Summary — Lately, Joel’s been feeling a certain way about you. All he needs is a little push from Ellie and his brother in order for him to take action.
Joel Miller x F!Reader
Warnings: Established relationship, cursing, mainly Ellie’s potty mouth, unprotected sex, P in V.
Genre: Fluff & smut
Rating: Mature
Joel doesn’t know what it is. He has no idea what’s gotten into him, or why he can’t seem to turn his focus to anything other than you. Everything else has seemed insignificant lately. His duties around Jackson feel as though he's only going through the motions until he can return to the comfort of your shared home, and to the domestic bliss of the household, just you, Ellie and him. Even out on patrols, Joel couldn't keep his thoughts from wandering back to you. It was only Tommy that had brought Joel out of his own head, only just stopping him from setting foot into an old, rusted bear trap.
And this morning is the same. Only this time, Ellie is the one to notice. The young girl eyes Joel from across the breakfast table, the beginning of a smirk playing on her face. He's turned halfway to look over the back of his chair, his watchful gaze fixed on your figure roaming the kitchen. His eyes finally break away from you, only to be met with a sly look from Ellie, as well as her ill-timed attempt to avert her eyes and straighten out her expression.
Joel opens his mouth to say something in response to her smart look, but yet again, his attention is pulled back to you, this time setting a fragrant cup of coffee in front of him and pressing a kiss to his temple. Joel's gaze follows you as you make your way back to the kitchen before returning with two plates in your hands, setting one in front of him and the other in front of Ellie. She takes note of your missing plate and swiftly turns to look at you.
“You aren't gonna eat with us?” You offer a grateful smile to her concern, taking your hand to gently smooth her hair back. “Can't today,”you respond. “I’m helping with breakfast in the dining hall this morning. I just wanted to make you both something before I left.” You smile at the both of them. “I’ll be home soon. Promise.”You plant a kiss atop her head before moving to the entryway of your home, and Joel gets up and follows after you.
He leans up against the wall of the entryway, head tilted as he watches you put on your shoes and coat. You finally look up at him once finished, and move towards him. His hands wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to him. You bring one hand up to his head, his eyes closing as your fingers begin to play with his curls.
“You gonna be okay without me?”
There’s a bit of teasing in your concern, but Joel only hums in response, too focused on the feeling of your fingers threading through his hair. “Don’t know,” he says. He opens his eyes to look at you. "Might just have to keep you here with me."
He moves his head to rest in your neck, placing a soft kiss over your pulse point. You let out a soft sigh at the feeling of his lips. You want to indulge in this feeling, but you know full well that if you let Joel go any further, you are not leaving the house this morning.
“Tempting,” you say. “But I promised Maria. I've got to go.” Joel only offers another hum against your skin as acknowledgment. “You sure?”
“Joel—”
You’re cut off when Joel begins to suck at a certain sensitive spot. He draws a gasp from your lips, followed by a soft moan, and you can feel him smirk against your skin. You sound divine. He wants to draw more sounds from you. He wants you to stay, wants to take you back to bed and keep you there for hours and hours. He wants to give you so much more.
But he knows it’ll have to wait.
Joel finally pulls back from your neck to look at you. Your breathing is uneven, and a warmth has now enveloped your skin. “Alright”, he says. He gives you a nod of approval, as if finally giving you permission to leave. Of course he does so after he’s gotten you all hot and bothered.
You huff out a breath. “You’re a tease, you know.”
He only shrugs. “I like giving you something to miss me by.” You give a humored scoff at his words.
This man.
Your hands move to cradle the sides of his face, and you can feel his scruff that you love so dearly beneath your fingertips. “Trust me, I’d miss you regardless.” You gently bring your lips to meet his. And when you pull away, Joel can’t help but marvel at you. This is the face of the woman he loves. You are the woman he loves. After everything that's slipped away from him, you are possibly the most precious of the few things he's gained. And you've stayed. Despite all that's been lost, you are a constant within Joel's life. He's grateful to whatever higher power there is that he has the privilege of holding you close to him. That you're his.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and then rests his forehead against yours. "You come home as soon as possible. You hear me?"
"I will." You nod against his forehead. "Always."
Joel presses one last quick kiss to your lips before opening the door for you, allowing you to step out into the fresh spring air. Joel watches you from the porch as you make your way toward the town's dining hall. You briefly turn back towards the house and give him one last little wave before continuing down the road. He returns it, along with a smile on his face before stepping back inside.
Joel makes his way back to the dining table and to his breakfast, Ellie nearly finished with hers. He sits down, ready to enjoy the meal you’ve prepared. Before he can even begin to eat though, he looks up from his plate and meets Ellie's stare once again, her expression the same as the one she'd given him earlier that morning. Joel only stares back at her in confusion.
"Hell’s going on with you this morning?”
“The fuck’s going on with you!”
“Watch your mouth—”
“You can’t even be away from her for one second. You’ve been like this all week. Actually, no, you’ve been like this for a fucking month. At least.” She raises her eyebrows at him. Joel stares at her before turning his attention to his plate. “I don’t know what your talking about.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“Ellie—“
“You might as well just marry her already, It’s about time anyway—”
Joel freezes.
He can feel is entire body go stiff. It feels as though all of his basic motor functions have left him, leaving every single muscle reduced to motionless mass. He doesn’t even know if he can offer up a response. And when he finally does, all he can muster up is a weak “What?”
Ellie throws up her hands. “I said about damn time! I love her. You definitely love her, with you being all over her all the fucking time.”
The signature smirk of hers returns to her face for the nth time this morning.
“By the way, I see her neck in the mornings, you know—”
Joel looks like he might have a heart attack, and Ellie has to resist the urge to laugh at his mortification.
“Ellie.”
“Okay, alright, listen, all I’m saying is she makes you happy. It’s obvious.” Her tone gains some seriousness now. “And I think you should ask her. It’s not like she’s going to say no. I mean, she’s been with us this long, right?”
Joel’s silent. Not out of shock, but pondering. He’s absorbed all of what Ellie said.
Marriage.
It’s a thought that hadn’t really occurred to Joel. Occasionally, for only seconds at the most, it’s entered his mind during some little moments with you. When you’ve laid your head on his chest after a long day, when you sing and dance with Ellie, when you’ve carefully, lovingly patched him up after a rough day of patrol. And during all the times that he’s felt you with his hands, his mouth, memorized every inch of your body with his own.
These things, he wouldn’t mind keeping forever.
Maybe Ellie is right. Maybe it is time—
Joel’s pulled out of his thoughts by a soft knock at the front door. He sees Ellie jolt a bit at the sound, and he extends his hand in a small action of comfort. In spite of having been in Jackson for quite some time, some of the effects of the past still remain. Though, you’ve made it better for them both.
“Easy. ’s okay” She softens at his action and gives him a nod. Carefully, Joel goes to the door, Ellie following behind him, and cracks it just wide enough to get a glimpse of who stands on the other side. Tension leaves Joel’s body when he sees a familiar face.
“Hey, brother.”
“Tommy,” Joel opens the door wide, moving to embrace him. Tommy smiles, a hand patting Joel’s back, before he extends an arm out to hug Ellie.
“What brings you over?” Joel asks.
“Maria and the little one are out at the dining hall, with your girl, I think. Thought I’d stop by, see what you were up to.”
Joel can’t help the feeling of pride he gets when he hears his brother refer to you as ‘his girl’. Joel pushes it aside as he invites Tommy further into the house, taking his coat.
Ellie returns upstairs to finish getting ready for the day as Joel leads Tommy to the couch. “You want a drink or anything?”
Tommy shakes his head at the offer, smiling. “Just coffee, if you have it.”
Joel pours Tommy a mug, and takes his own unfinished one from the dining table before joining him on the couch.
“You doing okay?”
Joel looks at his brother in slight confusion. “Yeah…why?”
“I mean, considering that you just offered me liquor at 9 A.M…” Tommy gives a small gesture of his hands to make the point. “Something on your mind?”
Joel doesn’t know whether to be grateful or to curse at the fact that his brother can read him this well.
“I just…” He pauses for a moment, thinking about how on earth he should even bring this up to his brother. Joel sighs before speaking.“How’d you know?”
Tommy turns to him. “Huh?”
“Maria.” Joel clears his throat. “How’d you know when, uh—“ Joel pauses again, but Tommy catches on quickly and offers his brother a comforting smile. “I think I just woke up one morning, and I realized that I wanted to wake up beside her for the rest of my life.”
Something within Joel clicks at Tommy’s words. He feels like that. Hell, he’s felt that way about you for longer than he can even remember. Tommy observes his brother and then speaks. “So,” he begins. “You thinking about it?” Joel is silent for a moment. “Bout what?” is all he says. He picks up his mug and drinks, making sure to avoid eye contact with Tommy.
“C’mon, Joel.”
Joel sets the mug down and sighs. “Ellie said something earlier today.”
“Kid’s smart,” Tommy says.
Joel shakes his head. “Too much for her own good.”
Tommy chuckles at him before speaking again.
“For what it’s worth; I think you should.”
Joel turns to look at him and finally makes eye contact with his brother.
“Listen, I ain’t seen you this happy since…” He trails off, but both him and Joel know what he was thinking. “She’s just changed you. Really changed you. Ever since you got together, theres just been this shift in you. I can see it. We all can. Me, Maria, hell, even Ellie, you said it yourself.” Tommy holds a soft expression on his face.
“She’s good for you, and for Ellie. She’s sweet, she’s kind, and don’t kill me for saying it, but she’s beautiful, Joel. Inside and out.”
Tommy looks Joel right in the eye.
“Do it, Joel.”
Joel absorbs Tommy’s words, and he knows that he’s right. About all of it. You have changed him, in a way that he never thought possible. After everything, Joel never thought he would feel completely physically or emotionally secure again. He never thought he would be able to have a full night of rest, without being taunted by unwanted memories and waking to an empty bed. Never thought he would be able to hold someone again, kiss someone again, touch someone again. Love someone again. But he does. He has all of these things now, because of you. And he’ll be damned if he ever loses it.
He’s going to marry you.
Joel nods at before finally speaking.
“I’m gonna do it.”
Tommy smiles widely at his brother’s words. “Well, alright then.” He pats Joel on the back as he gets up from the couch. “Vamos, hermano.”
“Where are we going?”
Tommy smiles at him.
“The metalsmith.”
The rings only took three hours each to be made; six hours that Joel spent thinking of how to ask you to spend the rest of your life with him. He had gotten two gold bands made, one for you and one for himself. To his disappointment, it wasn’t possible to add a stone to yours, but he was able to add something else.
“You feeling good about it?” Tommy asks him as they walk home from picking up the rings. Ellie walks in front of them, just out of earshot.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
“When are you gonna do it?”
Joel pauses before responding. He’s already waited all this time. He doesn’t know if he can wait anymore.
“Tonight, I think.”
Tommy smiles, and Joel already knows how thrilled Tommy is. Ellie, too. When they had gone to the metalsmith, she had nearly freaked out when she had found out that Joel was in fact going to propose. But he couldn’t even blame her, she was right. It was about damn time.
The three of them stop when they make it to the front steps of the house.
“I can take Ellie tonight,” Tommy offers.
“You sure?” Joel asks. “You don’t have to do that, especially with Maria, and the little one—”
“Are you kidding? Maria would love having her over, and the baby could use someone to play with.” Tommy then slightly raises his eyebrows at Joel.
“Give you guys the house to yourselves tonight?”
Joel knows what he’s insinuating. Hesitantly, he nods. “Thank you, Tommy.”
Tommy just smiles at his brother. The three of them make their way up the steps and enter the house to find you preparing dinner in the kitchen. You turn and smile at the sight of them, greeting Tommy with a hug before giving Ellie a kiss. Joel stands, rather impatiently, waiting for his turn to have your affection.
You finally break from Ellie to give him a kiss on the cheek.
“That’s all?” He mutters.
“Well, hello to you too,” You can’t help but chuckle at his pettiness. “Are you guys hungry? Dinner’s almost ready.”
Tommy speaks up. “Actually, Ellie and I were about to head out. She’s gonna spend the night at me and Maria’s.”
You’re eyebrows raise in surprise. “Oh?” You turn to look at Joel, giving him a soft smile. “I guess it’s just me and you tonight.”
Those words make him more anxious than they should.
Once Ellie’s grabbed some clothing from upstairs, and you say goodnight to Tommy and Ellie. As Joel bids his brother good night, Tommy whispers to him as they hug.
“You’ve got this, Joel.”
God, he hopes he’s right.
The two of them leave you and Joel alone for dinner. He asks about your day, and you tell him about his little niece, what you had baked today, the town gossip you had heard from Maria. He listens intently, hanging onto your every word, and thanks the Lord that you don’t pry with questions about what he had been up to today.
You both make your way upstairs after dinner to unwind for the night. And this is when Joel begins to panic just a little. It’s getting later and later. He goes through the words in his head, thinking of what to say as he freshens up. Just before you’re about to undress and change into your sleepwear, he stops you.
“You wanna go sit on the porch with me?” He asks. “Still a nice evening.”
To his relief, you say yes.
“That sounds like a good idea,” you smile at him. “Meet you there?”
Joel nods at you. “Meet you there.”
He watches you leave the room, making your way downstairs. Joel isn’t sure what his plan is, exactly. But before he leaves to follow after you, he spots his guitar leaned against the bedroom wall. He grabs it, and brings it with him.
When he walks out, he turns to see you already seated on the porch swing. You sit up at the sight of him, guitar in hand, and can’t help but smile at the sight.
“You’re gonna play me something?”
He smiles, gives you a small one shoulder shrug before sitting beside you. “It’s been a while. Thought maybe you would like it.”
“You were right.”
He turns to look at you, smiling softly. He positions his guitar in his lap, left hand holding the neck, hovering about the frets.
“Anything requests?”
You shake your head. “Surprise me.”
Joel knows exactly what to play for you.
He begins to strum the opening notes of the song, fingers moving effortlessly against the frets. His voice is deep and rich as he sings. He’s so completely immersed in the moment, eyes closed, trusting his fingers and voice to do all the work.
When he’s finished singing, he turns to look at you, and it’s evident that he’s searching for your reaction, your approval. You smile softly at him before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make me fall in love with you again.”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “So it worked then?”
You gently brush his shoulder with yours, chuckling at him. He doesn’t think he could ever tire of that sound. Right now, in this moment, Joel thinks you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. The sinking sun paints your face lilac and deep blue, making your skin glow. And he knows it’s time.
“I uh—”
He stops abruptly, causing you to look up at him. His eyes are cast down, nervously fixed on the wood of his guitar.
“I’ve been thinking, and I just…” He trails off again. Your expression morphs into one of concern.
“Joel?”
He doesn’t respond. He simply begins to remove his guitar from his lap and allowing it to take his spot before moving off of the swing.
And he’s on one knee.
His hand travels behind his back and into his rear pocket to retreive a small leather box.
Suddenly all the air is gone from your lungs. It’s only the sound of Joel clearing his throat that forces you to snap out of your shock.
“Haven’t always the best at communicating. But, you probably already know that better than most.”
His words draw a choked laugh from your lips, and Joel’s finally drawn out of his nerves. He brings his gaze to meet the sight of your eyes, your soft smile, and it takes everything in him to not break right then and there.
No amount of recitation was preparation enough for this moment. He tries to find his words, speaking slowly.
“It hasn’t been easy. I know that. But you were patient. Always so damn patient with me.” He pauses. “You opened me up a little more. I uh…” Joel stops. Screw the words, whatever he had planned on saying before. He just wanted to let this moment be.
Joel opens up the box to reveal the ring, and you think you feel your heart stop beating.
“It’s just uh—it’s just gold. I wasn’t able to add a diamond or anything.” You almost want to laugh out of disbelief. He’s apologetic about it, but you could not even care less. The fact that he’s kneeling for you, ring in hand, the fact that Joel wants to be your husband, that he wants you to be his wife; that is more than enough. More than you could have ever dreamed. But there’s more.
“It isn’t much or anything, but if you look on the inner side of the ring…” His voice trails off. Curious, you look closer at the ring slightly to see a cursive engraving in the gold.
‘Always and Forever - J.’
If you weren’t crying before, you sure as hell are now.
Tears in your eyes well up as Joel says your name, and the quiver in his voice tells you there might be some in his own as well.
“I want you with me, always. It took me too damn long to realize. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t mine—I don’t even wanna think about it. All I know is that I need you. For the rest of my life, I need you. I need to have you with me. I need to be the only one to fall asleep next to you, the only one to wake up next to you. I want you, need you, always, for the rest of my life. Please; will you let me have you?”
He pauses and swallows hard, before finally summoning the words. Those words.
“Will you marry me?”
Your words are caught in your throat. Joel’s eyebrows are knitted tightly, nervously awaiting a response, something, anything from you.
But no words come.
You lower yourself off of the swing, mirroring Joel and kneeling onto the wood of the porch, facing him.
You have no words to speak; you only bring your hands to cradle the sides of his face, and softly connect your lips with his.
Joel’s kissed you countless times before, just as you’ve kissed him. But never has a kiss between the two of you felt like this. Never this tender. Never with this much pure, raw emotion behind it.
When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his gently. You softly nod.
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice shaky.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Joel isn’t breathing. He gently pulls away to look at you, and for a moment it’s completely silent, save for the soft sound of the crickets in the night. And then it’s hits him.
Yes. You said yes.
Joel huffs out a breathless laugh, followed by one of your own. Tears that he hadn’t been aware of begin to fall, trailing down his cheeks as he goes to kiss you again, his lips colliding with yours. When you pull away, you both can’t help but laugh again, perhaps just out of the sheer disbelief or joy. Joel realizes that the open leather box still sits in his lap. He exhales deeply before removing the ring from the velvet of the box and holding it out towards you.
“Here,” his voice is heavy as he offers his other hand out to you. “Let me.”
You place your left hand in his, and he slips the band onto your finger ever so gently. The fit is perfect, and the gold shines under the warm glow of the porch lamp.
Joel intertwines your fingers with his as he kisses you again. It’s deeper, there’s a passion lying behind it that wasn’t there before. Joel’s tongue swipes against your bottom lip, a small tease before he pulls away. You nearly whine at the loss, but Joel stands up, offering you his hand. You understand instantly, eager to be back inside of your home.
He grabs the neck of his guitar from the porch swing before pulling you both inside, kicking the front door shut behind him. He leans the guitar next to the doorframe before turning back to you, guiding you up the stairs and into your bedroom.
As soon as the door shuts, Joel’s wastes no time kissing you again deeply, trying to savor the feeling of his lips on yours. He bites your bottom lip and he nearly wants to smirk at the little gasp that escapes you. His hands wrap around around your waist, holding you flush against him as he begins to kiss down your jaw. He dips lower, nipping at your pulse before soothing it with his tongue. You let out a pleasured sigh at the feeling of his lips on you. He knows you’re eager, and so is he, but he’s taking a different approach tonight.
He wants to show you how he feels for you, beyond words. He needs to.
His hands come to the hem of your shirt, lifting the edge slightly. He pulls away, his deep brown eyes looking into yours.
“Can I take this off you, sweetheart?”
You nod your head eagerly, allowing him to undress you. He removes your shirt and bra, tossing them aside. He allows himself to take in the sight of you for just a moment, before moving to the waistband of your bottoms and removing them as well.
“Lie down for me.”
It doesn’t take much for you to comply, coming to rest on the bed. Joel undresses in front of you, removing his shirt to reveal his soft body, dark hair starting from his navel, and trailing down, below the waistline of his jeans. You swallow hard at the sight, before he joins you on the bed. He hovers above you, one sturdy forearm holding himself up as his other hand gently brushes your hair back. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips before moving back down to your neck once more.
Joel lips trail down past your collar bone and to your chest, beginning to nip and suck at the sensitive flesh. He leaves dark love marks littered against your skin, languidly kissing his way down your belly until his lips stop just at the waistband of your panties.
“Lift your hips for me, baby.”
Your breath hitches and you can feel a warmth within you beginning to bloom at his words. You do as he says, allowing him to slip the fabric down your legs before discarding it on the floor. He looks down at you hungrily, pupils dilated and lips parted as he hooks his arms beneath your legs, settling between your thighs. He nearly groans at the sight of you completely exposed for him, and he can feel himself growing harder, straining in his jeans. “All mine,” he whispers, mouth hovering just over your center. “You’re all mine.” You can feel the heat of his breath against your wetness and you need him.
“Joel, please—”
He cuts you off with a long swipe of his tongue, drawing a gasp from you. He continues his movements, applying pressure to your clit with each lap of his tongue. He braces your legs with his arms, pulling you closer to him. He does not even give you a chance to open your mouth as he takes your clit fully into his mouth, beginning to suck. A moan falls from your lips, and he smirks into your pussy at the sound, continuing to devour you. It’s not long before you feel a finger teasing your entrance. Joel looks up at you, eyes asking for permission. You give him a pleading look, and he knows it’s all the permission he needs.
Joel slides slowly slides in his middle finger, before adding another. You can’t help but gasp at the feeling, his fingers thick and long inside you. He curls his fingers inside of you, pressing against a spot that has you arching your back for him. He accompanies the movement of his fingers with his tongue, lapping at your clit fervently.
You can feel the heat within your lower belly increasing by the second. The combination of his tongue and his fingers inside you bring you closer and closer to the edge. Joel can feel you tightening around his fingers and he knows he’s nearly got you where he wants you.
He focuses in on the sound of your little pants and moans of his name, drinking in your sounds as he speeds up his movements.
Your hand comes to meet his head, fingers threading through his curls and tugging lightly. He groans into you at the slight pull, and the vibration is all you need to finally be sent over the edge, and he takes it all, swallowing, wanting to savor your taste.
Your chest heaves as you perch yourself up on your elbows, coming down from your high. Joel presses a kiss to your thigh, smiling softly at you. Despite the numbness in your legs, you sit up on the bed. Still between your legs, Joel stands from his kneeling position at the foot of the bed and leans down to kiss you. You sigh into the kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. Your hand trails down to the waistband of his pants, eager to pleasure him, to give him something in return, when he stops you, his hand grasping your wrist gently. He shakes his head, smiling softly at your eagerness.
“Not tonight,” he says. Any protest you might have had is silenced as he presses a kiss to your neck, gently pushing you to lay back further on the bed. “Wanna take my time with you,” he speaks in between kisses to your skin. “Wanna make you feel good. You gonna let me make you feel good?”
You nod your head. “Yes. Please, Joel.”
He sits up quickly on his knees, his eyes fixed on yours as he undoes his belt, letting his jeans fall before finally removing his boxers. His arousal is evident, the head of his cock wet with pre-cum.
Joel leans down to be on top of you, bringing himself to your entrance, running the head of his cock gently against your slit before pushing the tip in slowly
“Joel,” you gasp at the feeling, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you, baby.” He rests his forehead against yours as he pushes in deeper, letting out a deep groan when he finally bottoms out inside you. He’s a stretch, but he gives you a moment to adjust to his girth. “You alright?” He asks. You nod, giving him the go ahead to move.
Joel pulls his hips back slightly before his hips meet yours, giving you the first thrust, slow and deep. You both let out a groan at the feeling and Joel gives you another, drawing a sweet whine from your lips.
He sets the perfect pace, strokes long and hard inside you. With each thrust of his hips, his cock hits that spot that nearly makes you tremble. Joel groans into your shoulder, nearly losing himself in the way you feel around him. He moves his forehead from yours to get a good look at you, and gosh, you’re a sight. Your eyebrows knit together, lips parted as little moans escape you from each thrust of his hips against yours. He kisses you with reckless abandon, swallowing your moans with his lips as he thrusts, strokes hitting deeper.
“All mine. You’re all mine, you hear me?”
You nod, overwhelmed by his words and each spearing movement of his cock inside of you.
“Yours,” you breathe out. “I’m all yours, Joel.”
Joel groans at your words, his thrusts growing deeper and harder, and that familiar feeling in your core returns, intensifying at each thrust. You squeeze around him, and he brings his hand to intertwine with yours, just above your head. You’re close to nearing your peak, breath growing more ragged and your moans turning to whimpers. The knot in your core is about to come undone and Joel can feel it, close behind you.
“Come on my cock baby, let me feel you. I’ve got you.”
With one last hard thrust, you come undone around him, crying out his name. “Atta girl,” he whispers against your skin just before reaching his own release, moaning into your ear as he fills you up. “That’s my good girl.”
He rests on top of you for a moment, panting into your neck before carefully unsheathing himself from you, and laying at your side.
You take in the sight of him, silver curls damp on his forehead with perspiration, his chest rising and falling. You steady your breath before speaking.
“When—?” You hesitate, unsure of how to broach the topic. Joel lifts his head to look at you. “When what?”
You draw in a breath.
“The wedding,” It’s the first time you say it out loud. You’re marrying Joel. Your Joel. All of the dry wit, all of the Southern charm. Every part of him is yours. “When did you want-”
“Yesterday.”
You laugh at him and he only smiles at you, both knowing that his eagerness is shared. He presses a kiss to the bridge of your nose. “As soon as possible. Whenever you want.”
Joel brings your closer into his arms, holding you tight.
“Gonna take care of you.” Joel lays a kiss on your forehead, so light, you barely register it in your blissed out daze.
He presses another kiss to your hair. “Gonna keep you safe.”
Your lips curve into a soft smile before planting a kiss to Joel’s neck.
“I know.”
You’ve never been more certain of anything in your life.
Author’s Note 📝🪶 : Hi :) This is my first time writing so if you made it here, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed.
Series tags: loose-fit mini series | self-conscious!Joel | shy!seamstress!Reader | 👏🏻 body positivity 👏🏾 | sexual tension | slow burn | no physical descriptions of Reader
Part 1: Seams
Joel has a problem. Having settled into some semblance of a 'normal' life in Jackson that no longer involves running for his life and living off scraps, his clothes are getting a little… tight. Self-conscious, he deals with it the way he does most things - he ignores it.
That is until one day, the zipper on his jeans finally gives up after one too many desperate tugs, leaving him stuck. With neither Tommy nor Ellie anywhere to be found to get him out of the tight spot, Joel begrudgingly heads to the clothing store he’s seen in town for help - and a new pair of jeans.
There, he meets you.
Part 2: Threads
When Joel revisits Main Street Outfitters two weeks later, he finds you on your knees. Again.
Part 3: Edgestitch
You wear those jeans for Joel when you see him again at the baby shower at Tommy and Maria's - like he asked you to.
Part 4: Notch
While Ellie works her first shift at the Outfitters, Joel drops by yours to return the blouse you left behind at the baby shower. Turns out, there's plenty around the house to keep him occupied until the teenager clocks off.
Part 5: Raw Edge
One lazy afternoon, Joel tests your patience.
Drabbles/Oneshots
Patch: Ellie finds a Pride-themed sew on patch that leads to revelations.
Hallow'seams, Halloween special: Joel proves to you that he can be adventurous if he wants to be.
Ravel, Christmas special | moodboard: Joel swings by yours with a little something before Christmas dinner at Tommy and Maria's.
Voicemail: You find Joel's old Nokia at the back of a drawer.
Requests for Seams sleepover
Where Else: You wake up self-conscious on your first morning with Joel.
Rookie Mistake: Tommy walks in on you and Joel at the Halloween party - follow-up to Hallow'seams.
Buttons: When Joel's shirt loses one too many buttons, he goes to you for help.
Double Denim: Joel goes clothes shopping, for you.
Buck: Joel can't sleep, no thanks to you.
Seams x Grays crossover
Denim on Denim (set before Seams): Joel tries to get a haircut - but it turns out he can’t do anything in the QZ without getting into a fistfight, and you’re lucky enough to be in the audience. [from POV of Grays!Reader, Shiv]
Behind the Seams
For each chapter, I will post a behind-the-scenes peek into my creative process. Other posts and asks that touch on the creative process or inspire the series will be tagged behind the seams for easy access. I am also tagging each chapter with specific tags to make relevant posts easier to find e.g. seams iii.
Edgestitch | Notch | Raw Edge
Sneak peeks
two | three | four
Art
Commission of Part 1 by the incredible @mjpens
Visuals
Asks about Joel's clothes: white undervest, jeans, denim shirt
pope cody who asks you to give him a haircut, not expecting you to take in a dramatic gasp and climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, resting your hands on his broad shoulders.
"you want me to cut your perfect curls?" you say, running your fingers through his hair, tilting his face up towards you, "i don't think i can do that my love,"
"J said his girlfriend cuts his hair," pope says, looking up at you with a glimmer of confusion in his eyes, gripping down on your waist, "i just thought because you're mine..."
"i am yours," you say, leaning forward, placing a soft, sweet kiss on his lips, "but you look so handsome just the way you are,"
popes eyes flick down to where his hands rest on your waist, a small blush spreading across his cheeks.
"are you gonna ask me to cut of a toe next?" you say dramatically, twisting one of his auburn coils around your finger, "like, where does it end?"
"it's just hair," pope says, a small smile playing on his lips at your antics, "it'll grow back,"
you smile back at him before pulling his head to your chest, burying your face in his soft curls, breathing in his warm smell.
"i'll miss you," you mumble against his head. pope smacks your ass playfully.
"i don't want you to buzz it," he says as you pull back with a mischievous grin on your face, "just a little trim,"
"ok," you sigh, leaning forward, brushing the tip of your nose against his, "only because I love you so much,"
"i love you so much," pope says before connecting your lips in a gentle kiss.
Working on his father’s ranch, Javier Peña tries to leave Colombia behind. The new housekeeper reminds him how much he enjoys a challenge.
my masterlist
pairing: javier pena x f!reader
tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), post-narcos s3 canon, slow burn, catch the much ado references and i’ll give u a cookie, second chance, enemies to lovers, i take liberties with some geography, javi suffers from foot-in-the-mouth syndrome, angsty javier, angsty reader, angsty everything, bickering, tension of all varieties, emotional constipation from both parties, chucho being wingman no. 1, discussions of past sexual relationships, mentions of domestic abuse (not against reader), implied child neglect/abuse, grovelling king javier peña, we call him grovi, implied age gap, it's been 10 years since javi left for colombia bc i said so, reader has hair, javi is a munch, oral sex (f receiving), grinding, bickering during sex, javi is not a brat tamer but he is a brat handler (thank u mya), unprotected PIV, creampie, dirty talk, fingering, pussy pronouns, lots of biting, javi vampire confirmed??, tagging smut is hell on earth, dividers by @/saradika
word count: ~ 17k
a/n: this story has been knocking around in my empty skull for a long time, and i'm so excited to finally share!! this fic is also posted on ao3 for those of you who prefer to read longer fics on a different platform. thank you as always to my mya @cavillscurls for holding my hand and for helping me through this whole process - and for just generally being the best. and thank you to el @northernbluess for letting me scream about this fic during its early stages so long ago. i hope you enjoy, and thank you so much for reading!! xoxo
“-- All we have sinnèd, and yet the scars remain.
-- And we, all we had sorrow. -- And we had pain.
O Lethe, let us find thee and forget!”
— Arthur Symons, “A Litany of Lethe”
There is a spot by the water’s edge where the boats never travel.
The Rio Grande is about 330 feet from bank to bank at its widest point, and 7 at the thinnest. The current shifts with the direction of the wind, which is particularly crisp this year (it’s a cool fifty now, partly sunny—thank you, Gary from Channel 9). Near the ranch, there's an abutment in the middle of the river overgrown with moss and cattails, and the eastern fork leads to a dead end.
Half a mile down the riverside—by the dead end—is where he sits, lights a cigarette, and puffs the angry silver smoke into the air.
It's quiet. He can't hear motors grumbling, churning the tranquil greenish water, the fluttering of birds’ wings as they’re disturbed by the shouting. He can't see the telltale flash of black, glossy in the sunlight, preceding the roar of a Reaper cutting through the water. He can’t see the packages sitting wetly at the floor of the boat, the conspicuous blue tarps covering them, the way the plastic flaps in the wind and exposes the contents beneath. Here, Javier knows nothing about the boats. Here, he smokes alone, wrapped up serenely in the itchy grass, the gnats, and the gentle slapping of the water against the eroding bank.
On sunny days, he’ll come out to this spot by the river and watch it. Self-sustaining, it carries its own weight. Javier envies the water. It knows nothing but meeting ends, carrying itself gleefully to the next checkpoint, where it will exchange hands in a sort of dutiful shake and spill its contents into the Gulf.
He can get caught up in the glimmer of the water, transfixed by the little waves and the dance the sunlight performs on the surface. He's envious of the way it never stops glowing. Even at night, the silvery moon lights up the way. He can look out his bedroom window through the black and see the river undulate. Restless.
He knows something about that.
The river is his Lethe. He must make the choice to drink. He hasn't mustered up the courage yet.
Or, he just fucking hates himself.
When he’s done smoking, he flicks what's left of the cigarette into the water so the grass won't catch. Whenever he does this, he's met with the silent scolding of the river as it hisses, putting out the embers. I am not your ashtray, you asshole, it mouths, licking at his shoes for good measure. Javier sniffs in apology and turns back, heading home.
This time, when he closes the creaking screen door (Note to self: fix the fucking door again) and steps into the dining room, there's a woman distributing dinner plates around the little wooden table.
Javier stops, blinking hard, doing a double-then-triple take. No, he isn't imagining it.
You. It's you.
He doesn't forget a face. He doesn't forget anything, not even when he wants to. You don’t quite dress the same, but you look just like you did the day it ended.
You wear a pair of jeans with grass stains on the knees, but you used to wear dresses. Javier remembers the one hanging up in your closet. He remembers the silky fabric dripping through his fingers, warm as running water. He doesn't remember the colour, but he recalls the sensation of it. He recalls that the sun was rising, that the golden light cut strips into the body lying on the bed, tangled in white sheets.
The sun is setting now. His memory comes in ribbons. At the table, you straighten, your face impassive.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he says.
You do not indulge his icy tone save for a slight twitch of your mouth. “Mr. Peña,” you say evenly. “Your father hired me yesterday. I’ll be helping out around the property.”
Javier digs around in his pocket for a cigarette and blows the first puff of smoke out the screen door. His temple pinches taut and he tries to rub the impending headache away.
“I told him I could handle it,” he grumbles, the pad of his thumb pressing hard into the space between his brows. “Told him I didn't need a goddamn housekeeper.”
“Is that why you're sitting on your ass beside the river?”
Irritation heats up the tips of his ears at the unforgiving unfamiliarity in your eyes. Do you even remember him?
“No offence,” says Javier, “but we don't need you here.”
“Your father says otherwise,” you reply, uncorking a wine bottle, “and since he's the one who hired me, I’ll take his word.”
Javier lets his cigarette hang between his lips and meets you in three total paces. You don't even flinch as he plucks the bottle of red from your hand. Sizing him up, your pupils dilate and shrink. They're the same eyes he knew all those years ago. Javier smokes, and you pucker your lips to blow it away.
“I don't work for you, Mr. Peña,” you say.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Sure. What’s your name?”
He works his jaw, blood hot in his cheeks. He can feel the full-body twinge of his teeth grinding together.
“You're spilling,” you say calmly, indicating the bottle in his hand. Red wine trickles from the lip like a leaky faucet, collecting in a pool on the hardwood. He adjusts his grip and slams the bottle down on the table.
“We don't need you,” he says again. “With all due respect, I can handle this house myself.”
“‘My son is getting old,’” you say in a gruff voice, and Javier blinks at the impression of his father. “‘He won't admit it, but we both need someone to help, so don't let his stubborn attitude get in the way.’”
The worst part: he can hear it. It's a terrible impression, but Chucho’s weathered voice bites at the back of his skull. For once in your life, mijo, let somebody else be the hero.
I’m no hero, Dad, he’d say.
The voice only chuckles. My morning paper disagrees.
“I’m not being stubborn. What right do you have to walk in here like you own the fucking place?”
“Your dad gave me a spare key. You can take that up with him.”
“A spare key. He gave you a spare key.”
You scoff. “Good to hear you're finally starting to get it.”
He’s beginning to wonder if this is one of those bad whiskey dreams, as Steve used to call them. Is he four glasses and a half-pack deep? Is he knocked out in a single bed with his jacket half-off and one shoe on his foot? Will he wake up with half-moons branded into his palms, the tender skin around those miniature craters turning purple-blue?
A whiskey dream could make him feel weightless and bound helplessly to the ground all at once. He’d wake up slowly, his eye sockets throbbing, the light through his curtains sluicing a golden path across his chest, and for a moment he would think he'd been cut in half.
Afterward, when the painkillers started to do their job and he was halfway to the bottom of a cup of coffee, he'd promise himself he'd never drink again.
There's a fine golden chain around your neck, a pendant nestled in the hollow of your throat. When you swallow, the reflection from the sun briefly blinds him. It's shaped like one half of a heart.
There's something of the girl he knew gleaming from behind your eyes. She rests between your upper and lower lip, in the curve of your brow, in the spot where your jaw meets your ears, in the steady rise and fall of your chest. He remembers how evenly your breaths came and he remembers feeling envious of the way your heartbeat felt like it belonged inside your body.
He remembers feeling inferior in your light, like somehow you’d discover that his body was just a collection of broken porcelain glued back together. Something in the way you once held him felt so tender that perhaps you had known after all. In the cradle of your palm as it slid along his jaw, in the minty caress of your breath against the curve of his throat, it had felt like you were mending the cracks.
Now, you regard him like a stranger, and the girl he knew begins to curl up, rabbit-like, in the thicket.
“You may not need me,” you tell him, “but your dad cares a lot about you. So, with all due respect, let me do my job, and from now on, keep your smoking outside.”
Javier swallows hard, the distance a balm to his itchy skin as you step away and disappear into the kitchen. He stares at the wall as if he can see your imprint on the ugly floral paper, clenching and unfurling his fists at his sides. Sweat prickles the back of his neck and he snatches at the first button on his polo. You still smell like roses.
He doesn't know why it stings that you don't seem to remember him at all. It's been ten years. You've changed. He’s sure as hell changed.
Javier snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray by the window and follows you into the kitchen.
The ranch is old and the floorboards creak underfoot. When he was young, he memorised the best pattern to step—more like dance—along the floor so he wouldn't make any noise. He'd crawl up onto the roof around the back, where a ladder was fixed to the wall, and drink his father’s bourbon straight from the decanter.
Once, he fell from the roof trying to descend the ladder. His father drove an hour to the hospital only for the doctors to prescribe extra-strength Tylenol and No More Climbing. Javier had wept his way to bed, covering himself in soft linen and guilt, but Chucho hadn't once chided him. The next morning, he awoke to breakfast on the dining table and a soft-spoken lecture about stealing. He never locked the liquor cabinet, but Javier never touched another bottle he didn't buy for himself.
He doesn't need a housekeeper here. He doesn't need a cook or a cleaner or a goddamn babysitter. After his mother died, Javier and his father got along just fine by themselves. Everything was fucking fine.
The kitchen smells of fresh-picked basil and tomato sauce and roses. You’re standing calmly at the stove, stirring a pot of rich red sauce. The scent makes his eyes prickle at the corners and he realises the sweetness comes from your perfume. He takes a step closer just to inhale; it clings to the roof of his mouth and seeps from his ears. The kitchen is warm, muggy with the stick of your look and your smell and your body to his clothes.
He looks at the recipe card on the countertop. Small, looping letters. Pretty. He remembers the grocery list you had pinned to your refrigerator. Eggs, milk, bread, coffee, sugar, flour. He's always had terrible penmanship, even after the DEA conducted a mandatory workshop—and then another, when the first didn't stick.
“It's my own recipe,” you say without turning your head to face him. “Want a taste?”
Javier peels the wet collar of his shirt away from his neck and takes the spoon right from your hand. You glare at him, reaching for it. He holds it out of arm’s reach.
“This isn't your home. It's not your kitchen.”
His mother’s recipe cards are still tucked neatly in the cabinet above the stove. Chucho is afraid to take them out in case he ruins them, and Javier can only cook if his meal comes in a can. So, the cards haven’t been touched since she died. Maybe it's better that way.
And you…
You. Taking up space, bringing your own recipes into his family’s home, cooking dinner and arranging plates and opening wine as if it’s been your routine for months. Javier meets your impassive eyes and he wonders if this is some petty revenge for that night ten years ago. God knows he'd deserve it, but that doesn't soothe the wound.
“Just because you think the world has it out for you doesn't make it true,” you say. “Give me back my spoon.”
“Go home,” he says as calmly as he can. “Go home and let me call my father.”
“To have him fire me, you mean.”
“I told you—”
“You don't need me. You may have mentioned it.” The venom in your voice slithers into his bloodstream. The back of his shirt is soaked in sweat.
“Really? Because it feels like you don't understand.”
“Oh, I understand fine,” you spit. “I understand that you're sweaty, and upset, and that this is a big surprise for you. But unless you want your father to go hungry tonight, you’ll let me finish.”
His ears are white-hot at the tips. The sauce on the stovetop begins to bubble.
Before Javier can speak, he hears the front door swing open and a boot lower onto the creaky floorboard. Chucho wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm and meets his son's eyes.
“Let her finish, mijo.”
Javier grinds his teeth. “You really hired her?”
“I hired her,” says Chucho, “and you can give her back the spoon now.”
“Thank you, Señor Peña.” You pluck the wooden spoon from Javier’s fist and return to your sauce. “How was your day?”
“Oh, hotter than hell.” Chucho plucks the hat off his head and fans himself with it. “Have you been rolling around in the dirt?”
You smile fondly. “Thought I’d re-stack the bales in the barn. I know your back can't handle it anymore.”
Chucho’s booming laugh is something out of Javier’s childhood: hamburgers on the grill and fireworks exploding in the heart of the city and mosquitoes and lawn chairs. The smell of citronella and candle wax. Power outages and sawdust and hay tangled in his hair. He itches at the sight of his father laughing with you like he's known you all your life.
“Dad,” pleads Javier, “when did all this happen?”
“I left you a message last night,” says his father, hanging up his hat. “On your phone.”
Last night, Javier was at the bar. He vaguely recalls his phone buzzing in his back pocket. He remembers letting it ring out. Maybe, if he'd answered, he would have been able to stop this.
“You know I’m getting old, mijo,” says Chucho. “I can't do everything around here.”
“That's why I’m here, Dad. I’m here to help you.”
Chucho watches his son for a moment, his white moustache bristling, even whiter brows pinching together. He's always thought with his whole face. Javier’s fingers curl into his palms as he reads those twitches and wrinkles as easily as the scars on his own body.
But you haven't been here. Not really.
Chucho leaves to hang his hat on the hook in the front hall like he always does, and Javier is alone with you and the bubbling sauce.
“You don't belong here,” he says, not meeting your eye. “This is my family’s home. And if you think I’m going to sit next to you at the dinner table like you're a part of it, you’re wrong.”
He doesn't miss the way your shoulders flinch forward as if trying to evade a blow, but he doesn't stop himself from delivering it, either.
You nod and it’s stiff, as if a rope has pulled taut around the base of your skull. Guilt over his choice of words begins to gnaw at his liver.
“If you don’t mind”—you give him a small smile and he doesn’t believe it’s natural for a second—“you’re sweating into my tomato sauce.”
I’m sorry, he should say. I overstepped. I didn't really mean it.
I remember you.
Do you remember me?
Javier turns to leave, but the cool fingers of your voice clamp down on his shoulder.
“I know you probably forgot that night,” you say, the quiver in your voice like twisting a ribbon around one’s finger, cutting off the circulation, “but I never did, Javier.”
He doesn't say a word. He leaves his insides behind for the crows to peck at and he hopes they will wash him clean.
Goddammit, you can cook.
He’d almost wished to find something to hate about it—that you’d lied on your resume to his father so he could find a reason to excommunicate you from this little vigil around the dining table. But it's perfect. It's fucking perfect and he knows that if he looks up, across the table, you'll be watching him realise it.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” asks Chucho, already halfway through his plate of pasta. Javier's father has never known the meaning of a small appetite. He supposed he should be grateful for it.
You smile fondly at him and Javier sees another flicker of the girl from ten years ago—teeth and lips and eyes that crinkle at the corners. The same nervous habit of pressing your palm between your collarbones, though this time you're fiddling with your necklace. He wonders what the engraving says.
“My grandpa,” you tell Chucho. “When my sister and I were little, he'd sit us up on the counter and let us watch him. He did it so effortlessly, by muscle memory, and here I am, still using recipe cards.”
He didn't know you had a sister. Javier stabs another forkful of spaghetti but doesn't eat it.
“By the time you get to my age, you'll be grateful for recipe cards,” Chucho says with a hearty laugh. “When he was a boy, Javi would hide all his mother's recipes around the house and make him play hide-and-seek with her. She eventually put them all into a book and locked the cupboard so dinner would stop being an hour late every night.”
“Dad,” says Javier. He doesn't mean for it to sound so curt, but his stomach turns over at the mention of his mother. Her spot at the end of the table is empty, but it screams at him. There's still a placemat there. Neither he nor his father have worked up the courage to take it away.
“Javier,” says Chucho, levelling a harsh look at him. Your keen eyes flicker between father and son as the quiet seconds tick by on the clock above the mantelpiece.
“Well,” you say softly, cutting the tension, “it sounds like she was an incredible cook.”
“She was,” snaps Javier, sitting back and rubbing his fingers over his mouth. His lips prickle with the smoky aftertaste of the sauce. “Better than anyone else I know.”
“Did you not like it?” you ask. “I can make something different for you.”
I know you probably forgot that night, but I never did, Javier.
A challenge gleams in your eye and a part of him lights up in the face of it. But he recalls the way you made yourself small at his words, the way hurt shuddered through you like a feeler of lightning, and he decides not to take the bait.
“It was good,” he says at last, rubbing his palms along his jeans. You smile and it's so fucking smug he wishes he had lied.
“I’ll start cleaning up,” you offer, averting your gaze as you stack the plates and carry them into the kitchen. Your hips sway a little as you bump against the swinging door and Javier tilts his head to watch you.
Follow.
The voice isn't his own, but it comes from inside, something festering from long ago that he must have forgotten. You disappear and he abruptly looks away to find his father staring him down.
“After that display,” he says in Spanish, “you’d better go in there right now and help that poor girl with the dishes. As a matter of fact, do them all yourself.”
Javier sighs, running his fingers through his hair and tugging lightly at his scalp. “You didn't warn me, Dad.”
“I did warn you. You just didn't answer your phone.”
“We don't need her. We don't need anyone. We're doing fine like this, on our own.”
“Don’t forget that I own this mortgage, Javier. You may be proud as a stump, but I’m grateful for the help. And she needs the money.”
“Did you know?” he says, curling his fist around the edge of the table. “She hates me. Did you know that?”
Chucho snorts. “Does she have a good reason?”
His laugh rings hollow in his ears. “Of course she does.”
“Give her a chance,” says Chucho. “A chance, mijo. The folks down there gave you a chance, and God be good, my son helped a lot of people. Saved a lot of lives.”
“God isn't always good,” he mutters in English. “You shouldn't talk about it like that. Like all I did was good.”
“Maybe it wasn't,” says his father, “but it was for a purpose. You want to leave it all behind, but sometimes you have to let yourself remember. The past won't change.”
His father is right. He will always hear their engines turning over in his sleep and he will always see the white froth of the water churned up by the boats. They’ll keep speeding past as if nothing has changed, as if the war on drugs was another whiskey dream and Javier was just another puppet on string. He'll drink himself silly in the bar and he'll light a cigarette by the river and he’ll probably keep putting out the smoke in the water.
He’ll dream of bullet holes and gunfire and every wrong move he's ever made. He’ll awake nauseated by his own memory and eat a piece of toast so he doesn't vomit up all the liquor in his body.
He wonders if there are memories even Lethe cannot erase.
He finds you in the kitchen, bent over the sink, scrubbing a plate clean in measured circles. There's a sheen of sweat on the nape of your neck. He licks his lips.
“Let me help,” he says, his throat closing in.
Next to him, you shift on your feet. “I know you don't want me here,” you tell him, “and I won't get in your way. I’m here to do my job, not step on your toes.”
The guilt pulses in his wrists, turning his veins black. You finish washing the plate and pass it to him without another word.
Skin memories can occur when unfiltered contact is made with a person dear to oneself. It's like weaving a bridge from one end of the bank to the other, rebuilding a connection one has lost. Through skin, one recalls family, friends, even lovers. When he takes the plate, his fingers brush yours, and he remembers the body.
He remembers entangled limbs, mouths meeting, smiling, the dip of a waist and the curve of a hip. He remembers a need so delicate and so violent all at once, and he remembers the way his need crashed down into you when he simply could not take it anymore. He remembers your fingers as they played up on his bare chest and he remembers the rhythm of the song they struck upon his skin. He remembers your lashes tickling his skin, your nose nuzzling against his throat, your eyes like moons in the darkness.
He remembers the last kiss he placed on the corner of your sleeping mouth before he left without so much as a warning, and never came back.
He deserves the dreams that come to him.
“I did think you forgot,” he says, wiping a dry cloth around the circumference of the plate. You haven't met his eye since he walked into the kitchen. “I was hoping you did, actually.”
“A girl never forgets her first,” you say icily, and he feels it cut beneath his ribs.
“Right. Yeah.” He stacks another dry plate and clenches the cloth in his fist. “About that…”
“Thanks, but I would prefer that we never talk about it again.” You look up at him, your lips pressed into a tight line. “I'm not here to live in the past. I have a life, and you have a… well, you have something.”
His brow ticks upward. “Yeah? And your life is so great?”
“It's a life,” you say, scrubbing a spoon with a little more aggression than before, “which is more than I can say for someone who spent two hours of his day smoking next to a river.”
“And is this what you wanted out of your life? Cooking, cleaning, and doing dishes for someone you hate?”
“I don't hate your dad,” you say airily. “You have a ways to go.”
“Who says I care what you think about me?”
“The fact that you're still here, helping me do the dishes, and invading my personal space.”
He takes a discrete step to the right.
“And you? Are you happy with your life, Javier?” You begin to scrub the saucepan.
His name sounds the same on your tongue, if a bit more jagged, less like velvet. He watches the way your breasts push together under your tank top as your muscles flex and he swallows the reminder that he hasn't had sex in months.
You continue, “Word is, you've got a lot to be proud of.”
He huffs. “Sure.”
“Very convincing.”
“What do you want from me, a patient?”
“I’m not a therapist, but you might benefit from one, judging from the way you're strangling the life out of that cloth.”
He loosens his grip and reassumes control of his own breathing. “I have a life,” he says, but he isn't sure for whom he says it.
You hum, but say nothing else. He should be grateful. He should shut his fucking mouth and go back to his penance in the form of drying dishes. But something his father said nips at him, and he isn't sure he wants to walk away quite yet.
“My dad said you need the money from this job. For what?”
Your shoulders stiffen and he can recognise, better than most people, the signs of a person shutting down.
“You might think you’re doing just fine,” you say, placing the saucepan on the counter for him to clean, “but there was a lot more life in the guy I knew back then. Though, I guess I only thought I knew him.”
You leave him alone in the kitchen, drying a pan, smelling notes of roses and staring out at the window ahead where the river glistens under the light of the moon.
His bed in Colombia was less a bed and more an air mattress on a box spring. The extra bounce certainly contributed to the potency of his whiskey dreams and certainly did not facilitate any sexual encounters he attempted to bring back to his apartment. He usually went to them.
Now, lying on this cool, firm, proper bed, Javier can't sleep a wink.
He shuffles onto his feet and drags himself into the kitchen. Blinking in the harsh light of the refrigerator, he grabs a jug of orange juice and lets it slosh out into a small glass.
The front door creaks, and you walk inside from the stale, warm dark.
Javier frowns at you. You're wearing a pair of soft lounge shorts and a little top, and he closes the refrigerator so he can't see the details of your figure in those fucking clothes.
“It's two o’clock,” he says plainly.
You rub your eyes. “Yes, it's two o’clock. And you're also awake.”
“What were you doing out there?” he demands. Fuck, sometimes he feels like the guy in charge of interrogations, back in a pitch-black closet with only a desk and a lamp to guide him.
“I was taking a walk. It's this thing you can do where you put one foot in front of the other, and so on until you're moving.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, downing his glass in one gulp. “Never knew you had so much to say.”
Your laugh is groggy, but he enjoys the sound of it. It washes over him pleasantly, warm as morning sunlight. “You didn't hang around long enough to hear the extent of it.”
It's a playful jab, but Javier winces. He cannot swallow this piece of his past, not when it's standing right in front of him.
He rubs his jaw. “Trouble sleeping?” he asks.
You nod. “You?”
“Yeah. You want a drink?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
He produces a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard and pours a couple fingers into two glasses. You swipe one from the counter and he's caught up in the way your throat bobs as you swallow, your head tipped back as if in ecstasy. Your eyes gleam in the dark, lit through the window by the silvery moon.
“I read about you in the paper,” you tell him, “along with half of Texas, probably, but still. Folks around here love you.”
Here it fucking comes, he thinks, tossing back his glass. You watch in amusement as he swallows the burning whiskey and with it, all the simpering print proclamations of his heroism.
But you just wait for him to polish off the glass, mouth twitching at the corner, and say, “I guess you killed a lot of people, huh.”
Javier blinks. Now that you're sleepy, he can hear a bit of the twang that hangs on your vowels like cramped fingers, trying to unlatch themselves from the edge of a cliff. Trying to fall away.
You're honest in a way that sticks uncomfortably to his ribs. None of the Oh, Javier, the things you must have gone through or the Oh, Javier, we’re so glad to have you back; you’re a real patriot.
And to you, he's no hero. He should have guessed.
“Define ‘a lot’,” he says, going for a joke.
Making you laugh, even if it's at his expense, at the idea of death, feels gratifying. It feels like some unspoken piece of a forgiveness he doesn't deserve.
“I get it,” you say. “You don’t let people in.”
“You get it?” he says dryly. “You kill people, too?”
You settle against the counter next to him and bump his side with your elbow. “No, but a long time ago, a guy left me after I’d finally opened myself up to someone. I guess I know something about shutting off.”
He averts his eyes, fingers tracing around the rim of his empty glass. The bourbon flits pleasantly around the top half of his head like twittering birds. “I know you don't want to hear it, but you didn't deserve that. I didn’t… What I’m trying to say is that I never wanted—”
You take the glass from his hand and place it gently next to yours on the countertop. “Why is it that you spent hours sitting by the river out there today?”
He scratches the stubble growing on his jaw that he hasn't gotten around to shaving yet. “Just… I like to think, I guess.”
“Is it because of the boats?”
It's gently put, but stern, and he wants to lean into the pillowy sound of your voice in the night and all its hushed timbre. Like a pile of leaves in a clearing, the sky high above. Stars he can never reach.
“Everyone keeps saying I’m some American hero,” he tells the floor. “How am I supposed to tell them all that none of it really mattered?”
If he meets your eye, he will face all of his failures. Every single thing he's done wrong in the past ten years started with you. With his fingers exploring the soft swell of your breasts and his mouth calming the erratic pulse in your throat. With linen that smelled of roses.
“Maybe trying to forget the past only makes us dwell on it more,” you say. “I guess that doesn’t leave us a lot of room for improvement, does it?”
“No. Not really.” He chuckles, finally looking up into your dewy eyes. “We did some good. But we also did a lot of bad.”
“Life isn’t some cosmic balancing act,” you offer.
Javier huffs. “Don't even think about saying those words around my devout father.”
“Hey, I used to go to church, Peña. I know the Word.”
He laughs again. “You don't go anymore?”
You shrug one shoulder. “I've lost a lot of faith in my life.”
“And…” He licks his lips and watches you do the same. There's a hint of bourbon on your breath and the kitchen is so warm, so humid, that his shirt feels impossibly heavy on his body. “Do you think I should let it go?”
You study him, every minute flicker of your eyes like a laser cutting paths across his face. He feels like he's being peeled apart. “The boats,” you ask, “or your faith?”
“I don't know.”
Your smile is humourless, but it comforts him anyway. “Stop trying to forget,” you tell him. “It won't do you any good, and it definitely won't work. But don't beat yourself up over choices you never made, or mistakes you did make. It’ll drive you crazy. Trust me.”
You bid him a whispered goodnight and leave the kitchen. He can hear you walk your path to the spare bedroom upstairs, across from his. Javier stares at the glass you left behind, at the small imprint of lip gloss on the rim, at the film of bourbon sitting stagnant in the well.
It feels cooler without you next to him, and he should be grateful for the way his collar no longer clings to his throat like a pair of strangling hands. But it just feels like something is missing.
Over the next month, Javier becomes convinced that his father is plotting something malicious.
When you wash the dishes after dinner, Chucho insists that he needs to tend to the chickens, and Javier is left to help you clean. When the horses need to be fed and you're lugging buckets of grain from the shed into the stables, Javier is the only one around to help you manage the load.
I can carry it myself, Javier.
Well, I’m helping anyway. Don't need to hear shit from my dad.
God, you're stubborn.
Yeah, and you're flexible as they come.
Do you know how infuriating you are?
No, but I’m sure you're about to explain it to me in heavy detail.
Then you’d better take a seat because this will take a while.
He isn't sure when he started to seek you out himself, but facing the barrel-end of your glares and your venom isn't so bad anymore. He's memorised the way your frustration escalates, from the twitch of your lips to the wrinkle between your brows. You know how to clamp your venus fly trap jaws around him, and you know how to chew him up and spit out just enough of him that he crawls back for another taste of your poison.
The home doesn't feel cramped like it did when you first arrived. The weather has cooled somewhat for mid-June, and it's not quite so oppressive anymore. The clouds are puffy and white. He helps you wash the dishes and he fixes up your broken taillight. He makes dinner with you every now and then, and he likes it when you shove him out of the way with your hip or snap at him that he isn't doing something right. He likes it when you hold up the wooden spoon to his mouth to give him a taste of your cooking and when you chide him for sampling more than you offered him.
Maybe he likes it because it means you aren't indifferent to him—that he’s something to you despite all he's done. Maybe it's a kind of hope: that he can be redeemed in the eyes of someone who has every right to hate him.
When the farmer’s market comes into town and you need to stock up on groceries for the week, Chucho’s truck magically needs a new alternator.
“You should take her, mijo.”
“Dad, she has a driver’s license.”
“And you have a scowl on your face that can be seen from space. Now go, and play nice.”
“Christ,” he mutters, meeting you out by your truck. You’re bent over the seat, rummaging in the glove box for a reusable bag. He tries his best not to stare, but for fuck’s sake, he's a man, and the jeans you're wearing are sculpted to you. When you stand upright, he catches a glimpse of your breasts, pushed together in your tank top, and he hastily slides his aviators up his nose so you won't catch him in the act of ogling. He never used to be shy about it.
“I know what you're going to say, and I don't need your help.” Pointedly, you place the canvas bag on the passenger’s seat and walk around the truck, shooting Javier a smile that shivers down his belly. “You're starting to suffocate me, sweetie.”
He lights a cigarette and curls his fingers around the rim of the driver’s side window. “I’ll be a good boy.”
You roll your eyes, starting up the ignition. “No smoking in my car.”
He puts out the cigarette in the dirt driveway and slides into the truck next to you. Your bag is emblazoned with your school’s logo. “So you got that degree after all,” he says.
You look at him as if you’re alarmed that he remembered, your face softening with a small smile. “Yeah, I did.”
“I knew you would,” he says. “Knew you were smarter than me the second we met.”
You laugh. “Oh, please. You don't remember the second we met.”
He remembers the day. The leaves were cast in bronze and the air had an early-morning chill to it that had settled in his muscles. He'd woken up past his alarm and decided to stop in a small café on the way to the sheriff’s department. In his hurry to shoulder open the door and find a place in line, he bumped into a pretty girl carrying a coffee cup and textbooks.
Your things scattered across the checkered floor and your coffee spilled in a rich brown pool at his feet. You gasped, pulling your books to your chest, and Javier met your eyes for the first time in mutual astonished silence.
“Fuck,” you both said simultaneously.
He remembers the vaguely manic gleam in your eye. He remembers the sensation of coffee seeping into his soles and the way your chest heaved behind your books. He remembers staring at you, young and a bit skittish, and forgetting his own name until you said yours first.
He bought you another coffee and forgot to get one for himself. He arrived late and empty-handed to the sheriff’s station with shoes that smelled like dark roast.
“I remember,” he tells you. “And I remember how hard it was to get a date with you.”
“You didn't want a date with me; you wanted a fuck.”
“We did both, though, didn't we?”
You scoff. “You're such a guy.”
“For what it's worth,” he says, “I don't think I could forget you if I tried.”
You lift your brows. “Is that right?”
“Mmm. The feeling of coffee soaking through my expensive shoes is memorable.”
You laugh and he swallows the sound of it, liquid moonlight. “I'm glad I made an impression.”
The sun is at its apex and he can feel the heat of it cutting through the windshield, casting your face in so much light that a strange possessiveness surges within him over having seen you in the darkness. It feels like something that belongs to him alone: the fuzzy outline of your body as you came to stand beside him, the remnants of your lip gloss on the glass of bourbon, the watery silver underneath your irises that could have been tears and could have also been his imagination.
Maybe he dreamed that night.
“What about your sister?” he asks, startling himself out of his trance. “Did she go to UT, too?”
Your eyes grow fond and he could look at you this way for hours—like you're watching some piece of your past unfold like an old rug, shaking off the dust. “She wanted to be different from her big sister in every way possible,” you tell him. “She scurried off to A&M a couple years ago. Wanted to go into education. But…”
“But?”
You clear your throat. “She dropped out.”
“Oh,” says Javier. “Did she say why?”
“She said it wasn't for her,” you say, your tone clipped.
“Oh.”
You lapse into silence, speeding down the dirt road with one hand on the wheel, and he kicks himself.
Way to fucking go, Peña.
He doesn't stew for much longer. It’s about a half-hour drive into town and the farmer’s market is abuzz with activity by the time you find a parking spot down the road. He follows you dutifully from aisle to aisle, hearing his father’s scolding echo in his skull, hearing your own words cut him deep enough to bleed.
Play nice. We need the help.
I don’t need your help, Javier.
He isn't sure what he expected from accompanying you into the world, into the small town he once knew and certainly doesn't anymore. But to see the way you toss careless smiles to the locals and exchange your rapid-fire jokes like currency… To see the way you fit in as if you never left at all, while Javier still struggles to pull himself back into this place, feels like another tally against him. Another reminder of the wrongs he cannot right.
Laredo is a second skin that's too tight. What has he done with the ten years of his absence except alienate everyone that's ever meant anything to him for a fight that meant nothing?
They welcome you with kisses on the apple of your cheek and boisterous shouts.
There she is; God, you've grown!
I have those strawberries put aside for you—Dan and I wanted to invite you over for some pie, since it's his birthday tomorrow.
Javier, is that you? I hardly recognised you.
He hardly recognises himself.
It isn't long before his arms are weighed down by produce. He suspects you're indulging a bit more just to test the limits of his strength, but he's fine with it. And maybe he flexes a little when he hauls the groceries into the truck with him, just to show off. Maybe he puffs out his chest when you look up at him, the girl who doesn’t need his help, and squeeze his forearm in thanks.
“You did good, Agent Peña.”
He shrugs like it's just another Monday. But your fingers brand him where they curl around his arm and his mouth feels dry as cotton. He offers to drive back just so he can have an excuse to focus on something other than the dark ring of sweat around the neck of your shirt, the way you fan yourself with a Visit Texas brochure from the market.
You did good.
Countless newspaper columns and superiors and strangers on the street don't compare to the way your approval sits in his chest.
Five minutes into the drive, you point out the window. “Let's stop there.”
He glances through the windshield and recognises the face of the café instantly: Sunny’s, where he met you for the first time. “This place is still open?” he says, backing into a parking spot behind the red brick building.
“They got a facelift,” you say, pushing your sunglasses to the top of your head. “You up for a coffee?”
He looks at the indent on your nose made by the bridge of your glasses. You're staring so intently at him that he has to turn away.
He sifts through his head for a name to describe the way you make him feel. How he can be so certain that you're the bane of his existence one moment, and curl up like a cat into the silhouette of your body the next. How your sharp tongue cuts him open and soothes him to a dreamless sleep. He thought of your lip gloss on the rim and your eyes in the dark, staring at the ceiling until sleep took him.
You say his name. And as always, you elude him, your clever tongue whispering taunts in his ear as you slide slowly through his grasp.
“There’s produce in the truck.”
You roll your eyes. “We won't be long.”
“And if they go bad in the heat?”
“Is there some reason you're stalling, or is it just because you want to annoy me?”
Part of him is thrilled at the thought of annoying you forever, being the object of your ire. Is it masochistic to find this anger of yours so beautiful? To open you up like a book and bleed you and take it all inside him?
He knows he deserves it. But your gooey centre glows bright enough to burn out some old part of him that didn't feel anything at all. The more he taps at the hard shell that closes you in, the more he finds that you're just as scared to bare your heart as he is.
You're the only one who's faced his worst and matched it fearlessly. He bared his teeth to you and you grasped him by the scruff of his neck.
“Fine,” he says. “But just for a minute.”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip and he wonders what it tastes like to swipe his tongue along the seam of your open mouth. “Just what every girl wants to hear.”
He opens the door for you and listens to the chime of the bell as you enter the café. The air conditioning dries the sweat at the back of his neck and he suddenly doesn't feel quite so grumpy. The checkered floor, where he once spilled your coffee on his shoes, is the same. The display cabinets with all the labelled treats upgraded to new glass doors, and the walls are coated in a sickly-sweet paper that reminds him of bubblegum before it lost all its flavour. A couple curious heads turn and Javier braces himself, but they go back to their conversations and their lattes and their pleasant little lives.
“See?” you say, and it soothes him into dropping his tense shoulders. “Now you can buy me a coffee.”
Javier chuckles, but takes out his wallet. He could buy you the goddamn café and it wouldn't make up for what he'd done. But if this is where you'd like to start, he’ll cough up as much money as you want him to.
You order something extra-sweet, the most expensive drink on the menu, and Javier buys a black coffee. When you sit down with your monstrosity, topped with whipped cream and a straw that looks like a candy striper, Javier watches you close your lips around it and he swallows. It isn't quite so cool anymore. Now, the walls press against him on all sides, and when you smile up at him, his head feels like honey.
This flame, this burn he had thought was hate, flares up, white-hot, and he knows it can't be. Maybe it never has been. Not when your eyes touch his skin like the kiss of a hot poker. Not when you grin and he feels like the funniest man on Earth. Especially not when you poke and prod and chastise and all he does is open his arms wider for you to throw your jabs.
Fuck. He likes it. He likes the thrill he gets from winding you tight and he likes seeing you loose, shrouded in dark and moonlight, vulnerable as a bruise, his thumb to your tender skin as if taking your pulse.
He likes you, and that's his punishment.
“Same spot, huh?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“You always sat here when you studied. You said the light was best by the window.”
Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “You remember that?”
Javier doesn't tell you that he remembers every detail about you down to the way you chewed your thumbnail when you were concentrating and the way you could never sit with both your feet fully planted on the floor. “I remember you turning me down for every date I asked you on.”
You roll your eyes. “Because I could smell a playboy from a mile away.”
“So why did you say yes?” he asks.
You shrug, licking some of the whip from your drink and swiping it clean from your lips. Arousal snakes down his belly and lingers heavy in his core. Adjusting in his seat, Javier watches every movement as if he’ll be tested. A playful grin tugs at your mouth.
“I guess I just realised you weren't as awful as I’d expected.”
He huffs, leaning back in the stiff wooden chair. “That's the nicest thing any girl’s ever said to me.”
There's a smudge of whipped cream on the tip of your nose and Javier reaches out, wiping it away with his thumb. You go slightly cross-eyed as you watch him do it, your lips parting.
“I liked you, too,” he says quietly, frowning at the white smear on his thumb. “And I remember everything.”
It's strange to find himself lusting after a woman he thought he'd left in the past for good. A woman he'd already known so intimately, touched so deeply.
You were young. You were a virgin. He hadn't known it until he was in too deep, until he’d spent the better part of a month imagining how you would feel wrapped around him, consumed by him, burning up in him. He would lie awake in his bed and spread his fingers, sliding his hand across the cool linens and wondering if you'd be soft as velvet. He would picture your eyes robed in darkness as you slid down onto him, warm and wet, something desperate latching onto both of you until his future blurred in front of him and your worries fled into the corner to hide.
And the sex…
Fuck, you were so soft. Your fingers trembled as they rose to unbutton his shirt, and he covered them with his so you'd feel more brave. Your soft cries and your taste—God, your taste—had him drunk from the first slow drag of his tongue through your pussy. When he hovered over you and fit himself inside you, you met his gaze with a steely determination and grasped his arms.
You were so tight, so hot, that he closed his eyes and buried his face in your throat so he wouldn't lose himself to it. You still smelled of roses then.
“Javier.”
He blinks. You're staring, not at him but at the way he’s clenched his fist around his cup so tightly that coffee has spilled over the rim onto the table.
“Mierda. Fucking kidding me,” he grumbles. You stifle your laughter behind your hand and shoot up to grab a couple napkins from the counter.
“Maybe memory lane wasn't the best idea,” you say, biting into your bottom lip to preserve some sense of his dignity.
Javier accepts your handful of napkins and begins to clean up his mess. “At least I didn't get it on my shoes this time.”
“We're changed people,” you tease. “Although you're still a playboy, if the gossip is true.”
He's never been shy about liking sex. He had plenty of friendly relationships with the women he had slept with in Bogotà. He’d given them the money for visas or to provide for their kids in exchange for information or pleasure. It was convenient and it was detached. But his face heats up under your keen eyes and suddenly he wishes he'd gone celibate all those years.
You lightly smack him with a clean napkin. “Do you think I’m some sexless sack of flesh?”
“Definitely not sexless,” he grumbles.
“I know you saw a lot of women; it doesn't bother me. We aren't sleeping together, and we won't ever again.”
It isn't cruel or sharp, but it still stings. He knows he doesn't deserve you. He knows every ounce of your ire is warranted for the way he’d left you that morning. He knows he can never make amends for leaving you vulnerable and alone, without so much as a call or warning. He'd been selfish and afraid and in want of a release, and you can pretend all you want that it doesn't hurt you, that you don't care, but it's all a goddamn front. He sees that same stubborn set of your jaw when he looks in the mirror. He sees your pain in his own eyes, feels it in the tension that stiffens his shoulders.
“Are you…” He clears his throat when it comes out all wrong, trying to sculpt his tone into something conversational. “Are you with anyone?”
You give him a cold stare. “You were doing so well until that. Let's go before the produce starts baking in this heat.”
Your walls effectively erected in front of your eyes, you leave him to follow you out the door. Cursing himself, he hurries to catch up to you and curls his fingers around your wrist.
“Wait.”
You turn back to face him, your eyes briefly widening at the jolt that trembles between the two of you.
“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks and he doesn't even have time to be embarrassed. He just keeps on, tripping over everything he's trying to say. “I… fuck, I was an idiot, and I didn't want to face you knowing I’d only hurt you, and I know it was stupid, but I’m sorry. Please, just… just know that I’m sorry.”
Wordlessly, you stare, the sticky breeze rustling your hair. It's hotter now than before he entered the café, or maybe he's imagining it. He's still touching you, electricity sprinting up and down your arms in a closed circuit, and he wants you to slap him or shout at him.
If you walk away, he doesn't know if he'll be able to watch you go. He doesn't know if he can stop himself from following.
“We should go, Javi,” you say softly, as if the words are suffocated by the walls of your throat. His heart twists until it's backwards, facing away from the blow your brush-off delivers.
“Right,” he says, dropping your wrist and wiping his palms on his jeans. “Yeah.”
He replays the sound of his name on your tongue the whole way home. A name so lethal that the mere presence of it cut through the air. A name that means You hurt me. A name that means I cannot forgive you.
He tosses a rock across the width of the river and it skips once, twice, before the silky water swallows it, nothing but a ripple in its wake.
He wonders how the water would taste going down. If it’s poison, smoothing over the little folds in his intestines the way radiation bloats the body, or if it goes down smooth as red wine.
He hears the grass being displaced behind him and you sit cross-legged by his side. “Do you ever sleep?”
He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray he brought out with him. At least he's stopped polluting.
“Sometimes,” he says. “Been having nightmares since… uh, since—”
“Since you got back?”
He nods stiffly, but your shoulder is brushing his and you're looking out at the water and the moon illuminates your face, and you're beautiful. You've always been beautiful.
But it haunts him now, this stillness. Your skin is soft as sculpted marble and your face just as set, and he knows that a fractal of the girl he knew is still lodged between his ribs. Maybe you have a piece of her stick inside your chest, too. Maybe you mourn her the way he mourns what he had with you, something easy until it wasn't, chewed-up and unrecognisable now.
“Thank you.”
The words are so soft they nearly drown, but he fishes them from the riverbank. You still won't meet his eye.
“For apologising,” you finish. “Thank you.”
It isn't forgiveness, but he doesn't want that. He's never liked the taste of it—like pre-ripe bananas. Too green, not ready.
“I’ve been an asshole,” he says. “Not just back then, but when you showed up here, too. You felt like a reminder that I hadn't been there for my dad. And it's true—I let myself get caught up in chasing the cartel. I let myself make excuses not to come home. And I left him to handle all of this himself.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “But he's also your dad. And he's proud of you.”
“Maybe.” He studies your profile and God, he even likes the way you blink. “You've helped us. More than I wanted to admit. So… thank you. For being what I couldn't be for him.”
“Your dad is perfectly pleasant,” you say dryly, and he hears the implication: Unlike you. “I like working for him.”
“He likes you.” He doesn't know why he’s still talking, but it feels nice to slice himself open and pour himself out. “He calls you his guardian angel.”
For some reason, you close your eyes at the words, as if reliving an old memory. Your lashes rest on your cheeks, utterly still.
“That's what my sister used to call me,” you say. The crickets strum a discordant song and Javier is too afraid to speak over the magic that's settled over the grass. “I practically raised her, since our parents wouldn't. She liked to use our shower curtain as a cape and pretended to fly by jumping off the toilet. I always called her Hero.
“We did our best in that house, but when it was time for me to go to school, I was afraid to leave her there. So I deferred my acceptance and waited until she grew up a bit more. When she finally left for school, I was so relieved. But she met a guy, and…”
He expects the tears stuck on your lashes to linger there, maybe even freeze in place, and become a part of your painting. But they slide slowly down your cheeks, a picture of abjection, and something dislodges inside him.
He shuffles closer. Just a little.
“He treats her terribly,” you whisper, looking down at your fingers, one of them twisting around a blade of grass. Your shoulders are hunched as if expecting a blow. His jaw slides back and forth. “And he won't let her leave. I tried…” Your little gasp cracks his heart in half. “I tried to take her from there, but he…”
You don't need to explain it in detail for Javier to see it clearly. “He threatened that he'd do worse if I ever contacted her again, because I’m bad for her. And I just… I can't help but wonder if I should have tried harder to get her away from our parents. If maybe things would have been better if we’d done it all on our own.”
You shake your head, tears drying on your face. “I feel so useless,” you tell him. “I can't save my sister from him. I couldn't even save her from the people who were supposed to love us.”
“Cielo…” Javier places his hand between your shoulder blades and feels your body decompress beneath his touch. Your bottom lip trembles as you turn to look at him, and your eyes gleam in the darkness.
“I tried,” you say weakly, sniffling as you pluck the blade of grass from the earth. “I tried to help her, and now I’m just… complacent. I think about all the ways he could be hurting her right now, and I’m here, cleaning your house.”
Realisation dawns. “That's why you need the money,” he says. “To get her out of there.”
“I thought if I saved up enough to get a little apartment, I could get her to come with me. Run away, you know?”
You scoff like it’s absurd to even dream, and he feels cruel for all he's said to make you feel unwelcome. For all the jabs he made about you not belonging, when you've never felt welcome anywhere.
His eyes sting when he blinks.
“Tell me about her.”
You look at him in surprise, but something serene settles over the curve of your mouth, taking the shape of memory instead of self-loathing.
“She lives and breathes the colour blue. She would come home from art class with blue fingers because she loved to paint. She was always playing outside, frolicking around the woods behind our house, and I was so scared I’d lose her in there. But she would come running back to me with a little dandelion in her hands, and I was allergic, but I’d take it because she looked so happy to give me a gift.”
Javier smiles. “Sounds like she loves you a lot.”
“Sometimes I think she saved me,” you tell him, stripping another blade of grass in half. “I might've just packed my bags and ran away if I didn't have her. She made me brave.”
“She was lucky to have you,” he says. “She needed you, and she still does.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, turning your head away as if you're still afraid to show him your vulnerability, the way your chin puckers when your mouth begins to tremble.
“I don't know what else to do,” you whisper. “How did you do it? How did you manage down there?”
How do you live with the mistakes you’ve made?
His chest twists and he wants to reach out—to curl his fingers over your knuckles as if to protect them from a blow that won't come. To encircle your body with his arms and cradle the back of your neck in his palm. To impress words he cannot seem to say into your warm skin and hold you there for an eternity as he bleeds into you.
Instead, he licks his lips and says, “I sit out here because it's the one spot where the boats never come. I avoid them because they remind me of all the good we could never do, but I dream about them anyway. I don't know if it's something I’ll ever be able to forget, even though I’ve tried so goddamn hard. Maybe…”
He studies you, the tears like dew on your lashes, the silver light sitting on your collar bones.
Maybe the only way of getting through it is together.
“Maybe I can talk to the sheriff’s department,” he says, “and see what I can do about looking into her boyfriend.”
You frown up at him, your posture straightening and something like hope settling in the space between your lips, and he feels emboldened.
“They can be discreet,” he continues. “I still have connections there, and they're good people. They’ll help if they hear your story.”
Your body turns toward him and he can't suppress the pull of that piece stuck in his ribs as it sings to the call of your closeness.
How would it feel to pull you against him like he once did? Would you melt so easily into him, your mouth sighing open to let him in like it did before? Or would you taunt him to come closer, a fish hook caught in his mouth?
You reach for him and your palm slides across his jaw, tentative, like you're touching something fragile or fleeting, trailing your fingers over the stubble growing on his cheek. You blink and more tears shake free from your lashes.
“Thank you.”
Then he feels your lips on his cheek, and he doesn't remember when he closed his eyes, but you're already walking away by the time he opens them again.
His fingers slowly unfurl from his closed fist. The grass has left tiny impressions in his palm, like the pillars of an ancient temple.
He waits another hour before he follows you to your bedroom door and knocks.
You’re wearing your pyjamas: a pair of shorts and a too-big sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder. Your hair is wet and you're still holding a toothbrush. A smidge of white toothpaste lingers on the corner of your mouth and Javier licks his lips.
“Are you okay?” you ask, amusement glittering in your eyes. You're backlit by the yellowish lamp by the bed and it forms a fuzzy hall around your head. “You're sweating.”
Is he? Is that why he feels so hot?
“I…” He swallows hard. “Shit. I don't know how to fuckin’ do this.”
“Do what? You're starting to scare me.”
He rubs his hand over his face and steadies himself against the wall. “I… I want to take you out. On a date.”
You blink. He isn’t sure if your non-reaction is better than turning around and vomiting.
“Do you?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I do.”
“You think you do.”
“I do,” he says, a bit sharper than he intended. Reminding himself that his father sleeps down the hall, he takes a deep breath. “Fuck, I do. Please just… just let me take you on a date.”
You stare. Javier stares back. As dread creeps up his spine, he wonders if he should be reading your mind for your answer. Maybe he asked wrong. Maybe he should have bought flowers first. Maybe—
“No.”
His stomach swoops into his throat. “No?”
“No,” you say again.
“I…”
“If we do this again, it’ll only hurt us both. Goodnight, Javier.” And when you quietly shut the door, the only sound Javier hears is the click of the lock as he stands, hopeless, unmoored, in the dark hallway.
Javier thinks of himself as longtime friends with desperation. He knows how it tastes to grasp at something he cannot touch, and he knows the siren song that keeps pulling him closer to what he wants even when he knows he can’t have it.
And now that the one person he truly wants is avoiding his eye at every turn, desperation has stepped into his skin and worn him like a goddamn coat.
If we do this again, it'll only hurt us both.
He dreams of you every single night for two weeks. He dreams of you as Beatrice guiding Dante. He dreams of you bathing in a lake of rubies sharp as knives, your body emerging from the crimson tide of jewels unscathed. He dreams of you sitting on a throne with a tilted golden crown on your head. He dreams of sitting across from you at an old oak table, enrobed in darkness, a shared glass of whiskey between him and you.
He has nightmares about you leaving in the broad daylight, dust on the floor in the shape of your feet, the door creaking shut. An empty glass. The churning of an engine in the water.
He oils the hinges on the door. He takes the trash out every week before you're awake. The cows are fed and the hay bales are stacked and he's wiping sweat off his brow before you can tiptoe down the steps in hopes of escaping him.
He takes Chucho’s truck in for a new alternator and he brings yours in for an oil change, too, because he knows a guy. He contacts the Laredo sheriff’s department and has them open an under-the-table criminal history investigation. They tell him they're happy to do it; they don't call him a hero.
He takes his mother’s recipe cards from the cupboards and tries his hand at the asiago she used to make. It tastes like dirt and he gives up. But each night he races you to the kitchen after you’ve made dinner to wash the dishes, and because you refuse to be alone with him for five minutes, you let him do the cleaning.
He lets the heat and the humidity roll over him. He lets the earth swallow his feet. He lets his fingers spread open in the dirt, watching worms go fat and thin as they crawl over his skin. He anchors himself in the work, in the blood of the earth, and wrings out his sweat, wondering if something will someday grow there in the salted ground.
There's something therapeutic in the way the sun bakes him alive. In working all day but never feeling the hot air of someone breathing down his neck, pulling red tape over his eyes. In watching the gradual shift in his father’s posture as Chucho’s back begins to feel some relief. In being useful, being present, sewing some of the wounds he'd cut into his family back together.
Javier watches you from afar. He would be surprised that you haven't quit altogether, if you weren’t so damn stubborn. You've been distant since he asked you on a date, which, yes, had been idiotic. He'd cornered you. You were right to turn him down.
You’re protecting your heart, but he will prove that he can cradle it. He was stupid to let you go the first time. Not again. Not ever.
You stay sequestered in your bedroom after your work is done each day. He lingers in the kitchen late at night, hoping you'll be out in the dark, taking a long walk. You never show. He stares up at the ceiling in his bed for hours before he dreams of you again.
He brings roses from the market. He writes a note in his chicken scratch and tucks it in the bouquet, hoping it isn't illegible.
Let's talk?
— J
You draw a little box and put a check mark inside it, next to the word NO.
But you put the flowers in a vase on the dining table, and they're still flourishing a week later.
When the roses wilt, he replaces them. He buys your groceries from the market and gets to know the vendors. He polishes your truck. One day, he watches you unfold another letter from the new bouquet. You smile, shake your head, and scrawl something inside. It's another NO, but he isn't deterred.
You come down with a cold in mid-August. It's nothing more serious than a cough and a stuffy nose, but panic stabs Javier’s stomach when he watches you trudge down the stairs on a Monday morning, your eyes bloodshot and your throat rattling. Chucho gives you the day off, and you're already improving by the next day. Javier leaves your favourite chocolates outside your bedroom door; they're gone within minutes.
Two days later, he approaches you while you're loading your truck and rests his arms on the driver’s side window.
You frown at him. “Get off my truck.”
He jiggles the keys in his hand. “You need these to drive, don't you?”
“I'm not going on a date with you.”
“Did I ask you to?” He's pleased when you roll your eyes. “Just get in. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
Your lips form a tight line. “You’re suffocating me.”
“You've been avoiding me for weeks.”
“I need space.”
“I won't even say a word the whole drive. I promise.”
“You don't need to—”
“What if I want to—”
“—do everything for me!” you cry out. Your cough hacks out of you, dry as bones, and he hurries around the car to place his hand on your back.
“Baby, you're still—”
You smack his hand away, still glaring. He’s relieved to see that you haven't lost your fire. “Don't call me that.”
You close your eyes as if in regret, and when you speak again, it's so soft he can hardly hear it over the cicadas. “I’m gonna get you sick, Javi.”
“That's all right,” he says. “Just… let me help. I memorised your grocery list and everything.”
You tuck your hair behind your ear. “Okay. Fine.”
Everything inside him softens at the way you hold yourself so vulnerably, so openly, prone to wounds. A pad of melted butter on a skillet. The tender insides of a fresh-baked cookie as it splits in two. He wants to share your hurt, wade into the pool of your golden blood, and let you puncture him over and over again.
You don't say a word to him the whole drive into town. You rest your head against the window even as the truck stumbles over the long dirt road, gazing out at the scenery of blue and green and brown and nothing. When he walks around the truck to open your door, you laugh as if he’s the stupidest man on Earth, and pleasure blooms in his gut.
He stares at his ceiling as he lies in bed that night, wondering what you're doing across the hall. If you're sitting at the small desk in the corner, scribbling your to-do list for the week and planning where to hide it away so he can't get to it first. If you're curled up under the heavy quilt with a book. If you're pacing, thinking, sleeping, dreaming.
He wonders how you sound when you sleep, and he wonders what it feels like to slide his hand over your bare hip and cradle you against his chest. Does it feel the same as it did all those years ago? If he pressed his mouth to your throat, would he take your heartbeat onto his tongue to taste? Would you let him roll it around his mouth and swallow so it became his own?
Will you ever let him back in?
Javier rolls onto his side and closes his eyes. In his nightmare, you scream from the far end of a tunnel, but no noise comes out. It's silent and still and his ankles are tied to the tracks.
“That’s enough!”
Your voice floats down the hallway toward him, and he hurries to fit a towel around his hips before you come barrelling through the open bathroom door.
When Chucho’s out of the house, Javier likes to shower with the door open so the steam escapes. He thought you were still out by the stables, bringing apples from the orchard in town to feed your favourite mustang, Blue. He’s lucky he doesn't slip and fall on the damp floor as you storm into the bathroom holding a bouquet of roses, backing him toward the shower.
He feels exposed like this—bare-chested and freshly washed, his skin still damp and sticky from the warm water. There's no way of hiding how his body reacts to you like this, dressed only in a white towel that’s feebly secured around his waist. His cock twitches at the sight of the little dress that hugs your hips. Christ, he could just shuck the soft fabric up over your hips and—
You slid to a halt as if startled into silence, your eyes sliding over his chest before firmly fixing on his face, and the tiniest inkling of hope that you want him just as much swells high in his chest. Gently, warily, you push the bouquet into his chest, the stems groaning, thorns prodding the tender skin of his throat.
“I’m not doing this again,” you say softly. “That's enough, okay? Just… enough. It'll only end badly.”
He shakes his head, tossing the roses into the sink. “Please, just let me say something.”
“Javi,” you sigh, but he takes a small step forward and you don't back away.
“I know I hurt you. I know that. And I know that it's hard for you to let people in, because I’m like you. You hate the thought of it, but it's true and I think you know it. You're the only one who gets me. We work, cielo. We do. We fucking fit.”
You shake your head, your eyes wet, lips pressing together in a thin line, like a mesh canopy trying to keep out a rainstorm. “How can you know that we won't just fight all the time?”
He takes your hand in his, his thumb circling over the pulse point in your wrist. Your heartbeat throbs like a hummingbird’s.
“Baby, you aren't listening to me,” he says desperately. “You are the only person I want to fight with. If I get to come home every day to you mad at me, it's better than never coming home to you at all.” He watches your lip wobble and he knows you're trying not to let your walls crumble. “I used to have nightmares about those boats in the river. Now, it's you I’m having nightmares about.”
You scoff, your resolve visibly hardening. “Very nice, Javier.”
“No, I—” He cuts himself off, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “That isn't what I meant. I just… Being with you is fun. It's exciting and difficult and it's fucking frustrating because you were everything I was afraid of. My failures, my mistakes, my guilt. But you aren't that. And I have nightmares about you leaving. I’m terrified of hurting you the way I did back then. I’m scared of being just another person who lets you down, and I can stand being somebody you hate, but I won’t survive being someone you want to forget.”
He watches the torrent work over your face, clouds obscuring the colour of your irises. You take your bottom lip between your teeth the way you do when you’re deep in thought.
His thumb presses gently into the skin of your wrist, trying to somehow impress the shape of him forever. “I don't like anyone in the world the way I like you,” he says. “Isn't that fucking strange?”
And you laugh. God, you laugh, and you're crying a little too, tears cresting over the thin lip of the well and slipping freely down your face. But it feels like you're drifting closer, and he must be imagining it. He must be imagining the way you charge forward, cupping his face in your hands like the mouth of a fly trap.
When you kiss him, he keeps his eyes open just long enough to convince himself that this is real. Your mouth tastes of mint and honey and you’re so close that your dress is soaking through where you're pressed up against him. Roses and earth and thorns dissolve into his skin, the shower steam circling around his ears.
You're nothing and everything like the girl he once knew, and he's intoxicated from the first renewed taste of you.
Javier cradles the back of your neck, slipping his tongue into your mouth. His hard cock prods your belly through his towel as he walks you backward into the vanity, arousal sticky and hot in his core. It blooms like unfolding petals when you moan softly into his mouth, your tongue sliding alongside his, your fingers tugging at his damp hair, prickling his scalp.
Your pupils are wide, your chest heaving, and he’s so goddamn sick for you he can't breathe. He wraps his arms around your waist and sets you on top of the counter, pushing his way between your thighs. You cry out as he begins to mouth at your throat, his hands blindly tugging at the buttons of your dress, trying to get closer.
Now that he knows how it feels to be in your orbit, he doesn't want to drift away for even a second.
“Javi,” you say, pulling your fistful of his hair so he’ll pull back to look at you. “Bed. Now.”
He nods frantically. “Whose?”
“Yours,” you pant, combing his hair away from his forehead.
“Why not yours?”
“Because I want you to fuck me where you've been fantasizing about me,” you whisper, your hips pushing out, grinding slowly against the tent that's formed in his towel. It's a dream. It must be.
He nips your chin. “I didn't make my bed this morning.”
“If you don't move your ass right now, I’ll make myself come.”
Javier grins against your cheek, bringing his mouth to yours again. You melt into him, your arms sliding up around his neck, your body curving gently into his ribcage as if trying to wedge yourself in the gap between them.
He’d drown himself in the river over and over just to taste your lips like it's the first time.
He gives your ass a playful slap and you roll your eyes, tugging his hand and leading him to the bedroom down the hall. Javier has his lips on your throat before you can step through the threshold into the room, where his bed is unmade and the light bulb in his lamp is burnt out and there are clothes tossed into a heap over the back of the office chair he never uses. The dying sunlight lets out one last cry through the window as he blindly kicks the door shut behind him, his hands fastened to your hips.
You’re the salt of sweat and earth, the tang of perfume that still lingers on your skin, perched on your collar bones like little birds. He can taste your whole day when he bites the smooth flesh where your neck curves into your shoulder. He soothes the mark with his tongue as you whine his name and buck your hips into him, and his towel is slipping off before he’s even managed to take off your dress.
You gasp when you feel him, his hard length nestled against your hip. “You always have so much to fuckin’ say,” he mumbles, descending upon you for another desperate, breathless kiss. “Not so loud now, cielo.”
“You arrogant prick.” Your last word hitches in your throat as he yanks the straps of your dress from your shoulders and sucks your nipple into his mouth.
“Ah!” you cry out, casting your hand out for a purchase on something, anything. You at last dig your claws into the bedpost as he fondles your breast in his hand and mouths wetly at the other.
The weight of his body slowly brings you down onto the mattress, your back sliding along the cool linens. Javier groans into your breast, his hand sliding around your waist and bringing your hips up to meet his; slotted seamlessly on top of your warm body, he whispers your name into your sternum. The beginning of something.
The rest of your dress glides down your body like a ghost, discarding itself on the floor nearby. Javier rears back to admire the shape of you, surrounded by his linens, writhing impatiently on his bed, your cotton panties soaked through before he’s even touched you. Pride swells inside him, but another beast called lust swoops in low for the kill.
“Let me taste you,” he pleads. “Fucking Christ, let me taste you, baby.”
“Why do you think I’m opening my legs, you moron?” A little huff escapes your lips, in tandem with a minute wiggle of your hips, and he chuckles.
“Just making sure you’re still angry with me,” he says.
“I’m always angry with you. Now please just touch me already.”
He yanks your hips so your elbows fall out from under you, your body now flush with the mattress. Descending you slowly, Javier redraws his old map of you, his mouth carving river lines and soaring mountain peaks, writing in the names of places he had forgotten. Though their echoes remained, they return to him stronger now, calling his name in a fury, etching themselves in his skin.
His lips leave a wet trail down your belly, his fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, bringing them down your legs. You hum softly as he caresses your thighs, easing them further apart so he can lie comfortably between your legs.
“You're so beautiful,” he says, his mouth lavishing your soft skin, nipping playfully at your inner thighs. “So beautiful.”
“Please,” you moan, and the taste of your need, collecting in the glistening spot between your legs, is intoxicating. His cock twitches as he presses a kiss to your clit, warm and swollen under his mouth.
Your sigh rattles through his bones and his grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging grooves into your flesh. He opens his mouth wide and slides his tongue through your folds, indulging in the heat and the tang and the sound of your muffled cries. You have your hand over your mouth, he realises, drowning your pleasure as if it's something that should not be heard.
He lifts his head slightly just so he can take in the picture of your heaving chest, your raised brows, your closed eyes. Javier covers your hand with his and slowly pries it from your face. You lick your lips, staring down at him with wide eyes, and he wonders if you hadn't even noticed until now that he's still here—that he hasn't run.
“I want to hear you,” he says, his voice scraping with need. “I want to make you come, baby. Just like this.”
“How can you be sure you still know how I like it?” you tease, and of course you're still pushing back, still trying to get your hands around his throat even when he's pinning you down, putting his mouth on your cunt.
His hand slips down to your breast and squeezes at the same time he begins to lap at your little pearl, his nose crushed to your pelvis.
“Fuck!”
Yeah, he still knows how you fucking like it.
You grasp blindly for his shoulders, your legs shaking as he licks through your pussy, letting his saliva mingle with your juices. You're so goddamn soft, so pliant and warm for him, your shell splintering into pieces.
You respond to every touch as if it's a lighted match dropped onto your skin. Threading your fingers through his hair, you let your head fall back against the pillow. Surrender.
He grins into your pussy, his hand sliding back down your body. Wetting his fingers in a few languid swipes through your slit, he slowly opens you up.
“Oh,” you moan, “That’s… mmm, that feels—”
“I know, cielo. I know, baby. Just relax, okay? Let me in.”
Your back arches as he slides two fingers inside, his knuckles disappearing. He twists his wrist and curls them upward and you sob his name, the veins in your throat pulsing for him like a song. Your breath crackles out of you like embers, sweat pooling in the hollow of your throat, and it feels like dipping his fingers into a pot of liquid honey.
“Javi, you're going to make me fucking come. I… God, I can’t—”
“Then fucking come for me, cielo. C’mon, baby.”
Your heel digs hard into his back as he pumps his fingers in and out, his tongue swiping repeatedly over your puffy clit. You sob his name, your fingers tugging his hair so hard it stings, and he wonders how long it's been since you've let someone else in. How long has it been since you last trusted someone enough to see you this way?
Your last cry of Javier is a feeble thing on your lips, the final syllables petering out to silence as you reach your climax. He keeps his lips suctioned around your clit and his fingers applying gentle pressure to the sweet, spongy spot inside you, his free hand curling around your thigh to keep you anchored to the mattress. He's worried you'll begin to fly away when he sees the way your back curves. He wants to walk beneath that archway, to see if it will lead him to greener pastures.
He doesn't think he'll ever tire of watching you come. Your eyes closed, your brows raised as if in shock, your mouth dropping open as if your body is trying to starve itself of any oxygen in an attempt to prolong the high. You gasp, your leg kicking out, his name a scramble of letters on your tongue, your body writhing under his weight. He’d paint this moment if he could.
“Goddamn beautiful,” he says, scattering open-mouthed kisses on your thighs, your belly, your heaving breasts. “Just as good as last time?”
“I'm not impressed yet,” you say, panting. “Show me more.”
“Fucking happily.”
Your hands cup his face as he crawls up your body, bringing him down to you for a kiss. He's addicted to your mouth. Kissing you is petal-soft, your juices still tingling on his Cupid’s bow, gentle but assured. Exploratory, as if this isn’t only a quick fuck but a Maybe this could be more. Maybe this could be something.
You whisper his name, letting his forehead drop between your breasts as you catch your breath. “Oh my God.”
“Still taste like fucking heaven,” he says, pressing his lips to your throat.
“You'll never see heaven, cabrón.”
“Hmph. I see you're learning.”
“From the worst.”
He hoists your thigh around his hip and rolls over so you're sitting on his lap. His cock sits heavy on his belly, his thighs warm underneath yours. Patting your flank, he urges you to shuffle toward him until your wet pussy slides along his length.
He squeezes your hips, his eyes drinking in the sight of your naked body. “Fuck.”
You laugh, rolling your hips over his cock. “You said that last time.”
He twitches, precum spitting from the tip and pooling on his belly. His cock appears and vanishes beneath your body as you rub your clit on his length, soaking it with your sticky wetness.
You plant your hands on his chest for leverage, your weight sinking into him. Good. He wants his chest to cave in under your hands. He wants you to curl up in the crater and make a home for yourself.
“Jesus,” he utters, his hand sliding up your torso and kneading your breast. “You're gonna come for me again, baby. Just like this.”
“I don’t take orders from you, Peña,” you say, your voice airy. You don't stop your slow, grinding rhythm, your slit spreading your juices all over his cock.
“I don't see you stopping,” he bites back, tweaking your nipple between his fingers.
You moan, throwing your head back, and Javier can't help but surge upright, gripping the back of your neck and pulling you down to him for a bruising kiss.
You gasp into his mouth, your hips snapping back and forth as you grind feverishly against his cock. “Jav… I’m gonna come…”
“I know,” he says, his hand on your lower back, coaxing you toward your high. “Come for me. C’mon.”
You whimper, your body seizing against him, your breasts pushed into his chest and your face in the crook of his neck. He holds you so close that a piece of paper couldn't fit between your bodies, nipping your earlobe as your thighs tremble around his hips.
“I’m gonna fucking explode,” he grumbles in your ear, “if I don't get inside you right now.”
“Would it finally shut you up?” You playfully close your teeth around his throat and he laughs, rolling you onto your back.
“I'm never gonna shut up about how much I want you.”
You smile up at him, tracing your fingers along his jawline. “Well, then, I can live with that.”
He takes hold of his cock and guides the head through your slit, wetting it in your mess. Your legs twitch with an aftershock, your hands grasping his shoulders.
He grins. “This all for me?”
“You're such an asshole.”
“Tell me again when my dick is inside you, baby.”
You laugh softly, your fingers sliding through his hair. It curls over his forehead and partially obscures his view of your face as he positions himself at your entrance.
He hisses through his teeth as he sinks into you, his forehead dropping to yours. Warm and wet and fucking tight, you pull him in so deep he doubts he'll be able to work up the courage to leave you. “Shit.”
Your open mouth slides along his temple, legs hitching up around his hips to deepen the angle. He groans raggedly, brows pinching as he bottoms out inside you, his fist clenching around the sheets beside your head.
Your eyes are drooping, pupils puffy with desire, your lips swollen from kissing him. The small cry you let out when his hips meet yours reminds him of the girl he took to bed ten years ago. In this moment, you're more vulnerable than he’s ever seen you, and he knows this will change everything. He cannot let you slink silently away into the night like he did last time, the way he knows a part of you wants to right now.
He takes your hand, his fingers sliding through yours, and brings it above your head, leaning over you and slanting his mouth over yours.
His thrusts are slow to start but fuck, he’ll come in two pumps if he goes any faster. Your tight cunt takes him in so deep it's as if your body was meant to house him, a tiny porch light in the distance he's always been trying to reach from over the mountain.
You kiss him eagerly, your tongue fighting with his as you moan into his mouth, trying to snap and melting instead. You can poke and prod and irritate him until the end of time, but he knows you. He knows you the same way he remembers your body and what it likes. He knows you the same way he knows how to fan your flames, to keep your fire lit. He pulls away just to look into your eyes and, like the split second of consciousness before his morning alarm begins to chime, he feels he can see right into your soul.
“Fuck me,” you whisper, and like a sailor, he follows your song. Pulling his hips back, he bares his teeth at the sight of his length glistening with your wetness. His hand, still intertwined with yours, brings your fingers to your pussy.
“Feel that?” he says. “You feel how fuckin’ wet she is for me? I’m not gonna last.”
“Good,” you say, spreading your folds open with your fingers to give him a good look at how you're taking him. He doubles over, his cock twitching inside you. Jesus, this fucking woman. “Now fuck her. Please.”
He obeys your wish like failing will kill him, grabbing your hips to keep them in place as he pounds into you. You cry out his name, spreading your thighs wider to take him deep, your hands grasping blindly for his arms.
“Fuckfuckfuck… Javi…”
“This what you needed?” he pants, hiking your leg up around his hip as he sits on his haunches. Your eyes roll back in your head at the new angle, your throat bobbing in a fruitless attempt to take in air. “You needed to be fucked stupid, huh? Just like this? Never thought I'd see you so quiet, baby.”
Whatever you want to say in retort comes out strangled, a groan pitching high in your throat. Javier chuckles. “Dick must be in your throat.”
You whine, your cunt closing in around him as if trying to cut off his circulation. He’s harder than steel, his heavy balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. You manage a weak fuck-you, but the pride of rendering you speechless has gone to his head.
The wet shlick of your pussy makes him dizzy. The room smells of sweat and sex and his headboard slams repeatedly against the wall. His ears begin to ring as his orgasm approaches, his balls pulling tight with the need to fill you up.
You nod frantically, a silent admission that yes, you're going to come. The feral gleam in your eye drives him to lean over and kiss you, his arm sliding around your waist to fix you to him.
“I’m gonna come. Please make me come, baby, please.”
He mouths wetly at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub your wet little pearl. You bite down on his shoulder, your hips bucking, your pussy choking his cock so tight he groans louder than he's ever heard himself. Your name is the only word he can think of.
Your climax wrecks your whole body. He holds you in the throes of your little death, your fingernails leaving grooves in his back, sweat shining on your skin. He's never stood a chance.
“Where?” he asks, feeling your cunt squeeze him. His head is swimming. Everything sounds muffled, as if he's a foot underwater. “Where, baby? I’m clean. Fuck, where?”
“Inside me,” you plead. “Want to be full of you. Please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and hugs your body close, a sailor marooned, clinging to driftwood. His mouth finds anything it can bear down upon: your jaw, your chin, your throat, the sweat-slick space between your breasts. He comes hard, his cock pulsing inside you for so long it becomes close to painful. You're his only lifeline, your fingers in his hair, chest heaving, your calming heartbeat like the bridge of a song.
He can feel himself leaking out of you, but he doesn't pull out straight away. Collapsing, Javier leaves gentle kisses on your throat where he'd lost himself, soothing the bite marks with his tongue. You sigh, apparently content, your fingers dancing up and down his arm.
“All right,” you say quietly, your voice like thunder in the silent room. “That was better than last time.”
When he wakes, the clock reads two a.m. and the bed is void of you.
His hand finds cool, rumpled sheets. Your clothes are gone from the floor. Panic sits high in his chest as he tosses the sheets off his naked body and steps frantically into a pair of jeans. He doesn't hear the rumbling of your truck engine but the voice in his head growls just as loud.
You let her go. You never should have touched her. You should have stayed away, far away, so you'd never hurt her again.
The house is calm. He can hear his father’s faint snores from the other side of his bedroom door and the chirping of crickets under the window. A French white baking dish soaks in the kitchen sink. Evidence of your existence litters the room and he can't even see half of it. It lingers in the scent of your rose perfume and the lemon dish soap. You reside in his arteries and you beat inside him like a heart.
He finds you by the river, trying to skip stones. One by one, they sink with a plunk, and you twist your fists in the grass beside your legs.
“Hey,” he says carefully, as if he might spook you. “You, uh… you left.”
You don't turn to face him, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “Taste of your own medicine.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, dropping onto the ground by your side, “that didn't feel good.”
“What's your technique?” you ask, picking up another stone. “All my rocks keep sinking.”
He resists the urge to push closer into your space, adjusting the rock strategically between your fingers. “Make sure you keep your angle parallel to the water. Like throwing a disc.”
“Did your dad teach you this?” you ask him, winding your arm back and tossing the stone. It skips twice before it descends into the black water.
“My mom, actually,” he says. “She would take me on walks along the river when I was a kid. If you're going to keep throwing things, mijo, you might as well do it correctly.”
You smile fondly. “I could have used some lessons.”
“No,” he says, watching your face screw up in concentration as you toss another stone. “No, you're perfect.”
Three skips.
The river is quiet and still and it doesn't feel so heavy anymore, so fathomless. The stones ripple through the water as it laps softly at the river’s edge. He could touch the bottom if he stood in it.
Your pupils are infused with moonlight. You meet his eyes and the corners of your mouth are turned down, your expression so vulnerable that he feels compelled to check your heartbeat like he would a deer on the roadside.
“Will you give me another chance?”
You blink, and it seems to last an age, his heartbeat stopping as your eyes briefly close.
“I want to give us a real shot. If I’m going to fight with someone every day of my life, I want it to be you. It has to be you. And I’d be an idiot to let you go again.”
You reach for his hand in the darkness. A silvery varnish soaks the landscape in moonlight and he can picture himself here forever, sitting with you in silence and soft grass and something that feels like hope.
“You are an idiot,” you say. “But I like fighting with you.”
Summary: After impressing Mando in Nevarro, you're enlisted to help him with his next quarry.
Warnings: explicit language, flirting
a/n: I'm not following the exact timeline of the show. There's no Grogu so we're kind of jumping around with some plot points. Hang in there with me.
One
When you wake, it's with a familiar pressure low in your belly. It's still dark on the ship, but you remember seeing a fresher door right next to the ladder that leads up to the cockpit, but when you go to stand, your wrists snag on the cuffs and you fall back to the floor.
Shit. You forgot about that.
After testing the restraints a few times with no luck, you try to squint through the darkness. Where is he? Is he asleep in the cockpit? Will he be angry if you call for him?
He'll be angrier if you pee on the floor of his ship, you think, so you nervously clear your throat and call out into the eerie silence.
"Mando?"
It's what Druk called him. A nickname, you assume, but it's the only name you have.
You wait a minute but hear nothing above you. No scraping of metal, no heavy footfalls indicating he's coming to check on you. Nothing. So with a deep breath, you try again, just slightly louder now.
"Mando?"
This time you hear something. You pinch your lips together and wait, gaze fixed where you think the hatch is for the cockpit, but to your surprise a door slides open just a few feet away. You yelp and scoot backwards in surprise as the Mandalorian emerges from a very small room tucked into the wall on the other side of the ladder. How didn't you see that before?
"What?" comes his irritated, filtered voice. You swallow.
"I—I need to pee."
The light from his room illuminates him as he stands to his full height with a sigh. When he bends to unlock your cuffs, you realize his gloves are off. And so is his armor. He's just left in some black clothes he must wear underneath all that metal.
"Stand up," he orders. You blink and hurry to your feet, not even realizing he had uncuffed you. He points to the fresher door, now visible in the light spreading from his bunk. "Be quick," he tells you curtly. You nod and murmur your thanks as you stumble forward and shut the door behind you. Even without the armor, he's still intimidating and big. Solid. He has to be, you think, in order to carry around all that metal every day.
Once you've relieved yourself, you return to the hull of the ship. Mando is standing exactly where you left him, next to the rumpled blanket he bestowed upon you a few hours earlier. His thick arms are folded across his chest and you have to assume he's glaring at you through his dark visor because the energy radiating off him right now is less than positive.
So he doesn't like to be woken up. Got it.
"Thank you," you say again, slinking past him and curling up on the cold floor. It's not so bad once the blanket is covering you, but it's far from comfortable.
Once you're settled, you start to close your eyes, but frown when you realize he hasn't moved. One eye pops open, then the other, and you look up at him curiously.
"What?"
"Hands."
Oh. Right.
You suppress a groan and offer up your wrists, but can't help yourself when he leans down to tighten the cuffs around your sore skin.
"Do you have to? I promise I won't—"
"Non-negotiable."
You sigh and let him do it. It was worth a shot, anyway.
Once you're secured to his liking, Mando turns to retreat back to his bunk. You watch him fold himself into the small space. Just as he's about to close the door, you speak again.
"Where are we going?"
His fingers hover over the button to close the door and the lengthy pause after your question makes you think he's just going to ignore you and go back to sleep, but to your surprise, he answers.
"Nevarro."
"What's in Nev—"
The door slides shut. Darkness and silence engulfs the hull of the ship once again.
This man really doesn't like to talk much.
***
You'd only ever heard of Nevarro, never visited. But word has it, it's a lawless land in the Outer Rim. You remember it was under Imperial control for some time, even establishing a military base there and it stayed that way until the end of the war. Now, you have no idea who—or what—lives there.
You suppose that's why Mando insisted you come with him after he docked. Or maybe he still doesn't trust you to be entirely alone on his ship. Regardless, you're thrilled to get some fresh air and see someplace new, even if it is under the threat of the big, hulking Mandalorian by your side.
"Here," he grunts, tugging on your ragged dress to make you stop in front of a vendor. Your eyes scan the booth, taking in the shirts and shoes in every color and pattern imaginable.
When you give him a confused look, he sighs. "Pick out something new," he tells you flatly. Your brows raise in shock.
"I—I can't. I don't have any—"
"I have plenty," he says, "just pick out something."
It doesn't mean anything other than he doesn't want to be seen next to someone who looks like they just crawled out of a pig's den. Still, the gesture makes your face warm, which you quickly try to hide under the guise of browsing the clothes. You settle on a simple blue dress made from lighter fabric that goes down to your ankles with two slits up either side that stop just above your knees. When you show him, Mando nods and crosses his arms.
"Get one more."
Another one? You quickly shake your head.
"I can't. I won't be able to repay you."
"I never said you needed to."
You blink up at him slowly. It's hard to find the words for your gratitude: this man could have killed you—especially after seeing his face, or kicked you off his ship and left you for dead, but he didn't. And now he's buying you clothes. With his credits.
Your mouth opens then shuts as you struggle to express your appreciation. He must see the wetness forming in the corners of your eyes because he quickly shifts his weight and looks away.
"Don't. It's fine. Just get something that's comfortable and practical."
Blinking away your tears, you scan the other dresses. There's a black one you liked but it was lower cut and the fabric was clingier, but it was comfortable like Mando said. And practical, you figure, since you could move around easily in it.
When you hand the two items to the vendor, Mando grabs a matching set of dark grey clothes and tosses it onto the table.
"In case it gets cold," he mutters before handing over the appropriate credits.
"Thank you," you whisper. It's all you can manage because your throat is closing up. He doesn't answer. Just packs the long sleeved shirt and pants he picked for you and jut a chin towards the small changing tent.
Oh. So he wants you to ditch your filthy dress now. Okay.
You choose the blue dress and Mando folds up the black one to pack away while you slip into the tent. When you emerge, you stuff your old dress into a sack of garbage under a table and give Mando your brightest smile.
"What do you think?"
You do a little spin and you swear you see his shoulders jump like he had actually, maybe, possibly chuckled. But then he clears his throat and swivels on his heel.
"Good. Let's go."
You scurry to keep up, trailing behind him as he weaves seamlessly through the crowd. They all naturally part for him, you notice, and it makes you curious.
"Where are we going?"
"The cantina. I have business there."
The last thing you expect is for him to buy you food, but he does. He sets you up at the end of the empty bar with a bowl of stew and tells you not to move, that he will be watching if you try to run. You almost want to laugh—why would you run at this point? He's given you no real reason to. But you suppose since you've seen his face, you're a liability to him until he can figure out what to do with you, and he can't let you out of his sight.
Whatever he ends up doing, he's not going to kill you, so you're not worried. He would have killed you by now if he was going to, and he certainly wouldn't be spending money on clothes and food if that were the plan.
... Right?
***
Greef Karga.
That's the name of the older man sitting across from Mando. From what you've gathered eavesdropping on the conversations from the workers behind the bar, he's an agent of the Bounty Hunter Guild. You could've presumed as much when you watched Mando slide a few pucks across the table, exchange a few words with the man, and then a moment later receive new ones along with a heavy pouch filled with credits.
Mando doesn't look your way, but you know he's watching. You can feel it.
"Can I get you anything else?"
A younger man with light brown hair behind the bar asks you the question with a warm smile. You return it and shake your head.
"No, thank you."
He clears your plate and you sip slowly from the cup of water you were given as you continue to scan the room. It's still not terribly busy, but the cantina appears to attract all forms of life, most of which are new to you.
Then your gaze slides back to the booth where you're surprised to find Mando's helmet aimed in your direction.
You nearly choke on your drink under the scrutiny, which only worsens when you realize Karga is also looking directly at you.
Karga says something to Mando and you notice his shoulders stiffen before slowly raising one hand. He curls a gloved finger and your feet hit the ground obediently.
They both regard you silently when you stop next to the table with your hands clasped. Then Karga smiles.
"Why, hello," he says sincerely. Then he glances at his guest. "What's her name?"
There's an uncomfortable silence then, for both of you. It never even crossed your mind to offer your name and he never thought to ask. No one's ever bothered to ask.
To save you both, you give Karga a smile and say your name. You miss the way Mando's fist involuntarily unclenches on the table when he first hears it.
Karga's eyes scan you once before he gives you his name along with his hand to shake. You accept it with a polite smile and he chuckles before turning back to Mando.
"You're full of surprises."
His helmet tilts ever so slightly. "She's a stowaway. It's not what it looks like."
"It never is," he grins before plucking a shot glass from the table and tossing the liquid back in one quick go. Your lips tighten but say nothing. "Forgive me, but how did a stowaway sneak onto the Crest? Last I checked, Mandalorians have infrared."
"I was distracted," he mutters, "your quarry gave me a hard time. Were you aware he was being held hostage on that planet?"
Karga opens his mouth to reply but someone else speaks first.
"He was no hostage. He's a liar."
Shit. Did you say that out loud?
There's a thick silence after that makes you fear looking at either one of them. Instead, you pin your gaze to the floor and wait.
"And how would you know that?" Karga asks slowly. You swallow tightly and force yourself to look at Mando. Seeking permission, you suppose. He gives it with a subtle nod.
"Because I was held hostage there," you say bravely, "and I heard things. Saw things. Druk was not held against his will. He received the best foods and the most comfortable bed. He roamed freely."
"What did he do there?" Mando asks with an edge to his filtered question. You swallow again.
"I'm not sure," you admit, "but the others had guesses. Intelligence, maybe?"
"A spy?" Karga supplies, and you nod. He drags in a deep breath and looks down at the pucks on the table. He taps one softly while he thinks, and you shift your weight nervously while you wait.
"How did you hear these things?" Karga finally asks. You shrug.
"The ones who spoke Basic never saw me as a threat. They spoke rather openly when I was around. Druk included."
Mando shifts slightly but he's otherwise unreadable. You wonder what those kind brown eyes are doing under all that metal. Are they tight with tension, or wide with esteem?
"They underestimated you," Karga says with a note of awe. Your cheeks warm but you remain silent. Then he looks at Mando. "She might be a good asset for you."
"I work alone," comes his firm reply.
"This one," Karga taps a fresh puck on the table, "has a soft spot for pretty girls. And he's in Coruscant."
Mando groans beneath his helmet and you frown.
"Why is Coruscant bad?"
Karga smiles up at you. "It's not bad. It's very well populated. A bounty hunter's nightmare."
"I always find my quarries on that planet," Mando argues, then under the sharp look from Karga, he sighs. "It just... takes longer."
"I—I can help," you say eagerly, "I mean, let's face it. It's probably easier to question locals when you're not a walking wall of metal draped in weapons."
If you had to guess, Mando is pinning you with a deadly glare under that helmet, but you don't wither under it. You grin.
"You're proving my point, you know," you say with a raised brow. Suddenly, Karga barks out a loud laugh that grabs the attention of the few patrons in the cantina.
"Oh, Mando. You'll have your hands full with this one," he chuckles, "but I think she'll be good for business."
Mando stands abruptly and scoops up the fresh pucks. You stumble backwards a couple feet but otherwise hold your ground.
"She won't be here when I come to turn these in," he tells Karga, "don't get too attached."
You swallow and try to ignore the pit in your stomach. What is he going to do with you? Has he already decided? Is he going to leave you on some remote barren planet to fend for yourself? Feed you to a rancor?
"Bye," you whisper to Karga with a small wave before hurrying to keep up with the pissed off Mandalorian stomping away.
"It's not me you need to worry about getting attached!" Karga laughs, and you cringe when you see Mando's fists tighten at his sides.
Okay, so maybe he will kill you.
***
"I promise I won't touch anything if you let me go," you say as he tests the restraints one more time. His hands still over your wrists and he leans forward ever so slightly. His helmet is so close now that you can see your own worried expression mirrored back to you.
"You know," he begins, voice low, "anyone else I've allowed on my ship has been frozen in carbonite. If you don't like the cuffs, I can make other arrangements. Just say the word."
You lean even closer.
"And yet you didn't throw me in there the moment you found me," you reply just as softly. "I can make it worth your while if you release me."
"Why do you keep offering me your body?"
Your smile falls. His response is so quick, it makes you falter.
"What?" you breathe.
Mando doesn't move. His helmet is still inches away from your face, studying you, staring you down.
"It's not your only asset," he says, "stop suggesting otherwise."
You blink. "W-What other assets do you mean?"
Finally, Mando sits back on his heels, creating a small bit of space. "You're quick. You're observant. You're clearly a survivor. So start using those skills. Use them to your advantage like you did today and stop using your body first like those monsters taught you."
The air rushes out of your lungs like you've been struck.
"Okay," you whisper. Then Mando rises to his feet with a sigh.
"We're going into hyperspace," he warns, "but once we're stable... I'll undo the restraints."
Relief floods your veins.
"Thank you."
He stays true to his word. Once the ship lurches into hyperspace and silence engulfs the hull, Mando unbuckles your cuffs with a stern warning not to do anything stupid.
"What do you expect me to do?" you ask, rubbing your wrists and sitting up against the metal wall. "We're in hyperspace and you're encased in metal. Do you really think I'll somehow get the upper hand on you and magically learn how to pilot a ship?"
"Funny," he says dryly.
"You're very... intense," you say as you watch him move around the hull. He's carefully putting away each one of the weapons he carried on him while in Nevarro. It seems like an endless supply, ones you hadn't even noticed before.
"Mandalorian," is all he says in response. You roll your shoulders, working out the stiffness there as you think. There's so many questions you have, why not use the time to ask a few?
"What does that mean exactly?"
Mando's hands freeze on a blaster. Then his helmet slowly turns to the side.
"What?"
"Mandalorian," you echo, "I've never heard of your kind before. Can you tell me about your people?"
He shrugs before turning back to the armory. "There's not many left now," he tells you, and your breath stalls. "Not as many as there used to be."
"Why?" you ask softly. Mando keeps his back to you while he works.
"The Empire."
You could have guessed as much.
"Everything was lost that night," he continues solemnly, "and what remains is a shell of what it used to be. I'm told the rest of the Mandalorians are scattered across the galaxy. Some alone, some in smaller groups."
"Have you... do you speak to any?" you ask carefully.
"There was a group in Nevarro. They call themselves the Tribe."
"What?" You rise to your feet. "Why didn't you go to them?"
Mando's fingers curl tightly over the rifle he just cleaned and put away. You can hear the creaking from the leather gloves from where you stand.
"I... can't. Not anymore."
You frown, poised to ask more, but he stops you when he swivels around sharply.
"You've seen my face," he says, and you blink slowly a few times.
"Wha—"
"It's against our code," he tells you now, voice tight, "I'll be exiled. Nobody can see our faces."
He stomps past you to dig through his bag, the one he carried on Nevarro. You watch as he unpacks the clothes he bought for you, setting them on a small shelf near the fresher before fishing around for the bounty pucks.
"B-But... why?" you finally sputter. Mando pauses with one hand gripping the puck he was after.
"It isn't The Way."
"What does that mean?"
"It's a creed," he tells you before placing the puck on the floor. "I swore as a child I would never remove my helmet in front of another. We all took the same oath. And I broke that oath."
"But it was an accident!" you exclaim, filled with a heavy guilt now that you understand a bit more. "Surely, that doesn't count!"
"It does."
"Well... what can I do to fix it?"
Mando tilts his helmet in your direction and regards you silently. Seconds stretch on like minutes under his scrutiny. It makes you squirm.
"I... I want to fix it," you add, softer this time.
"You can't," Mando tells you, and his voice sounds almost apologetic. Stars, you wish you could see his face right now.
"There has to be something," you whisper. "You saved me and I... ruined your life."
"Enough. You need to study this—"
He taps the puck and a hologram suddenly flickers to life. You can see the back image of a man, and alongside his face there's small text written in neat little letters.
"Mando," you plead, heart burdened with guilt, "there must be something. I can't—can't be responsible f-for—"
His chin lifts and he must see your watery eyes because his spine straightens and he takes a weary step back.
"Don't—"
One lone tear trickles down your cheek.
"If you killed me, would it—would it erase everything?"
You watch his shoulders sag.
"No."
There's a long, tense moment where neither of you speak. You should feel relieved. There's no reason for Mando to kill you. Instead, you feel... awful. Sick. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, Mando is staring at you, utterly bewildered that you'd so much as suggest he harm you for what happened.
What sort of person offers themselves up as a sacrifice?
A brave one? Or a fool?
"I can... there's someone I can ask," Mando finally tells you. Your sad eyes find his visor with a flicker of hope. "Back on Nevarro. The Tribe. Their leader... we call her The Armorer. She... might know what to do."
"Yes. Okay. Let's go back," you say, pointing to the ladder. "Turn it around."
"I can't just—turn it around," he scoffs, "I'll ask when we've returned with these bounties. It's not worth the fuel."
"Fine. Then I'm helping you catch these guys." You circle around to plop down on the ground in front of the hologram. "It's the least I can do."
Mando sighs heavily behind you. "You'll help me with this one and that's all. You'll get yourself killed, silly girl."
There's an uncomfortable pause after the term of endearment slips out. You stare straight ahead, pretending to study the last known whereabouts of the quarry, but in reality your mind is buzzing. And Mando? Mando must be blushing under his helmet. He's shifting nervously on his feet while trying to come up with anything else to say but he's drawing a blank.
You finally jump in.
"Well... then I'll clean your ship or. Something. Make food and... anything else you need me to do to earn my keep."
"I told you," he huffs before crouching down next to you on the floor, "stop offering yourself—"
"Oh! I—I wasn't. That—I didn't mean—"
Shit, now your face is burning up. You press your palms to your cheeks to try to temper the flare.
"Maker, I'm sorry—"
"No, no, it's fine!"
"—I just thought—"
"Really, it isn't a big—" You fan your face with an awkward laugh. "You made it very clear you're not interested, and I respect it."
"I never said that."
Your head snaps in his direction, eyes wide. Your pulse skips frantically in your throat as the Mandalorian fumbles over his words.
"Wait. Okay. That came out wrong," he says slowly. You have to bite your bottom lip to keep from grinning. "I just—I meant—I didn't want you t-to think you're not..."
"Pretty?" you offer.
"Careful," Mando warns.
"Desirable?"
"Stop."
"Sexy?"
"Okay, enough," Mando snaps, "focus on the mission."
You giggle behind your hands. It's the first time you've felt lighter in... years.
"I'm sorry," you laugh, "I'll try not to distract you with my radiant beauty. I'll save it for the quarry."
Mando grumbles something inaudible inside his helmet but you can tell he's not really angry. You're pretty sure, at least.
"Keep it up and the cuffs are going back on."
You manage to bite back a snarky quip about the handcuffs being foreplay, too afraid to push your luck. Instead, you settle down and let Mando explain his whole process, from start to finish, when hunting down a quarry. Where he starts, what he packs, what to expect. Best places to isolate them. How to stay undetected. And the whole time you listen quietly.
You meant what you said. You don't want to let him down.
Food is shared along with information about Coruscant. A plan is formed while you help clean up after eating. And finally, when Mando notices your eyelids begin to grow heavy, he suggests turning in.
He's sealed into his small bunk and you're seconds away from sleep when it hits you: he never put your restraints back on.
Warnings: romance, unspoken tension, soft kissing, from friends of friends to lovers dynamics, fluff, self-worth Issues, kissing.
Summary: What starts as quiet companionship slowly unravels into something much deeper.
A/N he looks so good in that GIF wtf
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
🎀 Based on this request 🎀
You pushed Deran's bar door open.
"Deran, please tell me you're not out of lemonade, I'm—" You cut yourself off, stopping mid-stride.
It wasn't Deran standing behind the counter.
It was Andrew.
He was scrubbing a drink stain. Hearing the door, he stiffened slightly, his eyes darted up to meet yours.
"Oh," you said, tossing your bag onto a high stool. "Hey, Andrew. I thought Deran was closing tonight."
"He... had something to do, and I can't clean tomorrow," Andrew said and paused his scrubbing. "Bar is closed, you know?"
"I know, I just got off a brutal ten hour shift and needed five minutes before heading back to my apartment," you said with a sigh, rolling your shoulders to work out a knot. "Do you mind if I just sit here for a little? I won't get in your way."
Andrew looked at you, his eyes scanning your tired face.
"It's fine," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "You can stay."
"Thanks." You smiled.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the sound of his hands working. Most people found silence around Andrew Cody intimidating, but you’d known the Cody family long enough through Deran to know better.
Andrew was a man of few words, but he was grounded, precise, and surprisingly thoughtful.
"Rough day?" Andrew asked quietly, trying to break the silence.
"You have no idea," you chuckled, leaning your chin in your hand. "Every customer today seemed to have agreed on being as difficult as humanly possible. I think I lost half my brain cells by noon."
"People are noisy," he offered. "Don't know when to turn it off."
"Exactly," you agreed, brightening up. "That's why I came here. And it's a good thing you're here. You're the only one who actually respects quiet."
Andrew’s hands paused and he cleared his throat. "Yeah. Well. Quiet's good."
He turned back to the counter, reached for a stack of clean towels beside you, and his fingers brushed against yours for a moment. A sudden surge of static electricity seemed to pass between you.
Andrew quickly withdrew his hand, his shoulders tensing again as a faint blush crept up the back of his neck. He turned his back to you to wipe down the prep table, his movements a little more rigid than before.
"So," you began gently, watching him work, "did Deran leave you with all the cleaning duty, or are you just being nicer to his bar than he is?"
"He doesn't clean the grease traps right," Andrew said. "Leaves 'em sticky. Bugs get in."
"Good thing you're here, I reiterate. He'd probably let the place burn down before he deep cleaned a grease trap."
Andrew turned his head slightly, giving you a half smile. "Probably."
Then, he stood for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, seemingly searching for what to say next.
He wasn't used to small talk, especially not with you; not when every time you smiled at him, he felt his heart beat faster and he didn't exactly know what to do with that feeling.
"You... wanted something to drink? You said something about lemonade," he asked as he gestured vaguely toward the bar. "I think we have some pink lemonade left. Or water."
"A cold glass of pink lemonade would actually save my night," you said softly.
He nodded quickly, took a tall glass, and filled it with ice before going to the kitchen to get the lemonade pitcher. He offered it to you, careful not to touch your fingers this time, though his eyes remained fixed on your face as you took a long sip.
"Good?" he asked.
"Really good, oh my," you nodded.
"Deran will be here soon," Andrew said quietly, his eyes dropping to the polished surface of the counter. "He went to pick up something. Should be back any minute."
You set the glass down, tracing the condensation on the side with your index finger. "I'm not really in a rush for him to get back, you know?"
Andrew blinked. "He’s got the keys to the back room. If you needed something from his office-"
"Andrew," you interrupted gently, catching his gaze and holding it. "I like your company. You know that, right?"
The words seemed to surprise him. Andrew froze completely, his hand still resting on the counter. His eyes widened just enough for you to see the genuine shock behind them.
"My... company?" he repeated, almost a whispering. He looked at you like he was trying to figure out if you were pulling a joke, scanning your face for any sign of insincerity.
"Yeah. Yours," you smiled with honesty.
Andrew shook his head slightly, a furrow forming between his brows as he looked down at his own knuckles. "I don't... You don't have to say that to be polite."
"I'm not being polite."
"It's just... Weird to hear that," He cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words. "You are Deran’s friend. He is... easy to talk to. People... people like people like him. Not my company." He paused, his jaw tightening slightly.
"Well, they're wrong," you said and you were dead serious. "Do you know that If I have to choose between all of you, I'd choose you? Every single time. I love Deran but he's too much sometimes."
Andrew stared at you, utterly motionless. For a second, it felt like the entire room held its breath. Andrew’s mind was clearly racing, trying to process what he’d just heard.
"Me?" he rasped out.
He swallowed hard as a flush creep up his neck into his cheeks.
"Yeah, you, Andrew," you confessed softly, giving him a shy smile.
Andrew opened his mouth, but made no sound. His hands trembled on the counter before he withdrew them, leaving them at his sides, as if trying to control a sudden feeling he hadn't felt in a long time.
He looked away for a brief second, a helpless smile breaking through his face before he looked back at you.
"Okay, that's... nice," he admitted softly.
After that night, your days turned into a something you didn't know you needed.
It started with small things: you dropping by as he was finishing up, or Andrew hanging in the bar long enough after your shift just in case you walked through the door.
Then it was quiet late night drives along the coast after picking you up from work, sitting side by side in his truck, watching the dark waves roll in without the need to fill every second with noise.
With Andrew, everything felt deliberate, real and honest.
Those quiet drives and stolen moments at closing time slowly redefined everything between you.
What had started as comfortable friendship had shifted into something far quietly blooming under the surface.
Neither of you explicitly labeled it; it was written instead in the lingering touch of his hand as he passed you a glass of pink lemonade, the way his jaw softened whenever you walked into the room, and the rare smiles he saved for you.
You found yourself looking forward to his presence more than anyone else's, while Andrew silently guarded his growing feelings, convinced that someone like you could never truly look at him that way.
You began noticing the way his eyes tracked your every movement, and Andrew began to realize that your frequent visits weren't just about passing time in an empty bar.
You were both tiptoeing around a secret that neither wanted to ruin, yet neither could suppress for much longer.
It was a slow dance between two people who had seamlessly fallen from comfortable companions into being completely undone by one another.
Tonight, the bar was closing after a long day. You were sitting on top of the stainless steel prep counter in the back kitchen, swinging your legs casually while Andrew moved around the small space, putting away the last of the rags. You planned to have breakfast together tomorrow morning so he had to close the bar clean tonight.
Even after days of seeing each other, there was still an nervous energy between you two.
He finished and walked over, stopping between your knees. He looked up at you, his eyes scanning your face with that intense gaze that used to intimidate people, but now just made your pulse race.
"Deran asked me earlier if you are always coming around for him or for the free pink lemonade," Andrew said softly. "Said you never used to stick around this much after closing."
You tilted your head, watching him waiting for your answer.
"Maybe I only come for you," you murmured, letting the words drift softly between you.
Andrew froze.
"You what?" he rasped out.
A smile tugged at your lips.
You didn't break eye contact.
"You heard me, Andrew Cody."
The air between you grew thick, charged with tension. Andrew looked at you, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He swallowed hard as his gaze dropped to your lips before snapping back to your eyes.
"Do you want me?" he asked, whispering, rough with exposed vulnerability.
You let your eyes soften, leaning forward, bringing your face closer to his.
"Maybe," you whispered back, teasing, but with enough heat in your voice to leave no real doubt.
That single word shattered whatever restraint Andrew had been clinging to.
He leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours with hungry intensity.
"Maybe, huh?" He whispered with a raspy voice and an exhale escaped him. His hands came up to frame your face, his palms were warm and trembling just a tiny bit against your cheeks.
The kiss was hard and possessive, his lips were firm, moving against yours with desperation.
You let out a sigh into his mouth, your hands flying up to wrap around his neck, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck.
At your response, Andrew let out a rough sound. One of his hands slid down from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tightening gently to hold you right where he wanted you, while his other hand gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't an inch of air left between you.
He kissed you deeper, his tongue parting your lips, taking control in a way that set your skin on fire. Every touch was heavy and deliberate.
To Andrew, you weren't just someone passing through.
In the dark mess of his life, having you here, choosing him, wanting him, felt like a miracle he was holding onto with everything he had.
Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?
Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), descriptions of smut, alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident, teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy and horny kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack
A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.
"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"
Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.
"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"
"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.
"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.
The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.
"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."
You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.
I'm fine. Just tired.
The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.
"I don't know," you whispered.
The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.
You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.
You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.
"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."
The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.
A pregnancy?
The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...
"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."
The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.
"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."
"O-okay," you stuttered.
"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."
You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.
"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."
Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."
The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.
At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.
You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.
The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.
Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?
You typed, your movements stiff.
Jack. It's me.
You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.
You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.
I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.
Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Or a phone call? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend that you were pregnant with his kid and then oh oops, your body decided to play fucking Russian roulette on you.
You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago, and you were pretending you were fine.
Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.
You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful hazel eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.
"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."
An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.
That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). His deep, purposeful strokes seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.
He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.
You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.
"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.
I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.
So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.
After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.
The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you.”
He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.
"Okay," he said, his voice flat.
You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.
He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought. What would you have done if you were still pregnant? Would you have kept his baby?
You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?
Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?
You decided not to contact him.
Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.
It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.
What were you going to say?
You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.
The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Are you drunk?"
A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."
It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.
He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.
"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."
"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.
"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."
You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.
"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."
He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.
"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.
"Yes."
"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."
You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.
"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.
It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.
Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you about the child you two accidentally created? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.
The voice was so loud, so convincing.
It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.
"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."
You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.
"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."
"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."
You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.
"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."
"Why?"
"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.
He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.
“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."
"What?" he asked.
A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.
"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."
You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.
"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."
"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry, claiming thing, a 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as you felt yourself get wet. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.
"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.
"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.
"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"
"Jack, I—"
"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."
The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.
"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."
"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking.”
"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"
He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.
"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"
"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. They locked onto him with a fierce bleary intensity.
"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.
"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."
"Hey—"
You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.
"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.
"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.
He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.
Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.
You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.
For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. That night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.
I love you.
The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?
It was 2:21 am and he was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.
"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion."
Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."
"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.
"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges.
"Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."
"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."
As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.
"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."
Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.
"Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.
"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath.
"Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.
A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.
"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores. It's a better deal. Trust me."
"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.
"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"
She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."
"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.
"Yeah."
"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."
Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.
"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.
"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctors are with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"
Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.
And there you were.
Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.
"Jack?"
Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"
Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.
"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.
After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."
"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"
"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.
"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.
"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.
"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.
You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.
"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"
Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."
"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."
Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.
Keep it the fuck professional
He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.
"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.
You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.
"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. The plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"
"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.
"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"
"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.
"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."
Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor… his lips twitched slightly at the corners. He was always so attracted to the fact that you could use sarcasm and humor even during the most serious of situations.
"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"
Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.
"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.
"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.
"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.
The silence that followed was thick.
"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"
Her lower lip trembled.
"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."
"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."
You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.
"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that I didn't do my share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. I did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But I never, ever got into a car with someone if I even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from my parents. That was a rule I made for myself."
She nodded.
"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.
She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.
"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.
"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."
Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"
"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"
She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."
A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.
Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.
But… that never happened.
"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"
"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.
"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"
Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.
You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.
"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"
You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.
"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.
"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"
You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Um…"
You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.
"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.
"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys watching the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.
You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.
"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."
"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.
"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."
"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.
"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."
"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"
"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.
"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted and then wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."
Jack studied your face for a long moment.
"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.
"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"
"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."
He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.
And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.
"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."
"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."
You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.
The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.
You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."
His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."
"What reason?" His brow furrowed.
"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.
"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."
"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."
His expression shattered.
"I wish you hadn't done that", he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. Jack realized he could have been a father (if you had chosen to keep the child) and that was something he was still processing. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"
"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.
"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."
"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”
"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."
"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."
"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.
"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into comforting hugs.
Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.
"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."
Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.
With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.
"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.
"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.
"You got it, Doc."
Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.
Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.
"Dr. Abbot," she stated.
He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.
"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."
Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."
"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.
They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.
She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.
"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."
Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.
Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.
"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."
She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."
Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.
"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."
She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.
"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.
Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "Are you on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"
You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.
"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."
He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.
"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."
"Good to know," you answered.
"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."
"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.
Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.
"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."
The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."
You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.
"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.
Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.
So she knew.
You could not believe that Jack had never seen Mean Girls before.
The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.
When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.
"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"
You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:
"Yes."
The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.
"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."
As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.
"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."
"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.
"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."
"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."
"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"
"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."
She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."
You rolled your eyes.
"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.
"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.
Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.
He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.
"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he bought you, then back up to your eyes.
You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”
"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."
Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with a warmth that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had quite the age difference, and that you'd barley been in high school yourself when your niece was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.
"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."
"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."
You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.
Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."
The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.
"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.
His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.
"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"
"Nope."
He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.
"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.
You nodded deliriously.
"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.
A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.
"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.
"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.
And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.
"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.
"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."
A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.
"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.
"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.
"What should I wear on our date?"
His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.
"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.
You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."
"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."
You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."
His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.
A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth. "Oh, you do?"
"I do," you answered.
Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."
You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"
"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."
summary: after an attack by raiders, you end up lost in the dead of winter. Joel doesn't take the news very well.
Word count: 2.9k
warnings: mentions of death (no actual death though), some swear words
a/n: hi all! this is my first piece of Joel workings so please let me know what you think! i have some WIPs that i am excited for as well so look forward to those as well! thanks for reading!
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You’re smart enough to know that the fact that you no longer feel the cold isn’t a good thing.
The shaking has stopped, so have the pins and needles in your body. Your breathing is shallow and little puffs of what seems like fog come from your mouth as you exhale. The ripped up puffer jacket on your body is no longer keeping your body heat in, the thick leggings barely helped in the first place but now helping even less with the rips. In all honesty, you’re slightly surprised that you’re still alive or at least conscious. You know that you’ve probably lost quite a bit of blood from the stab wound in your upper thigh and maybe the laceration on your head. You can’t feel if the beanie you were wearing hours ago is still there but that thing was pretty itchy anyways so you don’t necessarily mind. The only thing you can feel right now is the pressure of your body pressed against the ground, your eyes locked on the sky. What seems like thousands of stars staring back at you almost taunting you, waiting for you to join them. You can’t feel it in the slightest, but a tear rolls down your temple. It’s a beautiful way to go, numb and looking at the galaxy above your head.
You aren’t completely positive what happened, all you know is there was a yell from one of the others on patrol behind you and suddenly you were on the ground, head ricocheting off of something, what it was you aren’t sure. It took a second to come to, but everyone was a blur. The only person you could really recognize was Jesse who was fighting off some raider. In your attempt to help him, one of them stabbed you deep in your thigh. The last thing you remember is Jesse telling you to run and you didn’t second guess his words. You took off in the first direction that you saw, running until your leg could no longer hold you up anymore. You were losing too much blood and the cold was no help. You had no idea where you were or what your surroundings were. No idea how far away Jackson was. All you knew was that you were going to die here. No warmth. No pain.
No Joel.
God, you almost want to pray to whatever deity was listening that your body would rot away out here after you die and nobody, at least nobody from Jackson, would ever find it. You would hate for Joel to have to see you like this. You know that he isn’t a very emotional man, but good God, does he love you. You’ve heard it from multiple people in Jackson; Ellie, Tommy, Maria, even people that you have never even talked to before. You can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. You’ve never had to worry with him, knowing that you were safe, appreciated and loved every second of every day. You couldn’t bear the thought of him having to see you like this; broken down and dying if that is what this is. Knowing that he’ll be in pain once you go, that is the worst part of all of this.
What you don’t know is that Jesse spent the better part of an hour searching for you. He began panicking once the sun went down and decided he had to make his way back to the town and gather a search party. He feared having to explain to Joel and Tommy why he was alone. As he rode up to the gates on one of the horses that was spared in the fight, he could hear one of the gatekeepers yell out ‘lone rider!’ and his heart dropped. He knew that Joel waited for you after every patrol shift that you had and that he most likely heard the keeper yell. As the gate opened, he could see multiple people, including both Joel and Tommy, run out to him. While a couple of the people including Tommy helped tend to Jesse’s wounds, Joel immediately started questioning him about your whereabouts. Jesse could only babble out what he could about the raid as he broke down into tears, explaining the attack and him telling you to run so you wouldn’t get more hurt all the way up to his search for you in the surrounding wooded area. Joel’s heart fell completely out of his body, freezing as it landed in the soft pile of frosted grass beneath his feet. He didn’t hesitate to help drag Jesse back inside the safety of Jackson’s walls, not to ensure their protection but to question the hell out of him as to where he looked. Jesse told him everything he could. After Jesse was brought to the infirmary, Joel looked to Tommy who was already looking at him wearily.
“Joel-“ Tommy began, but Joel didn’t let him finish his sentence.
”I’m going whether ya like it or not. With or without ya.”
In 20 minutes time, a search party of about 10 people, including Tommy, Maria and Ellie, had gathered together to search for you. Joel’s heart couldn’t stop its rapid beating in his chest. Jesse told him about your hit to the head and injury to your thigh. They didn’t know the severity of them both. The party headed off in the general direction of where both you and Jesse were attacked and spread out from there. Joel started to yell out your name in hopes that you would be able to respond to it. Tommy immediately began to shush him.
”Joel, we can’t just start screaming her name out here, there could be more raiders in the area-“
”I don’t give a fuck who else is out here,” Joel interrupted Tommy. “My girl is out here and we are gonna find her tonight.”
They agreed, much to both Joel and Ellie’s dismay, that an hour-long search would happen before they would all have to retire until the next day. They all separated in 5 groups of 2. Each with weapons to defend themselves, whistles around their necks and first aid in the hopes that they could find you.
But you had already given up mentally and almost physically. You couldn't ask for better company in death than the stars. The crickets. The wind. The trees. Death would be peaceful, painless, easy. The only thing you wished was that you could say goodbye to Joel. Kiss him one last time. Hold him one last time. The only heat you’ve had in a while bursts in your chest at the thought of him. You close your eyes, the heat dissipating.
Maybe you’re dreaming or maybe you’re just hallucinating, but you think you can hear someone calling your name. You think it could be an angel calling you home or some religious shit like that, but no, you know that voice. You open your eyes, looking back at the stars. You hear it again and another familiar voice echoes behind it.
Tommy and Maria are here.
You could cry, out of happiness or sadness you don’t know. Happy that you could be rescued and brought back to your home, regardless of either it was Jackson or Joel. Sadness because you know that there is a bigger chance of you not making it than there is that you will, and either they or Joel will have to watch it happen. But regardless, you’re happy it was them and not Joel.
Your name is called again, slightly closer than it was before. You know that you won’t be able to speak, to call out that you’re here, so close yet so far away it seems. You worry that if you don’t make noise soon, they’ll turn the other way and your fate will be sealed. You think fast, remembering that small handgun Joel likes to shove into your pack. You muster up all the strength that you can and search for the pack without turning your head. Feeling the zipper, you undo it and slip your hand in, feeling around until you grasp the handle of the gun. Pulling it out, achingly slow since the burn in your muscles is agonizing. Tears fall down your temples again as you hear your name once more, now further away. Using all the strength you can, you aim the gun away, cock it and shoot. The sound of it is almost deafening, the shot making your arm fly back some. That shot is all it takes.
Tommy and Maria both turn towards the sound of the shot, both of them reaching for their weapons. They’re confused when they don’t see another raider but continue towards the area. Maria gets there first, gasping and throwing herself off of her horse and falling to her knees at your side. She touches your face a few times and says something to you, but you can’t hear it through the relief that floods your brain. More tears fall as Tommy slips off his thick jacket, laying it on top of you. Maria rubs her hands along your arms to attempt to warm you as much as she can.
“We gotta get her back to town. She’ll die out here.” Tommy says hastily.
They both aid each other in helping to lift you up and onto Tommy’s horse. He straddles it behind you, praying Joel will forgive him for doing what he has to in order to keep you both warm and alive. He pressed his front to your back, resting his head on your shoulder and immediately began to ride back towards Jackson as fast as he could. He was speaking to you, telling you that you had to hold on, that you had to fight because he didn’t know if Joel could take another heartbreak like this. He had one hand on the reigns of the horse, the other one rubbing against your thigh to try and help you gain your heat back. His hand felt wet and he pulled it back to see it covered in crimson. His stomach churned and he attempted to get his horse to ride faster. He couldn’t let you die, Joel wouldn’t be able to come back from this. He barely came back from Sarah, he couldn’t imagine what this would do to him.
Maria rode back towards where the party originally separated and blew her whistle as loud as she could. She did it for a few moments before turning back towards the town while still blowing it. As she left the wooded area, she could see a few of the other riding back towards Jackson as well. Mostly, she could see both Joel and Ellie riding as hard as they could back to their little sanctuary. They all reached their within the same small time frame. Maria, Joel and Ellie all stormed towards the infirmary and saw Tommy’s horse abandoned outside. Maria could see the fear in Joel’s eyes as they stormed inside, pushing past the doors and into the main room.
Joel pushed past a few people to get to the back room that they usually keep unoccupied for emergencies. When he pushed the door open, the doctor was hovering over Tommy who had her huddled in his lap, hands gliding up and down whatever inch of skin he could reach. Joel promised himself that this was the one time he would let that slide, especially since her life depended on it. Tommy made eye contact with Joel as he stormed over to them, subtly sliding her over to Joel as he sat next to them. Joel could feel her weight press down on him and first the first time that night, the tightening in his chest loosened just a little bit. He immediately started to run his hands up and down your body through the two blankets that were tucked around you. The doctor was speaking to him, but he wasn’t listening. He called your name a few times, hoping that you could hear him.
“C’mon, honey,” he begged, “I need you to open those pretty eyes for me. Lemme see them.”
He was practically talking to a statue, the cold almost becoming you. Joel didn’t cry very often but he figured now would be an exception. They ran down his cheeks rapidly as he held back a small sob; he couldn’t care less that Ellie, Tommy and Maria were there to see it.
”Please, baby. I need you to look at me.” He sniffled some. “I can’t do this without you. I’m so sorry; I should have been there. I should have protected you. You… you’re everythin’ to me. Please don’t go. I promise I’ll do anything as long as you stay. I won’t… I won’t make it through this.” Joel shook his head, pulling you closer to him. “I need you to stay with me. I’m beggin’ you.”
Ellie had to turn and leave, she thought she was going to be sick. Maria left with her, not wanting to interrupt this moment, whether it ended good or bad. Tommy stayed with Joel, assisting in trying to get your body heat back to somewhat normal.
You, on the other hand, felt like you were floating. You could hear Joel’s words, the pleading in his voice, the urgency in his and whoever else’s hands were brushing up and down your skin. You thought that the stars were the perfect company in death but now, you realize that if there was something you’d want to look at as you go, it would be Joel. You wanted so badly to let him know that you were here with him, that you could hear him but your muscles were so tight, so tired. All you could get out was a deep hum from the back of your throat that you weren't sure was even your voice, you couldn’t recognize it. But Joel did, pulling you tighter against him.
Joel turned to Tommy quickly with an urgent look in his eyes.
“You gotta leave.” He told him.
Tommy looked at him oddly. Joel shook his head.
“Body heat. She needs body heat.”
Tommy finally understood, standing and exiting the room to go and find both Maria and Ellie. The doctor excused himself as well, standing outside the room in case there was some sort of emergency. Joel wasted no time in stripping off any layer of clothing that he could get to. It didn’t take much to rip off what was left of the leggings that you wore but he struggled a bit with your jacket. He laid you down on the small bed, taking off his clothes as fast as he could; he didn’t want you away from him, worried that even a second not near you could do more harm. He laid himself on top of your body, both of you now only covered in your undergarments. He knew that you would most likely complain about the fact that we were practically naked in a public place but at this point, he couldn’t give a shit. All he cared about was making sure you stayed alive. He covered as much of your body as he could while still whispering sweet nothings into your ear, trying to get some sort of reaction from you.
It took about half an hour but your body temperature was coming up slowly. You almost wished you were still numb because the pins and needles were returning, causing some discomfort. You found your voice a little while later, moaning out of pain. The dull throbbing in both your thigh, now stitched and covered up, and your head (which surprisingly wasn’t busted open like you thought it was) was hurting. Tears developed in your eyes and for the first time that night, you could feel them running down your face. You could feel a sob rising in your chest quickly before it came out of your mouth. And though it was a sign that you were in pain, Joel was ecstatic. Because it meant that you were warm enough to feel again.
“I know, I know honey. I know it hurts. I’ll get you taken care of.” Tears rose in his eyes. He never thought he would be excited to hear you crying, but here he was. He continued to warm your body as he held you while you cried. You genuinely thought that you were going to die out there, alone with the stars and sounds of nature. You never realized how you had taken being held by Joel for granted and boy, did he know how to hold you.
Once you could feel your limbs again and had full control over them, you slowly lifted an arm to warm around Joel’s middle, holding you to him as tight as you could. Joel released a sob at the touch of your skin on his. Like you, Joel started to realize how he had taken holding you for granted. The world was a scary, uncertain place. Every day, people walked a thin line between life and death and today, you almost crossed it. You were both so close to never being held by each other again and Joel couldn’t handle the thought of that.
“It’s alright, honey. I gotcha. I always have ya.”
summary | you've got an issue and joel's willing to solve it. after all, what are neighbors for?
author's note | this was a prompt from a meet-weird thing i saw ages ago that was originally supposed to be javi, but jo (@undercoverpena) gave me the beautiful idea of making it joel and it spurred this monster.
content warning | established friendship, caught during sex, does the apocalypse having working appliances? probably not, but for the sake of this fic distend belief i beg. oral (eating out from the back), unprotected piv, subtly cocky!joel miller, he's a good ass neighbor, okay?, unbeta'd.
word count — 5.6k
Joel’s fixed this damn machine seven times, convincing himself every time that it was the last time. Shocker, it wasn’t. This time didn’t even last a month. He’s desperate now.
He would usually haul the load all the way to the communal laundry house closer to the group of joined townhomes that housed most of the younger adults—the spry and bright-faced ones who sprung up at the mention of patrol or work, any prospect of toting a gun around with any sense of leadership. They were eager, he couldn’t say the same for himself.
He was old, weathered—years of routine he had created to get the job done and get the hell home.
And truthfully, as he tapped the wrench against the metal machine, chin tucked into his palm as he scratched at his beard, he almost complied with the idea that he would just have to tough it out. Scrounging for parts was nearly impossible—dumb luck, really. In the past several years they’ve picked this town clean, bone-dry.
He’s elbow deep inside the barrel of the dryer when he hears the knock at his door, bumping his head against the rim of it as he exits and cursing under his breath as he pushes to stand, joints creaking and popping in disapproval.
He can smell you before he sees you, the familiar scent of fresh-baked goods following you everywhere—Joel couldn’t feel guilt for being one of the folks addicted to your cooking.
Grains had been hard to come by since the epidemic hit, everything was tainted on a global level. It took years and years of Jackson growing its own stock of wheat for things like pie or a nice, gooey cinnamon roll to even be plausible anymore. But, they were managing well so far.
“Saved ‘em for you and Ellie,” You tell him, a small plate of still hot brownies covered with parchment paper, dawning that trademark smile that Joel has come to love, tapping his fingers against the door frame as he passes the plate off to a quickly approaching Ellie.
“Girl’s got the nose of a basset hound,” Joel looks on in amused bewilderment as Ellie throws a mouth-stuffed thanks over her shoulder, “sorry ‘bout her.”
You wave her off whole-heartedly, taking in his sweaty appearance and casual attire. You were used to him in jeans and thick flannels, not a graphic tee and pair of sleep pants. He’s almost always dressed like he had to run at a moment's notice, you weren’t even sure he owned anything different until now.
“Everything good?” You question him, a small laugh escaping your throat.
“Damn washer and dryer is out again,” Joel explains, throwing a hand vaguely over his shoulder.
“Both of them this time?” You ask, “Damn.”
“I can fix ‘em, just a matter of finding the right parts,” Joel tells you, “ looks like I’m gonna have to hand wash again.”
Joel was a friend. You helped friends. It seemed like a no-brainer really, opening your mouth without thinking it through, the kindness tumbling out despite yourself.
“Oh, you’re welcome to load yours up at mine,” You offer and Joel looks immediately apprehensive, the southern charm and well-mannered tone gearing to creep up on you.
“Now, I don’t mean to make you feel like you have to—”
“Joel, I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t feel comfortable with it,” You remind him, “seriously—anytime, just try and bring your own detergent—and for the love of god, empty your pockets before you put ‘em in.”
Joel chuckles tiredly at that, rolling his eyes as he nods in agreement.
“Got it, of course, sweetheart.”
“I leave an extra key under the rug, so if I’m ever not home just come in,” Given that Joel was Tommy’s brother, you knew he wouldn’t be up to any trouble, “sound good?”
“Yep. Anytime—just make myself at home.” Joel confirms and you nod with an even wider smile, waving a pleasant goodbye as you trailed down the stairs and made your way to the house you inhabited next door.
Right, anytime.
Unfortunately, Joel took that a little too literally.
-
Joel managed to scrounge up the courage a day later, tumbling into his house on tired legs after a lengthy patrol up at the cabin lookout, scooping the basket up in his arms and heading out his front door, taking the short walk to your house.
The lights were off, but that wasn’t unusual. Joel knew you liked to stay late nights in the town’s mess hall, often working on prep for the following morning to make the load a little lighter and sleep in a while longer, so when he fishes under the doormat for the key he thinks nothing of it.
And as the door swings open, it is still fairly quiet. Though, he can hear your own dryer running upstairs. He’s got the layout down too, having shared more than a few nightcaps with you. Friend to friend and nothing more, even if you had always felt a little more strongly toward being affectionate. A hug or a kiss on the cheek from time to time, he never pushed you away. Joel never seemed like the type of man who openly showed affection, even toward a friend. But, he was good, reliable–most of the time.
He reaches the stairs with trepidation as the sounds grow louder and part of him wonders if by some uncanny coincidence your dryer might be growling and rumbling on its own final leg.
The moment his hand reaches that doorknob and turns he realizes he’s made a mistake.
He’s caught you at a…bad time. Head thrown back with your mouth hung wide, whatever noise you’re making was mostly drowned out by the nagging sound of the dryer as it tore through the spin cycle but he hears the tailend of it, a soft moan of pleasure from the man who’s buried inside of you right now, both of you naked from the waist down but your breasts on full display with your shirt tucked under your neck.
“Benny?” Joel asks, slightly amused.
You lift your head at the sound and spot him, your feet nearly slipping out from under you as you scramble to push Benny away, who perks with an even more perplexed, “Joel?”
“Goddamn it, Joel,” You curse behind gritted teeth, furiously readjusting yourself, pulling your sweats back on and over your ass and your shirt down, “What are you doing here?”
Joel looks down at the basket still clinging to his hip before back up at you, wordlessly.
You sigh through your nose with a tight lipped frown, cheeks puffing out as you brushed your fingers through your hair and down—Benny was still scrambling to redress behind you, unable to pull his gaze away from Joel.
“Benny?” Joel mouths at you quietly, eyebrows raised curiously.
You walk toward the now open door slowly as Benny buttons his pants and you shoot Joel daggers with your stern gaze.
Cut it out.
Joel smirks slightly, cheek dimpling with the action as he side-steps Benny, who leans around you and kisses your cheek—it was a kind gesture but given the situation, in horrible taste. You force a polite smile and once Benny is a far enough distance you hit Joel firmly in the arm as he passes by you and into the laundry room.
You walk Benny to the door with a million thoughts racing through your head, offering a distracted goodbye before you’re locking the door and racing back upstairs with determined footsteps and Joel has already loaded his clothes in the washer, turning the knob to set the load size and time.
“Benny?” He echoes his earlier questions, “Really?”
“What? Are you judging me?”
“No—just, that kid’s had quite an obsession with you for some time now. Just…surprised is all.”
Your lips pull together in a disapproving but nonchalant frown, taking his words for the bullshit they are.
“When I said anytime that did not extend to the middle of the night, Joel.”
“You’re usually still at work,” He supplies—and really, he’s not wrong, “M’sorry. I mean that.”
“Well, now I’ve gotta deal with the fact you’ve seen me naked,” You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the doorframe and Joel’s eyes track you for a moment, smiling with amusement at the thought.
“What? You want a fair trade?” Joel teases, “‘Cause, darlin’. I don’t mind—but it was an accident. Besides, ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”
He means it in a broader sense, but you can’t help the eye roll it induces.
“No, no,” You chew at your bottom lip, watching Joel place the empty basket on top of the washer, “I can finish that up if you want to get some sleep. I know you had a long patrol today.”
“Oh, did you?”
He’s teasing you.
“Don’t push it, old man,” Joel shakes his head at that jab and chuckles, “Ellie clued me in when she picked up some sandwiches for her and Dina earlier.
He’s not going to pass on the offer, though. He nods, rubbing a hand over his tired face.
“Jesus—just…Benny?” Joel reiterates again, “Didn’t think the kid had it in ‘em.”
“Out,” You say with an over-pronunciation as you drag his slow and progressive steps further out of your laundry room and into the hall, “or you’re off my dessert list for a month, Miller.”
Joel smiles at you knowingly, “You wouldn’t dare,” He retorts, knowing you too well.
You wouldn’t make him suffer like that. Or Ellie, who wouldn’t hesitate to murder Joel if he robbed her of that pleasure. Not literally…but, she would carry a few choice words for him.
“Seriously, though, thank you,” He nods, leaning down to press a kiss into the crown of your head—an often familiar gesture when you parted after a long night of nonsensical talk and a couple glasses of wine or whiskey, depending on how hard the day had been, “I appreciate it, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, yeah—”
“And I do apologize for…not knocking and showin’ up at such a weird time.”
You shrug, “You’re forgiven. Just…don’t give Benny a hard time. He’s a good guy.”
“You’ve got my word, darlin’.”
Joel was determined to be on his best behavior, clearly.
-
It takes Joel a couple weeks to find the parts he needs and luckily there are no more run-ins on your midnight sex-scapades, still feeling the embarrassment from the first one. Joel doesn’t even seem to remember it after a couple days, thankfully. He was bypassing it for your own benefit, truthfully. And you knew that.
Selfishly, you're glad to have your appliances back to yourself.
They’re good, solid, reliable—until they aren’t.
Your washer shits itself mid-load and you can hear it from downstairs. A loud screeching noise before an even louder pop that has you groaning loudly because you know. You can feel it.
You can’t even bring yourself to go check, peering through the window of your kitchen and catching a fresh pot of coffee in the house across from yours, a man coming into view and his stark white shirt contrasting the black coffee cup in his hands. He catches you out of the corner of his eye and looks at you with a quizzical amusement, smile tugging at his face.
Joel was always up before the sun rose, so with the sun just creeping into the sky you’re sure that’s his third or fourth cup of coffee. He reaches over his sink and fiddles with the latch on his window before heaving it up, watching as you struggled to do that same but eventually managed.
“You run outta coffee again?” He asks, sipping at the bitter, black coffee in his mug.
“No,” You reply quickly, slightly exasperated as you chew at your bottom lip, debating how to pop the question and feeling nervous under Joel’s intense gaze, curiously wondering if he’s still picturing you naked. He’s never explicitly mentioned it since, but you have caught him in the act.
Wandering eyes, gazes catching when your back is turned for half a second as you bend down or move in a way that exposes too much skin.
“My washer broke,” You cut to the chase and Joel chuckles at how comical it is, in hindsight.
Was this karma? It was definitely karma.
You’ve never asked Joel for anything—despite your often bouts of kindness toward him you never expected anything in return, not even a favor.
“Doors open,” Joel nods toward his front door out of view, an invitation like you offered him.
You didn’t even hesitate, pushing the window close and bounding up the stairs.
-
You’re already loading your things into his washer before he appears around the corner, peeking his head in, coffee cup still in hand as he takes a few more steps and leans against the wall beside the washing machine and your eyes glance at him briefly before you continue moving the clothes, watching him watch you from behind the rim of his mug.
“I can start them and come back,” You tell him, “so I won’t be lingering around here all day.”
“No Benny?”
You stand up as you close the washer, deadpan stare pointed in his direction.
“You can be such a nosy neighbor, you know that?”
Joel shrugs, a smug smile covered behind his sip of coffee.
“It was just a few times. Besides he’s…too much for me.”
You turn the dial to start the load and it rumbles to life with a simple press of a button.
“You wanna talk about it?”
It wasn’t completely unnatural for you two—you knew quite a bit about Joel now: his life before, his work, his daughter…all things that come with trust and time. He’s waited patiently for you and you’ve given him peeks into your life, but nothing like this.
“It’s a long story, Joel.”
“Got time,” He smiles slightly, “I’ll go grab you a cup of coffee—sit down.”
You look around briefly, not a chair in sight. So, you raise yourself up just enough that you can slide your ass over the top of the washer, bare feet dangling off the floor and you wait, the subtle and quiet shake from the beginning of the load process keeping the awkward silence at bay.
Joel turns the corner a few minutes later with your cup, made up just to your liking and you nod with a gentle smile, taking the cup from his hand and allowing yourself a few generous sips.
“So—that night, you caught us,” You can laugh at the instances now, so you do in a soft, clipped manner, “it wasn’t the first—it had been a month by that point and he just caught me by surprise, showed up that night and things just got a little out of hand.”
Joel’s eyebrows raise in interest but he urges you to continue, leaning against the wall in front of you now, resting his mug on the shelf just above his head as he crosses his arms over his chest.
“He’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong—but I don’t do serious…I can’t, now with how things are. And I know a lot of people think the opposite, seize the moment and all that shit,” You sigh, a deep and heavy sound that expands and releases from your chest, “he was already talking about moving in, the idea of us having kids—so that night I just tried to distract him.”
“With sex? Seems a little…counter-productive, don’t you think?”
“Don’t judge me, Joel,” You warn him but it’s edged with a playfulness that Joel recognizes. You didn’t have a mean, deceptive bone in your body and Joel knew that from the first conversation he had with you.
“I needed him to shut up,” You groan at the thought of the conversation as it replays in your mind, “I’m trying to wash my clothes, he’s talking to me about babies. I do not want kids, Joel. Ever. At least none that are biologically mine. Who would want to bring a kid into this world?”
Well…Tommy. The thought comes to you after the words have already left your mouth and your heart sinks into your stomach, looking at Joel apologetically.
“Sweetheart, don’t even try to apologize. Ain’t nothing wrong with it.”
“It makes me sound horrible, I know but—”
“I’ve done my time—it’s none of my business how others choose to live. Besides, I’m pushing sixty, I don’t have to worry about all that…sorry, I’m not trying to be crude here.”
You nod knowingly with a smirk tugging at your lips, taking another sip of coffee before handing the mug off for him to place it next to his own, ready to slide off of the washer before Joel interjects with another question that catches you off guard.
“He treat you right, at least?”
You tilt your head with that same knowing smirk, pushing Joel away at his hip with your foot as he leans up from his position against the wall—Joel’s never flirted, always promptly skirted around the issue and went about it more gentlemanly. He’s not abrasive and straightforward like most of the men in Jackson, but damn did he know how to make you feel special.
Undivided attention, constant subtle compliments, giving up some much-needed sleep for a simple late night drink with you—part of you was too terrified to make your own move and make it clear just how badly you wanted just a small taste of him.
You’ve heard whispering, minimal talk from a few of the women in town. Joel didn’t often make his rounds but when he did, he left an impression. And you had every right to be jealous, because with him standing in front of you now—you knew it would be easy to say no and he would fix you right up, finally crossing that line that he’s been carefully dancing around for a few years.
“He’s a bit…timid,” You shrug, “and he doesn’t really…”
The air lingers and the side of Joel’s mouth pulls up—you don’t have to say it.
“Joel, don’t do that,” You shove at his shoulder as he approaches you, his hands pressing into the contraption you’re on, curled around the metal, “—he’s just…eager, but not in a good way.”
There’s a glint in Joel’s eye that leads you to believe he’s not thinking about Benny’s less than experienced sex life, feeling the sudden jitteriness from the coffee as your chest rises with a deep, shaky breath and Joel eyes the time over your shoulder.
Forty-five minutes and some change, plus the time to dry because Joel already knows you aren’t going to trouble yourself with walking the damp laundry through this cold, muggy weather.
“So, no then?” Joel asks.
He could have treated you better, sure. But, he wasn’t the worst.
But, the way Joel is staring at you knows makes everything and everyone dull in comparison.
You shake your head in agreement, chewing at the inside of your bottom lip as your hands fall to your lap, his hands ncreasingly closer to the tights covering your legs, suddenly feeling his thumb graze your hip. You both glance down at the action and your breathing halts, watching as his right hand slowly engulfs your thigh, fingers digging into the soft material and dimpling your skin underneath, his thumb only a few centimeters from dipping into the inside of your thigh.
They part on their own, welcoming Joel in wordlessly and his left hand echoes the other. His face is level with your own, staring down at your lips briefly before meeting your eyes and you’ve seen that look before—the adoration when he thought you weren’t watching, secretly you had become good at catching those glances, but Joel wasn’t trying to hide it now.
And it quickly dawns on you in the moment—he was jealous. Of Benny. Or really, any man that had come before him. But, he was using him as the scapegoat.
Honestly, you couldn’t even care.
“You want someone to treat you right?” He speaks softly and if you weren’t so close you wouldn’t have heard him, “I got you, sweetheart. I swear.”
He’s not looking at you anymore, eyes dragging down the bridge of your nose to your lips again. But, you are looking at him, flooded with that tricky feeling that creeps up on you when you want things you know you shouldn’t.
“Joel, I told you—I don’t do serious,” And you hold your breath for the response, wondering if that would send this moment crumbling to dust, but Joel doesn’t miss a step.
“Good for you,” Joel dotes, “neither do I.”
Then he’s on you, the press of his lips in a heated kiss sends you tumbling back, caught by the warm slide of his palm over your back to pull you in, throwing your arms over his shoulders as he pulls back briefly, just enough for you to open your mouth to speak, but his tongue finds its way inside and the words fade away.
Just friendly, my ass—you think.
If you had known he kissed like this—you would’ve jumped at the opportunity months ago; a night spent drinking too many glasses of wine and laughing over some movie far before your time, but not his.
He was so entranced, giving you all the details, but you couldn’t help giggling over it, too touchy to be considered friendly.
You’d both cut it short quickly when Ellie popped in halfway through the movie, and beyond that, it never grew.
Until now.
“Sweet,” Joel notes with a subtle smile, his hand dwarfing the size of your neck as his fingers wrapped around the column of your throat, holding you firmly in place as he maneuvered you toward and away from the kiss as he pleased, swallowing every tiny moan that escaped your lips when his other hand squeezed at your thigh just a little too hard.
“All that sugar,” In your coffee, the taste lingering on your lips and he licks around them teasingly, pulling away briefly to look at you, your eyebrows raising in question as the gears turn in his head, “—you still with me?”
“I’m just wonderin’ if you’re okay with this,” Joel speaks candidly, his eyes trained on his thumb as it rubs against the middle of your throat, traveling up under your chin and tipping your head up slightly, watching as you swallowed, “before I take this further, jus’ need to know.”
You nod jerkily, not even a second of hesitation.
“You would have known the moment you kissed me, Joel.”
In turn, Joel nods slowly before he speaks, stealing the air from your chest.
“Alright then, pull these down for me,” He tugs gently at the material clinging to your thighs before both of his hands find the spot behind your knees and tug until your feet hit the floor, “and push that pretty little ass out for me.”
The absurdity of this language on his tongue makes you giggle but abide in an instant, struggling slightly as the material bunches at your ankles and Joel helps you the rest of the way, tossing your pants aside before he’s kneeling despite how his body protests, too eager to give you a taste of the pleasure you deserve and he’s grabbing the cheeks of your ass and squeezing them between his hands before he’s leaning up to bite playful at the soft flesh.
He groans quietly against your skin, the press of his aquiline nose against your ass as his fingers fold around the string of your underwear and pull, dropping them down to your ankles and off and then his tongue is flat against the seam of your cunt, gasping as you fall forward and your own fingers clawing against nothing.
“Joel!” You squeak out as his fingers dig hard into your ass, forcing you up on your tiptoes as devours, licking into your cunt as it quivers around his tongue.
Your hand pressed against the wall in front of you to keep your chest from hitting the washer, feeling your pussy tighten around the finger that enters alongside his expert tongue, a soft groan erupting out of him from behind you. That smug motherfucker was attempting a teasing huh under his breath as he busied himself with the task of eating you out from the back and you couldn’t even think straight.
‘C’mon, baby,” He coos between his alternating licks and slurps of the heady slick that dripped from your cunt, “come all over my mouth, let me taste that sugar.”
It’s absurd, the way he’s speaking to you now. Your eyes squeeze shut as his thumb finds your clit amongst the chaos of his tongue and fingers, face heating up at how noisy your cunt sounded over the dull shake of the washer and Joel’s satisfied moans, occasionally massaging at the back of your thigh when your legs shake with the creeping feeling of your impending orgasm.
“Oh,” You squeal, reaching behind you to dig your fingers into his hair, panting out in desperation, “—fuck, don’t stop! Joel, right—right there,” and then glance you take back at him, his eyes peeking open from his position below, on his knees and dutiful to you and you alone, well…
It sends you tumbling over the edge as his thumb rubs over your clit quickly, soothing you through the aftermath as he laps up the mess you’ve made all over yourself, dragging his tongue along the inside of your thigh because if you knew anything about Joel, he didn’t waste a meal.
And you were just about the finest he’s tasted.
You clear your throat as you rest your feet flat on the floor, feeling the faint quake in your legs as Joel rises slowly, forcing you to swallow down a giggle as he winces and he can see it on your face.
“Worth it,” He excuses himself, “don’t look at me like that.”
“No old man jokes?” You sound sad and Joel can’t believe it.
He shakes his head.
But, the smile that breaks out on your face quickly diminishes any comeback he has.
You begin to push him away with a hand gripped in his shirt, carefully avoiding the obvious bulge in his sweats as you reach for your tights, ready to redress and drop to your own knees as a favor but his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, pulling your attention back to him.
“I meant it,” Joel tells you, tilting his head to catch your gaze.
You smile wide and tilt your head to mirror him, “I think you proved your point—Benny is a pathetic man who doesn’t know how to make me come, blah blah…”
“My job ain’t done if you’re still thinkin’ about him, darlin’.”
His eyebrows raise in challenge.
Okay, you’re game.
Wordlessly you allow the hands at your hip that guide you toward the front of the joined appliances, his fingers sliding under your top until you get the hint to pull it off, your breasts bouncing free from the shirt—the few bras you had were already in the wash, big deal.
Joel chuckles and stops for a moment, admiring the sight of your breasts for the second time that month, albeit more openly this time. He reaches forward and rubs his thumb along your nipple, watching the nub harden under his touch and you bite at your bottom lip, eye fluttering closed at how sensitive they were to touch, something other men never took the time to notice.
“You like that?” Joel asks with a creeping grin.
You nod, watching as he squeezed your tits in his hands, showing your nipples ample attention as he circled them with his thumb before leaning down slightly and swiping his tongue over the hardened nubs, sucking your breast into his mouth and his eyes peer up, gauging your reaction which quickly developed from a soft giggle to a loud moan.
“Clothes,” You breath out, “off—if you still have a point to prove.”
A point that you wanted proven. Hard.
Joel pulls away and yanks his shirt over his head, allowing you an unobscured view of the mix of muscled shoulders and his softened stomach, running your hand over the patch of hair at the center of his chest and down, right along his hips until his own fingers hook around the fabric and pull his sweats and boxers down in one motion, his cock catching against the edge of his waistband before it bobs back up toward his stomach.
You find yourself smiling despite yourself, forgetting for a moment that Joel was standing there and watching you, feeling your mouth water at the sight of him hard and leaking at how just getting a small taste of you had turned him on that much, precum leaking slowly from the tip and he wraps his hand around himself, other hand tapping at your chin to drag your attention back up to his face, reminding you he was still there.
“Got somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”
You shake your head furiously, “No, no—no, nothing. Just, uh—”
“I’ll start slow,” He tells you and with the size of him, thick and girthy in ways you’ve only imagined or pictured in your head, it’s daunting, “are you still alright with all of this?”
Your face softens and you nod, appreciating the repeated check-ins, the need for confirmation, but it pulls at your heart as you wonder why he feels the need to ask so much. As if he was fearful you would change your mind on a dime—Joel was fine with that, but he was more worried about the change in dynamic. Thankfully, you were determined for that not to be the case.
“I’m pretty tough,” You shrug, a playful smile gracing your face.
Joel nods absently as his fingers drag along your waist before catching behind your knee and pulling it up over his hip, both of your eyes dragging down to his cock as he tugged at himself a few times, his brow furrowed as he spread your lips apart with the head, dipping his hips down slightly to catch against your hole before he pushes in slow, one solid stroke that steals the sound from your throat and transfers to his own. Joel groans out softly as he pushes into you, his hands gravitating toward your face and wrapping around the sides of your neck, tilting your head back to mouth at your skin, his tongue dragging along your collarbone before sucking and nipping gently at your skin.
“Don’t I know it,” Joel responds after a while, “find something to hold onto.”
Your soft giggle of excitement shoots down to your core and your fingers wrap around the edges of the washer and Joel pulls back swiftly before he’s snapping his hips back into you before repeating the process several times, the jolt of the machine hitting the concrete wall behind you drowned out by your loud moans, quickly swallowed up by Joel’s lips as he pulls your mouth to his, breathing into it with every sharp snap of his hips.
“Harder,” You beg, biting at his bottom lip as he groans, using his fingers intertwined into the hair at the nape of your neck now to pull your head back and he pulls his hips back quick, bottoming himself out inside of you so forcefully you feel like your legs might give out, his cock rubbing against your already too sensitive g-spot and continuously finding a way to bring you closer and closer to the edge, “fuck—yes, yes. Joel, oh my god—”
“Yeah,” Joel goads you, his eyes drawn closed as he tries to keep his own orgasm at bay, “give it to me, baby—wanna watch you make a mess on my cock, alright?”
Easy, you laugh airily and feel the instinctive squeeze of your walls around Joel’s cock as he pulls your face to his, foreheads pressed against each other as he angles his hips back and slams into you one last time before you come undone, head falling back in a similar position to how he caught you a few weeks ago, this time for him.
Your grab for his shoulders suddenly, blunt fingernails digging into his skin and he takes a few harsh breaths through his nose before he’s pulling out, hand grasping his cock as he jerked himself a few seconds before he comes in thick, short spurts against your stomach, squeezing at the head of his cock as he drags it through the mess he’s made.
His expression is nothing short of mesmerizing, mouth hung open just enough that his tongue can drag over his bottom lip before his teeth are taking its place, eyes drawn to your skin.
Wordlessly, he pulls away on his own pair of shaky legs as he reaches for his wrinkled, worn shirt and brings it to your stomach, cleaning up the mess with a faint smile on his face.
“You know, I think it might take me a bit to fix my washer,” You tease, “so—I might be over here bothering you for a while.”
Joel peers up at you, his head still tucked down as he wiped at your stomach.
“Fine with me.”
Then he’s peering over your shoulder, watching as the washer time inched toward zero, dinging behind you. You turn around, letting your leg fall from his hip finally, ass brush against him in the process and Joel can’t help the way his eyes refuse to leave the sight of it.
Only feeling slightly guilty when you catch him this time, not giving him the pass you usually do.
“We’ve still got about an hour left if I dry them here,” You tell him, “anything else you wanna prove?”
Joel’s tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek, eyes dragging up toward the upper level of his house before flicking back toward you, a smile plastered on your face.
When I Move You Move, ballet dad!Joel Miller x ballet teacher!reader
Title: When I Move You Move
Author: @ghotifishreads
Pairing: ballet dad!Joel Miller (pre outbreak) x ballet teacher!reader (afab!reader)
Summary: Sarah Miller is very nervous to take her first ballet class, so her dad Joel asks if he can accompany her at the barre. AKA Joel is a ballet dad and just a good dad, and also a very sexy man. Fluff that rockets into unrepentant smut.
Word count: 6.9K (lmaooo how did we get here?!)
Warnings: P in V sex; unprotected sex (wrap it when you tap it); oral sex (f receiving); Joel maybe has a bit of a praise kink, but not really; reader described as being flexible enough to put her leg on a barre and having pubic hair, no other physical description. Even the bendiest person probably couldn't do some of the, erm, barre work reader does but it's for the purposes of smut, so just enjoy the fantasy.
🔞Over 18s only, minors dni! 🔞 I do not give permission for my work to be republished, reposted, or translated.
A/N: Shoutout to the man I never saw before or since, who attend one ballet class and had Pedro’s body type and broke my fucking brain about it for like 8 months. You’re doing the lord’s work, sir, and I'm sorry for perving via transference.
And huge thanks to @ozarkthedog who when I, as I often do, came flailing hornily to her saying ‘...I want to see Joel dancing ballet but I don’t know the excuse’ she thought of the prompt for this story. Thanks for ‘yes and-’ing my horny goblin ravings and supplying a plot, you glorious babe, Ozzie!
Unbeta’d. Divider by @saradika-graphics. Title banner by me.
Marisol pops her head in your office as you buckle the strap of your teaching shoes.
“Hey,” she calls, entering when you wave her through.
“What’s up?”
“Weird request for the next class.”
“OK?”
“First time student in your 7-8-year olds. She’s mega nervous, and her dad has asked if he can go in and stand at the barre with her.”
You mull the request. It could be strange for the other parents to have a grown man in their class. But the request is so sweet…Or is it?
“Marisol, how was the dad?”
Marisol smiles. “Hot.”
You roll your eyes. Marisol is sad for your singleness, well-intentioned but constantly pushing you to blind dates and to ‘put yourself out there more.’
“Not what I meant, goober. He’s not pushing her, is he? Does she actually want to do it? He’s not some stage father or bullshit like that, right?”
Marisol nods in earnest. “Absolutely. She’s called Sarah, and they came in last weekend to buy her first ballet slippers, and she was overjoyed. I think she’s really excited but nervous. She genuinely wants to.”
Austin is hardly a small town, but most dancers who come to the dance studio you own and operate join you when they are teeny tiny – as early as age 4.
It’s only been a handful of years you’ve operated the studio, but having danced ballet yourself growing up, you can predict the split of the future paths for these budding dancers. The inevitability that most will drift away as middle school approaches and ballet training demands more of their time; how a few will stay until they graduate high school; and the even tinier number who will fall so hopelessly in love with dance that they can’t do anything but train and train and try to make it in a professional company.
Or realize they love the art form but don’t have the wherewithal or desire to go pro, and choose to share their love of it instead. Teaching, like you.
Marisol flashes the girl’s registration form. At 8 years old, Sarah Miller is older than your usual students for her very first dance class, and joining a class already a semester in progress. You don’t blame her nervousness.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d have to ask you, of course,” Marisol says.
You consider. There’s an observation window in the studio. Some parents leave to run errands and shuttle other kids to other activities, but a lot of parents stay to watch their kids anyway.
You see no harm in letting the dad participate. Other than technically him getting a free class. You chuckle at the notion of this dad finagling a free children’s ballet class for himself via ruse of his daughter faking nervousness.
“Sure. Shall I go introduce myself?”
Marisol nods enthusiastically. “You made the right call. For the girl, and for you,” she says, leaning against your desk now.
“For me?” you question.
“Let’s just say you’re gonna wanna watch this guy move. Also—no wedding ring.”
You hiss at her to be quiet, worried Sarah and her dad will hear you out in the main lobby. “Stop trying to set me up. Besides, it’s a bad idea to date a parent of one of the students, even if that was a possibility. Which it’s not.”
Marisol hip checks you as you pass, turning off your office lights and closing the door. “You’ll change your mind. Trust me.”
Most students are regulars, so have already set up in the dressing rooms and the observation lobby near the studio, making it easy to find Sarah and her dad sitting alone in reception.
Sarah’s curly hair is tied back in a scrunchie low at her neck and she’s wearing the requisite class uniform of black leotard and pink tights. Her skinny knees bounce as her ballet slipper-clad feet jitter against the floor.
Her head leans in to speak to the man seated beside her.
Sarah’s dad. His broad form is clad in a worn t-shirt and jeans. His clothes look a worse for the wear, like he’s probably been working outside. A steak of dried paint is smeared on his sizeable bicep. His form is hulking in the plastic chair he occupies, but his voice soft and his focus intent as his dark-haired head bows low to speak to his daughter, holding her small hand in his, and stroking her reassuringly.
Marisol was annoying correct about this guy’s hotness.
“Mr Miller?” your voice cracks.
When Joel’s warm brown eyes meet yours, you suddenly wish you weren’t wearing a ratty old leotard you’re certain has a hole in its side seam. That you were wearing a stunning, flirty sundress, instead of the soft nubbly knit of your warm-up sleeves, and tights haphazardly rolled up to different lengths on your calves.
He’s undeniably handsome. But it’s the way he looks at you like a lifeline for him and his daughter that makes your knees positively weak.
“Yes, ma’am. Please, call me Joel,” and he extends his hand to shake, the other still caressing his daughter’s.
“Hi Joel,” you say, breaking the handshake to crouch in front of the duo.
“Hi Sarah, I’ll be your teacher today. How are you feeling?”
“Nervous. Feels stupid, but I am,” Sarah says. She meets your gaze but then ducks her head quickly again.
“That’s not stupid,” you reassure her. “You’re brave for trying a new thing. New things can feel scary.”
Joel clears his throat. “How about class? Could I go in with her? Just to start.”
“Luckily for you, class isn’t full. I think if you and Sarah both want that, it’s fine by me.”
“Not too dusty? Don’t want my clothes to mess up this nice studio.”
“You’re fine, Mr Miller.”
“Joel, please, ma’am.” He smiles a bit, Christ, dimples, you note, but he looks back at this daughter to check in before you can fall headlong into his gaze.
“I’ll call you Joel if you drop all this ‘ma’am’ business.”
Joel nods. “Deal.”
“OK then. Class is about to start. I’ll give you two a minute alone to decide what to do. You’re both very welcome. Truly.”
You head towards the studio before turning back. “Sarah – it’s ok not to do it too. Whatever you want to do is the right choice. Coming this far is brave too. ”
“OK,” the girl says. Joel’s jaw drops slightly. You nod at him once and spin on your heel to class.
+++
“Alright, guys!” you call loud enough so the class hears you with your back turned to them, as you finish futzing with the stereo in the corner. “Get into your positions at the barre!”
You turn around and lock eyes with Joel Miller, who stands awkwardly at the door, holding his daughter’s hand.
“Can we join?”
Your face breaks into a grin. Sarah still looks nervous but her eyes are big as saucers, delightedly scanning the room and other dancers.
“We’d love for you to join us,” and you direct the duo to a space at the barre with enough room that Joel can participate. Sarah skips over, confidence already up, and you dash to the door and place a hand on Joel’s arm before he crosses the threshold.
“I’m so sorry, but can you take off your work boots? We can’t have street shoes in the studio. I should have said before, sorry. Hope that’s OK?”
“Course,” Joel chuckles, kneeling to remove his shoes.
Then he strides across the room in his black socks, and stands in the corner behind his daughter. An anomaly in his heathered maroon t-shirt and jeans, and at literally twice the size of the other dancers, mostly other little girls like his kid, in their uniform pink-and-black leotards and tights.
Sarah hugs him and Joel says what you think is a “I’m here. Go on, get ready for the start,” before she turns back to face you.
You clap your hands, “Alright class, let’s begin!”
Sarah is sharp and a quick learner. She has a natural grace that quickly outstrips her nerves. Even if she’s behind and concentrates on following the French vocabulary, she picks up the movements quickly. Like any student who flourishes, you’re proud to see her succeed.
Joel is another story. He’s sheepish, and at first he merely stands at the barre, one hand white-knuckling the wooden pole like a lifeline, the other on his hip while he attempts to shrink himself and look inconspicuous.
All near-6-foot of him isn’t really succeeding.
As you direct the first pliés in the opening exercise, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He leans, then stands rigidly straight to echo the posture of the tiny waist-high dancers surrounding him.
He’s watching Sarah but also looking around at the twenty-odd other students as their bodies glide up and down on their gently bending knees.
He quirks his lips, replaces his left hand on the barre as if it could scald him, and puts his feet into first position, bending his knees to try and wrench his turnout. His large hand stiffens into a paddle and his right arm follows, attempting to mimic the rounding of the correct position.
As he adjusts, the exercise finishes, and you call for all the dancers to “Soutenu, turn to the other side,” and Joel bewilderedly shuffles in the wrong direction, away from the barre, and maneuvers into first position again on the other side. Or tries.
“Joel,” you say softly, stood beside him and subtly drawing his attention the way you do for any other student. His eyes fly to yours, like he’s been caught doing something he ought’n, his lip caught between his teeth, the chewing making his mustache twitch.
He’s adorable and devastatingly handsome.
Bad news for you.
“Don’t wrench your turnout like that,” you instruct quietly. “You’ll ruin your knees.”
He looks down at his feet and back up at you again, still at a loss. “It’s OK if your feet aren’t a flat line. They can be angled, or V-shaped, if they need to be. Turnout can come in time. We need our knees for everything we do.”
He nods, mouth now set in a line, brow furrowed in concentration and he moves his feet to more of a “V” shape, letting them fall more naturally, and continues following the exercise. When he grand plies he nearly falls over, but rights himself.
“And in the grand plie, keep your knees stay over your ankles,” you tap his knee gently, and he responds to the correction instantly.
“Good,” you murmur and notice he grins. You move on to your next student.
“Arm forward just a bit, Sarah,” you correct. “It’s the right shape, just needs to be in front of your body, don’t let it get behind.”
And the barre continues much in this way. Sarah keeping up with the class of her more experienced peers, and Joel participating the best he can in jeans and with his limited coordination.
You are a devoted teacher, but Joel is admittedly distracting.
The pull of his shirt across his shoulders when the students face the barre for relevé, the deft sturdiness of his back muscles in contrast to the hurried, panicked looks he sneaks down at his daughter to copy her placements, the hawk-like line of his nose as his gaze falls down to his daughter’s feet. He always completes the movement but several beats behind the music.
When he cambrés back, and the arch of his back and stretch of his arm draws the hem of his t-shirt far enough about his jeans that you see a sliver of his belly, hipbones and smattering of dark hair at his happy trail, you nearly swallow your tongue. You spin on your heel to look away because you are not the lord’s strongest soldier.
The seeming contrast of his sturdy form doing the delicate, graceful, powerful work of dancing ballet has lured more than you. The enthralled, spectating faces you catch at an especially crowded observation window shows the other parents are caught up in watching Joel’s efforts as well.
It’s second nature to you, correcting a student with a gentle touch or guiding hand. You teach adult classes too, but the minority of your students of any age are male, and even fewer are like Joel. His broad physique is one you don’t often see in the rather homogenized world of lithe and lean ballet. Handsome, yes, but willing to make a fool of himself in the name of making his daughter feel brave and happy.
During the passé exercise, in full teacher mode, you correct the next student in line you see needing a form adjustment. “Keep your hips even, Joel. Don’t sink into your left hip.” Before you can even think, your right palm presses flush against his right side, and your left index finger taps at his left hip. You’ve corrected him as you would any other student. But the sharp hitch of Joel’s breath, and the breadth of his side beneath your palm reminds you that he is not merely another student.
You look up and catch his gaze, brown eyes drinking you in. Your face grows hot under his hungry, pleading assessment.
The music comes to a close and so do the students, returning to fifth position and stilling. The sudden silence breaks you out of your trance and you shake your head away from Joel, retract your hands as if scalded.
You break for water and stretching before the class moves to exercises in the center.
+++
You work in the center splits, chatting to the students as you press your forearms and then your torso to the floor in front of you, rest your forehead on the back of your hand. Your muscles and bones give a mild protest, you're not 17 years old anymore, but your body retains a good dose of flexibility.
Joel had not blended seamlessly into the class, especially not the closing barre exercise, but he made such a diligent student you'd all but forgotten a 30-something burly construction worker was standing in to help his daughter in her 7-8-year-olds ballet class.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel confer with Sarah. They hug and he leaves a swift kiss to the top of her head before he approaches you. You maneuver out of your splits and rise to standing to greet him.
“Thanks for letting me do that, Teach. Kiddo’s gonna do the center on her own, so I’m gonna head out.”
“Thank you for doing it. Most parents wouldn’t have gone to that length, Mr. Miller and-”
“Joel,” he insists again, his hand clasps your bicep. “Please. I insist. Or not. Up to you. Ma’am.”
His eyes dance with merriment and the reminding taunt of your promise to one another to ditch the formalities.
“No ma’am, please, I give,” you smile, then take your own moment to tease, and squeeze the hand that still holds your bicep. “You did well. If you turn up next time, I’ll make you wear tights though. Street clothes are not regulation uniform,” you nod to his jeans and sawdust sprinkled work shirt.
“Believe me, you don’t want to see me in tights,” Joel says.
“You don’t know that, Mr–Joel,” you reply. You can’t believe the words come out of your mouth, and your fingertips fly to cover your offending lips.
Joel tilts his head and smiles, a dimple appears, along with a delectable darkness flashing across his expression, and he quirks an eyebrow at your audacity.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me, that was so unprofessional-”
Joel’s hand still hasn’t left your arm. He squeezes it, then trails his fingers slowly away. Nothing too forward, but too lingering to be strictly chummy. Joel knows how to toe the line.
“Nothin’ to apologize for. And, uh, duly noted.” He nods and the hint of his dimple begins to grace his face. Fuck, he’s hot.
Then Joel “I take ballet class for my daughter’s comfort and support at a moment’s notice” Miller fucking winks at you, turns on his heel and walks to the door. Stood in his stocking feet in your dance studio, the man has made you feel like you’re ready to give it all up to whatever Joel’s teasing smile has promised.
Mercifully, you’re hidden in the corner of the studio near the stereo, no gossipy parents saw Joel wink at you or touch your arm.
At the doorway, he gives a last wave to Sarah, who waves back before she returns to chatting happily with her classmates. In particular she’s taken a shine to one named Ellie, a bold little girl who asked at her registration (and to whom you easily granted permission) to wear the boy’s uniform of a white T-shirt and black leggings, because ‘pink is gross.’
Joel looks at the new fast friends with a wistful expression, then stoops to collect his shoes from the cubby near the door.
You pity Joel, heading out to wolves’ den of parents lusting after him at the barre. You bite back a smile watching him wave off the other circling guardians with a polite nod of the head, and gesturing back towards the window, to indicate the real center of attention.
“OK, class! Places for adagio in the center, please,” you clap your hands, turning your attention away from fantasies of Joel Miller and towards the dancers who deserve your time and focus.
Until closing time at the studio, the rest of the evening continues much as any other Tuesday night before you knew of Joel Miller’s distracting existence.
+++
After the final class of the evening you hear Marisol finish vacuuming the lobby and clicking off lights while you do some stretching and cool down exercises in the now deserted studio at the teaching barre in the middle of the floor.
“Lost and found today – Sarah Miller’s shoes,” she says, sticking her head into the studio. “And I hear her dad was quite the attraction at class today,” she teases, setting the small pink ballet shoes next to you.
“Yeah, he made a real spectacle. But don’t say that like I didn’t see your head peeping in the observation window to check him out.”
Marisol shrugs. “Look, we all deserve a little treat in our day.”
“Especially you. Thanks for vacuuming.”
“When you get married and have lots of babies with him, you can thank me in your wedding toast.”
“Shut up!”
“Good night!” Marisol calls, scampering out the door. And you bid her good night as well.
You continue stretching, humming to yourself in the quiet of the studio. Then your body stiffens as you hear the front door latch. Marisol doesn’t ever forget to lock it.
“‘Lo?” you hear a man’s voice call, and relax when you look from your twisted position with your leg draped over the barre and your torso against it, to see Joel peering around, treading cautiously in the dimmed light.
“Joel?” you greet, extracting yourself from your stretch over the barre, hands futility smoothing over your day-worn and rumpled dance kit. “How can I help?”
“Did Sarah leave her shoes?”
You point at the slippers, placed where Marisol left them at your feet, and wave him over.
He starts through the door, but remembers the rules and toes off his work boots to leave in the doorway, chatting all the while, “Shoulda just come back at the next class, but I gotta confess. We were gonna attend another class at a different studio tomorrow - Sarah liked it so much she wanted to take another class, but yours for her age are only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He rubs the back of his neck, wincing a bit like he’s done something bad. He’s fucking adorable.
“Ah, I see how it is, cheating on me with another studio already. The Millers have no loyalty, got it,” you tease.
“Oh no, I-” Joel blusters.
“Joel, relax. I’m totally kidding,” you pat his arm. The tension in Joel’s shoulders eases away. “If Sarah wants to dance she should do it as much as possible. Especially if she’s coming back here on Thursday.”
Joel nods, “Absolutely.”
“Gotta warn you, though, when a kid takes to dance, it can be lots of classes and someday even rehearsals, plus pointe shoe sewing and buying, so be prepared.”
Joel hums. “Maybe gettin’ ahead of ourselves thinking like that. But if Sarah wants, and can do her schoolwork, that’s fine.”
You smile. “Yes, probably get through the first month and see how that goes.”
“Though can’t say I’d mind an excuse to see more of you.”
Your breath hitches and your gut swoops.
You stoop, collecting the ballet slippers before you say or do something idiotic and irrevocable, scaring Joel away or more importantly, make him feel strange about bringing his daughter back when she enjoyed class so much.
“Here you go,” you say, wincing at your words coming out more loudly than you intended. You thrust the pink canvas at Joel’s chest. His broad, broad chest. He doesn’t take them. “Sarah’s shoes…” you say feebly. He’s standing awfully close.
Your eyes lock with his as hands enclose over the slippers and your fingertips. “Thanks, darlin’,” Joel drawls and he squeezes your hand.
Lured in by the softness and liquid heat in his brown eyes, you pitch forward and kiss him, hands mashed awkwardly between your chests, both of your grips twined around the ballet slippers.
Joel kisses you back, warm chapped lips pressing at yours once, twice, and then the soft probe of his tongue presses to the seam of your lips. You moan in response.
“Drop the shoes, darlin’,” Joel’s urges, his wet plush mouth still against your lips. One deft, heavy hand draws around your waist, the other holds yours tighter and directs the shoes to drop to the floor.
You cast the slippers aside and twine your arms around Joel’s neck. He hauls you closer, kissing you again. Your greedy mouth seeks his, your tongue laving over his making your cunt dampen your leotard.
Breathlessly he pulls away, “Anybody else here?” The warmth and heave of his chest against yours mirrors the tickle of his facial hair and his breath skittering across your face as he cups your cheek in his hand. His lust-blown eyes wildly search yours, desperate for the answer you both want to be true.
“No,” you reply as he ducks his head to your neck, his lips leading the way.
His hands drop to cup your ass over your skirt and tights. Even the flimsy materials feels like an impossibly frustrating barrier between Joel’s touch and your skin.
The thin lycra and sheer skirt and fine mesh of the tights don’t impede you from feeling the thickening firmness of Joel’s cock beneath the denim of his trousers, however.
“Thought about touching you all class,” Joel confesses, hands gripping your ass even tighter. “Once I knew Sarah was gonna be OK, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Wanting to do good for you.”
“Oh my god,” you keen as Joel nibbles on, then laves his tongue over, your exposed collarbone and grinds your hips to his.
“Taste a little salty,” Joel says, nosing back up your neck.
“Sorry, been dancing all day-”
“Don’t apologize. ’S nice. Tastes good, see?” Joel says, tilting your jaw to kiss your mouth again.
You clutch at Joel’s t-shirt as you pull away. “Wanna taste you too,” and before Joel can react you dip your head to kiss then lap your tongue over his pulse, racing beneath the firm enticing column of his neck.
“Bet your mouth is fucking magic everywhere, huh Teach? Goddamn-” Joel keens as your teeth graze his carotid artery.
Joel’s wide-spanning grip eases you away by the scruff of your neck. “Wait wait…”
You freeze. “Were the teeth too much?”
“Fuck no,” Joel chuckles, “the teeth were perfect. I just…All this talk about tasting. Reminds me exactly where I wanted to taste you.”
Joel drops to his knees. Yours buckle, forcing you to brace against Joel’s shoulder and the barre behind you at the sight of the broad-shouldered man at your feet, at the bunch of his arm muscles as he strokes your legs.
Joel’s nose traces the seam of your leotard leg and he presses it into your cunt when he reaches your center. You sink your fingers into his chestnut curls, scratching and gripping.
Joel growls, lets out a “Goddammit,” under his breath and you smile at his pause to collect himself.
Joel’s hands run around your hips now, grasping and squeezing, but purposefully. He seeks his fingertips under your leotard’s leg seam, but is met with the spiderweb-fine mesh barrier of your tights.
His blunt nails catch the waistband of your tights, dragging the offending garment down. but the gusset of the leotard prevents Joel exposing anything but a sliver of your hip. Which he kisses and sucks at.
He’s flummoxed by the dance clothes, giving one more futile tug to the other side of your tights. “How in the hell do I get you outta these contraptions so I can eat your pussy, sweetheart?”
“Here, hang on-” you say, starting to undress.
Joel stands in frustration. He mutters something that sounds like “What in tarnation…?” as you start to undo your outermost layer, a warm-up sweater wrap top, wound around your middle beneath your breasts.
His dexterous hands rest around your middle, the heat burning off him warming you as you strip. He drums his fingers softly on your middle for lack of anything else to do---his hands are undoubtedly capable but his assuredness won’t be for ballet clothes. Until now, anyway. Joel’s already proven himself a quick study tonight.
The deep, reverberating tentacles of Joel’s low chuckle slither over you deliciously as he watches you untie your wrap skirt and fling it away too.
“Good thing you’re a steady hand, I never would’ve figured all that business out.”
You smile back at him, “You’d've got there eventually,” you say, stealing another kiss.
He plucks at the camisole strap of your leotard, thick fingertips working momentarily under the elastic bound tightly to your skin.
“C’mon now, sweetheart, don’t leave me hanging.”
You pull the straps off your shoulders, freeing your arms and ready to shuck the clinging fabric along with your tights down in one swift move like you do at the end of a long day of teaching, but Joel’s hand still spans your ribs, firm and unmoving, watching as your tits pop over the bunching fabric.
“Thought when you put your hands on me in class how much I liked it. How I couldn’t wait to repay the favor. And these clothes? They just cling to you so nice, darlin’. Swore I could even see your nipples under that sweet ballet teacher sweater,” his thumbs swirl around the stiffening peaks firmly now, and you whine. “Damn near tripped over my own feet.”
His touch pauses only to prepare the way for the descent of his mouth to suck and lick the now-pert buds into his mouth.
“You were tripping over your feet anyway, Mr. Miller.”
His teeth nip into your flesh at your jibe, “Told ya – call me Joel. Ma’am.” You hiss and then moan.
After working each nipple in turn, the sharp, beautiful slice of his nose runs up one wet, aching peak before looking up at you. “Salty and delicious here too. Can’t wait to taste your pussy, sweetheart.”
His hands gather your bunched clothes and push them down your body.
As you undress, you notice the way Joel’s t-shirt clings to him, the softened fabric tantalizingly hinting at the firm torso beneath, the soft swell of his tummy over the waistband of his jeans.
There’s an inelegant moment where you have to unbuckle your dance shoes and pull your tights over your ankles before kicking the whole bundle behind you. But Joel’s smile is warmly amused, not mocking, and the accompanying dimple appearing in his scruff makes it impossible to do anything but grin right back as he crowds you against the barre again.
“Gorgeous, sweetheart,” Joel says, gripping your ass, his hands now granted unimpeded access to your naked flesh.
Your lips find his again, nipping at them before you breach his mouth with your tongue.
The freestanding barre rocks a little as you both lean your weight on it. Joel reels back and brings you up with him. The adept scan of his eyes as he assesses the situation shouldn’t make you so wet, but it does.
Joel trails his hand around your hip, cups your mound and runs his fingertips assuredly up and down your slit. “Can I taste you?”
“God, Joel, please, yes,” you say, grabbing his wrist to sink the pressure of his fingertips firmly against your clit.
His dimples appear again with his smirk, and then he drops a swift peck to your mouth before he sinks slowly to the ground.
“Well, a very wise woman once told me ‘We need our knees for everything we do,’” Joel quips, sinking to rest on his. “And she was very right.”
You clutch the barre in one hand, brace the other on Joel’s shoulder. His lips feel especially ticklish on your thigh as he kisses teasingly up your leg, looking up at you with deep brown eyes blown to black.
His eyes only shut when he nestles his nose into the curls crowning your mound and breathes in deeply. “Salty and sweet everywhere, just like I said,” he murmurs, his breath warm and sweet and maddening against your center.
Then the wide plane of his tongue dips out to lap at your slit, your own eyes squeezing shut in overwhelm.
Your hands sink into the thicket of Joel’s hair, clutching as his deft tongue alights on your clit in a pattern that makes stars burst behind your closed eyes. “Joel, fuck,” you exclaim breathily, rewarding his further mintrations by grinding your hips against his face. His palm spans over the globe of your ass, presses your mound further against painful pleasure of his facial hair, and he fucking moans, his keen reverberating through your weeping cunt.
Tears well in your eyes as your gut tightens in spiraling pleasure while Joel sucks at your clit.
He ducks away for a torturous moment to command, “C’mon, come for me, sweetheart, wan’ you to come all over my face,” then presses his wet working mouth against your gushing cunt again. His clever lips and tongue focus on your clit while he breaches your entrance with the tip of two thick fingers.
“Fuck Joel, I’m-” with that you’re untethered, hips bucking against Joel’s face, chest shuddering as your orgasm hits you like a freight train.
“Wait, wait, need a sec,” you plead, guiding Joel back by the scruff of curls at his neck once you start coming to your senses. He pants too, looking up at you, broad chest heaving, and smug, pupil-blown pleasure etched on his face.
“Too much?” he asks, licking your spend from his plush lips, you nearly come again.
You manage a nod and dreamy, “Yeah.”
“Good,” Joel quirks his lips and grazes another series of ticklish kisses over your thigh and hip. “Think I can fuck your gorgeous, messy pussy now?”
You bite your lip, fighting the smile. “Yeah. Want you to fill me up, please.”
Joel groans out a throaty “Fuck, yeah,” and then eases off his knees.
You pull the hem of his shirt over his head and watch as the breadth of him comes into view, barrel chested and broad shouldered.
Sturdy. Strong. Solid.
You marvel at the sight of his biceps, the full cut of them now freed from the t-shirt. At the way he smells faintly and deliciously of sweat. And now, when you kiss him, he tastes of the salt of you as well.
Your hands draw like magnets to trace the dusting of coarse dark hair skimming from his belly button to the waistband of his jeans, your scrambling hands clashing with Joel's at the barricade of his belt.
“Hang on, lemme just-” and Joel sets your hands on his waist while he unfastens his jeans and then you swoop in to draw the waistband of his underwear and jeans down around his hips.
His cock thwacks free from his clothes, juts thick and proud from the nestle of brown curls. “So pretty, Joel, wanna suck your cock-” you press your palm to the firmness of him before stroking your fingers up his shaft. He shivers, inhales a sharp hiss of breath at your touch.
“Next time, sweetheart, can’t do that and be inside you. No matter how bendy you are,” Joel swipes his fingers through the now familiar territory of your leaking cunt. “You said you wanted me to fill you up, teach,” he says, nuzzling his nose against yours.
At this, Joel eases two thick fingers inside you. You clutch at his arms, overcome at welcoming the fullness of his fingers completely inside of you.
“C’mon,” Joel urges as the lewd, wet smack of his fingers scissoring you echoes through the otherwise abandoned studio.
You mouth mindlessly at his collarbones and shoulders and neck, tasting what of Joel you can, but it’s aimless, all your focus required for staying on your feet. Joel’s arm hooked around your back helps your plight, at the same time it keeps you swooning and weak-kneed.
“You ready?” Joel prompts, hooking his fingers together and pressing the pads of his fingers against the rough spongy patch inside you.
Molten heat floods your veins anew, more of your slick weeping out on to Joel’s hand.
“So ready,” you dizzily reply, “fuck me, Joel, please.”
“OK, Teach, whatever you fuckin’ say,” Joel eases his fingers out of you and whimper at the loss. Joel’s head stays down, marveling at the web your slick left over his clever fingers.
You steal a kiss, “However you want me,” you say, watching Joel run his cock over your sex where it mingles with his own, precome that he squeezes out of the pretty flushed mushroom head and groans, head dropping to your shoulder while his cock leaves tacky streaks of both of you along your thigh.
“Got an idea, wanna see-” and Joel whirls you around, the barre the only thing between the mirror and you.
He’s so broad and hulking behind you. He’d been incongruous in the dance class, but now his stance is study and strong, the desire in his eyes focusing on the hair crowning your sex, he looks perfectly at ease. His hand assuredly clutches your hip.
“Want you like this. Wanna see all of ya,” Joel says, eyelids heavy and licking his lips. “Want you to see how fucking good you move.”
“Oh fuck, Joel,” you whimper at the picture you make together, drape yourself over the barre as Joel nudges your foot open with his, working your stance to the right height. His knuckles wrap his thick cock and work it along your pussy from behind.
“Lemme in, baby,” Joel says, “show me,” and you hinge forward at the hip, reach for his dick between your legs, notching the thick head of him into you. The slow delicious press of Joel filling you draws a moan from your lips to match his own groan. You bite the sound short.
“Nah, lemme hear you, sounds good,” Joel’s thumb softly pops your bottom lip from between your teeth, and the span of his hand across your jaw fills most of your face.
“Move, Joel,” you hiss, pushing your hips back to his, your rump meeting the cradle of his hips.
“Patience, Teach,” Joel smoothes his hand down your throat, palm squeezing your breast before he presses his palm down your belly. “Liked watching you move, the way you stretch,” his fingertips pressed together, rubbing and rolling against your clit as Joel’s cock splits you open and your weeping cunt drenches his pubic hair.
You reach back, brace one desperate hand on his torso, how different it felt from when you’d touched him in class, not respectable or sanctioned at all now, but the breadth of him beneath your palm was still filling with his breath, still working to please you.
“Wider? Seen you stretch, know you could.” Joel grips the back of your thigh, shifts your weight so you don’t fall, lifts your knee forward, on to the barre.
Your head drops forward, the saw of Joel’s hips into yours in this new stretch makes him feel even girthier where he fills you. Your skin breaks out in sweat, damp pool everywhere your flesh touches your own, or Joel’s. His arm slings around your belly, pulling your hips back to his.
The swell of his forearm clenching against you feels doubly dizzying around you and the sight of his doppelganger taking yours in the mirror. Burly and relentless in the drive of his hips, but lost, the glazed look of lust as Joel takes you. Eating you up with his eyes and his roving hands and his cock, every part of him hungry.
His hand reverses his journey back up your body. He plucks your nipple and trails his calloused fingers along your throat.
You dip your head to intercept his touch, and take his fingers in your mouth, sucking the meaty digits to the second knuckle, feeling them heavy on your tongue like you’d wish you’d been able to do with his cock. Next time, you think, you wish, you hope.
“Greedy, darlin,” Joel coos, and draws his fingers out from your lips, trailing your saliva to your shoulder where his hand settles.
His grip bows your spine as he pulls you back onto his cock, over and over again. Suspended in the air between the barre and his hips and his hands, you’re held fast in Joel’s substantial grip.
Your leg slips off, you tremor from holding it aloft and from the throb of Joel filling you. Both feet planted firmly on the ground now, one hand braced on the barre and the other grasping handfuls of Joel’s ass and hip behind you, feeling his glute flex with his thrusts.
“‘M close, where should I come?”
“Inside, inside,” you declare, holding Joel’s juddering hips to your ass as he jerks and fills you with him. In the mirror before you, you watch the beautiful sight of his head thrown back and neck straining.
As the waves of your pleasure recedes, affection wells upside inside you to see the dark mess of curls atop Joel’s head as he drops it to your shoulder, breath too warm but welcome against your skin. His lips press against your shoulder, and up your neck.
His questing fingers turn your head back to his for another languid kiss. You hum, eyes alighting on Joel’s as you draw slowly back.
“Fuck, you’re bendy,” Joel says, dimples appearing alongside his slight lopsided grin, as he nuzzles against you.
A bubble of laughter wells up from inside you and you rest your forehead against Joel’s.
You untwine, pass each other discarded clothes and help one another dress. Joel tries to help you back into your wrap sweater but huffily discards the ties as you laugh and wind them around your middle.
You finish, everything but your shoes back on, and come to, fear the silence that is comfortable for now, but reminds you that where you are is in your dance studio having fucked the dad of one of your students.
Joel sweeps you back into his arms, sweetly looking as nervous as you feel with the haze of lust receding.
He ducks his head, big brown eyes looking puppish as he clears his throat. “Hey, uh. Can I take you on a date?”
You give him your phone number, he waits while you turn off lights in the studio. He leaves you at the door of the studio with a kiss. “Lock up behind me. Never know what sort of reprobates will wander into a dance studio after hours, looking for pretty dance teachers.”
He climbs into his truck and drives off.
You return to closing down for the night. Ten minutes later, your cell phone lights up, Joel’s name glowing from the screen.
You answer, biting your lip to catch the smile growing on your lips.
“Joel?”
Even tinny from the cell phone, his voice sounds divinely rich and gives you chills to have it in your ear again.
“Evening.” A pause. “I forgot the fucking ballet shoes.”
You chuckle. “Oh my.” You peek your head through the studio viewing window. Sure enough, in the security light’s dim glow you can just make out Sarah’s pink canvas ballet slippers at the foot of the barre.
“Can we make our first date coffee tomorrow morning? I’ll bring some to the studio,” Joel offers.
“Works for me. We’ll have to be better behaved tomorrow morning, Marisol will get here.”
“You make it tough, but think I can just about contain myself for a cup of coffee’s worth amount of time.”
“See you here tomorrow. For a coffee’s worth.”
“Till tomorrow then. Night, teach.”
+++end+++
Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed what you read, please do reblog or leave a comment, I’d be most grateful! Want to read more of my work? Take a peek at my masterlist here.
texas sun - series masterlist (joel miller x f!reader)
series summary: Twenty years later, Joel still doesn’t know how to describe what you were to him. You’d never made any promises to each other, but you loved his daughter like she was your own. Had he known what was going to happen, he wouldn't have let you go.
description: plot inspired partially by this request. pre-outbreak! joel miller x f!reader, slow burn(ish), eventual smut. will end up covering game/tv show events. reader does not have a name, and there's no use of y/n, but she does have a fully fleshed-out backstory, friends/family with names.
warnings (will update as needed): fluff, angst, romance. multiple pov's. time jumps. smut (18+ only, minors DNI), alcohol use, marijuana use, descriptions of absent & abusive parents, eventual canon-typical violence & content. More specific warnings on each chapter.
a/n: super excited about this one, i've had so many ideas for it and it has been a pleasure to write! will try to update roughly every week or so, but i have a full-time job, so it just depends on what i can reasonably accomplish. i don't rush things out before they are ready, so please be patient. :)
I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ftcwriting and turn on notifications if you would like to be notified when I update :)
fic playlist | writing masterlist | read on a03
chapters 14/14 - complete
"*" = contains smut
volume i
volume ii
volume iii
volume iv
volume v*
volume vi*
volume vii*
volume viii*
volume ix
volume x
volume xi
volume xii
volume xiii
volume xiv*
summary: Pope becomes enamored with you, the new florist in Oceanside, after helping you with some car troubles. He tries to use the language of flowers you’re teaching him to get your attention.
chapter summary: after finding a daffodil, the flower that symbolizes new beginnings, on your doorstep your relationship with Andrew starts to blossom.
pairing: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Fem!Florist!Reader
contains: MDNI! no use of y/n, fluff, editing of canon
word count: 2.5k
PREVIOUS PART
Andrew hasn’t been back by the store in a week, since the day he dropped the daffodil off at your house. He had thought leaving the flower and the note would be a romantic gesture but the more he thought about it the more it seemed weird and creepy. Leaving a flower and a cryptic note at your home probably scared the shit out of you but by the time he realized this and drove by your house intending to take the flower and the note back they had already disappeared. Safe to say… he was slightly panicking.
You probably just gave him that flower because you were being nice. He had done something nice for you and you were just doing something nice back, there wasn’t any indication that you were interested in him like that at all. Why didn’t he just ask for your phone number like a normal person?
He decides he has to go to the store and apologize to you, to promise to leave you alone, and to maybe only watch you at a safe distance. He takes his Jeep, worrying you might recognize his truck if you saw it parked across the street. He circles the block until a spot opens up a reasonable enough distance away from the store that he could retreat and take cover if things go awry, if you try to chase him out of the store with your shears. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel when a tap on his passenger side window almost gives him a heart attack.
Fuck, had you really spotted him that quickly? His checks flush as he turns to look who it is… he’s surprised to see not you but the old man from your flower shop, Harrold, knocking on the window with his cane. Andrew rolls down the window.
“Andrew, right?” Harrold smirks at him.
“Yeah,” Andrew replies, voice laced with uncertainty.
“Harrold,” Harrold says, resting his wrinkly hand on his chest.
“Sorry, yes, I remember you,” Andrew says, trying to compose himself, “how are you?”
“Oh, fine, fine,” Harrold nods, “better than you it seems,”
Andrew says nothing but feels a little startled that this old man could read him so easily.
“How come you’re out here and not in the shop with your pretty florist?” Harrold smiles.
“No- she’s not- we don’t really know each other-” Andrew stammers, trying to get Harrold to understand the full pictures, “we only met the other week,”
“Well that’s how it always starts, isn’t it?” Harrold says, “you don’t know someone… until you do,”
“I just- I helped her out when she was in a bind- car troubles,” Andrew says.
“Ah,” Harrold smiles, “and my granddaughters say chivalry is dead! Say, you’re not interested in marketing executives are you? My granddaughter is single…”
Andrew again finds himself at a loss for words, a small expression of shock on his face.
“No, no,” Harrold laughs, fixing his cuff, “you’ve picked the prettiest flower in the garden,”
“I- uh-” Andrew rubs his palm on his jeans and decides to just spill it, “I think I messed it up already,”
“Hm,” Harrold says, rubbing his chin, “well I suppose you can’t apologize with flowers now can you? She likes chocolates, she always has those little chocolate covered espresso beans under the counter,”
“Good to know,” Andrew gives a weak smile.
“You wanna tell me what you did, sport? Maybe we can work it out together.” Harrold says, and something about him seems terribly genuine. He’s not like all the other old men that Andrew knows, all of them harden and bristly. Harrold seems soft, sweet, cut from a cloth closer to yours than to Andrew’s. Fuck it.
“I- uh- after you came in last week and she talked about what all the flowers meant…” Andrew sighs, “I left a daffodil at her house with a note that just said ‘new beginning -A’ and I’m not sure if that was romantic or…”
“Creepy?” Harrold finishes for him.
“Uh, yeah,” Andrew says.
“Hm,” Harrold purses his lips to the side, “it’s a fine line, really depends on whether or not the gal fancies you at all,”
“Yeah, well I’m not sure if she does…” Andrew says, feeling his heart sink to his stomach.
“How’s this,” Harrold says, “I care a great deal about that young lady in there, and if you’ve done something to make her uncomfortable, well, I’ll just have to come back here and have a word with you. If not, I suppose I’ll just go about my day, go home, give my wife her flowers, the usual,”
“That’s the nicest threat I’ve ever heard,” Andrew breathes out a laugh.
“Well, Andrew,” Harrold adjusts his collar, “I’ll see you sooner or later… for your sake I hope later,”
“Nice to see you, Harrold,” Andrew says as Harrold starts to walk away from the car slowly.
“We’ll see about that,” Harrold calls, his back already to Andrew.
You’re lost in thought while working on a white rose wrist corsage for the local high school’s prom this week. Andrew hadn’t come back since leaving the daffodil and the note and you couldn’t figure out why. You wish he had left you his phone number, something, so you could tell him you got the flower and you thought it was incredibly sweet. Maybe he changed his mind and didn’t want to move in that direction after all…
The small chime of the bell on the door snaps you back from your mini-spiral.
“Harrold!” You say, placing the corsage to the side.
“Good morning dear,” Harrold smiles at you.
“I lost track of time, do you have a little minute while I put something together?” You say, running your hand over the back of your neck, “I’m so sorry, my mind has been… elsewhere…”
“What’s troubling you?” Harrold says, resting his hands on the counter. You turn to the buckets behind you and pull out a few stems of your pink french roses. You hold them out to Harrold.
“Smell these,” you say. He smiles and takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of the bursting roses.
“That’s lovely,” he says, “but you’re not gonna get out of it that easy.”
“Am I that transparent?” You sigh, pulling out white spray roses, yarrow, prairie gentian, a few stems of lamb’s ear, laying them gently on the counter.
“Only to an old timer,” Harrold says sweetly. You purse your lips, fiddling with one of the french roses.
“Do you remember that guy that was here last week?” You ask, picking up your sheers, starting to trim the stems of the various flowers.
“Remind me,” Harrold says, “my memory isn’t what it used to be,”
“Oh, please,” you smile, “you’re sharp as a tack,”
Harrold only tilts his head down, gesturing for you to jog his memory as you begin arranging the flowers.
“Andrew, he- he helped me last week when my truck broke down. He rescued me and all these buckets of flowers from the heat. And then he came here and- I don’t know, we just talked and it was nice,” a small blush starts to spread across your cheeks, “and then when I got home he had left a daffodil on my mailbox with a little note: ‘new beginning -A,’”
You pause looking up at him, running your fingertip along one of the stems in your hand.
“Well? Then what?” Harrold says.
“Nothing!” you slam your hand down on the counter, “I thought he would come back here or… something. But he hasn’t. I don’t know. Maybe he changed his mind.”
“Well if you want more unsolicited opinions,” Harrold says as you’re sticking the stems of yarrow into the bouquet, “He seemed quite taken with you,”
“I wish I could just know, you know? If he changed his mind that’s fine but it’s the not knowing that’s driving me insane,” you say, wrapping a rubber band on the bottom of the stems.
“I don’t think you’ll have to wait for much long,” Harrold says with a shrug.
“What makes you say that?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Let’s call it… an old man’s intuition,” Harrold smirks.
“Mhm,” you squint your eyes at him,
“He’d be an idiot to let you slip through his fingers,” Harrold says as you wrap the bouquet in the brown parchment.
“Thanks Harrold,” you smile, handing him the bouquet, grabbing a pen and card from beneath the counter, beginning to write while you speak, “the pink ones are french roses for love, white spray roses for lifelong commitment, yarrow for resilience, prairie gentian for deep appreciation, and lamb’s ear for healing.”
You finish writing and hand Harrold the little card.
“Beautiful,” Harrold smiles down at the bouquet.
“Tell Sybil hi for me?” You say.
“Oh I will,” he says, “tell Andrew hi for me,”
“Ha ha,” you say, voice flat, as Harrold walks to the door. He shoots you a wink before pulling open the door, and walking out into the sunny afternoon.
Andrew sits in his car waiting for Harrold to come out of the store. It’s been about thirty minutes before he sees the door swing open and he watches Harrold meander slowly down the street, bouquet in hand, walking the opposite direction of Andrew’s car. He lets out a sharp breath as a form of relief and before he can even pause to think he’s getting out of the car and jogging across the street. He pushes open the door and the small bell chimes making you look up from where you’re gathering all the trimmings from the bouquet you just made Harrold.
“Oh,” you say, clearly surprised he’s here.
“Hi,” he says, the blustering confidence he felt a moment ago slipping away.
“Hi,” you give him a small smile, “were your ears burning? I was just talking about you,”
“You were?” He perks up a bit at this confession and your heart flutters at his reaction.
“Mhm,” you hum, “I was wondering if I was gonna see you again,”
“Yeah- sorry- I-” Andrew runs his knuckle over his brow, “I just- leaving the flower at your house- I didn’t want to scare you-”
“You don’t scare me,” you say, fiddling with the rose stems in your fingers.
“Good,” the corner of his mouth curves up. The two of you just stare at each other for a moment before you wince and take in a sharp breath. You turn your hand over to see a small pin prick of blood where a rose thorn had pierced you.
“Shit,” you drop the stems.
“Are you ok?” Andrew takes a step closer, his waist now pressed against the counter.
“Yeah,” you reach under the countertop to where you keep your first aid kit, “occupational hazard,”
“Here,” Andrew takes the kit from you, opening it, pulling out a little alcohol wipe and a bandaid. He rips open the wipe and takes your hand in his before his eyes flick up to you, “this might sting a little,”
“Ok,” you say, then he gently presses the white cloth to your finger, it stings but just barely. It’s a tiny wound but he treats it like life or death, carefully lining up the bandaid and wrapping it gently around your finger.
“Is that ok?” He looks up at you again.
“You can’t keep coming to my rescue like this,” you breathe out a laugh. Andrew still holds your hand in his, “I still owe you,”
Without even realizing it Andrew runs his thumb over your palm. You shiver at the feeling of his skin brushing against yours. He notices and quickly pulls his hand away.
“Sorry,” he says, a small blush spreading across his cheeks, “you- you don’t owe me anything,”
“Oh, come on,” you rest your hands on the counter, tilting your head to the side.
“I-” Andrew stammers and rubs the back of his neck, “you could have dinner with me,”
“Yeah- ok- I’d like that,” you smile, “but maybe you can take my phone number so we don’t have to rely on note cards,”
“Yeah, sorry if that was-” Andrew starts.
“No-” you cut him off, “I- I liked it,”
“Yeah?” His eyes flick up to you and the tips of his ears flush red.
“Mhm,” you nod.
“What- uh- what flower is good for a first date?” He says softly and your heart flutters.
“Um,” you smile and blush, losing all your command of the English language and knowledge of flowers for a moment, “uh- well, Victorian era romantics would swap ranunculus to convey charm… and attractiveness. It would have been exchanged during the, um, early stages of courtship.”
“Hm,” Andrew nods a small smile on his face as well, “which one is that?”
“Oh,” you turn towards the buckets behind you, plucking a blushing pink flower with a fluffy bloom, holding it out towards him, “this is a ranunculus,”
“Pretty,” Andrew says, but he doesn’t take the flower, only leaning forward, touching his nose to the petals and breathing in.
“I- do you want-” you feel entirely flustered, not exactly sure what he wants.
“No,” he says, pulling back, “I’m not gonna make you give me flowers just to give back to you later,”
“Well, just take one,” you press the stem into his hand, “just so you remember what it looks like,”
“Fine,” Andrew takes the flower from you with a little grin.
“And uh,” you grab a pen and card, scribbling down your phone number, handing that to him as well, “here,”
“So, can I take you to dinner?” Andrew says as he pockets the card, “Wednesday? I would say Friday but that seems… too far away,”
“Yeah,” you let out a little laugh, “no, Wednesday is good,”
“Ok,” he slowly backs towards the door, “I’ll pick you up?”
“Sounds good,” you smile.
“Ok,” he backs right into the door, making the small bell ring, “sorry,”
“No, it’s ok,” you say, enjoying his flustered state just as much as he had enjoyed yours moments ago. He backs out of the door with a small wave which you mirror.
You feel entirely giddy the rest of the day. You’re bursting with energy, nerves, and excitement as you wrap the roses in ribbon and fasten them to the wristlets. You finish fifty corsages even though you had only assigned yourself half that amount today. You stack the last box in the fridge, closing up shop. You sweep up leaves and stems, slipping on your gardening gloves before you scoop up the greenery, trying to avoid your earlier injury.
Your truck is finally back from the shop so you drive home with the windows down, music playing softly. You’re not sure whether to expect that pink ranunculus to be waiting for you but you’re anxious to find out, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel as you turn onto your street. You can see it from the driveway, the fluffy blossom resting on your mailbox. You take quick steps to your front door, picking up the flower and the little notecard tucked underneath.
I did a little research. Turns out ranunculus also mean ‘radiant beauty,’ which I definitely think applies to you. See you Wednesday.
jack abbot who takes you to a dive bar on your third date hoping to lure you into a game of pool so he can wrap his arms around you, bend you over the pool table, guide the cue in your hands… and he does just that. three beers in and he’s got you leaning over the green felt, your hip pressing into his leg as he shows you how to knock the cue ball forward. your first turn in your little game you flick your eyes up at him, dipped at an angle where he can see right down the front of your shirt. you knock in your first shot with practiced ease, standing with a smug grin on your face.
you hadn’t needed him to show you anything. you had been fucking with him, letting him bend you over and ‘teach’ you when it was clear, at least now, that you had needed no instruction at all. a lesser man would feel insecure, wounded even, but not jack. he feels himself getting hard watching you bend over in front of him, sticking your ass out in a way that just has to be on purpose as you land shot after shot. soon after you finish your game, in which you completely smoke him, he’s got you in the back seat of his truck, spread wide for him, knuckle deep in your pussy.
“that feel good my lil’ hustler?” he murmurs against your neck and he pumps in and out of you at an aching pace, your moans and whimpers filling the car.
“mmn,” you whine, back pressed to his front, his hand shoved into your jeans as you writhe wrong in ecstasy, “feels so fucking good,”
“yeah?” he rasps in your ear, “pretendin’ you need me to show you how to play so your could press your ass into my cock?”
“yeah,” you whimper, titling your head back so you can look up at him, “just wanted you to touch me,”
“i’m touchin’ you now, pretty girl,” he says, voice dripping with desire. you bring your hand up to the silver curls at the base of his neck, pulling him down into a desperate, searing kiss, the sound of your pussy squelching around his fingers the only thing you can hear over the thud of your pulse in your ears.
“jack,” you moan into him before you slide your tongue past his lips, licking into every corner of his mouth, desperate to have him consume you. he groans against you as he feels your pussy flutter and spasm around his thick fingers, smiling into your kiss, knowing you’re close.
“come for me, beautiful,” he growls and you entirely fall apart against him, moaning and shaking and whimpering as your orgasm rips through you and jack swallows every sound you make. he keeps fucking you on his fingers as you come down. slowly he pulls his fingers from your swollen pussy, making you wince at the empty feeling he leaves behind. he sucks the cum off his fingers as he keeps his eyes locked on yours, you watch him with your lips parted as you try to catch your breath.
“you’re so pretty,” jack mumbles, cupping your jaw, leaning into you, placing a deliciously slow kiss on your mouth. you giggle against his lips.
“i’m glad your not mad i- uh- beat you,” you say, playing with his fingers.
“why would i be mad?” jack pulls his head back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“no- i just- some guys don’t like when i’m better than them- I’ve just gotten mixed reactions in the past,” you look up at him with an adorable twinkle in your eye.
“well i found it incredibly sexy,” jack says, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“mm,” you hum with a smile, “i thought you might,”
“but you do realize the problem now, don’t you?” jack says, voice serious.
“what?” you say, your voice waivers with worry.
“now you gotta teach me how to be a pool shark,” jack smiles down at you as you break into a grin, pulling him down to a sweet kiss.
“i am happy to bend you over a pool table anytime,” you giggle.
“thank god,” jack smiles, placing another lingering kiss on your mouth.
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