hot take: the patriarchy is so inherent to society that most of the x f!reader fanfiction written for older male characters (joel miller, bullseye, soldier boy, etc) is written by women with internalized misogyny so deep-seated, they’d rather make the reader half the man’s age and fetishize the age gap, instead of aging the reader up for something more sensible and balanced. it just goes to show how men will always be praised for aging, whereas women will be demonized for it, even in the world of fanfiction. even on paper, we exist solely to fulfill fantasies and meet standards that were forced upon us.
i mean….. imagine coming for writers who use AI and saying there’s a lack of creativity in a fandom that is 90% paint by numbers dbf/bfd/age gap fics with a heavy dollop of dead dove and a sprinkling of people who are actual fans of the game/tv show instead of the actor starring in it. the call about a lack of creativity is coming from inside the house
the fact that you need an app to tell you if it’s AI or not is more telling than you think
ch. 6 (prev / next ) ( series masterlist ) (masterlist)
pairing: tommy x reader | jackson era
summary: the years go by so quick. so much happens, so little happens. you’re in deep. tommy is smitten. there is nothing he wouldn’t give for the two of you. but like all good things, something bad is always lurking. but is it really bad if it’s a thing you both love so deeply?
warnings: FLUFF, tommy head over heels, more dad!tommy, SEX, pinv, dirty talk, tender yet raw, 18+ MDNI, fingering, love making, quickies, MAINLY fluff
word count: 6.3k
a/n: cannot tell you guys how much I love the next few chapters coming up. sorry Tommy, have to give you a little heart attack… :( also, i am working on an infidelity fic w Tommy miller (EEEK) and hopefully i can get it polished and ready by the end of the week. But for now, enjoy ;’)
chapter six: the life we built
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You didn’t expect him to lead you there first.
Not the kitchen you’d been daydreaming about, not the living room with the big window he kept talking up.
But down the short hallway, past the half-finished walls, to the room at the very end. Tommy stopped in front of the door, his hand resting on the knob.
“Figured you’d wanna see his first,” he said, a little quiet, almost shy.
When the door swung open, your throat tightened instantly. It was Benjamin’s room.
The first thing you saw was the toddler bed—sturdy, warm wood, the headboard sanded smooth. You could tell it was made by hand, by him, the edges shaped with care. Above it, his name—BENJAMIN—cut from wood and painted in deep blue letters, hung in a neat line on the wall.
The walls themselves… you stepped closer, running your fingers along them. Cowboy wallpaper. Little hats, boots, lassos scattered among galloping horses, the kind of thing you never would’ve thought you’d get out here.
And then Tommy crouched down by the bed, pulling out a worn cardboard box.
“Got somethin’ else,” he murmured.
You knelt beside him as he opened it, and your heart nearly cracked in two. Everything inside screamed Ben—tiny cowboy boots (not practical, but so damn cute), little plastic dinosaurs, a plush horse with a stitched smile, a tin sheriff’s badge. He’d even managed to get a stack of old, worn storybooks with cowboy covers, traded and bartered for who knows what.
“Gave up a pair of boots I really liked,” Tommy admitted with a little grin, “and a couple guns I didn’t. Worth it, though.”
You looked at him, and your chest was so full you didn’t know what to do with it. You reached out, cupping the side of his face, your thumb brushing his cheekbone.
“I love you,” you said, voice trembling—not from uncertainty, but from just how much you meant it.
He smiled, slow and warm, and glanced at the little bed.
“Yeah,” he said softly, like he knew. Like he knew just how much you love him And hearing it was just confirmation each time. Confirmation he’d want to hear every damn second if he could. “I love you, momma.”
Your heart swelled like it was the first time hearing that. He’s said it countless times now. But it’s like each time he said that, the world got a little softer. A litter more molded just for the three of you.
Benjamin’s asleep in his brand new toddler bed—his own room. You’ve never had anything like this. Not even before the world fell apart.
You’re a little tipsy. Not drunk. Just… light. You’d spent all night digging through the box Tommy showed you earlier. It was perfect; you Tommy,—laughing, rearranging, sipping on a bottle of old whiskey you’d both been saving for something.
Guess this was it.
You’re sitting on the couch with your legs tucked under you, holding up a little wooden plaque that reads “Little Man Cave.” You giggle, cheeks pink from the whiskey.
Tommy’s across from you, half sprawled in a chair, sipping slow. His eyes haven’t left your face in ten minutes.
“God, this is so perfect,” you say, placing the plaque down. “I don’t even know if we deserve it.”
Tommy tilts his head. “I know you do, sunshine, you always deserved this.”
You look up at him, heart suddenly in your throat. There’s something about the way he says it. Too soft. Too true.
“Kiss me,” you blurt out. Tommy chuckles and his eyes glance to the little bit of whiskey you have left in your cup. He was always so hyper aware. Like he needed you to be so sure you wanted him, so sure you chose him. It was like he was waiting for you to change your mind and say this was all some cruel joke. But you never do. You notice him glance at your cup. “I’m not that drunk, Miller.”
He narrows his eyes at you, “walk to me then.” You stand up, confident with your chin up too. “In a straight line, one heel in front of the other.” You scoff and roll your eyes playfully but abide. Almost almost near perfect but you’d stumbled here and there, you end up right in front of him. He pulls you onto his lap.
He smirks softly, “hmm, guess you pass.”
“Oh shut up and just kiss me, Miller.”
He doesn’t waste another beat. His hands holding onto your thighs, firm and strong. Then he’s kissing you. Full. Deep. Mouth open and groaning into yours as your hands claw at his shirt.
He gets up to his feet, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and your back hits the nearest wall. A picture frame crashes to the floor but you don’t care—your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hands in his hair.
“You sure about this?” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours.
You pant against him, already tugging at his belt.
“Goddammit, Miller…,” you let him hold you up against the wall, trusting that he won’t drop you and you lift your shirt over your head, “just touch me.”
And he does.
The moment your shirt hit the floor, Tommy’s hands were everywhere. Rough palms mapping you like he’d been waiting his whole life—because he had. He kissed you hard, wet, teeth clashing until your lips were sore. His breath was ragged, desperate, his groans muffled against your mouth when you tugged at his hair.
He didn’t rush. Not at first. He needed to touch you, everywhere. His hands slid down your sides, squeezing your hips, carrying you onto the table so he could stand between your legs. His thumb grazed the seam of your jeans, teasing, before finally undoing them, tugging them down with an urgency that made you laugh breathlessly.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he growled against your throat, biting just under your ear. “Been holdin’ back for too damn long.” And it was true. All those little makeout sessions and palming over clothes just fed into that fire he wanted you to stoke. Need you to stoke. And he can feel it was different this time. No hesitation from you, no turning away from him when the kiss got way too heated, no giving him those eyes that said I want to but I can’t.
When his fingers slipped between your thighs, feeling the heat and wet already there, he cursed low—“Christ, darlin’, you’re drippin’ for me.” He teased your clit with slow, steady circles, his lips trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. You were panting, rocking against his hand, whining his name until he pushed two thick fingers inside you.
The stretch had your mouth falling open, a soft cry leaving your lips. He fucked you with his hand, curling just right, watching your face in the dim light like a man starved. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “already takin’ me so sweet. Gonna split you open, baby. Gonna make you mine.”
When you came on his fingers—shaking, gasping, clutching at his shirt—he kissed you through it, swallowing your moans, his thumb still working your clit until you were a trembling mess.
“Tommy—” you whispered, still shuddering.
“I know, sweetheart.” He pulled his fingers out, sucked them clean with a groan that went straight to your core. Then he stripped down fast, his cock hard, flushed, thick enough that your stomach flipped just looking at him.
He pressed you back on the table, lining himself up, pausing only long enough to press his forehead to yours. “Last chance, darlin’,” he rasped. “Tell me to stop and I’ll—”
“Don’t you dare,” you cut him off, dragging him down for a kiss.
The first push stole your breath. The stretch burned, overwhelming, but he kept his eyes locked on yours, muttering “that’s it… takin’ me so good… so tight, fuck—” until he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you.
He stayed still, shaking with the effort, kissing the tears from your lashes. He watches your brows pull together, his palm on your cheek. “Breathe with me, baby,” he whispered. “Let me in.”
When you nodded, when you finally rolled your hips against him, he lost it. His thrusts started deep, slow, rocking the table beneath you. Then harder—messier—like he couldn’t hold back anymore. Each snap of his hips had you gasping his name, clawing at his back, your legs locked around him.
The sound of skin slapping, the table creaking, both of you moaning—it filled the empty house. He kissed you everywhere he could reach, groaning filth into your mouth. “So fuckin’ wet for me. Been dreamin’ of this pussy. My girl. Mine.”
You came again with his hand between you, his thumb circling your clit as he fucked you through it, your whole body arching, sobbing into his mouth. That undid him. His rhythm stuttered, his thrusts turning frantic until he buried himself deep one last time, cumming with a broken groan of your name, holding you so close you swore you could feel his heart pounding against yours.
After, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, lips pressing soft, reverent kisses along your jaw, your temple, your lips. The table was a mess, the house echoed with what you’d just done—and you knew, both of you knew, this was it.
He chuckled softly when he finally came to, watching you get that little lazy fucked out look in your eyes that he’s now stored away in his favorite things about her file. Without much thought, he gently wraps your legs around him, squeezing your thigh to tell you to hold on to him, and he lifts you in his arms, hooking your arms around his neck. He carries you all the way to the bedroom– the bed is still slightly bare, safe for the thin sheets covering it for now to provide just a little warmth.
The world’s quiet again.
You’re tucked beneath a thin blanket, skin to skin, your back to his chest. One of Tommy’s hands rests over your belly, his nose buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady.
His voice, a gravelly whisper.
“You know somethin’, sweetheart?”
You hum.
“Didn’t think I’d get this. A life. A family. You.”
You turn your head, brushing your nose against his. “You always had us, Miller. You just had to catch up.”
He chuckles soft, presses a kiss to your temple.
His fingers trace light shapes on your stomach—circles, loops, letters.
“Think Ben knows we love him this much?”
You nod. “He does. He’s the happiest baby I’ve ever seen.”
Tommy smiles into your skin.
Then just Tommy being Tommy, he says, “we should plant something.”
Your brows furrow. “Huh?”
“In the yard,” he says. “Somethin’ bright. Somethin’ that grows. Somethin’ for him.”
Your heart swells.
You flip around in his arms, cupping his jaw, kissing him once more—soft and sweet.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s grow something. Let’s grow everything.”
And that’s how your little garden came to life. It had been a ritual now. The three of you, after a long day, coming together after Tommy’s patrols to water each little flower. Every day. Dandelions were Ben’s favorite. Yours were the sunflowers because Tommy had declared that that was officially your flower. No other flower came close to it– the way you lit up his world. Bright, waving there catching sunlight.
It’s been a few months since that first night in your home—the night your bodies came together like puzzle pieces, like fate, like it had always been leading here.
Now?
Now it’s routine. Sweet, simple, natural.
Everyone in Jackson knows the three of you—the young mom with the smile like honey, the baby boy with the curls and giggles, and the man with the scruffy jaw and stars in his eyes every time he looks at you.
You can’t walk through town without someone stopping Tommy.
“Little Benji’s lookin’ more like you every day, Miller!”
“You keep feedin’ him that good, he’s gonna outgrow ya!”
“He’s got your stubborn streak too, huh?”
Tommy just grins, every time. Pride bleeding through his dimples.
At town meetings, Tommy’s arm drapes over the back of your chair. He shifts Ben from one knee to the other without missing a beat. He listens while you speak about gardening initiatives, offers his opinion when asked. Kisses your temple when no one’s looking. But oh, people see.
They all see.
Especially Maria.
She’s the one who asks you to visit the storage barn near the back of the community center. Tells you she found some things she thought might be your style. You weren’t expecting much—but when she opens that crate, you nearly squeal. Overalls. Three pairs. All soft. All worn in. All you.
Maria just chuckles. “Figured you’d like these. Don’t know why—but you in overalls just feels right.”
You hug her like she’s just given you gold. “Thank you,” you whisper, pressing your cheek into her shoulder.
You were just so eager to get them on. You rush back home, dragging baby Ben along. As soon as you walk through the door, you toss the bag onto the couch, and immediately change into one of the pairs.
Dark denim. A perfect fit. Snug in the hips, loose in the legs. You pull your hair out of the bun it had been in all morning, let it fall free.
Ben’s bouncing in his high chair in the kitchen as you get to baking—banana muffins, his favorite. Mini apple pies to share with the whole town. The smell fills the house. You’re swaying to some old classic rock, spoon tapping against the bowl, humming without realizing it.
And then the door opens. Boots shuffle in. You don’t even turn around. “Hi, daddy,” you tease, “you’re home early.”
He’s already stripping off his gloves, muttering about the busted fencing by the livestock pen when he stops—dead center in the doorway. You glance back over your shoulder. And Tommy Miller? Floored.
You—barefoot, in overalls, with his son in the kitchen, the smell of banana muffins crowding his senses. He’s gone. Absolutely fucking gone.
You’ve got flour on your cheek, a mixing bowl on your hip, and your hair’s falling out of its clip in a messy way that makes his throat close.
He drinks you in, slowly this time. Your overalls cling to your hips. No shirt beneath. Just soft skin and the faintest outline of a bra. Ben babbles in his high chair, covered in mashed bananas and muffin crumbs.
Tommy’s eyes sweep the room. The clutter. The love. The life. And he feels it. That thing in his chest. He rubs the back of his neck, swallowing hard. “Jesus Christ, darlin’…”
You finally turn to him with a smile he cannot go a day without. “Hi,” you say, softer this time. You lean your back against the counter, still mixing the next batch of batter for more muffins. Your eyes glued on Tommy. You watch him beam at your son.
He walks slowly to Ben, lifting the boy from the high chair, letting him cuddle into his shoulder. Tommy kisses his head, mumbling how much he’s missed him. He looks up at you and walks closer to you.
You reach over to the side of you and grab the warm treat that was on the stove. You pass Tommy the fresh muffin. He takes it wordlessly, one arm full of baby, the other full of the most perfect moment he’s ever had.
Tommy tells you about his day, gentle voice, mouth full of muffin. He eats maybe five in just that time alone. You listen. You always listen to every single word that man says. You love his voice, love hearing him talk.
It was evening, you had prepared a soup that was simmering on low the entire day since you got back from Maria’s. Tommy sat Ben back in his little high chair and spoon fed the baby mouthfuls of the delicious chicken soup. You told Tommy about your day. Beamed at the new overalls you got. Tommy smiled. Watched you eat up the stew you made. Watched you feed Ben in between Tommy’s bites.
As if on cue, Benjamin starts getting those little long blinks he gets once he’s so full and ready for sleep. Tommy scoops him up one last time, kisses the top of your head and takes the boy to his room.
Clean up was always peaceful.
Ben’s in bed. The house is quiet. Soft lamp light pools across the kitchen table where the empty muffin tin rests.
You’re rinsing out the mixing bowl, still barefoot in your overalls, hair now tied out of the way in a low, loose braid. The sink’s running, the window cracked just enough to let the evening chill in.
Tommy comes in behind you. Silent. His arms curl around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
You pause, smiling.
“Hi again,” you murmur.
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes in the smell of you—vanilla, sugar, something home.
“You’re real quiet,” you say, drying your hands.
“I’ve never been this fuckin’ happy,” he says simply, the gravel in his voice low, warm, aching. “You. Him. This. It’s… it’s all I ever wanted, even when I didn’t know it.”
You turn in his arms, wrap your hands around the straps of your overalls. “Show me how bad you’ve been wanting it.”
His eyes flick down to your little hands holding onto your straps. The straps that he’s always wanted to pop off way back when he was just your friend, Tommy.
Then he looks up at you. Like he’s starving. He doesn’t take another beat. His hands are on you. Fast. Hungry. You’re laughing as he lifts you onto the counter, mouth greedy, fingers fumbling for the buckles of your overalls.
“Damn things drive me crazy,” he growls, unclipping them. “Too easy to get off.”
“That’s what I say.”
“They’ll be the death of me.”
And then he’s inside you.
It’s messy. It’s desperate. His hands on your hips, his mouth pressed to your neck, your legs wrapped around him, the counter creaking under the weight of it all. He mutters filth into your ear—
“You feel like heaven, baby.”
“Gimme all of it.”
“Say you’re mine. Say this is mine.”
You do.
You’re everything he needs. Everything he loves. You finish together, soft and loud, bodies trembling, wrapped around each other like vines growing in the sun. It’s everything. These moments with him.
And then like the way every parents fun halts, a cry pierces the quiet.
Ben.
You both freeze.
Tommy laughs breathlessly and kisses your cheek. “I got him.”
He grabs his pants, haphazardly tugging them on as he disappears down the hallway, still shirtless, his hair a mess.
You find his flannel and slip it on—your most favorite thing in the world, warm and big and smelling like him. You pad down the hallway, peeking into Ben’s room just as Tommy picks him up.
“I’m here, little man,” he coos, swaying gently. “Daddy’s here, you’re okay.”
You lean against the doorway, hidden in the dim light, heart in your throat.
Tommy presses his lips to Ben’s curls.
“You know how much I love you, huh? How proud I am?” he murmurs, rocking back and forth. “You and your momma—best damn thing that ever happened to me. I don’t know how I ever lived without you two.”
You smile softly.
And maybe you cry just a little, just quiet tears behind the sleeve of his flannel, because goddamnit—this man. This home. This family.
He’s everything.
And maybe, just maybe… You’re everything to him too.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · · · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · · · ─
It happens outside, on the porch. Nothing fancy, not even planned.
Benjamin is asleep on your chest in a worn rocking chair, your body heavy with motherhood, hair wild from the day, overalls smudged with toddler handprints and jam. Tommy kneels to fix a loose floorboard that’s been tripping you every time you come out to water the plants and when he glances up—God—he just blurts it out.
“Marry me.”
You blink. “What?”
He smiles wolfishly. Shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You heard me. Ain’t got a ring yet, but I’ll find one. Just… I wanna keep doing this. All of this. With you.”
You look down at Ben. Back at Tommy.
“Okay,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “Yeah, okay. I’ll marry you.”
And just like that, you feel like your life truly begins. Ben is two now. His birthday turns into an event. Jackson hasn’t seen this much joy since Christmas.
Tommy’s made party hats out of old newspapers. You baked a lopsided cake with the number two and Ben’s initials carved into it with a fork. Half the town shows up. Kids and adults. Laughing, eating, music playing on a salvaged stereo.
You and Tommy dance barefoot in the grass while Ben chases fireflies. You fall into a pile of blankets later that night, your head on his chest.
“He’s so loved,” you whisper.
“Just like his momma,” he says, kissing your temple.
This was everything, that day. You measure your happiness and time together though baby Ben growing up. Getting taller, one line above the other where Tommy marks his height.
Each little tick, just the more love you and Tommy have for each other. He can’t get enough of you. Not since he asked you to marry him. Not since he put that little ring he made from loose thread he plucked off of your overalls. It was just to be dumb, but you hadn’t taken it off. And Tommy loved you for that. You’re just his addiction. And he loved to show you how bad he wanted you.
It always started in the kitchen—because with you and Tommy, it always seemed to start somewhere it shouldn’t.
You’d just finished washing up, your hair loose, wearing one of his worn flannels with nothing but panties underneath, when he came up behind you. Big hands sliding up your sides, his mouth brushing your neck.
“Benjamin’s asleep,” he murmured, voice low and already thick with want. You turned to face him, smiling like you knew exactly where this was going. “Yeah… he’s out. Long nap,” Tommy drags.
That was all it took.
Tommy kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in weeks (really it’s just been the hour it took him to put Ben down)—hungry, deep, tasting every little sound you made. You stumbled back, hitting the counter, and he just followed you, pressing you against it, his hands already fisting in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
“You tryin’ to kill me, walkin’ around in this?” he muttered against your mouth, plucking at the hem of his flannel before sliding his hand underneath.
You giggled, your lips brushing his, “Maybe.”
Next thing you knew, he was hitching you up onto the counter, the dish rack clattering to the floor when your foot knocked into it. Neither of you cared—too busy kissing like you’d never stop, his hips wedging between your thighs, the hard press of him making your head spin.
“You’re trouble, sunshine,” he groaned, shoving your panties aside, “my sweet fuckin’ trouble.”
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl, his mouth dragging down your jaw, nipping at your neck before he pushed into you with a low, wrecked sound.
It was messy, frantic—you clung to him, nails digging into his back through his shirt, both of you half-laughing at how quick and desperate you were. He muttered the filthiest little things in your ear—how good you felt, how he couldn’t get enough of you, how you were his girl, always his.
Every thrust had you bumping against the cabinet, your giggles breaking into gasps, your fingers curling in his hair to keep him close.
And when you came, it was with your forehead pressed to his, his lips catching every shaky sound you made. He followed quick after, burying himself deep before stilling, both of you breathing hard, your thighs trembling around him.
Tommy grinned, still kissing you lazily. “Reckon we’re gonna wake him if we keep knockin’ shit over.”
“Reckon you’re right,” you teased breathlessly, pulling him in for one last slow, messy kiss before he finally let you go.
It also started with him coming up behind you in the hallway, arms wrapping around your waist, his mouth brushing the side of your neck.
“Hey, momma,” Tommy murmured, that low drawl dripping with something warm, something knowing. “You been runnin’ ‘round all day, huh? Look a little… tense.”
You tried to brush it off, offering him a tired smile. “I’m fine, Tommy.”
But he didn’t buy it. Didn’t buy it one damn bit.
Next thing you knew, he was leading you to the bedroom, his palm warm at the small of your back. “C’mon,” he said, voice soft but firm, “let me take care of you. Lay down.”
You did, sinking into the mattress while he hovered over you, his hands sliding up and down your sides—steady, grounding, but with a heat that made your pulse jump. He kissed you slow at first, coaxing you to loosen up, murmuring against your lips, “Just breathe for me, sunshine. I got you.”
Then he started trailing kisses—down your throat, over your chest, lingering at your stomach like he loved every inch of you. His stubble scratched deliciously, his lips hot and open, working you over until your back arched.
By the time he reached the band of your panties, your breathing was uneven.
And then—God help you—he kissed you through them.
Firm, slow pressure, right over your clit, his breath warm through the fabric. He stayed there for a moment, kissing you like it was your mouth, his low groan vibrating through you before he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Sweet fuckin’ thing… all worked up and I ain’t even touched her proper yet.”
Then he hooked his teeth in the waistband, dragging them down slow, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time until they were on the floor.
“Spread ‘em for me, momma,” he rasped, settling between your thighs.
And then he devoured you.
Hot, wet tongue lapping from your entrance to your clit, circling you, sucking you into his mouth with filthy, obscene sounds that made your toes curl. “Fuck—taste so good—always so sweet for me,” he groaned against you, one hand holding your hip down when you tried to squirm.
He worked you in slow drags and fast flicks, switching between fucking you with his tongue and sucking your clit like it was his own personal addiction. Every time you moaned, he doubled down, muttering into you, “That’s it… that’s my girl… lemme hear it. Been stressin’ yourself for no damn reason when you coulda just asked for this.”
When his two fingers slid into you, curling deep while his mouth stayed locked on your clit, your whole body jolted. “Yeah… there she is,” he breathed, “fuckin’ squeezin’ me already—don’t hold back, sunshine, give it to me.”
You came with your thighs trembling around his head, his tongue still stroking you through it until you were squirming from overstimulation, whining his name.
Only then did he pull back, mouth wet, chin shiny, smirking up at you like the cocky son of a bitch he was. “Better?”
And other nights, when the world moved a little slower, you allowed yourself to ache.
It’s late. The fire’s low, the baby’s finally asleep in his room. The only light in the room is the flicker from the hearth, soft shadows moving over Tommy’s face as he sits across from you in that old chair, elbows resting on the armrests. You’re both quiet for a while—one of those silences that isn’t heavy, but still feels like it’s holding something.
Your fingers twist in your lap before you finally say it. “Sometimes… I miss Joel.”
Tommy looks up, eyes softening, like he understands before you can even explain. You hurry to clarify. “Not the Joel from the end. I mean… the way he was to us. Back then. Before everything got so... He was good to me. To you. I miss that.”
Tommy nods, his jaw tight for a moment before it relaxes. “I miss him too,” he says quietly. “Miss havin’ my big brother the way I used to.”
You nod, eyes dropping for a second before you lift them back to him. Your voice is softer now, like it’s carrying something delicate. “I’ve never felt this way before, Tommy. Not even with Joel. And sometimes I feel bad for that… like it’s wrong to love you harder than I loved him.”
Tommy’s brow furrows, lips parting- about to say something, but you keep going—because if you stop now, you’ll lose the nerve. “It’s not just more, it’s different. It’s the way you make me laugh even when I don’t want to. The way you never let me forget I’m worth loving. The way you look at our boy like he was handpicked and wrapped in a little bow just for us. I—” your voice catches a little, “—I love the way you take care of people, even when you’re running on empty. I love that you’re stubborn, and I love that you’re tender. I love that you tell me when I’m wrong, but you still hold me like I’m the only good thing in your world.”
Tommy is still, his eyes locked on you, every bit of him open, taking in every word like he’s memorizing it.
You take a deep breath, your chest tightening with the weight of what’s next. “I can’t imagine what my life would’ve been like if I hadn’t met you. You brought Joel into my life, and through him… you gave me this beautiful baby boy we get to raise together. You’re the love of my life, Tommy Miller. You are it for me.”
For a long moment, neither of you move. Then Tommy leans forward, his hands cupping your face with a gentleness that feels like it could undo you. His thumbs brush your cheeks, eyes shining—not with tears yet, but close. “You’re it for me too, darlin’,” he says, voice thick. “Always have been. Always will be.”
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The third year in jackson was one of the hardest ones yet.
It started with the knock. Sharp, quick, urgent.
You’d barely gotten the door open before you heard someone’s voice—out of breath, tight.
“Tommy, we need you. Now.”
There was no explanation, but you didn’t need one.
The way the man’s eyes shifted—wide, unsettled—told you enough.
You turned to Tommy, already reaching for his jacket. His brows were drawn, mouth set. He crossed to Benjamin, scooping him up from the rug where he’d been stacking wooden blocks. Tommy kissed his boy’s cheek, slow and lingering like he was tucking the feeling away for later. Then he turned to you, pressing his lips to your forehead and leaving them there.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes locked with yours. “I’m comin’ home to you.”
“You better,” you whispered, gripping his jacket sleeve like maybe you could anchor him here.
He nodded once, gently pried your fingers off, and was gone.
The door closed and the quiet felt wrong. Too still.
You tried to keep busy. Put bread in the oven. Cleaned the same countertop three times. Played peek-a-boo with Ben until he giggled himself out, but even that didn’t lift the weight in your chest.
Hours passed. You baked more muffins you didn’t need, just for something to do with your hands.
You swept, reorganized the pantry, folded laundry that was already folded. Nothing helped.
Every so often, you left the house and walked—fast—to the gate.
“Any word?” you’d ask Tony, night patrol, heart in your throat.
He’d shake his head. No word. A sadness in their eyes, like they knew something was just so terribly wrong out there. It brought you back to the times in the QZ when Tommy would be gone all night, sometimes days.
By nightfall, you’d done it three times. The third time, you barely got the question out, your voice shaky. Still, nothing.
You wake up cold. It’s past midnight. Tommy isn’t home. You pace the floor. Sit on the porch wrapped in his flannel. It’s snowing. You’re shaking.
Then—boots on the steps.
He’s limping.
He’s alive.
You run into his arms. He smells like blood and pine and danger.
“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” you sob.
“I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Always come back to you.”
That night you make love like you’ve been starving for it. Like the world nearly took him and you need to brand him into your bones. Careful, his body aching in ways you couldn’t imagine. New bruises, new future scars.
That night, the lamplight in your room was warm and golden, shadows swaying gently on the walls. Ben had been down since earlier. You were lying in bed, the two of you facing each other, nothing between you but the quilt pulled up to your waists.
Tommy had been quiet for a while, eyes fixed on you in that way that made your chest ache—like he was memorizing the moment.
“’M sorry,” he said suddenly.
Your brows pulled together. “For what?”
He hesitated, then his thumb traced your cheekbone. “For bein’ selfish.”
“Selfish about what?” you asked softly.
His jaw worked, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up. “All I thought about when I was out there was Ben. Ben and you. I don’t wanna wait to marry you.” His voice was low, rough with certainty. “Don’t wanna spend a second plannin’ or waitin’ or figurin’ it all out. I wanna marry you. Tomorrow. Right now, hell. Can’t we just say we’re married? It’s the end of the world—new world order.”
You couldn’t help it—you giggled, your heart full to bursting. Leaning in, you kissed his lips, then the scratch of his jaw, then the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Tommy Miller,” you whispered between kisses. “I’m your wife starting now. Officially.”
His smile broke slow and wide, relief and love and pride written all over him. “Mrs. Miller,” he murmured, tasting the words before he kissed you again, sealing it right there in your bed, no papers, no ceremony—just the truth you’d both known for years.
Time loves to run wild.
Married, “officially”, for nearly a year. Benjamin is five now.
A bright, wild, sugar-rush of a boy. Cheeks rosy from the cold, a beanie barely covering his curls as he sprints in and out of the rec center with his best friend Kacey.
“Careful!” you shout, laughing. “Benji, no snowballs in here!”
Tommy nearly stumbles over them coming back from the bakery, arms full of supplies for the town hall and that little brown bag with your favorite cupcake in it.
“Your son’s reckless,” he grins, kissing your cheek.
“Our son,” you tease.
You’re wearing jeans and a sweater, plus Tommy’s huge ass jacket he insisted you wear if you were gonna be in and out of a warm place into the cold.
Today, Tommy had to repair a few things, reinforce other things. You were helping set up things for the meeting later.
After Tommy drops off the pastries to his favorite girl, he’s immediately tightening bolts on a scaffold. The meeting starts in an hour, so he’s desperately trying to get things done.
A kid runs up from the gate. “Tommy! Someone’s here. Says he knows you.”
Tommy squints. “Tell ‘em protocol—”
“No—Tommy. He says his name is—”
Then someone shouts his name. It makes every muscle in Tommy’s body freeze. The voice. The fucking voice. Tommy drops his wrench. Stumbles off the scaffold.
His heart slams in his chest.
He turns toward the gate—and sees him.
Older. Grayer. Weathered. But alive.
Joel.
Tommy runs. Practically tackles his brother in a hug.
“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters, clutching him. “You’re here. I hoped—I fuckin’ prayed—someone said a guy from Texas helped settle this place—Tommy, I thought you were dead.”
“Me? I thought you were! I looked, Joel—I did—I looked for years—”
They’re crying. Laughing. Holding each other like something sacred.
Then the show crunches behind Tommy, loud. Fast. Happy, excited squeals behind him. Kacey runs around the two men, the little pink pompom on her beanie an eye sore in the white snow. Ben runs between Tommy’s legs, making him spin around, “woah woah, son. What’d I say! Go get your mom,” Tommy tells him then turns to sweet little Kacey, “sweetie, go back inside. It’s too cold out here.” Ben runs away immediately, Kacey lingering to look at the unfamiliar face.
“Yours,” Joel asks, giving the slightest smile to the girl. Tommy shakes his head watches the girl run inside.
“Nah, her mom’s somewhere. But the boy is,” Tommy says, then he realizes. His heart skips a beat and suddenly he’s feeling …guilt, scared a little. He’s unsure how to approach this.
“A kid. Didn’t think you’d ever be a father,” he says, no interest no excitement, just honest in that Joel way.
It stings Tommy. Tommy steps forward, “Joel-,”
And then he hears Joel’s name. Softly. Timid. Scared.
“Is it really you,” your small voice asks. Tommy turns to you, immediately. He watches you. He wants to step to you but he’s frozen. He’s scared.
Joel basically pushes Tommy aside and meets your eyes. Your beautiful, doe eyes. “Hi, doll,” he says as he picks up his pace, running to you. He scoops you up in a strong hug, cupping your face and crashing his lips onto yours.
Tommy is stunned. Just there.
You melt. Moan even, just ever so slightly. Clutch him like he’ll disappear again.
Tommy? Tommy still can’t fucking move. Watching the man he mourned kiss his wife. The mother of his son. His home. His family. Watching you kiss him back.
a/n: if I forgot you on the taglist, PLSSS lmk! I’m so sorry to leave it like this BUT I promise it’ll be worth it. it needs to fester in your mind like it’s invading Tommy’s.
Pancakes For Two | Joel Miller X Wedding Planner F!Reader
authors note: A shorter chapter but a very important one I swear!! Much more angst to come
part six of love is in the air!
love is in the air masterlist here
summary: When you come to the conclusion that Joel had made up his mind, he comes to you with something shocking.
warnings/tags: 18+, no use of y/n, no outbreak au, big infidelity, age gap (24 and 46), alcohol, angst, just a lot of angst
word count: 3.9k
previous ✿ next
“That would be absolutely beautiful, it’ll be perfect.” The red haired woman beamed with joy as she looked down at your binder, her green eyes sparkling with excitement, “Don’t you think it’ll be perfect, dear?” With the utmost love and desire, she looked over at her husband, who nodded in agreement, wrapping his arm around her shoulder to bring her in closer to him.
Steven and Rosalie were your newest clients, your first ones since Joel and Jenna. You had to take a little personal break for yourself after that one, needing time to regroup mentally and get your own shit together before you put your complete focus into a new couple.
You were showing them the nearest wedding venues, helping them decide on the best option for them. They were a rather young couple, still madly in love and obsessed with one another. It was a marriage that you hoped would last a lifetime, the kind of marriage you wanted someday.
Although you’ve avoided getting back into work for some time now, you had to admit that it was a good distraction for you.
It has been over three weeks since you’ve last heard from Joel. You refused to be the first to contact him after giving him the ultimatum. If he were to choose you, he would be the one to make the phone call.
But ever since that night at the bar, he’s been MIA. Not a phone call, not a text, absolutely nothing.
It crushed you after the first few days. After about four days of your phone being completely silent, you had come to the conclusion that Joel had chosen Jenna over you.
You spent the rest of the week crying yourself to sleep, checking your phone obsessively to see if he left a phone call or even a text. But each time you checked, all of your messages would be empty, the only missed calls you ever received being from your mom.
You spent a long time sulking, imagining him doing to Jenna what he used to do to you. You were hopeful that there was a slight chance that he would pick you in the end. You hated that you allowed yourself to catch feelings for him like you did. But, you guessed that's just the way life goes sometimes.
You would picture what a life with Joel could have looked like if things worked out differently. If he wasn’t married, or he didn’t have to choose between you and his literal wife. It was a messy situation, you were no stranger to that. You knew you were getting involved in something complicated, but you dived head first anyway.
You knew one way or another, you would get hurt in the end, but you were too busy living in the moment to care. You missed Joel, but you couldn’t spend the rest of your life missing him. You needed to get back into your career and find a way to move forward, no matter how difficult that may be.
Joel was permanently out of your life. That was something you were going to have to adjust to. And while you worked on that, you were able to focus on your new clients.
Because, despite how much you missed Joel when the nighttime came around, he was gone.
┉┉┉
The week had gone by just as slowly as you were expecting. A day hasn’t gone by where Joel didn’t cross your mind, no matter how much you tried. Every time you closed your eyes to go to sleep, all you saw was his deep brown eyes staring into your own, wanting to make love to you all night long and rock you to sleep.
It was torture.
You decided to treat yourself to a little breakfast at one of your favorite local diners. You sipped on your coffee and took a bite of food as you flipped through your work binder. Blueberry pancakes, your favorite.
It was some well needed alone time after the last few stressful weeks.
You flipped through the binder, picking out some color schemes that you thought Steven and Rosalie might like.
It was nice working with a new couple. It was refreshing. They were very different from Joel and Jenna, which was a huge relief to you when you first started working with them.
You were in the middle of taking another bite of your breakfast before you heard a familiar voice calling your name right behind you.
Furrowing your eyebrows, you quickly looked over to see Joel standing behind you with his hand on the booth.
You almost choked on your pancakes when you saw him. It’s been nearly a month since you’ve seen him last, and you were sure that would have been the last time you ever saw him.
A wave of emotions flew through you when you laid eyes on him. You were happy, excited, joyful… but you were also hurt and confused. They were very contradictory, your emotions at war with one another.
“Joel?” The name came out of your mouth more nervously than you intended, your voice cracking just slightly.
“Can I sit?” He asked quietly, seeming rather nervous himself.
“Sure, seats open.” You nodded, knowing that whichever way this ended up going, you would be regretting it in the end.
Joel smiled gratefully before taking a seat in the booth across from you. You were still having trouble processing the fact that Joel was sitting here with you after you had already convinced yourself it was incredibly unlikely you’d ever see him again in your lifetime.
The waitress who previously served you came back up to the booth with a smile and a notepad, “Having a little breakfast date, huh?” She giggled quietly and smiled softly. Joel cleared his throat and stayed silent, only returning the smile, “Can I get you anything to drink? Something to eat?”
Joel glanced down at the menu that sat on the table and shrugged before closing it, looking down at your plate.
“Y’know, I’ll have the same thing she’s havin’.” He smiled politely and handed the menu back to the blonde waitress.
“Coffee and blueberry pancakes? Right on it.” She smiled and threw a friendly wink his way before walking off into the kitchen.
You ran a hand through your hair and sighed, your gaze staying on Joel. If he was ordering food, he was planning on staying here with you for more than just five minutes. You couldn’t help but worry.
You cleared your throat and gave Joel a small smile, “It’s been a while, how've you been?” You started the dreadful small talk.
In all honesty, you were completely unsure how you should even go about this conversation with Joel. This was a scenario that you never thought to plan ahead for.
“Been alright,” he shrugged, fiddling with his thumbs on the table that separated the two of you.
You sipped your coffee and raised your eyebrows slightly as you stared at him, pushing your work binder off to the side. While your affair may have been short lived, you still knew Joel well enough to know that he wasn’t telling you the truth.
“How about you? Been keeping busy with work?” He put on a smile, changing the subject to focus on you instead. He glanced over at your work binder before turning his attention back on you.
Tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, you nodded, “Yeah, just started back up again, actually, took a little break for myself.” You answered honestly.
You didn’t say any specific details, but by the concerned furrow of his brow and the creases in the corner of his squinted eyes, you could tell that he knew what you were referring to.
You licked your lips and sighed, cutting up a piece of pancake for yourself, “But it’s all good. I’m glad you’re happy with Jenna.”
“About that...” Joel began but was interrupted when the waitress came back with a hot pot of coffee and fresh blueberry pancakes in her hands.
Joel quickly looked over at her and gave her a warm smile, “Oh, thank you. Looks great.” He quickly thanked the waitress, watching her walk off.
You cleared your throat and took another bite of your pancakes, keeping your eyes on him, “I haven’t heard from you in a while.” You mumbled bluntly.
Joel sipped his black coffee and sighed before running a hand through his hair. He had, in fact, been avoiding calling or texting you at all. He was terrified of hurting anyone’s feelings, despite possibly having to hurt his own.
It was a difficult decision on his part, but it was a decision that he made.
Now, he didn’t expect to see you at the diner, but he was glad he ran into you. There was a lot that he needed to talk to you about. A part of him hoped that he would be able to avoid this conversation with you for as long as he could, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair to you. He was honest with himself, and now he needed to be honest with you.
“M’sorry. Sorry for not callin’ or textin’,” He started off with the apologies. You cut him off almost instantly.
“It’s fine. I’ve gotten over it.” You responded nonchalantly, taking a bite of your blueberry pancakes.
Those words crushed Joel. It was something you needed to get over, implying that it was something you were upset by. He had hurt you. It hurt him to know that he did.
Joel stared down at the pancakes on his plate and took a deep breath. He pushed them around with his fork before shaking his head, bringing his eyes back up to meet yours.
“I wanted to talk to you about it, I really did,” Joel whispered sincerely and frowned, the corners of his lips creasing downwards.
You licked your lips and sighed, grabbing onto his hands gently on top of the table, “I’ve already told you, Joel, it’s fine. I just want you to be happy.”
“But that’s the thing-”
“First few bites tasting okay?” The waitress always seemed to have perfect timing when it came to interrupting the two of you.
You cleared your throat and nodded, squeezing Joel’s hands before looking over at the young woman with a soft smile, “It’s wonderful, thank you.”
Joel nodded in agreement, but kept his eyes down on your intertwined hands.
With the same painted smile, the waitress walked off to her other tables, leaving you and Joel alone.
“What is it, Joel?” You asked, squeezing his hands while keeping your eyes on him intently.
The longer it took for him to say whatever it was that was on his mind, the more you found yourself worrying.
You refused to get your hopes up. You already knew that he wasn’t going to tell you something you wanted to hear.
Joel sipped on his coffee before letting out a heavy sigh, rubbing his eyes while shaking his head, “It’s nothin’.” He mumbled, shoving a few bites of pancakes into his mouth while trying to avoid eye contact with you.
You already knew that he was lying to you. It didn’t take a genius to tell.
“Joel. Tell me.” You commanded, your voice still soft and gentle.
Joel took a deep breath and hesitantly looked back up at you, squeezing your hands gently, “Can we just finish breakfast? Please?” His eyes were begging you.
You stared into the dark brown eyes that you had once fallen in love with before nodding slowly.
With a grateful smile, Joel caressed your hand with his thumb, “I want to talk to you. But somewhere more private, no interruptions, just you an’ I.”
You knew where Joel was coming from. This wasn’t going to be just some casual conversation that the two of you could have over breakfast. You nodded in understanding.
“You’re not busy tonight, are you?” He asked.
“I’m completely free. Whenever you need me, I’ll be there.”
You could practically see the relief in his eyes when you said that.
“Come to my place tonight. Jenna’s out all night workin’. There’s a lot I wanna talk to you about.” His voice was quiet and nervous. He sounded the way you felt.
“I’ll be there.”
┉┉┉
You spent the rest of the day worrying and overthinking every single scenario that could be going down with Joel. Even when you tried, you couldn’t relax. Your heart was always racing, and your palms were always sweating.
Your brain kept coming up with worst case scenarios, thinking about how terrible the rest of your night could possibly go.
Your anxiety didn’t seem to ease up, but instead got much worse when you got into your car to start driving over to Joel’s house.
Going to Joel’s was never a good idea. It never ended well for you. But you wouldn’t let yourself back out now.
While you assumed that Joel had made up his mind and chosen to stay with Jenna, maybe he was asking you to come over so he could tell you the opposite. But still, you reminded yourself that you shouldn’t get your hopes up.
You kept your walls up, not allowing them to crash down anytime soon. Hesitantly, you pulled up into Joel’s driveway and parked your car next to his truck.
His porch light was on, signaling his front door in the dark of the night. Grabbing onto your purse tightly with sweaty and shaky hands, you turned off your car and headed outside.
There was a slight chilly breeze, making you shiver under your thin coat. You just stepped onto Joel's front porch, and you were already eagerly awaiting until you could go back home and put an end to this once and for all.
You already knew he had picked Jenna over you. There was no way that he didn’t after avoiding you for all this time. Even though there were times you wanted to be hopeful and think that he may have chosen you, you knew that was never going to be the case. So whatever he wanted to talk to you about now, you were nearly positive that it was going to end in tears.
Folding your hand into a fist, you lifted up your arm and knocked quietly three times on his front door.
You bit your lip nervously and took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves before Joel came to the door.
It was only a minute or so later when Joel opened up the door. He looked just as much of a wreck as you did. His hair was disheveled, dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and he was dressed down in a plain white T-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted. Seeing him like this only made your anxiety worse.
“Hi.” He muttered quietly, opening the door a bit more to allow you inside.
You tried to give him a small smile, your lips twitching as you did so before stepping past him to come inside. He helped you take your coat off, the feeling of his fingertips brushing your arm sending tingles down your spine.
It was clear to see that both of you were much more than just anxious. You were scared, worried, nervous, and everything in between.
“Can I pour you a glass of wine? I have an open bottle in the living room.” He tried to keep the smile on his lips, but was failing tremendously. He was too nervous.
“That sounds perfect, thanks.” You nodded.
A glass of wine was definitely something you were going to need in order to get through the rest of this night with Joel.
With a nod, Joel walked back into the living room, with you following suit, sitting down on the couch. Grunting quietly, he leaned forward towards the coffee table and grabbed the empty wine glass that was right next to the one that was half full, presumably Joel's.
You leaned back against the couch, watching Joel pour the red liquid into the glass before handing it over to you. Mumbling your thanks, you took a sip and sighed softly. You were already starting to feel more relaxed. But you weren’t putting your walls down quite yet.
“So, what’s up?” You cut straight to the chase.
You weren’t going to go through an hour of small talk when you knew there was something else that the two of you desperately needed to talk about. It was worrying you all damn day, and you weren’t going to be able to fully relax until you knew what was going on with Joel. You needed closure to feel any sort of comfort.
Joel cleared his throat after taking a sip of his wine, holding onto the stem of his wine glass tightly. His foot tapped on the floor anxiously before taking yet another sip, trying to get the courage to begin having this dreaded conversation with you.
You knew Joel well enough to tell that this wasn’t good, not at all. You were just waiting for him to rip the band-aid off and tell you already. You weren’t in any mood to beat around the bush.
Sipping on your wine, you looked at him intensely above your glass, impatiently waiting for him to start speaking.
Joel took another sip before setting it back down on the coffee table, rubbing his knees as he prepared himself for the conversation ahead.
“Right, I ain’t gonna stall this any longer. It’s gotta come out one way or another, right?” He shrugged, attempting and failing again with a smile.
You only nodded, holding your glass of wine while staring at him, ready for him to get a move on with it already.
Joel took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, “After that night, I had a lotta thinkin’ to do,” He began, his voice cracking just ever so slightly due to his growing nerves, “I made my mind up that night. I knew what I wanted, right?”
You nodded as you listened to him, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t want to hear about how much Jenna was the right pick for him and how he needed to choose her at the end of the day. You dreaded to hear him talk about how much he wanted Jenna. But at the same time, you were here to hear the whole story.
Joel licked his lips before continuing, “I wanted you. I still want you.” He said simply.
You furrowed your eyebrows, completely taken aback by what you had just heard. Did you even hear him correctly? He wanted you, he picked you to be with. But if that were the case, why haven’t you heard from him in the past month? If he picked you, you would have thought he would contact you as soon as possible. None of this was making sense. The pieces weren’t fitting together.
“Then why didn’t you call? Text? Anything?” A rush of relief flooded over you, hearing from him that he wanted you, he still wanted you. That was exactly what you wanted to hear. But it wasn’t adding up.
Joel reached over to grab his wine glass, filling it up a little more before taking a rather large sip. You frown more as you watched, your anxiety only growing.
He avoided your question, much to your dismay, continuing on with his explanation instead, “I sat Jenna down the next night. I spent the whole day tryin’ to break the news to her gently. I was goin’ to tell her I wanted a divorce, I was going to tell her everything.”
“You were?” You interrupted him.
Joel matched the frown on your lips as he nodded, “Yes, I was.”
“But you didn’t.” Your voice was full of hurt and confusion.
“No, I didn’t.” He confirmed.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to snap at him and let your emotions get the best of you. Why would he not tell Jenna how he felt when that was what he decided to do? The more he explained the story to you, the more confused you felt. None of it was making any sense.
Joel felt the urge to reach out and pull you into his arms, but he held himself back. He knew that you would most likely want nothing to do with him after he told you everything. Instead, he swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“I sat her down to tell her. I was going to tell her every damn thing. I made up my mind to be with you, and that’s what I wanted. I’ve never felt this kind of connection with Jenna that I do with you. You were the one I was excited to see every day when I woke up, you were the one I wanted to be with, and I still do. I want you to know that.” You didn’t like this buildup, it was going to be followed by a but. It was always followed by a but.
“Then why didn’t you?” Tears threatened to prick your eyes as you stared at him, gripping your wine tightly. You needed to know the truth.
Joel took a deep breath and set down his glass. He needed to rip the band-aid off. He knew it would hurt you. And he was so hesitant to get it over with because he knew that these words were going to cause you to walk out of his life forever. He wouldn’t blame you, either.
“I sat her down. Before I could tell her anything, she wanted to tell me somethin’ first,” Joel's hands were shaking, matching the jittering heart in his chest. “She told me she was pregnant. She was over the moon excited. After that, I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t tell her anythin’. I’m sorry.” His voice was small and weak while he spoke hastily.
You stared at him in disbelief, your heart falling into the pit of your stomach the moment he told you that Jenna was pregnant. You were falling in love with this man, and he was out here having a child with another woman.
“I don’t know what to do,” His voice cracked, desperation lacing his voice, “I care about Jenna and I want to be there for her, but I can’t love her the way I love you.” He shook his head.
You stayed silent while staring down at your lap. You had no words. You were sick to your stomach. You felt like you could throw up on the spot.
Joel stared at you before whispering your name, wanting you to say something, anything.
You could only shake your head as you stood up, setting your wine glass down. Joel was someone that you could see having a future with, and the idea of him spending that with someone else made you sick. You couldn’t take it anymore, you couldn’t look at him.
“Have a good night, Joel.” You mumbled brokenly and grabbed your coat, slipping on your shoes.
“Wait, please.” He said desperately, walking over to you. He wanted to grab onto your arm and pull you into him, wanting to apologize profusely and tell you that he was going to figure this out so the two of you could be happy together. He wanted to hear you say that everything would be okay.
But instead, he remained standing in front of you, not saying another word. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to make promises that he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep.
Joel watched with tears burning his eyes as you walked out of his house. He stood there helplessly, watching you drive away.
now some oc writers are using the “x reader” tag and giving the excuse that “it’s just a different perspective.” it doesn’t matter if you use that tag IF YOU’RE NOT INCLUDING THE READER! YOU have your own tag, leave us alone.
the “x reader” tag exists so that readers of any background, appearance, or identity can immerse themselves in a story and feel included as the main character.
when you write a story centered around your own original character, with a defined name, personality, and often a specific appearance, you’re no longer inviting the reader to step into that role, you’re writing about your character, not the reader. that’s completely fine! writing oc content is valid and has its own space.
but misusing the “x reader” tag to gain visibility or clicks is misleading. it sets the wrong expectations and excludes readers who were looking for stories where they could truly see themselves in the narrative. if your story focuses on your oc, label it honestly.
use the “oc x canon” tag or “original character” there’s no shame in that. but please stop co-opting a space that’s meant to be inclusive and flexible for all readers, especially those who are often underrepresented in fiction. the “x reader” tag is not a blank slate for oc projection.
it’s meant to include everyone, not just your creative vision.
respect your audience. tag responsibly.
NOTE: writing in another point of view like “SHE/HE went to the market” instead of “YOU went to the market” does not count as “x reader.”
(not 100% but most of the time) don’t try to be clever or sneaky about it.
NOTE 2: by the way, regarding the second image, it’s great to see more asian, black, and mixed oc’s! but even so, that still doesn’t make it a reader insert, let alone fit the tag. the reader needs to be the main character.
i have more respect for that author than the tons of ppl who write obviously white, femme, cis, heteronormative ‘reader’ characters who are 18-25. Reader fics have never been a blank slate. the minute there’s a whiff of backstory or any forms of description, it instantly becomes an OC. the Reader is from *insert state/country here*? i’m not. the Reader puts up with an emotionally unavailable man for years? i wouldn’t. they have sex? see ya, asexuals and demisexuals. date? don’t let the door hit you where the good lord split ya, aromantic and demiromantics. afab? like Andrea Bocelli, it’s time to say goodbye to my trans sisters. Reader runs their hands through their hair? buh bye to everyone who is 3c and up. a man easily picks up the Reader? we bid adieu to the ‘2-something to do something’ delegation. the Reader eats certain foods? welp, there goes the allergy crowd and anyone with ARFID
Reader at this point usually means first person perspective.
do i read x Reader fics? yup and i keep my mouth shut unless we’re having a talk about inclusivity. because most fandoms are predominantly white, so if you don’t speak up, some people who are in an echo chamber of people who are just like them don’t realize what they’re doing.
i enjoy them for what they are, i enjoy the writing and the plot, i sit there and i just eat my food
the question to ask yourself is, does this upset me because it’s not a ‘blank slate’ or does this upset me because the ‘blank slate’ is not coded in a way that i can enjoy it and put myself in that space as the love interest? because if you didn’t have a problem until this Reader came along who didn’t look and sound like you, the problem is not the x Reader tag
People get to write whatever they want to write. Die mad about it.
If you want to fuck your dad go and do it but don't make it everyone's problem with your sick and disgusting mind, people in fact CANNOT write whatever they want, bc people with normal heads shouldn't have to deal with the twisted shit y'all have going on up there, but your own comment right there says a lot about you as a person too, so seriously go get help
I'll continue to talk about this and I'll make it everybody's problem if I have to
listen, i’m not pro-dddne by any means and i have my own feelings on the whole ‘processing trauma through writing about it’ but the same rights that you have that allow you to say you don’t like it extends to dddne writers. it’s perfectly fine to say “i don’t like this” but when you start telling people what they can and cannot write about, it becomes a dangerous thing. what next? “oh, i don’t want racial inequality in my head so let’s not address it in fiction”? what makes you different than conservative right wing Republicans who want to ban critical race theory and books that include lgbtqia+ content?
and that’s why tags exist. so if you don’t want to see the ‘twisted shit’, you don’t have to. you’re like Michael Bluth opening up the bag that says ‘dead dove, do not eat’ and going “i don’t know what i expected”
well, you do know what to expect. the fic said incest right there in black and white. you see it, think ‘nope’ and keep it pushing. i don’t like capers, but i don’t go around smashing jars of capers and screaming that it shouldn’t exist. i think cheesy grits are gross but i don’t look at people who enjoy it and call them disgusting.
go outside touch grass and stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to
ps - i’m saying this as someone who made a glib comment about despising belly bulge fics, saying that it gave To Catch a Predator vibes. but nowhere in my post or replies to people who disagreed with me did i say “you cannot write about this”. same when i called out a lack of inclusivity in Reader fics
do fic readers know that their comments actually influence the course of the story sometimes? i don't mean in a "you need to write it this way because i say so 😡" type of comment, i mean when people are asking questions or really engaging with the plot and the themes in the comments they sometimes bring up things that i didn't even think of, or dig into parts of the story that i've overlooked, or get really interested/fixated on something i was going to just kind of glance over--and it has me going 'oh wait that's actually really interesting, that's a good point' and fully adding or tweaking or changing things about the story going forward. i'm literally adding an entire additional chapter to something right now because someone's comment had me like "oh i didn't dig into that as much as i could have." you have impact!
Can I tempt anyone with a little Joel Miller no age gap corruption kink? Can’t just be me surely?!
Joel’s dick is half hard in his pants.
His new neighbours teenage daughter sits across from him, sucking on her lollipop and leaning forward, arms not so surreptitiously squeezing her tits together, putting on a display for him.
But it’s not her that has Joel’s dick twitching. She’s pretty for sure. Young and perky and plump in all the right places. But there’s no challenge in fucking a horny teenager. Especially not one so clearly gagging for his cock. She’s probably already taken half the football team of that snooty college her dad has been boasting about.
It’s you. Her quiet, demure mom. So obedient and prim and proper. He bets you’ve never let loose your whole life, went straight from your parents house to your husbands, a nice, bland boy your parents picked out for you from your church. No personality or passion, a pathetic limp dick excuse for a man.
He bets you’ve never had an orgasm. Not one measly little ounce of pleasure. Bets you’ve never even slipped your hand into your panties to make yourself feel good. It’s a sin after all and God is always watching.
He could change that for you. Show you what you’ve been missing out on all this time.
The thought of it is tantalising. Tempting you. Corrupting you. He already sees it in you. The way your breath hitches when he compliments you. The way you tremble when he squeezes past you, his big hands on your hips. He knows you’re imagining his hands there in a very different scenario.
He wants to fill your head and your heart with sin and your pussy with his cock. Lead you down a dark path of wickedness until you’re tainted beyond repair.
Nothing worth having ever comes easy but he’s more than up to the challenge. And boy is he going to enjoy the ride.
Apropo of nothing, I just thought some folks should be aware of some precedent regarding search and seizure from your friendly neighborhood ex-journalist/media law professor.*
*Disclaimer: I am not an attorney. I do not have a law degree. I just studied and taught media law for a number of years. This is NOT legal advice.
If you are arrested or detained and your phone is confiscated during a routine search, YOU ARE NOT REQUIRED TO GIVE AUTHORITIES ACCESS TO YOUR PHONE. Police can and will lie to you and say you need to give them access. You do not. The case of Riley v California found that warrantless search of digital contents is a violation of the fourth amendment. This precedent has been applied to all portable electronic devices. Make them get the damn warrant.
As always, never talk to the cops. Always demand representation. Cops do NOT have to mirandize you when they arrest or detain you, only at the start of questioning, so a cop not mirandizing you is not your get out of jail free card. Anything you say before formal questioning is admissible even if you haven’t been mirandized. If you saw anyone at a protest, no you didn’t.
Stay safe, be smart, protect your community, fuck ICE.
Law enforcement (including u.s. customs enforcement at internatuonal airports) does need a warrant if you have biometrics enabled on your phone, though! I (also not a lawyer) always recommend disabling those features, especially if you anticipate being in a situation where something like this could happen.
cmon, let's not be dummie and dummer here and ignore the elephant in the room. a lot of you, mostly gringas, write every Pedro Pascal's character with the whole age gap/dbf/daddy trope because you fetizhise him. you see Pedro as a piece of meat and treat every one of his characters like that. you dehumanize him and now you just want to justify yourself and your werid and xenophibic fetish with this man.
Projection much?
I’m sure there are writers that do that, but again… you can scroll. Doesn’t give you a pass to be a fuckhead on someone’s page. Esp anonymously 🤧
it really isn’t projection when these third wave white feminists write more about hbo!Joel’s reaction to Roe v Wade being overturned than his reaction to the unlawful detainment and deportation of Hispanic and Latino men. if Pedro’s race and culture meant more than some papí chulo comments or fetishizing him like a male Latino Hottentot, maybe this wouldn’t be a common thing that non-white readers and writers clock about the “fandom” and talk about amongst ourselves. we try having the discussion civilly just to get overly defensive pushback or goal posts constantly moved while we’re subjected to pedantic breakdowns of what inclusivity really means 
A lot of age gap Joel fics are Joel Miller with a younger woman. I'm curious if anyone's written any age gap Joel relationships where Joel goes for an older woman.
Had lunch with my man today at his job. it was so fun. Just sitting on the ground, surrounded by sawdust, laughing and talking. We used to do it all the time when we first started dating because sometimes it was the only chance we had to see each other. He had 4 small kids at home and I was working 2 jobs and partying all the time.
Now, 10 years later, those kids call me Mama and two of them are legally adults somehow???? And our knees hurt when we got up from the ground, and my sushi got sawdust in it, but it was just as fun today as it was 10 years ago and I just love him and this life we've made together so much that it makes me wanna punch something
making this community inhospitable to racists does not mean posting another quarterly “fuck off racists” tag pls take a breath slow down and be serious for a minute instead of doing the circle jerk of performative outrage
If you have to clarify on your blog that you don’t want racists reading your fics think long and hard about that. Is that bumper sticker activism statement the ONLY thing alerting them that they’re unwelcome? Do you think they feel represented or find your blog relatable without that statement attached? It’s not about if you think you’re a good person or not
we’ve got an echo chamber of hypersensitive white women upholding the racist, colonial, patriarchal standard in their fics, in their art, in their reblogs, in their actions behaviors and the circles they cling to and strategically try to profit off of (in the form of attention bc literally what else are you getting from this???)
Who do you think is benefiting at the end of the day from the idolized trope of the small fragile quiet white coded female reader x hyper sexualized Latino ?
(Spoiler the answer isn’t even white women …it’s white men; they’re still the ones on top at the intersection of racism, imperialism, capitalism, and patriarchy.. don’t play yourself, they (systemically) want you to eat that shit up so they can keep their power)
instead of telling racists to get off your blog, stop catering to narratives that are designed to make white women feel comfy and special EVEN IF THAT MAKES YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE
if it makes it hard for you to enjoy the fandom when you actively choose not to read those fics or engage with content that perpetuates the same stereotypes and you suddenly feel starved for content that’s the point, don’t let it go over your head
making the space inhospitable to racists means doing everything with intention so they CANNOT see themselves in the fics you write AND reblog, in the art, in the tags, or as your friend
the loud hate coming from anons is NOT going to be swayed by these posts
but you can change YOUR behavior to lessen the constant barrage of microaggressions our bipoc peers get pelted with when they open this app by not contributing or promoting more of the same
It’s like the same way ‘boundaries’ have been misconstrued from therapy speak, like you don’t set boundaries by telling someone else what they can’t do ..you set boundaries through YOUR actions.
Yell that you hate racism all day I guess, but if you’re gonna keep sharing work filled with racial stereotypes and hegemonic colonial masculinity disguised as kink, or putting white women on a pedestal then you’re still providing space for racists to feel cozy and justified and I’m so serious about that
Here have more to read:
What Fandom Racism Looks Like: Racist Fanworks, Done Out of Spite
What if we improved fandom somewhat?
From the second link:
If these posts annoy you say it out loud so *I* can remove *you* from my blog bc i don’t expect y’all to leave on your own bc that would require self-awareness
oh my god, take a walk or something. you had a terrible, garbage, offensive take. you can call it “glib” all you want, but referring to someone as a pedophile goes well beyond glib. since when is CSA a fucking joke. when people call you out on it, maybe take a second to reflect instead of doubling down. you’re a disease in this space.
okay, so this was sent to me last year when i said that writing petite characters with infantile behavior and tummy bulges was ‘giving Chris Hansen vibes’ but what’s hilarious is that there are several Joel/afab!fem!reader incest stories that have come out in the past few days that allude to grooming and CSA but they get likes and reblogs and no one is saying that those writers are a disease in this space. nobody is telling them that “predators must love them”
