lacy material off, but he takes over halfway down your thighs, pulling them off himself and throwing it on the ground. His eyes fall on your exposed center for a second, and before you can say anything, he is already laying on his stomach between your thighs.
You place your leg on his shoulders, but realize that this position easily pushes off his headphones, so you reach down to pull it back in place, keeping your hands on either side of his head.
He doesn’t wait for you to approve his action, he dives in, swiping his tongue all the way from your entrance to your clit. You jerk your hips at the sudden contact, and he places one hand on your lower belly to keep you still.
You let out a loud moan when he starts drawing quick circles over your clit with his tongue, you are sure that he can hear it even through the headphones. And when he closes his lips around the little nub and starts sucking it gently between his teeth, you know you won’t be able to last too long this way.
And the second time you come, you want that to happen on his cock.
So you quickly pull him up by his hair, and the sight of him with your wetness glistening on his mustache and beard makes you go dizzy. You partially push back the headphones from his ears again.
You open your legs wider so he can settle in, and when he is leaning comfortably over you, you reach down to pull down his gray sweatpants along with his underwear too. The moment his cock is free, your focus falls on it. His tip is already glistening with his precum, the head almost an angry red for being denied any friction for so long.
You place your hand on his stomach first, following that path of coarse hair from his belly button leading down to his cock, taking a hold of him.
He lets out a long groan above you as you gather his precum with your fingers, spreading it over his length as you stroke him a few times.
When you pull your hand away, he tries to chase it at first, bucking his hips, but then he waits for what you are going to do next. You reach up taking a hold of his headphones. “Concentrate on the timing,” you remind him before you put the headphones back over his ears.
He purses his lips, but nods. He reaches down between your bodies, taking a hold of his cock and guiding it through your folds a few times before he lines himself up at your entrance, pushing in slowly. Your walls stretch around his length, and you throw your head back against the pillows at the feeling.
He lowers himself closer to your body, his forearms resting on both side of your head, his chest making contact with your breasts.
When he bottoms out, you both let out a strained moan. He waits for a few seconds for you to adjust to his size before he starts moving based on the music.
His rhythm is steady, and when he hits the spot in you, you don’t even care anymore if he really is following the music’s timing, or he is just making it up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders, keeping him close while you wrap your legs around his waist, the new angle allowing him to go deeper in you, making you see stars.
You are moaning at every thrust, and next to your ear Alex is grunting too, breathing heavily and occasionally cursing under his breath. You can hear the music drifting out from his headphones, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
You tear it off from his head, throwing it to the ground carelessly.
Alex falters for a second, pulling back to look down at you, and when you nod in encouragement it is almost like a spell falls over him. He leans down to capture your mouth with his, and he starts driving into you with more force and determination, and you can’t help but hold on to him tighter, every thrust sending you further up on the couch.
The living room is filled with moans and the sound of skin slapping against each other, the smell of sweat and sex lingering in the air. Now the house is not filled with cello notes bouncing off the walls, but with the music of two people merging into one.
“Oh God, Alex,” you moan into his mouth.
He groans too, closing his eyes tightly. “Fuck, I missed hearing your moans,” he murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.
You can feel yourself get closer to your high again, and you pull back to warn him. “I’m close, Alex. I think I’m gonna—” Your sentence is broke off with a loud moan from you, your walls squeezing him tight as your orgasm washes over you in waves again, this one a lot more powerful than the previous.
Alex doesn’t stop moving above you, but you can feel how his thrusts become sloppier, and he doesn’t need more than a few before he comes hard, burying himself to the hilt, his warmth filling you. You can feel his cock twitching in you as your walls milk every last drop of cum from him, and then he collapses over you, careful not to crush you with his weight.
Neither of you says anything, but you don’t need to.
You brush your fingers through his hair, combing back the sweaty curls as he breathes into the crook of your neck. His hand is all over your body where he can reach — your arms, your shoulders, your sides, your outer thighs.
You have already learned that after such an intense time with you he always needs time to process. He is not used to such level of intimacy, not used to being vulnerable in front of anyone. So after these moments he needs some time to look back at them while you hold him close. Not because he is weak, but because he is afraid of the possibility that it was only just a dream that he made up to comfort himself.
And you always wait patiently until he is the one to break the silence.
Like now.
“I’m hungry,” he says with such simplicity that you can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.
“I bet you are. We’ll need to re-heat the soup.”
“Maybe, but I don’t regret having this moment,” he shrugs, looking up at you with a loving smile. He cranes his neck to place a kiss on your jaw before he pushes himself off of you. Both of you let out a low hiss when he pulls out of you, the emptiness in you suddenly too unexpected. He gets up from the couch, pulling his underwear and sweats back on before he looks back down at you. “I’ll get a wet towel.”
You nod, resting your head on a soft pillow as you watch him walk away, the muscles in his back moving under his tanned skin, hips swaying slightly with every step he takes, making your eyes fall on the curve of his ass.
When he disappears around the corner, you look up at the ceiling, closing your eyes for a few minutes, listening to the birds chirping outside under the window.
You only open them again when you hear his footsteps.
He kneels down beside the couch, cleaning you gently, and you watch in silence as he works. When he is done, you look around for your underwear, and when you see it on the ground you reach for it, but he stops you. You glance at him holding up a simple black material, and you look at him with a questioning expression. “A new pair of underwear. So you wouldn’t have to put on back one that is… well, you know,” he tries to find the words, and you consider it adorable how he stumbles over his own thoughts.
“I get it, don’t worry,” you reassure him, taking it from his hand to put it on. When the material sits around you comfortably, you take his face between your palms, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”
“Right,” he laughs nervously, getting up from the ground and pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll, uh, get us some food then. I’ll be right back,” he announces.
Before he can disappear behind the corner you call after him. “Alex.”
He turns around quickly, eyebrows pulled up, waiting for your next words. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
His lips pull into a small smile at those three words. He nods before he finally disappears.
He didn’t say it back. He never has, but you're patient with him. You know about some of the traumas that happened in his past. He sometimes is emotionally distant, but you don’t blame him. In those times you let him have his moment in his practice room, and when he comes out after spending hours in there, you keep him company.
Sometimes he talks about what happened at the rehearsal that day, or why he feels that way, sometimes he just prefers the silence and you close to him. There were times he asked you to read for him, or asked if he could play for you while you watched.
Even though he doesn’t say it out loud, you know he loves you. He shows it with his actions.
He just needs time to process his own emotions and feelings before he can say those three little words out loud too.
And you will be next to him when that day comes. Let it be days, weeks, months, or even years. But you know that you won’t ever be his first true love.
His true love will always be the music, and the beauty of playing. He fell in love with it as a child, and since then the bond between him and the music only grew. Nothing proves it better than him still playing on his first cello, that he got from his parents.
But you don’t mind. It was composed for him this way.
And his fingers run through the strings of life with a quiet, but strong confidence, creating a beautiful melody.
Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @eviispunk, @baronessvonglitter, @johnssherlock221, @goonersquad101, @my-tearsricochet, @nutbutterjellie, @kokoluwie, @cozymochaa
Some peope who were interested, but aren't on the taglist: @grogusmum, @vodkaandpizza, @peepawmiller, @kellyxo1, @mystickittytaco, @ningaispunk, @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls, @loveoverpride, @pedrospurplerain, @chewie-bars, @604to647
“Maybe,” he shrugs, his arms circling your middle and pulling you down to his chest.
I fear for all of us come December
But his pace is not matching the music you heard coming from his headphone earlier, so you lean down next to his ear, lifting one side of the headphone so he can hear you. “I don’t think the music is this slow.”
HELLO 👁️👄👁️ I’m sweating
Ugh this was so hoooot and so good 🥵 I need more of him. Thank you for posting this like immediately 🫡
Hi!! I adore your writing❤️❤️ I see ur requests are open so I was wondering if youd be interested in writing something where Joel fucks the attitude out of reader?? Maybe she’s angry and stubborn for some reason and then she feels better afterward.
Three days since you accidentally saw Joel's truck pull into Tommy's driveway at two in the morning. Three days since you then watched some pretty woman with long hair and a laugh loud enough to wake the neighbours, climb out of the passenger seat, while resting her hand on his shoulder like she had the right to touch him.
Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly.
The thought made you want to break something.
So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right?
He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes.
"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.
Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"
"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?"
He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down.
Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."
"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"
Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"
"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."
"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper.
"It ain't your concern."
"It is my concern when—" and louder again.
"Enough."
He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down.
Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.
"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."
"Don't you dare—"
"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."
The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.
"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."
The words landed like a bucket of cold water.
You blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"
You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment.
"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering.
"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"
"But you didn't tell me."
"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."
"I'm not a cat." You pouted.
"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"
Now what.
You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid.
And still so, so fucking wound up.
"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.
Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.
"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.
"I don't know what I am."
"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."
"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."
Suddenly he turned you.
The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.
"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."
You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days.
Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent.
"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.
"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.
"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.
"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."
He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.
Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.
"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."
Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine.
The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.
"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.
"You—Joel—only you—"
"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."
Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him.
But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.
"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."
He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands.
Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt.
"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.
You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"
"Please what?"
"Don't stop—need you—"
He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you.
Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.
"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."
You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you.
Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely.
He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you.
After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.
"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"
You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."
Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."
Hey! I love your idea and I’d love to request Javier Pena, post DEA, buying a dog to keep him company 🥰
Hi! Thanks for sending this adorable request, I love dogs and immediately loved this idea 🥰
I changed buying with adopting because I preferred Javi to save a dog rather than buy one. I'm not from the US and have no idea how dog adoptions work there, so I apologize if there are any inaccuracies. I really hope you’ll enjoy this little fic. ♥️
Lola - Javier Peña x f!reader drabble
Summary: Javi just wanted a burrito that night. But then he met you and Lola and realized maybe he wanted something more.
Warnings: none, really, it's just fluff. Be aware that my blog is +18 tho!
Tags: fluff, meet cute, soft!Javi, retired!Javi, reader is a volunteer from a dog shelter, adorable puppy (a blue lacy mix in my head), Javi adopts a dog, brief mention of Chuco, mention of Javi’s past, some made up stuff about his childhood, just a lot of sweetness and warmth and a little bit of flirting 🥰
WC: 1,9k
A/N: Here’s the first Drabble of my birthday event, it’s been fun thinking about a soft!Javi trying to live a simple and easy life in his hometown after all he went through ♥️ thanks for taking part in this @isabellaboo2025 and thanks to anyone who has already sent a request, I’ll do my best to make sure you all get something nice 😌 English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes!
dividers by @/andromeda-graphics
| Drabble for V's Birthday ANYONE IS WELCOME TO JOIN IN AND SEND ME A REQUEST | Masterlist |
The day Javi adopted a dog, he had gone out to buy a burrito.
He was walking peacefully through downtown, the neon sign of his favorite takeout spot just a few steps away, when he heard a voice say, “Do you want to adopt a dog today?”
It was afternoon, just before sunset.
He turned around and saw you, wearing jeans and a T-shirt from a local animal shelter.
“Are you talking to me?” he exclaimed, surprised.
A small van was parked on the street and had the same logo you had on your shirt on the side.
“Would you like to adopt?” you smiled, gesturing toward the dogs in a pen next to you.
It was a temporary metal structure, set up on one side. Water bowls, cooling mats and dog toys were scattered here and there, and a few puppies were scampering and chasing each other inside.
He looked at you again, back at the puppies, then at you once more.
Beautiful eyes, a nice smile—your jeans hugged your hips perfectly, and despite your oversized T-shirt, he could see your curves.
You held out your hand and told him your name and the shelter where you volunteered.
Whoa,well now this is a sight to behold, he thought while shaking your hand.
But the puppies? Oh no.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m the right fit” he tried to say.
He saw a glimmer of disappointment in your eyes that you tried to hide right away.
“I understand,” you murmured, lowering your gaze, and Javi immediately felt guilty. “It’s just… I’m sorry, it’s not your fault—I’ve been here all afternoon and no one has stopped by.”
He found you delightful and hated hearing that hint of sadness in your voice.
So he looked at the puppies again, just to make you happy.
“How old are they?”
“Four months now; they’re already weaned, dewormed, and vaccinated.”
There were five of them in all, short-haired—four black with white spots and one brown.
“We found them in a trash bag when they were just born, you know, it was horrible.”
Javi wasn’t surprised; he’d seen enough horrors in his life to know that certain people have no scruples at all—not for anything or anyone, not even the most defenseless beings.
It hadn’t stopped disgusting him, he was simply aware of it.
But you seemed genuinely concerned, so sweet as you looked at him with a hopeful half-smile that Javi didn’t have the heart to disappoint you completely.
“I could make a donation to the shelter,” he suggested, thinking he could at least give you some satisfaction.
“Oh, thank you, that’s very kind of you,” you replied gently.
You couldn’t stop watching the puppies chase each other with sad eyes, though, and Javi knew what you were thinking.
He’d had a dog when he was a kid, down at his father’s ranch. Lola, a sheepdog. Chuco had gotten her to help with the livestock, but Lola was a little too unruly and lazy, so she’d simply become the family dog.
She’d lie under their porch taking long naps and run through the cornfields with Javi. And Javi adored her. He hadn’t thought about her in years, but at that moment he remembered those days as if only a glimpse had passed since Lola had died.
They hadn’t gotten any other dogs because Javi was inconsolable—and so was Chuco, even though he would never admit it.
His father was gruff, but he had a big heart. He caught him that evening, sitting in his armchair watching the football game, wiping his eyes. They’d buried Lola that afternoon.
“Want to hold one?” you tentatively asked.
Oh man, now he was really in trouble. If he’d said no and just handed you some money, what would you have thought of him? He stopped his hand just as it was about to reach into the back pocket of his jeans to pull out his wallet.
“Okay,” he replied. He heard it echoing in his head as if someone else had said it.
Why did he care so much, anyway? Sure, you were cute. But Javi had never had any trouble finding someone to hook up with.
And anyway, after Colombia, he wasn’t really interested in getting even the slightest bit attached to anyone. But there you were, leaning against the fence, picking up a brown puppy with a gentleness that was practically impossible to miss. And that struck him. You were a volunteer—no one was paying you to do this—and yet you did it with a care he’d seen in few other people. The puppy was calm and quiet, unlike the others, who were all scampering around yelping.
“I think this quiet little lady might be just right for you,” you smiled as you handed her over. “She’s the smallest— she was probably born last—but she’s strong, healthy, and well-behaved. Isn’t that right?” you chirped in a goofy but lovely voice as you scratched the puppy behind her right ear “yes, you’re a good girl”
Javi held her for a moment, awkwardly, not quite sure what to do. He hadn't felt so clumsy since the occasional times Steve had asked him to hold his daughter.
Javi wasn’t the type to be all mushy—he never had been. But he was the type to stand up for the weak. It was his job, after all, to fight for what was right. And with that puppy in his arms, he felt something: tenderness, a sense of protection.
You adjusted his grip, touching his arms without even thinking about it, completely focused on the puppy. “From underneath, like this,” you instructed him patiently, “rest her on your forearm.”
Javi adjusted his position and watched the little one settle in, her head resting on Javi’s bicep, her little paws dangling down the sides of Javi’s arm. She seemed calm and serene.
“There you go. Perfect,” you winked at him with a very satisfied look. “You’re much better than you think.”
“She’s warm. And heavier than I thought.” He looked into those lively, curious little eyes reflected in his own, stroked her back with his other hand, and felt her soft fur beneath his fingers. She happily licked his hand, bumping her little nose and rubbing her muzzle on his skin.
“She likes you” you said, grinning softly.
You were so sweet, watching him, happy with what you’d accomplished.
You invited him to sit down in the back of the van and he spent some time with you chatting and playing with the dog.
The puppy was a little bundle of joy and he found himself enjoying himself more and more. She was playful and gentle despite being so young, no excessive biting and jumping around with no awareness of her surroundings or her own strength.
“She’s smart” he observed “and very cute”
“Yeah, she is. Sure you can let her down?” You smiled, very softly.
He couldn’t tell if it was your fault or the puppy’s, but he found himself again saying something that he didn’t think would ever come out of his mouth: “Well…uhm..I’ll need some help, though—I don’t know how to train a dog.”
“I can help you. When someone adopts a dog, we have to make sure that everything goes well in the following weeks and that the person is truly committed. I can come by to check on things and bring paperwork to sign.” You told him in that honeyed voice of yours that Javi felt dipping into his chest.
“Well, I think you should, it’s your fault I’m bringing this little girl home tonight” he chuckled.
And it felt right, when he said that.
Your eyes immediately lit up at the realization that you'd made it, and your smile spread across your face like a ray of sunshine. You moved as if to hug him, before limiting yourself to a pat on the shoulder, but you were excited. And happy. It showed, and Javi was happy too.
“Okay, I have a lot of tips to give you then. Let her sleep with you, at least at first, because she needs to feel like she's not alone and she needs to get used to you, your house, the smells, and then—well, then let her out often, especially—” you were chattering, caught up in the excitement, and Javi thought it was so beautiful.
If he could have, he would have taken them all home at that point, just to keep you happy. He couldn’t quite explain it, but you were the first person he’d met since returning who knew nothing about his past, his job, or what he’d had to do in Colombia.
During the time he'd lived with his father, upon his return, he'd continued to have nightmares and smoke like a chimney. Then he'd gone to therapy, and now he was using nicotine patches. The urge to search his pocket for the pack was still strong, but he had to admit he was feeling better, breathing easier, and being more helpful to his dad when he visited him at the ranch.
He’d seen old friends again, met with relatives, and everyone was well aware that he wasn’t the same person he’d been when he left.
But you—so easygoing, fun, and simply genuine—made him think that maybe there was still a chance for him to live without being crushed by the ghosts of his past.
And clearly you’d seen something in him, judging by how you’d insisted he pick up the puppy. Maybe you knew it would do him good. Maybe you’d noticed that veil in his eyes. And you knew that little creature would do much more for him than he could ever expect, if only he were willing to open up.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I'm afraid I'll forget everything you're telling me as soon as I get in the car,” he admitted, scratching his beard.
You chuckled and agreed that you were talking too fast. “It’s just that I really needed this, you know. But I want you to be ready, it’s a big responsibility.”
“Sure, you’re right,” he said, looking at the little girl in his arms, already feeling a sense of duty toward her. “I want to do a good job, I promise. I was just thinking… what if you came over tonight?”
It was obvious from your expression that you weren’t expecting an invitation so soon, but you accepted willingly.
You pulled a notepad out of your bag and wrote down the address, asking him his name as Javi kept admiring you.
“Javier,” you repeated, and his name sounded incredibly soft on your lips. “I like it.”
The little one was sleeping in his arms as if she’d always been there, and he was starting to think that maybe it really was fate that he’d met both of you.
It was a wonderful feeling—all of it. You, the little one, and the way it felt as if someone had lifted a heavy weight off his heart.
“Listen, I have to drop off the others at the shelter and get what I need for her. I only have this with me,” you said, handing him a leash and collar. “But I'll bring you food, bowls and other stuff in a couple of hours, okay?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect”
You put the collar on the little one and attached the leash, Javi put her on the ground and she immediately tried to climb up his leg to get back into his arms.
Javi looked at her and laughed like he hadn't laughed in a while.
He insisted on making the donation he’d promised.
“You’ll see, you’ll be able to find someone for them, too,” he felt compelled to reassure you, “and we’ll be waiting for you, right, young lady?” he added, gently lifting the puppy into his arms again and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead “Yes, we will.”
You thanked him, promising to meet him at his house to teach him how to get through the night. Javi was thrilled even though he knew he wouldn't get much sleep.
He didn't intend to hit it off right away, he just wanted to talk to you again and get to know you better and savor once again the carefree feeling you had just given him.
“Hey” he turned around and called you as he was walking away, the puppy happily trotting at his side “Does she already have a name?”
Summary: Post-Part 1/ Season 1 AU where Joel lives. Jackson is thriving and survival has finally started to look like living again. A slow-burn Joel × Female Reader built on years of trust, new political tensions inside Jackson, and the quiet moments that make the loud ones matter. Featuring MC, Joel, Ellie, Tommy, & Maria, among others & OCs you'll (hopefully) grow to love, and an eventual romance that's earned, not rushed.
The pale spring light filters through the curtains, coating your bedroom floor in soft gold stripes. Somewhere outside, the birds have already begun arguing over the same tree they’ve claimed every morning this week.
For the first time in what feels like ages, you wake before your alarm.
You blink at the ceiling for a moment, waiting for the familiar ache in your shoulders after patrol.
Nothing, well...almost nothing. Your muscles still carry yesterday’s miles, but it’s the satisfying kind of tiredness that points to honest work and honest sleep. You stretch beneath the blankets before swinging your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor.
Downstairs, the kettle is soon humming softly on the stove. The kitchen window has begun to fog by the time you pour hot water into your favorite chipped mug that features a painted running horse, letting a tea bag soak while you butter a slice of yesterday’s bread.
Outside, Jackson is only beginning to stir. A few porch lights still glow. Somewhere nearby, a rooster announces the morning once again with far more confidence than accuracy.
You glance toward the clock; it’s just after six and as if right on cue...
Knock. Knock.
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. You don’t even bother asking who it is before opening the door. You’re greeted by the crisp bite of April air – and Joel.
Patrol jacket zipped, hot coffee in one hand; his own mug is already half empty.
The full one is extended toward you without a word, and you accept it automatically.
“You know,” you say, setting down your tea on the small entryway table, trading it for the coffee without hesitation, “one of these mornings I’m actually going to beat you to my own front door.”
Joel takes a sip from his mug. “Doubt it.”
“You’ve got entirely too much confidence.”
“I’ve got a routine.” He corrects.
“So do I.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And yet...” he gestures vaguely toward the coffee now warming your hands, “...here we are.”
You laugh quietly, breathing in the familiar scent.
The two of you stand together for a moment on the porch just sipping coffee in the brisk morning air, enjoying the comfortable silence that only comes from years of shared mornings.
Finally, you clear your throat. “So…”
Joel looks at you.
“We’re actually not heading out just yet.”
His brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Nothing bad,” you shake your head, “one of the council aides stopped by last night.”
Joel’s expression shifts, curious now.
“Said they needed me to stop by the council office before patrol.”
“The council?”
“Apparently Zeke wants to go over some patrol reports.”
Joel is quiet for a second. “What for?”
“Trade routes.” You shrug.
“He said he’s updating maps and wants someone who’s actually been outside the walls to look them over.”
Joel considers that. “Hm. Makes sense.” He says lifting his shoulder just a fraction.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
“We still riding Wilson today?”
“Far as I know.” He nods once.
“We’ll just leave a little later.” You say, neither of you seem particularly bothered by the change. Patrol schedules shift all the time rather its due to weather, livestock, repairs, and now council requests. Jackson works because the people in it adapt.
You finish the last of your coffee before stepping back inside long enough to collect your gear. By the time you return, Joel is leaning against the porch railing, watching the settlement slowly wake. You sling your rifle over one shoulder before thinking better of it.
“Actually...” you start, unsling it and holding it out toward him. “You mind?”
Joel takes both the rifle and your pack without hesitation.
“S’what I’m here for.” The words leave his mouth so naturally that neither of you thinks anything of them.
You simply smile. “Thanks.”
The walk through Jackson is quiet. Morning sunlight spills across rooftops, chasing away the last pockets of frost clinging to shaded fences. Smoke twists slowly from a handful of chimneys.
The old man is already sweeping the boardwalk outside the machine shop again and the bakery has begun pulling more fresh loaves from the oven, smell of warm yeast drifting through the cool air. A new morning but the same routines are there.
As you pass the schoolhouse, you think of the muffled sound of children laughing that will fill its walls in a couple hours. You start to remember back to your childhood, your grade school years, that feeling of excitement when summer break was just around the corner… long before the outbreak was ever even a thought. Flashes of life before the world ended dance in your mind.
Joel glances toward the sound, “Hard to believe.” He says, interrupting your train of thought.
“What is?” you inquire, snapping back to the present.
“Kids complainin’ about school again.”
A soft smile appears on your lips as another fond memory pops into your head before replying.
“Means things are pretty good.”
“Yeah,” his voice is quieter now, “guess it does.”
The path eventually forks. To the right, the road continues toward the stables.
Straight ahead sits the council building, already showing signs of life as someone unlocks the front doors.
Joel moves your pack from his hand and slings it over one of his broad shoulders.
“I’ll get Magnolia and Phoenix saddled.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” A familiar answer. “I was gonna do it anyway.”
You shake your head with a small laugh. “I’ll meet you at the barn.”
“We’ll be waitin’.”
He starts to turn before stopping.
“If this takes longer than expected...”
“I’ll come find you.” You finish for him.
Joel nods once, no fussing or lectures.
“Alright.” He nods before he continues toward the stables.
You watch him disappear around the corner before turning toward the council office.
-
You approach the stairs to the council building.
In another life, it might have been a town office of some kind. The exterior features bricks that have been weathered for decades by Wyoming winters. Somehow, Jackson has kept it standing with fresh mortar here, new shingles there, and windows polished often enough that they catch the morning light.
You climb the front steps, passing through two large white pillars on either side of you, boots tapping quietly on the worn concrete steps. Before reaching for the handle, you pause. Your old habits surfacing - your eyes drift automatically across the windows, the overhanging roofline above, and the bushes alongside the building. Of course, there’s nothing unusual.
Satisfied, you open the door. Warm air greets you first.
The building smells faintly of old paper, fresh coffee, and pine cleaner. Voices carry from somewhere deeper inside before fading just as quickly.
The entry hall is ordinary but busy. There are bulletin boards lining one wall, covered with neatly organized notices – trade schedules, supply requests, patrol rotations, repair projects, etc. A large map of Jackson hangs opposite them, tiny colored pins marking everything from livestock pens to irrigation ditches.
Someone has been putting in a lot of hours you think to yourself.
The young council aide from last night looks up from a stack of folders. “Morning.”
“Morning.” You say back.
“He’s in the map room,” he gestures down the hallway. “Door’s open.”
You thank him and continue. As you near the doorway, your pace slows almost unconsciously. The room beyond is larger than you’d expected. One entire wall is covered in maps of Jackson and the surrounding valleys. Trade routes branching in all directions like veins spreading across the mountains. Some are old military maps while others have clearly been hand-drawn over the years, notes scribbled neatly in the margins. Colored string stretches between pushpins, connecting past and present settlements dozens of miles apart.
Ledgers are stacked in careful piles across a broad worktable, surrounded by rulers, compasses, sharpened pencils, and mugs that have long since gone cold; it looks like someone practically lives here.
Zeke doesn’t notice you immediately. He’s bent over one of the larger maps, pencil tucked behind one ear as he compares two sets of notes. Without looking up, he says, “Morning.”
You hesitate. “Morning.”
He glances up then, offering an easy smile. “Oh, sorry.” He straightens, setting the pencil aside. “I didn’t hear you come in, thought it was just someone passing by.”
“I’ve been told I walk quietly.” You say.
“I believe it.” His smile reaches his eyes before he gestures toward the sprawling map.
“Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.”
“I know I’m stealing you from patrol this morning.”
“It’s alright.” You say simply.
“Still,” he folds his arms loosely. “I appreciate it.”
There’s nothing rehearsed about him, not some type of politician putting on a performance, just someone who genuinely seems grateful.
He notices your attention drifting over the maps.
“Bit of a mess.” He says in an apologetic tone, face scrunching a bit.
“I’ve seen worse.”
“I doubt that.” He chuckles.
You look at him, expression not unfriendly but waiting for the small talk to end.
“Anyway, the reports tell me where people went,” he taps one notebook. “They tell me what they saw,” another tap. “They even tell me how long it took,” he finishes.
Then he places one finger gently on the map itself. “What they don’t tell me is… what it feels like to actually be out there.”
You study the map. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve ridden these routes,” he says as he slides a notebook toward you.
“You’ve made decisions no report can fully explain.” He gives a small shrug.
“I can read numbers and jottings, what I’d like to understand is the space between them.”
That catches your attention and you step closer, cocking your head just slightly.
“What are you working on?”
“Trade expansion.” He traces one of the many routes leading east with his finger. “For example, this looks like the fastest road.”
“It is.” You confirm but your tone says there’s more to it than that.
“But?” He questions, raising his eyebrows.
You don’t answer immediately. Instead, your finger follows the route until it reaches a narrow stretch of switchbacks.
“You have heavy wagons?”
He nods. “Usually.”
“Then I wouldn’t send them this way after a week of rain.”
His eyebrows lift again, higher this time than a second ago.
“The reports don’t really mention washouts.”
“They wouldn’t,” you shake your head. “The road usually holds fine enough.”
“So…why avoid it?” He asks, not quite understanding.
“The horses.”
He blinks.
“The footing gets soft along this section,” you say as your finger circles the hillside. “They’ll spend miles compensating without anyone noticing.”
“You won’t lose a wagon, you’ll lose time.”
He watches you carefully.
You continue, “And if they’re carrying too much weight, you’ll have lame horses before they ever reach your destination.”
Silence settles over the room and then without saying a word Zeke reaches for his pencil.
He writes a note beside the route. Not because he doubts you. Because he believes you.
“I never would’ve thought about that.”
You shrug lightly.
He studies the map another moment before looking back at you.
“I heard you used to be a veterinarian.”
You smile faintly. “Feels like another lifetime.”
“And yet...” he gestures toward the note he’d just written, “...it’s still useful.”
You look at the map again. “I suppose it is.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything. Outside the open window, you hear horses somewhere down the street. A wheelbarrow rattles past. Jackson is waking up.
Zeke breaks the silence first.
“Well, I’ve got dozens of more questions.”
You laugh quietly. “I was afraid you might.”
“Think you’ve got time for one more before Joel starts wondering where you disappeared to?”
You glance toward the window, where the morning grows brighter by the minute. A smile finds its way onto your face. “One more, but I’d be happy to meet again and discuss more another day.”
Zeke returns the smile before turning another map toward you.
“Alright,” he says as he taps a route northwest. “Tell me about Teton Village.”
-
Wilson Valley is different from Teton Village.
The country opens here. Rolling sagebrush and gold prairie grass stretches toward distant hills, broken only by scattered pockets of pine trees. The silver ribbon of a creek winds through the valley floor. Snow still clings stubbornly to the higher ridges in the distance, though spring has already claimed everything in the valley.
Magnolia picks her way carefully across a shallow crossing, ears flicking toward the sound of rushing water. Phoenix follows without hesitation.
The patrol itself is uneventful.
A collapsed section of fencing near the outpost is noted for repair but since you got a later start today, it will have to wait for the next patrol group.
Fresh deer tracks weave across the muddy trail.
One of the western lookout posts needs a new roof before next winter. Otherwise, nothing urgent surfaces today. It’s just another day doing the quiet work that keeps Jackson going.
By midday, the sun is warm and the clouds scatter sparsely in the sky.
You and Joel rest beneath a cluster of cottonwoods overlooking the flowing creek.
The horses lower their heads immediately, grateful for the chance to graze. Joel loosens Phoenix’s cinch a notch before giving the gelding an absent-minded pat across the neck.
“You earned lunch.”
Phoenix barely acknowledges him, already focused on fresh grass.
“Ungrateful,” Joel mutters.
You smile as you search for a comfortable spot to sit in the shaded grass.
“Talking to the horse again?”
“He listens better’n most people.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Joel snorts quietly before lowering himself beside the tree with the familiar grunt of a man whose knees remind him of every passing year.
You settle across from him, pulling two wrapped sandwiches from your pack.
“You want turkey or ham?”
Joel shrugs. “Don’t matter t’me.”
“It matters to me…” you admit.
He eyes you suspiciously. “...Why?”
“‘Cause if I hand you the turkey and then spend the next hour wishing I’d kept it, I’ll only have myself to blame.”
Joel considers that before a light chuckle escapes him. “Fair enough.”
You hand him the ham sandwich. He unwraps it carefully before taking a bite. For a while, neither of you speaks.
The creek trickles nearby. A breeze stirs the cottonwood leaves overhead. Somewhere farther up the valley, a meadowlark sings. For a short while, you let your mind go blank in the found tranquility.
Joel breaks the silence first. “So…”
You glance up.
“How’d your meetin’ go?”
It’s simple, matter-of-fact; exactly the way you expected him to ask.
“It was... fine.”
“Yeah?”
You nod. “He wanted to look over patrol reports.”
Joel chews thoughtfully.
“For trade.”
“Mhm, what’d he wanna know?”
“The usual.”
You tear off a piece of bread. “Road conditions, bridges, places wagons should avoid…stuff like that.”
Joel nods. “Makes sense.”
“It does.” You say before another quiet settles between you; not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
“What’d you think of him?” Joel asks after taking another bite.
You look up at him. “Zeke?”
“Mmhm.”
You consider the question for longer than necessary. “He seems…” you search for the right words, “organized.”
Joel doesn’t react.
“Prepared.”
Still nothing.
“Thorough.”
Finally, you tilt your head. “What?”
Joel shrugs. “Nothin’.”
“You asked.”
“I did.”
“And?”
He brushes a crumb from his jeans. “I was curious.”
You study him for a second before smiling faintly. “I don’t really know him.”
Joel meets your eyes. “No?”
“No, I’ve just seen him around.”
“So have I.”
“He seems... dedicated.” You offer.
Joel grunts. “That’s one word for it.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You don’t like him?”
Joel takes another bite before answering. “I don’t know him enough not to.”
You laugh softly. “Well, that’s a very Joel answer.”
He ignores that. “I just...” He looks out across the valley instead of at you. “Folks who smile that much usually want somethin’.”
The statement hangs in the air. It’s not really accusatory, just observational.
You lean back against the tree. “Maybe he just likes people.”
Joel’s expression remains unchanged. “Maybe.”
Neither of you pushes the conversation any further. It doesn’t feel necessary. A bit more time passes; you’re about to finish your sandwich, only a bite with a sliver of crust remains. That’s when Magnolia wanders over, hopeful.
“You already ate,” you tell her.
She nudges your shoulder anyway.
Joel watches the exchange with quiet amusement.
“Looks like she disagrees.”
“She’s opportunistic.” You roll your eyes but there’s no real heat behind it.
“Smart horse.”
You tear off the last corner of your crust and offer it to her anyway.
“There.”
Magnolia accepts the offering delicately before returning to the grass, as though she’d won a hard-fought negotiation.
Joel shakes his head.
“Spoiled.”
“Says the man who talks to his horse.”
“I ain’t spoilin’ him and you talk to yours, too,” he points out.
“You thanked him for walking through a creek.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” You snort.
Joel opens his mouth as if he’s about to argue but then stops. Instead, he points at you, “Don’t start.”
You grin. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking it.”
“Close enough.”
The smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth is gone almost as quickly as it appears. But you catch it anyway.
A few minutes later, Joel checks his watch.
“We oughta keep movin’.”
You nod. “South checkpoint?”
“Then home.”
You both stand, packing away lunch without needing to discuss who does what. Within minutes, Magnolia and Phoenix are ready to go once more. The quiet returns as naturally as breathing. Some partnerships are built with words; yours has always been built with everything in between them.
-
The gate swings open before you and Joel even have to slow your horses.
“Anything to report?” one of the guards asks as you both ride up.
“Wilson’s quiet.” Joel answers.
You add, “Fence line near the outpost still needs replacing before summer storms roll through. We marked it in the log for next patrol.”
The guard nods, scribbling a quick note before waving you through. “Welcome home.”
Home. The word still catches you sometimes.
Magnolia’s ears flick forward as she carries you through the familiar streets. A few children race across the square, weaving around adults carrying baskets of vegetables from the greenhouse. Someone is hanging fresh laundry between two houses, the sheets snapping gently in the early evening breeze.
Jackson hums with the ordinary rhythm of people simply just... living.
You and Joel ride mostly in silence until the barn comes into view.
Inside the stables, the familiar scent of hay, leather, and horses wraps around you like a warm blanket. It’s one of your favorite smells in the world, one most people probably wouldn’t appreciate unless they grew up around horses.
Magnolia barely waits for you to loosen her tack before stretching her neck toward the nearest pile of hay.
“You’ve earned it,” you murmur, scratching beneath her forelock. You remove her tack and begin brushing her.
Across the aisle, Phoenix stands patiently while Joel works with practiced efficiency, every buckle undone in the same order he’s probably followed for years.
“You goin’ to the dinin’ hall after this?” Joel asks casually.
Before you can answer, a loud thud echoes from the far side of the barn.
You both look up, your heads turning toward the commotion.
A young man who you’ve never seen before is wrestling a large hay bale that appears to be winning. He finally manages to shove it onto the stack with the rest. A second goes by and that’s when the bale begins tipping back in his direction, the man shoves it again, it stays this time but as he takes a half-step back the heel of his boot catches on nothing. Somehow, he stabilizes himself before landing flat on his rear.
“...Got it,” he mutters to absolutely no one.
Joel watches for a second.
“You sure?”
The young man startles, immediately straightening.
“Oh.”
He wipes his hands on his jeans before striding over to your horses’ stalls.
“Sorry.”
His eyes land on Joel, widening with immediate recognition.
“Mr. Miller?”
Joel’s expression changes in the smallest way. Not annoyed, necessarily.
“...Joel.” he corrects.
The young man blinks.
“Right.”
A beat.
“Sorry.”
Then, almost tripping over his own words –
“Joel.”
You bite the inside of your cheek.
He can’t be more than his early twenties. He radiates enthusiasm, his dark hair sticking up where he’s clearly run a hand through it one too many times. He has an honest face with an earnest smile. The kind of person who apologizes before anyone has the chance to be upset.
Tommy appears from the next aisle carrying a toolbox under one arm.
“Oh, there you are.” He nods toward the younger man.
“Marcus. Meet Jackson’s best patrol team.”
Marcus offers a hand so quickly over the stall door it’s like he nearly forgets which hand to use.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
You pass the brush to your left hand before shaking it.
“You too,” you say.
Marcus quickly crosses the aisle to shake Joel’s hand. Joel reluctantly obliges.
Tommy jerks a thumb toward the half-loaded wheelbarrow of hay behind him.
“Been helping around the barns while he finishes training.”
Marcus scratches the back of his neck.
“Figure if I can keep up with the horses, maybe I can keep up with patrol someday.”
Joel hoists his saddle onto the stand before he goes back to brushing Pheonix.
“Those’re two different things.”
Marcus nods immediately. “Right, I know, I’ve still got plenty to learn!” he says quickly.
Tommy smiles to himself.
“You will.”
He sets the toolbox down with a quiet clank before looking between you and Joel.
“Actually...” His voice is casual.
“Thinkin’ about pairing him with you two next month.”
Joel doesn’t even look up.
“No.”
Tommy laughs.
“Wasn’t askin’ big brother.” Tommy winks.
Joel sighs the resigned sigh of an older brother who knows exactly how this conversation ends.
Marcus’s eyes dart nervously between the two of them.
“...Is that...” he hesitates, “...bad?”
Joel finally looks over.
“For me.”
Marcus blinks.
“Oh.”
There’s a pause.
Joel adds dryly, “For you, too.”
You can’t quite hide your smile.
Marcus notices and smiles back, apparently deciding that if at least one member of the patrol isn’t actively rejecting the idea, maybe there’s hope after all.
“I’ll do my best.”
Joel reaches for Phoenix’s lead rope. “...That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Tommy chuckles outright. “Oh, leave the kid alone.”
“He ain’t a kid.” Joel says.
Marcus opens his mouth and then closes it again. Then says carefully, “I can still hear you.”
Joel gives him a sidelong glance.
“Good.”
Without another word, Joel leads Phoenix toward the pasture, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch.
Marcus watches him go with unmistakable admiration.
Tommy notices.
“So...” he folds his arms, “Still wanna patrol with him?”
Marcus grins. “More than before.”
Tommy shakes his head with a laugh. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”
Here for all Pedro related content @confusedpuffin - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
