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[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader

11 - The Woman He Saved from the World

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Summary: You find yourself locked inside that goddamn hospital with no real way out, while your father is ready to cut you open if it means saving his cure. Joel may be the only man ruthless enough to get you out alive—but first, he has to survive Abby. Chapter W.C and Warnings: 14.6k ⚠️This chapter contains significantly darker, more disturbing and emotionally intense material than previous chapters. Read warnings at your own risk if you want to avoid spoilers... HEAVY ANGST, graphic violence, extreme blood and gore, gun violence, shootings, stabbing, execution-style killing, multiple character deaths, Abby and Joel confrontation, serious injuries, open wounds, heavy bleeding, panic attacks, PTSD, trauma flashbacks, Joel reliving past losses, Joel believing Reader is dead, non-consensual medical procedures, forced blood extraction, attempted bone marrow extraction, needles and injections, Cordyceps experimentation, infected test subjects, body horror, terminal illness implications, discussion of Reader’s possible death, hospital uprising, morally gray choices, morally gray everyone, discussion of a cure, Joel choosing Reader over other lives, William and Joel confrontation, protective/possessive Joel, Joel and Tommy fighting together to save reader, protective Tommy, execution of medical staff, helplessness, hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, Joel carrying Reader through gunfire. A/N: I cried so much while writing this chapter. I felt everything Joel was going through so deeply, and honestly, parts of it were incredibly difficult to put into words. I really hope you enjoy it, and I’m sorry it took me this long to finish. Thank you for being patient with me. ❤️ Chapter's Song: Agnes Obel — The Curse. “And their hope grew with a hunger to live.”

-YOU-

Cold metal presses against your cheek. For a few seconds, that is all you know. Cold. Metal. Pain. A dull, violent pulse beats beneath your right shoulder, spreading down your arm and across your chest with every shallow breath you take. Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift. Your tongue tastes like blood. Something chemical clings to the back of your throat. You try moving your hand. Metal rattles somewhere nearby. Your eyes snap open. A stained concrete floor fills your vision. Too close.

You’re lying on your side beneath flickering fluorescent lights, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath you while the other rests beside a rusted drain cut into the floor. Your wrists are free. That surprises you first. Then the bars do. Thick iron bars stretch from floor to ceiling a few feet away, welded between old hospital pillars. A heavy padlock hangs outside the door. A cell. Your stomach drops. You force yourself upright. Pain tears through your shoulder so hard the room flashes white.

“Fuck—” Your back slams against the wall. You bite down against the scream clawing its way up your throat and press one hand over the fresh bandage wrapped around your shoulder.

Clean gauze. Too clean. Somebody treated the gunshot. Not well enough to stop the throbbing. Well enough to keep you alive. Your breathing turns sharp. 

Joel. Taxi. The hospital.

Memory slams back all at once. Clouser standing beneath the floodlights. William with a gun pressed against his head. The revolver kicking hard inside your hand. Blood bursting from the side of Clouser’s face. Then— The bullet. Your shoulder snapping backward. Joel shouting your name. Hands grabbing you. Too many hands.

You remember fighting. Of course you fought. A Wolf’s nose breaking beneath your forehead. Another choking when you drove your fingers into his throat. A medic leaning over you while someone tried cutting through your jacket. You twisting free. Your elbow connecting with a jaw. A metal tray crashing to the floor. Scissors in your hand. Someone screaming— “She’s got a weapon!”

You remember burying the scissors deep into a soldier’s thigh. Then someone caught your injured arm and pulled. Pain. Bright enough to erase the room. A needle flashing near your neck. You grabbed the medic’s wrist. Almost broke it. Another body slammed into your back. Then the sharp sting just beneath your jaw. Warmth flooding through your veins. Your legs turning useless. Clouser’s blurred face hovering above you. His voice far away. “Enough.” Then nothing.

Your hand moves automatically toward your neck. A small puncture mark sits beneath your jaw. “Son of a bitch.”

You grab the bars and drag yourself onto your feet. The room sways violently. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten and wait for the floor to stop moving. No windows. No clock. No way to tell how long you’ve been unconscious. “Joel?” Your voice echoes through the corridor. Nothing answers.

You pull yourself closer to the bars and look around properly. The space beyond your cell is wide and rectangular, lined with abandoned examination bays. Faded plastic curtains hang in torn strips from rusted tracks along the ceiling. Numbers remain painted above each section. 

TRIAGE ONE. TRIAGE TWO. TRIAGE THREE. 

An old emergency intake ward. The WLF must have converted it into a holding block after taking the hospital. Efficient. Close to the ambulance entrance. Close to the operating rooms. Close to the elevators leading underground. Easy to bring prisoners in without the rest of the building seeing them. Easy to decide whether they became recruits, corpses— Or experiments.

Your eyes move toward the cells across from yours. Three of them. Empty. At least they look empty. Dark stains spread across the floor of the nearest one. Old blood. The farthest contains a torn mattress, a metal bucket and deep scratches carved into the wall. Not random. Words. Most are too small to read from here. One isn’t. 

DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOU DOWNSTAIRS.

Your pulse slows. Then something scrapes beyond the double doors at the end of the ward. You straighten instantly. Pain tears through your shoulder again, but you ignore it. Footsteps approach. Two people. Maybe three. Your body goes still. Not relaxed. Ready.

The doors swing open. A woman enters first. Her light brown hair is pulled tightly away from her face, its length woven into a practical braid down her back. She is young. Probably younger than you. She wears dark WLF fatigues beneath a weather-stained military jacket, the sleeves pushed partway up her forearms. A rifle hangs across her back, while the pistol strapped to her thigh sits within easy reach. Her frame is strong without being bulky. The controlled balance of someone who trains because survival depends on it, not because she wants anyone watching. Everything about the way she moves says soldier. She stops several feet from your cell. The man beside her doesn’t. He keeps walking until he is only a few feet from the bars.

Rain-darkened hair curls loosely near his temples, a little longer around his ears. A narrow mustache shadows his upper lip, joined by faint stubble tracing his jaw. His WLF gear resembles hers—a dark shirt beneath an olive tactical vest, cargo trousers tucked into scuffed combat boots. A knife rests at one hip. A pistol at the other. His posture is looser than hers. Almost casual. But his dark eyes never stop moving. Your hands. Your injured shoulder. The lock. The narrow space between your body and the bars. You dislike him immediately. Maybe it’s the half-smile sitting too easily on his face. The expression of a man who enjoys knowing something you don’t. He looks like the kind of asshole who would smile while lying straight to your face.

The woman says nothing. Just stares. You stare back. You consider asking about Joel. The question climbs halfway up your throat. You swallow it again. No. They don’t need to know what he means to you. Not yet.

The man speaks first. “So... This is her?” His eyebrows lift as he looks you over. “This is the girl who got fourteen of our people killed in one day?”

Your jaw tightens. Fourteen. You thought it was closer to twelve. Good to know.

The man steps slightly nearer. “Thought she’d be bigger.”

You lean closer to the bars. “Open the door.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

“Then we can introduce ourselves properly.”

A short laugh escapes him. “She’s funny.”

Your eyes remain on him. “People usually laugh more before I break their teeth.”

His expression sharpens slightly. You tighten your grip on the bars. “You here to take revenge for your friends?” Your gaze moves between them. “Take a number.”

The man’s amusement disappears. “Those people had families.”

You give him a flat look. “Do I look like I give a shit?” His jaw tightens. You continue before he can answer. “Funny thing about your Wolves, though. Met two of them trying to run all the way to Santa Barbara.”

Something flashes across his face. You smile without warmth. “Real loyal family you’ve built here.”

The last trace of amusement leaves his face. He steps toward the bars. The woman speaks without looking at him. “Manny.” One word. Quiet. Enough to stop him.

He exhales through his nose and shifts back, but the anger remains visible beneath his expression.

The woman finally steps closer. You study her. There is something behind her eyes you cannot name. Pain, rage, perhaps. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with the fourteen soldiers. “How much does he mean to you?”

Every muscle in your body locks. The reaction lasts less than a second. Still long enough for her to see it. You angle your head slightly. “What?”

“Joel Miller.” She says the name as if she has said it a thousand times before. In dreams. In prayers. Between clenched teeth. Something ignites behind her eyes when she repeats it. “How much does he mean to you?”

The question itself should not frighten you. The way she asks it does. There is anticipation in her face. A terrible, almost hopeful kind of anticipation—as if she wants the answer to hurt. You keep your voice level. “Why?”

Her gaze searches yours. Whatever she finds makes the corner of her mouth twitch. “Good. When I kill him, I’ll know there’s someone left who understands what it feels like.” Your blood turns to ice. She watches the realization move across your face. “The fact that it’s you is almost poetic.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He slaughtered an entire hospital for that girl.” Her voice remains controlled, but her eyes begin to shine. “Soldiers. Nurses. People who had already surrendered.” She swallows. “An unarmed doctor.”

Salt Lake. The Fireflies. Joel carrying Ellie out beneath the gunfire. Your pulse begins pounding inside your ears. “And now he’s come all the way here for another one.”

You step closer to the bars. “Were you a Firefly?”

For a moment, she says nothing. Then— “Dr. Anderson was my dad.”

There it is. The wound beneath everything else. Her eyes glisten, but no tears fall. Not yet. Manny looks away. You stare at her. “The defenseless doctor you’re talking about was about to cut open a fourteen-year-old kid.” Her expression changes. You don’t stop. “He was about to cut me open too. For a cure none of you could prove would even work.”

“My dad knew what he was doing.”

“Your dad was going to kill us.”

“He was going to save—.”

“Joel saved us.” You cut her off. Her jaw tightens. You move so close that only rusted iron separates you. “How he did it, who he had to go through—” Your voice drops. “I don’t give a shit.”

Abby crosses the remaining distance in one violent step. Her hand shoots through the bars and fists into the front of your shirt. “Say that again, you fucking bitch.”

You move faster. Your good hand clamps around her wrist. You jerk her arm hard against the bars, trap it between two lengths of iron and catch one of her fingers before she can pull free. Then you bend. A sharp crack cuts through the ward. Abby cries out. Manny lunges forward. You twist harder. “Touch him and I’ll break the rest.”

“Shit! Abs!” Manny grabs Abby by the shoulder and yanks her backward. “Stop!” Her hand tears free from your grasp. She staggers away, clutching her finger against her chest, fury blazing across her face. Manny’s pistol is halfway out of its holster. Yours would already be in his throat if there weren’t bars between you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

All three of you turn. Clouser walks into the converted triage ward with two heavily armed Wolves behind him. A fresh bandage wraps around the side of his head, covering what remains of his ear. Blood has already begun seeping through the white material near his temple. Not enough. His gaze moves from Abby’s injured hand to Manny’s half-drawn weapon. Then to you. 

Manny slowly lets go of his pistol. “Just getting acquainted with your daughter.” He glances toward you. “Charming girl. Must run in the family.”

Clouser’s expression does not change. “I told you she isn’t here for you.”

Abby turns away from the cell, still cradling her injured hand. “Where is he?” She doesn’t need to say the name this time. You know exactly who she means.

Clouser continues walking. Neither hurried nor concerned. “I also told you that information comes at a price.”

Manny shifts beside her. “Isaac’s not coming down here.”

Clouser stops a few feet away. “That sounds like your problem.”

Abby takes a step toward him. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

The two Wolves accompanying Clouser raise their rifles slightly. Manny’s hand returns to his pistol. Nobody draws. Not yet. Clouser barely notices. “Isaac is bleeding the WLF dry over an island and a religious war he cannot win.”

“You don’t know anything about this war,” Abby snaps.

“I know your people are deserting faster than he can execute them.”

Her face hardens. Clouser gestures vaguely toward the hospital surrounding you. “I know your soldiers are dying from bites, arrows, infections and his obsession with the Scars.”

“You think that serum makes you a leader?”

The smallest smile touches his mouth. “No.” He looks toward her as if the answer should be obvious. “The fact that they cannot survive without it will.”

Your stomach twists. Apparently, while you were gone, your father had graduated from mad scientist to aspiring dictator.

Abby stares at him. “You’re experimenting on our people.”

“I’m saving them.”

“You’re killing them.”

“Temporary instability is not failure.” Clouser’s tone remains maddeningly calm. “It is data.”

Manny lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that what we’re calling the bodies downstairs?”

Clouser’s expression sharpens. “Careful.”

“No.” Abby steps closer. “You be careful.” Her voice rises. “You’ve got half the hospital locked down. Soldiers disappearing into quarantine. Families threatening to leave—and now you’re trying to turn Isaac’s command against him?”

“They will not leave.”

“You sound pretty fucking sure.”

“Their children require treatment.” Clouser glances toward the floor beneath you. “Treatment only I can provide.”

Abby’s face twists with disgust. “Are you fucking serious?”

“People follow Isaac because they fear him.” Clouser’s eyes move slowly between Abby and Manny. “They will follow me because they need me.”

“That cure doesn’t do shit,” Abby snaps. “Everyone knows it. The first chance they get, they’re going to put a bullet in your head.”

“This time it will work.”

Abby scoffs.

Clouser looks toward you. “It already has.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The tissue taken from her bite showed a response we have never seen before. Her blood stabilized one of the patients.” His gaze lingers on you. “You may see the results for yourselves.” A faint smile touches his mouth. Then he looks back at Abby. “She is proof that survival is possible. Isaac would reduce that proof to a weapon. Something to send through spore-filled tunnels and unleash against the Scars.”

“And you see her as what?”

Clouser answers without hesitation. “Mine.”

Revulsion crawls across your skin. You slam both hands against the bars. “I’m gonna tear your fucking throat out.”

One of the guards flinches. Clouser doesn’t. “Sweetheart.” His tone is almost indulgent. “There’s no need to get so worked up. You’ll tear your stitches.”

“Come closer and I’ll tear yours.”

Manny’s mouth almost twitches again.

Abby ignores both of you. Her eyes remain fixed on Clouser. “You bring me Joel Miller.” She glances toward your cell as she says it. Making certain you hear every word.

Clouser tilts his head. “You bring me Isaac.”

“Alive?”

“Very.”

“And Miller is mine.”

Your body hits the bars. The entire structure shakes. You grip the iron hard enough for rust to cut into your palms. Clouser turns toward the doors. “We will continue this conversation somewhere quieter.”

Abby does not move immediately. Neither do you. Your eyes remain locked through the bars. You shake them again. The metal groans beneath your hands. “Abby!”

She stops at the doors. Looks back. “You asked me how much he means to me?” Your voice drops. “Enough to make what he did in Salt Lake look like mercy.”

For one beat, Abby only stares at you. Then something in her face breaks. “You fucking—”

She surges toward the cell. Manny catches her by the arm before she reaches the bars and hauls her back. “If you put one hand on him, I swear to God I will get out of this cage.” Your voice carries through the entire ward. “I’ll tear this hospital apart room by room. And I’ll kill every motherfucker standing between me and him.”

Abby tears her arm free from Manny’s grip. Her eyes remain fixed on yours. “If you live that long.”

Then she turns and walks out.

Nearly an hour passes. At least, you think it does. You sit in the corner of the cell with your injured shoulder pressed against concrete, examining the rusted nail balanced across your knee.

You found it beneath the torn mattress and spent fifteen minutes working it loose. Not much. You have done more with less. You pull the leather belt free from your trousers and wrap one end around the nail until the spike sits upright between the folds. Ugly, but useful. Not enough to win against four armed Wolves. Enough to open a throat, take a gun and get out.

Joel is somewhere inside this hospital. Or already being taken to the woman who looked at you as though his death had been keeping her alive for years. You force the thought away. He is alive. He has to be. And Taxi— Your throat tightens. No. One problem at a time.

A metallic scrape comes from beyond the double doors. You are on your feet before they open, the belt wound around your palm and the nail hidden behind your thigh. Four soldiers enter the ward. Two remain near the cell with their rifles raised while the others approach the lock. The rifles are a performance. Clouser needs you alive, and everyone here knows it.

The taller soldier notices the hand behind your back. “Show me.”

You lean against the bars. “Open the fucking door and come take it.”

His jaw tightens. The man beside him pulls a syringe from his vest. Clear fluid. Long needle. Your stomach clenches before you can stop it. His mouth twists. “You want us to do this again?”

The sight of the needle drags fluorescent lights, leather restraints and hands pinning your arms out of memory. You lift your eyes to his. “Stick me with that and I’ll rip it out, bury it in your eye and make you choke on it.”

His smile disappears.

“Don’t sedate her. It will contaminate the neurological readings.”

The voice comes from behind the soldiers. Everything inside you stills. Ten years since you heard it without a wall, gunfire or memory distorting it.

The soldiers move apart. William stands behind them.

Yesterday, beneath the rain and hospital floodlights, you had only seen pieces of him—a bruised face, bound hands, a gun against his head. Now there is nothing between you. White threads through the hair at his temples. Lines cut deeply beside his mouth and beneath his eyes. He is thinner than you remember. Older. Tired in a way sleep could never fix.

He looks at you, and for several seconds the ward disappears. Pain shifts across his face, followed by relief and everything he cannot say in front of the soldiers.

“She’s going to behave,” he says, his voice deliberately clinical. Then his eyes soften. He says your real name quietly, as though unsure whether it still belongs to you. “Won’t you?”

The name catches beneath your ribs. Not Kat. Not the name known in Jackson. The name you were born with, tied to laboratory records and the girl you buried before reaching Wyoming.

His gaze drops toward the hand behind your back. 

Trust me. 

He does not say it, but for one irrational second his eyes remind you of Joel’s—that same steady look when the world is collapsing and he needs you to believe he has already found a way through it.

You bring your hand forward. The soldiers tense at the sight of the belt and nail, but William does not flinch. You unwrap the leather. The nail clatters onto the floor. “There,” you say. “Behaving.”

“Open the cell,” William orders.

The lock clicks. Two soldiers enter and grip you carefully, avoiding the wounded shoulder. Every instinct tells you to fight. Break a knee. Take the pistol. Use the body as cover. But Joel is still somewhere you cannot reach from behind these bars, so you let them hold you. For now.

They march you through older treatment wings until William leads you into a small examination room. Only one guard remains inside. William gestures toward the padded table. “Sit.”

You do, mostly because standing is beginning to require more effort than you want anyone to notice. William arranges gauze, forceps and two glass vials on a tray. Your eyes settle on the syringe.

When he reaches for the bandage around your forearm, you pull back. “The bite,” he says. “I need to look at it.”

“You people already took a piece.”

Something dark crosses his face. He glances toward the guard, who is staring through the observation window. “I know,” William says quietly.

You offer your arm. The stalker’s bite looks worse beneath the examination light, swollen around the badly stitched biopsy site.

William’s fingers hover near it. “You let it bite this deep?”

“It wasn’t exactly a negotiation.”

His eyes lift to yours. You look away, seeing Joel trapped beneath the stalker and the empty revolver in your hand.

William cleans the wound. Antiseptic burns through the torn skin. “Easy,” he murmurs. The familiarity of the word hurts more than the wound.

He brings the needle toward your elbow. You pull back again.

“It’s a small sample.”

A bitter laugh leaves you. “Ten years and nothing’s changed. Still the lab rat. I suppose I wasn’t one to you back then.” You meet his eyes. “I am now.”

William ties a strip of rubber around your upper arm and lowers his voice. “I told you to stay away from Seattle.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

His brow furrows.

“Where’s Joel?”

The needle enters your vein. Dark blood fills the first vial.

“I think you should be more concerned about yourself,” William says.

“I’ve spent enough time doing that.”

His expression closes.

“You’ve been with Clouser all this time. Why are you helping him?”

No answer. William replaces the vial.

“Did you know about Vickie?”

His hand stills. “Yes.”

“And you did nothing?”

William removes the needle, presses gauze against the puncture and nods once. Something inside you cracks, but there is no time to let it open.

“Help me find Joel.”

William begins rewrapping your arm.

“Please.” The word tastes desperate. “I can’t let them hurt him.”

His hands stop. “Do I look like a free man?”

Your jaw tightens.

“What makes a smuggler so important?” he asks.

You swallow. “He’s my family. The kind I never had. The kind I didn’t know how to have until I met him.” Your throat tightens. “He’s the reason I know what it feels like to have somewhere to go back to. I can’t lose him.”

Something changes behind William’s eyes. He draws your sleeve over the bandage and stands. “Come with me.”

The guard remains behind as William takes you through a side door, down two flights of stairs and toward a security door marked B2.

“Where are we going?”

William enters a code and glances toward the camera. “Keep walking.”

The level beyond looks nothing like the hospital upstairs. White coats move between sealed rooms while carts pass carrying blood bags and numbered containers. Everyone acknowledges William with a nod or a quiet, “Doctor.” Respect, or fear disguised as it.

The farther you walk, the more the corridor resembles the laboratories of your childhood. Glass observation rooms. Heavy doors. Numbers instead of names. Only larger. More organised. Worse.

Behind the first window, a man lies strapped to an inclined bed, dark fungal veins stretching along his jaw. The next room contains a grey-skinned woman held upright by restraints. Cordyceps blooms beneath one eye; the other follows you as you pass. Conscious. Another room holds two beds. One body is covered. The other receives blood through three separate lines.

Your steps slow. “What is this? What the fuck did he do?”

The corridor opens into a wider ward. Children lie behind glass with their wrists secured to bed rails. A pregnant woman lies strapped to a table in the next chamber, blackened veins spreading across her bare stomach. A monitor records two heartbeats. One slow. One frantic.

She turns toward you. There is no pleading left in her eyes, only the recognition of one prisoner seeing another.

“You’re experimenting on pregnant women?” The words tear out of you. “And fucking children?”

William turns. A cart passes behind him carrying blood bags labelled with the numbers on the doors.

“What are you doing with their blood?”

“Trying to reproduce what happened to you.”

Your gaze snaps toward him.

“When we learned Marlene had found another immune girl, we were on the other side of the country.”

“Ellie.”

“Clouser never stopped looking for you. News of another immune person led us toward Salt Lake. Anderson and Clouser knew one another before the outbreak. According to Clouser, Anderson was an incompetent man stumbling toward the right answer for the wrong reasons.”

“Sounds like him.”

“When Clouser learned the Fireflies had both immune subjects, he was afraid.”

“Because someone else was going to cut me open?”

“That too. But Clouser never believed the cure was simply a growth inside the brain. The Cordyceps and the host work together. Destroying the brain destroys the system producing the immune response.”

Your stomach tightens.

“Ellie’s infection convinces new Cordyceps that she is already colonised,” William continues. “Her immunity hides.” His eyes drop to your bandaged arm. “Yours fights back.”

The corridor seems to narrow around you.

“When we reached Salt Lake, Anderson was dead,” he says. “The Fireflies were scattered. The hospital was full of bodies. Marlene among them.”

“Joel,” you murmur. “I escaped while he was getting Ellie out. We didn’t know each other then. I ended up in Jackson, and that is where we met. Was Ethan the reason you sent me there?”

William nods. “His father was a good man. I believed you would be safe with the people he trusted.”

“Why didn’t you follow?”

William’s attention shifts toward the next room. A small boy lies beneath a white blanket, no older than ten. Dark veins branch beneath the skin of his arms.

“The hospital was attacked after you escaped. FEDRA learned we had worked with the Fireflies. Three years in a prison camp followed by five more running. Eventually Clouser found Isaac.”

“And the WLF saved you?”

“They took us in. Doctors were useful.” William looks through the glass. “For a while, I thought we had found a future.”

“Vickie?”

“The WLF found her unit after you destroyed the others. She had been bitten.”

“He tested the serum on her,” you say. “Then used her to find me.”

“Yes.” William’s voice begins to fracture. “I never told them you were in Jackson. If I went to you, they would have followed. But that is not the whole truth. I chose to stay. I had a family here. Friends. A home.”

The boy’s arm trembles weakly beneath the blanket. You look between them. “He’s your—” The word refuses to come. “When was he bitten?”

William turns toward you. “No one down here was bitten.”

Your stomach drops. The children. The pregnant woman. The numbered rooms. “They infected them.”

“Clouser needed subjects at different stages, ages and immune responses.”

You look through the glass at the boy. William’s jaw locks as he watches his son’s fingers twitch.

“Do you know the most important thing the last ten years taught me?” he asks. “Never waste mercy on a man who does not deserve it. Given enough time, mercy becomes permission.” His hand presses against the window. “I spared Clouser. I convinced myself some part of him could change.” William’s reflection trembles in the glass. “Then he infected my son.” The words settle heavily between you. “He used Daniel to keep me beside him. Every dose of serum came with a condition. Every improvement bought another month of obedience. I told myself I was staying for him.”

When he turns back, something harder has entered his face. “But it is over now. Daniel has passed the stage the current serum can reverse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I have known for weeks.”

“William—”

“Clouser should have died the night you escaped.” The words come low and vicious. “I had my hands around his throat. I could have ended it. But I couldn’t. I was a coward who still believed men could change, still believed in humanity.” He looks across the ward. “Everyone here is paying for that mercy.”

You watch him turn away from the glass. “Why did you bring me down here? You could’ve told me upstairs.”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t.”

Only then do you notice the nurse watching William instead of the cameras. When your eyes meet hers, she turns one monitor away from the corridor. A doctor leaving a numbered room gives William a small nod. Farther down, an armed guard deliberately blocks a security lens.

The people moving through this ward are not all Clouser’s.

William looks toward the children behind the glass. “You said the smuggler was your family.”

“Joel.”

His eyes return to yours. “Joel,” he repeats, the name unfamiliar in his mouth. “This is where families like mine come to die. Every hour Clouser remains in control, another person becomes a number on a door.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Clouser trusts no one else with you. He will oversee your procedure himself and bring his research team, his guards and every record that matters into one secured room.”

Understanding begins to form. “You’re using me to draw him out.”

“I’m asking you to keep him there.”

“While I’m strapped to a table.”

“You won’t be unconscious.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It is supposed to keep you alive.” William lowers his voice. “When the power goes out, his people will be cut off. Mine will take the corridors. You keep Clouser inside until we reach you.”

“And then?”

The security door opens before William can answer. A young technician hurries into the corridor, clutching a folder against his chest. “Dr. Devane. Subject One-Six-One.”

Something in William’s face changes. “What about him?”

“Post-infusion response markers are rising. The fungal regression has accelerated, neural activity is stabilising and his inflammatory markers have fallen almost thirty percent.”

William takes the folder. “How long?”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“We ran the bloods twice.”

“What did you give him?”

The technician hesitates. His gaze flicks toward you. “The sample collected upstairs.”

Your blood.

You look through the glass at Daniel. His fingers move faintly against the sheet. Not a tremor. Something deliberate.

“What’s happening?” you ask.

“Ah.” Clouser enters with two Wolves behind him, his steps slow and unhurried. Every muscle inside you locks. “There you are.” He looks past you to the technician. “And the news has already travelled. Efficient as ever.”

William turns toward him. “Is it true?”

Clouser’s smile gives nothing away. “See for yourself.”

“The results were confirmed twice,” the technician says. “Fungal activity has decreased. Neural response is stabilising, and the inflammatory markers are continuing to fall.”

William’s eyes move to Daniel. “How quickly?”

“The first measurable change appeared less than six minutes after the infusion.”

William goes still. Even you understand enough to know that should not be possible. Six minutes is barely enough time to produce a measurable systemic change, let alone force an infection that far gone into retreat.

“The sample taken from her produced an immediate systemic response,” the technician continues. “We have never recorded anything like it.”

William scans the results. His face remains controlled, but the paper bends beneath his fingers. “One response proves nothing.”

“No,” Clouser agrees. “But it proves considerably more than we knew yesterday.”

Then he turns toward you. “In that case, the operation is cancelled.”

For one disorienting second, you think you misheard him. Even William looks up. “What?”

Clouser smiles. “I’ve decided not to open your skull.”

Relief tries to rise inside you. Something in his expression kills it before it can. “Your blood has become considerably more interesting.”

“You’re postponing the operation?”

“I’m replacing it.”

William’s expression remains controlled, but you see the effort it costs him. His plan depended on an operating theatre—Clouser, his guards, his research team and every record that mattered sealed inside one room when the lights went out. Now there will be no theatre. No gathered team. No trap.

“What are you proposing?” William asks.

“Serial blood collection. Bone marrow. Tissue from the bite and the previous biopsy site.” Clouser looks at you as though discussing equipment. “Then controlled exposure while we monitor the immune response.”

Your stomach turns. “You’re going to infect me again.”

“You cannot technically be infected.”

“Then put it in your own fucking veins.”

Clouser ignores you. “If these results are reproducible, Daniel may finally have a chance.”

William’s eyes move toward his son. Only for a second. But you see it. So does Clouser.

The technician shifts uneasily. “Should I prepare another infusion?”

William does not answer. That silence is enough.

Clouser turns toward the Wolves. “Take her upstairs. Procedure Room Seven.”

William’s gaze snaps back to him. “She is injured.”

“That is not our priority.”

The soldiers seize your arms and drag you toward the door. You search William’s face for the plan, for some indication that the lights will still go out. He meets your eyes and gives nothing away. Perhaps because Clouser is watching. Perhaps because he no longer knows.

You twist against the soldiers, but pain tears through your wounded shoulder and your arm buckles. William takes one step after you.

Clouser moves between you. “Stay with your son, Doctor.”

William stops. The words are not a suggestion.

As the security door opens, you look back at him. He is still holding the folder, still staring after you while Daniel’s monitor marks its steady rhythm behind the glass.

For the first time since William opened your cell, you understand that whatever happens next will not follow his plan.

The soldiers pull you through the door.

It closes between you.

The soldiers struggle with you all the way upstairs. You drag your heels through doorways and twist whenever their grip shifts, forcing them to readjust every few steps. The wound in your shoulder burns with each movement, but the pain keeps you sharp.

Clouser follows without hurrying. By the time they force you into Procedure Room Seven, his breathing has not changed.

The room is smaller than an operating theatre. A narrow bed stands beneath an adjustable lamp, surrounded by monitors, steel trays and collection equipment. Clear tubing hangs beside sealed syringes and rows of empty vials.

Two scans glow on the screen across the room.

You recognise the first immediately. Ten years have passed, but you spent too much of your childhood beneath machines not to know your own brain. A pale, branching mass curls through the left side.

The old scan.

The second is recent. What once resembled thin roots has become a dense white web, spreading through tissue that had been clear ten years ago.

For a moment, you stop fighting.

Clouser notices. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You tear your eyes from the screen. He has removed his coat and is fastening a surgical gown around his neck while an assistant prepares the instruments beside him.

“What happened to it?”

Clouser pulls on a glove. “It matured. Every bite you survived, every concentration of spores you inhaled, exposed it to a new variation of the organism. Each time, your body adapted. The growth expanded, refined its response—and yet it never converted you.” The second glove snaps around his wrist. “And you object when I call you a miracle.”

You say nothing. Your attention drifts back to the pale network branching through tissue that should have belonged only to you.

“I no longer resent you for running that night,” Clouser continues. “Had I operated then, the organism may have been too immature. We might have removed it before the process became stable—or discovered nothing we could reproduce.” He studies the screen with something dangerously close to admiration. “But now we know your blood actively suppresses fungal replication. Something circulating through your system forces Cordyceps into regression.” His gaze settles on you. “Ten years ago, I had a theory. Now I have proof.”

The soldiers force you toward the bed. You plant your feet.

“Secure her properly,” Clouser says. “She has a history of damaging valuable equipment.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

One soldier locks an arm around your waist while the other grabs your wrist. You drive an elbow into the first man’s ribs, but the second catches your injured arm.

Pain breaks your balance.

They force you onto the mattress. One pins your shoulder while the other pulls a restraint across your waist.

The assistant lifts a syringe.

“No.”

He glances toward the instruments. One needle is narrow and familiar. Another is thick enough to reach bone. “The marrow collection will be extremely painful.”

“Sedation would alter the immune response,” Clouser says. “I need it unfiltered.”

The assistant hesitates but nods. The soldier reaches for your left wrist. You let the arm go slack, and he mistakes it for exhaustion.

The instant his grip loosens, you twist beneath him and drive your shoulder into his chest. He crashes against the bed. You seize the assistant by his coat, drag him between you and the raised rifles and tear the pistol from the soldier’s holster.

“Fuck!”

“Gun!”

“Drop it!”

The assistant chokes as you press the barrel beneath his jaw. Rifles snap toward you from both sides. “Tell me where Joel is.”

Clouser’s head turns sharply. “You will not leave this room.”

“I didn’t ask to leave.”

“Miller is beyond your reach.”

“Where is he?”

Clouser looks at the trembling assistant, then back at you. “You believe his life matters to me?”

The man goes rigid.

No fear. No hesitation. Nothing.

You cannot trade a life Clouser already considers disposable. You shove the assistant aside. Before the soldiers can fire, you reverse the pistol and press the muzzle against your own temple.

Clouser’s expression changes. The amusement vanishes. His shoulders stiffen beneath the surgical gown, his eyes fixed on the barrel. You would swear he would show less fear with the gun against his own head.

One soldier starts forward.

Clouser throws up a gloved hand. “Don’t. Lower the rifles. Now.”

The weapons descend.

“You need me so bad, right?”

Clouser takes one slow step forward. “Do not do anything irrational.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “Irrational?”

“Killing yourself will not improve your position.”

“It’ll ruin yours.”

Your finger settles against the trigger.

Clouser stops.

Behind you, ten years of growth glows across the screen. His research. His cure. His miracle.

“You need my blood,” you say. “The tissue, the neural response, the organism inside my skull. You need all of it intact.”

“You do not understand what you are threatening.”

“I grew up in your fucking laboratories.” Your thumb finds the safety. The metallic click fills the room. “I know exactly where I’m aiming.”

His hands rise slightly. “You kill yourself, and Miller still dies.”

“Then keeping him alive is the only way you keep me alive.”

“You will gain nothing from this.”

Clouser steps forward again. You begin to squeeze the trigger. He stops. “One bullet through here and your miracle ends up on the wall.”

His jaw tightens. “What do you want?”

For the first time, he is asking.

“Where is Joel?”

His eyes move toward the nearest soldier. “Transport Three,” the man says. “East service road. They left twenty minutes ago.”

Already in a vehicle. Already beyond your reach. Maybe being taken to Isaac. Maybe to the woman who had looked at Joel as though she had been waiting years to kill him.

“Tell them to stop.”

Clouser studies you. “That vehicle is operating under direct orders.”

“Then give it new ones.”

“You cannot reach him from here.”

“I don’t need to. Get me a radio. Stop the truck and put Joel on the other end.”

Clouser looks at your finger, then at the scan. Finally, he turns toward the soldier.

“Contact Transport Three.”

The man pulls the radio from his vest. “Transport Three, this is Medical Control. Respond.”

Static crackles.

“Transport Three.”

“Stop the vehicle.”

A pause. “Say again?”

Clouser takes the radio. “This is Clouser. Halt immediately and secure the road.”

“Doctor, we have standing orders to deliver the prisoner. We’re less than ten minutes from the handoff.”

“There will be no handoff.”

“We take transfer orders from Isaac’s command.”

Clouser’s gaze remains fixed on you. “The immune subject has a loaded weapon against the growth in her brain. If she fires, every possibility of reproducing the immune response ends with her.”

The room goes silent enough for you to hear the hum from the screen behind you.

Clouser’s voice hardens. “Stop the vehicle.”

“Understood.”

Brakes hiss through the radio. “Dismount,” Clouser orders. “Cut Miller loose and leave him the truck.”

“Doc—”

You keep your eyes on him. “His equipment.”

“Return his belongings,” Clouser says. “Leave him one rifle, his sidearm and a handheld radio. Then move away from the vehicle.”

The man on the other end mutters something you cannot hear.

Clouser’s voice drops. “Do it.”

Metal doors slam through the speaker. Clouser passes the radio back to the soldier, who approaches you carefully. “Hold it where I can speak.”

The soldier stops beyond your reach and raises the radio toward your mouth.

For a moment, there is only static.

Then a distant voice says, “Prisoner’s out.”

Your heart strikes hard against your ribs.

“Put him on.”

-JOEL-

The truck stops hard enough to throw Joel against the metal wall. He lifts his head, blinking through the blood dried along his temple. His wrists are bound behind him, his legs nearly numb beneath his weight. Outside, boots strike wet asphalt and voices rise in sudden argument. Joel shifts in the dark, searching for anything he can use. The rear doors open before he finds it, and grey daylight floods the compartment. Three Wolves stand in the road. Their rifles are ready, but none is pointed at him. That worries him more.

One climbs inside and cuts the restraints around his wrists. Joel works the feeling back into his fingers while the soldier drops his pack beside him. His revolver rests on top.

“Get out.”

Joel remains seated. “The hell’s goin’ on?”

The soldier does not answer. He holds out a radio. “Take it.” Joel looks from the device to the men outside. One of them places a rifle inside the cab before retreating several yards from the truck. It feels like a trap. But if they wanted him dead, they have had twenty minutes to do it. Joel takes the radio.

“Talk.”

Static crackles. Then your voice reaches him.

“Joel?”

His entire body locks.

“Kat?”

He hears a single breath leave you through the speaker.

“Where are you?” he demands. “You still in that hospital?”

“Listen to me.”

“What did they do to you?”

His eyes lift to the Wolves. The nearest man looks away.

“They touch you?”

“Take the truck.”

“What?”

“Drive north. Get past their checkpoints and away from the hospital.”

“I ain’t leavin’ you there.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Like hell I am. Tell me where you are.”

“You can’t get to me.”

“Watch me.”

“Joel…” Your grip tightens around the pistol pressed to your temple. The soldier holding the radio keeps his arm extended toward your mouth, careful not to move within reach. Clouser stands across from you, both gloved hands raised, his attention fixed on your finger against the trigger.

“If you give a damn about me,” you say, “you’ll get in that fucking truck and go.”

Joel’s face hardens.

“Don’t you dare—”

“I’m getting out.”

The lie comes too quickly. Joel hears it.

“How?”

“William has people inside.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s all I can give you.”

“You’re lyin’.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I need you to trust me.”

“Darlin’—“

“When you’re clear, call this channel again.”

“And then what?”

“Sing me the song you wrote for me.”

Joel stares at the radio.

“What?”

“The song. Nobody else knows it. If I hear it, I’ll know you’re alone. I’ll know they didn’t force you to say you were safe.”

Faintly, behind your voice, he hears someone breathing. Then Clouser speaks.

“Time is passing.”

Joel’s blood turns cold. “That him?”

You do not answer. “Get in the truck. If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes—” You raise your voice, no longer speaking only to him. “—I pull the trigger and put everything inside my skull across the fucking wall.”

Silence falls across the road. Joel stares at the radio, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“You reckless—” He drags a hand over his face. “Goddammit, Kat.”

One of the Wolves gestures toward the cab. “You heard her.” Joel holsters the revolver, grabs the rifle and climbs behind the wheel. The channel cuts. Joel starts the engine. The Wolves retreat as the truck surges forward. He watches them in the mirror until the rain swallows them, then drives north through streets broken by roots, wreckage and abandoned cars.

He knows what you expect him to do. Keep going. He also knows he never will.

The last WLF checkpoint appears ahead. Its guards raise the barrier reluctantly and watch him pass. Joel drives until the hospital disappears behind ruined buildings and no headlights follow him.

Eight minutes.

He pulls beneath the remains of an overpass and kills the engine. Rain spills through cracks in the concrete as he climbs out with the rifle and checks the road, the rooftops and the tree line. Nothing moves. He grabs the radio.

“Kat?” Static answers. “Kat, I’m clear. You hear me?”

Several seconds pass before your voice returns.

“Sing.”

Joel leans against the truck.

“Are you hurt?”

“Sing the song.”

“Fuck—Tell me you’re all right.”

“Joel.” Your voice is thinner now. “Sing the fucking song.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, there is only rain ticking against the roof of the truck. Then he sings.

“After all these years runnin’ round,

Flyin’ high and fallin’ down…”

His voice is rough without the guitar beneath it, worn down by blood, fear and the distance between you. But it is him. Only him.

Your eyes burn. A tear slips toward your jaw, but you do not wipe it away. You cannot move the hand holding the gun, and you refuse to let Clouser see the other one tremble.

“Well, the time has come at last,

To rest my heart and ease my past…”

Joel’s voice catches on the final word. He swallows and forces himself to continue.

“I’m gonna leave these blues behind,

For some other fool to find…”

Clouser watches you from across the room. The pistol remains pressed to your temple, but the pressure has begun to ease. His eyes flick toward the nearest soldier.

Joel looks down the empty road as he sings.

“He won’t care and I don’t mind…”

An engine growls somewhere beyond the overpass. Joel straightens. Headlights appear through the trees, moving quickly toward him. He shoulders the rifle but keeps the radio close.

“Hide me, babe…”

Your eyes close. His voice trembles.

“Hide me, babe.”

The final words fade into static. For one suspended moment, neither of you speaks. Then Joel presses the radio closer.

“You stay alive,” he says. “I’m comin’ for you.”

“Joel—”

“You hear me? You stay—”

You lower the pistol. Only an inch.

Clouser’s eyes snap toward the nearest soldier. The blow strikes your wrist before you see it coming. The pistol flies from your hand and skids beneath the steel cabinet. Another soldier drives you back against the bed as the radio is torn away from your mouth.

“Kat?”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

“Kat! Fuck!”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

The approaching vehicle stops across the road. Doors open, and armed figures spill into the rain.

Joel barely looks at them.

He shoves the radio against his belt and turns for the truck. If the road south is blocked, he will drive through them. Around them. Over them. Whatever it takes to get back to the hospital.

His hand closes around the driver’s door. A gunshot cracks through the rain. The bullet punches through the metal inches from his fingers, throwing sparks across the side of the truck. Joel jerks back and raises the rifle in the same movement.

A young woman steps out from behind the headlights, her hair pulled tightly away from a face hollowed by exhaustion. A pistol hangs steady in her outstretched hand, smoke curling faintly from the barrel.

“Joel Miller!” 

Joel settles the rifle over her chest. She stares at him as though she has spent years imagining this exact moment. “I’m Abby.”

Joel gives her a brief, impatient look. “That supposed to mean somethin’?”

A man emerges near the other headlight, moving toward Joel’s right with a rifle raised. Abby glances toward him. Manny keeps his sights on Joel. “It’s him.”

Joel sees what they are doing. Abby holds his attention while Manny moves wide enough to catch him from the side. Their truck blocks the road south.

Back to the hospital.

Back to you.

“Looks like you know me, congrats,” Joel says. “I don’t know either of you. Move the truck.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Joel’s eyes flick toward the silent radio at his belt. “Then say whatever you came to say.”

Abby stops several yards away. “Where was the last place you saw the Fireflies?”

The question settles differently. Joel looks at her properly now. “Salt Lake.”

“Saint Mary’s Hospital.” Her grip tightens around the pistol. “Do you know how many people you killed that day?”

Joel says nothing. He has thought about that hospital during the year since he left it. The corridors. Marlene in the garage. The bodies he stepped over with Ellie unconscious in his arms.

Sometimes, in the quietest part of the night, he has wondered whether there had been another way.

He has never regretted the one he chose.

“The doctor,” Abby continues. “You shot him in the head.” Joel remembers the man raising the scalpel after being warned to step aside. The body falling beside the operating table. “He was my dad!”

Joel’s attention drifts past her toward the road. Clouser may already have taken the gun from you. You could be strapped back onto that bed, another needle in your arm, your blood filling his tubes while you lie there unable to fight.

The last thing Joel heard was your voice disappearing into static.

He cannot stand here answering for a dead man. “If you came for an apology, you ain’t gettin’ one.”

Abby raises her pistol. Manny’s rifle follows. “Put the gun down,” she says.

Joel’s voice cuts through hers. “You want me, fine. But you’re standin’ in my way.” 

“What’s the hurry?” Abby asks. “Another hospital to tear apart?” Joel’s expression changes. She sees it. “The other immune girl,” Abby says. “That’s where you’re going.”

“If I have to.”

“She threatened to kill herself for you.” Something bitter twists at the corner of Abby’s mouth. “Clouser’s probably got her back on the table already.”

Joel settles the rifle directly over her chest. “Last warning.”

Manny takes another step sideways. Joel shifts the barrel toward him without looking away from Abby.

“Don’t.”

Manny stops. “You think you can take both of us, you stupid old man?”

Abby does not flinch. “You don’t get to walk away from me. I’ve carried you for a year.” Her voice begins to shake. “You don’t get a quick death.”

Joel glances once toward the hospital road, then back at her. “You talk too damn much.”

He fires.

The bullet destroys the headlight beside Abby. Glass bursts across the road as she dives behind the truck. Manny opens fire.

Joel drops behind the transport vehicle. Rounds tear through the rear doors and hammer against the frame. He lands on his injured side, rolls and drags his pack from the open cab.

The radio crackles at his belt. “Kat?”

A bullet shatters the mirror above his head. Joel ducks as fragments scatter across his shoulders.

Manny moves along the far side of the road while Abby keeps Joel pinned behind the engine block. They know how to work together.

Joel checks the rifle.

Half a magazine.

Enough.

He fires beneath the truck, forcing Manny back, then punches a second round through the panel beside Abby. Before either of them can recover, he moves.

Joel comes around the hood and drives the rifle stock across Manny’s mouth. Manny answers by slamming his weapon into Joel’s ribs. Pain folds through Joel’s side.

“You’re dead, motherfucker,” Manny spits through the blood.

Joel answers with his forehead. Bone cracks.

Manny staggers back, cursing in Spanish. Abby strikes Joel from behind and drives him into the truck hard enough to tear the rifle from his hands.

Her fist catches him beneath the jaw. Joel answers with an elbow that snaps her head sideways. Abby comes back immediately.

He catches her gun hand and smashes it against the side of the truck.

Once.

Twice.

The pistol drops.

“You took everything from me!”

Joel shoves her away. Abby drives her knee into his stomach and throws him onto the road. The radio tears loose from his belt and skids across the asphalt.

She kicks it beyond his reach, plants her boot against his chest and draws a knife.

Every second he spends here belongs to Clouser. Joel’s fingers search blindly among the shattered headlight glass.

“Somethin’ happens to her because you kept me here,” he says, “we’ll see who joins your daddy first.”

His hand closes around a jagged piece of glass. He drives it into her thigh.

Abby screams and recoils. Joel catches her ankle and tears her feet from beneath her.

Manny raises his rifle. “Abby!”

A high-powered shot cracks across the road. Manny’s head jerks sideways. For a fraction of a second, he remains standing. Then he collapses beside the truck, blood spraying across Abby’s face.

She stares at him. “Manny?”

Another shot tears into the road beside her.

Sniper.

Joel knows the report of that rifle. He looks toward the fractured walkway overlooking the road.

“Tommy?”

Tommy stands behind a broken concrete barrier, rifle braced against his shoulder.

“Get the hell off my brother!”

Abby looks from Manny’s body to Joel. Whatever control remained in her disappears.

She launches herself at him.

They hit the ground together. Her hands close around Joel’s throat, thumbs driving beneath his jaw.

“You killed him!”

Joel grips one wrist, but the other tightens. Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. “Had enough of you,” he forces out.

Tommy fires, but Abby and Joel roll against the truck before he can find a clean angle. The round buries itself in the metal beside them. “Goddammit, Joel!”

Abby tears the knife from her belt. Joel catches her wrist with both hands, the blade trembling inches above his throat.

“You should’ve died in that hospital!”

She forces it lower. The edge slices across Joel’s side.

Then a boot drives into Abby’s ribs.

Tommy steps between them and brings the stock of his rifle across her face.

“Stay down!”

Abby spits blood and tackles him into the truck. Joel forces himself upright and catches her from behind before she can drive the knife into Tommy’s stomach.

She fights them without any concern for what breaks—clawing at Joel, kicking blindly at Tommy, reaching desperately toward Manny’s body.

“You fucking murderer!” she screams. “You shot him and walked away!”

Joel forces her to the ground and traps one arm beneath his knee. Tommy pins the other against the road. Still, Abby strains beneath them, Manny’s blood smeared across her face.

“You took him from me.”

Joel draws his revolver and aims between her eyes.

For the first time, Abby stops fighting. Her chest rises and falls beneath them as she looks directly into the barrel.

“Do it.”

Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.

“Come on,” she says, louder now. “Kill me like you killed my father.”

Joel says nothing.

“Look at me!” Abby bucks beneath them, her voice breaking into a scream. “Look at me and fucking do it!”

Joel looks down at her. For one brief second, he does not see the knife that opened his side or the woman who came here to torture him. He sees grief left too long without anywhere to go. A child who built everything she became around the moment someone took her father away.

His finger remains still.

Abby sees it. “What?” she spits. “You could do it to him, but not me?”

“Shut the fuck—” Tommy tightens his hold.

“Come on, you fucking coward! Do it!”

Joel still does not fire.

Not in that single second.

Something vicious twists across Abby’s face.

“Fine.”

Her free hand tears loose and disappears beneath Manny’s body. Her fingers close around his pistol.

“I’ll do it myself.”

She swings the weapon toward Joel.

Tommy fires.

The shot tears through Abby’s back. Her body jerks beneath Joel, and Manny’s pistol discharges into the road, the bullet passing close enough for him to feel it cut the air beside his face.

Abby tries to raise the weapon again. Her arm trembles, refusing to obey. The pistol slips from her fingers and lands beside Manny’s hand.

She stares up at Joel, fury fighting against the shock in her eyes. Her mouth moves, but only a wet breath escapes. “Damn you…” Then she goes still.

Joel keeps the revolver trained between her eyes for several seconds. Finally, he lowers it and pushes himself away.

Tommy looks from Abby to Manny. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Joel retrieves his rifle and looks at Abby once. There is no satisfaction in his face. No relief. Only time lost. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Followed the Wolves after they moved you from the hospital.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” Joel’s eyes narrow. “Why are you even in Seattle?”

“Ellie wouldn’t let it go. Kept saying something was wrong—that you wouldn’t stay quiet this long unless you were dead or in trouble.”

“The kid was right.”

“Usually is. Annoying as hell, but right.”

Joel studies his brother. “You left your boy and came all the way out here?”

“He’s with his mama. Safest place he could be.”

“Maria know you’re here?”

Tommy looks down while gathering ammunition from Manny’s rifle. His silence is answer enough.

“You’re a damn idiot.”

“Says the man I just pulled out from under two Fireflies.” Tommy catches Joel by the shoulder. “Hold still. You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

“Mine ain’t pouring out.”

“Tommy.”

Something in Joel’s voice strips the humour from his brother’s face. “They have her.”

Tommy looks toward the hospital beyond the ruined streets.

“In there?”

“Clouser’s got her. Last I heard, she had a gun against her own head.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She did it for me.” Joel looks down at the silent radio. “Made them let me go. Then the line went dead.”

Tommy studies his face. “You two are dangerously fuckin’ alike.”

“She’s worse.”

Joel reaches for the driver’s door, but pain locks through his side. Tommy takes the keys from his hand. “I’m driving.”

“I can drive.”

“You can bleed and shoot. Pick two.” Joel glares at him. Tommy opens the passenger door. “Get in before your stubborn ass falls over.”

Joel climbs inside with the rifle across his knees. Tommy starts the engine while Joel picks up the radio. Static answers. He changes the frequency. Nothing. His hand tightens around the device.

Tommy glances toward him. “She’s strong, Joel.”

The radio erupts in a burst of overlapping voices.

“—all available units return to the hospital.”

Gunfire rattles through the channel.

“Medical personnel are armed. We’ve lost the east wing. Lower containment access has been compromised!”

Another voice breaks through the static.

“Reinforcements to the laboratory entrance!”

“Fall back! Fall—”

A burst of automatic fire drowns out the rest.

Joel’s head snaps toward Tommy. “We need to find her before the whole damn place comes down.”

Tommy slams the vehicle into gear.

“Then let’s go get her.”

The fighting draws them toward the rear of the hospital. Joel and Tommy move through the narrow lane behind the loading docks, keeping close to the concrete wall while gunfire tears through the floors above them. Emergency lights pulse behind shattered windows. Somewhere inside, men shout conflicting orders over the alarms. Tommy reaches the service entrance first. He tries the handle, finds it locked and steps aside. Joel fires once into the mechanism.

“Subtle,” Tommy mutters.

“Ain’t got time for subtle.” They slip inside. The service corridor smells of bleach, smoke and hot electrical wiring. Bodies lie beneath the emergency lights—Wolves, doctors, people in blood-soaked scrubs. Joel barely looks at them.

“Lower level should connect to the east wing,” Tommy says. Joel is already moving. They descend through a concrete stairwell while the battle continues above them. The gunfire becomes muffled underground, replaced by the pounding of boots and the mechanical groan of failing ventilation. The door at the bottom bursts open.

Two armed men rush into the corridor, firing behind them. A third figure follows between them, still wearing a bloodstained surgical gown beneath his coat. In one hand he carries an insulated case marked with a faded biohazard symbol. William and several armed members of his staff appear at the opposite end of the corridor. Gunfire erupts. One of Clouser’s guards goes down immediately. The second dives behind a medical cart and returns fire while Clouser turns toward the service exit. Then he sees Joel. For the first time, surprise breaks through his composure. Joel recognises the voice before the face.

“Tommy—that’s him!” Tommy fires at the remaining guard, forcing him behind cover. “Go!” Joel charges. Clouser tries to turn, but Joel reaches him before he takes two steps. He strikes him across the mouth and drives him into the wall. The insulated case flies from Clouser’s hand, hits the floor and springs open. Rows of glass vials rattle inside fitted foam. Some contain dark, fibrous material. Others hold clear or pale amber fluid packed between melting cold packs. Clouser looks toward the case. Joel hits him again. Clouser drops to one knee. Joel catches him by the front of the gown, hauls him upright and slams him against the wall. “Where is she?”

Clouser coughs, blood running over his lower lip. Joel shakes him hard enough to strike his skull against the tile. “Where the fuck is she?” 

Clouser looks into his face and smiles. “You’re late.”

Something in Joel breaks. His fist catches Clouser beneath the cheekbone. Once. Then again. Clouser folds toward the floor, but Joel keeps hold of him. “Joel!” Tommy’s warning cuts through the corridor. William and three members of his staff have reached them. Their weapons are raised. Tommy stands between the two groups, rifle trained on William while William’s people aim back at him.

“Everybody hold,” William orders. No one lowers a weapon. William’s eyes move past Tommy and settle on Joel. His expression changes.

“You’re Joel.” Joel knows that face. Charcoal smudged across old pages. A man drawn from memory again and again, sometimes with glasses, sometimes without. A name written beneath one unfinished portrait in your careful handwriting.

 William.

Joel releases Clouser and steps toward him. “Where is she?”

“Procedure Room Seven.”

“Tell me she’s all right.”

“She is alive.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” 

Clouser laughs weakly from the floor, wipes blood from his mouth. “Listen to him, Joel. He knows what you’re about to find.”

 Joel starts forward. William holds him back.

“You still need me,” Clouser says. William releases Joel and turns. Clouser looks toward the open case. “The serum is there. Daniel can still be stabilised. The others too, if you stop this now.”

“Yeah?” William reaches into his coat. “I got something for you, you piece of shit,” A sealed syringe appears in his hand. Dark fungal material drifts through cloudy fluid. Clouser’s face drains of colour.

Joel looks between them. “What’s that?”

“A concentrated strain engineered to invade neural tissue quickly,” William says. His eyes remain on Clouser. “His strain.”  

“Cordyceps,” Tommy mutters.

William gives a grim nod. “Modified to spread faster and cross into neural tissue more efficiently than anything found outside this building.”

Clouser begins backing away. “You cannot do this.” 

William kneels in front of him.

“Daniel is alive because of me,” Clouser says.

“Daniel is infected because of you.”

“I gave you proof! Her blood is working. Everything we did brought us here.” William catches him by the jaw and forces his head to the side. Clouser’s composure shatters. “William, listen to me. We can still finish this. We can save him. We can save all of them.” William drives the needle in. Clouser screams. He claws at William’s wrist, but Joel plants a boot against his chest and holds him to the floor while William forces the dark suspension into his bloodstream. Clouser convulses beneath them. The syringe empties. William withdraws the needle. “Death would be mercy.” 

Clouser clamps both hands over the puncture. “The serum. I need it now!” William rises. Clouser scrambles after him on his knees. “William!”  William looks toward two of his men. “Take him downstairs.” They seize Clouser beneath the arms. He fights immediately.

“No! Not the lower ward.”

“Put him in isolation with the subjects he abandoned.” Clouser digs his heels against the floor as they drag him toward the reinforced stairwell.

“You still need me! You don’t understand the protocol!” William closes the insulated case.

“I understand enough.” The stairwell door closes over Clouser’s screams. Tommy watches it shut. “Hell of a way to test his own work.” Joel does not respond. He catches William by the coat.

“Kat…Why’d he say I was late?” 

William hesitates. “She’s sedated.” 

Joel’s grip tightens. “She’s what?”

“We found her restrained in the procedure room. Clouser had begun serial blood collection and was preparing a marrow extraction. Her shoulder had reopened, and she was fighting hard enough to worsen the bleeding.”

“What did you give her?”

“A controlled sedative. She is breathing on her own.”

“Take me to her. Now.”

 William looks toward the people lining the corridor. “Lower your weapons,” he tells them. “It’s over.” Slowly, rifles descend. The last bursts of gunfire above them fade into isolated shots. William takes the case and leads them upstairs. They move through the remains of the revolt. Bodies lie between overturned carts and broken glass. Some wear WLF armour. Others wear lab coats or scrubs darkened with blood. A doctor steps into William’s path. “What about the treatment?”

“Secure the laboratory. Put the samples in cold storage.”

“There isn’t enough,” the doctor says. “Not for the entire ward.” William’s pace falters. Only once. 

Joel notices. “How much did you take from her?”  William does not answer. Joel grabs his shoulder and turns him. “How much?”

“I stopped the marrow procedure and treated the injury.”

“But you kept takin’ her blood.” 

William meets his eyes. “Yes.”

Joel nearly strikes him. Tommy steps close enough to intervene, but William turns and continues toward the east wing. Joel follows because you are ahead of him. Because every second spent hitting William is another second before he sees you. 

The third-floor corridor is quieter than the rest of the hospital. Emergency lights stain the walls red. William stops outside a reinforced door. Joel reaches past him and throws it open. Then he stops. His mind rejects what his eyes show him. For one fractured second, the room refuses to make sense. There is only white light, hanging tubes and the slow pulse of machines. Then the shapes become you.

You lie beneath the adjustable lamp, so still that the bed appears to have been arranged around a body rather than a living person. Your shirt has been cut open across the shoulder and chest. Adhesive electrodes cover your skin, thin wires trailing from them into monitors. Another set disappears beneath your hair near your temple. One arm is extended on a narrow support. A dark line leaves the vein inside your elbow and travels through a collection chamber before descending into a nearly full blood bag. Drops fall into it one at a time. Slow. Steady. Your other arm carries an intravenous line feeding clear fluid back into you. Fresh bandages cover your shoulder and the place near your hip where someone had prepared the marrow site. Bruises circle your wrists. Your lips have lost their colour. Three filled collection bags hang beside the bed. 

You look dead.

Joel’s body understands the sight before his mind does. Every muscle locks. His breath catches beneath his ribs and refuses to rise. The white walls blur as an older terror takes their place. A small body heavy in his arms. Blood soaking through his shirt and running hot between his fingers. Sarah looking up at him without understanding why he cannot make the pain stop. 

No. No, baby girl. Look at me. Stay with me. 

Then Ellie beneath the lights in Salt Lake City. Unconscious on another hospital bed, her skin cold beneath his hands when he lifted her from the operating table. And now you. Still beneath the same merciless white light. 

Too late. 

The thought tears through him. He failed you. His chest clamps shut. His heart strikes once, violently, then stumbles into a frantic rhythm. Joel tries to move toward the bed, but his legs no longer seem connected to him.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice reaches him through water. Joel presses a hand against his chest, trying to force air into lungs that will not open. Tommy catches his arm.

“Joel. Hey—look at me.” 

Joel cannot.

“She’s breathing,” Tommy says. “You hear me? She’s breathing.” The words are the only thing keeping the room from becoming another grave. Tommy points toward the monitor. “Look.” A green line moves across the screen. A pulse. Joel stares at it. Then the line rises again. 

You are alive.

He forces one foot forward. Then the other. By the time he reaches the bed, his entire body is shaking. Joel touches your face. Your skin is cool beneath his palm. Not cold. Not cold. His fingers slide to the side of your neck, searching desperately for the beat beneath your skin. He does not trust the monitor. He does not trust William or the machines or anyone standing in that room. He trusts only what he can feel. There. Weak but steady. The breath that leaves him sounds almost like a sob. 

Come on, darlin’. 

The words form inside him, but his throat has closed around them. Your eyelids do not move. Joel brushes his thumb beneath your eye and follows the bruising along your cheek. His gaze moves down to the tape, the wires, the line disappearing into your arm. He watches your blood travel through the tubing. Another dark drop falls into the collection bag. Something hot runs down his face. He does not realise he is crying until it reaches his jaw. Joel reaches for the line. William catches his wrist.

“Don’t.” Joel turns toward him. His eyes are wet, but the grief inside them has sharpened into something lethal.

“Take it out.”

“The collection is almost complete.”

Joel draws his revolver and drives the barrel beneath William’s chin.

“I said take it out.” 

Tommy moves beside him, one hand closing around Joel’s shoulder. William slowly raises both hands. “If you pull the catheter without clamping it, you could rupture the vein.”

“Then clamp it.”

“We need the final volume.” 

Joel’s voice breaks as it rises. “Stop taking her fucking blood!” The assistants beside the monitors freeze.

“Listen to me,” William says.

“NO!”

“Joel—”

“You’re William, ain’t you?” The question catches him. Joel presses the barrel harder beneath his jaw. “She drew your face. Wrote your name under it.” William says nothing. “She called herself Kat in. Your daughter’s name.” Joel’s voice trembles with rage. “She wanted you to be the closest thing she ever had to a father. This how you treated her?”

“This is not about her.”

Joel surges forward, forcing William back against the wall. “Everything in this fucking room is about her!”

William looks toward the revolver. “Taking her away will not change what is happening inside her. There may be very little anyone can do for her now.”

Joel pulls back the hammer. “What the—?”

“Joel,” Tommy says quietly. Joel does not look away from William. Tommy studies the filled blood bags and the scans glowing on the wall.

“Hear him out,” he says. “Then we take her.” Joel glances at his brother. For a moment, they are boys again, exchanging an entire decision without speaking. Tommy’s face tells him everything he needs to know. The explanation will not change what happens next. William sees it too.

“Three minutes,” Joel says. “Waste one and you’re done.”

 William turns carefully toward the screen. Two images of your brain glow beside each other. One old. One recent. “The first scan was taken ten years ago. The second was taken today.” Joel sees the pale branching mass inside your skull. In the newer image, it has spread far beyond its original boundaries.

“That’s the infection?”

“It is Cordyceps, but it does not behave like a conventional infection.” William points toward the older scan. “Her exposure began before she was born. Her mother was bitten late in pregnancy, and a damaged form of the organism reached her while her immune system was still developing.” Tommy studies the image. “So her body thought it belonged there.”

“Not exactly. It learned to tolerate one altered colony while recognising later strains as foreign. The original growth established itself in her brain without taking control. Every bite and every concentration of spores introduced a competing strain, forcing the colony to adapt.”

“And it grew,” Joel says.

“Yes.” William points toward the newer scan.

“It produces compounds that prevent new Cordyceps from replicating. Her blood carries part of that response. We infused a small sample into Daniel.” His voice catches.

“My son.” William draws a breath. “His fever fell. The infection began to recede within minutes.” Tommy looks toward the filled bags. “And you think it can cure the others.”

“It can stabilise them. If we isolate what is active in her blood, we may be able to reproduce it without taking more from her.” 

Joel keeps the revolver raised. “At what cost?”

“The thing protecting her is also destroying her!”

Joel’s face empties. “What are you sayin’?”

“The organism maintains control by expanding. Every new exposure causes more growth, inflammation and pressure on the surrounding tissue. I cannot tell you when the balance will fail. It may take years. It may happen sooner if she suffers another bite or prolonged spore exposure.”

“No.” Joel says it quietly.

“I wish I were wrong.”

Joel forces the barrel harder beneath William’s chin. “So you figure she’s dyin’ anyway.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you’re sayin’.”

“I am saying her blood can save people now. Sixteen patients are dying downstairs. Children. Parents.” William’s voice fractures. “My son.” Joel looks toward the nearly full collection bag. “Look, I love her too,” William says. Joel’s eyes snap toward him. William does not retreat. “I remember the day she was born. I watched her take her first breath. I was there when the first scans showed us what had happened inside her. I remember the first time she asked me to call her Kat instead of her own name. I knew whose name she had chosen. I knew what she was asking me to be, even if neither of us could say it aloud.” His gaze moves toward your face. “I brought her books. I sat beside her through the fevers. Every time Clouser looked at her and saw an answer, I tried to make sure someone still saw a child.” His eyes shine. “When she escaped, part of me was terrified for her. Another part was relieved she had gotten away from us.” For the first time, shame breaks through his composure.

“I would not choose this if there were another way. What we collected may stabilise three or four people. The final volume may be enough to begin producing a treatment that does not require her.” He looks toward the blood bags.

“If we stop now, people who could have lived will die.”

Joel looks at you. The wires. The bruises. The blood leaving your body one drop at a time. Then he looks at Tommy. No words pass between them, but the answer moves easily through the silence. Tommy’s jaw sets. His rifle shifts toward the assistants beside the monitors.

Joel turns back to William.

“Don’t care.”

William stares at him. “What?”

“I don’t care about your patients. Don’t care about your cure. Don’t care what happens to this whole goddamn world. If she’s got years, they’re hers. If she’s got a week, that’s hers too.” His voice grows quieter. “You don’t get to spend what’s left of her life like it belongs to everybody else.”

“People will die.”

“People always die.” Joel’s eyes return to William. “She ain’t dyin’ for them.” 

William’s expression fills with grief. Joel does not lower the gun.

“I know what you did in Salt Lake,” William says quietly. “You’re really going to do it again?”

Joel’s eyes sharpen, he does not blink. “Unhook her.”

“You heard him. Clamp the line.”

William remains still. Joel’s finger settles against the trigger. William holds Joel’s gaze for another second. Then he gives one of the assistants a small nod. The woman moves toward the bed with both hands visible. Tommy follows her with the barrel of his rifle.“Slow,” he warns. She closes the clamp above the catheter and peels the tape from your arm. Her fingers tremble badly enough that the adhesive slips twice.

“Keep pressure above the vein,” William says. The catheter slides free. A thin line of blood wells from the puncture before the assistant presses gauze against it and wraps your arm. Tommy gestures toward the remaining wires.

“All of it.”

She disconnects the monitor leads one by one. The green line vanishes from the screen. An alarm changes to a single continuous tone that drives through Joel’s skull. Your chest still rises. That is all he watches. Tommy keeps the others covered while Joel holsters his revolver and pulls off his jacket. 

Only then does he see what they have done to the rest of you. Your trousers have been removed for the marrow procedure. A hospital sheet lies twisted beneath one leg, leaving bruised skin and the bandaged site near your hip exposed beneath the surgical light. Joel’s face hardens. He lays his jacket over you carefully, covering you from your chest to below your knees. He draws the sides together and tucks the heavy fabric beneath you so it cannot fall open when he lifts you. His hand pauses against your cheek. Still cool. Still breathing. 

All of sudden, William moves. 

The sound of the pistol clearing his coat is almost nothing. Tommy turns, but William already has the weapon aimed at Joel’s back. Joel becomes still beside the bed. William holds the gun in both hands, tears shining in his eyes. “I cannot allow you to carry her out of this room.”

Tommy swings his rifle toward him. “Put it down.” 

William does not look at him. “Sixteen people are dying downstairs. Her blood is the first real chance we have ever had. If you take her now, everything we sacrificed becomes meaningless.” 

Joel slowly turns.

William’s pistol trembles. 

Joel fires first.

The bullet enters the centre of William’s forehead. His pistol discharges into the ceiling as his body strikes the wall and folds to the floor beneath the glowing scans. For half a second, no one in the room breathes. The assistants recoil and scream.

One reaches toward the alarm panel. 

Another dives for William’s fallen pistol. 

Tommy fires.

The first assistant falls against the monitor. The second collapses before his fingers reach the gun. The remaining two freeze against the wall. Outside, voices erupt.

“That came from Procedure Seven!”

“Security to the east wing!”

Boots thunder toward the room. Joel turns to Tommy.

“Tommy. Help me.” 

Tommy sees what has settled into his brother’s face. Not rage anymore. Something quieter. Something far worse. He has seen that darkness before—after Sarah, during the years when survival meant doing things neither of them ever named afterward. He also knows Joel cannot carry another hospital out alone.

Tommy crosses to the door and tears the privacy curtain from its track. Joel bends over you. He slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders. 

Your head rolls weakly toward him as he lifts you from the bed. “Easy,” he whispers, though you cannot hear him. “I got you, baby. I got you.” He gathers you tightly against his chest. Your face settles against his neck. Your hair brushes his mouth, carrying the faintest trace of rain and smoke beneath the antiseptic. Joel closes his eyes for one brief second.

There you are. Still breathing. Faintly. Barely.

But you are breathing.

And if keeping that breath inside you meant killing every last person left in this world, Joel would do it without hesitation.

Gunfire erupts beyond the curtain. He shifts you higher, keeping the jacket wrapped firmly around your body. His revolver rests beneath your bent knees, secured between his forearm and your weight. The curtain jerks aside. Tommy appears through the smoke, blood freckling one side of his face. “Come on.” 

Joel follows. Two guards lie in the corridor. One still moves, fingers dragging toward his rifle. Tommy fires once without slowing.

“Left side’s clear. Stairwell ain’t.”

Shouts echo from both ends of the hall.

“They’ve got the girl!”

“They’re taking her!”

“Do not shoot the subject! She has to stay alive!”

Joel’s arms tighten around you.

Subject.

Tommy glances over his shoulder and sees the change in his brother’s face. “Keep behind me.” They move. Tommy leads with his rifle raised. Joel stays close, keeping your head tucked beneath his chin.

A soldier steps from a side room and aims at Tommy. He sees you in Joel’s arms, and the barrel wavers. “Put her down!”

Tommy shoots him through the chest.

More boots pound ahead. “Down!”

Tommy shouts. 

Joel drops to one knee and curls himself over you. Gunfire tears through the corridor. Bullets punch into the wall above his head, showering his back with plaster. Tommy fires over him in controlled bursts until his rifle clicks empty.

“Shit.” He ducks behind an overturned cart and reaches for another magazine.

A soldier advances through the smoke. Joel lowers you carefully behind the cart, keeping one hand beneath your head until it rests against his folded jacket. He draws the revolver and fires twice. The first round catches the soldier in the shoulder. The second takes him beneath the eye. Joel is back beside you before the body reaches the floor.

Tommy slams in a fresh magazine. “Got her?” 

Joel gathers you into his arms again. “Move.” 

They reach the intersection leading toward the stairwell. A group waits beyond it—Wolves in body armour, hospital security and two doctors holding pistols with hands that shake too badly to aim properly. Behind them stand nurses and frightened civilians who have emerged from the patient wards. A woman grips a photograph against her chest. A man beside her is crying. One of the doctors sees the jacket wrapped around you. “You can’t take her.” 

Tommy keeps his rifle level. “Get outta the way.”

“My wife is downstairs,” the doctor says. “William said her blood was working.” Joel does not stop. The doctor raises his weapon. “She can save them.”

Joel’s face does not change. “She ain’t savin’ anybody.”

He fires before the doctor can pull the trigger. The bullet catches him in the chest and throws him backward into the people behind him. Joel steps over the spreading blood without looking down, holding you tighter against him as he keeps moving.

Someone behind the doctor shouts, “Shoot them!” The corridor erupts. People scream and scatter into the patient rooms. Tommy fires toward the armed men while Joel turns sideways, placing his body between you and the bullets.

“Stay down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel lowers you behind the reception counter, one hand protecting the back of your skull. He rises over the edge and fires until the weapons across the corridor fall silent. He checks you immediately. Your breathing remains shallow but even. “I’m gettin’ you outta here, darlin’.” A bullet tears through the counter. Tommy grabs the back of Joel’s shirt and pulls him lower.

“Gotta move.” 

Joel’s cylinder is nearly empty. Tommy points toward a dead Wolf beside a gurney. “Take his.” Joel drags the rifle toward him, checks the chamber and strips two magazines from the man’s vest.

“Now!” Tommy shouts. Joel lifts you again, and they run bent low through the smoke. A nurse presses herself against the wall as they pass. She stares at your limp hand hanging beyond the edge of Joel’s jacket.

“Please,” she whispers. Joel hears her. He does not look back. The stairwell doors are twenty feet ahead when another squad pours from the adjoining corridor. Tommy fires first. The lead soldier drops. The others spread behind pillars and return fire in short, disciplined bursts. Joel and Tommy retreat behind a concrete support.

“We’re pinned,” Tommy says. Joel looks down at you. A smear of blood has appeared along the bandage at your arm. The darkness in his eyes deepens. Tommy recognises it.

“No. You hold her. I got this.” He searches the vest of a dead Wolf and finds a smoke grenade. He pulls the pin and throws it. Thick white smoke pours into the corridor.

“Can’t see them!”

“Watch your fire! The girl’s with them!” 

Tommy steps into the haze. His rifle flashes in the white smoke. One body falls. Then another. Joel follows the sound of his brother’s shots, holding you tightly enough to feel each shallow breath against his chest. A shape emerges only a few feet away. A soldier sees Joel and raises his weapon. Then he sees you. He hesitates. Joel does not. The rifle bucks once against his shoulder, and the soldier disappears into the haze.

“Joel!” Tommy calls. “This way!” A hand catches the back of Joel’s shirt. He turns and drives the rifle stock into a guard’s face, kicks his knee sideways and fires before the man can reach his pistol. The recoil tears through Joel’s wounded side. His vision darkens. He nearly drops to one knee. Tommy catches his arm. “Stay with me.”

 Joel adjusts you against his chest. “’M fine.”

“Keep movin’.”

They enter the stairwell and start down. Gunfire follows them through the door, rounds striking the concrete wall. At the next landing, two guards rush up from below. Tommy shoots one, but his magazine empties before he reaches the second. Joel lowers himself onto the step, braces you against his thighs and fires from beneath your knees. The guard tumbles backward down the stairs. Tommy takes the fallen man’s carbine. By the time they reach the ground floor, a mechanical voice is ordering all personnel to evacuate. Smoke leaks through the ventilation system. The lobby is full of armed men. A barricade of overturned desks and medical carts blocks the main exit. Beyond it, hospital security and surviving Wolves wait with rifles trained on the stairwell.

“Put the immune subject down and surrender!”

Joel steps behind the concrete wall. Tommy looks across the lobby. “Too many.”

 Joel studies the emergency exit map beside them. “Loading dock’s west. Hall’s exposed. Got another idea?” 

Tommy searches the pouches on the fallen guard’s vest and finds a fragmentation grenade. “Yeah.”

Joel sees it. “Do it.” 

Tommy pulls the pin. “When it goes, stay on me.” Joel looks down at your face. Then nods. Tommy throws the grenade over the barricade.

“Grenade!” 

The explosion tears through the far side of the lobby. Glass bursts inward, followed by smoke, dust and falling debris. Tommy moves before the echoes fade.

“Go!” 

He runs low across the lobby, firing into the shapes rising behind the barricade. Joel follows directly behind him with you in his arms. A soldier aims from behind the reception desk. Tommy shoots him. Another appears beside the elevator. Joel shifts you against his left side, draws the revolver and fires across your covered legs. The man falls against the closing doors. Joel secures both arms around you again without breaking stride.

“West hall!” 

Tommy shouts. The loading corridor stretches ahead beneath flickering red lights. The service door at the far end stands partly open, cold daylight cutting through the smoke. Three guards move to block it. Tommy fires until the carbine clicks empty. Two fall. The third dives behind a supply cart. Joel lowers you behind a concrete pillar, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Stay here.” 

He knows you cannot answer. Still, the words leave him like a promise. Joel rounds the pillar with the captured rifle. The guard fires first, the round grazing Joel’s upper arm. Joel barely reacts. He walks through the pain and fires until the guard stops moving. Tommy reaches the door and waves him forward.

“Clear!” 

Joel drops the rifle and returns to you. He gathers you back into his arms, drawing your face beneath his chin.

“Got ya.” He carries you through the service exit. Rain strikes his face. The loading yard is scattered with abandoned vehicles, bodies and discarded weapons. Gunfire continues behind them as more security teams pour toward the west wing. Tommy points toward an armoured utility vehicle near the gate.

“There!” 

They run. Joel’s wounded side tears wider with every step. Blood warms the inside of his shirt. His vision pulses black, clearing only when he looks down and sees your face. Tommy reaches the driver’s side and shoots out the damaged lock. He climbs inside and leans across to open the rear door.

“Get her in!”

Joel climbs into the back without releasing you. He sits sideways across the seat and pulls you into his lap, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Your head rests over his heart. Tommy starts the engine. Rounds strike the rear of the vehicle.

“Hold on!” 

He slams it into gear and drives through the loading-yard barrier. The metal gate folds beneath the front bumper as gunfire follows them onto the road. Tommy accelerates toward the southern edge of Seattle. Behind them, smoke pours from the shattered windows of the hospital. Flames flicker in one of the upper corridors, half hidden beneath the rain. Joel does not look back. He adjusts the jacket around your legs and pulls you closer until there is no space between your body and his. His hand remains against the side of your neck, feeling every pulse beneath his fingers.

Weak. Steady. Still there.

“Don’t you dare leave me, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his voice cracking despite the warning in it. “Y’hear me? Y’stay with me.” 

Tommy watches them through the rear-view mirror.

Joel’s face is streaked with blood and tears. You lie motionless against him, wrapped in his jacket, one bare foot visible beneath the dark fabric. His brother holds you with the same desperate strength Tommy remembers from another night, another ruined city, another person bleeding in Joel’s arms. Only this time, they had gotten to you before it was too late. 

They had pulled you from that cursed hospital bed. Carried you through the gunfire. Gotten you out alive. For now, that was enough. 

Neither brother speaks of the scans or the pale growth spreading through your brain. Whether you have years left or weeks—whether the thing inside you will eventually take you from them—belongs to another day. Until they are beyond Seattle’s borders, only one truth matters. They saved you. Tommy faces the road. The hospital shrinks behind them, leaving smoke, shattered glass and bodies in their wake.

He presses harder on the accelerator and drives toward the gates of Seattle.

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[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader

11 - The Woman He Saved from the World

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Summary: You find yourself locked inside that goddamn hospital with no real way out, while your father is ready to cut you open if it means saving his cure. Joel may be the only man ruthless enough to get you out alive—but first, he has to survive Abby. Chapter W.C and Warnings: 14.6k ⚠️This chapter contains significantly darker, more disturbing and emotionally intense material than previous chapters. Read warnings at your own risk if you want to avoid spoilers... HEAVY ANGST, graphic violence, extreme blood and gore, gun violence, shootings, stabbing, execution-style killing, multiple character deaths, Abby and Joel confrontation, serious injuries, open wounds, heavy bleeding, panic attacks, PTSD, trauma flashbacks, Joel reliving past losses, Joel believing Reader is dead, non-consensual medical procedures, forced blood extraction, attempted bone marrow extraction, needles and injections, Cordyceps experimentation, infected test subjects, body horror, terminal illness implications, discussion of Reader’s possible death, hospital uprising, morally gray choices, morally gray everyone, discussion of a cure, Joel choosing Reader over other lives, William and Joel confrontation, protective/possessive Joel, Joel and Tommy fighting together to save reader, protective Tommy, execution of medical staff, helplessness, hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, Joel carrying Reader through gunfire. A/N: I cried so much while writing this chapter. I felt everything Joel was going through so deeply, and honestly, parts of it were incredibly difficult to put into words. I really hope you enjoy it, and I’m sorry it took me this long to finish. Thank you for being patient with me. ❤️ Chapter's Song: Agnes Obel — The Curse. “And their hope grew with a hunger to live.”

-YOU-

Cold metal presses against your cheek. For a few seconds, that is all you know. Cold. Metal. Pain. A dull, violent pulse beats beneath your right shoulder, spreading down your arm and across your chest with every shallow breath you take. Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift. Your tongue tastes like blood. Something chemical clings to the back of your throat. You try moving your hand. Metal rattles somewhere nearby. Your eyes snap open. A stained concrete floor fills your vision. Too close.

You’re lying on your side beneath flickering fluorescent lights, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath you while the other rests beside a rusted drain cut into the floor. Your wrists are free. That surprises you first. Then the bars do. Thick iron bars stretch from floor to ceiling a few feet away, welded between old hospital pillars. A heavy padlock hangs outside the door. A cell. Your stomach drops. You force yourself upright. Pain tears through your shoulder so hard the room flashes white.

“Fuck—” Your back slams against the wall. You bite down against the scream clawing its way up your throat and press one hand over the fresh bandage wrapped around your shoulder.

Clean gauze. Too clean. Somebody treated the gunshot. Not well enough to stop the throbbing. Well enough to keep you alive. Your breathing turns sharp. 

Joel. Taxi. The hospital.

Memory slams back all at once. Clouser standing beneath the floodlights. William with a gun pressed against his head. The revolver kicking hard inside your hand. Blood bursting from the side of Clouser’s face. Then— The bullet. Your shoulder snapping backward. Joel shouting your name. Hands grabbing you. Too many hands.

You remember fighting. Of course you fought. A Wolf’s nose breaking beneath your forehead. Another choking when you drove your fingers into his throat. A medic leaning over you while someone tried cutting through your jacket. You twisting free. Your elbow connecting with a jaw. A metal tray crashing to the floor. Scissors in your hand. Someone screaming— “She’s got a weapon!”

You remember burying the scissors deep into a soldier’s thigh. Then someone caught your injured arm and pulled. Pain. Bright enough to erase the room. A needle flashing near your neck. You grabbed the medic’s wrist. Almost broke it. Another body slammed into your back. Then the sharp sting just beneath your jaw. Warmth flooding through your veins. Your legs turning useless. Clouser’s blurred face hovering above you. His voice far away. “Enough.” Then nothing.

Your hand moves automatically toward your neck. A small puncture mark sits beneath your jaw. “Son of a bitch.”

You grab the bars and drag yourself onto your feet. The room sways violently. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten and wait for the floor to stop moving. No windows. No clock. No way to tell how long you’ve been unconscious. “Joel?” Your voice echoes through the corridor. Nothing answers.

You pull yourself closer to the bars and look around properly. The space beyond your cell is wide and rectangular, lined with abandoned examination bays. Faded plastic curtains hang in torn strips from rusted tracks along the ceiling. Numbers remain painted above each section. 

TRIAGE ONE. TRIAGE TWO. TRIAGE THREE. 

An old emergency intake ward. The WLF must have converted it into a holding block after taking the hospital. Efficient. Close to the ambulance entrance. Close to the operating rooms. Close to the elevators leading underground. Easy to bring prisoners in without the rest of the building seeing them. Easy to decide whether they became recruits, corpses— Or experiments.

Your eyes move toward the cells across from yours. Three of them. Empty. At least they look empty. Dark stains spread across the floor of the nearest one. Old blood. The farthest contains a torn mattress, a metal bucket and deep scratches carved into the wall. Not random. Words. Most are too small to read from here. One isn’t. 

DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOU DOWNSTAIRS.

Your pulse slows. Then something scrapes beyond the double doors at the end of the ward. You straighten instantly. Pain tears through your shoulder again, but you ignore it. Footsteps approach. Two people. Maybe three. Your body goes still. Not relaxed. Ready.

The doors swing open. A woman enters first. Her light brown hair is pulled tightly away from her face, its length woven into a practical braid down her back. She is young. Probably younger than you. She wears dark WLF fatigues beneath a weather-stained military jacket, the sleeves pushed partway up her forearms. A rifle hangs across her back, while the pistol strapped to her thigh sits within easy reach. Her frame is strong without being bulky. The controlled balance of someone who trains because survival depends on it, not because she wants anyone watching. Everything about the way she moves says soldier. She stops several feet from your cell. The man beside her doesn’t. He keeps walking until he is only a few feet from the bars.

Rain-darkened hair curls loosely near his temples, a little longer around his ears. A narrow mustache shadows his upper lip, joined by faint stubble tracing his jaw. His WLF gear resembles hers—a dark shirt beneath an olive tactical vest, cargo trousers tucked into scuffed combat boots. A knife rests at one hip. A pistol at the other. His posture is looser than hers. Almost casual. But his dark eyes never stop moving. Your hands. Your injured shoulder. The lock. The narrow space between your body and the bars. You dislike him immediately. Maybe it’s the half-smile sitting too easily on his face. The expression of a man who enjoys knowing something you don’t. He looks like the kind of asshole who would smile while lying straight to your face.

The woman says nothing. Just stares. You stare back. You consider asking about Joel. The question climbs halfway up your throat. You swallow it again. No. They don’t need to know what he means to you. Not yet.

The man speaks first. “So... This is her?” His eyebrows lift as he looks you over. “This is the girl who got fourteen of our people killed in one day?”

Your jaw tightens. Fourteen. You thought it was closer to twelve. Good to know.

The man steps slightly nearer. “Thought she’d be bigger.”

You lean closer to the bars. “Open the door.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

“Then we can introduce ourselves properly.”

A short laugh escapes him. “She’s funny.”

Your eyes remain on him. “People usually laugh more before I break their teeth.”

His expression sharpens slightly. You tighten your grip on the bars. “You here to take revenge for your friends?” Your gaze moves between them. “Take a number.”

The man’s amusement disappears. “Those people had families.”

You give him a flat look. “Do I look like I give a shit?” His jaw tightens. You continue before he can answer. “Funny thing about your Wolves, though. Met two of them trying to run all the way to Santa Barbara.”

Something flashes across his face. You smile without warmth. “Real loyal family you’ve built here.”

The last trace of amusement leaves his face. He steps toward the bars. The woman speaks without looking at him. “Manny.” One word. Quiet. Enough to stop him.

He exhales through his nose and shifts back, but the anger remains visible beneath his expression.

The woman finally steps closer. You study her. There is something behind her eyes you cannot name. Pain, rage, perhaps. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with the fourteen soldiers. “How much does he mean to you?”

Every muscle in your body locks. The reaction lasts less than a second. Still long enough for her to see it. You angle your head slightly. “What?”

“Joel Miller.” She says the name as if she has said it a thousand times before. In dreams. In prayers. Between clenched teeth. Something ignites behind her eyes when she repeats it. “How much does he mean to you?”

The question itself should not frighten you. The way she asks it does. There is anticipation in her face. A terrible, almost hopeful kind of anticipation—as if she wants the answer to hurt. You keep your voice level. “Why?”

Her gaze searches yours. Whatever she finds makes the corner of her mouth twitch. “Good. When I kill him, I’ll know there’s someone left who understands what it feels like.” Your blood turns to ice. She watches the realization move across your face. “The fact that it’s you is almost poetic.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He slaughtered an entire hospital for that girl.” Her voice remains controlled, but her eyes begin to shine. “Soldiers. Nurses. People who had already surrendered.” She swallows. “An unarmed doctor.”

Salt Lake. The Fireflies. Joel carrying Ellie out beneath the gunfire. Your pulse begins pounding inside your ears. “And now he’s come all the way here for another one.”

You step closer to the bars. “Were you a Firefly?”

For a moment, she says nothing. Then— “Dr. Anderson was my dad.”

There it is. The wound beneath everything else. Her eyes glisten, but no tears fall. Not yet. Manny looks away. You stare at her. “The defenseless doctor you’re talking about was about to cut open a fourteen-year-old kid.” Her expression changes. You don’t stop. “He was about to cut me open too. For a cure none of you could prove would even work.”

“My dad knew what he was doing.”

“Your dad was going to kill us.”

“He was going to save—.”

“Joel saved us.” You cut her off. Her jaw tightens. You move so close that only rusted iron separates you. “How he did it, who he had to go through—” Your voice drops. “I don’t give a shit.”

Abby crosses the remaining distance in one violent step. Her hand shoots through the bars and fists into the front of your shirt. “Say that again, you fucking bitch.”

You move faster. Your good hand clamps around her wrist. You jerk her arm hard against the bars, trap it between two lengths of iron and catch one of her fingers before she can pull free. Then you bend. A sharp crack cuts through the ward. Abby cries out. Manny lunges forward. You twist harder. “Touch him and I’ll break the rest.”

“Shit! Abs!” Manny grabs Abby by the shoulder and yanks her backward. “Stop!” Her hand tears free from your grasp. She staggers away, clutching her finger against her chest, fury blazing across her face. Manny’s pistol is halfway out of its holster. Yours would already be in his throat if there weren’t bars between you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

All three of you turn. Clouser walks into the converted triage ward with two heavily armed Wolves behind him. A fresh bandage wraps around the side of his head, covering what remains of his ear. Blood has already begun seeping through the white material near his temple. Not enough. His gaze moves from Abby’s injured hand to Manny’s half-drawn weapon. Then to you. 

Manny slowly lets go of his pistol. “Just getting acquainted with your daughter.” He glances toward you. “Charming girl. Must run in the family.”

Clouser’s expression does not change. “I told you she isn’t here for you.”

Abby turns away from the cell, still cradling her injured hand. “Where is he?” She doesn’t need to say the name this time. You know exactly who she means.

Clouser continues walking. Neither hurried nor concerned. “I also told you that information comes at a price.”

Manny shifts beside her. “Isaac’s not coming down here.”

Clouser stops a few feet away. “That sounds like your problem.”

Abby takes a step toward him. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

The two Wolves accompanying Clouser raise their rifles slightly. Manny’s hand returns to his pistol. Nobody draws. Not yet. Clouser barely notices. “Isaac is bleeding the WLF dry over an island and a religious war he cannot win.”

“You don’t know anything about this war,” Abby snaps.

“I know your people are deserting faster than he can execute them.”

Her face hardens. Clouser gestures vaguely toward the hospital surrounding you. “I know your soldiers are dying from bites, arrows, infections and his obsession with the Scars.”

“You think that serum makes you a leader?”

The smallest smile touches his mouth. “No.” He looks toward her as if the answer should be obvious. “The fact that they cannot survive without it will.”

Your stomach twists. Apparently, while you were gone, your father had graduated from mad scientist to aspiring dictator.

Abby stares at him. “You’re experimenting on our people.”

“I’m saving them.”

“You’re killing them.”

“Temporary instability is not failure.” Clouser’s tone remains maddeningly calm. “It is data.”

Manny lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that what we’re calling the bodies downstairs?”

Clouser’s expression sharpens. “Careful.”

“No.” Abby steps closer. “You be careful.” Her voice rises. “You’ve got half the hospital locked down. Soldiers disappearing into quarantine. Families threatening to leave—and now you’re trying to turn Isaac’s command against him?”

“They will not leave.”

“You sound pretty fucking sure.”

“Their children require treatment.” Clouser glances toward the floor beneath you. “Treatment only I can provide.”

Abby’s face twists with disgust. “Are you fucking serious?”

“People follow Isaac because they fear him.” Clouser’s eyes move slowly between Abby and Manny. “They will follow me because they need me.”

“That cure doesn’t do shit,” Abby snaps. “Everyone knows it. The first chance they get, they’re going to put a bullet in your head.”

“This time it will work.”

Abby scoffs.

Clouser looks toward you. “It already has.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The tissue taken from her bite showed a response we have never seen before. Her blood stabilized one of the patients.” His gaze lingers on you. “You may see the results for yourselves.” A faint smile touches his mouth. Then he looks back at Abby. “She is proof that survival is possible. Isaac would reduce that proof to a weapon. Something to send through spore-filled tunnels and unleash against the Scars.”

“And you see her as what?”

Clouser answers without hesitation. “Mine.”

Revulsion crawls across your skin. You slam both hands against the bars. “I’m gonna tear your fucking throat out.”

One of the guards flinches. Clouser doesn’t. “Sweetheart.” His tone is almost indulgent. “There’s no need to get so worked up. You’ll tear your stitches.”

“Come closer and I’ll tear yours.”

Manny’s mouth almost twitches again.

Abby ignores both of you. Her eyes remain fixed on Clouser. “You bring me Joel Miller.” She glances toward your cell as she says it. Making certain you hear every word.

Clouser tilts his head. “You bring me Isaac.”

“Alive?”

“Very.”

“And Miller is mine.”

Your body hits the bars. The entire structure shakes. You grip the iron hard enough for rust to cut into your palms. Clouser turns toward the doors. “We will continue this conversation somewhere quieter.”

Abby does not move immediately. Neither do you. Your eyes remain locked through the bars. You shake them again. The metal groans beneath your hands. “Abby!”

She stops at the doors. Looks back. “You asked me how much he means to me?” Your voice drops. “Enough to make what he did in Salt Lake look like mercy.”

For one beat, Abby only stares at you. Then something in her face breaks. “You fucking—”

She surges toward the cell. Manny catches her by the arm before she reaches the bars and hauls her back. “If you put one hand on him, I swear to God I will get out of this cage.” Your voice carries through the entire ward. “I’ll tear this hospital apart room by room. And I’ll kill every motherfucker standing between me and him.”

Abby tears her arm free from Manny’s grip. Her eyes remain fixed on yours. “If you live that long.”

Then she turns and walks out.

Nearly an hour passes. At least, you think it does. You sit in the corner of the cell with your injured shoulder pressed against concrete, examining the rusted nail balanced across your knee.

You found it beneath the torn mattress and spent fifteen minutes working it loose. Not much. You have done more with less. You pull the leather belt free from your trousers and wrap one end around the nail until the spike sits upright between the folds. Ugly, but useful. Not enough to win against four armed Wolves. Enough to open a throat, take a gun and get out.

Joel is somewhere inside this hospital. Or already being taken to the woman who looked at you as though his death had been keeping her alive for years. You force the thought away. He is alive. He has to be. And Taxi— Your throat tightens. No. One problem at a time.

A metallic scrape comes from beyond the double doors. You are on your feet before they open, the belt wound around your palm and the nail hidden behind your thigh. Four soldiers enter the ward. Two remain near the cell with their rifles raised while the others approach the lock. The rifles are a performance. Clouser needs you alive, and everyone here knows it.

The taller soldier notices the hand behind your back. “Show me.”

You lean against the bars. “Open the fucking door and come take it.”

His jaw tightens. The man beside him pulls a syringe from his vest. Clear fluid. Long needle. Your stomach clenches before you can stop it. His mouth twists. “You want us to do this again?”

The sight of the needle drags fluorescent lights, leather restraints and hands pinning your arms out of memory. You lift your eyes to his. “Stick me with that and I’ll rip it out, bury it in your eye and make you choke on it.”

His smile disappears.

“Don’t sedate her. It will contaminate the neurological readings.”

The voice comes from behind the soldiers. Everything inside you stills. Ten years since you heard it without a wall, gunfire or memory distorting it.

The soldiers move apart. William stands behind them.

Yesterday, beneath the rain and hospital floodlights, you had only seen pieces of him—a bruised face, bound hands, a gun against his head. Now there is nothing between you. White threads through the hair at his temples. Lines cut deeply beside his mouth and beneath his eyes. He is thinner than you remember. Older. Tired in a way sleep could never fix.

He looks at you, and for several seconds the ward disappears. Pain shifts across his face, followed by relief and everything he cannot say in front of the soldiers.

“She’s going to behave,” he says, his voice deliberately clinical. Then his eyes soften. He says your real name quietly, as though unsure whether it still belongs to you. “Won’t you?”

The name catches beneath your ribs. Not Kat. Not the name known in Jackson. The name you were born with, tied to laboratory records and the girl you buried before reaching Wyoming.

His gaze drops toward the hand behind your back. 

Trust me. 

He does not say it, but for one irrational second his eyes remind you of Joel’s—that same steady look when the world is collapsing and he needs you to believe he has already found a way through it.

You bring your hand forward. The soldiers tense at the sight of the belt and nail, but William does not flinch. You unwrap the leather. The nail clatters onto the floor. “There,” you say. “Behaving.”

“Open the cell,” William orders.

The lock clicks. Two soldiers enter and grip you carefully, avoiding the wounded shoulder. Every instinct tells you to fight. Break a knee. Take the pistol. Use the body as cover. But Joel is still somewhere you cannot reach from behind these bars, so you let them hold you. For now.

They march you through older treatment wings until William leads you into a small examination room. Only one guard remains inside. William gestures toward the padded table. “Sit.”

You do, mostly because standing is beginning to require more effort than you want anyone to notice. William arranges gauze, forceps and two glass vials on a tray. Your eyes settle on the syringe.

When he reaches for the bandage around your forearm, you pull back. “The bite,” he says. “I need to look at it.”

“You people already took a piece.”

Something dark crosses his face. He glances toward the guard, who is staring through the observation window. “I know,” William says quietly.

You offer your arm. The stalker’s bite looks worse beneath the examination light, swollen around the badly stitched biopsy site.

William’s fingers hover near it. “You let it bite this deep?”

“It wasn’t exactly a negotiation.”

His eyes lift to yours. You look away, seeing Joel trapped beneath the stalker and the empty revolver in your hand.

William cleans the wound. Antiseptic burns through the torn skin. “Easy,” he murmurs. The familiarity of the word hurts more than the wound.

He brings the needle toward your elbow. You pull back again.

“It’s a small sample.”

A bitter laugh leaves you. “Ten years and nothing’s changed. Still the lab rat. I suppose I wasn’t one to you back then.” You meet his eyes. “I am now.”

William ties a strip of rubber around your upper arm and lowers his voice. “I told you to stay away from Seattle.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

His brow furrows.

“Where’s Joel?”

The needle enters your vein. Dark blood fills the first vial.

“I think you should be more concerned about yourself,” William says.

“I’ve spent enough time doing that.”

His expression closes.

“You’ve been with Clouser all this time. Why are you helping him?”

No answer. William replaces the vial.

“Did you know about Vickie?”

His hand stills. “Yes.”

“And you did nothing?”

William removes the needle, presses gauze against the puncture and nods once. Something inside you cracks, but there is no time to let it open.

“Help me find Joel.”

William begins rewrapping your arm.

“Please.” The word tastes desperate. “I can’t let them hurt him.”

His hands stop. “Do I look like a free man?”

Your jaw tightens.

“What makes a smuggler so important?” he asks.

You swallow. “He’s my family. The kind I never had. The kind I didn’t know how to have until I met him.” Your throat tightens. “He’s the reason I know what it feels like to have somewhere to go back to. I can’t lose him.”

Something changes behind William’s eyes. He draws your sleeve over the bandage and stands. “Come with me.”

The guard remains behind as William takes you through a side door, down two flights of stairs and toward a security door marked B2.

“Where are we going?”

William enters a code and glances toward the camera. “Keep walking.”

The level beyond looks nothing like the hospital upstairs. White coats move between sealed rooms while carts pass carrying blood bags and numbered containers. Everyone acknowledges William with a nod or a quiet, “Doctor.” Respect, or fear disguised as it.

The farther you walk, the more the corridor resembles the laboratories of your childhood. Glass observation rooms. Heavy doors. Numbers instead of names. Only larger. More organised. Worse.

Behind the first window, a man lies strapped to an inclined bed, dark fungal veins stretching along his jaw. The next room contains a grey-skinned woman held upright by restraints. Cordyceps blooms beneath one eye; the other follows you as you pass. Conscious. Another room holds two beds. One body is covered. The other receives blood through three separate lines.

Your steps slow. “What is this? What the fuck did he do?”

The corridor opens into a wider ward. Children lie behind glass with their wrists secured to bed rails. A pregnant woman lies strapped to a table in the next chamber, blackened veins spreading across her bare stomach. A monitor records two heartbeats. One slow. One frantic.

She turns toward you. There is no pleading left in her eyes, only the recognition of one prisoner seeing another.

“You’re experimenting on pregnant women?” The words tear out of you. “And fucking children?”

William turns. A cart passes behind him carrying blood bags labelled with the numbers on the doors.

“What are you doing with their blood?”

“Trying to reproduce what happened to you.”

Your gaze snaps toward him.

“When we learned Marlene had found another immune girl, we were on the other side of the country.”

“Ellie.”

“Clouser never stopped looking for you. News of another immune person led us toward Salt Lake. Anderson and Clouser knew one another before the outbreak. According to Clouser, Anderson was an incompetent man stumbling toward the right answer for the wrong reasons.”

“Sounds like him.”

“When Clouser learned the Fireflies had both immune subjects, he was afraid.”

“Because someone else was going to cut me open?”

“That too. But Clouser never believed the cure was simply a growth inside the brain. The Cordyceps and the host work together. Destroying the brain destroys the system producing the immune response.”

Your stomach tightens.

“Ellie’s infection convinces new Cordyceps that she is already colonised,” William continues. “Her immunity hides.” His eyes drop to your bandaged arm. “Yours fights back.”

The corridor seems to narrow around you.

“When we reached Salt Lake, Anderson was dead,” he says. “The Fireflies were scattered. The hospital was full of bodies. Marlene among them.”

“Joel,” you murmur. “I escaped while he was getting Ellie out. We didn’t know each other then. I ended up in Jackson, and that is where we met. Was Ethan the reason you sent me there?”

William nods. “His father was a good man. I believed you would be safe with the people he trusted.”

“Why didn’t you follow?”

William’s attention shifts toward the next room. A small boy lies beneath a white blanket, no older than ten. Dark veins branch beneath the skin of his arms.

“The hospital was attacked after you escaped. FEDRA learned we had worked with the Fireflies. Three years in a prison camp followed by five more running. Eventually Clouser found Isaac.”

“And the WLF saved you?”

“They took us in. Doctors were useful.” William looks through the glass. “For a while, I thought we had found a future.”

“Vickie?”

“The WLF found her unit after you destroyed the others. She had been bitten.”

“He tested the serum on her,” you say. “Then used her to find me.”

“Yes.” William’s voice begins to fracture. “I never told them you were in Jackson. If I went to you, they would have followed. But that is not the whole truth. I chose to stay. I had a family here. Friends. A home.”

The boy’s arm trembles weakly beneath the blanket. You look between them. “He’s your—” The word refuses to come. “When was he bitten?”

William turns toward you. “No one down here was bitten.”

Your stomach drops. The children. The pregnant woman. The numbered rooms. “They infected them.”

“Clouser needed subjects at different stages, ages and immune responses.”

You look through the glass at the boy. William’s jaw locks as he watches his son’s fingers twitch.

“Do you know the most important thing the last ten years taught me?” he asks. “Never waste mercy on a man who does not deserve it. Given enough time, mercy becomes permission.” His hand presses against the window. “I spared Clouser. I convinced myself some part of him could change.” William’s reflection trembles in the glass. “Then he infected my son.” The words settle heavily between you. “He used Daniel to keep me beside him. Every dose of serum came with a condition. Every improvement bought another month of obedience. I told myself I was staying for him.”

When he turns back, something harder has entered his face. “But it is over now. Daniel has passed the stage the current serum can reverse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I have known for weeks.”

“William—”

“Clouser should have died the night you escaped.” The words come low and vicious. “I had my hands around his throat. I could have ended it. But I couldn’t. I was a coward who still believed men could change, still believed in humanity.” He looks across the ward. “Everyone here is paying for that mercy.”

You watch him turn away from the glass. “Why did you bring me down here? You could’ve told me upstairs.”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t.”

Only then do you notice the nurse watching William instead of the cameras. When your eyes meet hers, she turns one monitor away from the corridor. A doctor leaving a numbered room gives William a small nod. Farther down, an armed guard deliberately blocks a security lens.

The people moving through this ward are not all Clouser’s.

William looks toward the children behind the glass. “You said the smuggler was your family.”

“Joel.”

His eyes return to yours. “Joel,” he repeats, the name unfamiliar in his mouth. “This is where families like mine come to die. Every hour Clouser remains in control, another person becomes a number on a door.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Clouser trusts no one else with you. He will oversee your procedure himself and bring his research team, his guards and every record that matters into one secured room.”

Understanding begins to form. “You’re using me to draw him out.”

“I’m asking you to keep him there.”

“While I’m strapped to a table.”

“You won’t be unconscious.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It is supposed to keep you alive.” William lowers his voice. “When the power goes out, his people will be cut off. Mine will take the corridors. You keep Clouser inside until we reach you.”

“And then?”

The security door opens before William can answer. A young technician hurries into the corridor, clutching a folder against his chest. “Dr. Devane. Subject One-Six-One.”

Something in William’s face changes. “What about him?”

“Post-infusion response markers are rising. The fungal regression has accelerated, neural activity is stabilising and his inflammatory markers have fallen almost thirty percent.”

William takes the folder. “How long?”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“We ran the bloods twice.”

“What did you give him?”

The technician hesitates. His gaze flicks toward you. “The sample collected upstairs.”

Your blood.

You look through the glass at Daniel. His fingers move faintly against the sheet. Not a tremor. Something deliberate.

“What’s happening?” you ask.

“Ah.” Clouser enters with two Wolves behind him, his steps slow and unhurried. Every muscle inside you locks. “There you are.” He looks past you to the technician. “And the news has already travelled. Efficient as ever.”

William turns toward him. “Is it true?”

Clouser’s smile gives nothing away. “See for yourself.”

“The results were confirmed twice,” the technician says. “Fungal activity has decreased. Neural response is stabilising, and the inflammatory markers are continuing to fall.”

William’s eyes move to Daniel. “How quickly?”

“The first measurable change appeared less than six minutes after the infusion.”

William goes still. Even you understand enough to know that should not be possible. Six minutes is barely enough time to produce a measurable systemic change, let alone force an infection that far gone into retreat.

“The sample taken from her produced an immediate systemic response,” the technician continues. “We have never recorded anything like it.”

William scans the results. His face remains controlled, but the paper bends beneath his fingers. “One response proves nothing.”

“No,” Clouser agrees. “But it proves considerably more than we knew yesterday.”

Then he turns toward you. “In that case, the operation is cancelled.”

For one disorienting second, you think you misheard him. Even William looks up. “What?”

Clouser smiles. “I’ve decided not to open your skull.”

Relief tries to rise inside you. Something in his expression kills it before it can. “Your blood has become considerably more interesting.”

“You’re postponing the operation?”

“I’m replacing it.”

William’s expression remains controlled, but you see the effort it costs him. His plan depended on an operating theatre—Clouser, his guards, his research team and every record that mattered sealed inside one room when the lights went out. Now there will be no theatre. No gathered team. No trap.

“What are you proposing?” William asks.

“Serial blood collection. Bone marrow. Tissue from the bite and the previous biopsy site.” Clouser looks at you as though discussing equipment. “Then controlled exposure while we monitor the immune response.”

Your stomach turns. “You’re going to infect me again.”

“You cannot technically be infected.”

“Then put it in your own fucking veins.”

Clouser ignores you. “If these results are reproducible, Daniel may finally have a chance.”

William’s eyes move toward his son. Only for a second. But you see it. So does Clouser.

The technician shifts uneasily. “Should I prepare another infusion?”

William does not answer. That silence is enough.

Clouser turns toward the Wolves. “Take her upstairs. Procedure Room Seven.”

William’s gaze snaps back to him. “She is injured.”

“That is not our priority.”

The soldiers seize your arms and drag you toward the door. You search William’s face for the plan, for some indication that the lights will still go out. He meets your eyes and gives nothing away. Perhaps because Clouser is watching. Perhaps because he no longer knows.

You twist against the soldiers, but pain tears through your wounded shoulder and your arm buckles. William takes one step after you.

Clouser moves between you. “Stay with your son, Doctor.”

William stops. The words are not a suggestion.

As the security door opens, you look back at him. He is still holding the folder, still staring after you while Daniel’s monitor marks its steady rhythm behind the glass.

For the first time since William opened your cell, you understand that whatever happens next will not follow his plan.

The soldiers pull you through the door.

It closes between you.

The soldiers struggle with you all the way upstairs. You drag your heels through doorways and twist whenever their grip shifts, forcing them to readjust every few steps. The wound in your shoulder burns with each movement, but the pain keeps you sharp.

Clouser follows without hurrying. By the time they force you into Procedure Room Seven, his breathing has not changed.

The room is smaller than an operating theatre. A narrow bed stands beneath an adjustable lamp, surrounded by monitors, steel trays and collection equipment. Clear tubing hangs beside sealed syringes and rows of empty vials.

Two scans glow on the screen across the room.

You recognise the first immediately. Ten years have passed, but you spent too much of your childhood beneath machines not to know your own brain. A pale, branching mass curls through the left side.

The old scan.

The second is recent. What once resembled thin roots has become a dense white web, spreading through tissue that had been clear ten years ago.

For a moment, you stop fighting.

Clouser notices. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You tear your eyes from the screen. He has removed his coat and is fastening a surgical gown around his neck while an assistant prepares the instruments beside him.

“What happened to it?”

Clouser pulls on a glove. “It matured. Every bite you survived, every concentration of spores you inhaled, exposed it to a new variation of the organism. Each time, your body adapted. The growth expanded, refined its response—and yet it never converted you.” The second glove snaps around his wrist. “And you object when I call you a miracle.”

You say nothing. Your attention drifts back to the pale network branching through tissue that should have belonged only to you.

“I no longer resent you for running that night,” Clouser continues. “Had I operated then, the organism may have been too immature. We might have removed it before the process became stable—or discovered nothing we could reproduce.” He studies the screen with something dangerously close to admiration. “But now we know your blood actively suppresses fungal replication. Something circulating through your system forces Cordyceps into regression.” His gaze settles on you. “Ten years ago, I had a theory. Now I have proof.”

The soldiers force you toward the bed. You plant your feet.

“Secure her properly,” Clouser says. “She has a history of damaging valuable equipment.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

One soldier locks an arm around your waist while the other grabs your wrist. You drive an elbow into the first man’s ribs, but the second catches your injured arm.

Pain breaks your balance.

They force you onto the mattress. One pins your shoulder while the other pulls a restraint across your waist.

The assistant lifts a syringe.

“No.”

He glances toward the instruments. One needle is narrow and familiar. Another is thick enough to reach bone. “The marrow collection will be extremely painful.”

“Sedation would alter the immune response,” Clouser says. “I need it unfiltered.”

The assistant hesitates but nods. The soldier reaches for your left wrist. You let the arm go slack, and he mistakes it for exhaustion.

The instant his grip loosens, you twist beneath him and drive your shoulder into his chest. He crashes against the bed. You seize the assistant by his coat, drag him between you and the raised rifles and tear the pistol from the soldier’s holster.

“Fuck!”

“Gun!”

“Drop it!”

The assistant chokes as you press the barrel beneath his jaw. Rifles snap toward you from both sides. “Tell me where Joel is.”

Clouser’s head turns sharply. “You will not leave this room.”

“I didn’t ask to leave.”

“Miller is beyond your reach.”

“Where is he?”

Clouser looks at the trembling assistant, then back at you. “You believe his life matters to me?”

The man goes rigid.

No fear. No hesitation. Nothing.

You cannot trade a life Clouser already considers disposable. You shove the assistant aside. Before the soldiers can fire, you reverse the pistol and press the muzzle against your own temple.

Clouser’s expression changes. The amusement vanishes. His shoulders stiffen beneath the surgical gown, his eyes fixed on the barrel. You would swear he would show less fear with the gun against his own head.

One soldier starts forward.

Clouser throws up a gloved hand. “Don’t. Lower the rifles. Now.”

The weapons descend.

“You need me so bad, right?”

Clouser takes one slow step forward. “Do not do anything irrational.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “Irrational?”

“Killing yourself will not improve your position.”

“It’ll ruin yours.”

Your finger settles against the trigger.

Clouser stops.

Behind you, ten years of growth glows across the screen. His research. His cure. His miracle.

“You need my blood,” you say. “The tissue, the neural response, the organism inside my skull. You need all of it intact.”

“You do not understand what you are threatening.”

“I grew up in your fucking laboratories.” Your thumb finds the safety. The metallic click fills the room. “I know exactly where I’m aiming.”

His hands rise slightly. “You kill yourself, and Miller still dies.”

“Then keeping him alive is the only way you keep me alive.”

“You will gain nothing from this.”

Clouser steps forward again. You begin to squeeze the trigger. He stops. “One bullet through here and your miracle ends up on the wall.”

His jaw tightens. “What do you want?”

For the first time, he is asking.

“Where is Joel?”

His eyes move toward the nearest soldier. “Transport Three,” the man says. “East service road. They left twenty minutes ago.”

Already in a vehicle. Already beyond your reach. Maybe being taken to Isaac. Maybe to the woman who had looked at Joel as though she had been waiting years to kill him.

“Tell them to stop.”

Clouser studies you. “That vehicle is operating under direct orders.”

“Then give it new ones.”

“You cannot reach him from here.”

“I don’t need to. Get me a radio. Stop the truck and put Joel on the other end.”

Clouser looks at your finger, then at the scan. Finally, he turns toward the soldier.

“Contact Transport Three.”

The man pulls the radio from his vest. “Transport Three, this is Medical Control. Respond.”

Static crackles.

“Transport Three.”

“Stop the vehicle.”

A pause. “Say again?”

Clouser takes the radio. “This is Clouser. Halt immediately and secure the road.”

“Doctor, we have standing orders to deliver the prisoner. We’re less than ten minutes from the handoff.”

“There will be no handoff.”

“We take transfer orders from Isaac’s command.”

Clouser’s gaze remains fixed on you. “The immune subject has a loaded weapon against the growth in her brain. If she fires, every possibility of reproducing the immune response ends with her.”

The room goes silent enough for you to hear the hum from the screen behind you.

Clouser’s voice hardens. “Stop the vehicle.”

“Understood.”

Brakes hiss through the radio. “Dismount,” Clouser orders. “Cut Miller loose and leave him the truck.”

“Doc—”

You keep your eyes on him. “His equipment.”

“Return his belongings,” Clouser says. “Leave him one rifle, his sidearm and a handheld radio. Then move away from the vehicle.”

The man on the other end mutters something you cannot hear.

Clouser’s voice drops. “Do it.”

Metal doors slam through the speaker. Clouser passes the radio back to the soldier, who approaches you carefully. “Hold it where I can speak.”

The soldier stops beyond your reach and raises the radio toward your mouth.

For a moment, there is only static.

Then a distant voice says, “Prisoner’s out.”

Your heart strikes hard against your ribs.

“Put him on.”

-JOEL-

The truck stops hard enough to throw Joel against the metal wall. He lifts his head, blinking through the blood dried along his temple. His wrists are bound behind him, his legs nearly numb beneath his weight. Outside, boots strike wet asphalt and voices rise in sudden argument. Joel shifts in the dark, searching for anything he can use. The rear doors open before he finds it, and grey daylight floods the compartment. Three Wolves stand in the road. Their rifles are ready, but none is pointed at him. That worries him more.

One climbs inside and cuts the restraints around his wrists. Joel works the feeling back into his fingers while the soldier drops his pack beside him. His revolver rests on top.

“Get out.”

Joel remains seated. “The hell’s goin’ on?”

The soldier does not answer. He holds out a radio. “Take it.” Joel looks from the device to the men outside. One of them places a rifle inside the cab before retreating several yards from the truck. It feels like a trap. But if they wanted him dead, they have had twenty minutes to do it. Joel takes the radio.

“Talk.”

Static crackles. Then your voice reaches him.

“Joel?”

His entire body locks.

“Kat?”

He hears a single breath leave you through the speaker.

“Where are you?” he demands. “You still in that hospital?”

“Listen to me.”

“What did they do to you?”

His eyes lift to the Wolves. The nearest man looks away.

“They touch you?”

“Take the truck.”

“What?”

“Drive north. Get past their checkpoints and away from the hospital.”

“I ain’t leavin’ you there.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Like hell I am. Tell me where you are.”

“You can’t get to me.”

“Watch me.”

“Joel…” Your grip tightens around the pistol pressed to your temple. The soldier holding the radio keeps his arm extended toward your mouth, careful not to move within reach. Clouser stands across from you, both gloved hands raised, his attention fixed on your finger against the trigger.

“If you give a damn about me,” you say, “you’ll get in that fucking truck and go.”

Joel’s face hardens.

“Don’t you dare—”

“I’m getting out.”

The lie comes too quickly. Joel hears it.

“How?”

“William has people inside.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s all I can give you.”

“You’re lyin’.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I need you to trust me.”

“Darlin’—“

“When you’re clear, call this channel again.”

“And then what?”

“Sing me the song you wrote for me.”

Joel stares at the radio.

“What?”

“The song. Nobody else knows it. If I hear it, I’ll know you’re alone. I’ll know they didn’t force you to say you were safe.”

Faintly, behind your voice, he hears someone breathing. Then Clouser speaks.

“Time is passing.”

Joel’s blood turns cold. “That him?”

You do not answer. “Get in the truck. If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes—” You raise your voice, no longer speaking only to him. “—I pull the trigger and put everything inside my skull across the fucking wall.”

Silence falls across the road. Joel stares at the radio, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“You reckless—” He drags a hand over his face. “Goddammit, Kat.”

One of the Wolves gestures toward the cab. “You heard her.” Joel holsters the revolver, grabs the rifle and climbs behind the wheel. The channel cuts. Joel starts the engine. The Wolves retreat as the truck surges forward. He watches them in the mirror until the rain swallows them, then drives north through streets broken by roots, wreckage and abandoned cars.

He knows what you expect him to do. Keep going. He also knows he never will.

The last WLF checkpoint appears ahead. Its guards raise the barrier reluctantly and watch him pass. Joel drives until the hospital disappears behind ruined buildings and no headlights follow him.

Eight minutes.

He pulls beneath the remains of an overpass and kills the engine. Rain spills through cracks in the concrete as he climbs out with the rifle and checks the road, the rooftops and the tree line. Nothing moves. He grabs the radio.

“Kat?” Static answers. “Kat, I’m clear. You hear me?”

Several seconds pass before your voice returns.

“Sing.”

Joel leans against the truck.

“Are you hurt?”

“Sing the song.”

“Fuck—Tell me you’re all right.”

“Joel.” Your voice is thinner now. “Sing the fucking song.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, there is only rain ticking against the roof of the truck. Then he sings.

“After all these years runnin’ round,

Flyin’ high and fallin’ down…”

His voice is rough without the guitar beneath it, worn down by blood, fear and the distance between you. But it is him. Only him.

Your eyes burn. A tear slips toward your jaw, but you do not wipe it away. You cannot move the hand holding the gun, and you refuse to let Clouser see the other one tremble.

“Well, the time has come at last,

To rest my heart and ease my past…”

Joel’s voice catches on the final word. He swallows and forces himself to continue.

“I’m gonna leave these blues behind,

For some other fool to find…”

Clouser watches you from across the room. The pistol remains pressed to your temple, but the pressure has begun to ease. His eyes flick toward the nearest soldier.

Joel looks down the empty road as he sings.

“He won’t care and I don’t mind…”

An engine growls somewhere beyond the overpass. Joel straightens. Headlights appear through the trees, moving quickly toward him. He shoulders the rifle but keeps the radio close.

“Hide me, babe…”

Your eyes close. His voice trembles.

“Hide me, babe.”

The final words fade into static. For one suspended moment, neither of you speaks. Then Joel presses the radio closer.

“You stay alive,” he says. “I’m comin’ for you.”

“Joel—”

“You hear me? You stay—”

You lower the pistol. Only an inch.

Clouser’s eyes snap toward the nearest soldier. The blow strikes your wrist before you see it coming. The pistol flies from your hand and skids beneath the steel cabinet. Another soldier drives you back against the bed as the radio is torn away from your mouth.

“Kat?”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

“Kat! Fuck!”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

The approaching vehicle stops across the road. Doors open, and armed figures spill into the rain.

Joel barely looks at them.

He shoves the radio against his belt and turns for the truck. If the road south is blocked, he will drive through them. Around them. Over them. Whatever it takes to get back to the hospital.

His hand closes around the driver’s door. A gunshot cracks through the rain. The bullet punches through the metal inches from his fingers, throwing sparks across the side of the truck. Joel jerks back and raises the rifle in the same movement.

A young woman steps out from behind the headlights, her hair pulled tightly away from a face hollowed by exhaustion. A pistol hangs steady in her outstretched hand, smoke curling faintly from the barrel.

“Joel Miller!” 

Joel settles the rifle over her chest. She stares at him as though she has spent years imagining this exact moment. “I’m Abby.”

Joel gives her a brief, impatient look. “That supposed to mean somethin’?”

A man emerges near the other headlight, moving toward Joel’s right with a rifle raised. Abby glances toward him. Manny keeps his sights on Joel. “It’s him.”

Joel sees what they are doing. Abby holds his attention while Manny moves wide enough to catch him from the side. Their truck blocks the road south.

Back to the hospital.

Back to you.

“Looks like you know me, congrats,” Joel says. “I don’t know either of you. Move the truck.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Joel’s eyes flick toward the silent radio at his belt. “Then say whatever you came to say.”

Abby stops several yards away. “Where was the last place you saw the Fireflies?”

The question settles differently. Joel looks at her properly now. “Salt Lake.”

“Saint Mary’s Hospital.” Her grip tightens around the pistol. “Do you know how many people you killed that day?”

Joel says nothing. He has thought about that hospital during the year since he left it. The corridors. Marlene in the garage. The bodies he stepped over with Ellie unconscious in his arms.

Sometimes, in the quietest part of the night, he has wondered whether there had been another way.

He has never regretted the one he chose.

“The doctor,” Abby continues. “You shot him in the head.” Joel remembers the man raising the scalpel after being warned to step aside. The body falling beside the operating table. “He was my dad!”

Joel’s attention drifts past her toward the road. Clouser may already have taken the gun from you. You could be strapped back onto that bed, another needle in your arm, your blood filling his tubes while you lie there unable to fight.

The last thing Joel heard was your voice disappearing into static.

He cannot stand here answering for a dead man. “If you came for an apology, you ain’t gettin’ one.”

Abby raises her pistol. Manny’s rifle follows. “Put the gun down,” she says.

Joel’s voice cuts through hers. “You want me, fine. But you’re standin’ in my way.” 

“What’s the hurry?” Abby asks. “Another hospital to tear apart?” Joel’s expression changes. She sees it. “The other immune girl,” Abby says. “That’s where you’re going.”

“If I have to.”

“She threatened to kill herself for you.” Something bitter twists at the corner of Abby’s mouth. “Clouser’s probably got her back on the table already.”

Joel settles the rifle directly over her chest. “Last warning.”

Manny takes another step sideways. Joel shifts the barrel toward him without looking away from Abby.

“Don’t.”

Manny stops. “You think you can take both of us, you stupid old man?”

Abby does not flinch. “You don’t get to walk away from me. I’ve carried you for a year.” Her voice begins to shake. “You don’t get a quick death.”

Joel glances once toward the hospital road, then back at her. “You talk too damn much.”

He fires.

The bullet destroys the headlight beside Abby. Glass bursts across the road as she dives behind the truck. Manny opens fire.

Joel drops behind the transport vehicle. Rounds tear through the rear doors and hammer against the frame. He lands on his injured side, rolls and drags his pack from the open cab.

The radio crackles at his belt. “Kat?”

A bullet shatters the mirror above his head. Joel ducks as fragments scatter across his shoulders.

Manny moves along the far side of the road while Abby keeps Joel pinned behind the engine block. They know how to work together.

Joel checks the rifle.

Half a magazine.

Enough.

He fires beneath the truck, forcing Manny back, then punches a second round through the panel beside Abby. Before either of them can recover, he moves.

Joel comes around the hood and drives the rifle stock across Manny’s mouth. Manny answers by slamming his weapon into Joel’s ribs. Pain folds through Joel’s side.

“You’re dead, motherfucker,” Manny spits through the blood.

Joel answers with his forehead. Bone cracks.

Manny staggers back, cursing in Spanish. Abby strikes Joel from behind and drives him into the truck hard enough to tear the rifle from his hands.

Her fist catches him beneath the jaw. Joel answers with an elbow that snaps her head sideways. Abby comes back immediately.

He catches her gun hand and smashes it against the side of the truck.

Once.

Twice.

The pistol drops.

“You took everything from me!”

Joel shoves her away. Abby drives her knee into his stomach and throws him onto the road. The radio tears loose from his belt and skids across the asphalt.

She kicks it beyond his reach, plants her boot against his chest and draws a knife.

Every second he spends here belongs to Clouser. Joel’s fingers search blindly among the shattered headlight glass.

“Somethin’ happens to her because you kept me here,” he says, “we’ll see who joins your daddy first.”

His hand closes around a jagged piece of glass. He drives it into her thigh.

Abby screams and recoils. Joel catches her ankle and tears her feet from beneath her.

Manny raises his rifle. “Abby!”

A high-powered shot cracks across the road. Manny’s head jerks sideways. For a fraction of a second, he remains standing. Then he collapses beside the truck, blood spraying across Abby’s face.

She stares at him. “Manny?”

Another shot tears into the road beside her.

Sniper.

Joel knows the report of that rifle. He looks toward the fractured walkway overlooking the road.

“Tommy?”

Tommy stands behind a broken concrete barrier, rifle braced against his shoulder.

“Get the hell off my brother!”

Abby looks from Manny’s body to Joel. Whatever control remained in her disappears.

She launches herself at him.

They hit the ground together. Her hands close around Joel’s throat, thumbs driving beneath his jaw.

“You killed him!”

Joel grips one wrist, but the other tightens. Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. “Had enough of you,” he forces out.

Tommy fires, but Abby and Joel roll against the truck before he can find a clean angle. The round buries itself in the metal beside them. “Goddammit, Joel!”

Abby tears the knife from her belt. Joel catches her wrist with both hands, the blade trembling inches above his throat.

“You should’ve died in that hospital!”

She forces it lower. The edge slices across Joel’s side.

Then a boot drives into Abby’s ribs.

Tommy steps between them and brings the stock of his rifle across her face.

“Stay down!”

Abby spits blood and tackles him into the truck. Joel forces himself upright and catches her from behind before she can drive the knife into Tommy’s stomach.

She fights them without any concern for what breaks—clawing at Joel, kicking blindly at Tommy, reaching desperately toward Manny’s body.

“You fucking murderer!” she screams. “You shot him and walked away!”

Joel forces her to the ground and traps one arm beneath his knee. Tommy pins the other against the road. Still, Abby strains beneath them, Manny’s blood smeared across her face.

“You took him from me.”

Joel draws his revolver and aims between her eyes.

For the first time, Abby stops fighting. Her chest rises and falls beneath them as she looks directly into the barrel.

“Do it.”

Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.

“Come on,” she says, louder now. “Kill me like you killed my father.”

Joel says nothing.

“Look at me!” Abby bucks beneath them, her voice breaking into a scream. “Look at me and fucking do it!”

Joel looks down at her. For one brief second, he does not see the knife that opened his side or the woman who came here to torture him. He sees grief left too long without anywhere to go. A child who built everything she became around the moment someone took her father away.

His finger remains still.

Abby sees it. “What?” she spits. “You could do it to him, but not me?”

“Shut the fuck—” Tommy tightens his hold.

“Come on, you fucking coward! Do it!”

Joel still does not fire.

Not in that single second.

Something vicious twists across Abby’s face.

“Fine.”

Her free hand tears loose and disappears beneath Manny’s body. Her fingers close around his pistol.

“I’ll do it myself.”

She swings the weapon toward Joel.

Tommy fires.

The shot tears through Abby’s back. Her body jerks beneath Joel, and Manny’s pistol discharges into the road, the bullet passing close enough for him to feel it cut the air beside his face.

Abby tries to raise the weapon again. Her arm trembles, refusing to obey. The pistol slips from her fingers and lands beside Manny’s hand.

She stares up at Joel, fury fighting against the shock in her eyes. Her mouth moves, but only a wet breath escapes. “Damn you…” Then she goes still.

Joel keeps the revolver trained between her eyes for several seconds. Finally, he lowers it and pushes himself away.

Tommy looks from Abby to Manny. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Joel retrieves his rifle and looks at Abby once. There is no satisfaction in his face. No relief. Only time lost. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Followed the Wolves after they moved you from the hospital.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” Joel’s eyes narrow. “Why are you even in Seattle?”

“Ellie wouldn’t let it go. Kept saying something was wrong—that you wouldn’t stay quiet this long unless you were dead or in trouble.”

“The kid was right.”

“Usually is. Annoying as hell, but right.”

Joel studies his brother. “You left your boy and came all the way out here?”

“He’s with his mama. Safest place he could be.”

“Maria know you’re here?”

Tommy looks down while gathering ammunition from Manny’s rifle. His silence is answer enough.

“You’re a damn idiot.”

“Says the man I just pulled out from under two Fireflies.” Tommy catches Joel by the shoulder. “Hold still. You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

“Mine ain’t pouring out.”

“Tommy.”

Something in Joel’s voice strips the humour from his brother’s face. “They have her.”

Tommy looks toward the hospital beyond the ruined streets.

“In there?”

“Clouser’s got her. Last I heard, she had a gun against her own head.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She did it for me.” Joel looks down at the silent radio. “Made them let me go. Then the line went dead.”

Tommy studies his face. “You two are dangerously fuckin’ alike.”

“She’s worse.”

Joel reaches for the driver’s door, but pain locks through his side. Tommy takes the keys from his hand. “I’m driving.”

“I can drive.”

“You can bleed and shoot. Pick two.” Joel glares at him. Tommy opens the passenger door. “Get in before your stubborn ass falls over.”

Joel climbs inside with the rifle across his knees. Tommy starts the engine while Joel picks up the radio. Static answers. He changes the frequency. Nothing. His hand tightens around the device.

Tommy glances toward him. “She’s strong, Joel.”

The radio erupts in a burst of overlapping voices.

“—all available units return to the hospital.”

Gunfire rattles through the channel.

“Medical personnel are armed. We’ve lost the east wing. Lower containment access has been compromised!”

Another voice breaks through the static.

“Reinforcements to the laboratory entrance!”

“Fall back! Fall—”

A burst of automatic fire drowns out the rest.

Joel’s head snaps toward Tommy. “We need to find her before the whole damn place comes down.”

Tommy slams the vehicle into gear.

“Then let’s go get her.”

The fighting draws them toward the rear of the hospital. Joel and Tommy move through the narrow lane behind the loading docks, keeping close to the concrete wall while gunfire tears through the floors above them. Emergency lights pulse behind shattered windows. Somewhere inside, men shout conflicting orders over the alarms. Tommy reaches the service entrance first. He tries the handle, finds it locked and steps aside. Joel fires once into the mechanism.

“Subtle,” Tommy mutters.

“Ain’t got time for subtle.” They slip inside. The service corridor smells of bleach, smoke and hot electrical wiring. Bodies lie beneath the emergency lights—Wolves, doctors, people in blood-soaked scrubs. Joel barely looks at them.

“Lower level should connect to the east wing,” Tommy says. Joel is already moving. They descend through a concrete stairwell while the battle continues above them. The gunfire becomes muffled underground, replaced by the pounding of boots and the mechanical groan of failing ventilation. The door at the bottom bursts open.

Two armed men rush into the corridor, firing behind them. A third figure follows between them, still wearing a bloodstained surgical gown beneath his coat. In one hand he carries an insulated case marked with a faded biohazard symbol. William and several armed members of his staff appear at the opposite end of the corridor. Gunfire erupts. One of Clouser’s guards goes down immediately. The second dives behind a medical cart and returns fire while Clouser turns toward the service exit. Then he sees Joel. For the first time, surprise breaks through his composure. Joel recognises the voice before the face.

“Tommy—that’s him!” Tommy fires at the remaining guard, forcing him behind cover. “Go!” Joel charges. Clouser tries to turn, but Joel reaches him before he takes two steps. He strikes him across the mouth and drives him into the wall. The insulated case flies from Clouser’s hand, hits the floor and springs open. Rows of glass vials rattle inside fitted foam. Some contain dark, fibrous material. Others hold clear or pale amber fluid packed between melting cold packs. Clouser looks toward the case. Joel hits him again. Clouser drops to one knee. Joel catches him by the front of the gown, hauls him upright and slams him against the wall. “Where is she?”

Clouser coughs, blood running over his lower lip. Joel shakes him hard enough to strike his skull against the tile. “Where the fuck is she?” 

Clouser looks into his face and smiles. “You’re late.”

Something in Joel breaks. His fist catches Clouser beneath the cheekbone. Once. Then again. Clouser folds toward the floor, but Joel keeps hold of him. “Joel!” Tommy’s warning cuts through the corridor. William and three members of his staff have reached them. Their weapons are raised. Tommy stands between the two groups, rifle trained on William while William’s people aim back at him.

“Everybody hold,” William orders. No one lowers a weapon. William’s eyes move past Tommy and settle on Joel. His expression changes.

“You’re Joel.” Joel knows that face. Charcoal smudged across old pages. A man drawn from memory again and again, sometimes with glasses, sometimes without. A name written beneath one unfinished portrait in your careful handwriting.

 William.

Joel releases Clouser and steps toward him. “Where is she?”

“Procedure Room Seven.”

“Tell me she’s all right.”

“She is alive.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” 

Clouser laughs weakly from the floor, wipes blood from his mouth. “Listen to him, Joel. He knows what you’re about to find.”

 Joel starts forward. William holds him back.

“You still need me,” Clouser says. William releases Joel and turns. Clouser looks toward the open case. “The serum is there. Daniel can still be stabilised. The others too, if you stop this now.”

“Yeah?” William reaches into his coat. “I got something for you, you piece of shit,” A sealed syringe appears in his hand. Dark fungal material drifts through cloudy fluid. Clouser’s face drains of colour.

Joel looks between them. “What’s that?”

“A concentrated strain engineered to invade neural tissue quickly,” William says. His eyes remain on Clouser. “His strain.”  

“Cordyceps,” Tommy mutters.

William gives a grim nod. “Modified to spread faster and cross into neural tissue more efficiently than anything found outside this building.”

Clouser begins backing away. “You cannot do this.” 

William kneels in front of him.

“Daniel is alive because of me,” Clouser says.

“Daniel is infected because of you.”

“I gave you proof! Her blood is working. Everything we did brought us here.” William catches him by the jaw and forces his head to the side. Clouser’s composure shatters. “William, listen to me. We can still finish this. We can save him. We can save all of them.” William drives the needle in. Clouser screams. He claws at William’s wrist, but Joel plants a boot against his chest and holds him to the floor while William forces the dark suspension into his bloodstream. Clouser convulses beneath them. The syringe empties. William withdraws the needle. “Death would be mercy.” 

Clouser clamps both hands over the puncture. “The serum. I need it now!” William rises. Clouser scrambles after him on his knees. “William!”  William looks toward two of his men. “Take him downstairs.” They seize Clouser beneath the arms. He fights immediately.

“No! Not the lower ward.”

“Put him in isolation with the subjects he abandoned.” Clouser digs his heels against the floor as they drag him toward the reinforced stairwell.

“You still need me! You don’t understand the protocol!” William closes the insulated case.

“I understand enough.” The stairwell door closes over Clouser’s screams. Tommy watches it shut. “Hell of a way to test his own work.” Joel does not respond. He catches William by the coat.

“Kat…Why’d he say I was late?” 

William hesitates. “She’s sedated.” 

Joel’s grip tightens. “She’s what?”

“We found her restrained in the procedure room. Clouser had begun serial blood collection and was preparing a marrow extraction. Her shoulder had reopened, and she was fighting hard enough to worsen the bleeding.”

“What did you give her?”

“A controlled sedative. She is breathing on her own.”

“Take me to her. Now.”

 William looks toward the people lining the corridor. “Lower your weapons,” he tells them. “It’s over.” Slowly, rifles descend. The last bursts of gunfire above them fade into isolated shots. William takes the case and leads them upstairs. They move through the remains of the revolt. Bodies lie between overturned carts and broken glass. Some wear WLF armour. Others wear lab coats or scrubs darkened with blood. A doctor steps into William’s path. “What about the treatment?”

“Secure the laboratory. Put the samples in cold storage.”

“There isn’t enough,” the doctor says. “Not for the entire ward.” William’s pace falters. Only once. 

Joel notices. “How much did you take from her?”  William does not answer. Joel grabs his shoulder and turns him. “How much?”

“I stopped the marrow procedure and treated the injury.”

“But you kept takin’ her blood.” 

William meets his eyes. “Yes.”

Joel nearly strikes him. Tommy steps close enough to intervene, but William turns and continues toward the east wing. Joel follows because you are ahead of him. Because every second spent hitting William is another second before he sees you. 

The third-floor corridor is quieter than the rest of the hospital. Emergency lights stain the walls red. William stops outside a reinforced door. Joel reaches past him and throws it open. Then he stops. His mind rejects what his eyes show him. For one fractured second, the room refuses to make sense. There is only white light, hanging tubes and the slow pulse of machines. Then the shapes become you.

You lie beneath the adjustable lamp, so still that the bed appears to have been arranged around a body rather than a living person. Your shirt has been cut open across the shoulder and chest. Adhesive electrodes cover your skin, thin wires trailing from them into monitors. Another set disappears beneath your hair near your temple. One arm is extended on a narrow support. A dark line leaves the vein inside your elbow and travels through a collection chamber before descending into a nearly full blood bag. Drops fall into it one at a time. Slow. Steady. Your other arm carries an intravenous line feeding clear fluid back into you. Fresh bandages cover your shoulder and the place near your hip where someone had prepared the marrow site. Bruises circle your wrists. Your lips have lost their colour. Three filled collection bags hang beside the bed. 

You look dead.

Joel’s body understands the sight before his mind does. Every muscle locks. His breath catches beneath his ribs and refuses to rise. The white walls blur as an older terror takes their place. A small body heavy in his arms. Blood soaking through his shirt and running hot between his fingers. Sarah looking up at him without understanding why he cannot make the pain stop. 

No. No, baby girl. Look at me. Stay with me. 

Then Ellie beneath the lights in Salt Lake City. Unconscious on another hospital bed, her skin cold beneath his hands when he lifted her from the operating table. And now you. Still beneath the same merciless white light. 

Too late. 

The thought tears through him. He failed you. His chest clamps shut. His heart strikes once, violently, then stumbles into a frantic rhythm. Joel tries to move toward the bed, but his legs no longer seem connected to him.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice reaches him through water. Joel presses a hand against his chest, trying to force air into lungs that will not open. Tommy catches his arm.

“Joel. Hey—look at me.” 

Joel cannot.

“She’s breathing,” Tommy says. “You hear me? She’s breathing.” The words are the only thing keeping the room from becoming another grave. Tommy points toward the monitor. “Look.” A green line moves across the screen. A pulse. Joel stares at it. Then the line rises again. 

You are alive.

He forces one foot forward. Then the other. By the time he reaches the bed, his entire body is shaking. Joel touches your face. Your skin is cool beneath his palm. Not cold. Not cold. His fingers slide to the side of your neck, searching desperately for the beat beneath your skin. He does not trust the monitor. He does not trust William or the machines or anyone standing in that room. He trusts only what he can feel. There. Weak but steady. The breath that leaves him sounds almost like a sob. 

Come on, darlin’. 

The words form inside him, but his throat has closed around them. Your eyelids do not move. Joel brushes his thumb beneath your eye and follows the bruising along your cheek. His gaze moves down to the tape, the wires, the line disappearing into your arm. He watches your blood travel through the tubing. Another dark drop falls into the collection bag. Something hot runs down his face. He does not realise he is crying until it reaches his jaw. Joel reaches for the line. William catches his wrist.

“Don’t.” Joel turns toward him. His eyes are wet, but the grief inside them has sharpened into something lethal.

“Take it out.”

“The collection is almost complete.”

Joel draws his revolver and drives the barrel beneath William’s chin.

“I said take it out.” 

Tommy moves beside him, one hand closing around Joel’s shoulder. William slowly raises both hands. “If you pull the catheter without clamping it, you could rupture the vein.”

“Then clamp it.”

“We need the final volume.” 

Joel’s voice breaks as it rises. “Stop taking her fucking blood!” The assistants beside the monitors freeze.

“Listen to me,” William says.

“NO!”

“Joel—”

“You’re William, ain’t you?” The question catches him. Joel presses the barrel harder beneath his jaw. “She drew your face. Wrote your name under it.” William says nothing. “She called herself Kat in. Your daughter’s name.” Joel’s voice trembles with rage. “She wanted you to be the closest thing she ever had to a father. This how you treated her?”

“This is not about her.”

Joel surges forward, forcing William back against the wall. “Everything in this fucking room is about her!”

William looks toward the revolver. “Taking her away will not change what is happening inside her. There may be very little anyone can do for her now.”

Joel pulls back the hammer. “What the—?”

“Joel,” Tommy says quietly. Joel does not look away from William. Tommy studies the filled blood bags and the scans glowing on the wall.

“Hear him out,” he says. “Then we take her.” Joel glances at his brother. For a moment, they are boys again, exchanging an entire decision without speaking. Tommy’s face tells him everything he needs to know. The explanation will not change what happens next. William sees it too.

“Three minutes,” Joel says. “Waste one and you’re done.”

 William turns carefully toward the screen. Two images of your brain glow beside each other. One old. One recent. “The first scan was taken ten years ago. The second was taken today.” Joel sees the pale branching mass inside your skull. In the newer image, it has spread far beyond its original boundaries.

“That’s the infection?”

“It is Cordyceps, but it does not behave like a conventional infection.” William points toward the older scan. “Her exposure began before she was born. Her mother was bitten late in pregnancy, and a damaged form of the organism reached her while her immune system was still developing.” Tommy studies the image. “So her body thought it belonged there.”

“Not exactly. It learned to tolerate one altered colony while recognising later strains as foreign. The original growth established itself in her brain without taking control. Every bite and every concentration of spores introduced a competing strain, forcing the colony to adapt.”

“And it grew,” Joel says.

“Yes.” William points toward the newer scan.

“It produces compounds that prevent new Cordyceps from replicating. Her blood carries part of that response. We infused a small sample into Daniel.” His voice catches.

“My son.” William draws a breath. “His fever fell. The infection began to recede within minutes.” Tommy looks toward the filled bags. “And you think it can cure the others.”

“It can stabilise them. If we isolate what is active in her blood, we may be able to reproduce it without taking more from her.” 

Joel keeps the revolver raised. “At what cost?”

“The thing protecting her is also destroying her!”

Joel’s face empties. “What are you sayin’?”

“The organism maintains control by expanding. Every new exposure causes more growth, inflammation and pressure on the surrounding tissue. I cannot tell you when the balance will fail. It may take years. It may happen sooner if she suffers another bite or prolonged spore exposure.”

“No.” Joel says it quietly.

“I wish I were wrong.”

Joel forces the barrel harder beneath William’s chin. “So you figure she’s dyin’ anyway.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you’re sayin’.”

“I am saying her blood can save people now. Sixteen patients are dying downstairs. Children. Parents.” William’s voice fractures. “My son.” Joel looks toward the nearly full collection bag. “Look, I love her too,” William says. Joel’s eyes snap toward him. William does not retreat. “I remember the day she was born. I watched her take her first breath. I was there when the first scans showed us what had happened inside her. I remember the first time she asked me to call her Kat instead of her own name. I knew whose name she had chosen. I knew what she was asking me to be, even if neither of us could say it aloud.” His gaze moves toward your face. “I brought her books. I sat beside her through the fevers. Every time Clouser looked at her and saw an answer, I tried to make sure someone still saw a child.” His eyes shine. “When she escaped, part of me was terrified for her. Another part was relieved she had gotten away from us.” For the first time, shame breaks through his composure.

“I would not choose this if there were another way. What we collected may stabilise three or four people. The final volume may be enough to begin producing a treatment that does not require her.” He looks toward the blood bags.

“If we stop now, people who could have lived will die.”

Joel looks at you. The wires. The bruises. The blood leaving your body one drop at a time. Then he looks at Tommy. No words pass between them, but the answer moves easily through the silence. Tommy’s jaw sets. His rifle shifts toward the assistants beside the monitors. Joel turns back to William.

“Don’t care.”

William stares at him. “What?”

“I don’t care about your patients. Don’t care about your cure. Don’t care what happens to this whole goddamn world. If she’s got years, they’re hers. If she’s got a week, that’s hers too.” His voice grows quieter. “You don’t get to spend what’s left of her life like it belongs to everybody else.”

“People will die.”

“People always die.” Joel’s eyes return to William. “She ain’t dyin’ for them.” 

William’s expression fills with grief. Joel does not lower the gun.

“I know what you did in Salt Lake,” William says quietly. “You’re really going to do it again?”

Joel’s eyes sharpen, he does not blink. “Unhook her.”

“You heard him. Clamp the line.” William remains still. Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.z

William holds Joel’s gaze for another second. Then he gives one of the assistants a small nod. The woman moves toward the bed with both hands visible. Tommy follows her with the barrel of his rifle.“Slow,” he warns. She closes the clamp above the catheter and peels the tape from your arm. Her fingers tremble badly enough that the adhesive slips twice.

“Keep pressure above the vein,” William says. The catheter slides free. A thin line of blood wells from the puncture before the assistant presses gauze against it and wraps your arm. Tommy gestures toward the remaining wires.

“All of it.”

She disconnects the monitor leads one by one. The green line vanishes from the screen. An alarm changes to a single continuous tone that drives through Joel’s skull. Your chest still rises. That is all he watches. Tommy keeps the others covered while Joel holsters his revolver and pulls off his jacket. 

Only then does he see what they have done to the rest of you. Your trousers have been removed for the marrow procedure. A hospital sheet lies twisted beneath one leg, leaving bruised skin and the bandaged site near your hip exposed beneath the surgical light. Joel’s face hardens. He lays his jacket over you carefully, covering you from your chest to below your knees. He draws the sides together and tucks the heavy fabric beneath you so it cannot fall open when he lifts you. His hand pauses against your cheek. Still cool. Still breathing. 

All of sudden, William moves. 

The sound of the pistol clearing his coat is almost nothing. Tommy turns, but William already has the weapon aimed at Joel’s back. Joel becomes still beside the bed. William holds the gun in both hands, tears shining in his eyes. “I cannot allow you to carry her out of this room.”

Tommy swings his rifle toward him. “Put it down.” 

William does not look at him. “Sixteen people are dying downstairs. Her blood is the first real chance we have ever had. If you take her now, everything we sacrificed becomes meaningless.” 

Joel slowly turns.

William’s pistol trembles. 

Joel fires first.

The bullet enters the centre of William’s forehead. His pistol discharges into the ceiling as his body strikes the wall and folds to the floor beneath the glowing scans. For half a second, no one in the room breathes. The assistants recoil and scream.

One reaches toward the alarm panel. 

Another dives for William’s fallen pistol. 

Tommy fires.

The first assistant falls against the monitor. The second collapses before his fingers reach the gun. The remaining two freeze against the wall. Outside, voices erupt.

“That came from Procedure Seven!”

“Security to the east wing!”

Boots thunder toward the room. Joel turns to Tommy.

“Tommy. Help me.” 

Tommy sees what has settled into his brother’s face. Not rage anymore. Something quieter. Something far worse. He has seen that darkness before—after Sarah, during the years when survival meant doing things neither of them ever named afterward. He also knows Joel cannot carry another hospital out alone. Tommy crosses to the door and tears the privacy curtain from its track. Joel bends over you. He slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders. 

Your head rolls weakly toward him as he lifts you from the bed. “Easy,” he whispers, though you cannot hear him. “I got you, baby. I got you.” He gathers you tightly against his chest. Your face settles against his neck. Your hair brushes his mouth, carrying the faintest trace of rain and smoke beneath the antiseptic. Joel closes his eyes for one brief second.

There you are. Still breathing. Faintly. Barely.

But you are breathing.

And if keeping that breath inside you meant killing every last person left in this world, Joel would do it without hesitation.

Gunfire erupts beyond the curtain. He shifts you higher, keeping the jacket wrapped firmly around your body. His revolver rests beneath your bent knees, secured between his forearm and your weight. The curtain jerks aside. Tommy appears through the smoke, blood freckling one side of his face. “Come on.” 

Joel follows. Two guards lie in the corridor. One still moves, fingers dragging toward his rifle. Tommy fires once without slowing.

“Left side’s clear. Stairwell ain’t.” Shouts echo from both ends of the hall.

“They’ve got the girl!”

“They’re taking her!”

“Do not shoot the subject! She has to stay alive!” Joel’s arms tighten around you. Subject. Tommy glances over his shoulder and sees the change in his brother’s face.

“Keep behind me.” They move. Tommy leads with his rifle raised. Joel stays close, keeping your head tucked beneath his chin. A soldier steps from a side room and aims at Tommy. He sees you in Joel’s arms, and the barrel wavers.

“Put her down!” Tommy shoots him through the chest. More boots pound ahead. “Down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel drops to one knee and curls himself over you. Gunfire tears through the corridor. Bullets punch into the wall above his head, showering his back with plaster. Tommy fires over him in controlled bursts until his rifle clicks empty.

“Shit.” He ducks behind an overturned cart and reaches for another magazine. A soldier advances through the smoke. Joel lowers you carefully behind the cart, keeping one hand beneath your head until it rests against his folded jacket. He draws the revolver and fires twice. The first round catches the soldier in the shoulder. The second takes him beneath the eye. Joel is back beside you before the body reaches the floor. Tommy slams in a fresh magazine.

“Got her?” 

Joel gathers you into his arms again. “Move.” 

They reach the intersection leading toward the stairwell. A group waits beyond it—Wolves in body armour, hospital security and two doctors holding pistols with hands that shake too badly to aim properly. Behind them stand nurses and frightened civilians who have emerged from the patient wards. A woman grips a photograph against her chest. A man beside her is crying. One of the doctors sees the jacket wrapped around you.

“You can’t take her.” 

Tommy keeps his rifle level. “Get outta the way.”

“My wife is downstairs,” the doctor says. “William said her blood was working.” Joel does not stop. The doctor raises his weapon. “She can save them.”

Joel’s face does not change. “She ain’t savin’ anybody.”

He fires before the doctor can pull the trigger. The bullet catches him in the chest and throws him backward into the people behind him. Joel steps over the spreading blood without looking down, holding you tighter against him as he keeps moving.

Someone behind the doctor shouts, “Shoot them!” The corridor erupts. People scream and scatter into the patient rooms. Tommy fires toward the armed men while Joel turns sideways, placing his body between you and the bullets.

“Stay down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel lowers you behind the reception counter, one hand protecting the back of your skull. He rises over the edge and fires until the weapons across the corridor fall silent. He checks you immediately. Your breathing remains shallow but even. “I’m gettin’ you outta here, darlin’.” A bullet tears through the counter. Tommy grabs the back of Joel’s shirt and pulls him lower.

“Gotta move.” 

Joel’s cylinder is nearly empty. Tommy points toward a dead Wolf beside a gurney. “Take his.” Joel drags the rifle toward him, checks the chamber and strips two magazines from the man’s vest.

“Now!” Tommy shouts. Joel lifts you again, and they run bent low through the smoke. A nurse presses herself against the wall as they pass. She stares at your limp hand hanging beyond the edge of Joel’s jacket.

“Please,” she whispers. Joel hears her. He does not look back. The stairwell doors are twenty feet ahead when another squad pours from the adjoining corridor. Tommy fires first. The lead soldier drops. The others spread behind pillars and return fire in short, disciplined bursts. Joel and Tommy retreat behind a concrete support.

“We’re pinned,” Tommy says. Joel looks down at you. A smear of blood has appeared along the bandage at your arm. The darkness in his eyes deepens. Tommy recognises it.

“No. You hold her. I got this.” He searches the vest of a dead Wolf and finds a smoke grenade. He pulls the pin and throws it. Thick white smoke pours into the corridor.

“Can’t see them!”

“Watch your fire! The girl’s with them!” 

Tommy steps into the haze. His rifle flashes in the white smoke. One body falls. Then another. Joel follows the sound of his brother’s shots, holding you tightly enough to feel each shallow breath against his chest. A shape emerges only a few feet away. A soldier sees Joel and raises his weapon. Then he sees you. He hesitates. Joel does not. The rifle bucks once against his shoulder, and the soldier disappears into the haze.

“Joel!” Tommy calls. “This way!” A hand catches the back of Joel’s shirt. He turns and drives the rifle stock into a guard’s face, kicks his knee sideways and fires before the man can reach his pistol. The recoil tears through Joel’s wounded side. His vision darkens. He nearly drops to one knee. Tommy catches his arm. “Stay with me.”

 Joel adjusts you against his chest. “’M fine.”

“Keep movin’.”

They enter the stairwell and start down. Gunfire follows them through the door, rounds striking the concrete wall. At the next landing, two guards rush up from below. Tommy shoots one, but his magazine empties before he reaches the second. Joel lowers himself onto the step, braces you against his thighs and fires from beneath your knees. The guard tumbles backward down the stairs. Tommy takes the fallen man’s carbine. By the time they reach the ground floor, a mechanical voice is ordering all personnel to evacuate. Smoke leaks through the ventilation system. The lobby is full of armed men. A barricade of overturned desks and medical carts blocks the main exit. Beyond it, hospital security and surviving Wolves wait with rifles trained on the stairwell.

“Put the immune subject down and surrender!” Joel steps behind the concrete wall. Tommy looks across the lobby. “Too many.”

 Joel studies the emergency exit map beside them. “Loading dock’s west. Hall’s exposed.”

“Got another idea?” 

Tommy searches the pouches on the fallen guard’s vest and finds a fragmentation grenade. “Yeah.”

 Joel sees it. “Do it.” 

Tommy pulls the pin. “When it goes, stay on me.” Joel looks down at your face. Then nods. Tommy throws the grenade over the barricade.

“Grenade!” 

The explosion tears through the far side of the lobby. Glass bursts inward, followed by smoke, dust and falling debris. Tommy moves before the echoes fade.

“Go!” 

He runs low across the lobby, firing into the shapes rising behind the barricade. Joel follows directly behind him with you in his arms. A soldier aims from behind the reception desk. Tommy shoots him. Another appears beside the elevator. Joel shifts you against his left side, draws the revolver and fires across your covered legs. The man falls against the closing doors. Joel secures both arms around you again without breaking stride.

“West hall!” 

Tommy shouts. The loading corridor stretches ahead beneath flickering red lights. The service door at the far end stands partly open, cold daylight cutting through the smoke. Three guards move to block it. Tommy fires until the carbine clicks empty. Two fall. The third dives behind a supply cart. Joel lowers you behind a concrete pillar, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Stay here.” 

He knows you cannot answer. Still, the words leave him like a promise. Joel rounds the pillar with the captured rifle. The guard fires first, the round grazing Joel’s upper arm. Joel barely reacts. He walks through the pain and fires until the guard stops moving. Tommy reaches the door and waves him forward.

“Clear!” 

Joel drops the rifle and returns to you. He gathers you back into his arms, drawing your face beneath his chin.

“Got ya.” He carries you through the service exit. Rain strikes his face. The loading yard is scattered with abandoned vehicles, bodies and discarded weapons. Gunfire continues behind them as more security teams pour toward the west wing. Tommy points toward an armoured utility vehicle near the gate.

“There!” 

They run. Joel’s wounded side tears wider with every step. Blood warms the inside of his shirt. His vision pulses black, clearing only when he looks down and sees your face. Tommy reaches the driver’s side and shoots out the damaged lock. He climbs inside and leans across to open the rear door.

“Get her in!”

Joel climbs into the back without releasing you. He sits sideways across the seat and pulls you into his lap, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Your head rests over his heart. Tommy starts the engine. Rounds strike the rear of the vehicle.

“Hold on!” 

He slams it into gear and drives through the loading-yard barrier. The metal gate folds beneath the front bumper as gunfire follows them onto the road. Tommy accelerates toward the southern edge of Seattle. Behind them, smoke pours from the shattered windows of the hospital. Flames flicker in one of the upper corridors, half hidden beneath the rain. Joel does not look back. He adjusts the jacket around your legs and pulls you closer until there is no space between your body and his. His hand remains against the side of your neck, feeling every pulse beneath his fingers.

Weak. Steady. Still there.

“Don’t you dare leave me, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his voice cracking despite the warning in it. “Y’hear me? Y’stay with me.” 

Tommy watches them through the rear-view mirror.

Joel’s face is streaked with blood and tears. You lie motionless against him, wrapped in his jacket, one bare foot visible beneath the dark fabric. His brother holds you with the same desperate strength Tommy remembers from another night, another ruined city, another person bleeding in Joel’s arms. Only this time, they had gotten to you before it was too late. 

They had pulled you from that cursed hospital bed. Carried you through the gunfire. Gotten you out alive. F

or now, that was enough. 

Neither brother speaks of the scans or the pale growth spreading through your brain. Whether you have years left or weeks—whether the thing inside you will eventually take you from them—belongs to another day. Until they are beyond Seattle’s borders, only one truth matters. They saved you. Tommy faces the road. The hospital shrinks behind them, leaving smoke, shattered glass and bodies in their wake.

He presses harder on the accelerator and drives toward the gates of Seattle.

please don't forget that your thoughts and feelings about this story matter deeply to me so please share them with me. Thank you for being here. 💋

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[blackborndue]

WOW JUST WOOWWWW 😯

I love that Joel didn’t save her because he thought she was going to live forever. He saved her after being told she might only have a few years left. He didn’t care. Whatever time she had belonged to HER. That is so dark, selfish, loving and painfully Last of Us.

[missadangel]

THIS. Thank you so much for putting it into words so perfectly 🖤

You understood exactly what I was trying to do with that scene 😭 Joel didn’t save her because he believed everything would magically be okay—he saved her knowing their time might still be limited, because whatever time she has left is hers to live, not anyone else’s to take. It’s selfish and morally fucked, but it’s also the purest kind of Joel Miller love.

[pedrohub]

MATERIALISTS 2025 | dir. Celine Song

[future-sobright-itsburning]

He such a sub, the best boy, needy whiny mess for you to play with, so eager to please and making you proud.

He would totally crawl on the ground at your feet asking so pathetically to be spanked and tied to the bed so you can do whatever you want to him. He would moan so pretty for you at every spank, finally clear minded and free from his burden and stress that comes from his job, his brain soothing and melting and only filled with you and how much he needs to be yours entirely, his cock painfully hard and leaking at the thought of you allowing him inside your pussy, hips rutting desperately on the sheets in search of friction, mouth agape, wrists fighting the restrains you put him into, legs shaking, crying and begging for more while you’re keeping him on the edge cause he needs to earn his release, calling you ma’am, babbling so hard but always thanking you for whatever you decide to give him cause he learned manners and he’s such a good boy. And when you tell him that he did so well for you and he’s such a good puppy who deserves a prize and allow him to turn around on the bed he looks at you with the cutest teary eyes, soft smile plastered on his face. You tell him he can fondle your nipples and he does the best job, so attentive and careful with his teeth but also hungry and desperate to suck and swirl his tongue on your hard buds, his whole mouth filled with your tit cause he cannot have enough off you and your perfect breasts. He’s so hard it’s actually painful but he doesn’t care because he just needs for you to be satisfied and he melts more at every praise and when you finally give him your pussy and start bouncing on his cock at your own pace he’s just mesmerized and he thinks he’s in heaven, your pussy so good he feels drunk in no time. He calls your name like a prayer holding back his orgasm no matter how good you’re swallowing his shaft inside you until you say he’s allowed to cum. When he finally does he’s so pent up he creams your cunt so much, big spurts coating your inner walls until his balls are dry and spent and his cum leaks out of your pretty hole and all he can think about is you and how beautiful you are while you come on his cock and nothing else. He’s sweaty on your bed just wishing he could touch you and make you cum again on his tongue while he cleans you up from the mess he made inside of you.

I’m sorry you can’t change my mind.

[missadangel]

V my darling, are you trying to kill me?🥵 loved this soooo much you have no idea, ahhh need him so baad 🫠

he creams your cunt so much, big spurts coating your inner walls until his balls are dry

I'm drooling 😶‍🌫️🥵🤤

[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right

Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader

11 - The Woman He Saved from the World

series masterlist ⎢ prev chapter ⎢ next chapter

Summary: You find yourself locked inside that goddamn hospital with no real way out, while your father is ready to cut you open if it means saving his cure. Joel may be the only man ruthless enough to get you out alive—but first, he has to survive Abby. Chapter W.C and Warnings: 14.6k ⚠️This chapter contains significantly darker, more disturbing and emotionally intense material than previous chapters. Read warnings at your own risk if you want to avoid spoilers... HEAVY ANGST, graphic violence, extreme blood and gore, gun violence, shootings, stabbing, execution-style killing, multiple character deaths, Abby and Joel confrontation, serious injuries, open wounds, heavy bleeding, panic attacks, PTSD, trauma flashbacks, Joel reliving past losses, Joel believing Reader is dead, non-consensual medical procedures, forced blood extraction, attempted bone marrow extraction, needles and injections, Cordyceps experimentation, infected test subjects, body horror, terminal illness implications, discussion of Reader’s possible death, hospital uprising, morally gray choices, morally gray everyone, discussion of a cure, Joel choosing Reader over other lives, William and Joel confrontation, protective/possessive Joel, Joel and Tommy fighting together to save reader, protective Tommy, execution of medical staff, helplessness, hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, Joel carrying Reader through gunfire. A/N: I cried so much while writing this chapter. I felt everything Joel was going through so deeply, and honestly, parts of it were incredibly difficult to put into words. I really hope you enjoy it, and I’m sorry it took me this long to finish. Thank you for being patient with me. ❤️ Chapter's Song: Agnes Obel — The Curse. “And their hope grew with a hunger to live.”

-YOU-

Cold metal presses against your cheek. For a few seconds, that is all you know. Cold. Metal. Pain. A dull, violent pulse beats beneath your right shoulder, spreading down your arm and across your chest with every shallow breath you take. Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift. Your tongue tastes like blood. Something chemical clings to the back of your throat. You try moving your hand. Metal rattles somewhere nearby. Your eyes snap open. A stained concrete floor fills your vision. Too close.

You’re lying on your side beneath flickering fluorescent lights, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath you while the other rests beside a rusted drain cut into the floor. Your wrists are free. That surprises you first. Then the bars do. Thick iron bars stretch from floor to ceiling a few feet away, welded between old hospital pillars. A heavy padlock hangs outside the door. A cell. Your stomach drops. You force yourself upright. Pain tears through your shoulder so hard the room flashes white.

“Fuck—” Your back slams against the wall. You bite down against the scream clawing its way up your throat and press one hand over the fresh bandage wrapped around your shoulder.

Clean gauze. Too clean. Somebody treated the gunshot. Not well enough to stop the throbbing. Well enough to keep you alive. Your breathing turns sharp. 

Joel. Taxi. The hospital.

Memory slams back all at once. Clouser standing beneath the floodlights. William with a gun pressed against his head. The revolver kicking hard inside your hand. Blood bursting from the side of Clouser’s face. Then— The bullet. Your shoulder snapping backward. Joel shouting your name. Hands grabbing you. Too many hands.

You remember fighting. Of course you fought. A Wolf’s nose breaking beneath your forehead. Another choking when you drove your fingers into his throat. A medic leaning over you while someone tried cutting through your jacket. You twisting free. Your elbow connecting with a jaw. A metal tray crashing to the floor. Scissors in your hand. Someone screaming— “She’s got a weapon!”

You remember burying the scissors deep into a soldier’s thigh. Then someone caught your injured arm and pulled. Pain. Bright enough to erase the room. A needle flashing near your neck. You grabbed the medic’s wrist. Almost broke it. Another body slammed into your back. Then the sharp sting just beneath your jaw. Warmth flooding through your veins. Your legs turning useless. Clouser’s blurred face hovering above you. His voice far away. “Enough.” Then nothing.

Your hand moves automatically toward your neck. A small puncture mark sits beneath your jaw. “Son of a bitch.”

You grab the bars and drag yourself onto your feet. The room sways violently. You tighten your grip until your knuckles whiten and wait for the floor to stop moving. No windows. No clock. No way to tell how long you’ve been unconscious. “Joel?” Your voice echoes through the corridor. Nothing answers.

You pull yourself closer to the bars and look around properly. The space beyond your cell is wide and rectangular, lined with abandoned examination bays. Faded plastic curtains hang in torn strips from rusted tracks along the ceiling. Numbers remain painted above each section. 

TRIAGE ONE. TRIAGE TWO. TRIAGE THREE. 

An old emergency intake ward. The WLF must have converted it into a holding block after taking the hospital. Efficient. Close to the ambulance entrance. Close to the operating rooms. Close to the elevators leading underground. Easy to bring prisoners in without the rest of the building seeing them. Easy to decide whether they became recruits, corpses— Or experiments.

Your eyes move toward the cells across from yours. Three of them. Empty. At least they look empty. Dark stains spread across the floor of the nearest one. Old blood. The farthest contains a torn mattress, a metal bucket and deep scratches carved into the wall. Not random. Words. Most are too small to read from here. One isn’t. 

DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOU DOWNSTAIRS.

Your pulse slows. Then something scrapes beyond the double doors at the end of the ward. You straighten instantly. Pain tears through your shoulder again, but you ignore it. Footsteps approach. Two people. Maybe three. Your body goes still. Not relaxed. Ready.

The doors swing open. A woman enters first. Her light brown hair is pulled tightly away from her face, its length woven into a practical braid down her back. She is young. Probably younger than you. She wears dark WLF fatigues beneath a weather-stained military jacket, the sleeves pushed partway up her forearms. A rifle hangs across her back, while the pistol strapped to her thigh sits within easy reach. Her frame is strong without being bulky. The controlled balance of someone who trains because survival depends on it, not because she wants anyone watching. Everything about the way she moves says soldier. She stops several feet from your cell. The man beside her doesn’t. He keeps walking until he is only a few feet from the bars.

Rain-darkened hair curls loosely near his temples, a little longer around his ears. A narrow mustache shadows his upper lip, joined by faint stubble tracing his jaw. His WLF gear resembles hers—a dark shirt beneath an olive tactical vest, cargo trousers tucked into scuffed combat boots. A knife rests at one hip. A pistol at the other. His posture is looser than hers. Almost casual. But his dark eyes never stop moving. Your hands. Your injured shoulder. The lock. The narrow space between your body and the bars. You dislike him immediately. Maybe it’s the half-smile sitting too easily on his face. The expression of a man who enjoys knowing something you don’t. He looks like the kind of asshole who would smile while lying straight to your face.

The woman says nothing. Just stares. You stare back. You consider asking about Joel. The question climbs halfway up your throat. You swallow it again. No. They don’t need to know what he means to you. Not yet.

The man speaks first. “So... This is her?” His eyebrows lift as he looks you over. “This is the girl who got fourteen of our people killed in one day?”

Your jaw tightens. Fourteen. You thought it was closer to twelve. Good to know.

The man steps slightly nearer. “Thought she’d be bigger.”

You lean closer to the bars. “Open the door.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

“Then we can introduce ourselves properly.”

A short laugh escapes him. “She’s funny.”

Your eyes remain on him. “People usually laugh more before I break their teeth.”

His expression sharpens slightly. You tighten your grip on the bars. “You here to take revenge for your friends?” Your gaze moves between them. “Take a number.”

The man’s amusement disappears. “Those people had families.”

You give him a flat look. “Do I look like I give a shit?” His jaw tightens. You continue before he can answer. “Funny thing about your Wolves, though. Met two of them trying to run all the way to Santa Barbara.”

Something flashes across his face. You smile without warmth. “Real loyal family you’ve built here.”

The last trace of amusement leaves his face. He steps toward the bars. The woman speaks without looking at him. “Manny.” One word. Quiet. Enough to stop him.

He exhales through his nose and shifts back, but the anger remains visible beneath his expression.

The woman finally steps closer. You study her. There is something behind her eyes you cannot name. Pain, rage, perhaps. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with the fourteen soldiers. “How much does he mean to you?”

Every muscle in your body locks. The reaction lasts less than a second. Still long enough for her to see it. You angle your head slightly. “What?”

“Joel Miller.” She says the name as if she has said it a thousand times before. In dreams. In prayers. Between clenched teeth. Something ignites behind her eyes when she repeats it. “How much does he mean to you?”

The question itself should not frighten you. The way she asks it does. There is anticipation in her face. A terrible, almost hopeful kind of anticipation—as if she wants the answer to hurt. You keep your voice level. “Why?”

Her gaze searches yours. Whatever she finds makes the corner of her mouth twitch. “Good. When I kill him, I’ll know there’s someone left who understands what it feels like.” Your blood turns to ice. She watches the realization move across your face. “The fact that it’s you is almost poetic.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He slaughtered an entire hospital for that girl.” Her voice remains controlled, but her eyes begin to shine. “Soldiers. Nurses. People who had already surrendered.” She swallows. “An unarmed doctor.”

Salt Lake. The Fireflies. Joel carrying Ellie out beneath the gunfire. Your pulse begins pounding inside your ears. “And now he’s come all the way here for another one.”

You step closer to the bars. “Were you a Firefly?”

For a moment, she says nothing. Then— “Dr. Anderson was my dad.”

There it is. The wound beneath everything else. Her eyes glisten, but no tears fall. Not yet. Manny looks away. You stare at her. “The defenseless doctor you’re talking about was about to cut open a fourteen-year-old kid.” Her expression changes. You don’t stop. “He was about to cut me open too. For a cure none of you could prove would even work.”

“My dad knew what he was doing.”

“Your dad was going to kill us.”

“He was going to save—.”

“Joel saved us.” You cut her off. Her jaw tightens. You move so close that only rusted iron separates you. “How he did it, who he had to go through—” Your voice drops. “I don’t give a shit.”

Abby crosses the remaining distance in one violent step. Her hand shoots through the bars and fists into the front of your shirt. “Say that again, you fucking bitch.”

You move faster. Your good hand clamps around her wrist. You jerk her arm hard against the bars, trap it between two lengths of iron and catch one of her fingers before she can pull free. Then you bend. A sharp crack cuts through the ward. Abby cries out. Manny lunges forward. You twist harder. “Touch him and I’ll break the rest.”

“Shit! Abs!” Manny grabs Abby by the shoulder and yanks her backward. “Stop!” Her hand tears free from your grasp. She staggers away, clutching her finger against her chest, fury blazing across her face. Manny’s pistol is halfway out of its holster. Yours would already be in his throat if there weren’t bars between you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

All three of you turn. Clouser walks into the converted triage ward with two heavily armed Wolves behind him. A fresh bandage wraps around the side of his head, covering what remains of his ear. Blood has already begun seeping through the white material near his temple. Not enough. His gaze moves from Abby’s injured hand to Manny’s half-drawn weapon. Then to you. 

Manny slowly lets go of his pistol. “Just getting acquainted with your daughter.” He glances toward you. “Charming girl. Must run in the family.”

Clouser’s expression does not change. “I told you she isn’t here for you.”

Abby turns away from the cell, still cradling her injured hand. “Where is he?” She doesn’t need to say the name this time. You know exactly who she means.

Clouser continues walking. Neither hurried nor concerned. “I also told you that information comes at a price.”

Manny shifts beside her. “Isaac’s not coming down here.”

Clouser stops a few feet away. “That sounds like your problem.”

Abby takes a step toward him. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

The two Wolves accompanying Clouser raise their rifles slightly. Manny’s hand returns to his pistol. Nobody draws. Not yet. Clouser barely notices. “Isaac is bleeding the WLF dry over an island and a religious war he cannot win.”

“You don’t know anything about this war,” Abby snaps.

“I know your people are deserting faster than he can execute them.”

Her face hardens. Clouser gestures vaguely toward the hospital surrounding you. “I know your soldiers are dying from bites, arrows, infections and his obsession with the Scars.”

“You think that serum makes you a leader?”

The smallest smile touches his mouth. “No.” He looks toward her as if the answer should be obvious. “The fact that they cannot survive without it will.”

Your stomach twists. Apparently, while you were gone, your father had graduated from mad scientist to aspiring dictator.

Abby stares at him. “You’re experimenting on our people.”

“I’m saving them.”

“You’re killing them.”

“Temporary instability is not failure.” Clouser’s tone remains maddeningly calm. “It is data.”

Manny lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Is that what we’re calling the bodies downstairs?”

Clouser’s expression sharpens. “Careful.”

“No.” Abby steps closer. “You be careful.” Her voice rises. “You’ve got half the hospital locked down. Soldiers disappearing into quarantine. Families threatening to leave—and now you’re trying to turn Isaac’s command against him?”

“They will not leave.”

“You sound pretty fucking sure.”

“Their children require treatment.” Clouser glances toward the floor beneath you. “Treatment only I can provide.”

Abby’s face twists with disgust. “Are you fucking serious?”

“People follow Isaac because they fear him.” Clouser’s eyes move slowly between Abby and Manny. “They will follow me because they need me.”

“That cure doesn’t do shit,” Abby snaps. “Everyone knows it. The first chance they get, they’re going to put a bullet in your head.”

“This time it will work.”

Abby scoffs.

Clouser looks toward you. “It already has.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The tissue taken from her bite showed a response we have never seen before. Her blood stabilized one of the patients.” His gaze lingers on you. “You may see the results for yourselves.” A faint smile touches his mouth. Then he looks back at Abby. “She is proof that survival is possible. Isaac would reduce that proof to a weapon. Something to send through spore-filled tunnels and unleash against the Scars.”

“And you see her as what?”

Clouser answers without hesitation. “Mine.”

Revulsion crawls across your skin. You slam both hands against the bars. “I’m gonna tear your fucking throat out.”

One of the guards flinches. Clouser doesn’t. “Sweetheart.” His tone is almost indulgent. “There’s no need to get so worked up. You’ll tear your stitches.”

“Come closer and I’ll tear yours.”

Manny’s mouth almost twitches again.

Abby ignores both of you. Her eyes remain fixed on Clouser. “You bring me Joel Miller.” She glances toward your cell as she says it. Making certain you hear every word.

Clouser tilts his head. “You bring me Isaac.”

“Alive?”

“Very.”

“And Miller is mine.”

Your body hits the bars. The entire structure shakes. You grip the iron hard enough for rust to cut into your palms. Clouser turns toward the doors. “We will continue this conversation somewhere quieter.”

Abby does not move immediately. Neither do you. Your eyes remain locked through the bars. You shake them again. The metal groans beneath your hands. “Abby!”

She stops at the doors. Looks back. “You asked me how much he means to me?” Your voice drops. “Enough to make what he did in Salt Lake look like mercy.”

For one beat, Abby only stares at you. Then something in her face breaks. “You fucking—”

She surges toward the cell. Manny catches her by the arm before she reaches the bars and hauls her back. “If you put one hand on him, I swear to God I will get out of this cage.” Your voice carries through the entire ward. “I’ll tear this hospital apart room by room. And I’ll kill every motherfucker standing between me and him.”

Abby tears her arm free from Manny’s grip. Her eyes remain fixed on yours. “If you live that long.”

Then she turns and walks out.

Nearly an hour passes. At least, you think it does. You sit in the corner of the cell with your injured shoulder pressed against concrete, examining the rusted nail balanced across your knee.

You found it beneath the torn mattress and spent fifteen minutes working it loose. Not much. You have done more with less. You pull the leather belt free from your trousers and wrap one end around the nail until the spike sits upright between the folds. Ugly, but useful. Not enough to win against four armed Wolves. Enough to open a throat, take a gun and get out.

Joel is somewhere inside this hospital. Or already being taken to the woman who looked at you as though his death had been keeping her alive for years. You force the thought away. He is alive. He has to be. And Taxi— Your throat tightens. No. One problem at a time.

A metallic scrape comes from beyond the double doors. You are on your feet before they open, the belt wound around your palm and the nail hidden behind your thigh. Four soldiers enter the ward. Two remain near the cell with their rifles raised while the others approach the lock. The rifles are a performance. Clouser needs you alive, and everyone here knows it.

The taller soldier notices the hand behind your back. “Show me.”

You lean against the bars. “Open the fucking door and come take it.”

His jaw tightens. The man beside him pulls a syringe from his vest. Clear fluid. Long needle. Your stomach clenches before you can stop it. His mouth twists. “You want us to do this again?”

The sight of the needle drags fluorescent lights, leather restraints and hands pinning your arms out of memory. You lift your eyes to his. “Stick me with that and I’ll rip it out, bury it in your eye and make you choke on it.”

His smile disappears.

“Don’t sedate her. It will contaminate the neurological readings.”

The voice comes from behind the soldiers. Everything inside you stills. Ten years since you heard it without a wall, gunfire or memory distorting it.

The soldiers move apart. William stands behind them.

Yesterday, beneath the rain and hospital floodlights, you had only seen pieces of him—a bruised face, bound hands, a gun against his head. Now there is nothing between you. White threads through the hair at his temples. Lines cut deeply beside his mouth and beneath his eyes. He is thinner than you remember. Older. Tired in a way sleep could never fix.

He looks at you, and for several seconds the ward disappears. Pain shifts across his face, followed by relief and everything he cannot say in front of the soldiers.

“She’s going to behave,” he says, his voice deliberately clinical. Then his eyes soften. He says your real name quietly, as though unsure whether it still belongs to you. “Won’t you?”

The name catches beneath your ribs. Not Kat. Not the name known in Jackson. The name you were born with, tied to laboratory records and the girl you buried before reaching Wyoming.

His gaze drops toward the hand behind your back. 

Trust me. 

He does not say it, but for one irrational second his eyes remind you of Joel’s—that same steady look when the world is collapsing and he needs you to believe he has already found a way through it.

You bring your hand forward. The soldiers tense at the sight of the belt and nail, but William does not flinch. You unwrap the leather. The nail clatters onto the floor. “There,” you say. “Behaving.”

“Open the cell,” William orders.

The lock clicks. Two soldiers enter and grip you carefully, avoiding the wounded shoulder. Every instinct tells you to fight. Break a knee. Take the pistol. Use the body as cover. But Joel is still somewhere you cannot reach from behind these bars, so you let them hold you. For now.

They march you through older treatment wings until William leads you into a small examination room. Only one guard remains inside. William gestures toward the padded table. “Sit.”

You do, mostly because standing is beginning to require more effort than you want anyone to notice. William arranges gauze, forceps and two glass vials on a tray. Your eyes settle on the syringe.

When he reaches for the bandage around your forearm, you pull back. “The bite,” he says. “I need to look at it.”

“You people already took a piece.”

Something dark crosses his face. He glances toward the guard, who is staring through the observation window. “I know,” William says quietly.

You offer your arm. The stalker’s bite looks worse beneath the examination light, swollen around the badly stitched biopsy site.

William’s fingers hover near it. “You let it bite this deep?”

“It wasn’t exactly a negotiation.”

His eyes lift to yours. You look away, seeing Joel trapped beneath the stalker and the empty revolver in your hand.

William cleans the wound. Antiseptic burns through the torn skin. “Easy,” he murmurs. The familiarity of the word hurts more than the wound.

He brings the needle toward your elbow. You pull back again.

“It’s a small sample.”

A bitter laugh leaves you. “Ten years and nothing’s changed. Still the lab rat. I suppose I wasn’t one to you back then.” You meet his eyes. “I am now.”

William ties a strip of rubber around your upper arm and lowers his voice. “I told you to stay away from Seattle.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

His brow furrows.

“Where’s Joel?”

The needle enters your vein. Dark blood fills the first vial.

“I think you should be more concerned about yourself,” William says.

“I’ve spent enough time doing that.”

His expression closes.

“You’ve been with Clouser all this time. Why are you helping him?”

No answer. William replaces the vial.

“Did you know about Vickie?”

His hand stills. “Yes.”

“And you did nothing?”

William removes the needle, presses gauze against the puncture and nods once. Something inside you cracks, but there is no time to let it open.

“Help me find Joel.”

William begins rewrapping your arm.

“Please.” The word tastes desperate. “I can’t let them hurt him.”

His hands stop. “Do I look like a free man?”

Your jaw tightens.

“What makes a smuggler so important?” he asks.

You swallow. “He’s my family. The kind I never had. The kind I didn’t know how to have until I met him.” Your throat tightens. “He’s the reason I know what it feels like to have somewhere to go back to. I can’t lose him.”

Something changes behind William’s eyes. He draws your sleeve over the bandage and stands. “Come with me.”

The guard remains behind as William takes you through a side door, down two flights of stairs and toward a security door marked B2.

“Where are we going?”

William enters a code and glances toward the camera. “Keep walking.”

The level beyond looks nothing like the hospital upstairs. White coats move between sealed rooms while carts pass carrying blood bags and numbered containers. Everyone acknowledges William with a nod or a quiet, “Doctor.” Respect, or fear disguised as it.

The farther you walk, the more the corridor resembles the laboratories of your childhood. Glass observation rooms. Heavy doors. Numbers instead of names. Only larger. More organised. Worse.

Behind the first window, a man lies strapped to an inclined bed, dark fungal veins stretching along his jaw. The next room contains a grey-skinned woman held upright by restraints. Cordyceps blooms beneath one eye; the other follows you as you pass. Conscious. Another room holds two beds. One body is covered. The other receives blood through three separate lines.

Your steps slow. “What is this? What the fuck did he do?”

The corridor opens into a wider ward. Children lie behind glass with their wrists secured to bed rails. A pregnant woman lies strapped to a table in the next chamber, blackened veins spreading across her bare stomach. A monitor records two heartbeats. One slow. One frantic.

She turns toward you. There is no pleading left in her eyes, only the recognition of one prisoner seeing another.

“You’re experimenting on pregnant women?” The words tear out of you. “And fucking children?”

William turns. A cart passes behind him carrying blood bags labelled with the numbers on the doors.

“What are you doing with their blood?”

“Trying to reproduce what happened to you.”

Your gaze snaps toward him.

“When we learned Marlene had found another immune girl, we were on the other side of the country.”

“Ellie.”

“Clouser never stopped looking for you. News of another immune person led us toward Salt Lake. Anderson and Clouser knew one another before the outbreak. According to Clouser, Anderson was an incompetent man stumbling toward the right answer for the wrong reasons.”

“Sounds like him.”

“When Clouser learned the Fireflies had both immune subjects, he was afraid.”

“Because someone else was going to cut me open?”

“That too. But Clouser never believed the cure was simply a growth inside the brain. The Cordyceps and the host work together. Destroying the brain destroys the system producing the immune response.”

Your stomach tightens.

“Ellie’s infection convinces new Cordyceps that she is already colonised,” William continues. “Her immunity hides.” His eyes drop to your bandaged arm. “Yours fights back.”

The corridor seems to narrow around you.

“When we reached Salt Lake, Anderson was dead,” he says. “The Fireflies were scattered. The hospital was full of bodies. Marlene among them.”

“Joel,” you murmur. “I escaped while he was getting Ellie out. We didn’t know each other then. I ended up in Jackson, and that is where we met. Was Ethan the reason you sent me there?”

William nods. “His father was a good man. I believed you would be safe with the people he trusted.”

“Why didn’t you follow?”

William’s attention shifts toward the next room. A small boy lies beneath a white blanket, no older than ten. Dark veins branch beneath the skin of his arms.

“The hospital was attacked after you escaped. FEDRA learned we had worked with the Fireflies. Three years in a prison camp followed by five more running. Eventually Clouser found Isaac.”

“And the WLF saved you?”

“They took us in. Doctors were useful.” William looks through the glass. “For a while, I thought we had found a future.”

“Vickie?”

“The WLF found her unit after you destroyed the others. She had been bitten.”

“He tested the serum on her,” you say. “Then used her to find me.”

“Yes.” William’s voice begins to fracture. “I never told them you were in Jackson. If I went to you, they would have followed. But that is not the whole truth. I chose to stay. I had a family here. Friends. A home.”

The boy’s arm trembles weakly beneath the blanket. You look between them. “He’s your—” The word refuses to come. “When was he bitten?”

William turns toward you. “No one down here was bitten.”

Your stomach drops. The children. The pregnant woman. The numbered rooms. “They infected them.”

“Clouser needed subjects at different stages, ages and immune responses.”

You look through the glass at the boy. William’s jaw locks as he watches his son’s fingers twitch.

“Do you know the most important thing the last ten years taught me?” he asks. “Never waste mercy on a man who does not deserve it. Given enough time, mercy becomes permission.” His hand presses against the window. “I spared Clouser. I convinced myself some part of him could change.” William’s reflection trembles in the glass. “Then he infected my son.” The words settle heavily between you. “He used Daniel to keep me beside him. Every dose of serum came with a condition. Every improvement bought another month of obedience. I told myself I was staying for him.”

When he turns back, something harder has entered his face. “But it is over now. Daniel has passed the stage the current serum can reverse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I have known for weeks.”

“William—”

“Clouser should have died the night you escaped.” The words come low and vicious. “I had my hands around his throat. I could have ended it. But I couldn’t. I was a coward who still believed men could change, still believed in humanity.” He looks across the ward. “Everyone here is paying for that mercy.”

You watch him turn away from the glass. “Why did you bring me down here? You could’ve told me upstairs.”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t.”

Only then do you notice the nurse watching William instead of the cameras. When your eyes meet hers, she turns one monitor away from the corridor. A doctor leaving a numbered room gives William a small nod. Farther down, an armed guard deliberately blocks a security lens.

The people moving through this ward are not all Clouser’s.

William looks toward the children behind the glass. “You said the smuggler was your family.”

“Joel.”

His eyes return to yours. “Joel,” he repeats, the name unfamiliar in his mouth. “This is where families like mine come to die. Every hour Clouser remains in control, another person becomes a number on a door.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Clouser trusts no one else with you. He will oversee your procedure himself and bring his research team, his guards and every record that matters into one secured room.”

Understanding begins to form. “You’re using me to draw him out.”

“I’m asking you to keep him there.”

“While I’m strapped to a table.”

“You won’t be unconscious.”

“That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. It is supposed to keep you alive.” William lowers his voice. “When the power goes out, his people will be cut off. Mine will take the corridors. You keep Clouser inside until we reach you.”

“And then?”

The security door opens before William can answer. A young technician hurries into the corridor, clutching a folder against his chest. “Dr. Devane. Subject One-Six-One.”

Something in William’s face changes. “What about him?”

“Post-infusion response markers are rising. The fungal regression has accelerated, neural activity is stabilising and his inflammatory markers have fallen almost thirty percent.”

William takes the folder. “How long?”

“Twenty-three minutes.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“We ran the bloods twice.”

“What did you give him?”

The technician hesitates. His gaze flicks toward you. “The sample collected upstairs.”

Your blood.

You look through the glass at Daniel. His fingers move faintly against the sheet. Not a tremor. Something deliberate.

“What’s happening?” you ask.

“Ah.” Clouser enters with two Wolves behind him, his steps slow and unhurried. Every muscle inside you locks. “There you are.” He looks past you to the technician. “And the news has already travelled. Efficient as ever.”

William turns toward him. “Is it true?”

Clouser’s smile gives nothing away. “See for yourself.”

“The results were confirmed twice,” the technician says. “Fungal activity has decreased. Neural response is stabilising, and the inflammatory markers are continuing to fall.”

William’s eyes move to Daniel. “How quickly?”

“The first measurable change appeared less than six minutes after the infusion.”

William goes still. Even you understand enough to know that should not be possible. Six minutes is barely enough time to produce a measurable systemic change, let alone force an infection that far gone into retreat.

“The sample taken from her produced an immediate systemic response,” the technician continues. “We have never recorded anything like it.”

William scans the results. His face remains controlled, but the paper bends beneath his fingers. “One response proves nothing.”

“No,” Clouser agrees. “But it proves considerably more than we knew yesterday.”

Then he turns toward you. “In that case, the operation is cancelled.”

For one disorienting second, you think you misheard him. Even William looks up. “What?”

Clouser smiles. “I’ve decided not to open your skull.”

Relief tries to rise inside you. Something in his expression kills it before it can. “Your blood has become considerably more interesting.”

“You’re postponing the operation?”

“I’m replacing it.”

William’s expression remains controlled, but you see the effort it costs him. His plan depended on an operating theatre—Clouser, his guards, his research team and every record that mattered sealed inside one room when the lights went out. Now there will be no theatre. No gathered team. No trap.

“What are you proposing?” William asks.

“Serial blood collection. Bone marrow. Tissue from the bite and the previous biopsy site.” Clouser looks at you as though discussing equipment. “Then controlled exposure while we monitor the immune response.”

Your stomach turns. “You’re going to infect me again.”

“You cannot technically be infected.”

“Then put it in your own fucking veins.”

Clouser ignores you. “If these results are reproducible, Daniel may finally have a chance.”

William’s eyes move toward his son. Only for a second. But you see it. So does Clouser.

The technician shifts uneasily. “Should I prepare another infusion?”

William does not answer. That silence is enough.

Clouser turns toward the Wolves. “Take her upstairs. Procedure Room Seven.”

William’s gaze snaps back to him. “She is injured.”

“That is not our priority.”

The soldiers seize your arms and drag you toward the door. You search William’s face for the plan, for some indication that the lights will still go out. He meets your eyes and gives nothing away. Perhaps because Clouser is watching. Perhaps because he no longer knows.

You twist against the soldiers, but pain tears through your wounded shoulder and your arm buckles. William takes one step after you.

Clouser moves between you. “Stay with your son, Doctor.”

William stops. The words are not a suggestion.

As the security door opens, you look back at him. He is still holding the folder, still staring after you while Daniel’s monitor marks its steady rhythm behind the glass.

For the first time since William opened your cell, you understand that whatever happens next will not follow his plan.

The soldiers pull you through the door.

It closes between you.

The soldiers struggle with you all the way upstairs. You drag your heels through doorways and twist whenever their grip shifts, forcing them to readjust every few steps. The wound in your shoulder burns with each movement, but the pain keeps you sharp.

Clouser follows without hurrying. By the time they force you into Procedure Room Seven, his breathing has not changed.

The room is smaller than an operating theatre. A narrow bed stands beneath an adjustable lamp, surrounded by monitors, steel trays and collection equipment. Clear tubing hangs beside sealed syringes and rows of empty vials.

Two scans glow on the screen across the room.

You recognise the first immediately. Ten years have passed, but you spent too much of your childhood beneath machines not to know your own brain. A pale, branching mass curls through the left side.

The old scan.

The second is recent. What once resembled thin roots has become a dense white web, spreading through tissue that had been clear ten years ago.

For a moment, you stop fighting.

Clouser notices. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You tear your eyes from the screen. He has removed his coat and is fastening a surgical gown around his neck while an assistant prepares the instruments beside him.

“What happened to it?”

Clouser pulls on a glove. “It matured. Every bite you survived, every concentration of spores you inhaled, exposed it to a new variation of the organism. Each time, your body adapted. The growth expanded, refined its response—and yet it never converted you.” The second glove snaps around his wrist. “And you object when I call you a miracle.”

You say nothing. Your attention drifts back to the pale network branching through tissue that should have belonged only to you.

“I no longer resent you for running that night,” Clouser continues. “Had I operated then, the organism may have been too immature. We might have removed it before the process became stable—or discovered nothing we could reproduce.” He studies the screen with something dangerously close to admiration. “But now we know your blood actively suppresses fungal replication. Something circulating through your system forces Cordyceps into regression.” His gaze settles on you. “Ten years ago, I had a theory. Now I have proof.”

The soldiers force you toward the bed. You plant your feet.

“Secure her properly,” Clouser says. “She has a history of damaging valuable equipment.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

One soldier locks an arm around your waist while the other grabs your wrist. You drive an elbow into the first man’s ribs, but the second catches your injured arm.

Pain breaks your balance.

They force you onto the mattress. One pins your shoulder while the other pulls a restraint across your waist.

The assistant lifts a syringe.

“No.”

He glances toward the instruments. One needle is narrow and familiar. Another is thick enough to reach bone. “The marrow collection will be extremely painful.”

“Sedation would alter the immune response,” Clouser says. “I need it unfiltered.”

The assistant hesitates but nods. The soldier reaches for your left wrist. You let the arm go slack, and he mistakes it for exhaustion.

The instant his grip loosens, you twist beneath him and drive your shoulder into his chest. He crashes against the bed. You seize the assistant by his coat, drag him between you and the raised rifles and tear the pistol from the soldier’s holster.

“Fuck!”

“Gun!”

“Drop it!”

The assistant chokes as you press the barrel beneath his jaw. Rifles snap toward you from both sides. “Tell me where Joel is.”

Clouser’s head turns sharply. “You will not leave this room.”

“I didn’t ask to leave.”

“Miller is beyond your reach.”

“Where is he?”

Clouser looks at the trembling assistant, then back at you. “You believe his life matters to me?”

The man goes rigid.

No fear. No hesitation. Nothing.

You cannot trade a life Clouser already considers disposable. You shove the assistant aside. Before the soldiers can fire, you reverse the pistol and press the muzzle against your own temple.

Clouser’s expression changes. The amusement vanishes. His shoulders stiffen beneath the surgical gown, his eyes fixed on the barrel. You would swear he would show less fear with the gun against his own head.

One soldier starts forward.

Clouser throws up a gloved hand. “Don’t. Lower the rifles. Now.”

The weapons descend.

“You need me so bad, right?”

Clouser takes one slow step forward. “Do not do anything irrational.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “Irrational?”

“Killing yourself will not improve your position.”

“It’ll ruin yours.”

Your finger settles against the trigger.

Clouser stops.

Behind you, ten years of growth glows across the screen. His research. His cure. His miracle.

“You need my blood,” you say. “The tissue, the neural response, the organism inside my skull. You need all of it intact.”

“You do not understand what you are threatening.”

“I grew up in your fucking laboratories.” Your thumb finds the safety. The metallic click fills the room. “I know exactly where I’m aiming.”

His hands rise slightly. “You kill yourself, and Miller still dies.”

“Then keeping him alive is the only way you keep me alive.”

“You will gain nothing from this.”

Clouser steps forward again. You begin to squeeze the trigger. He stops. “One bullet through here and your miracle ends up on the wall.”

His jaw tightens. “What do you want?”

For the first time, he is asking.

“Where is Joel?”

His eyes move toward the nearest soldier. “Transport Three,” the man says. “East service road. They left twenty minutes ago.”

Already in a vehicle. Already beyond your reach. Maybe being taken to Isaac. Maybe to the woman who had looked at Joel as though she had been waiting years to kill him.

“Tell them to stop.”

Clouser studies you. “That vehicle is operating under direct orders.”

“Then give it new ones.”

“You cannot reach him from here.”

“I don’t need to. Get me a radio. Stop the truck and put Joel on the other end.”

Clouser looks at your finger, then at the scan. Finally, he turns toward the soldier.

“Contact Transport Three.”

The man pulls the radio from his vest. “Transport Three, this is Medical Control. Respond.”

Static crackles.

“Transport Three.”

“Stop the vehicle.”

A pause. “Say again?”

Clouser takes the radio. “This is Clouser. Halt immediately and secure the road.”

“Doctor, we have standing orders to deliver the prisoner. We’re less than ten minutes from the handoff.”

“There will be no handoff.”

“We take transfer orders from Isaac’s command.”

Clouser’s gaze remains fixed on you. “The immune subject has a loaded weapon against the growth in her brain. If she fires, every possibility of reproducing the immune response ends with her.”

The room goes silent enough for you to hear the hum from the screen behind you.

Clouser’s voice hardens. “Stop the vehicle.”

“Understood.”

Brakes hiss through the radio. “Dismount,” Clouser orders. “Cut Miller loose and leave him the truck.”

“Doc—”

You keep your eyes on him. “His equipment.”

“Return his belongings,” Clouser says. “Leave him one rifle, his sidearm and a handheld radio. Then move away from the vehicle.”

The man on the other end mutters something you cannot hear.

Clouser’s voice drops. “Do it.”

Metal doors slam through the speaker. Clouser passes the radio back to the soldier, who approaches you carefully. “Hold it where I can speak.”

The soldier stops beyond your reach and raises the radio toward your mouth.

For a moment, there is only static.

Then a distant voice says, “Prisoner’s out.”

Your heart strikes hard against your ribs.

“Put him on.”

-JOEL-

The truck stops hard enough to throw Joel against the metal wall. He lifts his head, blinking through the blood dried along his temple. His wrists are bound behind him, his legs nearly numb beneath his weight. Outside, boots strike wet asphalt and voices rise in sudden argument. Joel shifts in the dark, searching for anything he can use. The rear doors open before he finds it, and grey daylight floods the compartment. Three Wolves stand in the road. Their rifles are ready, but none is pointed at him. That worries him more.

One climbs inside and cuts the restraints around his wrists. Joel works the feeling back into his fingers while the soldier drops his pack beside him. His revolver rests on top.

“Get out.”

Joel remains seated. “The hell’s goin’ on?”

The soldier does not answer. He holds out a radio. “Take it.” Joel looks from the device to the men outside. One of them places a rifle inside the cab before retreating several yards from the truck. It feels like a trap. But if they wanted him dead, they have had twenty minutes to do it. Joel takes the radio.

“Talk.”

Static crackles. Then your voice reaches him.

“Joel?”

His entire body locks.

“Kat?”

He hears a single breath leave you through the speaker.

“Where are you?” he demands. “You still in that hospital?”

“Listen to me.”

“What did they do to you?”

His eyes lift to the Wolves. The nearest man looks away.

“They touch you?”

“Take the truck.”

“What?”

“Drive north. Get past their checkpoints and away from the hospital.”

“I ain’t leavin’ you there.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Like hell I am. Tell me where you are.”

“You can’t get to me.”

“Watch me.”

“Joel…” Your grip tightens around the pistol pressed to your temple. The soldier holding the radio keeps his arm extended toward your mouth, careful not to move within reach. Clouser stands across from you, both gloved hands raised, his attention fixed on your finger against the trigger.

“If you give a damn about me,” you say, “you’ll get in that fucking truck and go.”

Joel’s face hardens.

“Don’t you dare—”

“I’m getting out.”

The lie comes too quickly. Joel hears it.

“How?”

“William has people inside.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“It’s all I can give you.”

“You’re lyin’.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I need you to trust me.”

“Darlin’—“

“When you’re clear, call this channel again.”

“And then what?”

“Sing me the song you wrote for me.”

Joel stares at the radio.

“What?”

“The song. Nobody else knows it. If I hear it, I’ll know you’re alone. I’ll know they didn’t force you to say you were safe.”

Faintly, behind your voice, he hears someone breathing. Then Clouser speaks.

“Time is passing.”

Joel’s blood turns cold. “That him?”

You do not answer. “Get in the truck. If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes—” You raise your voice, no longer speaking only to him. “—I pull the trigger and put everything inside my skull across the fucking wall.”

Silence falls across the road. Joel stares at the radio, his jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

“You reckless—” He drags a hand over his face. “Goddammit, Kat.”

One of the Wolves gestures toward the cab. “You heard her.” Joel holsters the revolver, grabs the rifle and climbs behind the wheel. The channel cuts. Joel starts the engine. The Wolves retreat as the truck surges forward. He watches them in the mirror until the rain swallows them, then drives north through streets broken by roots, wreckage and abandoned cars.

He knows what you expect him to do. Keep going. He also knows he never will.

The last WLF checkpoint appears ahead. Its guards raise the barrier reluctantly and watch him pass. Joel drives until the hospital disappears behind ruined buildings and no headlights follow him.

Eight minutes.

He pulls beneath the remains of an overpass and kills the engine. Rain spills through cracks in the concrete as he climbs out with the rifle and checks the road, the rooftops and the tree line. Nothing moves. He grabs the radio.

“Kat?” Static answers. “Kat, I’m clear. You hear me?”

Several seconds pass before your voice returns.

“Sing.”

Joel leans against the truck.

“Are you hurt?”

“Sing the song.”

“Fuck—Tell me you’re all right.”

“Joel.” Your voice is thinner now. “Sing the fucking song.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, there is only rain ticking against the roof of the truck. Then he sings.

“After all these years runnin’ round,

Flyin’ high and fallin’ down…”

His voice is rough without the guitar beneath it, worn down by blood, fear and the distance between you. But it is him. Only him.

Your eyes burn. A tear slips toward your jaw, but you do not wipe it away. You cannot move the hand holding the gun, and you refuse to let Clouser see the other one tremble.

“Well, the time has come at last,

To rest my heart and ease my past…”

Joel’s voice catches on the final word. He swallows and forces himself to continue.

“I’m gonna leave these blues behind,

For some other fool to find…”

Clouser watches you from across the room. The pistol remains pressed to your temple, but the pressure has begun to ease. His eyes flick toward the nearest soldier.

Joel looks down the empty road as he sings.

“He won’t care and I don’t mind…”

An engine growls somewhere beyond the overpass. Joel straightens. Headlights appear through the trees, moving quickly toward him. He shoulders the rifle but keeps the radio close.

“Hide me, babe…”

Your eyes close. His voice trembles.

“Hide me, babe.”

The final words fade into static. For one suspended moment, neither of you speaks. Then Joel presses the radio closer.

“You stay alive,” he says. “I’m comin’ for you.”

“Joel—”

“You hear me? You stay—”

You lower the pistol. Only an inch.

Clouser’s eyes snap toward the nearest soldier. The blow strikes your wrist before you see it coming. The pistol flies from your hand and skids beneath the steel cabinet. Another soldier drives you back against the bed as the radio is torn away from your mouth.

“Kat?”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

“Kat! Fuck!”

Static tears through Joel’s speaker.

The approaching vehicle stops across the road. Doors open, and armed figures spill into the rain.

Joel barely looks at them.

He shoves the radio against his belt and turns for the truck. If the road south is blocked, he will drive through them. Around them. Over them. Whatever it takes to get back to the hospital.

His hand closes around the driver’s door. A gunshot cracks through the rain. The bullet punches through the metal inches from his fingers, throwing sparks across the side of the truck. Joel jerks back and raises the rifle in the same movement.

A young woman steps out from behind the headlights, her hair pulled tightly away from a face hollowed by exhaustion. A pistol hangs steady in her outstretched hand, smoke curling faintly from the barrel.

“Joel Miller!” 

Joel settles the rifle over her chest. She stares at him as though she has spent years imagining this exact moment. “I’m Abby.”

Joel gives her a brief, impatient look. “That supposed to mean somethin’?”

A man emerges near the other headlight, moving toward Joel’s right with a rifle raised. Abby glances toward him. Manny keeps his sights on Joel. “It’s him.”

Joel sees what they are doing. Abby holds his attention while Manny moves wide enough to catch him from the side. Their truck blocks the road south.

Back to the hospital.

Back to you.

“Looks like you know me, congrats,” Joel says. “I don’t know either of you. Move the truck.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

Joel’s eyes flick toward the silent radio at his belt. “Then say whatever you came to say.”

Abby stops several yards away. “Where was the last place you saw the Fireflies?”

The question settles differently. Joel looks at her properly now. “Salt Lake.”

“Saint Mary’s Hospital.” Her grip tightens around the pistol. “Do you know how many people you killed that day?”

Joel says nothing. He has thought about that hospital during the year since he left it. The corridors. Marlene in the garage. The bodies he stepped over with Ellie unconscious in his arms.

Sometimes, in the quietest part of the night, he has wondered whether there had been another way.

He has never regretted the one he chose.

“The doctor,” Abby continues. “You shot him in the head.” Joel remembers the man raising the scalpel after being warned to step aside. The body falling beside the operating table. “He was my dad!”

Joel’s attention drifts past her toward the road. Clouser may already have taken the gun from you. You could be strapped back onto that bed, another needle in your arm, your blood filling his tubes while you lie there unable to fight.

The last thing Joel heard was your voice disappearing into static.

He cannot stand here answering for a dead man. “If you came for an apology, you ain’t gettin’ one.”

Abby raises her pistol. Manny’s rifle follows. “Put the gun down,” she says.

Joel’s voice cuts through hers. “You want me, fine. But you’re standin’ in my way.” 

“What’s the hurry?” Abby asks. “Another hospital to tear apart?” Joel’s expression changes. She sees it. “The other immune girl,” Abby says. “That’s where you’re going.”

“If I have to.”

“She threatened to kill herself for you.” Something bitter twists at the corner of Abby’s mouth. “Clouser’s probably got her back on the table already.”

Joel settles the rifle directly over her chest. “Last warning.”

Manny takes another step sideways. Joel shifts the barrel toward him without looking away from Abby.

“Don’t.”

Manny stops. “You think you can take both of us, you stupid old man?”

Abby does not flinch. “You don’t get to walk away from me. I’ve carried you for a year.” Her voice begins to shake. “You don’t get a quick death.”

Joel glances once toward the hospital road, then back at her. “You talk too damn much.”

He fires.

The bullet destroys the headlight beside Abby. Glass bursts across the road as she dives behind the truck. Manny opens fire.

Joel drops behind the transport vehicle. Rounds tear through the rear doors and hammer against the frame. He lands on his injured side, rolls and drags his pack from the open cab.

The radio crackles at his belt. “Kat?”

A bullet shatters the mirror above his head. Joel ducks as fragments scatter across his shoulders.

Manny moves along the far side of the road while Abby keeps Joel pinned behind the engine block. They know how to work together.

Joel checks the rifle.

Half a magazine.

Enough.

He fires beneath the truck, forcing Manny back, then punches a second round through the panel beside Abby. Before either of them can recover, he moves.

Joel comes around the hood and drives the rifle stock across Manny’s mouth. Manny answers by slamming his weapon into Joel’s ribs. Pain folds through Joel’s side.

“You’re dead, motherfucker,” Manny spits through the blood.

Joel answers with his forehead. Bone cracks.

Manny staggers back, cursing in Spanish. Abby strikes Joel from behind and drives him into the truck hard enough to tear the rifle from his hands.

Her fist catches him beneath the jaw. Joel answers with an elbow that snaps her head sideways. Abby comes back immediately.

He catches her gun hand and smashes it against the side of the truck.

Once.

Twice.

The pistol drops.

“You took everything from me!”

Joel shoves her away. Abby drives her knee into his stomach and throws him onto the road. The radio tears loose from his belt and skids across the asphalt.

She kicks it beyond his reach, plants her boot against his chest and draws a knife.

Every second he spends here belongs to Clouser. Joel’s fingers search blindly among the shattered headlight glass.

“Somethin’ happens to her because you kept me here,” he says, “we’ll see who joins your daddy first.”

His hand closes around a jagged piece of glass. He drives it into her thigh.

Abby screams and recoils. Joel catches her ankle and tears her feet from beneath her.

Manny raises his rifle. “Abby!”

A high-powered shot cracks across the road. Manny’s head jerks sideways. For a fraction of a second, he remains standing. Then he collapses beside the truck, blood spraying across Abby’s face.

She stares at him. “Manny?”

Another shot tears into the road beside her.

Sniper.

Joel knows the report of that rifle. He looks toward the fractured walkway overlooking the road.

“Tommy?”

Tommy stands behind a broken concrete barrier, rifle braced against his shoulder.

“Get the hell off my brother!”

Abby looks from Manny’s body to Joel. Whatever control remained in her disappears.

She launches herself at him.

They hit the ground together. Her hands close around Joel’s throat, thumbs driving beneath his jaw.

“You killed him!”

Joel grips one wrist, but the other tightens. Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. “Had enough of you,” he forces out.

Tommy fires, but Abby and Joel roll against the truck before he can find a clean angle. The round buries itself in the metal beside them. “Goddammit, Joel!”

Abby tears the knife from her belt. Joel catches her wrist with both hands, the blade trembling inches above his throat.

“You should’ve died in that hospital!”

She forces it lower. The edge slices across Joel’s side.

Then a boot drives into Abby’s ribs.

Tommy steps between them and brings the stock of his rifle across her face.

“Stay down!”

Abby spits blood and tackles him into the truck. Joel forces himself upright and catches her from behind before she can drive the knife into Tommy’s stomach.

She fights them without any concern for what breaks—clawing at Joel, kicking blindly at Tommy, reaching desperately toward Manny’s body.

“You fucking murderer!” she screams. “You shot him and walked away!”

Joel forces her to the ground and traps one arm beneath his knee. Tommy pins the other against the road. Still, Abby strains beneath them, Manny’s blood smeared across her face.

“You took him from me.”

Joel draws his revolver and aims between her eyes.

For the first time, Abby stops fighting. Her chest rises and falls beneath them as she looks directly into the barrel.

“Do it.”

Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.

“Come on,” she says, louder now. “Kill me like you killed my father.”

Joel says nothing.

“Look at me!” Abby bucks beneath them, her voice breaking into a scream. “Look at me and fucking do it!”

Joel looks down at her. For one brief second, he does not see the knife that opened his side or the woman who came here to torture him. He sees grief left too long without anywhere to go. A child who built everything she became around the moment someone took her father away.

His finger remains still.

Abby sees it. “What?” she spits. “You could do it to him, but not me?”

“Shut the fuck—” Tommy tightens his hold.

“Come on, you fucking coward! Do it!”

Joel still does not fire.

Not in that single second.

Something vicious twists across Abby’s face.

“Fine.”

Her free hand tears loose and disappears beneath Manny’s body. Her fingers close around his pistol.

“I’ll do it myself.”

She swings the weapon toward Joel.

Tommy fires.

The shot tears through Abby’s back. Her body jerks beneath Joel, and Manny’s pistol discharges into the road, the bullet passing close enough for him to feel it cut the air beside his face.

Abby tries to raise the weapon again. Her arm trembles, refusing to obey. The pistol slips from her fingers and lands beside Manny’s hand.

She stares up at Joel, fury fighting against the shock in her eyes. Her mouth moves, but only a wet breath escapes. “Damn you…” Then she goes still.

Joel keeps the revolver trained between her eyes for several seconds. Finally, he lowers it and pushes himself away.

Tommy looks from Abby to Manny. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Joel retrieves his rifle and looks at Abby once. There is no satisfaction in his face. No relief. Only time lost. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Followed the Wolves after they moved you from the hospital.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” Joel’s eyes narrow. “Why are you even in Seattle?”

“Ellie wouldn’t let it go. Kept saying something was wrong—that you wouldn’t stay quiet this long unless you were dead or in trouble.”

“The kid was right.”

“Usually is. Annoying as hell, but right.”

Joel studies his brother. “You left your boy and came all the way out here?”

“He’s with his mama. Safest place he could be.”

“Maria know you’re here?”

Tommy looks down while gathering ammunition from Manny’s rifle. His silence is answer enough.

“You’re a damn idiot.”

“Says the man I just pulled out from under two Fireflies.” Tommy catches Joel by the shoulder. “Hold still. You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

“Mine ain’t pouring out.”

“Tommy.”

Something in Joel’s voice strips the humour from his brother’s face. “They have her.”

Tommy looks toward the hospital beyond the ruined streets.

“In there?”

“Clouser’s got her. Last I heard, she had a gun against her own head.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“She did it for me.” Joel looks down at the silent radio. “Made them let me go. Then the line went dead.”

Tommy studies his face. “You two are dangerously fuckin’ alike.”

“She’s worse.”

Joel reaches for the driver’s door, but pain locks through his side. Tommy takes the keys from his hand. “I’m driving.”

“I can drive.”

“You can bleed and shoot. Pick two.” Joel glares at him. Tommy opens the passenger door. “Get in before your stubborn ass falls over.”

Joel climbs inside with the rifle across his knees. Tommy starts the engine while Joel picks up the radio. Static answers. He changes the frequency. Nothing. His hand tightens around the device.

Tommy glances toward him. “She’s strong, Joel.”

The radio erupts in a burst of overlapping voices.

“—all available units return to the hospital.”

Gunfire rattles through the channel.

“Medical personnel are armed. We’ve lost the east wing. Lower containment access has been compromised!”

Another voice breaks through the static.

“Reinforcements to the laboratory entrance!”

“Fall back! Fall—”

A burst of automatic fire drowns out the rest.

Joel’s head snaps toward Tommy. “We need to find her before the whole damn place comes down.”

Tommy slams the vehicle into gear.

“Then let’s go get her.”

The fighting draws them toward the rear of the hospital. Joel and Tommy move through the narrow lane behind the loading docks, keeping close to the concrete wall while gunfire tears through the floors above them. Emergency lights pulse behind shattered windows. Somewhere inside, men shout conflicting orders over the alarms. Tommy reaches the service entrance first. He tries the handle, finds it locked and steps aside. Joel fires once into the mechanism.

“Subtle,” Tommy mutters.

“Ain’t got time for subtle.” They slip inside. The service corridor smells of bleach, smoke and hot electrical wiring. Bodies lie beneath the emergency lights—Wolves, doctors, people in blood-soaked scrubs. Joel barely looks at them.

“Lower level should connect to the east wing,” Tommy says. Joel is already moving. They descend through a concrete stairwell while the battle continues above them. The gunfire becomes muffled underground, replaced by the pounding of boots and the mechanical groan of failing ventilation. The door at the bottom bursts open.

Two armed men rush into the corridor, firing behind them. A third figure follows between them, still wearing a bloodstained surgical gown beneath his coat. In one hand he carries an insulated case marked with a faded biohazard symbol. William and several armed members of his staff appear at the opposite end of the corridor. Gunfire erupts. One of Clouser’s guards goes down immediately. The second dives behind a medical cart and returns fire while Clouser turns toward the service exit. Then he sees Joel. For the first time, surprise breaks through his composure. Joel recognises the voice before the face.

“Tommy—that’s him!” Tommy fires at the remaining guard, forcing him behind cover. “Go!” Joel charges. Clouser tries to turn, but Joel reaches him before he takes two steps. He strikes him across the mouth and drives him into the wall. The insulated case flies from Clouser’s hand, hits the floor and springs open. Rows of glass vials rattle inside fitted foam. Some contain dark, fibrous material. Others hold clear or pale amber fluid packed between melting cold packs. Clouser looks toward the case. Joel hits him again. Clouser drops to one knee. Joel catches him by the front of the gown, hauls him upright and slams him against the wall. “Where is she?”

Clouser coughs, blood running over his lower lip. Joel shakes him hard enough to strike his skull against the tile. “Where the fuck is she?” 

Clouser looks into his face and smiles. “You’re late.”

Something in Joel breaks. His fist catches Clouser beneath the cheekbone. Once. Then again. Clouser folds toward the floor, but Joel keeps hold of him. “Joel!” Tommy’s warning cuts through the corridor. William and three members of his staff have reached them. Their weapons are raised. Tommy stands between the two groups, rifle trained on William while William’s people aim back at him.

“Everybody hold,” William orders. No one lowers a weapon. William’s eyes move past Tommy and settle on Joel. His expression changes.

“You’re Joel.” Joel knows that face. Charcoal smudged across old pages. A man drawn from memory again and again, sometimes with glasses, sometimes without. A name written beneath one unfinished portrait in your careful handwriting.

 William.

Joel releases Clouser and steps toward him. “Where is she?”

“Procedure Room Seven.”

“Tell me she’s all right.”

“She is alive.”

“That ain’t what I asked.” 

Clouser laughs weakly from the floor, wipes blood from his mouth. “Listen to him, Joel. He knows what you’re about to find.”

 Joel starts forward. William holds him back.

“You still need me,” Clouser says. William releases Joel and turns. Clouser looks toward the open case. “The serum is there. Daniel can still be stabilised. The others too, if you stop this now.”

“Yeah?” William reaches into his coat. “I got something for you, you piece of shit,” A sealed syringe appears in his hand. Dark fungal material drifts through cloudy fluid. Clouser’s face drains of colour.

Joel looks between them. “What’s that?”

“A concentrated strain engineered to invade neural tissue quickly,” William says. His eyes remain on Clouser. “His strain.”  

“Cordyceps,” Tommy mutters.

William gives a grim nod. “Modified to spread faster and cross into neural tissue more efficiently than anything found outside this building.”

Clouser begins backing away. “You cannot do this.” 

William kneels in front of him.

“Daniel is alive because of me,” Clouser says.

“Daniel is infected because of you.”

“I gave you proof! Her blood is working. Everything we did brought us here.” William catches him by the jaw and forces his head to the side. Clouser’s composure shatters. “William, listen to me. We can still finish this. We can save him. We can save all of them.” William drives the needle in. Clouser screams. He claws at William’s wrist, but Joel plants a boot against his chest and holds him to the floor while William forces the dark suspension into his bloodstream. Clouser convulses beneath them. The syringe empties. William withdraws the needle. “Death would be mercy.” 

Clouser clamps both hands over the puncture. “The serum. I need it now!” William rises. Clouser scrambles after him on his knees. “William!”  William looks toward two of his men. “Take him downstairs.” They seize Clouser beneath the arms. He fights immediately.

“No! Not the lower ward.”

“Put him in isolation with the subjects he abandoned.” Clouser digs his heels against the floor as they drag him toward the reinforced stairwell.

“You still need me! You don’t understand the protocol!” William closes the insulated case.

“I understand enough.” The stairwell door closes over Clouser’s screams. Tommy watches it shut. “Hell of a way to test his own work.” Joel does not respond. He catches William by the coat.

“Kat…Why’d he say I was late?” 

William hesitates. “She’s sedated.” 

Joel’s grip tightens. “She’s what?”

“We found her restrained in the procedure room. Clouser had begun serial blood collection and was preparing a marrow extraction. Her shoulder had reopened, and she was fighting hard enough to worsen the bleeding.”

“What did you give her?”

“A controlled sedative. She is breathing on her own.”

“Take me to her. Now.”

 William looks toward the people lining the corridor. “Lower your weapons,” he tells them. “It’s over.” Slowly, rifles descend. The last bursts of gunfire above them fade into isolated shots. William takes the case and leads them upstairs. They move through the remains of the revolt. Bodies lie between overturned carts and broken glass. Some wear WLF armour. Others wear lab coats or scrubs darkened with blood. A doctor steps into William’s path. “What about the treatment?”

“Secure the laboratory. Put the samples in cold storage.”

“There isn’t enough,” the doctor says. “Not for the entire ward.” William’s pace falters. Only once. 

Joel notices. “How much did you take from her?”  William does not answer. Joel grabs his shoulder and turns him. “How much?”

“I stopped the marrow procedure and treated the injury.”

“But you kept takin’ her blood.” 

William meets his eyes. “Yes.”

Joel nearly strikes him. Tommy steps close enough to intervene, but William turns and continues toward the east wing. Joel follows because you are ahead of him. Because every second spent hitting William is another second before he sees you. 

The third-floor corridor is quieter than the rest of the hospital. Emergency lights stain the walls red. William stops outside a reinforced door. Joel reaches past him and throws it open. Then he stops. His mind rejects what his eyes show him. For one fractured second, the room refuses to make sense. There is only white light, hanging tubes and the slow pulse of machines. Then the shapes become you.

You lie beneath the adjustable lamp, so still that the bed appears to have been arranged around a body rather than a living person. Your shirt has been cut open across the shoulder and chest. Adhesive electrodes cover your skin, thin wires trailing from them into monitors. Another set disappears beneath your hair near your temple. One arm is extended on a narrow support. A dark line leaves the vein inside your elbow and travels through a collection chamber before descending into a nearly full blood bag. Drops fall into it one at a time. Slow. Steady. Your other arm carries an intravenous line feeding clear fluid back into you. Fresh bandages cover your shoulder and the place near your hip where someone had prepared the marrow site. Bruises circle your wrists. Your lips have lost their colour. Three filled collection bags hang beside the bed. 

You look dead.

Joel’s body understands the sight before his mind does. Every muscle locks. His breath catches beneath his ribs and refuses to rise. The white walls blur as an older terror takes their place. A small body heavy in his arms. Blood soaking through his shirt and running hot between his fingers. Sarah looking up at him without understanding why he cannot make the pain stop. 

No. No, baby girl. Look at me. Stay with me. 

Then Ellie beneath the lights in Salt Lake City. Unconscious on another hospital bed, her skin cold beneath his hands when he lifted her from the operating table. And now you. Still beneath the same merciless white light. 

Too late. 

The thought tears through him. He failed you. His chest clamps shut. His heart strikes once, violently, then stumbles into a frantic rhythm. Joel tries to move toward the bed, but his legs no longer seem connected to him.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice reaches him through water. Joel presses a hand against his chest, trying to force air into lungs that will not open. Tommy catches his arm.

“Joel. Hey—look at me.” 

Joel cannot.

“She’s breathing,” Tommy says. “You hear me? She’s breathing.” The words are the only thing keeping the room from becoming another grave. Tommy points toward the monitor. “Look.” A green line moves across the screen. A pulse. Joel stares at it. Then the line rises again. 

You are alive.

He forces one foot forward. Then the other. By the time he reaches the bed, his entire body is shaking. Joel touches your face. Your skin is cool beneath his palm. Not cold. Not cold. His fingers slide to the side of your neck, searching desperately for the beat beneath your skin. He does not trust the monitor. He does not trust William or the machines or anyone standing in that room. He trusts only what he can feel. There. Weak but steady. The breath that leaves him sounds almost like a sob. 

Come on, darlin’. 

The words form inside him, but his throat has closed around them. Your eyelids do not move. Joel brushes his thumb beneath your eye and follows the bruising along your cheek. His gaze moves down to the tape, the wires, the line disappearing into your arm. He watches your blood travel through the tubing. Another dark drop falls into the collection bag. Something hot runs down his face. He does not realise he is crying until it reaches his jaw. Joel reaches for the line. William catches his wrist.

“Don’t.” Joel turns toward him. His eyes are wet, but the grief inside them has sharpened into something lethal.

“Take it out.”

“The collection is almost complete.”

Joel draws his revolver and drives the barrel beneath William’s chin.

“I said take it out.” 

Tommy moves beside him, one hand closing around Joel’s shoulder. William slowly raises both hands. “If you pull the catheter without clamping it, you could rupture the vein.”

“Then clamp it.”

“We need the final volume.” 

Joel’s voice breaks as it rises. “Stop taking her fucking blood!” The assistants beside the monitors freeze.

“Listen to me,” William says.

“NO!”

“Joel—”

“You’re William, ain’t you?” The question catches him. Joel presses the barrel harder beneath his jaw. “She drew your face. Wrote your name under it.” William says nothing. “She called herself Kat in. Your daughter’s name.” Joel’s voice trembles with rage. “She wanted you to be the closest thing she ever had to a father. This how you treated her?”

“This is not about her.”

Joel surges forward, forcing William back against the wall. “Everything in this fucking room is about her!”

William looks toward the revolver. “Taking her away will not change what is happening inside her. There may be very little anyone can do for her now.”

Joel pulls back the hammer. “What the—?”

“Joel,” Tommy says quietly. Joel does not look away from William. Tommy studies the filled blood bags and the scans glowing on the wall.

“Hear him out,” he says. “Then we take her.” Joel glances at his brother. For a moment, they are boys again, exchanging an entire decision without speaking. Tommy’s face tells him everything he needs to know. The explanation will not change what happens next. William sees it too.

“Three minutes,” Joel says. “Waste one and you’re done.”

 William turns carefully toward the screen. Two images of your brain glow beside each other. One old. One recent. “The first scan was taken ten years ago. The second was taken today.” Joel sees the pale branching mass inside your skull. In the newer image, it has spread far beyond its original boundaries.

“That’s the infection?”

“It is Cordyceps, but it does not behave like a conventional infection.” William points toward the older scan. “Her exposure began before she was born. Her mother was bitten late in pregnancy, and a damaged form of the organism reached her while her immune system was still developing.” Tommy studies the image. “So her body thought it belonged there.”

“Not exactly. It learned to tolerate one altered colony while recognising later strains as foreign. The original growth established itself in her brain without taking control. Every bite and every concentration of spores introduced a competing strain, forcing the colony to adapt.”

“And it grew,” Joel says.

“Yes.” William points toward the newer scan.

“It produces compounds that prevent new Cordyceps from replicating. Her blood carries part of that response. We infused a small sample into Daniel.” His voice catches.

“My son.” William draws a breath. “His fever fell. The infection began to recede within minutes.” Tommy looks toward the filled bags. “And you think it can cure the others.”

“It can stabilise them. If we isolate what is active in her blood, we may be able to reproduce it without taking more from her.” 

Joel keeps the revolver raised. “At what cost?”

“The thing protecting her is also destroying her!”

Joel’s face empties. “What are you sayin’?”

“The organism maintains control by expanding. Every new exposure causes more growth, inflammation and pressure on the surrounding tissue. I cannot tell you when the balance will fail. It may take years. It may happen sooner if she suffers another bite or prolonged spore exposure.”

“No.” Joel says it quietly.

“I wish I were wrong.”

Joel forces the barrel harder beneath William’s chin. “So you figure she’s dyin’ anyway.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you’re sayin’.”

“I am saying her blood can save people now. Sixteen patients are dying downstairs. Children. Parents.” William’s voice fractures. “My son.” Joel looks toward the nearly full collection bag. “Look, I love her too,” William says. Joel’s eyes snap toward him. William does not retreat. “I remember the day she was born. I watched her take her first breath. I was there when the first scans showed us what had happened inside her. I remember the first time she asked me to call her Kat instead of her own name. I knew whose name she had chosen. I knew what she was asking me to be, even if neither of us could say it aloud.” His gaze moves toward your face. “I brought her books. I sat beside her through the fevers. Every time Clouser looked at her and saw an answer, I tried to make sure someone still saw a child.” His eyes shine. “When she escaped, part of me was terrified for her. Another part was relieved she had gotten away from us.” For the first time, shame breaks through his composure.

“I would not choose this if there were another way. What we collected may stabilise three or four people. The final volume may be enough to begin producing a treatment that does not require her.” He looks toward the blood bags.

“If we stop now, people who could have lived will die.”

Joel looks at you. The wires. The bruises. The blood leaving your body one drop at a time. Then he looks at Tommy. No words pass between them, but the answer moves easily through the silence. Tommy’s jaw sets. His rifle shifts toward the assistants beside the monitors. Joel turns back to William.

“Don’t care.”

William stares at him. “What?”

“I don’t care about your patients. Don’t care about your cure. Don’t care what happens to this whole goddamn world. If she’s got years, they’re hers. If she’s got a week, that’s hers too.” His voice grows quieter. “You don’t get to spend what’s left of her life like it belongs to everybody else.”

“People will die.”

“People always die.” Joel’s eyes return to William. “She ain’t dyin’ for them.” 

William’s expression fills with grief. Joel does not lower the gun.

“I know what you did in Salt Lake,” William says quietly. “You’re really going to do it again?”

Joel’s eyes sharpen, he does not blink. “Unhook her.”

“You heard him. Clamp the line.” William remains still. Joel’s finger settles against the trigger.z

William holds Joel’s gaze for another second. Then he gives one of the assistants a small nod. The woman moves toward the bed with both hands visible. Tommy follows her with the barrel of his rifle.“Slow,” he warns. She closes the clamp above the catheter and peels the tape from your arm. Her fingers tremble badly enough that the adhesive slips twice.

“Keep pressure above the vein,” William says. The catheter slides free. A thin line of blood wells from the puncture before the assistant presses gauze against it and wraps your arm. Tommy gestures toward the remaining wires.

“All of it.”

She disconnects the monitor leads one by one. The green line vanishes from the screen. An alarm changes to a single continuous tone that drives through Joel’s skull. Your chest still rises. That is all he watches. Tommy keeps the others covered while Joel holsters his revolver and pulls off his jacket. 

Only then does he see what they have done to the rest of you. Your trousers have been removed for the marrow procedure. A hospital sheet lies twisted beneath one leg, leaving bruised skin and the bandaged site near your hip exposed beneath the surgical light. Joel’s face hardens. He lays his jacket over you carefully, covering you from your chest to below your knees. He draws the sides together and tucks the heavy fabric beneath you so it cannot fall open when he lifts you. His hand pauses against your cheek. Still cool. Still breathing. 

All of sudden, William moves. 

The sound of the pistol clearing his coat is almost nothing. Tommy turns, but William already has the weapon aimed at Joel’s back. Joel becomes still beside the bed. William holds the gun in both hands, tears shining in his eyes. “I cannot allow you to carry her out of this room.”

Tommy swings his rifle toward him. “Put it down.” 

William does not look at him. “Sixteen people are dying downstairs. Her blood is the first real chance we have ever had. If you take her now, everything we sacrificed becomes meaningless.” 

Joel slowly turns.

William’s pistol trembles. 

Joel fires first.

The bullet enters the centre of William’s forehead. His pistol discharges into the ceiling as his body strikes the wall and folds to the floor beneath the glowing scans. For half a second, no one in the room breathes. The assistants recoil and scream.

One reaches toward the alarm panel. 

Another dives for William’s fallen pistol. 

Tommy fires.

The first assistant falls against the monitor. The second collapses before his fingers reach the gun. The remaining two freeze against the wall. Outside, voices erupt.

“That came from Procedure Seven!”

“Security to the east wing!”

Boots thunder toward the room. Joel turns to Tommy.

“Tommy. Help me.” 

Tommy sees what has settled into his brother’s face. Not rage anymore. Something quieter. Something far worse. He has seen that darkness before—after Sarah, during the years when survival meant doing things neither of them ever named afterward. He also knows Joel cannot carry another hospital out alone. Tommy crosses to the door and tears the privacy curtain from its track. Joel bends over you. He slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your shoulders. 

Your head rolls weakly toward him as he lifts you from the bed. “Easy,” he whispers, though you cannot hear him. “I got you, baby. I got you.” He gathers you tightly against his chest. Your face settles against his neck. Your hair brushes his mouth, carrying the faintest trace of rain and smoke beneath the antiseptic. Joel closes his eyes for one brief second.

There you are. Still breathing. Faintly. Barely.

But you are breathing.

And if keeping that breath inside you meant killing every last person left in this world, Joel would do it without hesitation.

Gunfire erupts beyond the curtain. He shifts you higher, keeping the jacket wrapped firmly around your body. His revolver rests beneath your bent knees, secured between his forearm and your weight. The curtain jerks aside. Tommy appears through the smoke, blood freckling one side of his face. “Come on.” 

Joel follows. Two guards lie in the corridor. One still moves, fingers dragging toward his rifle. Tommy fires once without slowing.

“Left side’s clear. Stairwell ain’t.” Shouts echo from both ends of the hall.

“They’ve got the girl!”

“They’re taking her!”

“Do not shoot the subject! She has to stay alive!” Joel’s arms tighten around you. Subject. Tommy glances over his shoulder and sees the change in his brother’s face.

“Keep behind me.” They move. Tommy leads with his rifle raised. Joel stays close, keeping your head tucked beneath his chin. A soldier steps from a side room and aims at Tommy. He sees you in Joel’s arms, and the barrel wavers.

“Put her down!” Tommy shoots him through the chest. More boots pound ahead. “Down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel drops to one knee and curls himself over you. Gunfire tears through the corridor. Bullets punch into the wall above his head, showering his back with plaster. Tommy fires over him in controlled bursts until his rifle clicks empty.

“Shit.” He ducks behind an overturned cart and reaches for another magazine. A soldier advances through the smoke. Joel lowers you carefully behind the cart, keeping one hand beneath your head until it rests against his folded jacket. He draws the revolver and fires twice. The first round catches the soldier in the shoulder. The second takes him beneath the eye. Joel is back beside you before the body reaches the floor. Tommy slams in a fresh magazine.

“Got her?” 

Joel gathers you into his arms again. “Move.” 

They reach the intersection leading toward the stairwell. A group waits beyond it—Wolves in body armour, hospital security and two doctors holding pistols with hands that shake too badly to aim properly. Behind them stand nurses and frightened civilians who have emerged from the patient wards. A woman grips a photograph against her chest. A man beside her is crying. One of the doctors sees the jacket wrapped around you.

“You can’t take her.” 

Tommy keeps his rifle level. “Get outta the way.”

“My wife is downstairs,” the doctor says. “William said her blood was working.” Joel does not stop. The doctor raises his weapon. “She can save them.”

Joel’s face does not change. “She ain’t savin’ anybody.”

He fires before the doctor can pull the trigger. The bullet catches him in the chest and throws him backward into the people behind him. Joel steps over the spreading blood without looking down, holding you tighter against him as he keeps moving.

Someone behind the doctor shouts, “Shoot them!” The corridor erupts. People scream and scatter into the patient rooms. Tommy fires toward the armed men while Joel turns sideways, placing his body between you and the bullets.

“Stay down!” Tommy shouts. 

Joel lowers you behind the reception counter, one hand protecting the back of your skull. He rises over the edge and fires until the weapons across the corridor fall silent. He checks you immediately. Your breathing remains shallow but even. “I’m gettin’ you outta here, darlin’.” A bullet tears through the counter. Tommy grabs the back of Joel’s shirt and pulls him lower.

“Gotta move.” 

Joel’s cylinder is nearly empty. Tommy points toward a dead Wolf beside a gurney. “Take his.” Joel drags the rifle toward him, checks the chamber and strips two magazines from the man’s vest.

“Now!” Tommy shouts. Joel lifts you again, and they run bent low through the smoke. A nurse presses herself against the wall as they pass. She stares at your limp hand hanging beyond the edge of Joel’s jacket.

“Please,” she whispers. Joel hears her. He does not look back. The stairwell doors are twenty feet ahead when another squad pours from the adjoining corridor. Tommy fires first. The lead soldier drops. The others spread behind pillars and return fire in short, disciplined bursts. Joel and Tommy retreat behind a concrete support.

“We’re pinned,” Tommy says. Joel looks down at you. A smear of blood has appeared along the bandage at your arm. The darkness in his eyes deepens. Tommy recognises it.

“No. You hold her. I got this.” He searches the vest of a dead Wolf and finds a smoke grenade. He pulls the pin and throws it. Thick white smoke pours into the corridor.

“Can’t see them!”

“Watch your fire! The girl’s with them!” 

Tommy steps into the haze. His rifle flashes in the white smoke. One body falls. Then another. Joel follows the sound of his brother’s shots, holding you tightly enough to feel each shallow breath against his chest. A shape emerges only a few feet away. A soldier sees Joel and raises his weapon. Then he sees you. He hesitates. Joel does not. The rifle bucks once against his shoulder, and the soldier disappears into the haze.

“Joel!” Tommy calls. “This way!” A hand catches the back of Joel’s shirt. He turns and drives the rifle stock into a guard’s face, kicks his knee sideways and fires before the man can reach his pistol. The recoil tears through Joel’s wounded side. His vision darkens. He nearly drops to one knee. Tommy catches his arm. “Stay with me.”

 Joel adjusts you against his chest. “’M fine.”

“Keep movin’.”

They enter the stairwell and start down. Gunfire follows them through the door, rounds striking the concrete wall. At the next landing, two guards rush up from below. Tommy shoots one, but his magazine empties before he reaches the second. Joel lowers himself onto the step, braces you against his thighs and fires from beneath your knees. The guard tumbles backward down the stairs. Tommy takes the fallen man’s carbine. By the time they reach the ground floor, a mechanical voice is ordering all personnel to evacuate. Smoke leaks through the ventilation system. The lobby is full of armed men. A barricade of overturned desks and medical carts blocks the main exit. Beyond it, hospital security and surviving Wolves wait with rifles trained on the stairwell.

“Put the immune subject down and surrender!” Joel steps behind the concrete wall. Tommy looks across the lobby. “Too many.”

 Joel studies the emergency exit map beside them. “Loading dock’s west. Hall’s exposed.”

“Got another idea?” 

Tommy searches the pouches on the fallen guard’s vest and finds a fragmentation grenade. “Yeah.”

 Joel sees it. “Do it.” 

Tommy pulls the pin. “When it goes, stay on me.” Joel looks down at your face. Then nods. Tommy throws the grenade over the barricade.

“Grenade!” 

The explosion tears through the far side of the lobby. Glass bursts inward, followed by smoke, dust and falling debris. Tommy moves before the echoes fade.

“Go!” 

He runs low across the lobby, firing into the shapes rising behind the barricade. Joel follows directly behind him with you in his arms. A soldier aims from behind the reception desk. Tommy shoots him. Another appears beside the elevator. Joel shifts you against his left side, draws the revolver and fires across your covered legs. The man falls against the closing doors. Joel secures both arms around you again without breaking stride.

“West hall!” 

Tommy shouts. The loading corridor stretches ahead beneath flickering red lights. The service door at the far end stands partly open, cold daylight cutting through the smoke. Three guards move to block it. Tommy fires until the carbine clicks empty. Two fall. The third dives behind a supply cart. Joel lowers you behind a concrete pillar, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“Stay here.” 

He knows you cannot answer. Still, the words leave him like a promise. Joel rounds the pillar with the captured rifle. The guard fires first, the round grazing Joel’s upper arm. Joel barely reacts. He walks through the pain and fires until the guard stops moving. Tommy reaches the door and waves him forward.

“Clear!” 

Joel drops the rifle and returns to you. He gathers you back into his arms, drawing your face beneath his chin.

“Got ya.” He carries you through the service exit. Rain strikes his face. The loading yard is scattered with abandoned vehicles, bodies and discarded weapons. Gunfire continues behind them as more security teams pour toward the west wing. Tommy points toward an armoured utility vehicle near the gate.

“There!” 

They run. Joel’s wounded side tears wider with every step. Blood warms the inside of his shirt. His vision pulses black, clearing only when he looks down and sees your face. Tommy reaches the driver’s side and shoots out the damaged lock. He climbs inside and leans across to open the rear door.

“Get her in!”

Joel climbs into the back without releasing you. He sits sideways across the seat and pulls you into his lap, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. Your head rests over his heart. Tommy starts the engine. Rounds strike the rear of the vehicle.

“Hold on!” 

He slams it into gear and drives through the loading-yard barrier. The metal gate folds beneath the front bumper as gunfire follows them onto the road. Tommy accelerates toward the southern edge of Seattle. Behind them, smoke pours from the shattered windows of the hospital. Flames flicker in one of the upper corridors, half hidden beneath the rain. Joel does not look back. He adjusts the jacket around your legs and pulls you closer until there is no space between your body and his. His hand remains against the side of your neck, feeling every pulse beneath his fingers.

Weak. Steady. Still there.

“Don’t you dare leave me, baby,” he whispers into your hair, his voice cracking despite the warning in it. “Y’hear me? Y’stay with me.” 

Tommy watches them through the rear-view mirror.

Joel’s face is streaked with blood and tears. You lie motionless against him, wrapped in his jacket, one bare foot visible beneath the dark fabric. His brother holds you with the same desperate strength Tommy remembers from another night, another ruined city, another person bleeding in Joel’s arms. Only this time, they had gotten to you before it was too late. 

They had pulled you from that cursed hospital bed. Carried you through the gunfire. Gotten you out alive. F

or now, that was enough. 

Neither brother speaks of the scans or the pale growth spreading through your brain. Whether you have years left or weeks—whether the thing inside you will eventually take you from them—belongs to another day. Until they are beyond Seattle’s borders, only one truth matters. They saved you. Tommy faces the road. The hospital shrinks behind them, leaving smoke, shattered glass and bodies in their wake.

He presses harder on the accelerator and drives toward the gates of Seattle.

please don't forget that your thoughts and feelings about this story matter deeply to me so please share them with me. Thank you for being here. 💋

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[missadangel]

thank you so much for reading and sharing my darling 💋 means a lot!

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

July Recs

Hey there!

It’s time to share what I read this month.

It was such a difficult couple of months for me, I’ve been feeling like shit all the time because of my herniated disk and the worst sciatica attack I’ve ever had in my life which is still bothering me greatly despite treatments, so bear with me if this list is not as long as it was supposed to be. Just existing was really hard someday.

Thanks to all the amazing writers who shared their incredible work with all of us, you all are talented af and I loved reading your stories! ♥️

If you happen to read any of my recommendations please let the authors know that you enjoyed their work!

Comments and reblogs are our greatest joy.

Full list under the cut, each one of these fics is written for a MATURE audience so please, stay away if you're under 18. Read the warnings/tags before engaging in any of these works. I’m not responsible for the content you consume on the internet.

gorgeous dividers by @angeliicide

Joel Miller and Tommy Miller

Nothing's gonna hurt you baby - Step uncle Joel Miller x fem!reader x step dad Tommy Miller by @aurorawritestoescape (Bad Blood extra)

Summary: feeling sad about leaving Austin and returning to college, you decide to take something with you — a hot sex tape, starring Tommy, you and Joel.

Guard Dogs - Joel Miller x f!reader x Tommy Miller by @sprigsofhazel (series - ongoing)

Summary: your mom falls in love, elopes and suddenly you're uprooted from your shitty apartment and moved into a house with her new husband and his two sons, joel & tommy. your mom thinks you're the brady bunch, but you wholeheartedly disagree, until things between you and your step-brothers slowly start to shift into forbidden territory.

Tommy Miller

Show me how bad you can hurt me - Raider!Tommy Miller x f!Reader by @mrsnanamiller (series - completed)

Summary: Four years after the outbreak, Joel and Tommy Miller are hardened smugglers in the Boston QZ: mean, violent, and willing to do whatever it takes to survive. When they’re paid an obscene amount to smuggle you across the ruined country to Columbus QZ, they didn't ask what secrets you carry to be worth that much. They just expect an easy job. You're supposed to be just cargo. They will soon discover this cargo has teeth… and the power to make even the worst men start to crack.

Joel Miller

Put me in a movie - dark!truckdriver!joel miller x f!reader by @cadavercarcass

Summary: you hitch hike to escape your small town, but the man that picks you up isn't the savior you initially see him as.

Guitar Gig - dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:You show up for Joel's gig when your dad can't make it.

The Sleepover - best friend’s stepdad!Joel Miller x f!reader by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:Your plan to seduce your best friend's stepdad is coming along perfectly. But there's one small hitch..

Let me teach you - boyfriend’s dad Joel Miller x fem!reader by @aurorawritestoescape

Summary: your boyfriend begs you to have anal but knows jack shit about the act. Much to your surprise and pleasure, his dad steps up and teaches him. By example.

Unfaithful part 2 - Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader by @peepawmiller

Summary: Joel takes you on a date. And then he takes you home.

You should feel lucky part XII - dark!Joel Miller x f!reader by @ess-evo (series - ongoing)

Summary: You reminisce about your times with Joel while he has something special in store for you.

Cain's Curse part 8 - Joel Miller x f!reader by @ishestillapunk

Summary: A close call makes Joel cut every distance that you try to put between you and him.

Happy Campers - camp counselor!Joel Miller x f!reader by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:Joel Miller, the new head counselor at Camp Happy Trail, makes sure this summer will be one you won't forget.

Ringlets - Joel Miller x curly hair!fem reader by @lvely-prose

Summary: you can’t stand your curly hair. joel loves it.

Season of the wolf - a Joel Miller x reader story by @mcthsman (series - completed)

Summary: The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.

Joel - The summer fling - part of Guy-Crazy - Joel Miller x OFC by @baronessvonglitter

Summary: You head to the beach for some R&R, only to find what you really need is some Big D.

Sloth (Never enough part 2) - Joel Miller x fem!reader - part of Se7en collection by @milla-frenchy

Summary: after you promised Joel to try something new in bed and managed to make him skip patrol and stay home, he makes sure you mean it. So you enjoy a chill morning with him, and then you make good on your promise

Backyard Pool - dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader by @takochan-writes

Summary: You're alone at home while your parents are out celebrating their wedding anniversary. Feeling daring, you decide to masturbate in the backyard pool. Little do you know, your dad's best friend and neighbor, Joel Miller, can see you clearly from his bedroom window.

Messy Girl - Daddy!Joel x f!reader by @littledes1re

Warnings: 18+, smut, daddy!joel, slight ddlg undertones, unspecified age gap (only if y'all like), joel being physically aggressive, fingering, clit rubbing, overstimulation, squirting, crying, praise kink, unprotected sex

Harry Castillo

The Ex Education - Ex husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!F!Reader by @missadangel

Summary: Born and raised on the Upper East Side — mother’s an actress, stepfather runs an empire that’s suddenly “under review,” and your brother’s the reason you have gray hair. You married perfection in your 20s Years after your picture-perfect marriage went up in smoke, you left New York to “heal.” Now you’re back, in your 30s — and saw your ex-husband on the cover of TIME. Wow. He got richer, your family’s going down, and somehow, you ended up working for him. Cried? Yes. Bad idea? Definitely. What could possibly go wrong?

Tim Rockford

The Detective and the agent (part3: Until next time) - Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader x Agent Marcus Pike by @604to647 (series - ongoing)

Summary: You, Tim and Marcus make a souvenir of your time together.

Ted Garcia

Councli Meeting - Office Hours series part 5 - Ted Garcia x f!reader (series - ongoing) by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:Amid a busy day at City Hall, you and Ted can hardly keep away from each other.

Clint Flood

Clint - The Helping Hand (part of Guy-Crazy) - Clint x OFC (series - ongoing) by @/baronessvonglitter

Summary: In need of a helping hand, Daisy turns to a familiar place - and a familiar face.

Frankie Morales

Control - Frankie Morales x f!plus size reader - Wingman part 4 by @tateypots

Summary: Already feeling fragile about your reluctance to take things to the next level with Frankie, your mom pours gas on the flames. Frankie is there to put them out.

Dave York

The Blind Date (part of Guy-Crazy) - Dave York x OFC (series - ongoing) by @/baronessvonglitter

Summary: Daisy's sister sets her up on a blind date.

Couple Trouble - Dave York x f!reader by @petalsinblood

Summary: Your last and most important mission with Dave doesn't exactly go ad planned. But in the chaos he still shows his unwavering love for you.

Dieter Bravo

One Room Left - Dieter Bravo x f!reader by @ess-evo

Summary: A bad storm hits California, causing you to pull off into the nearest hotel. The cost of the room at the luxury resort is shocking, but what's even more shocking is who you end up sharing it with.

Alex Serian

Let me Play - Alex Serian x fem!reader Drabble by @604to647

Match my Rhythm - Alex Serian x f!reader by @petalsinblood

Summary: You help Alex practice a harder cello piece. But this practice is somehow entirely different from the previous ones.

Pope Cody

Pope Cody x f!reader blurb by @sugartalk-ing

My Work:

Taco Tuesday - Jackson!Joel x f!reader

Tags: Jackson!Joel, soft!Joel, friends to lovers, smut, dirty talking, dry humping, eating, mildly food play, nipple play, biting, pussy pronouns, Joel is such a tease.

Take my hand where you want it - Boss!Joel Miller x married!f!reader

Summary: After you discover that your husband is cheating on you with Joel's secretary, Joel becomes your confidant. One night, after your husband comes home late yet again, you rush to Joel for comfort. And Joel makes sure you get everything you deserve.

Fantasy made real - Tess Servopoulos x f!reader

Pope Cody x f!reader blurb

Lola - Javier Peña x f!reader Drabble requested for my Drabble for V's Birthday event

Thirsty - Jackson!Joel x f!reader requested for my Drabble for V's Birthday event

Summary: Getting a glimpse of one of your intimate, tender moments triggers something in Joel that he never would have expected…

Sober - Dieter Bravo x f!reader requested for my Drabble for V's Birthday event

Summary: After being sent to rehab and after reaching his newfound sobriety, Dieter is ready to work on a new project. When he meets you, he’s totally struck by your demeanor and your confidence. Little does he know, you’re going to make a sweet perfect sub out of him and you will give him a new and rediscovered joy of living.

[missadangel]

Oh love, I’m so sorry you’ve been dealing with so much pain. A herniated disk and sciatica are no joke, and honestly, the fact that you managed to read and put this list together at all while feeling like that is incredible. I really hope the treatments start giving you some proper relief soon 💋

And thank you so, so much for including my fic in your recs. It genuinely means a lot to me, especially knowing how difficult these past months have been for you. I’m so happy you enjoyed it, and I’m sending you the biggest, gentlest hug. Please take care of yourself, my darling 🫂❤️

[missadangel]

☀️Angel's July Recs

Hi, loves! This is actually my very first fic rec post. Until now, I’d mostly been answering the recs people sent through asks, but a few of you kept asking me to make this a monthly thing—so I finally decided to start sharing what I’ve been reading each month and slowly work my way through my never-ending TBR.

I didn’t get to read nearly as much as I wanted to this month because I was still crawling my way out of thesis hell, but now that it’s finally over, I’m hoping to make much more time for reading!

First and foremost, I want to thank all the incredible writers featured here. Every single one of these stories pulled me into a completely different little world and made me fall in love with writing all over again. Please don’t forget to feed your writers with comments, reblogs, and likes after reading—a single comment or even one little like can mean the absolute world to us, my loves.💋

Anyway, enough rambling—here’s my July list! 🐚☀️

Full list under the cut! Just a quick note before you dive in: every fic in this post is for a mature/18+ audience. If you’re underage, please scroll away. And as always, make sure to read the warnings and tags before starting any of these works.

JOEL MILLER

Let me teach you - boyfriend’s dad Joel Miller x fem!reader by @aurorawritestoescape

Summary: your boyfriend begs you to have anal but knows jack shit about the act. Much to your surprise and pleasure, his dad steps up and teaches him. By example.

You should feel lucky part XII - dark!Joel Miller x f!reader by @ess-evo (series - ongoing)

Summary: You reminisce about your times with Joel while he has something special in store for you.

Sloth - Joel Miller x fem!reader - part of Se7en collection by @milla-frenchy

Summary: after you promised Joel to try something new in bed and managed to make him skip patrol and stay home, he makes sure you mean it. So you enjoy a chill morning with him, and then you make good on your promise

Guitar Gig - dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader by @baronessvonglitter

Summary:You show up for Joel's gig when your dad can't make it.

Mine - Joel Miller x f!reader by @reedispunk

summary: Joel loses all his self control when you accidentally wear his flannel instead of your boyfriend Tommy’s.

Late in September Joel miller x fem!reader by @stylesispunk

Summary: On a fading summer night overlooking Jackson from a hill, Joel and you share a conversation about aging, regrets, and a love that promises to defy death itself.

Warmth - Jackson!Joel x f!reader Drabble by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Summary: feeling him embrace you from behind, steady and ardent, warming you on Jackson’s dark, freezing nights, gives you a sense of security that nothing has ever given you before. You can’t fall as long as he holds you tight.

Thirsty - Jackson!Joel x f!reader Drabble by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Summary: Getting a glimpse of one of your intimate, tender moments triggers something in Joel that he never would have expected…

Take my hand where you want it - boss!Joel Miller x married!f!reader by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Summary: After you discover that your husband is cheating on you with Joel's secretary, Joel becomes your confidant. One night, after your husband comes home late yet again, you rush to Joel for comfort. And Joel makes sure you get everything you deserve.

Joel Miller Head-Cannons: Joel And PDA - by @orcasoul

Pre-read: Joel isn't used to this. It's been decades since he'd had a meaningful relationship. Decades since he's had to show a woman any sort of affection in public. He barely remembers any good times with Sarah's mother and Tess was on the same page as him; fuck and forget. It suited him just fine... until he met you.

daddy, i’m sorry  - Old!daddy!joel miller x female!reader by @littledes1re

Summary: Joel sits downstairs, reading by the stove, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the footsteps of his son’s girlfriend. Trying to pretend he doesn’t remember what the two of you have done and feel. But when you appear in the dark—barefoot, wide-eyed, floaty-headed and call him Daddy like you still mean something by it, he knows you’re about to break the rules again.

Virtual Daydream - joel miller x f!reader by @broad-shouldrs

summary: textfic! you're away and a little tipsy.

Under his boot - Part 1 - dark raider!joel x freader (no use of yn) vy @queenofslowburn

Summary: What's worse than being captured by raiders in the apocalypse? Being captured by raiders in the apocalypse whose leader is Joel Miller and from whome you had just tried to run away from. Luckily Joel's got some ideas on how to make you... more compliant.

Unfaithful - Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader by @peepawmiller

Summary: Your husband is unfaithful, and your contractor is hot.

HARRY CASTILLO

Safe - Younger!Sub!Harry Castillo x Curvy mistress!f!reader by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Summary: Harry brings you to the company party and finally gets a revenge on his asshole dad. You give him the best reward for finally being brave.

somewhere in the ocean - part 8-9 - harry castillo x fem!reader by @stylesispunk

summary: the one where harry is left at the altar, but a trip to the beach brings him a surprise with the ocean waves.

now comes us (pt. 2) - harry castillo x fem!reader by @pedroscurls

summary: harry's mother pays him a visit and later that night, you both have a serious conversation.

FRANKIE MORALES

Over the Andes - Frankie Morales x ofc/f!reader by @bergamote-catsandbooks

Summary: Tom yells "Are we really leaving 200 million on the fucking runway?" Frankie sighs "OK, she'll make it." What if Frankie had said something else? What if he had said no and stood up to Tom? Two years after these events, Frankie, Will, Benny, Santi, and Tom have made it over the Andes with a significant amount of money. But what happened there has changed the dynamics between the group of men, these brothers in arms. All of it culminates the moment you enter Frankie's life, leading to another decision he and his brothers will have to make, one that might shatter them.

Wingman - Frankie Morales x f!plus size reader by @tateypots

Summary: Already feeling fragile about your reluctance to take things to the next level with Frankie, your mom pours gas on the flames. Frankie is there to put them out.

where you left the light - Frankie Morales by @berryispunk

summary: He has survived war, loss, and loneliness before but nothing prepares him for the silence waiting at home.

DIETER BRAVO

Sober - Dieter Bravo x f!costar!reader by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Summary: After being sent to rehab and after reaching his newfound sobriety, Dieter is ready to work on a new project. When he meets you, he’s totally struck by your demeanor and your confidence. Little does he know, you’re going to make a sweet perfect sub out of him and you will give him a new and rediscovered joy of living.

ALEX SERIAN

Let me Play - Alex Serian x fem!reader Drabble by @604to647

a/n: Just a smutty little drabble

Match my Rhythm - Alex Serian x f!reader by @petalsinblood

Summary: You help Alex practice a harder cello piece. But this practice is somehow entirely different from the previous ones.

JAVIER PEÑA

Obsessed: An After Hours Oneshot - Javier Peña x Original Female Character by @gothcsz

Summary: You invite Javier over for a mischievously good time

sabor a mi - part 2 of 2 | ex husband!Javier Peña x f!reader by @cozymochaa

summary: you and your ex husband are forced to see each other every week since you share custody of your daughter. arguments are the only thing left between the two of you, but is that enough to let him back in?

REED RICHARDS

the painter - painter!Reed Richards x f!Reader by @kokoluwie

Summary: You share your thoughts on a painting to a stranger at an art gallery in Paris, unaware it was his.

SELF RECS

Harry Castillo

The Ex Education - Ex husband!Harry Castillo x Ex Wife!F!Reader -ongoing-

Summary: Born and raised on the Upper East Side — mother’s an actress, stepfather runs an empire that’s suddenly “under review,” and your brother’s the reason you have gray hair. You married perfection in your 20s Years after your picture-perfect marriage went up in smoke, you left New York to “heal.” Now you’re back, in your 30s — and saw your ex-husband on the cover of TIME. Wow. He got richer, your family’s going down, and somehow, you ended up working for him. Cried? Yes. Bad idea? Definitely. What could possibly go wrong?

Joel Miller

Two Wrongs, One Right - Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader -ongoing-

Summary: There were supposed to be two immune girls on those operating tables in Salt Lake City. Joel only knew about one — unknowingly saving you alongside Ellie when he tore the hospital apart. Later, you arrive in Jackson with no idea your savior is there… until you unexpectedly run into him face to face.

[peepawmiller]

Summary: Your husband is unfaithful, and your contractor is hot.

Pairing: Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader

Warnings: Porn with some Plot?, piv, cunnilingus, fingering, massage, Joel works for reader, adultery, but reader's husband cheated first so it doesn't count and i stand by that, divorce, Joel has a big dick, Tommy Miller, shitty marriage

WC: 8.2k

A/N: This really got away from me im so sorry. but low key lmk if i should make a part 2. Love to hear your thoughts :) (Update: added part 2)

Part 2 | Ao3 | Masterlist

You didn’t set out to hire a contractor with the sole purpose of cheating on your husband. It just happened.

In all fairness, he cheated first. Consistently and repeatedly. His ongoing affairs are the reason you’ve found yourself in this situation in the first place. 

In truth, it started long before his infidelity had. You knew marrying him was a mistake the moment he showed just how little he cared for you and your needs, miniscule as they may be, in your opinion. 

You married Jeremy straight out of college, which was your first miscalculation. Guys your age never quite met your standards of what a healthy and loving relationship should be. But you married him anyway because you thought it’s what you had to do.

His job in finance allowed you to buy the house of your dreams, though it definitely needed some work. He promised you – insisted – that he could take care of the repairs himself despite having the financial means to hire someone else to do it and zero experience doing any sort of manual labor. Your career was just as lucrative as his, so between the two of you, there was no reason you couldn’t afford to hire someone to do the job. You lost track of the amount of times you’d fought him on the topic.

Just hire someone! No, I can do it myself! When? I’ll start soon, I swear!

He never started soon. And now, it’s been five years

The home itself was perfect – full of mid-century modern charm, large, bright windows, sleek, low-pitched roof, open floor plan. You loved it. You did not love the orange shag carpet or the lime green cabinets in the kitchen, nor were you a fan of the square teal tiling covering every inch of both bathrooms. But those problems could be easily resolved. 

Your husband, cheating, vile, misogynistic scumbag that he is, was considerably less simple to deal with.

When you discovered his habitual adultery, you were surprised to feel nothing but anger. Not hurt. Not betrayal. Just pure, unbridled anger.  You hadn’t been happy in years, and quite frankly, you weren’t sure you ever were. 

It sparked a thirst for retaliation in you that couldn’t be quenched without taking full and total control of your life again. 

First on your to-do list was filing for a divorce. You had all the proof you needed to back up your claims of his infidelity – texts, phone calls, receipts for motels – Jeremy was not smart, nor was he careful, which made the task incredibly simple. Seeing as he fucked anything with a pulse, you had plenty of evidence to go on. Your lawyer was astonished, either at his stupidity or the sheer amount of women Jeremy has been caught with, you weren’t sure.

Next, you gathered the funds you needed in order to complete the renovation to your home, and luckily, you’d been saving for that specific task. You wanted him to be dumbstruck when he saw the final product, and then you would hand him the divorce papers and tell him to get the hell out.

Finally, you had to hire the right contractors to get the job done. This proved to be your most ardent task yet. 

It took you weeks to find a suitable contractor to take on your project. You vetted and price checked and examined their work with a scrutiny that would impress even the most seasoned detectives. You took recommendations, avoided certain ones entirely, and finally landed on Miller & Miller Construction.

Their website had no flair. No pizazz. No gimmicks. It was plain, clean, and it showcased their work in stunning clarity. You were impressed. The custom cabinetry was just what you’d been looking for, the craftsmanship simple, but precise. Their eye for design, their workmanship, everything spoke to you. You set up a consultation and met with them as soon as you could.

Joel and Tommy were two completely opposing entities that you weren’t quite sure how to read. Tommy did most of the talking, his smile easy and bright, immediately likable, while Joel sat quietly, eyes trained on you, not exactly frowning, but there was no smile to be had on his face either. You liked them, despite how quiet the elder Miller was, grizzled hair, trimmed scruff on his jaw and chin, mustache flecked with grey.

Something about him made you squirm. 

You could tell immediately how their dynamic worked. Tommy was the salesman, the entrepreneur, the frontman. And Joel was the brawn, the craftsman – it showed in the rough edges of his features, his hands, his discerning eyes. Though, you’re sure they both put in their fair share of hard labor.

Tommy had a tablet in front of him, typing out the details of your project. Joel paced the kitchen, measuring, examining, testing. You watched him, admiring the slope of his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint hints of grey in his beard, rippling muscles hidden under a flannel and a t-shirt.

You blinked out of your haze when Tommy spoke.

“Full-scale kitchen remodel. Custom cabinetry. Updated appliances. Marble counters – that won’t be cheap,” Tommy muttered, but you waved your hand.

“It’s covered. I’ve been saving for years.”

His grin flashed, warm and friendly, “Don’t worry, we won’t drain it all.” He types something else out, muttering, “Hardwood floors, new trim, drywalling, tiling..” he trailed off, listing out everything the two of you had discussed for the entirety of the house. When he was done, he looked across at you with a smile, “I’ll get you an estimate in about a week or so.”

You almost bounced in your seat, giddy with the prospect of your home finally coming to life. You were so ecstatic you almost forgot about the wreckage of your marriage.

“We’ll have our design team set up a consultation, pick materials, colors and such, and then we can get you a fixed timeline. Do you have any questions for us?”

Your eyes darted between him and his stoic older brother before shaking your head, “No, thank you so much.”

In all of your searches and meetings with various contractors in the area, it was the first time you felt seen. They didn’t ask if you needed your husband’s approval. They didn’t ask if he wanted input in the project. Didn’t even ask if you had a husband. But it was clear in your surroundings – the framed picture of you two on your wedding day situated right behind you on the china cabinet, the men’s tennis shoes discarded by the door, the ugly recliner just visible in the living room. Your wedding ring.

Your meeting with their design team went even better – though team was a bit of an overstatement. A woman your age, friendly, bright, excited to help you design your kitchen. Her name was Winona, and she was bubbly without being obnoxious, smart without being a knowitall. And best of all, she took your design ideas and turned them into something spectacular. You loved her.

Jeremy was on a business trip, probably fucking anything that moved, when you signed the final contract to get the house started. And the progress was swift. Efficient for two guys who did all the work themselves. You wondered, briefly, how many projects they normally took on. If they had a crew doing work elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. They were working on your house. 

And Tommy was right. The estimate he provided didn’t drain all you’d saved for the project. You had just enough left over to tuck away for your lawyer fees for your inevitable divorce. Something you were wildly ecstatic about.

Over the course of two weeks, Tommy and Joel arrived at seven am on the dot, ripping apart your house piece by piece, hauling things away, cleaning up the site, and working at a scarily efficient tempo.

By the end of the first week, they’d had the upper level of your home completely bare, painted in the soft, off-white color you’d chosen for the hallways, and the corresponding colors you’d chosen for your office, bedroom, and guest room. You slept on the couch while the upstairs was under construction, and by the end of the second week, you were back in your bedroom, adding the decorative touches you’d been working on while they did the hard labor.

Now that your primary living space was completed, they’d moved on to the rest of the house, spending two weeks alone on the bathrooms, and another full day hauling debris from your house.

You enjoyed seeing them bright and early every day. Tommy’s friendly smile, Joel’s gruff nod. After just under a month, you’d grown accustomed to them. You offered them coffee, brewed in your home office instead of the kitchen, and had bagels and fruit out on the kitchen table for them to enjoy at their leisure. Tommy ate the bagels and fruit. Joel guzzled coffee like it would cure whatever had him looking so grumpy all the time. 

You chatted with Tommy during your lunch breaks, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed his company. He was charming and friendly and sweet and nothing like his quietly cantankerous brother. You were lucky if you got more than two words out of Joel in a day, but Tommy was quickly becoming the highlight of the entire project.

You learned a lot about him, and incidentally Joel, every time the two of you sat down for lunch. He told you about their construction company, the scale of their work, and how business has really picked up over the last couple of months. He told you about his wife, Maria, and how she was due to give birth any day now. He expressed his excitement, his trepidation, and joy at becoming a father. He’d had a lot of practice with Joel’s daughter, but she was grown now. That surprised you.

You couldn’t picture Joel getting close enough to someone to have a child with them.

While Joel cut lumber on your back patio, you lowered your voice and asked, “He’s married?”

Tommy took a heaping bite of his sandwich and shook his head, “Nah, wife ran off a couple months after Sarah was born. ‘S just him now that Sarah’s gone off to school in Washington.”

You could see Joel through the patio door, hunched over a piece of lumber, marking it with a pencil, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused. You hadn’t let yourself examine him very closely, but watching him work, you were struck by how handsome he was. You’d thought so when you first met the pair of them, but you were so focused on getting the project off the ground, you paid little attention.

His green flannel drew tight over his shoulders and biceps, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tucked the pencil behind his ear as he maneuvered the piece of wood into place and ripped it through the saw. His forearms tensed, fingers deft and precise as he pulled the wood through. His jaw clenched as he examined it, flicked away the sawdust, eyes singularly focused on his task. 

“Easy, sugar,” Tommy drawled, snapping you out of your trance, “He’s a surly old bastard. Don’t wanna get mixed up with that.”

You gaped at him, cheeks coloring, pressing a hand to your chest, “Excuse me? That would be highly inappropriate.” You tried to sound glib, but Tommy was right. You were attracted to Joel. And you were aching for someone to touch you. 

You hadn’t had sex in nearly a year thanks to Jeremy’s exploits. You were not interested in contracting an STD from him, and you were so disgusted by him, the thought of having sex with him turned your stomach.

In the month since the project began, Jeremy had only been home twice, complaining about the mess and the dust and screaming at you for going through with the renovation when he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself.

“Who’s paying for all of this anyway?” He asked derisively. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. Joel and Tommy were downstairs, completing the tile work for the guest bathroom, and you knew they could hear every word. “I bet they’re taking you for a ride. Women always get scammed by contractors, are you stupid?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy!” You shouted at him, unable to contain your fury. “Why don’t you just go back to fucking your assistant and keep your shitty opinions to yourself!” You stormed out of the room, slamming the door in his face and retreating to the back patio where Joel was hunched over a wet saw, lining up a tile to cut with with the precision you’d come to expect from him.

He looked up at you, his face neutral, lips set in a firm line, dark eyes assessing.

“Everying alright?”

Stunned by his gentle voice, you’d been unable to speak, simply nodding your head and watching as he nodded back and hunched over the saw again.

Jeremy left, and hadn’t been back since.

Between your frustration at your husband, and Tommy’s comment about Joel, a spark of determination lit inside you like dry shrub in a wild fire. Your previously controlled, distant admiration of Joel transformed into a cloying, desperate urge, and he was the one and only thing on your mind.

But that didn’t mean anything would happen. Not with Joel’s sour disposition and gruff exterior. Talking to Tommy was easy. Talking to Joel – well, there was very little that came out of his mouth, so you weren’t sure it could be qualified as talking. Which is why it was so shocking to you that he’d spoken to you in the first place.

You tried. You really did. Every time he came to your office for a coffee refill, you immediately dropped what you were doing in order to strike up a conversation with him. But he never budged. Just grunted, gave one word answers, sometimes even just stared at you like you hadn’t spoken at all. You wondered why he even bothered coming into your office in the first place. Why not just send Tommy to get his refills if it was such a burden to talk to you?

His silence perturbed you. And you were determined to get his attention. 

You were so desperate, you started wearing less. Instead of yoga pants and a conservative pull over sweater, you switched to shorts and loose t-shirts that hung off your shoulder. It was an easy switch to make as the last remnants of chilly spring weather finally succumbed to the prickling heat of summer.

If Joel noticed your slowly deteriorating selection of moderate clothing, he didn’t let on. And the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.

Instead of letting him come to you for coffee, you brought the pot out to him, low cut, form fitting, spaghetti strap top displaying your perky breasts. Your shorts barely covered your ass. And he didn’t even blink.

“Coffee?” You ask coquettishly, lifting your chest just a touch. His eyes stayed on yours, steadfast, hard, and determined, as he held his mug out for you to fill.

“Thanks,” he grunted, taking a large gulp. 

“Hot today,” you point out, the beginning of summer making its presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside? Take a break?”

His eyes never strayed. Not once. He shook his head, “Tommy should be back with more lumber any minute.”

It’s the most words you've heard leave his mouth in a consecutive string. It emboldens you.

You nod at the comfortable, air conditioned living room just on the other side of the French doors, “Just a quick break. I can get you something cold to drink. Lemonade? A beer?”

You were pushing, and he wasn’t conceding, turning back to the makeshift work table he had set up under the shade of your patio; three saw horses with a large piece of plywood acting as the tabletop, “‘M alright, darlin’. Why don’t you go cool off?”

Darlin’. That subtle Texas drawl, syrupy smooth, deep and rich like honey. He’d called you Darlin’. 

You shouldn’t devote too much thought to it. Tommy calls you ‘Sugar’ all the time. Even goes as far as ‘Sweetheart’ on some occasions. But it was natural coming from him. Harmless and utterly platonic. He’s a smooth talker and a schmoozer. From Joel, it was so foreign, so out of character, you didn’t know what to do. He’d hardly said two words to you in the past, and now he’s giving you sweet nicknames. Calling you Darlin’ was just as harmless as Tommy calling you Sugar, but it did something to you.

You left him on the patio and shuffled back to your office, dazed. 

You liked it, you realized, skin flushed and heat simmering low in your belly. You wanted him to do it again. Call you by more endearing pet names. Even in your five years of marriage to Jeremy, he’d only ever addressed you by your name or a condescending ‘babe’. You hadn’t realized how pathetically you’d been yearning for more. Something softer, sweeter, kinder. Not until Joel.

But he didn’t seem interested. Should you be more direct? Ask him, outright, if he was attracted to you? Should you strip naked and throw yourself at him? No, no. That was too direct. You had more self respect than that. Maybe. Probably not.

Jeremy had neglected you for so long, your mind was spinning out of control. You want to be wanted. You want to be touched. And you want Joel.

When Tommy returned with the lumber, you watched them unload it from his pickup truck. Joel shed his flannel and was now clad in a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps, his back spotted with sweat and his muscles bulging with the effort of lugging wood into your home. Fuck, you couldn’t stand it.

You have to do something about this ache between your legs. The sudden, unquenchable thirst you feel for him. If skimpy outfits and shy invitations to join you for coffee don’t do it, you know what will. And it’s just about as close to stripping naked as you could get.

When Joel arrives the next day, without Tommy, you greet him with a smile, a fresh pot of coffee, and a question in your gaze that asks where his brother is.

“Wife went into labor late last night. I’ll be finishin’ up without him,” he grunts, though without any of the typical irritability that comes with the need to socialize. Maybe the birth of his nephew had softened him.

You’re a little sad you won’t get to see Tommy, but thrilled to have Joel all to yourself.

As you step aside to let him in, you don’t miss the way his eyes flit down your bare legs. You hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still clad in your oversized sleep shirt that barely hangs down past your ass. 

As he sets about getting his bearings from where he left off the previous day, you pour him a cup of coffee and toast and butter a bagel for him, knowing he doesn’t much care for the indulgence of cream cheese or jelly. He thanks you with a grunt and shuffles his way onto the patio to get started. Your eyes linger on the way his navy t-shirt stretches across his broad, muscular back.

After you change into a revealing tank top and the shortest shorts you own, you coop yourself up in your office to get some work done. But when you’re done for the day, you can’t help yourself. You check in on him, peering through the back doors and asking if he wants something to eat. You expect him to decline, but when he graciously accepts, you bounce giddily to the kitchen to make him a sandwich. 

Today is different. You can feel it. 

When you present him with the sandwich, he dusts his hands on his jeans and nods at you in thanks, but doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, eyes flitting to your cleavage so quickly, you think you imagine it. But then he looks you dead in the eyes as he takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly.

Something in you snaps and your blood heats, making your skin flush. You rush away from him, and as you retreat inside, you swear you hear him chuckle.

With your heart racing and an idea bubbling to life in your mind, you race upstairs and start digging through your closet until you find exactly what you’re searching for. If he wants to tease you, you’re going to tease him right back.

You pull on a white and blue bikini with strings that tie at the hips, around the base of your neck, and at the middle of your back. After applying a nude gloss to your lips and dabbing a light amount of makeup across your cheeks, you pull on a black sheer coverup, that flows down past your ankles, leaving it open. It does little to hide your scantily clad body as you tiptoe back downstairs with a book and a bottle of tanning oil in your grip.

You walk past the back door as deliberately as you can, making sure to catch his attention as you carefully maneuver your way through your deconstructed kitchen to fill a glass with ice water and lemon slices. With your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, you finally step onto the patio, your tits on display, legs bare and gleaming, and smile coy and searching.

”I’m going to lay out by the pool for a bit. If you get hungry or thirsty, help yourself to anything you like,” you tell him, feigning disinterest. Acting like you don’t see the way his throat bobs and his eyes greedily drink you in. He doesn’t say anything to you as you take the three short steps down to your yard and traipse over to your pool.

The early summer sun is blazing hot, and sweat prickles your skin the moment you lay out on your teakwood lounger, the white cushion comfortable but warm from the heat of the day. Your eyes dart toward Joel to make sure he’s watching, and you slowly slip out of your coverup, intentionally dropping it and bending at the waist to pluck it off the stone pavers surrounding your pool.

It feels almost comically pornographic to resort to this type of temptation, but with the blatant way he watches you, it’s worth it.

You lean back on the lounger, snatching up your book and flipping to the page you’d left off on. It’s some tawdry romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the front. Painfully transparent with little to no plot, but you’re not reading it for the plot, anyway.

Your skin prickles with awareness, your eyes darting toward Joel every few minutes to catch him watching you for the briefest moment before he returns to the meticulous work of assembling your cabinetry. 

When your ice water is half gone and too warm to enjoy, you decide to take a brief dip into the pool. You stand, adjusting your bottoms, pulling them up just a touch, before wading slowly into the rippling water. The effect is instant, the water immediately cooling you and making goosebumps pebble across your skin, tightening your nipples. 

You’re careful not to get your hair wet, brushing it aside as you drift further in, then back toward the shallow end. A quick glance in his direction makes you frown. His back is to you, broad shoulders leaned over his plywood table. 

The power saw buzzes to life, then quiets. He blows away the sawdust, t-shirt damp with sweat. Biceps straining as he joins two pieces of wood together, fastening them with a clamp. You’re enraptured by his focus. Envious of your very own cabinets and wishing he’d look at you with such deliberate intent and concentration. House be damned.

When you can tell he’s about to turn in your direction, you climb out of the pool, allowing the water to trickle off your frame and slick down your body. You run a hand down your stomach, briefly toying with the pink jewel at your naval, then adjust your bottoms again as you strut back to the lounger.

Under the dark, impenetrable lenses of your sunglasses, your eyes dart to him. He’s staring, his throat bobbing, hands tight around the clamps he’s using to fasten the cabinets together. 

You hide your smile, laying out on your towel to let the sun soak up the water from your skin. You feel his eyes on you more prominently than the moisture coating your body. With a sly smile, you push your sunglasses down your nose to look at him.

“Hey, Joel?” Voice dripping with honey and mischief.

“Yeah, darlin’?” He calls back, still watching. Not even bothering to pretend anymore. And he calls you that name again. Darlin’. Your core clenches.

Biting your lip, you give him a coquettish look that’s all sin and wicked intention, “Will you help me put on some sunscreen?”

Straight out of a porno. The oldest trick in the book. Painfully, achingly transparent. You’re inviting him to touch you. And even from afar, you can see his resolve snap. Eyes darkening, posture going rigid.

“You sure about that?” He asks, voice tight and rough.

You nod, biting your lip for good measure, “Uh huh.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and a devilish smile spreads across your face, triumphant. Joel dusts his hands off on his jeans, trudges down the patio steps, and prowls over to your lounger. His tall, broad frame eclipses the sun, casting shade over you. You grin and roll onto your stomach, acutely aware of the way your ass looks in your tiny bikini.

“Sunscreen, there,” you point to the bottle of tanning lotion on the teakwood table next to you. It’s more of an oil with UV protection, but the idea is the same: you want him to rub it all over your body, and then fuck you senseless.

The scent of pine and leather wraps around you as he sits on the edge of the lounger, careful not to touch you. He grabs the oil and huffs a laugh, “This ain’t sunscreen.”

“It has UV protection!” You argue.

“This is nothin’ more than body oil.”

“Still. Please?” You ask, looking back at him and resting your cheek on your arms. He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling against the smile he’s trying to fight off.

“Ain’t payin’ me to lather you up, honey,” he says under his breath, flicking the cap of the oil open and drizzling it along your back.

“That’s okay. You need a break.”

He hums, setting the bottle aside. Your entire body tingles with anticipation, waiting for his skin on yours. You wait and wait, feeling the oil drip along your spine, your shoulders. Then, finally, the coarse surface of his work roughed hand meets your skin and you shiver.

“S’it okay if I untie this?” He asks, voice so low, so smooth, you’re sure you imagined it. But then you feel his fingers playing with the ties at your neck and you nod, frantically, too eager. “Of course it is.”

You almost giggle. He knows what you’re doing and he’s still placating you. You wiggle a little when he unties the neck, then the back, leaving you bare from the waist up. The moment his hands are back on you, you gasp. Pressure firm, but gentle. Sure and thorough as he spreads the oil around your skin. Brushing your hair aside, he massages the oil into your neck. You peek at him to see that concentrated look on his face. Like tearing him away from his task would undo him.

Then, both of his palms press into your back, eliciting a moan straight from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, but the pressure is so divine, you almost do it again. 

“Feels okay?” He mutters, hands skimming down your body, your waist, your lower back, and then up again. His fingers graze the sides of your breasts and you nod again. God, if he stopped now, you think you’d cry.

Every pass of his hands turns you to jelly, and soon, he moves down to your legs, first starting at your ankles, then up your calves, careful not to go much further than the bend in your knee. You’re soaked. Skin humming with the effects of his firm, soothing touch, heated by the sun, and glowing faintly with the sheen of oil.

When you feel his hand inch up the inside of your thigh, you suck in a breath.

”Relax,” he coaxes, moving from the top of your thigh down to your knee and back up again. Over and over and over, pressing a little firmer on the way up, and stopping just short of the gusset of your skimpy bikini. “You told me to help myself to anything I liked.”

You did say that. And then you called him over to you to touch you freely. You grin, peeking up at him, cheek resting against your arms, “And you like me?”

His cheeks dimple, his smile so soft, so sexy, you almost say to hell with your little ruse. Something between a grunt and a laugh escapes him, “Darlin’, you got no idea.”

Darlin’. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it. You feel yourself grow damp as he moves his hands to your other thigh, repeating the same, torturous ministrations. But this time, he goes so much higher, you think he’s going to graze the covered, soaked apex of your desperately neglected pussy. He never does. Massages right below it. There’s no reason to put oil there, but he does it anyway. His thumbs get closer, massaging circles into your skin, very nearly grazing you, teasing, refusing to give you what you want.

When his hands leave you, you almost cry out in protest, but then he’s nudging your hip, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

As you lift up to turn, you toss your bikini top aside, having no desire to feign modesty any longer. He knows it, and you know it. You want him to fuck you.

His eyes spark with interest as they land on your breasts, perky and waiting, nipples tight from your dip in the pool. You lie back, making yourself comfortable as he stares. 

He chuckles, deep and smooth, “Not bein’ shy no more, are you?”

You grin in response as he grabs the oil and drizzles it over your chest, your stomach, and along your arms. He starts at your hands, making sure you’re fully covered, his large ones engulfing them completely in his grasp. The texture of his fingers is rough, but you like it as he moves his way up your wrists, your forearms, and then toward your shoulders, massaging along the way.

“Mm, Joel,” you sigh, his hands rubbing the oil into you completely before moving on. He presses his thumbs into your shoulders, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He still doesn’t touch you there, but then one hand wraps around your throat, resting, thumbing your pulse point where it hammers rapidly against your skin.

“Lookin’ so pretty,” he says quietly, keeping one hand on your neck while the other finally finally covers your breast. The initial touch is feather light, thumb grazing your nipple. Then, he presses firmer, his entire hand covering you with his palm while he kneads and massages. His hand leaves your neck only to cover your other breast, and you’re giddy with need as he works you into a whimpering, keening mess. “That feel good, darlin’?”

“So good,” you nod, grabbing his wrist to keep him there, demanding more.

He hums, keeping the hand you’ve now possessed on your breast, while the other moves down to rub oil into your tummy. His hands are a work of art, skilled in so many ways. You’re trembling by the time he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. His pinky slips under the hem, making you gasp. He withdraws and does it again, rubbing back and forth until your hips move up to seek his touch.

“Want me to take these off?” He asks, tugging at the strings, already knowing your answer before you nod rapidly.

“Off, please. Take them off.”

His reply is a deep grunt, and you think that must be his grumpy little way of teasing you, “Needy little thing.”

The bottoms come off, and you’re bared to him, your center slick with need and ready to be fucked. But you just know he’s going to take his time. Simultaneously, you can’t stand it, but you also yearn for it. Being teased and molded into a whimpering mess, desperate for his touch. Your husband has never made you feel like this. Sexy. Desirable. Loved.

“Fuck, look at that pussy, baby,” he groans, still not touching you where you really, really need it. He’s massaging your hips now, leaning over you in a way that’s almost obscene as he gets closer to your slick heat. His thumbs press into your hips, then down your thighs until he’s rubbing oil into your legs, still neglecting you, even though every pretense of professionalism has all but burned up in the wake of your arousal.

“Joel,” you whine, arching your hips.

“Patience,” he answers sternly. And that’s that. Nothing more. 

Every stroke up and down your leg is torture as he repeats the same teasing he’d done to the backs of your legs. Getting closer and closer to your pussy, but never fully touching. You’re so eager, your slick coats your thighs, and on a final pass, he rubs it into your skin before his fingers finally graze your clit. You suck in a sharp breath, your hand shooting out to grab him again. To keep him there. Because if he stops now, you think you’ll actually die.

You look up at him, his eyes dark, his grin wide. You’ve never seen him smile like that, and it’s blinding, warm, and teasing. He rubs circles over your clit delicately, not pressing too hard, not too light. It’s so perfect and you’re so on edge that it has you on the precipice of your orgasm faster than you can blink.

And then he eases up, halting your peak so quickly, your hips buck, making you moan in protest, “No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Joel.”

“Ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’, baby,” he says softly, “Just need to get a better look at you.”

And then he shifts, gently lowering himself to the ground, knees probably screaming in protest, and grabbing you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the lounger, slightly askew on the cushion, but still comfortable. He lowers his head, making you squirm, lips brushing against your hip, across your tummy, briefly pausing to kiss around the pink belly button piercing. You arch your hips, enticing him.

“So eager,” he grumbles, one hand spreading your thigh, hooking it onto his shoulder, the other running up your opposite leg, kneading and massaging you into a puddle.

“I need — I need—“ you breathe, one hand clutching the teakwood, the other reaching for him, digging into the muscles of his shoulder.

“What do you need, baby?”

Your chest is heaving as he plants another kiss below your bellybutton, still massaging your leg while his other hand keeps your thigh firmly planted over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he sighs, inching down. It’s torture. It’s pure, unbridled torture — waiting for him. You’re a slick mess, oiled up, pussy wet, walls fluttering around nothing. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats.

“I need your tongue,” you gasp, the prickle of his beard on your skin driving you insane. You never would have guessed this. That Joel Miller is a fucking tease. That he’s slow and methodical. That he enjoys making you squirm. But here he is, peppering kisses all across your body, everywhere except your aching core, “Please, make me cum. Please, Joel.”

His chuckle is deep, a hint of red coloring his cheeks and neck, either from the sun or arousal, you don’t care.

“Since you asked nicely.”

And then his mouth is on you, hands spreading your thighs wide, keeping you open for him as he drags his tongue from your weeping cunt to your clit where he sucks, teasing you, making you gasp for air, arching your back off the lounger.

Your burrow a hand into his hair — it’s damp with sweat, but that doesn’t bother you in the slightest. 

His mouth is devastating against you, licking stripe after stripe up your slit, pausing briefly to suck and nibble at your clit until you’re sobbing with need. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, he pushes one, thick finger into you, stretching you. The burn makes you cry out, the slow drag sending prickles of lightning up your spine.

“This is what you wanted, right, darlin’?” He asks, voice rough with arousal, eyes nearly black as he slowly pumps his finger into you. “It’s why you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that. No pants on. Shorts barely coverin’ you, askin’ me to touch you. Askin’ to get fucked.”

You can’t answer. Your voice stalls in your throat. You can only nod, frantically. He adds a second finger and it almost undoes you. You’re so fucking close. He pushes them deep, leaning down to tease your clit again with his mouth, sucking hard, groaning.

“How do you think your husband would feel if he knew his pretty little wife was gettin’ fucked by the help?” 

He twists his fingers, curling them just so. He prods at the sensitive, soft spot inside you, making your arch.

“Ex. Ex — husband. Soon.”

He hums, “Judging by that ring, he’s no ex.”

It takes every ounce of will power you have to rip your hand away from him and tear the ring off your finger. It glints in the sun and clatters on the table next to you when you slam it down. Then your hand is back in his hair, urging him back to your cunt where he grins and licks you again, this time not pausing, not slowing.

Your orgasm is volcanic, blinding. You think you scream. You know your fingers clench around his hair so tight, you’re in danger of pulling it out of his scalp. And he just keeps going. Finger fucking you into oblivion, tasting your release on his tongue, moaning against you as you ride the waves of your climax into bliss.

You’re trembling when he lifts himself off the ground, fingers still probing deep, hunting for another orgasm. He leans over you, bracing his other hand next to your head, and kisses you. You whimper into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips, tongues stroking and breaths mingling.

“Joel,” you moan when he removes his fingers, leaving you empty and limp. But he’s not pulling away. He’s kissing down your neck, sucking a spot just below your ear that drives you crazy that your husband always neglects, and undoing his belt.

“Tell me what you need,” he says into your neck. But he already knows. You know he knows. You’ve been begging for it this entire time.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you whine, hands searching for the end of his shirt. They slip underneath, and you moan at the way his muscles feel under your fingertips. He’s warm and rough and you want to see him. “Off.”

He hums, leaning up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere among your discarded bikini. He comes back to you, lips hot on yours while you concentrate your efforts on getting his jeans undone. He’s hard against your hand as you pull the zipper down, aching and needy.

Once his cock is freed, you break away to take him in, and you almost shrink. He is huge, leaking from the tip, resting heavy against your thigh. Even with how wet you are, you don’t know if he’ll fit. But God you want to try. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” he grunts, shoving his jeans and boxers off. He straightens you on the lounger, making room for himself as he climbs over you. He’s golden and glistening in the sun, slick with sweat and your arousal shimmering on his chin. 

The sight of his broad, hard form over you almost makes you cum again. 

He catches you gawking and you could swear he’s trying to fight off a smug smile, but his lips only twitch in amusement instead. Taking his cock in hand, he drags the tip through your folds, making you shudder and reach for his hips, holding him as he hovers, nails pressing a little harder than you intend. He doesn’t seem to mind.

As his tip catches your entrance, he groans, “Nice and wet for me, aren’t you?”

You can only nod, speech evading you as he slowly, cautiously sinks into you. The stretch is everything. You’re so full, so wet, and inconsolable, it makes you mewl in delight. 

“What’s that, darlin’?”

”So — so big. Your cock is so big, Joel,” you sigh, shifting your hips, taking him deeper. The burn is exquisite, but you need him to move. Need him to fuck you into another reality. ”Please..”

”Such pretty little manners,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly.

The first thrust is devastating. The second is mind numbing. And after the third, you’re holding onto him for dear life. It doesn’t take long for you to melt underneath him, arching your hips so he hits at just the right angle. 

“Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” he pants, leaning down to mutter profanities into your ear, nibbling and kissing your neck, “That husband doesn’t take care of you at all does he?”

”No, no, no, never,” you chant, every part of you ready to snap.

“Bet he hasn’t fucked you proper in years,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping together downright obscene. “That’s all you needed, huh, darlin’?”

“Uh huh,” you yelp, almost a broken sob leaving you as he drives into you, “Fuck me, Joel..”

“Nothin’ to worry about now, I’ll take real good care of you.”

You could cry from the relief of it. The way his hips slam into you, how deep he is, how attentive. Even at the strongest point in your marriage, it’s never been like this, and it’s ecstasy.

Pleasure pools low in your belly, his cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you so perfectly, the precipice of your orgasm is on you in an instant. Just as you’re about to cum, he stills, breath heaving, your walls trembling, clenching around him.

“Joel,” you whine, breathless and wanting.

“Not yet, baby,” he tells you, voice syrupy and thick. Pressing a kiss to your neck, then your lips, he sits up on his knees, takes you by the thighs and lifts your hips to grind against him. The position is utterly indecent, back arched, him holding your thighs for leverage while he begins snapping his hips against you. And it’s like he never stopped in the first place.

Your orgasm crashes into you, hands reaching for his wrists to hold on as he towers over you, giving you everything he’s got. The power of his thrusts knocks the breath out of you.

“Take it, baby, fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he grounds out, sweat slicking his muscled chest, dripping down his temple. “You got me so wound up, darlin’, prancin’ around looking sexy as sin. Now I’ve got you all to myself.”

“Don’t stop, please,” you keen, desperately grasping for air, your climax driving away all rational thought and composure. “It’s so good, please, don’t stop.”

“Gonna make me cum, sayin’ things like that.”

You think, then, that you’d be fine with it. Letting him cum inside you, or paint your oiled up body with his seed. Mark you, stake his claim on you. He can cum wherever he wants, you decide, as long as he promises to do it again.

“Ain’t gonna let that piece of shit husband touch you again,” he declares, pinning you with a solid, steady stare, “You’re mine now, darlin’.”

You tell him, then, “Cum inside me, Joel,” nearly sobbing as his powerful thrusts drive you toward another orgasm with blinding speed. His movements are precise and deliberate, his eyes going dark at your words.

You know he wants to do it, that he can’t stop himself even if he wanted to. Even if you weren’t begging for it.

“Yeah?” He huffs, hooking his arms a little higher around your thighs to gain better leverage. You shift your hips, cry out as his cock goes deeper, spearing into you so completely you never want him to leave.

You’re almost sobbing with the approach of another orgasm, one that will undo you and wreck you for the rest of your life. All you can do is nod and gasp and hold onto him as he fucks you deeper. Your neighbors are going to hate you.

“Shit, darlin’,” he grunts, the buck of his hips frantic as he chases his release. When your nails bite into his forearm, the tight coil of his control snaps like a cable and you feel warm ropes of cum fill you. A final orgasm paints stars across your vision, and you faintly hear a guttural moan leave him as you tighten around him once more. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you’re both spent, your muscles aching and fingers sore from how tightly you have them wound around his wrists.

He collapses on top of you in a heap, your bodies slippery with sweat and oil. His hot breath fans over your neck, the weight of him both grounding and comforting. The scruff of his beard prickles your skin as he peppers kisses along your chin, down the column of your throat.

”Ain’t gonna be able to finish those cabinets today,” he grunts.

A slow smile spreads across your lips, ”Why not?”

He lifts his head to gift you with a warm smile of his own, captivated, even after the way he’d fucked you. Surprised that he gives it so willingly now that you’ve had each other in the most physical and intimate manner possible.

”Wanna take you out. Dinner. Will you let me?”

His offer stuns you into silence. 

Yes, you’d practically begged for him to fuck you. Asked him to cum inside you. Told him you were as good as divorced. And yeah, you have every intention of having sex with him again.

But a date? That says something. It speaks volumes to his intentions. Which both frightens and thrills you.

Despite you throwing yourself at him for weeks on end and finally getting what you want, he wants more. And not just your body. 

Your hesitation draws his eyebrows down, “We don’t have to ––“

”I want to,” you answer quickly. But there’s still that lingering sense of doubt. Of trusting someone with yourself only to be stabbed in the back. Betrayed in the most visceral sense. You didn’t have sex with him because you wanted to move on from Jeremy right into another twisted, sickly excuse for a relationship. You just needed attention. And Joel gave it.

He lifts himself off of you and pulls on his jeans, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna ––“

”Joel.”

”I’m too old to be playin’ games, darlin’. If I wasn’t clear before — I like you. More than I should. And I know you’re married, but that didn’t stop us, did it? So if you want this, I’m here. If not, no hard feelin’s.”

He’s half dressed now, jeans buttoned, belt still hanging loose, t-shirt hanging over his broad shoulder. His wide frame blocks the sun, allowing you to see him clearly. No man has ever been as direct and straightforward with his needs. Not like that. It’s… different. Refreshing. Almost unheard of.

You almost want to pull him back down and let him have his way with you again, but you’re a woman of control and poise. You can articulate your needs just as clearly as he has. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in seeing what manifests.

”Dinner would be lovely,” you begin, keeping your expression controlled, “When Jeremy gets back from whatever trip he’s on, I’m serving him the divorce papers.”

You can see the moment when your words sink in, the pleasant twitch of his lips, the way he leans over you and brushes his lips against yours. This kiss is tender and sweet in a way you haven’t experienced from your own husband in years. But it’s what he says next that turns your body into mush and your mind pliant and docile.

“Good girl.”

I apologize for the length of this

@isabellaboo2025 @milla-frenchy

[missadangel]

Oh lord, contractor Joel might actually be the end of me 😭 The grumpy silence, the rolled-up sleeves, the sweaty T-shirt, those big rough hands working on her house while she slowly loses every bit of common sense she owns… yeah, I understood her desperation completely.

And the sunscreen trick??? Girl, that was the least convincing performance in human history and I supported her every step of the way 😂 Joel immediately clocking that it was body oil but sitting down to rub it all over her anyway? “You told me to help myself to anything I liked”??? Sir, the cabinets can wait. The entire damn house can fall apart for all I care.

I loved how he knew exactly what she’d been doing the whole time too. All those tiny shorts, low-cut tops, and innocent little coffee invitations weren’t fooling that man for one second—he was just standing there silently fighting for his life. And once his restraint finally snapped? Good God almighty. The teasing, the dirty talk, making her tell him exactly what she needed, and calling her a needy little thing… I folded like a cheap lawn chair.

But then this man had to go and make it WORSE by asking her out afterward and being all direct and serious about actually liking her?? So he can renovate the house, ruin her on the pool lounger, communicate his intentions like a grown man, and call her a good girl? Jeremy never stood a chance, bless his useless little cheating heart. I need more contractor Joel immediately 😭

[time-for-my-weekly-spanking]

hello my love!! this is for your bday drabble 🖤

would you by chance write for dieter? (i’m currently obsessed with him and can’t get enough) - maybe subby!dieter? i’d love to see him beg and whine 🫠 maybe he gets off on a little humiliation.. i trust your beautiful mind to come up with something delicious.

and HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABYYYY 💕💕💕

Here we are babyyyy! First of all, thanks for this wonderful request, as a sub!Pedro boys enthusiast, I loved it! 😍 and thank you so much for taking part in my little birthday celebration, it means so much to me 🥹

I’ve never wrote Dieter before and I always found him a quite difficult character to grasp, but I loved the challenge and I really hope my version of him will make sense to you. When I started writing what came to me was a really soft, vulnerable and sober version of him and I just went with the flow lol This ended up being longer than I expected, I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days but words count keeps getting bigger despite my initial intentions to write little tiny fics 😂😂😂there’s not so much humiliation but he’s definitely a sub and he’s quite whiny and a little pathetic and reader is my per usual gentle type of dom 😌 I really hope you’ll end up liking them ♥️

So with no further ado, let me introduce you to:

Sober - Dieter Bravo x f!costar!reader

Rating: Explicit, MDNI

WC: 7.1k (😵‍💫)

Summary: After being sent to rehab and after reaching his newfound sobriety, Dieter is ready to work on a new project. When he meets you, he’s totally struck by your demeanor and your confidence. Little does he know, you’re going to make a sweet perfect sub out of him and you will give him a new and rediscovered joy of living.

Tags: sub!Dieter, vulnerable!Dieter and sober!Dieter, gentle dom!reader, coworkers to friends to lovers, Dieter is desperate for reader (yeah 🙂‍↕️), reader is an actress, she’s described having a little bush (I’m loving this so much, I think I’m gonna add this detail again and again for the foreseeable future hehe), she has hair but it’s not described in details, no other physical detail about her added besides being gorgeous, she has a little backstory, Dieter is uncut (😌😌😌), use of modesty garments (the ones actors use during sex scenes in case you were wondering), a little edging, oral (both f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, a splash of nipple play because otherwise it’s not my fic, a lot of begging, a lot of praising, Dieter moans like… A LOT in this (as he should 🙂‍↕️), orgasm control, squirting, a lot of cum and cum eating, a bit of rimming, use of pet names, two slaps, mention of drugs and alcohol usage, mention of rehab, Dieter calls his sponsor on the phone at some point, mention of therapy, depressive thoughts, no mention of age but to me they’re both in their 30s (feel free to imagine some legal age gap if you prefer, though).

A/N: I’m a little nervous to share this, I’ve never wrote Dieter before so please be kind 🥺, thank you very much! Thank you again Ess for sending me this request, I love you! ♥️ and thank you @aurorawritestoescape for being my beta and for always being so kind and supportive, you’re a literal angel and I love you to bits 🥰 English is not my first language, any mistake is still on me! Thanks for reading, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

dividers by @/diviniyae

Drabble for V’s Birthday | Masterlist

The night Dieter won an Oscar he thought he would have felt better than any other day in his life. People were clapping hard when he climbed up the stage, he looked in front of him seeing all the major ceo in the industry sat down to praise him and his talent, a nice actress wrapped in some luxury fashion designer’s all glittery outfit handed him the little statue with a big smile on her face. The statuette was quite heavy in his hands and he felt like it was unreal. Truth was, nothing felt good enough to give him a rush of adrenaline anymore. He was becoming so insensitive to spotlight and fame and all the noise that came with that.

The moment he was finally alone, after a million interviews and photoshoots and hand shaking he felt loneliness more than anything else.

A drink would fix that. Maybe two. Maybe an entire bottle. But no, his old friend alcohol didn’t work. It just made him more miserable.

He thought drugs would have worked better, so he called his pusher and grabbed some coke. He sniffed two lines in the back of his limo.

But no, that didn’t work either except for a brief moment.

He went to an after party, hooked up with some actress, great tits and ass, but he forgot her name as soon as he came in her pussy, her face smushed against the wall of a restroom stall.

She wrote her personal number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Dieter put that into trash as soon as she was out of the restroom.

He didn’t care anymore. Like, yeah, emptying his balls was fine, her pussy was mighty good and feeling her warmth restored him a little bit but nothing more than that.

He was still high and drunk, but that only made him feel more numb and absent, as if his life was no longer his own but he was observing it from the outside.

At that point he didn’t know what to do anymore.

Dieter went back home thinking he was forever broken.

His luxurious villa on the Hollywood hills in which he lived completely alone, 10 bedrooms and 8 bathrooms that he barely used unless he was throwing a party, made him feel even worse.

Of course, having money was good, but they weren’t a substitute for love. At the end of the day he was just another actor with an Oscar and no real connection in his life.

No wife, no kids, no real friends, the ones he had back in the days all moved on with their lives and their schedules never matched his to stay present in his life.

His mom and dad were far away, still living in his hometown. He asked them to move closer to him many times but they were stubborn like that and never accepted to leave the house where they spent all their adult life. And now they were too old to travel.

His assistant found him in bed the day after in a pathetic state, called his doctor no matter how much Dieter was arguing and made him an appointment.

“It’s time to stop,” she said “you have six months before starting a new project and you’re going to rehab”.

Dieter could do nothing but accept and in the back of his mind he was well aware about needing help, the fact that he barely felt anything about the most important thing that happened in his career was speaking volumes.

His assistant was actually the only person who gave a fuck about him and she was paid to do that.

What a miserable fucking life, he thought.

He rolled up in his comforter and looked at his Oscar on his nightstand. Even the statuette seemed to be making fun of him with a mocking smile.

So Dieter did went to rehab and it worked.

He was finally sober, not without great difficulty, after months of therapy and group meetings and withdrawal symptoms.

His assistant accompanied him to the set of his new project a month after he left rehab. He had continued seeing a therapist that month and felt he had truly improved.

While he was rereading the script in his trailer, he heard a knock on the door.

He shouted "Come in!" without getting up from the double bed he'd requested to rest in between takes. When you entered, Dieter looked up just enough to greet you.

"Hi. I'm the lead actress, I just wanted to introduce myself," you said, approaching the bed. Dieter looked up again.

You were beautiful. He'd seen and fucked so many beautiful women, but he was immediately struck by you. You had a proud demeanor, he didn't know how to explain it, but your presence in the room had ignited it with an electricity he'd rarely felt anywhere else. Back straight, intense gaze, a kind but not submissive smile, you exuded self-confidence and self-assurance from every pore. Dieter could have sworn he'd never met anyone like you. If you'd gotten the lead role, you'd certainly deserved it.

He got up from his bed to shake your hand, admiring your body. You looked fabulous in those jeans you were wearing, and your blouse hugged your breasts so nicely he immediately felt a pull in his lower belly. Your handshake was pretty secure no matter how small your hand was compared to his.

He said he was really glad to meet you and excited about the project and you gave him the nicest look and smile saying “let’s do our best work, alright? I’m feeling good about this movie, I think it’s going to be great.”

Dieter was even more glad that he finally got sober, finally feeling happy about something was an unmatched sensation. And you. He was pretty sure you could make the experience even more enjoyable.

You left to get ready for the scene and he repeated his lines over and over while waiting for his call to get his makeup done.

When Dieter had his first take with you, he felt nervous.

He did the best he could and you were very patient with him. He had to repeat some lines a couple of times because he was distracted by your presence. Standing in front of you while you two were trying to play a husband and a wife being in an argument was more difficult than he thought it would have been. Jeez, your eyes, your hair, your body, your voice. Everything about you was so seductive and beautiful. He was lucky to work with you.

The scene after was you yelling at him and giving him a slap in the face in the end. He was stunned by your level of professionalism, you played the part like you were born to do that.

Your talent and your dedication were clearly pouring out of your performance. And then the slap came. Dieter felt a rush of adrenaline he hadn’t felt in months. Your hand was little but the slap was effective enough to make his cheek burn.

He felt the tingling radiate across his skin, transforming from pain to heat until it became pleasurable. You apologized, admitting you hadn't meant to hit him hard, but he immediately reassured you. "The director said to make it a realistic slap, right? So don't apologize, it was perfect." As far as he was concerned, getting slapped by you wasn't bad at all.

On the contrary. When the director asked for a couple of more takes he gladly obliged.

Dieter hadn't felt anything like that in a long time. His therapist had reassured him that he'd start feeling strong emotions again with time, but he didn't think it would happen so quickly. Acting with you made him feel alive again. And he was greatly motivated to do a good job. For himself, but also for you, he didn't want you to think bad of him and he would do anything to prove to you that he was worth something.

In between takes Dieter was always around you, doing small talks, asking questions about your life, discussing the various scenes you had together. The more he talked to you, the more amazed he was. You told him about your theater experiences and how you dreamed of being an actress since you were a child. He learned about your career, directors you worked with and the roles you loved the most.

He also learned how you preferred your coffee and made sure to bring your caramel macchiato on set every morning. You mentioned once that you liked jelly beans when you were a kid and he brought you a whole giant pack to keep in your trailer for you to have something sweet in between takes.

You seemed like you were loving his attention but always kept a professional behavior so he wasn’t really sure about making a risky move.

But he adored talking to you so he stayed quiet and was content to be your friend. You were his first friend in a long time, and he didn't want to lose you.

At some point he confessed to you about his struggles with substance addiction and you were the most comprehensive person, you were kind without being pitiful and he appreciated that so much.

From that day on, you always kept an eye on him, making sure he was okay and wouldn’t want to relapse.

It wasn’t your responsibility to check on him but you did it anyway and Dieter appreciated that.

A great friendship was blooming between you two and as much as Dieter was hoping for something more he was glad about finally having found someone sweet and considerate like you to call his friend.

It came the day you were scheduled to have your big love scene and Dieter was really scared.

He should have kissed you that day and not only that. Of course, you both would have had modesty garments, and he was extremely grateful for that because he was seriously afraid he'd get an erection right in front you.

The intimacy coordinator had been very helpful and had provided him with an extremely secure pouch, which covered everything and was well padded in the front so you wouldn't feel a thing. Dieter's cock was quite big. Not huge, but still considerable, so she'd obviously taken every precaution to contain it.

He walked onto the set wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe, with nothing underneath but his modesty pouch.

He sat in his chair, trying to calm himself a little, taking deep breaths and looking around as the lighting technicians adjusted the lights and the set designers put the finishing touches on the bedroom. It was a nice room, enclosed by four cardboard walls that looked like real walls, a large bed in the center with bedside tables on either side, pretty white curtains on the windows, and a chest of drawers leaning against one wall. It looked like the real thing.

He couldn’t help but dream of a day when you would share a room with him, far away from cameras and all the fuzz.

You walked in in your powder pink robe, looking like a goddess. Your beautiful legs on display made him shift his body on his seat, and the v shape of the robe over your breasts revealing your cleavage left him breathless.

You greeted him, asking if he was ready for the scene and he babbled a yes, feeling like an idiot.

You giggled “I had plenty of those scenes in the past but every time it feels like the first one.”

You were absolutely right. But the main problem was that he never got to be so enamored with his costar before. And he never got to be sober and so clear minded like he was that day.

Dieter felt the need to drink something, deep down in his stomach, a little voice in his head that was tempting him, “just a sip wouldn’t hurt” playing again and again like an echo through his brain.

Dieter was now well aware that alcohol wasn’t the solution so he decided to call his sponsor instead.

Frank, a guy from rehab that was 20 years sober.

He excused himself and went to the restroom. Frank picked up immediately.

“Hey buddy, what’s up?”

“I’m in trouble, Frank”

“You want to drink? Why? Tell me everything.”

“Fuck, I’m on set and dude, you should see my costar, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and we’re about to play a sex scene and I’m so fucking nervous…” he whined

Frank chuckled “a gorgeous woman? That’s your problem?”

“Hey! Aren’t you supposed to help me?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m sorry mate, go on…”

“What if I get an boner and she feels it? Huh? Cause we’re friends now and that would ruin everything and fuck… she’ll think I’m some kind of creep.”

“Wow, you really care about her, don’t you? You made it clear a thousand times you never cared about what other people thought of you during therapy…”

“Yeah, that was before meeting her, dude, she’s the whole package, you know? She’s beautiful and talented and smart and I feel like a fucking loser.”

“Dude…breathe. Alcohol would only make it worse so don’t do that, okay? As for the boner you might get, you actors wear those thingies that prevent you from being exposed, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, modesty garments.”

“So no big deal! I mean dude, it’s normal, it could happen and I think she’s aware, you know. If you feel like it’s about to happen just think of me while I eat a burrito, you hated seeing that, didn’t you?”

“Ew. The most annoying thing I’ve ever experienced. Ew.”

Frank laughed, “Yeah, it will work. You’re going to be fine. Go make a great job and call me later okay?”

“Thanks, mate.”

Dieter was calmer. Everything was fine. He was going to act like a professional and nothing bad was going to happen.

He stepped out of the restroom and the moment he walked on set he saw you on the bed in only bra and your modesty pouch.

You were sitting there as the director gave you instructions.

His heart leaped into his throat again. Your bra hugged your breasts deliciously, and your skin, glistening from the makeup products they'd applied, looked soft and silky and made his mouth water.

Jesus, you really were something else.

He approached the bed and the director gave him instructions too, but Dieter couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was you, your scent now wafting to his nostrils, your gaze he could feel on him, your smile he could see out of the corner of his eye.

"Come on, damn it, be professional," he said to himself.

"She’s in charge of the game, okay? Is that clear? Dieter?" The director snapped his fingers in front of his face "Is that clear, buddy? Where are you at?"

“Oh no, of course, crystal clear,” he replied immediately, his voice cracking more than he intended. “She’s the one running the show.” “Exactly. Do you need a few more minutes?”

“No, I’m ready,” he replied, trying to sound confident.

"Okay, let's get started. Guys, the intimacy coordinator will be here for anything until we're done with the scene. Don't hesitate to ask."

He took off his robe, which an eager assistant placed on his chair, and lay down on the bed feeling awkward. You seemed calm and at ease despite what you'd said earlier, and he was acting like a kid with his first crush. When he looked at you, you winked and whispered, "Everything's going to be okay."

You stood up to take a position near the fake bedroom door, while he remained lying down as per script.

The scene was supposed to show him, after admitting his mistakes, submit to you, finally giving you the chance to explore what you wanted, understand your desires, and fulfill them. He was the husband who wanted to make amends and had to listen and carry out your orders. As soon as the director said "action," you approached the bed, swaying your hips on your sky-high stiletto heels.

Dieter swallowed, trying to concentrate on his lines.

“Are you ready?” you asked.

He nodded, and as expected, you leaned over and pinched him on the side, warning him, “I need you to say this clearly.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m more than ready, please,” he whined, more desperately than he intended for it to be.

He was already a mess, seeing you standing there, half naked, your body so fine he felt his hands itching to touch you.

“That’s good, honey,” you cooed, a pleased expression lighting up your face.

“Now you have to stay still, promise me?”

He said yes, and you climbed onto the bed to straddle him. Dieter had always thought he wasn’t submissive, nor the begging type, but with you, he couldn’t help it.

Maybe it was his newfound sobriety that made him feel vulnerable, no longer shielded by alcohol and drugs, or maybe it was the way he’d grown attached to you.

He felt like he had everything to lose.

Your weight on top of him only made him more agitated, your thighs wrapped around his waist, your breasts towering over him, your confident gaze studying his face, it was all too much. He stopped his hips from buckling just before ruining the scene. You were gorgeous, warm and sensual, your skin smelled of vanilla and something pleasantly floral, and everything around him disappeared.

The director, the assistant, the few crew members left to make any adjustments, the intimacy coordinator, even the camera, everything was gone, only you existed.

You ran a hand over Dieter’s chest, letting him feel your nails, slowly, lingering on his pectorals, then moving down to his belly, stopping just inches from his pouch. Your protection was equally effective; he couldn't see your pussy and shouldn't even have felt it, but he could have sworn he could feel the heat of it on him, and it was divine. You leaned down to kiss him, and Dieter's ears were ringing, his head light, his heart pounding in his chest like a bloody fist. Your soft lips on his, your hand gently cupping his face, Dieter knew it had to be fake, yet nothing had ever seemed so real.

“Good boy” you whispered, an inch away from his face.

The script called for you to kiss his neck. He felt your nose brush the soft skin beneath his ear, then your lips trailing delicate kisses, and he couldn't help but moan in the most pathetic way he'd ever let out. The vibration of your laughter on his skin gave him the final blow, and no matter how hard he tried, his body reacted regardless. He bucked his hips toward you, and his hands gripped your thighs.

"Stop!" the director ordered. "Hey buddy, calm down, okay? We'll do it again."

Dieter apologized to you immediately. Luckily, you didn't seem annoyed. You smiled at him and replied, "Don't worry, next time will be better."

But it didn't go better, on the contrary. He was increasingly agitated, confused, he couldn't remember his lines, having you so close to him made him sweat and stammer, his cock swelling and pulsing under the soft padded material, his worst nightmare coming to reality. He tried to think about Frank and his burrito but it didn’t work at all. It was a mess. Dieter was mortified.

You barely made it to the point where you had to unhook your bra before the director called a break. You stood up, trying to reassure him, but Dieter barely heard what you were saying. You got dressed, returning to your trailer, while he was pulled aside by the director.

“Listen, buddy, we can't waste any more time. Try to cooperate, okay? Now go have lunch and calm down. When you get back here, I want to see a flawless scene,” he ordered sternly.

He apologized profusely before putting his robe back on and sadly walking off to his trailer.

While he was absentmindedly nibbling on a salad he didn't want, he heard a knock. He got up to open the door and saw you, still dressed only in your robe. He invited you in, certain you'd give him a tirade about how he was ruining everyone's work. You both sit on the couch in the kitchen/living room in his trailer. He was looking at his feet, feeling like an idiot.

"Hey..." you said softly to get his attention. He looked up and saw that you weren't angry, but rather worried.

"Don't worry, okay, it's not easy. I just want you to trust me." Your voice was so calm and reassuring that Dieter couldn't help but think what an incredible woman you were.

He was so sorry that you thought he didn't trust you.

“It’s not that…” he forced himself to say, “it’s…that you’re too beautiful. And you’re making me nervous and I feel like a complete idiot because we’re just acting but…”

You leaned closer, placing a finger on his lips, silencing him. Your gaze held understanding and even a hint of satisfaction. “Shhh, enough. I know what you mean.”

After a few seconds of silence that seemed like an eternity to Dieter, you said, “Maybe we should practice.”

His heart leaped into his throat like a bullet and he could only stammer, “w-what?”

You smiled, twirling a strand of your hair on your finger. “Yeah, maybe we should…you know, get more comfortable with each other”

“Oh, sure, I’ll call the intimacy coordinator.”

You giggled, placing a hand on his knee.

“No need. In fact, I think it’s better if we do it alone.”

Your warm touch on his knee was driving him crazy, but he forced himself to answer. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I trust you, Dieter.”

He looked at you and your whole face was smiling, including your gentle gorgeous eyes. He felt like you were able to see through him, all his flaws and insecurities, the deepest part that remained hidden to the majority of people.

“What do you say? Wanna try?”

“Yes,” he quickly replied.

“Get on the bed,” you commanded, taking the lead like the scene required.

He moved immediately, laying on his comforter after taking off his terry cloth.

You climbed on the bed after taking off your robe, sitting on your shins right next to him.

“I know you’re nervous. I am, too. But this is going to be good, okay?”

He nodded, not being able to do anything else.

He prevented himself from squirming on the bed when your hand ran down his chest again, your fingertips slowly making their way over his pecs, so carefully it felt like you were memorizing every curve and every muscle.

“Liking it?” you asked.

“Yeah…,” he breathed “very much.”

“Good,” you smiled, your lips curving so delightfully he thought there wasn’t a smile that he loved seeing more than yours.

You leaned over him, kissing his neck, a trail of hot kisses on his pulse point, and then whispered against his skin,

“Do you feel comfortable with me straddling you?”

“Of course.” His skin felt hot and his cock beneath his pouch was getting hard. So hard the padded material started to feel tight around him, pressing his cock down uncomfortably. He endured the pain, swallowing and gritting his teeth while you climbed on top of him.

“You good?” You asked, feeling him tense underneath you.

“Yeah, it’s just… that fucking modesty garment,” he hissed “but it’s okay, I can deal with that” he admitted, almost hissing, ashamed that you could realize why it was happening.

“Wanna take that off?” You offered and he felt as if his heart had done a somersault in his chest.

Jesus, that was totally unexpected. He couldn’t even think straight at that point. All of that for the sake of your performance?

“Dieter?” You called him back from whatever place his mind was drifting.

“Jesus…” he muttered “you sure you want me to undress?”

You leaned over again, stopping yourself an inch from his lips, your clothed breasts pressed against his chest, and whispered “yeah…as long as you’re a good boy…you’ll be a good boy for me, Dieter?”

He was in a state he couldn’t even get closer to describing.

Your hot body pressing him down on the mattress, your soft warm skin brushing over his, your honeyed voice whispering that filthy delicious offer, your eyes now enlightened with something mischievous and lustful… was that even true? Maybe he was just having a wet dream and he was about to have the most miserable awakening.

But no, you were real and you were there, offering yourself to deal with his bare cock.

“I…uhm… maybe we shouldn’t…it’s not appropriate…,” he tried to protest one last time.

You cupped his face, your thumb running over his cheekbone “well… it is appropriate because I’d love that… and I’m pretty sure you want that too… am I wrong?”

Dieter gulped, his throat instantly dry, his whole body tensing at your admission.

Fuck.

“Well… yeah,” he murmured, almost ashamed of his own desire.

You smiled content, proud… “yeah, that’s what I thought, baby boy. Let me help you out of this evil thing.”

You moved just enough to reach the sides of his modesty garment, slowly sliding down his legs.

He was so hard underneath that his cock slapped against his stomach. Thick, leaking, the tip engorged and angry red and the veins along his shaft throbbing.

You tossed the garment on the floor without taking off your eyes from between his legs.

“You’re thick, huh,” you cooed “look at that, such a pretty cock.”

Dieter was running out of words, sweat beading on his forehead and damping his hair.

He used to be cocky, bold, almost insolent according to someone, especially under the influence.

He didn't know what had happened to that person, if any traces of them remained inside him.

In that moment, he realized how much he had changed, how his heart was finally exposed, and above all, how you had him in your grasp. You had wrapped him around your finger without him even realizing it. And there was no other place he’d rather be.

“Mmm, I’d like to make a few changes to the script, if you don’t mind…” you joked, licking your lower lip. “I’m feeling a little hungry…”

He immediately understood what you meant, even though he still had trouble believing it was real. All it took was a stammer of “no problem” for it to become more than real, though. Your hand wrapped confidently around his cock, and Dieter gasped through his teeth, desperately trying to contain the lust that shot through him like lightning.

“Hot… and heavy…,” you commented, starting to move your hand slowly along the length of the shaft, “and you’re uncut…delicious.”

His thin skin covered and uncovered his tip in sync with your movements. Dieter was mesmerized by the sight: your soft hand wrapped around his cock, your expression focused and desire burning in your gaze, your thighs wrapped around his knees in a soft grip, your breasts swaying slightly with the movements of your arm. It was the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

“I need to taste it… is that okay with you, baby?”

“Yes. Fuck.. yes, m-more than okay,” he babbled.

Your mouth slid gently over his cock, your tongue flat along the shaft, he felt your spit coating it before you pulled him off with a pop and started sucking gently on his tip.

Dieter’s eyes rolled back, hips bucking desperately. You slapped his hip scolding him “hey! I’ve said be a good boy. Stay still for me, baby.”

Dieter mouthed a sorry and tried with all his might to get back in his place, his cock twitching and desperate for more, a delicious pain radiating on his skin.

“Pushing your cock in my mouth like that will lead you nowhere, you heard me?” Your voice was firm and commanding and Dieter couldn’t do anything if not whining “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please”

“Yeah, you better be, don’t forget who’s in charge here, honey,” you smiled mischievously.

He was a mess already, just from your commanding tone and the brief suckling on his cock.

“Now let me take care of you…and you won’t cum until I say so, we clear?”

“Yes.”

You lowered your face again, holding him at the base with one hand and taking as much as you could of him in your mouth, adjusting your jaw to his thickness and breathing heavily through your nose.

Dieter was in heaven.

You alternated sucking on his tips with your tongue running along his shaft, fondling his bulging veins, he was violently throbbing between your lips but he stayed still as promised, biting on his lower lip to keep his cool. It was hard, though, actually one of the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Damn, you’re so perfect,” he moaned at some point and he felt your giggle right on his tip, the vibration of it sending shockwaves through his body.

“Mmm I know, baby, I can feel how you’re throbbing on my tongue, it’s so good… and all this mess you’ve made… look at that, you’re such a good boy for me.”

He was leaking profusely and you made sure to gather every drop, his tip glistening with your spit, angry red and swollen like crazy.

Dieter was on the edge, one more sucking would have been enough for him to cum. You sensed that and stopped right before he exploded.

“You made me so wet, baby…,” you purred, “wanna feel it?”

Dieter never nodded so fast in his life “Please… please, that’s all I need… fuck, please let me feel your pussy” he whined, his voice so pathetic and needy.

You took off your bra and Dieter stood at your bare tits for a good moment. They were round and firm, your nipples deliciously hard.

You lay down on the bed, commanding, "Take this thing off," nodding your head downward.

Dieter hooked his fingers around the sides of your modesty garment and pulled it down, holding his breath. He was so excited to see the most intimate part of you that his hands were shaking. He'd always thought that having sex drunk and high was the best, but only now did he realize how much he'd gained by staying sober. Being focused on you allowed him to read your body, to notice every little detail, to capture every breath and moan, and to store it in his mind like a treasure.

You absolutely deserved someone totally devoted to you and to your pleasure.

Your pussy appeared before his eyes in all its glory. He was mesmerized. Your folds were glistening with your juices, all pretty and puffy. Smiling, you spread your legs to give him a better view. Your clit was peeking out, swollen and needy, and a trickle of your juices slid down to the crack of your ass. He could also see your puckered hole from that position and the way your legs were raised and bent, and felt his mouth salivate.

“That’s gotta be the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, more to himself.

You chuckled, inviting him right after “show me what you got, big boy, make my pussy cry for you.”

Dieter lay down on the bed, between your legs. He kissed the back of your knee, then higher up, the top of your thigh, and continued in a slow succession of kisses halfway up. He bit your flesh, immediately licking to soothe it, and you moaned his name, closing your eyes and throwing your head back on the pillow. He moved up again, licking the crease where your thigh and hips met, the salty taste of your skin spreading over his tongue. He stayed there for a while, kissing and nibbling, purposely delaying the moment when he would sink his tongue into your warm, wet center. He wanted to feel you squirm beneath him, he wanted to test your every reaction. He looked up at your face and saw your eyes almost pleading with him, finally vulnerable and tender.

He moved to your mound, deliciously covered in a strip of carefully trimmed hair. He traced it with his tongue, stopping before he could go too far down and reach your clit. He kissed the sides, feeling your velvety skin against his lips. He finally moved down to your folds, licking greedily from one side to the other. He never took his gaze from your face, he saw you on the verge of begging him, your lower lip trembling and your eyes shining. He placed two fingers in a V-shape on your labia and licked a long lap along your slit, finally reaching your bundle of nerves.

He took his time with it, swirling his tongue, drawing tight circles with just the tip and long licks with his tongue flat.

You were moaning so hard it was like a symphony into his ears. You stammered, calling out God along with his name. He'd never really liked his name so much until he became famous and everyone started calling out to him, but hearing it from your lips made him seem sweeter than ever.

One of your hands gripped his hair, pushing his face deep into your pussy. "God, yes, Dieter, don't stop, yes… just like that.”

He gladly obliged, his nose buried into your folds hitting your clit while he teased your hole with his tongue, greedily swallowing your sweet nectar dripping all over his mustache, his beard and his chin.

Grinding on the sheets to seek relief, his cock swelling and pulsing for attention, he tried desperately not to cum because you hadn’t said that he could.

The moment he sucked your clit between his lips he sent you over the edge and his middle and ring fingers dipping into your wet hole did the rest. You came, squirting right in his face and Dieter didn’t move an inch, he drank straight from the source and licked your slit clean, guiding you through your orgasm, his hands anchored on your squirming thighs.

“Fuck,” you were wailing “FUCK, so good, oh my God YES.”

When you came down from your high you gently tugged at his hair asking for a kiss and Dieter smiled, leveraging on the bed to reach for your lips, your juices still all over his face. The kiss was deep and passionate, you gently nibbled on his lower lips and whispered in a hoarse voice “I love that I can taste myself on your lips” and Dieter felt his cock twitching again.

He wanted to be inside you so badly but he needed to follow your lead so he kept quiet and kissed you some more, still content that he made you cum so hard.

You took his hand and placed it on your hips, while your head rested in the crook of his neck and you put one leg between his to get closer.

Hugging you like that, your breasts pressing against his chest, your thigh rubbing against his cock, the warmth of your pussy on his skin, he soon got rock hard again.

“Someone wants more attention…” you purred right on his neck and he chuckled “I would never get tired.”

“Yeah? What do you want, my good boy?”

“I want… well, I would like to feel your perfect pussy again… with my cock.”

“Wanna fill me up, don’t you? Fill me to the brim and make me leak your cum in between my legs, is this what you want, baby?”

“Yes. Please,” he whined.

“Do that big boy, make me cum again with that pretty cock of yours.”

You lay on your side and he positioned himself behind you, your ass rubbing against his hard cock. You took his hands and placed them on your tits. He bent his knees to align himself with your pussy and slowly entered you, kneading your breasts with his hands, growling into your neck.

“Like this…all the way in, babe, I want to feel you in my stomach.”

You were soaking wet, your walls stretching deliciously to accommodate him, and it was an amazing feeling, being completely enveloped by you, your hot pussy swallowing him lustfully, your breasts filling his palms, your deep breaths and your voice encouraging him.

“Yeees, oh my Gosh, you’re so big…fuck,” you murmured and Dieter’s chest swelled with pride, he thought if heaven’s existed it must have felt like your pussy.

He kissed your shoulder’s blade, waiting for your command to move and when you finally did he started grinding his hips, first in circles, making sure to stimulate your whole warm dripping hole, his balls brushing on your ass cheeks. You wailed, hard and desperately and he took a faster pace, the sweet noises of your soaking wet cunt bouncing on the walls of his trailer.

“Oh shit, you’re gripping me so hard…,” he moaned.

“FUCK YES, it’s so good…SO GOOD…play with my tits, baby.”

He did, pinching and twisting gently, feeling your pretty little buttons hardening between his digits. It was so fucking good the only thing he could do was moan even harder on the soft skin of your neck.

Dieter left one alone to place two fingers on your clit to jerk it as he sank in and out of you, your moans praising him, your plump ass slamming against his groin in rhythm with his thrust.

He could feel your juices overflowing, creaming his fingers and cock, your cunt clamping down on him so hard when he reached that special spot inside you, he thought he was about to lose it.

“Fuck… I’m so close, please baby…,” he begged.

“Come, baby, burst into me…” you granted him “I want all of it… all of it down my hole… fucking come for me.”

The second he did your throw your head back on his shoulder, eyes shut and moaning so hard he couldn’t help but spraying a big load deep inside you, your cunt clenching around him, his length rubbing on your gummy walls.

It was insane, the most intense sensation he ever felt in his life and his cock didn’t stop, throbbing and twitching and shooting more long thick spurts inside of you.

He kept his fingers on your clit, jerking it off harder, until you came in a long strangled wail, your whole body hot and sweaty against his, quivering hard.

He held you close until your breath returned to normal, his cock still buried inside you, lazily kneading your breasts because he couldn’t get his hands off of you.

You turned around to face him, your make up was a mess, mascara running down your cheeks and your lipstick smeared, your hair was all tousled and sweaty but Dieter still thought you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Please, can I lick you clean?” he begged, and you nodded.

“You’re so needy. Baby…of course you can.” He lowered himself between your legs again.

He grabbed a handful of your ass and lifted you off the bed, placing your legs over his shoulders.

Holding your still-throbbing pussy open with two fingers, he watched his seed slide down your folds, dripping over your skin, all the way to your tight hole.

He couldn’t resist any longer, beginning to lick obligingly and hungrily, his flavor spreading across his tongue, mingling with yours.

You sighed loudly and stroked his hair.

“You’re incredible, you can’t get enough of me, huh?”

He grunted, moving lower, licking your puckered, exposed hole for him, feeling you squirming beneath his tongue.

You tugged at his hair, getting his attention back.

“Hey…you think you’ve earned my tight hole?” He looked up at you pleadingly, overwhelmed by his need for you. “Please?”

You giggled, ruffling his curls.

“Okay…” you conceded. “Go on…”

Dieter smiled, diving between your legs and licking gently, teasing your little hole with his tongue for a while, making you sigh and giggle, before moving back to your sweet pussy.

You were right, he couldn't get enough of you, and seeing you like that, naked on his bed, open and eager for him, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He stayed between your legs, licking, caressing your skin, enjoying the sight of your pussy soaked with his spit, until he felt you tense up and call him back to order.

"Hey, come back here...we don't have time for this right now..."

Dieter sighed bitterly, even though he knew it was true, your lunch break was ending and you would have to be back on set in a few minutes. He hugged you again and you kissed the tip of his nose and then his lips.

“The director probably didn’t expect for us to bond like this,” you joked and Dieter laughed softly.

“It was good, though, don’t you feel more relaxed now?”

“Definitely yes” he answered, searching for your lips again. You didn’t protest at him taking the initiative. On the contrary, you gladly accepted his tongue entering your mouth and licking all he could.

“Mmm… time to get back…,” you reminded him, as soon he detached himself from you.

Dieter grunted, getting up to collect his modesty garment to put it back on.

You did the same with yours, commenting, “It seems so stupid to wear those again now, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “But we have to.”

“Yeah… but I hope we’ll both wear something more comfortable and sexy tonight…” you said, as you tied the silky belt of your robe.

Dieter looked at you with a surprised eyebrow raise, and he felt such a strong warmth spread through his chest. You wanted to spend more time with him. And you wanted it soon.

“Oh. Sure. I’d like to take you to dinner, how does that sound?” he ventured.

“That would be perfect.”

He was happy, truly happy after such a long time.

“Dessert will be served in my room… how does that sound?”

“Perfect.” He replied, winking.

“Hurry up, the director is waiting…” you teased, pinching his ass. “I’m going ahead, the makeup artist will definitely want to kill me.”

You exited his trailer, leaving the door ajar. Dieter watched the light filter through the crack, dust dancing in the air, rays of sunlight scattering across the floor. And finally, he felt that each new day would be worth living.

[missadangel]

Oh wow, V, your first time writing Dieter and you absolutely nailed him! 😍I mean, you always write beautifully, so I don’t know why I’m surprised, but still—subby, whiny, vulnerable Dieter was everything I needed and more. Honestly, out of all the PPCU boys, Dieter has always felt like the one most destined to be a needy little sub, and you proved my point perfectly 😌 -moaning included haha-

The second she called him a good boy and this grown Oscar-winning man immediately started malfunctioning on set, I was GONE. The begging, the pathetic little apologies, him trying so hard to stay still and behave… you cooked him perfectly. And gentle dom reader being so confident and in control while still making him feel completely safe? GOD.

my fav part is:

“Well… yeah,” he murmured, almost ashamed of his own desire. You smiled content, proud… “yeah, that’s what I thought, baby boy. Let me help you out of this evil thing.”

OMAGAAA so hoott😮🥵 I LOVE HER!

You never miss, my dear. Whatever character you touch somehow turns into gold, and now I’m gonna need you to write Dieter again because I’m already starving 🤤

[broad-shouldrs]

Virtual Daydream || Joel Miller

a Better in My Head drabble this can be read standalone but feel free to go and read the original story here: masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader word count: 1,813 summary:textfic! you're away and a little tipsy. warnings: rating change from the main fic. 18+. minors DNI.

a/n: i thought i was done with these two but then @billionairecowgirl mentioned sexting and well...here we are as always the biggest of thank you's to my amazing beta @joelsgoodgirl. i wouldn't write/post half the shit i do without your support 💜

as a reminder the format key: Joel Reader

Wednesday, November 19

(6:09pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(6:14pm) I thought you said you’d be done by 6

(6:19pm) Done with the work part of the day but some of my old coworkers from the Detroit office wanted to get drinks at the hotel bar

(6:20pm) Will you call me when you get back to your room?  Missed the sound of your voice

(6:22pm) And miss you saying goodnight to me? Never 😍

(6:24pm) Favorite part of my day

----------------------------------------------

(9:09pm) Joel?

(9:11pm) Yes, sweetheart?

(9:12pm) Why haven't we had sex yet?

(9:12pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(9:13pm) (Outgoing call - no answer)

(9:14pm) Still at the bar

(9:14pm) Still? It’s past 9

(9:15pm) Drinks turned into dinner, dinner turned into dessert, dessert turned into more drinks

(9:16pm) You didn’t answer my question

(9:16pm) Not sure how to respond 

(9:17pm) Do you find me attractive?

(9:17pm) C’mon now. You know I do. 

(9:17pm) Then what is it?

(9:18pm) I just don’t want to mess this up 

(9:18pm) Joel…

(9:18pm) That’s not fair.  You know I’m a sucker for when you say my name.

(9:19pm) All I’m saying is that I want you to be comfortable I don’t want you to think that I’m pressuring you

(9:19pm) If anything it feels like I’m the one pressuring you…

(9:20pm) I am very much a willing participant

(9:20pm) So, you do think about me like that?

(9:20pm) All the time

(9:21pm) Do you…

(9:21pm) Do I what?

(9:23pm) I’m not sure how crude i’m allowed to be with you

(9:24pm) It’s gonna take a lot to send me running

(9:25pm) Do you think about me when you touch yourself?

(9:25pm) Baby…

(9:26pm) Just a simple yes or no

(9:26pm) I’m only human

(9:28pm) Tell me what you think about

(9:28pm) Cmon now. You’re out with your friends

(9:28pm) I’m being a bad friend and ignoring them

(9:29pm) Just call me when you get back to the room and we can continue this conversation

(9:29pm) Or you can just tell me now

(9:30pm) Here, let's make a deal You tell me what you think about And I'll call you later on and tell you what I think about

(9:31pm) I don’t know what to say

(9:31pm) Just tell me what you think about 

(9:32pm) I’ll try

----------------------------------------------

(9:36pm) There’s a lot of typing going on over there

(9:37pm) Do you want me to tell you or not?

(9:37pm) Sorry, please continue

(9:38pm) Gotta restart now

(9:38pm) You didn’t just copy what you had written?

(9:39pm) I don’t know how to do that

(9:39pm) 🤐

(9:39pm) Mhm. Keep laughing

(9:39pm) You make it too easy

(9:40pm) You know I ain’t good at texting

(9:40pm) No? Because I’m pretty sure that’s how you scored your girlfriend

(9:41pm) You like my dopey way of texting?

(9:41pm) Yes Now, please go back to your super long text that you were sending me.

(9:42pm) It’s nothing crazy.  I just think about kissing you all over. 

(9:42pm) It took you that long to type that?

(9:43pm) I aint done

(9:43pm) No?

(9:43pm) No Just not good at this

(9:44pm) At sexting?

(9:44pm) Is that what they call this?

(9:44pm) Yes, old man

(9:45pm) Not that old

(9:45pm) Would it help if I said I'll be on my best behavior?

(9:45pm) Probably not

(9:46pm) I promise

(9:47pm) Now, can you just try? For me? 🥺

(9:48pm) Why can’t we just wait and have sex like normal people?

(9:48pm) Because i’m thinking about you now…when i’m a million miles away

(9:50pm) Can you…help?

(9:50pm) Stop thinking too hard You’re stuck in your head

(9:51pm) It doesn’t have to be perfect Just tell me When you’re alone and you have your hand wrapped around yourself, what do you think about?

(9:52pm)  You under me

(9:52pm) Okay, good.  And are there clothes involved?

(9:53pm) Not usually

(9:53pm) And what are you doing?

(9:54pm) Kissing your neck and making you arch your back like you do when we make out. 

(9:54pm) You like that?

(9:54pm) I love it

(9:55pm) Good to know.

(9:55pm) What's next?

(9:56pm) I’d slide my leg between yours

(9:56pm) Good (9:57pm) and feel how turned on you were (9:57pm) and you’d feel how…hard I was for you

(9:58pm) Joel…

(9:58pm) Nuh-uh. You asked, and I’m answering

(9:58pm) So keep going

(9:59pm) I’d kiss you until you’re blue in the face.  Always wanna be kissing you.

(9:59pm) Maybe tease you a little

(9:59pm) Tease me how?

(10:00pm) Baby…

(10:00pm) I thought you were answering.

(10:01pm) I don’t know what words to use

(10:01pm) You can say the word cock, Joel. It’s not gonna kill you. and it’s certainly not gonna scare me off.

(10:02pm) Jesus Christ

(10:02pm) Is nowhere near this conversation. Now please continue

(10:02pm) Bossy

(10:03pm) Stop stalling

(10:03pm) Fine

(10:04pm) I’d tease you with my….cock

(10:04pm) Let you rub against it a little bit, get it nice and…wet

(10:05pm) The dramatic pauses are unnecessary but continue

(10:05pm) Baby, I'm trying here.

(10:06pm) You said you were gonna be on your best behavior

(10:06pm) You’re right. I’m sorry. 

(10:06pm) You gonna make fun of me again?

(10:06pm) No

(10:07pm) Good

(10:07pm) girl

(10:08pm) I’m sorry?

(10:08pm) Good girl…

(10:09pm) You like being called that?

(10:09pm) I don't know, but i imagined you saying it and my heart went from 1 to 100 real fast

(10:10pm) I’d kill to have you here with me right now 

(10:10pm) One more day and then I’m back in Texas

(10:10pm) Will you keep going for me, Joel?

(10:11pm) I’m doing ok?

(10:11pm) More than.

(10:12pm) You were saying that you’d tease me with your cock get it nice and wet

(10:13pm) Jesus, yeah Or maybe use my hand

(10:14pm) Let my thumb figure out how sensitive you are

(10:14pm) Start working two fingers inside you

(10:14pm) Maybe this wasn’t a good idea

(10:15pm) Shit, I’m sorry.  I knew I was bad at this

(10:15pm) NO.  God no. The opposite

(10:15pm) I’m getting a little too worked up 

(10:15pm) Oh.

(10:16pm) Do you want me to stop?

(10:16pm) Fuck, Joel

(10:17pm) Bet you’d sound real pretty saying that in my ear

(10:18pm) I’m blushing I’m beet red and blushing

(10:18pm) Is that it?

(10:19pm) What do you mean?

(10:19pm) Are you wet? Thinking about me touching you?

(10:19pm) JOEL

(10:20pm) How did you go from ‘I don't know if I’m good at this’ to….THAT in five minutes

(10:20pm) It’s a real ego boost to hear your girl getting worked up over you

(10:20pm) Touche

(10:21pm) Are you going to answer my question?

(10:22pm) Soaked, Joel. My panties are soaked and I am in public with my colleagues

(10:22pm) Good

(10:23pm) So, two fingers inside you, my thumb on your clit

(10:23pm) Do I need more than two? 

(10:23pm) Subtle

(10:23pm) It’s a legitimate question

(10:24pm) You’re fishing

(10:24pm) I’m not

(10:24pm) All you have to do is ask

(10:24pm) Is that not what I’m doing?

(10:25pm) Just ask the question you actually want to ask

(10:25pm) How is this somehow worse?

(10:26pm) Worse than telling me your panties are soaked?

(10:26pm) I’ve released a monster…

(10:26pm) I would make a pun but it would be in poor taste

(10:27pm) Joel, I swear to god

(10:27pm) I’m sorry. You got me feeling like I’m 16 all over again

(10:27pm) Apparently.  Jesus.

(10:28pm) It would probably be in your best interest to go up to three fingers

(10:28pm) I’m dizzy

(10:28pm) Baby, you okay?

(10:29pm) Keep talking, you asshole (10:29pm) Baby? What did I do?

(10:29pm) Joel, please

(10:30pm) Are you mad at me?

(10:30pm) No. Please keep talking.

(10:30pm) Oh. 

(10:31pm) Three fingers. You said I needed three.

(10:31pm) Yeah, baby. Three fingers inside you.

(10:31pm) I’d let you feel the stretch. Work you open slow

(10:32pm) Could you come from just my fingers?

(10:32pm) yes

(10:32pm) That was fast

(10:33pm) Yes, Joel. I would come from your fingers. Please keep going

(10:33pm) Baby, are you sure you’re okay?

(10:34pm) I am in the restaurant bathroom getting myself off because I can’t just sit there and do nothing while you talk such filth to me and now you’re going to be insufferable about it but i don’t care.

(10:34pm) I’m so close, Joel

(10:34pm) (Outgoing call)

“I cannot do this with you right now.”

“If anyone hears me…”

“You don’t have to say anything, baby. Just listen.”

(zipper opens)

“…are you?”

“Yeah”

“Fuck”

“After you come on my fingers, I’d still want to make love to you.”

“Do you think you can do that for me? Come again?”

“Yes”

“Good girl”

Your breath hitches and you shove the meaty part of your palm in your mouth to keep from moaning.

“I wanna go nice and slow. Feel your fingers dig into my back as you moan into my ear.”

“I’d tell you that you’re doing good. Real good.”

“I’d kiss you, but it wouldn’t be all sweet. Not then, not while i’m inside you.”

“…Joel”

“Shh, quiet, baby. Someone’s gonna hear”

“I don’t care. I’m so close”

“Just from listening to me talk?”

“You don’t get it. I’ve been worked up for weeks now. “

“and you’re so sweet in person.”

“So polite and proper and god, you literally asked if you could put your hand under my shirt I just–”

“I want you so bad”

“I want you too, baby”

“Let me make you come. How can I get you there?”

“Keep talking. Please, Joel. Just keep talking.”

“Okay, baby. Okay.”

“Fuck. I’m touching myself thinking about you.”

“Thinking about how you’d be so warm and tight around me.”

“How I’d lift one of your legs a little higher just so i could get in a little deeper”

“Oh god, Joel”

“Tell me, baby. Is that what you want?”

“You want me inside you? Want me to touch your clit while I’m fuckin’ you?”

“Yes–”

“I’m gonna come, baby.”

“Fuck—I’m so fucking close. Are you close?”

“I’m so close, Joel.”

“Come with me, baby.” 

“Come with me, please. Need to hear you come.”

“Joel–I–I–”

You press your palm tight against your mouth as the wave crashes over you. Your eyes squeeze shut and you’re forced to grab the railing for balance. You can hear the erratic sounds of his hand moving faster as he strokes his cock.

“Just like that, baby. Just like. You sound so good.”

Joel takes in a sharp inhale and then lets out a deep groan as he follows you, his orgasm hitting him hard, making his eyes roll back.

Your whole body shakes as you fight to stay quiet, breath coming in sharp, frantic bursts through your nose. Your thighs press together tightly and your knuckles turn white from where they still grip the railing.

A few moments pass.

“So…how’d I do?”

“The day I get back, I'm not letting you leave the bed.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

tag list: @pedrofan, @cloudguide, @k-d--h, @moel-jiller, @slytherdina, @mxkhxx, @inkandstardusts, @tangledupblog, @ppascalrain, @allie0902, @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack, @justanothergirlfromeurope, @peepawmiller, @la-vie-est-une-fleur29, @sighofthetimez, @clever-dragon, @twilightvelour, @wander-erer5, @joelmillersbabygirll, @secondhand-clothing

[missadangel]

Ohhh this was so different, original, and insanely hot—I loved every second of it! I only just discovered your blog and now I’m genuinely so happy I did because getting introduced to your fics feels like finding a whole new little treasure chest of delicious chaos. I’m already excited to read more of your work! 💋

[queenofslowburn]

Under his boot - Part 1

Summary: What's worse than being captured by raiders in the apocalypse? Being captured by raiders in the apocalypse whose leader is Joel Miller and from whome you had just tried to run away from. Luckily Joel's got some ideas on how to make you... more compliant.

A/N: Read the prologue first. This started as a drabble, a small one-shot with the idea of Joel pinning you down with his boot. Who could have known, we all dig dark!joel so much, right? But here we are. Be warned, this is dark and non-conish. So as the tumblr kids say: DDDNE

Warnings: implicated noncon/dubcon, dark!joel, raider!joel, reader is held captive, mind games / manipulation, corruption kink, knife play at some point, fingering, a lot of pet names... the smut takes a while to build, but we will get there, part by part...

wc: 8.3k

"Under his boot"-Masterpost

My Pedro-Character-Masterlist

The sounds you made barely felt like they belonged to you. Somewhere between screams and sobs, dragged raw from your throat as Joel carried you through the camp like you weighed nothing at all. It tore itself out of you over and over again, splintering into breathless pleas, into broken attempts at words that never quite made it all the way out.

The position - thrown over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head - turned the world into something warped and dizzying. Tears didn’t fall the way they should; they slid the wrong direction, into your hair, across your temples, mixing with the dirt and sweat already clinging to your skin. Breathing became work.

It didn’t matter though. Joel didn’t slow down.

If anything, he moved with the same steady pace he had before when catching you in the woods - unbothered, unaffected - as if the weight of you and the noise you made were nothing more than background to his thoughts.

Shapes shifted around you as he passed through the settlement - figures pausing in their work, glancing up at the commotion. You caught glimpses of them in fragments.

But no one stepped in.

No one said a word.

They watched.

And then they looked away.

“Joel - Joel, listen -” Your voice cracked hard enough to hurt, the words tumbling over each other in your rush to get them out. You twisted against him as you tried to catch his attention, tried to make him hear you. “I won’t - I won’t do it again, I swear, I’ll behave, I’ll -”

Your breath hitched, then broke.

“Just tell me what you want me to do,” you forced out, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “I’ll do it. Anything. I’ll stay, I’ll work, I won’t try to run again - just -”

His hand tightened where it held you in place.

The rest of your plea dissolved into a choking inhale as he mounted the small set of steps to his cabin, his boot coming up hard against the door. The wood gave with a dull crack, swinging inward before slamming shut again behind you just as fast.

Inside, it suddenly felt too still.

“Told you already,” he said, voice low and even as he crossed the room. “Got a task for you.”

Your stomach dropped.

You knew this place - at least, the parts of it he’d allowed you to see. The front room was bare, almost stripped down to the bones. A worn couch that had seen better years, a rough wooden desk littered with maps and scraps, a stool with peeling paint that flaked under the slightest touch.

You’d been here twice.

Once when they’d brought you in, dirt-streaked and shaking, shoved forward for him to look over like something newly acquired.

And once after that - when you’d carried food in, careful and quiet, pretending your eyes weren’t cataloguing every detail they could reach.

That had felt like control, then.

It felt like a joke now.

You barely had time to register the shift in direction before he pushed into the back room, the door creaking faintly as it opened and shut behind you. The scent of old wood and something worn into the bed that sat against the far wall.

“I don’t -” Your voice broke completely now, the words collapsing under the weight of everything pressing in on you. “Please -”

“As I said,” he cut in, and then his hands were on you - firm at your hips as he pulled you down from his shoulder.

For a fraction of a second, there was weightlessness, then he dropped you. The mattress dipped beneath you with a creak, old springs protesting as you landed awkwardly, breath knocked out of you in a soft, startled sound.

The moment you hit, instinct took over.

You scrambled back - clumsy, unbalanced with your hands still bound - until your spine met the cold metal of the bedframe. As far away from him as you could get without falling off entirely.

Joel just stood there at the foot of the bed, arms crossing over his broad chest as he watched you. That same expression sitting easy on his face - something dark and faintly amused that made your skin crawl.

“Joel,” you tried again, your pulse hammering so hard it blurred the edges of your vision. “You don’t mean - you can’t -”

“Oh, I can,” he said, almost casually. A small nod, like he was agreeing with something simple and obvious. “Can do just about whatever I want.” A slight shrug lifted one shoulder. “Perks of the job.”

Another sob forced its way out of you, your balance slipping as you tried to wipe at your face - only to remember too late that your hands were still tied. You caught yourself awkwardly, breath stuttering.

“Look at you,” he murmured, something almost like a chuckle threading through it as he shifted his weight, leaning back against the door. One boot crossed over the other. “Already fallin’ apart.” His gaze dragged over you. “Haven’t even touched you yet.”

The air in the room tightened.

You felt it in your throat, your chest, the way your lungs refused to take in a full breath no matter how hard you tried.

For a second, you almost did it - almost broke completely, let yourself collapse into it, into the fear and the pleading and the uselessness of it all.

And then - 

You stopped.

Because something in his face told you it wouldn’t matter.

Worse - it might even be to his liking.

So you swallowed it down and forced your breathing to slow, even as it shook. Forced your shoulders back just a fraction, your spine straightening against the frame behind you.

“Joel…” Your voice trembled anyway. You couldn’t stop that. “I’m - I’m sorry.” The words tasted like ash. “I won’t try again.” A beat. “I’ll do what you say.”

Silence stretched for half a second too long.

“I bet you are.” The grin that followed wasn’t kind. “Thing is, you’re only sorry ‘cause I caught you,” he added, pushing off the door at last.

You moved without thinking - one leg sliding down off the bed, your weight shifting like maybe you could - 

“Ah -”

That was all it took. Just that low, warning sound.

You froze.

“Let’s not start that again,” he said, almost gently, as he stepped closer. “Wouldn’t be smart.”

You scrambled back instantly, your movement jerky and uncoordinated as you retreated fully onto the mattress again, making yourself smaller without meaning to.

His hand closed around your wrists before you could react.

The force of it dragged you backward with a sharp jolt, your breath caught as your body followed whether you wanted it to or not. Your shoulder hit his thigh, your head knocking lightly against him as he pulled your arms up higher behind your back.

Pain flared - sharp, stretching too far, too fast - and a broken sound tore from your throat.

And then - 

It stopped.

The restraint was gone.

For a second, your brain didn’t catch up. Didn’t understand why the tension was gone - why your wrists weren’t held tight together anymore. You yanked your hands forward on instinct anyway, staring down at them as you flexed your fingers, rubbing at the reddened skin where the binding had been.

Your gaze snapped up and confusion flickered in your eyes - because he was still right there, still too close.

And then you saw the knife, resting easy in his hand like it belonged there.

Your breath hitched as he reached out, cold metal kissing skin, the blade catching lightly against your jaw and tilting your face up with a touch that was almost - almost - careful.

You went still.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said quietly. “This is only temporary.”

Swallowing felt like dragging glass down your throat, but you tried anyway, your body betraying you in the way it tensed, the way your pulse jumped beneath the edge of the blade.

“Turn around,” he then added. The knife traced a faint line beneath your chin before pulling away, the pressure gone but the threat lingering heavy in the air.

Do as I tell you or suffer the consequences.

You didn’t argue nor did you hesitate.

You shifted clumsily, moving onto your knees, turning until you faced him properly. Your hands came to rest in your lap - open, empty, visible as a silent surrender.

You hated how it felt. Hated the way it put you beneath him.

Joel stood over you, the knife flipping idly between his fingers now, his gaze slow as it moved over you. Taking you in with an amusement that made you sick to your stomach.

That same dark, quiet satisfaction settling into the lines of his face.

“See?” he murmured, satisfaction threading through the word as he took a step back. “You can listen. Just needed the right… motivation.”

The space he created should have felt like relief. Instead, it left you unsteady. Your lungs dragged in air too fast, too shallow, as if he’d taken all the oxygen with him when he moved.

For a fraction of a second, you thought - hoped - that maybe this was it. That he would stop here. That whatever line had been approaching would remain uncrossed.

Then - 

“Undress.”

The word didn’t land.

Not at first anyway.

It hung in the air between you, too flat, too casual, like you had misheard it - like your mind had twisted something else into something far worse.

You just stared at him and your vision blurred at the edges, tears gathering without your permission, your chest tightening around a breath that wouldn’t come.

“Joel…” It barely made it out, more whisper than anything else.

“Don’t ‘Joel’ me, sweetheart.” His voice stayed even, grounded in that authority he carried with him. “You heard me just fine.” A small tilt of his head toward the edge of the bed. “Up. Off. And get out of those clothes.”

Your body didn’t move.

It wasn’t defiance - not really. There was no strength behind it or resistance you could follow through on. It was more like a full-body refusal that locked every muscle in place and turned your limbs heavy and unresponsive.

You could only look at him and could only hope - irrationally, desperately - that he would see it. That he would read the fear sitting plain in your eyes and understand what he was asking of you.

That something in him would stop this.

It didn’t.

A tired breath left Joel instead, the faintest flicker of impatience crossing his face.

“Listen, darlin’,” he said, quieter now, but no less firm. “I don’t like repeatin’ myself.”

The knife flipped once in his hand with ease - until the blade pointed your way.

“So you got about a second,” he continued, almost conversational, “to get down here and start movin’… before I decide to help you along.”

Your pulse slammed hard against your ribs.

Still - nothing.

Your body refused you.

His shift was quick enough to steal the breath from your lungs before you could react. His hand closed around your arm, fingers digging in firm and unyielding as he yanked you forward off the bed.

Your feet hit the ground awkwardly, balance faltering as you stumbled, barely catching yourself before your knees gave out.

“No - please, I -”

Too late.

In one smooth motion, he turned you, your back colliding with his chest as he pulled you flush against him. The sudden contact knocked the air from your lungs again, your body going rigid as his arm slid across your upper chest, locking you in place.

Your hands came up instinctively, clawing at his forearm, your nails bit into his skin and the fabric of his flannel where it was rolled at the sleeves. But it didn’t even seem to reach him.

The panic that followed came instantly and broke through whatever control you’d tried to hold onto. Your breaths turned ragged, uneven, sobs spilling out without words as hysteria crept in at the edges.

And then - 

Cold metal pressed lightly against your throat again, making you freeze all over.

“There we go,” he murmured, his voice right against your ear. “That’s better.”

His cheek brushed your temple as he leaned in, his presence wrapping around you from behind.

“Easy,” he went on like he was talking you down from a atupidity. “Ain’t done nothin’ yet.” The contrast made it worse. That calm. That control. It make you shudder and break another whimper.

“Shhh…” The knife shifted, gliding from your throat down along the line of your collarbone. “Just gonna help you outta this,” he added absently, as the blade traced over the front of your tanktop, following the damp, dirt-streaked fabric. “Don’t want you catchin’ a cold now, do we?”

His beard brushed faintly against your skin. The scent of him pressed in inescapably.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you tried to block everything out. The proximity. The strength behind you. The way his chest rose and fell steady against your back, like none of this was anything out of the ordinary.

“Now,” he said, the edge in his voice returning just enough to cut through the haze, “be a good fuckin’ girl...” The knife lingered, hovering just enough to remind you it was there. “... and take it off, before I slip.”

Your grip on him faltered just a fraction. Your fingers, which had been digging into his arm hard enough to leave marks, loosened as something in you shifted - not giving in, not accepting, but… adjusting. Surviving.

At the same time, his hold eased just enough to allow movement.

Your hands trembled as you lowered them, your breath still coming in uneven pulls as you forced yourself to focus.

Slowly, carefully, you reached for the hem of your top.

Your fingers fumbled at first, uncoordinated, numb from the rush of everything flooding through you. It took effort - more than it should have - to get a proper hold.

The fabric dragged upward, catching briefly before sliding over your ribs, your chest, your shoulders - until it came free, leaving your skin exposed to the cold air of the room.

Your arms dropped again, the shirt clutched loosely in your hands.

And for a moment - 

Everything went very, very still.

“There we go.” His voice came low behind you, threaded with sick satisfaction. “Not so hard, was it?”

Your arms came up instinctively, folding across your chest and bra, a poor attempt at shielding yourself.

Joel didn’t seem to care. You felt the shift of him behind you, close enough that the heat of his body still lingered, and then the faint brush of his hand as he took the discarded top from your grip. It slipped from his fingers a moment later, landing somewhere on the floor with a soft, final sound.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Because you already knew what would follow.

“Those jeans next, darlin’,” he said, tone easy, like he was giving instructions for something mundane. “Don’t need more mud in my bed.”

Something in you wanted to hesitate again. To stall. To cling to what little control you had left. But that had already been taken from you the moment he decided it would be.

So this time, you didn’t fight it.

Your shoes came off first, kicked away clumsily, landing somewhere in front of you. Then your fingers found the button of your jeans - fumbling at first, shaking too much to get a proper grip.

The zipper followed, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet room, and you pushed the damp fabric down your legs, shifting awkwardly to step out of it. The cold hit harder without it, your thighs pressing together as if that could make any difference.

“I’ll be damned.” The low huff behind you made your stomach twist, followed by a soft whistle that carried just enough weight to make your skin crawl. “Didn’t figure you’d get cooperative this quick.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your gaze fixed somewhere ahead - anywhere but on him.

“Want me to fight back again?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, sharp-edged and brittle, your voice carrying more bite than you had any right to show.

You regretted it instantly.

A short laugh left him and he stepped closer again.

“Now that,” he murmured, “sounds like a fun way to spend the evenin’.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself as the tip of the knife found your back and dragged slowly along the line of your spine. 

“Wouldn’t mind puttin’ you back in your place just now,” he went on, voice dipping lower. “Wipe that attitude clean until there’s nothin’ left but sense.”

The blade shifted, catching lightly at the back of your bra, and your breath hitched, a sob threatening to break free before you forced it down.

You felt him lean in, the rough brush of his beard against the back of your head, his breath warm where it ghosted over your hair as he inhaled.

Your eyes squeezed shut tighter.

“But,” he added after a moment, and the word alone carried enough weight to still you, “that ain’t what this is.” The knife lifted and the pressure vanished. “This here’s about patience.” His voice softened for a torturous fraction. “Need you to understand somethin’. Not fear, it’s about realizin’ what your new life will be.”

Before you could make sense of it, he stepped away.

The loss of him - of the heat, the presence - felt just as abrupt as when he’d first created distance, leaving you standing there, exposed and unsteady.

And then his hands were on you again.

He pushed you forward without warning, and you stumbled, catching yourself only barely as your knees hit the mattress, your hands coming down hard against the worn fabric of the bed.

“Just -” The words tore out of you, sharp with something that felt dangerously close to anger now, rising where only panic had been before. “Just get it over with.”

You turned slightly, enough to look at him over your shoulder, your jaw tight, your eyes burning.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

His gaze moved over your body instead - taking in every detail you wished he wouldn’t see. The way your shoulders tensed, the way your body tried to fold in on itself despite your attempt to hold steady.

“Oh,” he clicked his tongue. “So impatient now? Don’t get me wrong, costin’ me a lot not to fuck you right away. But… When that time comes, you will want it just as much as I do, I promise.”

A faint tilt of his head.

“For now -”

His hand moved fast.

It caught your ankle before you could pull away, his grip locking around it with an ease that sent a jolt of panic straight through you.

For a split second, your mind went somewhere worse - anticipating him spreading your legs, forcing himself over you and pining you down with his body.

But that wasn’t what he did.

Instead, he pulled you - just enough to shift you closer to the foot of the bed, toward the iron frame.

And then you saw it.

The metal glint caught your eye too late.

“No -” The word barely formed before the cold bite of a handcuff closed around your ankle with a sharp, final click.

You jerked instinctively, pulling back, trying to wrench yourself free - but the chain held fast, short enough to keep you close, strong enough to make resistance pointless.

“No more runnin’, sweetheart.”

Your hands scrambled at it, fingers fumbling over the cuff, searching for anything that might give.

But it didn’t budge.

Your gaze snapped back up to him, panic surging all over again.

“What are you - what will you -”

“As I said.” He cut you off with a shrug. “Patience.” There was something unsettling in the way he said it. “You’ll see,” he added, giving you one last look over. “Soon you’ll beg for very different things.”

His expression shifted again, that same dark edge curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Gotta admit,” he went on, almost idly, “takes some patience on my end too. But I want you to understand,” he said as he reached the door, his back half-turned to you now. “Where you are. What this is.” His hand rested briefly on the frame. “This is your place now.” The door creaked open. “And you’ll learn how to be fuckin’ grateful for it.” Joel clicked his tongue, lips splitting into a darker grin. “And next time you’re beggin’, you’re beggin’ that I take you, ‘cause it’s the only thing that’ll make you feel safe.” 

Then he stepped out.

The door shut behind him with a dull, solid thud.

And just like that - 

He was gone.

For a second, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then it all rushed back in at once.

You lunged for the chain, pulling hard enough to rattle the frame, the metal biting against your skin as you tried - again and again - to force it loose.

“Joel?”

Your voice cracked, louder now, sharper.

Nothing.

“Joel!” The name tore out of you, echoing off the walls. “JOEL!”

Silence answered.

And no matter how hard you pulled - 

Nothing gave.

Time lost its edges somewhere along the way.

At first, you had tried to keep track of it - counting the hours by the thin sliver of light that crept through the small, covered window, marking the slow crawl from dim gray to daylight, then back again to night. You had clung to it like it mattered, like knowing how long you had been here could somehow anchor you to something real.

But it slipped.

Blurred.

Days bled into nights into something in between, until the difference stopped meaning anything at all. The rhythm of it dissolved, replaced by a dull endlessness that stretched on without shape or structure.

You barely moved anymore.

Your body had learned quickly what it could and couldn’t afford, and movement had become something costly. The chain at your ankle dictated most of it anyway - its short length forcing you into a small radius that had long since become your entire world. The bed beneath you had molded itself around that limitation, the only position that didn’t pull or strain or send a sharp reminder through your leg being the one you’d settled into days ago.

Curled. Small. Still.

You remembered being different.

At the beginning, there had been anger. Sharp and biting, it had cut through the fear like a drive that could keep you standing. You had argued - God, you had argued. Thrown words at the walls, at the silence, at him whenever he had stepped through that door. You had tried to bargain, to reason, to push back in whatever ways you could manage.

And you had listened, too.

Every sound outside that room had mattered. Voices drifting in from the camp, footsteps passing by, the occasional shift in routine that you tried to piece together into useful information.

An opening.

A mistake.

Anything.

Now - 

Now all of it felt far away. Like something that had belonged to someone else in another life.

Your body lay curled on its side, knees drawn in just enough to ease the pull on the cuff around your ankle, your arms tucked close in a weak attempt to preserve warmth that never quite came. The blanket beneath your fingers was rough, worn thin in places, but it was the only constant you had left.

Your tears had stopped days ago.

Not because you didn’t want to cry - God, you did - but because your body had simply… run out. There was nothing left to give. No moisture to spare, no energy to waste on something that didn’t change anything.

Everything felt dulled.

The hunger had faded first, gnawing and sharp until it wasn’t, until it slipped into the background like a distant.

The thirst stayed though.

Relentless and consuming it turned your throat dry, every swallow a small, painful effort that gave you nothing in return. Your lips felt cracked, your tongue heavy in your mouth, your head pounding with a dull, persistent ache that never quite lifted.

When had he last come in?

You couldn’t remember.

The thought drifted through your mind without finding anything solid to hold onto. His visits had become… brief and infrequent. A presence that came and went so quickly it almost felt imagined, if not for the small, undeniable traces he left behind.

A shift in the air. A sound at the door. Proof that you hadn’t been abandoned entirely.

Because that - somehow - felt worse.

The idea of being left here, alone, with nothing but the forest outside and whatever might wander through it… that still sent a flicker of panic through you, even now. Even in this dulled, distant state. Raiders. Strangers. Infected. You had nothing left to fight them with. No strength, no weapon, no chance.

At least here - at least with him - 

There was… something.

A boundary.

A cruel kind of safety.

Sometimes, in the long stretches of night, when the dark pressed in too close and the silence grew too loud, your thoughts drifted somewhere you didn’t want them to go. To places that whispered of an easier end.

But a stubborn force in you refused to let that thought settle. Refused to let go completely.

It kept you here, kept you breathing.

Even when every part of you felt like it was slipping further and further away.

You hovered there now, on the edge of sleep - not true rest, just the empty kind that came when your body had nothing left to give - when the sound reached you.

The click of the door.

You didn’t move or lift your head, didn’t even open your eyes. It took too much.

It was always him anyway.

The slow, measured sound of Joel’s boots crossing the room followed, each step unhurried. You could track him without looking, could feel the shift in the air as he moved closer, closer - 

Until the broad shadow fell over you.

“Not lookin’ too energetic, sweetheart.”

The words settled over you, carrying that same steady calm that had never once faltered. Not at the beginning. Not now.

You tried to swallow.

Your throat protested immediately, the motion dry and painful, leaving you with nothing but the faintest rasp when you attempted to answer. No words came. Only a weak shift of your fingers against the blanket, a reflex more than anything.

The mattress dipped beside you.

Your eyes fluttered open and for a second the world didn’t quite come into focus. Shapes blurred together, light and shadow bleeding into each other until they settled enough for you to see Joel’s broad figure.

And the glass in his hand.

Your entire focus snapped to it, your head lifting just slightly, barely enough to track the way the light caught against the surface.

Joel let out a quiet, humorless huff.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Figured as much.” His gaze flicked back to you, something unreadable sitting behind it. “You thirsty, darlin’?”

You managed the smallest nod and a faint, broken sound escaped your throat with it, barely there.

“Shh.” His voice softened even though it lacked real gentleness.

His hand came up, sliding beneath your head, lifting you with surprising care until you were more upright, your body swaying slightly with the movement.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “Stay with me.”

The glass hovered close enough now that you could almost feel the coolness of it against your skin. Your eyes tracked it, slipping in and out of focus, your entire body leaning toward it without thinking.

“You want some?” he asked, like it wasn’t already obvious.

You nodded again.

Weak.

Desperate.

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

The calm in his voice made something twist in your chest.

“P-please…” The word scraped out of you, so thinned out…

His mouth curved faintly.

“That’s my girl.” His hand shifted, cupping your cheek to steady you, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. “Open up for me.”

You did.

Instantly.

The moment the glass tipped and the water touched your lips, everything else disappeared. The restraint you’d been clinging to - what little of it remained - shattered under the sheer need of it. You drank greedily, swallowing too fast, too much, the liquid spilling at the corners of your mouth as you tried to take in as much as you could.

A small cough broke through, choking you briefly, forcing you to pull back just enough to catch your breath.

Joel let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing away the water that had run down your cheek.

“Easy,” he said. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

He gave you a moment, then brought the glass back.

“That better?” he asked, watching you as you drank again, slower this time, your body still trembling slightly with the effort.

You nodded faintly against his hand.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Thought so.”

When the glass finally emptied, he set it aside, his hand still steady at your jaw as he adjusted you, lifting you just a little more.

Your gaze followed the glass as far as it could.

Then snapped back to him.

“M-more…” The word came easier this time, but only just. “Please.”

It was instinct now. Need overriding everything else.

He watched you for a moment.

Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, like he was considering it.

His fingers tilted your chin slightly, guiding your face up toward him, while his other hand brushed through your hair, pushing the tangled strands back from your face. You knew how it must look - greasy, unkempt, clinging in uneven pieces - but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Not when the dryness in your throat screamed louder than anything else.

“Tell you what,” he went on, his tone shifting again into something almost casual. “We’ll get you a bit more.”

A pause.

“But first -” His thumb dragged lightly along your jaw. “We clean you up some.”

How you were supposed to manage that, you had no idea.

Holding your own weight upright for more than a few seconds already felt like too much, your head swimming with the effort, your body barely responding the way it should. The thought of moving - of doing anything beyond the small, careful shifts you’d limited yourself to - felt almost impossible.

Luckily, Joel didn’t leave it to you.

His hands steadied you first, lowering you back against the mattress with a care that felt almost out of place after everything else. Then you felt him at your ankle - fingers brushing over the cold metal there - and a second later, the distinct click of it releasing.

For a moment, your mind didn’t catch up.

Didn’t process what that meant.

Because before you could, he was already moving again, one arm sliding beneath your knees, the other bracing your back as he lifted you up with ease.

Your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up, your head lolling against his chest as your arms curled in close, instinctively seeking stability.

You hated the way it felt. Because it was good somehow.

The steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek, the solid warmth of him holding you close - it pulled at something deep and desperate inside you, something that had been starved of contact, of anything resembling care.

You curled in without meaning to.

You didn’t need to see his face to know that he noticed it - the slight shift in his hold, the way his grip settled more comfortably around you, like he was exactly where he wanted to be.

“When was the last time you had a real bath, hm?”

His voice was close to thoughtful as he carried you out of the room, the place that had become your entire world fading behind you with each step he took.

The room he brought you to was small.

A bathroom that had long since lost whatever comfort it once held, but the sight of the tub - actual water filling it, faintly steaming in the low, flickering light of a worn out camping lamp - felt almost surreal.

Joel crouched slightly as he approached it, adjusting his hold on you.

“Gonna get you outta the rest of this, alright?”

The question wasn’t really one.

You both knew that.

Still - your head shifted faintly against his chest.

A weak nod.

“Yes.”

The word came easier now and with a quiet compliance.

He set you down on the edge of the tub, the cold porcelain biting into your skin as your body slumped forward slightly before you forced yourself upright again, your balance wavering but holding - for now.

Joel crouched in front of you but even like this, he felt larger than you by far.

“Gonna have you feelin’ brand new,” he murmured, his hand brushing slowly along your arm.

Your body reacted immediately. A small shift toward him before you could stop it. The need for contact overriding your better judgment for just a second too long.

It vanished though the moment his fingers moved higher, finding the clasp at your back, undoing it with practiced ease before sliding the straps of your bra from you.

Your shoulders pulled inward automatically, a weak attempt at covering yourself that you didn’t have the strength to fully follow through on.

“Now, now,” he muttered amused. “No need for that. Nothin’ I haven’t seen somewhere already.”

His grin wasn’t kind.

“Now help me out here.”

His hand moved lower, fingers grazing your side before hooking lightly at the edge of your panties, tugging just enough to guide you.

And again - 

You followed.

Your body shifting with his touch, hips lifting just slightly as he pulled the fabric down, over your skin, over your thighs, your knees - until it caught briefly at your ankles.

He took his time then.

Lifting one foot free.

Then the other.

His fingers brushing lightly over your skin in a way that lingered just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re doin’ real good,” he praised and it washed over you. “See? Ain’t so hard.”

You nodded again in automation. You weren’t even sure what you were agreeing to anymore - only that going along with it seemed to make things… easier.

“C’mon.” His hands guided you gently, lifting your legs over the edge of the tub and lowering you into the water.

The warmth hit instantly.

A shock at first - then relief.

Your body sank into it and tension unraveled in a way you hadn’t realized it could, every muscle loosening as the heat seeped in, easing the stiffness, the ache, the constant strain you had been carrying for days. The water bit only at the skin where the cuffs had scraped over the past few days.

“There you go,” he murmured, watching you as you settled, his voice carrying that same quiet approval. “That better?”

You nodded again, slower this time.

His hand hovered in the water near you - not touching, but close enough that you were aware of it.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “Figured. C’mon,” he added after a moment. “Lean back.”

His hand slid beneath your neck, supporting you as he guided you down, your head tilting back into his palm as your hair sank beneath the surface. The water closed around you and muffled everything for a bit.

His other hand moved then, scooping water, letting it run slowly over your scalp, careful and controlled, keeping it from your eyes.

You let them close.

Let yourself drift in it.

For a moment, it felt like actual safety. Like care or something you could almost trust.

That was because you didn’t see the way his gaze shifted.

Didn’t catch the way it moved over your naked body - taking in every detail with a quiet intensity that bordered on predatory.

Instead, you only felt his hand again, moving from your hair to your arm, fingers tracing slowly along your skin.

Up.

Down.

Your breath caught faintly, your body tensing just a fraction before it eased again, caught between instinct and the overwhelming relief of the warmth around you.

His hand moved further.

Your side this time, following the curve there, slow and unhurried.

Your eyes only snapped open when his fingers suddenly found your nipple, softly tweezing it as if testing.

“J-Joel…” You searched his eyes but he only looked at you with the same unraveling calm. His fingers retreated slightly, the pressure easing as if nothing had happened, as if it had meant nothing at all.

“Easy,” he said, that same quiet tone slipping back into place. “Just helpin’ you out.”

Your pulse picked up.

But you didn’t pull away.

Instead, you let your head fall back into his hand again, your body sinking deeper into the water, your mind too tired, too worn down to hold onto a sane reaction.

“See?” Joel’s voice dropped low next to you. “Whole lot better when you just let go, darlin’.”

The words drifted over you, wrapping around the warmth of the water, around the heaviness in your limbs that made it easier to sink into it. His touch followed soon after, returning without hesitation nor rush. His fingers brushed along your collarbone, traced the line of your neck before moving over your shoulder like he had all the time in the world.

The path of his hand as it cupped your breast, slid further, over the softened curve of your stomach beneath the water. A faint, involuntary flinch slipped through you when the touch tickled just slightly, your breath catching on it.

A low chuckle answered it.

“That feelin’ alright?” he murmured, close enough that you could feel the vibration of it through the water. “Me takin’ care of you?”

Your head tilted back just slightly in his hold.

You nodded.

Because somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the haze of everything you had been through, there was a pull - a need - that reached for exactly this. For steadiness. For something that felt like being held together instead of pulled apart.

Joel’s voice shifted again, something deeper threading through it now.

“Want me to take real good care of ya?”

There was something in it.

An edge you should have caught.

But your mind… lagged. Sluggish, dulled by days of deprivation, by the overwhelming relief of warmth and water and touch that didn’t hurt.

So you nodded again.

“Yes, Joel.”

Your eyes had already slipped closed again, your body settling further into the water, into him - so you didn’t see the change in his expression. Didn’t see the way a darkness settled behind his gaze, paired with that faint, unsettling curve of his mouth.

His hand moved further from your stomach until he dipped between your legs, cupping your mound. He kept still then, letting you feel the warmth of his hand in contrast to the warmth of the water. It blurred together, your body too slow to react the way your mind tried to. There was a disconnect there, you should scream, object, push away. 

Instead your hips shifted against him - just slightly, barely there - but enough for him to notice.

“Look at you,” Joel murmured, shifting beside the tub as he sat at the edge, his focus fully on you. “Real pretty like this.”

His voice dropped lower.

“Soft… open…”

His middle finger traced lazily along your slit and your mouth opened without meaning to, a faint, unsteady breath slipping free.

“...vulnerable.”

He shifted closer as he applied more pressure with his finger, parting you and sliding once up and down before giving your clit a small, testing flick. There was a subtle increase in pressure and your body answered before your mind could catch up.

Joel made a low, almost soothing sound, meant to calm, to steady, as if he could feel that split inside you.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Ain’t nothin’ to fight here.” His touch slowed, drawing rhythmic circles around your sensitive spot. “That’s what you needed?” he went on. “Someone takin’ proper care of you?”

Part of you recoiled.

The contradiction sat heavy in your chest, tightening your breath, even as your hand moved on its own accord, finding his arm beneath the water. Your fingers curled there, seeking something to hold onto as the surface shifted in soft ripples around you, each small movement of his hand sending them outward in quiet, overlapping waves.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured and the approval in his voice was coaxing. “Sweet girl… I got ya.”

His finger pressed at your entrance, and when it nudged at you more firmly, your body reacted instantly. A sharp inhale broke from you, uncontained, your back arching just slightly before the strength left you again, leaving only that trembling, uncertain tension behind.

“Shhh… shh…” he soothed, the sound close to your ear, his hand at your neck tightening just enough to steady you when you wavered, his thumb brushing slow, grounding strokes along the sensitive line there. “Easy now. Just relax.”

It shouldn’t have worked.

And yet -

Somehow, it did.

The tension softened at the edges as you let out a long, shaky breath. Your body followed it, sinking just a fraction deeper into the warmth, into his hold.

He didn’t hesitate.

The moment you gave him that inch, he took it.

His finger moved and pressed in, and the sensation made you jolt weakly, a broken sound catching in your throat as your grip on his arm tightened without strength behind it.

“There we go,” he smiled, satisfaction threading through the words. “That’s it, baby girl… gonna do you some good.”

His movements stayed steady, controlled in a way that gave you no choice but to adjust and to follow along, your body slowly giving way to the rhythm he set with his finger pumping in and out of you even though it felt too much already.

Your eyes stayed shut though.

Like that alone could block it out, could distance you from the reality of Joel fingerfucking you in a state of haze and hallucination.

Because if you had opened them - if you had forced yourself to look - you would have seen it. The way his gaze lingered on you, tracking every reaction you couldn’t hide. The slight shifts in your expression, the way your lips parted without sound, the way your brows pulled together when he hit deeper than before, burying his finger to the last knuckle.

You would have seen how closely he watched.

How much he noticed.

And you would have caught the way something darker settled into his expression. The quiet satisfaction. The intent behind it. Maybe even how his body responded in turn, the bulge in his jeans growing.

But you didn’t.

You stayed in the dark.

And in that darkness, everything blurred together - the warmth of the water, the weight of his touch, the exhaustion that dulled your thoughts and softened your edges until all that remained was sensation.

Because all there was with Joel was darkness, sweet, coating, everlasting.

His movements shifted - firmer now, more insistent - though they never lost that same controlled rhythm. It pulled small sounds from you before you could stop them, caught somewhere between resistance and a plea for more.

“What’s that, sweetie?” Joel’s voice carried that low, knowing edge again. “You need a little more?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t give you the space to form one. Instead, he added his index finger, splitting you further open and giving you little to no time to adjust as his palm pressed against your clit.

A broken sound slipped out of you and your body betrayed you once more - leaning into him, seeking the steadiness of his arm, your hips shifting just enough to meet the motion rather than escape it.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh at that.

“So eager, darlin’,” he smirked. “Can’t wait to get that sweet release, do you?”

The water moved around you in uneven ripples, echoing every subtle shift, every reaction you couldn’t fully control. Your legs tried to draw in, instinctively, but his arm kept you where he wanted you - open and surrendered.

His fingers pushed harder and it forced another breath from you - sharper this time, breaking unevenly as your head dipped slightly, the water brushing higher along your skin.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he muttered, though there was no real softness in it - only control. “Want me to give it to you, sweetheart?”

Your body tried to keep up, tried to ground itself, but everything felt blurred - too much and not enough all at once. The warmth, the exhaustion, the constant pull between pushing away and leaning in - it tangled together until it was impossible to separate one from the other.

“C’mon,” Joel pressed, his voice dropping lower and his hand pumping unrelenting. “Use your words.”

His grip at your neck tightened just slightly, to keep you from slipping further under the surface when your balance wavered.

“Speak.”

Your eyes fluttered open then, barely, your gaze catching on his through the haze - unsteady, unfocused, something pleading sitting behind it without form or clarity.

“P-please…”

The word came out thin.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Please what, darlin’?”

You didn’t know.

Part of you wanted it to stop - to end, to pull away, to reclaim something of yourself that felt like it was slipping too far out of reach. But another part clung to it instead. To the way it filled the silence, the emptiness.

A tear slipped free, tracing down your temple.

A faint smile touched Joel’s mouth.

“‘Please continue’?,” he murmured, almost to himself. “‘Please go harder’? ‘Please more’? Want me to fill you up real good?”

That made you shake your head immediately. You were more than certain that your body would not be in a state to take him fully. Not now. Not ever.

Joel answered with a condescending laugh. “Yeah, no, that time will come. But we have to prepare you for it, don’t we? For now”, he pulled from you nearly completely only to drive in even deeper than before, making you gasp and your insides twist, “for now, I just need you to come for me, baby girl.” 

Your breath stuttered, your grip tightening weakly against him as your body tensed, that unfamiliar pressure coiling tighter and tighter beneath your ribs.

“Almost there,” he guided you through it. “Just let it happen.”

You didn’t fight it.

Not anymore.

There wasn’t anything left in you to hold it back.

The tension snapped suddenly, pulling you under in a way that stole what little breath you had left. The water rose around you, covering your ears and dulling everything for a moment - your own moans, his voice - the world narrowing to that single, overwhelming sensation that ran through you in sharp, unsteady waves.

Joel stayed buried deep in you, feeling your spasms pulling his digits deeper.

“Oh, darlin,” he cooed, “I can only imagine what you must feel like around my cock. Can’t wait for you to be ready for me.” His muffled words carried you through it, stars bursting before your inner eye and the sensation rippling through your weakened body. 

You barely registered the way he shifted, the low sound he made under his breath as your body tightened and then slowly, slowly began to ease again.

It took time.

Your breathing came back first - shallow, uneven - your body following in slow increments, the tension draining out of your limbs until you felt heavy again, spent in a way that left no room for anything else.

“Well done,” he spoke after a moment. “That must have cost you.”

He curled his fingers once more and made sure to collect every spasm and after effect his touch had on you before he slipped his fingers from you and gave your pussy a last affirmative pat.

Then his hand moved upward through the water, cupping your face this time, steadying you as he leaned in just enough to press a hard long kiss to the top of your head.

“Did so good for me,” he said softly. “Ain’t so bad when you listen, is it?”

You shook your head slightly, the movement weak, your eyes already drifting shut again as the exhaustion settled back in fully.

He adjusted his hold, his arms sliding beneath you once more as he lifted you from the tub, water splashing everywhere. The warmth left you too quickly this time, replaced by the cooler air that made you shiver faintly.

So, again, your body leaned into him, seeking what little warmth remained, what little steadiness he provided.

“Let’s get you back,” he muttered, already moving. “You’ve had enough for tonight. Think you owned a real blanket now, right?”

The thought alone nearly made you beg for it even though you knew deep down this was exactly what he intended with this. Making you compliant. Docile. 

It didn’t matter though as he set you down on the bed because when he returned shortly with the blanket, wrapping you up, that was all that you could ask or really.

Because humiliation was a small price to pay for safety.

You did not even register him leaving. But you knew he’d return. And he would continue to mold to into his world of darkness.

Part 2

Series Masterpost

My Masterlist

Taglist:

@604to647 @arcane-fox @armandispunk @ashleyfilm @beardropascal @bergamote-catsandbooks @cozymochaa @daniel-bruhhl @daddyimfilthy @dinonuggiesgogrrrr @ dotyoureyez @drunkennunicornn @flawssy-227 @glaszdoll @glazztablegirl @harriedandharassed @he-is-the-destined @honestlywork @iknowisoundcrazy @inept-the-magnificent @joelmillerspnk @joelsslutt @kakiki3 @keylimebeag @koshkaj-blog @lokigonnakmsforbucky @milla-frenchy @millermouth @missadangel @ missladym1981 @palelense @pedrofan @perpetualharpyresonance @pleurspetal @rhapsodicaesthete @rosharanfiction @rosebuds-and-moonlight @ simpingforjoel @soymiguelsesposa @speaktothehandpeasants @sprigsofhazel @tateypots @tomtohee @twilightblogss @umadirectioner @untamedheart81 @vickie5446 @zoobabystation @gracevnn @twilightblogss

@ meimeloni @ xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @ dissociated-libra @ melancholicteengirl @ gay-straight-freak @ girlwiththenegantattoo

[missadangel]

Sorry it took me a while!! but Ohhh you really got me with this one 😩 Dark Joel being all calm, patient, and terrifyingly in control is already my weakness, but the knife play and gun play? Yeah… you absolutely knew what you were doing there and I loved every second of it ahaha. The tension, the pet names, that dangerous almost-tender energy so unfairly hot. You write this version of Joel way too well and now I’m soo donee!!! 🥵

[missadangel]

Two Wrongs, One Right is coming tonight! 🥰

I was going to split it into two parts, but then I thought… why make you suffer twice when I can emotionally destroy you all at once? ehehe 🤭 So, one very long and very angst-heavy chapter is on the way. Prepare yourselves 🤧

fic: Two Wrongs, One Right ➛ (Joel Miller x Immune F!Reader)

[reedispunk]

Mine

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: Joel loses all his self control when you accidentally wear his flannel instead of your boyfriend Tommy’s.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, soft dom!Joel, unspecified age gap, fingering, praise kink, use of pet names

a/n: I wrote this so quick but now I lwk feel bad for Tommy oops

wc: 2.4k

As the early morning sun creeps along the floorboards of the bedroom, you turn in the sheets. “Tommy?” you mumble sleepily when you find his side of the bed empty.

You stretch out, adjusting your eyes to the light as you scan the room. The house is quiet, and you remember now that he told you he had to leave early this morning. You sigh, for once you have no errands to run and no patrol to get ready for; you have yourself a free morning, but Tommy isn’t here to enjoy that with you.

Throwing the sheet off you, you feel a chill against your skin so you pad over to the dresser, taking out one of Tommy’s flannels. You wrap it around you, appreciating the warmth, the softness, and just how snuggly it feels against your skin. You don’t remember ever seeing Tommy wear this, but you recognize it, so naturally the thought leaves your mind as you exit the bedroom and head downstairs in search of breakfast.

"Mornin'," he grumbles, his back to you as he washes dishes in the sink. You pause in the doorway when you realize that you aren’t in fact home alone.

“Joel. Hi.” The hesitation is clear in your voice. Why is he here?

“Don’t mind me; we were out of anything good to eat. Tommy said I could call by here and raid the fridge.”

“Right, of course.” You fiddle awkwardly with your sleeve, unsure what to say, and even though he hasn’t turned to look at you yet, you feel a little exposed dressed in nothing but his brother’s shirt.

Joel fascinates you. He’s significantly older; he’s quiet, never says much, and he always radiates a grumpy energy that keeps you on edge whenever you are around him. But you can’t deny that when you are in the same room, especially when it’s just you and him, there’s a feeling that washes over you that fills your belly with butterflies.

If you were truly honest with yourself, you’d admit that you’re drawn to him; there’s an all-consuming attraction to the older Miller brother that you know is so wrong, and yet you can’t seem to stop. You care deeply about Tommy; what you have with him is good, it’s nice, but sometimes you find yourself wishing for more than that.

There are even nights when you fall asleep beside Tommy and dream of Joel instead. You wake up in the middle of the night, an overwhelming ache between your legs that even when Tommy attempts to relieve, you find yourself closing your eyes and imagining it’s his brother inside you instead. Of course it makes you feel bad; the guilt often eats away at you, and yet every day the craving for Joel only grows and leaves you desperate to know if he feels anything for you too.

Walking over to the cupboard beside Joel, you search for something to ease the pang of hunger in your tummy. In the corner of your eye you notice him glance towards you, pausing his movements at the sink as you feel his eyes examining you. You try to ignore him, turning away as you pad over to the opposite counter.

“What are ya doing?” His voice breaks through the tension. Can he feel it too?

“Making pancakes.”

He scoffs. “No, I mean… why are ya wearing that?”

You look over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at him. “What do you mean?”

You watch him carefully as he allows his eyes to fall down your body, drinking you in as he leans back against the counter, the bob in his throat noticeable as he swallows.

“Joel?”

“That’s mine.”

“What?”

He nods towards you. “That’s mine.”

Your heart rate rises a little then, your eyes going wide as you realize what he means, and you pull the material further around you.

“I… I don't—" You laugh nervously, the redness creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. “But I found it in Tommy's room?”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell ya, sweetheart, but that’s my shirt.”

“No. No. This is Tommy’s. I’ve seen him wear this.” You haven't; you’re just scrambling to convince yourself that this isn’t happening.

“You’re mistaken. I’d even been looking for that this mornin'. Guess I left it here when I came over the other night.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

He tilts his head to the side, a smirk appearing on his lips as he pushes himself off the counter, taking a step closer towards you. "Ya trying to tease me, is that it?”

You blink, your mouth going dry as you try to process what he just said. “What? No, of course not.”

“I think you are. Want to torture me, don’t ya?”

You swallow. “I swear, I didn’t realize."

"Relax, don’t worry; it looks fuckin' good on ya."

You look away, trying to suppress the way he’s making you blush. “Joel…”

"Yeahhhh." His voice deepens then. “Say that again; I like hearing my name on your lips."

You meet his eyes, his words starting to take effect between your thighs. "Don't," you warn. This isn’t happening; he can’t be saying these things.

He takes another step towards you. You feel somewhat intimidated, small even, and yet you want him to continue; you want him as close as possible.

“What?” He asks. “Shouldn’t I say that? Jesus, you’re so innocent it’s adorable.”

“I should go change.” You say quietly and yet make no effort to move.

He ignores you. “Wearing anything underneath?”

“Stop.” His eyes drop down, noticing the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

“Why? Just tell me.”

You swallow again. Don’t do it. “…just panties.”

"Shit, darlin’. You've got my imagination goin' crazy.”

“That’s enough.”

“Fine.” He holds his hands up. “But if I see you wearing it again, I’ll have no choice but to take it off you myself.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” You smile, almost daring him.

“Wouldn’t I?”

“What about Tommy?”

“What about him?”

He makes the final steps towards you then, his hand coming to your waist, guiding you back until you're trapped between his broad frame and the counter. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

"God, look at ya, such a sweet thing. All flustered, pretending like you don’t want this just as much as I do.” His lips hover above yours. “I’ve seen the way ya look at me… ya just too scared to admit that it’s me you want, not him.”

“He’s your brother, Joel.”

“Quiet.” His finger comes to rest on your parted lips to shush you. Slowly he inserts his finger into your mouth, your lips instinctively closing around it to suck. His eyes turn black then, and he pushes his hips into you, letting you feel what you’re doing to him before he withdraws his finger from your mouth with a pop. “We all desire things we probably shouldn't; that’s why it’s so hard to resist.”

“I can resist you.”

"No, ya can’t. If ya could you’d have left already.”

He’s right. You want this; you're aching for him to touch you.

He doesn’t take his eyes off yours as you feel him reach up between your bodies, his fingers fiddling with the buttons torturously slow until the fabric falls open. He waits a second, a smug grin on his lips before his eyes flick down to take in the sight before him.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so beautiful.” He bites his lip. “If you were mine…” he groans with a shake of his head. “I love my brother, but he doesn’t know how to treat ya right; he doesn’t know how to do the things only I could do to ya.”

The need for him between your legs is becoming overwhelming now; this might be so wrong, but it feels so right.

He reaches up, his finger stroking over your cheek, tracing down your jaw, your neck, until it grazes down over your nipple, making your breath hitch. He pauses there, his tongue dipping out to wet his bottom lip.

"More," you whisper.

“Patience, I’ll give ya more, don’t worry.”

His hand travels further down your body, over your tummy, and finally between your legs and over the damp lace.

“Jesus Christ," he pants. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”

You move your hips against his fingers, desperately seeking more.

“Let’s get these off.” He pulls at the flimsy material, peeling it down your legs until you're completely bared to him.

He swipes a finger through your juices, up to your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your lips part and your head tip back.

“He doesn't get you this wet, does he?”

"Please,”

“He doesn't have ya fuckin' beggin'."

He teases you, brushing over your clit again and again, watching the way your body grinds against his hand and the way you pant his name.

“Don’t stop,”

He leans in to kiss you, pushing your mouth open with his tongue as he finally inserts a finger inside your tight walls. You cry out between kisses, the intrusion deeper than anticipated, especially when he adds a second.

“Good girl, doing so well for me.”

He knows it’s not going to take long; he can tell by the way you’re rutting against him, your whimper steadily getting louder as his fingers thrust quicker.

"Like it, huh?”

You nod.

“Wish it was my cock filling this tight pussy up instead?”

You nod. “Mmmh, I need you, Joel.”

“All in good time, baby girl.”

Then you hear it: the key in the front door.

“Someone’s here!” You panic, reaching down to grip his hand in an attempt to stop him, but he doesn’t let up.

He shakes his head, refusing to give in until you give him what he wants. “Almost there, just a little more.”

You hear the front door swing open as his free hand comes up to cover your mouth. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound.”

“Hey, I’m home!” Shit. It’s Tommy.

By some miracle, something takes Tommy straight upstairs instead of the few steps into the kitchen, and relief washes over you as Joel continues to drive you towards your orgasm.

He leans in, pressing his bulge into your thigh, his lips tickling your skin as he whispers into your ear, “Cum for me.”

On his command, you grip his bicep so hard as your body begins to jolt violently against him, his palm successfully muffling your moans as he watches you fall apart around his fingers.

He doesn’t stop until he can see you can take no more, finally pulling away from you as Tommy's footsteps begin to descend down the stairs.

Tommy calls out for you again as you scramble to button up the flannel. You turn your back to his voice, hoping he won’t see how flushed your face is when he comes in.

Then you feel it, your boyfriend's hand smoothing along your back as he brushes past you, kissing your cheek in the process, and you hear Joel clear his throat on the other side of the room.

“Heyyyy, you okay?” Tommy asks.

“Mmmh.” You smile, but don’t meet his eyes as the guilt courses through you.

“You look a little flustered; are you coming down with something?”

“Yeah… maybe. I think I’ll go shower and freshen up.”

He tilts his head, trying to get you to look at him, but you don’t. “Want me to join you?” He winks.

“No.” It comes out too fast. Suspicious even.

Tommy frowns. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The growl of his stomach quickly turns his attention to food, and he turns to Joel. "Have you eaten yet, brother?”

You catch Joel’s eye then, watching as he brings his fingers to his mouth, slowly licking those that were just deep inside you moments ago, low hums escaping him as he tastes you.

“Yeah, just finished up.”

He says it so casually, and you can’t help but think how cruel you both are; Tommy doesn’t deserve this.

Yet despite the guilt, the way Joel still refuses to take his eyes off you starts to stir something inside of you all over again, and you worry that if you don’t leave the room now, it’ll become obvious.

"Wait." Tommy grabs your sleeve as you move away from him, and he frowns at you. “Baby, that’s Joel’s.”

“What?”

He laughs. “You’re wearing Joel’s shirt.”

You look down. “Oh…” you giggle nervously. “Silly me.” Before he can say anything else, you quickly leave the room and run upstairs towards the bathroom to wash away the evidence.

Exiting the bathroom, you fail to see Joel standing right outside until you bump into his chest. You look up at him, a startled look on your face as once again those dark hazel eyes search yours.

“Here.” You whisper, holding out the offending garment that caused all this.

"Keep it," he grunts.

“Are you crazy? I’m not sure Tommy would be too happy about that.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m not sure he’d be too happy if he knew I just made you cum in his own goddamn kitchen whilst he looked for you upstairs.”

You look away, the blush creeping back in. He reaches into his back pocket. "You keep that and I keep these.” You both look down to see your panties scrunched up in his palm.

You shake your head, pushing the shirt against his chest. “You can keep them, but we can never do this again.”

His nostrils flare as he takes your hand, pulling you into the bedroom you share with Tommy, pushing you back against the door.

“What are you—" His lips cut you off, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he grinds his hips into you.

You whimper softly before pushing him back hard, desperate for air. “I mean it, never again.”

"Ya don’t get to tell me I can keep your underwear like some fuckin' souvenir and then tell me never again.” He growls quietly. "Friday. He’s on patrol the entire night, and he’s taking Ellie with him. Come by my place once the sun goes down.”

"No.”

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t right!”

“I won’t tell ya again. Friday. I’ll be waiting.”

He brushes past you then, opening the door and leaving the room as you stand there breathless and so wound up. You hear him run downstairs, casually saying goodbye to his brother as you stand there wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

[missadangel]

[aurorawritestoescape]

LET ME TEACH YOU

boyfriend’s dad Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: your boyfriend begs you to have anal but knows jack shit about the act. Much to your surprise and pleasure, his dad steps up and teaches him. By example.

Tw: +18, mdni, smut, age gap, soft!Joel, consent king Joel, reader calls him Mr Miller bc she’s respectful and bc it’s hotttt, size kink, competency kink, pussy/ass fingering (different fingers ofc), cuckolding, ass play, rimming, anal, lots of lube, f!masturbation, creampie, praise kink.

Word count: 5,4k

A/n: I think this is the porn-iest story I’ve ever written ahah It’s very depraved but also sweet in some places. I had a blast working on it and I hope you’ll like the result♥️ Soft Joel kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics 💞Enjoy, my lovely freaks🍑

MASTERLIST

“Number one rule of anal sex is ‘No rush’,” Mr Miller says to his son. The older man is sitting by your side, his hands gently kneading your naked asscheeks. You hold your breath when he spreads the globes of your flesh and exposes your pussy slit and butthole. Both entrances clench.

You’ve been going out with Jack Miller for almost a year and you know his dad Joel relatively well. He’s single, works as a contractor, loves spending his free time playing the guitar, woodworking, watching old action movies and going to the bar with his brother Tommy. What you haven’t known before tonight is how good his fingers feel when he pushes them into your asshole. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It all started with an argument. Jack was getting on your nerves, begging you to have anal.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, clinging to you like an annoying lap dog. He had just fingered you as a foreplay so you were sweaty and sleepy, lying naked on his bed. As always it had taken him too long. He had trouble finding the right rhythm and the right angle like he’d never touched your pussy before. While he was fiddling with your lady parts, a slideshow of your favorite porno scenes was playing on a loop behind your tightly closed eyes until finally you reached an underwhelming orgasm.

Probably relying on endorphins clouding your judgement, Jack began his anal pitch. He was promising you heavenly pleasure and an unforgettable experience, mostly turning himself on - a pole was proudly tenting his sweatpants.

Despite the passion in his voice, you were adamant in your decision. You’d never done it with anyone before and doubted that Jack was experienced enough to show you a wonderful world of anal.

“It’s not that simple, Jack! Jerking off to anal porn is not enough! What if you hurt me! You need to educate yourself first. You need to know… stuff.” You pulled the cover over your naked breasts and crossed your arms.

“What stuff?” Jack frowned.

“Exactly!”

You stared at the ceiling, contemplating getting dressed and going home. You were sure he wouldn’t let it go. And he didn’t.

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Just a tip first, you won’t even feel it. I’ll be super slow and then bam! I’m inside.”

BAM! No one in the history of mankind wanted to hear Bam! and their ass in the same sentence. So you shook your head and gave Jack an alternative,

“Why don’t you fuck my pussy?”

Jack palmed his clothed boner with interest but then shook his head, doubling down.

“Baby, pleaseeeeee..”

Nothing extraordinary would have happened if Jack hadn’t kept nagging and whining, pleading you to give him your butt. You kept saying ‘no’, he kept begging. It got so annoying that you decided to leave but before you sat up there was a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Dad,” Jack grumbled and got up. He adjusted his hard cock and you pulled the bed cover higher, covering your chest.

“What’s up, dad?” Jack said, annoyed by the interruption.

“Can I …?” Mr Miller stepped into the bedroom. You swallowed loudly. It was weird to be completely naked under the sheet in front of your boyfriend’s father.

“Sorry for intrudin’, sweetheart,” he said, turning to you and then to his son. “Jack, I can’t listen to it no more! Don’t you get what she’s sayin’?”

“Dad, what the hell?” Jack’s cheeks grew red, he was shifting on his bare feet, throwing nervous glances at you. And you definitely shared his confusion.

“I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ I swear. These fuckin walls are cardboard thin. You were whinin’ like a little bitch, son. Sorry, sweetheart,” Mr Miller apologized to you again and then said the words that you’d never expected to hear from your boyfriend’s dad.

“Let me teach you anal.”

Jack was shocked and embarrassed. He was gawking at his dad with widened eyes while the older man was standing by the bed, towering over his son, feet planted firmly on the ground. He kept saying that he only wanted to help, gesturing with his big hands. To your surprise you immediately pictured those hands on your naked body.

You wondered how Mr Miller would teach you. Maybe he’d watch Jack and you, guiding you both, giving advice, or maybe he’d take matters (your ass) into his own hands. Those huge veiny hands. The thought made your core pucker and while Jack was asking his dad to leave, saying that he lost his mind, you pressed your thighs together under the cover, trying to alleviate the ache in your pussy.

“I couldn’t hear the TV, Jack! Only your pathetic attempts to put it in her ass. Sorry, baby,” Mr Miller looked at you, his hands raised palms to you.

“Don’t call her that,” Jack grumbled. He looked and sounded like a boy who didn’t want to share his toy truck.

“‘K,” his father nodded and turned at you. “Jus’ wanna help.”

He dropped his hands by his sides, his sad puppy eyes moving from his son and to you and back. Your heart swelled. Your pussy throbbed.

“Ok,” you said, surprising your boyfriend and yourself. Jack gawked at you.

“What do you mean ‘ok’?!”

“You want to have anal, yeah? But you got no clue what to do, don’t even lie, Jack! Let your dad teach us.”

That’s how you ended up in a position you couldn’t imagine being in your wildest dreams — lying naked on your front, your legs spread, your boyfriend's dad playing with your butt.

“Help ‘er relax,” Mr Miller says to his son, his voice soft and soothing, his tone casual as if he’s teaching Jack how to fix a lawn mower. Your boyfriend is seated in a gaming chair a foot away from the bed, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. When his gaze meets yours, you quickly look away. He doesn’t seem pleased, rather mortified. Whatever. You always thought that Mr Miller was hot, in a rugged and dilf-y way.

Once you had a dream about blowing him in their kitchen, your mouth full of his fat cock, his fingers tight in your hair, no Jack and his cuck gaming chair in sight.

“Draw ‘er a nice bath, give ‘er a massage, somethin’ like that,” Joel says as his calloused palm glides up and down the back of your thigh. You’re one big goosebump, his touch is electrifying.

“No harsh movements.” He carefully pushes on your inner thigh until you bend up your leg. Your hips open and slightly rise off the bed. “She needs to be pliant, ready to take you in her most vulnerable place.”

Jack swallows hard. Your cheek is resting on the pillow, your head turned away from Mr Miller, but you are seeing him perfectly in the wardrobe mirror that stands lengthwise the bed. He’s wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans. It’s not his home clothes and you wonder if he dressed like this for you.

Mr Miller’s salt and pepper locks curl up at the nape, he needs a haircut, but you like his hair longer. You imagine running your fingers through his curls, tugging on them while he’s plowing your wet needy …

“Are you comfortable, sweetie?” Joel interrupts your dirty daydream with a question, his voice soft and raspy. It could have lulled you to sleep if not for a finger that grazes your butthole, making you flinch.

“Uh-huh.” You don’t sound too sure.

“We’ll get there,” he says with a little smile and adds, “Together.”

While you’re slowly melting into the bedsheets from his gentle tone, Mr Miller turns to Jack.

“Another important thing is lubrication. You have some?”

It looks like Jack’s using all his energy to dissociate at the moment thus he misses the question.

“Huh?”

“Lube? You have it or I need to go get mine?”

You widen your eyes, picturing Mr Miller squirt lube on some lucky lady in his master bedroom. And to think you considered him almost celibate!

Your boyfriend blinks a few times, then gets up. You hear him rummaging through a mess in his nightstand drawer, mumbling the word ‘crazy’ before he throws a little bottle on the bed and returns to his chair.

“It should be warm,” Joel says, rolling it between his wide palms.

“May I?” His reflection points at your ass in the mirror and you nod with a quiet ‘yes’. Mr Miller opens the lid with teeth and moves your left asscheek to the side for better access.

“Oh!” You gasp when a slight cold glob of lube lands on your tight ring.

“Bit more.” Joel adds another squirt and then starts spreading the liquid around your ring with a tip of his finger.

“Ahhhh,” you whimper and bite your tongue immediately. Jack’s chair creaks.

“Feels good?” When Joel asks you the question you don’t see a point in lying so you say “yeah.” Wet arousal pools in your core, it’s a matter of minutes before it slides out of your hole and reveals how insanely horny Mr Miller is making you.

“We’re just startin’ and look at her response,” Joel says with pride in his velvet voice while his finger is slowly drawing circles over your asshole. “She’s enjoyin’ it. Even if we stop now she’ll remember the act as something pleasant.”

“Maybe we should,” Jack mutters but neither Joel nor you pay it any attention. Hot flames are licking at your core, the ache in your pussy growing so fast, you roll your hips against the bed, searching for friction.

Adding gasoline to your horny fire is the sight in the mirror in front of you — Joel’s sexy hand moving rhythmically over your ass, his plush lips slightly parted, his dark eyes focused on your puckered hole.

Mr Miller lowers his voice and asks, “Growin’ needy?”

Your eyes lock in the mirror. Fuck! A hot flash burns your lower belly when his black pupils meet yours. Sparks flying, gazes drawn to each other for a few long seconds, promising pleasure and trouble. The intense eye contact does something to you, drowns you in an ocean of lust, pulls you so deep you panic and hastily flick your eyes to your boyfriend who seems very pale.

“Sweetheart,” Joel calls you as if hating to share your attention with his son. You hum but don’t look at him.

“Do you give your permission for the next step? To open you up I need to eat your ass. Is that alright?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Both you and Jack answer but you are the one calling the shots.

“Yes!” You repeat louder and raise your brows at Jack. Your boyfriend lets out a defeated sigh and drops his head.

“Good,” Joel says and gives your butt a light pat before cupping both asscheeks and spreading them apart. Cold air laps at your holes and you shiver. Joel smiles, probably noticing goosebumps on your skin.

“We’ll start slow.” In the mirror you watch him unhinge his jaw, stick his tongue out and lower his head.

You gasp when Mr Miller slowly licks your tight butthole. “Oh my God!”

Joel chuckles and repeats the depraved action. Soon he’s licking your asshole gingerly, his fingers digging into your flesh with passion. You’re softly moaning, your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. You’ve never had your ass eaten and the sensation is incredible. You wish he’d get lower and take care of your leaking pussy but fuckkk you can come just from Mr Miller’s tongue dancing over your little butthole. So when he parts from your ass, your needy whine rings in the room.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

His wet lips are curled up at the corners, pride sparkling in his blown out eyes, Joel glances back at his son and announces,

“Now we gonna start openin’ her up with a tongue.” Your breathing hitches. You don’t see Jack’s expression because you can’t tear your eyes off Mr Miller in the mirror. “Gently push the tip inside her just so” — Joel leans down and his hot tongue prods at your ring, your mouth forms an O as you moan.

Joel mutters, “Slowly go in,” then his head begins moving up and down while his tongue slides into your ass deeper with every bop. He’s salivating onto your crack, the wetness dripping down to your pussy, covering your folds with the warm spit.

You are losing your mind over how amazing it feels, meanwhile Joel alternates between licking your ring and tongue-fucking it for what seems like hours or so you wish. His lewd slurping fills the room and mixes with your soft noises. You apply all your willpower to stop yourself from moaning like a whore out of respect for your boyfriend who is now sitting with his legs crossed, probably hard but too shocked to accept it.

“How you feelin’, baby?” Joel asks, licking his spit-covered lips.

“S—so good, Mr Miller,” you stutter, staring at him in the mirror with your half lidded eyes.

“See, she’s already gapin’ a little,” Joel says, showing your asshole to Jack.

“Hm-m,” Jack hums, his brows furrowed, his suspicious gaze trained on your ecstatic face.

“Now let’s add a finger.”

You squeak like a little mouse and your holes clench. Joel notices.

“Hey, don’t be scared, babygirl. You’re open nicely now. And I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?”

“Ok,” you reply and hold your breath.

“Nuh-uh. None of that. You should be breathin’, sweetheart.” He puts his warm heavy palm on your back, between your shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, giving you a rhythm.

“In— out—in— out.”

You follow his direction and soon your muscles relax, your eyes flutter close, your jaws unclench. It seems like your body is seeping into the mattress.

“I’m puttin’ one finger in.”

His voice is so quiet you barely register his words, barely notice his finger going inside your ass, miss a slight burn of the stretch, that’s how serene you are feeling.

When you finally open your eyes you see Mr Miller’s reflection thrusting his index finger in and out of your butthole, his eyes on your ring, his lip between his teeth.

“Wow,” you mutter, in awe of the hot sight and the new sensation. All your holes clench again and again, your pussy pushing your generous slick out and you catch yourself wanting Joel to fuck you.

"Another finger? Is that alright, sweetie?" With your heart pounding in your ears, Joel's raspy voice seems both close and far. You nod and mumble a shaky 'yes' before he inserts a second digit into your lubed up asshole. You moan, Joel growls, both at the same time. Your boyfriend curses under his breath.

"Hooooooly hell," you exhale against the pillow, clenching bedsheets with your clammy palms while Joel's scissoring your tight ring open. "This … it's amazing."

Joel pulls his fingers out of you and chuckles yet it comes out strained. You know it takes everything from him not to whip his cock out and fuck you right now. Jack seems to feel it, too.

"Dad, maybe that's enough?"

"No."

"No!"

Your yell drowns out Joel's reply. Your cheeks burning, lust clouding your mind and overtaking your body, you lift your head off the bed and glare at Jack.

"Mr Miller needs to... we need to learn what to do next. Right?"

Jack crosses his arms, his lower lip sticking out.

Completely disregarding his son's suggestion to stop, Joel nods at you and asks Jack as if it's some depraved sex ed class.

"She's nice and ready now. What's next?"

Jack blinks at his dad, a mixture of frustration and confusion plastered on his face. He shrugs. "I fuck her."

"Wrong!" Joel sits up straight and gives him a disappointed look. "Son, the most important thing about anal is consent."

You drop your head back on the pillow and nod with the 'obviously' expression meanwhile Joel continues.

"Even after you did all the necessary prep, you ask her again. And if she says 'no', you stop! Got it?"

You watch Joel in the mirror, his bushy brows furrowed, two obsidian eyes piercing Jack. He's not fucking around.

"Yeah."

"Huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack mumbles. He looks so pitiful now you get scared of your pussy turning into the Sahara so you hastily move your eyes to the mirror with Joel's reflection in it.

You watch and feel your boyfriend's dad lean down to you. His hot breath fans your naked back, sending chills down your spine, as he asks,

"Can I fuck your ass now, baby?"

Your voice is wanton and needy, you're almost drooling onto the bed, as you reply,

"Yes, Mr Miller. But..?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can I be on my back?”

Joel kisses your shoulder and coos,

“Sure thing.”

Your body buzzing with want, you slowly and awkwardly roll over. Your exposed tits jiggle as you get comfortable and Joel takes you in— your puffy pussy, your heaving belly, your nipples hard as diamonds, desire plastered on your face.

Jack nervously clears his throat and leaves his cuck chair.

“You ain’t really doing it, right?”

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or his dad but Joel is the one who answers,

“I’m teachin’ you two. And this is the most crucial part. You wanna go in now and ruin all the progress?”

Jack closes and opens his mouth, but when you shake your head at his attempt to intervene, your boyfriend plops back in the chair, looking gobsmacked.

“This is insane,” he murmurs and you have to agree. You’re feeling insanely good.

With a nonchalant expression on his flushed face Joel grabs a pillow.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You do what he asks and he quickly places it under your butt. When your hips are raised Joel hums in approval.

“Grab your knees for me, please.”

Like an obedient student you do it immediately.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His praise, his scent - manly and dizzying, his warm smile, his obsidian eyes set between your thighs — all of it makes your blooming pussy contract and a drop of clear slick beads at your entrance.

Joel smirks, his dark gaze darts to yours and then back to your leaky hole. He opens his mouth but words die on his lips.

Instead he takes a sharp breath and climbs on the bed, grunting. With your body trembling in anticipation you watch Mr Miller kneel by your propped up butt, unzip his jeans, his back now to his son.

Just for your hungry eyes, he pulls his cock out. Big, veiny, hard as steel fuck machine. Hnggg!

You clench your jaws, killing a moan that rises in your throat from the sight of his manhood. You see a drop of precum on the slit and your mouth waters.

“Need more lube.” Joel squirts a generous amount on his hand and then strokes his cock spreading the liquid.

You squirm on the bed, fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He wants to stick that huge thing where?!

Joel seems to read the worry on your face. With one hand around the base of his stiff shaft, he brings the other to your knee and gives it a light squeeze.

“If you want me to stop I will.”

You don’t reply, just stare up at him, fear and desire playing tug-of-war in your heart.

“See?” Joel gets his son’s attention but doesn’t look away from you. “This sweet thing is unsure but she’s bein’ brave and doesn’t stop me.”

Jack sighs with relief from behind Joel’s broad body. He probably hopes that you’ve changed your mind.

Then the older man addresses you.

“You don’t have to be brave for me or anyone else, ok?” You hum while warmth spreads in your belly, reaches your clit and makes it throb. You open your mouth but words don’t come out. Joel gives you a knowing smile and offers,

“How ‘bout I open you up again with my fingers? Two steps forward, one step back.”

Jack’s chair creaks unhappily when you breathe out, “Yes, please.”

Joel gives you a curt nod and sits on his heels, his cock still hard and waiting. His strong hand circles around the back of your thigh as he keeps it steady for you.

Jack’s view is blocked by Joel so he doesn’t see when his dad traces your pussy hole with his fingers and brings the wetness down to your ring. His eyes dart up to yours just for a second, you see lust and mischief there.

“Alright, here we go,” he mumbles to himself, easing two lubed up fingers inside you. This time you take them easily, dull pain of the stretch is present but also welcomed. You moan.

Mr Miller closely watches your face twisting with pleasure while his fingers are fucking your butt. You watch him back, suddenly swept by a feeling so strong, you forget how to breathe for a second. There's no one else in the room, in the whole world, only you and this big older man, giving you an unforgettable experience, filling the hole that’s never been filled and you don’t want it to end, hate for him to stop. Stop giving, taking, watching you melt for him.

Ahhhh! A scorching heat floods your belly and hits you like a tsunami. Your core walls clench once, twice, your head digs into the pillow underneath, your eyes close and a loud moan slips out of your mouth. You’re shaking and crying ecstatic tears, your ass squeezing Joel’s thick digits, your pussy contracting around nothing.

“D— did you just come? Jack’s cold tone brings you back to reality as if a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head. Still jerking with climax you snap your eyes open, your breathing heavy, and see Joel’s lopsided smile in front of you.

Fuck! Your cheeks and neck burn and you cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by unraveling in front of your boyfriend’s dad. With his fingers in your ass.

Joel comes to your rescue. He gently rubs your thigh with his paddle of a hand and coos,

“She’s one of a kind, Jack. The anal stimulation isn’t as pleasurable for women as it is for men. In the right hands though… you did wonderful, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, hiding a grin that’s about to bloom on your face, and grip your knees tighter.

“We can stop now if…,” Joel starts.

“No!” You cut him off and push your knees to your chest. “I want to be ready. For the real thing.”

“I’ll give you the real thing,” Joel whispers so quietly it’s barely audible but you hear. Your eyes lock as he plants his palm on the bed by your side and hovers over your lower half.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

After you say ‘yes’ Mr Miller glances back in the direction of his son.

“Jus’ the tip at first. Maybe only. Depends on how she takes it.”

He looks down at you with that soft but feral gaze of his and talks to Jack.

“Watch her face closely when you push inside.”

Joel’s hot leaky cockhead kisses your pussy hole and you gasp, your entrance winking at his manhood, inviting it to come in. Joel whispers,

“Only teasin’.” You smile and shake your head at the man. He gives you a wink and drags his tip down along the delicate skin between your pussy and asshole and then nudges your tight ring.

“If she scrunches her pretty nose, stop. Means she’s hurtin’.”

Joel presses his crown against your asshole and applies pressure. Your mouth parts when he starts pushing it into your asshole, the stretch far bigger than with his fingers. You take a few deep breaths, not stopping him, craving to be fucked.

“Yeah, breathe for me, baby. In and out. Like I taught ya.”

In! in! in! your pussy screams and throbs with the rhythm of your heartbeat, your body desperate to be ruined by your boyfriend’s dad.

Mr Miller pauses and closes his eyes, his forearm muscles tense with restraint, the veins of his hand that’s wrapped around his shaft are bulging. He speaks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“The most difficult thing now—is to control yourself — all you wanna do — is shove your dick deep inside her— to the hilt—- she feels so fuckin’ good.”

His arousal and your desire merge together and form an electric cloud around you two, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Mr Miller moves another inch deeper and you whimper.

“But you musn’t,” he grunts to his son or to himself. “You should be in control— think of her first and your pleasure second —Yeahhh?”

The last word sounds like a moan and you smile dizzily, ecstatic to see how much bliss you’re giving him. Joel pushes in some more and then looks into your eyes. “Wanna see?”

You nod eagerly and place another pillow under your head, propping it up to get a better view.

The sight before your eyes takes your breath away. Joel’s big hand wrapped around his girthy cock, the veins on his shaft thumping, glistening with lube. But the best thing is your stretched asshole, hugging Joel’s tip buried inside.

“Wow,” you breathe out. Joel smirks, his smile lopsided and boyish. He drops his head to your butt and asks,

“Wanna stop here? Done so good already.”

You crane your neck and glance at Jack, expecting him to scream ‘Yes! Stop! Now!’ but he’s hunched over in his cuck chair with a blank stare, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

You bring your gaze back up at Joel and purr,

“I want all of it.”

Joel nods and thrusts in.

Mr Miller’s fucking your ass like it’s been made solemnly for this purpose. His hands are gripping your spread thighs, leaving marks on your soft skin, his hips snapping against your asscheeks, drowning the room in the lewd Slap slap slap! Sounds.

By now you’ve lost all the composure and your loud moans are flowing freely from your lips, mixing with Joel’s animalistic growls.

“Yeahhhh.. good girl…she’s a fast learner… takin’ me like a champ.”

“Thanks, Mr Miller,” you mewl with your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel a second orgasm building. Hungry for it you lick your fingers, reach for your throbbing clit and start rubbing it while Joel’s steel shaft is massaging your insides.

“Lemme… want some help?” Joel asks, consent king as always.

“Yes, please.”

Not minding his son watching you two from the back, Joel brings his calloused thumb to your puffy clit and starts drawing infinities over it.

You arch your back, losing your mind over how amazing it feels. Your ass is full of Joel’s cock, but your neglected pussy hole is crying desperately. You look for your boyfriend behind Joel’s broad back. He still looks shell shocked, his widened eyes lowered, and you realize that he’s watching his dads heavy balls slap against his girlfriend’s asscheeks.

Opps.

“Mr Miller,” you whisper, staring at the older man again, “Could you..?”

You lift your hand, stick two fingers out and move them up and down, fingering an invisible pussy.

Joel flashes you a knowing smile.

“Gotcha, sweetie.” He glances back at his son and raises his voice, talking to you,

“You strugglin’, baby? Ok if I help you relax?”

You consent loudly so Jack could hear and the next second Mr Miller changes hands and his dry index and middle fingers easily enter your sopping pussy.

Yeahhhh! You whimper, so full of his fat cock and digits, it feels like you’re going to come apart at the seams.

Joel’s massaging your g-spot with two fingers, his thumb working your clit, his cock relentlessly rutting into your ass. You’ve never been fucked this good and you try to hold off your second climax, hating for the sex to end.

But Joel’s too hot, too experienced and soon you come with a wail, arching your sweaty back off the bed and clamping Joel’s hips with your thighs. Blinding ecstasy is coursing through your body, your cunt pulsing around Joel’s fingers, your asshole choking his cock so hard he stills.

“Here— we g—goooHngggg….” he roars, retreats his fingers out of your pussy and covers you with his huge frame. He pushes his face into your sweaty neck but holds his weight over your thrashing body.

“Where?” He chokes, his chest rumbling with groans, and you wrap your arms around his broad back and press your naked tits to him, mumbling into his ear,

“Inside my ass, Mr Miller. Please.”

His whole body tenses up over you and he begins squirting his hot cum deep inside your butt. The warmth of his load fills you more and more, every erratic thrust of his cock pushes the sticky spent back into you and you hold him tight, wishing to be stuffed to the brim. It doesn’t take long with how much he comes and soon his jizz covers your asscheeks and his balls, sticking them together like glue. You feel filthy and sexy, with your boyfriend’s dad busting inside you, the former having a perfect view of your asshole sucking the older man’s cum in. Too abundant it rolls down your crack and onto Jack’s bed.

Both of you are panting when Joel carefully pulls his cock out of your asshole and falls on the bed next to you, still fully clothed except for the pulled down jeans and boxers.

“Dad, put your dick away,” Jack grumbles.

“Yeah yeah.” Joel tucks his cock back in, leaving his jeans open. He sounds exhausted. You cover yourself with a sheet suddenly remembering that you’re naked next to your boyfriend’s dad.

You turn your head to him resting next to you, his forearm covering his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly, his leg dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s so handsome you want to bite him. The man had a full day of work and then rocked your world. You find it incredibly hot but also feel guilty for exhausting him even more.

You watch Mr Miller for a few moments, warmth spreading in your belly and chest, until he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and turns his head to you.

“Dad?” Jack calls impatiently, hurrying the man to leave but Joel doesn’t spare him a glance and asks you,

“How you feelin’, baby?”

He nods down at your pussy but you know he’s asking about your butt.

“I’m ok.” You squirm on the bed, trying to access your state. “A little sore but good.”

“Good,” Joel repeats with a warm smile. You’re staring at each other silently, his gaze soft and warm, grinning like two fools. You want to kiss him but stop yourself. It’s inappropriate.

Then you remember where his cock was just a few minutes ago and giggle.

“What is it?” Joel asks, his eyes dart between yours and then slide to your lips.

You shake your head, silence thick and loaded between you two.

Jack rips it apart as he clears his throat.

“Thanks, dad. Fucking hell. You can go now.”

He gets up from the chair and crosses his arms, frowning at the two of you. You wonder if he’s going to break up with you after this. Whatever.

Joel sits up with a grunt and gets out of the bed. He sways a little and you smile proudly — you did it to him.

“Thank you, Mr Miller.” You sit up, holding the sheet over your body. He zips up his jeans and winks,

“Don’t mention it, baby.”

Jack scoffs. Joel heads to the door but as he passes his son he pauses.

“Get her a wet towel. And some water,” he commands. “So .. if she took my cock, she wouldn’t even notice yours. You’re welcome.”

With that he pats his son’s shoulder and leaves.

Who needs Jack, amirite? Maybe Joel can teach them something else?🤔 Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story💞

MASTERLIST

Story tag list: @hanahleah @iwas19 @thewitchflowcr @classybroad2 @elinaxxxxx @ivoryandflame @mysterialee @604to647 @reddrippysocks @madridisms @suburban-panic-smut @disco-fairy75 @ningaispunk @/time-for-my-weekly-spanking @littlepadika @max--phillips Milla @gutter-noise @hauntedinkk

Tag list: @/milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @keylimebeag @pascaltesaye @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots @pedrofan @chloeee20 @ess-evo @upintheclouds95 @ashleyfilm @shadowqueen2024 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @libre-sol @iamladyp @somebody-get-me-rehab

Joel tag @/libre-sol @roserxein

[missadangel]

Well… that was certainly one unforgettable lesson 😮‍💨 Joel being so patient, attentive, and knows his stuff when comes to anal was dangerously hooooottttt. This man is hot af!!! wanna bite him tooo!!! Jack never stood a chance 😂

[bergamote-catsandbooks]

Over the Andes | Frankie Morales x ofc/f!reader | 4,4 k

Summary: It's fight night!

Content warning: mention of alcoholism, yelling, anger, some swearing, mention of blood and the fight happening on the ring. Reader here is more of an ofc, written as a reader insert. She will have some description and a backstory but has no name.

A/N: Here we finally are! The moment we have been waiting for! I don't have much to add except: I'm sorry 🤭😈

I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !

Main masterlist | Series masterlist | Read on AO3

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"What do you wear to a fight?" You asked Di on the phone when she called to give you the information about the fight.

"I don't know? Very short shorts and a bathing suit top?"

"I don't plan on stealing the ring girl's job!"

"Shame, I think you would be a hit. Just wear something comfortable. And something you won't mind having beer spilled on."

"Damn, I wanted to wear my red cocktail dress and the stilettos I never use."

"The backless one that shows your boobs? I think every man in the room would love it if you dressed like that." Di laughs, and you join in, imagining the incongruity of such a scene.

"It's all the way down Clearwater, I'll pick you up at 6, just in case we hit traffic on our way there."

"Aren't you going to ride with Benny?" You are surprised by the arrangement; you thought you would drive there by yourself.

"No, he'll be there earlier and probably leave after us. Doing his trainer job. He'll meet me at my place later. That way we'll have time to debrief on our way back."

"Sounds like a plan! "

The day Di comes and picks you up, you are ready in your most comfortable outfit, including a black t-shirt that says, Feminist is My Second Favorite F word. You figure it'll be a great conversation starter. Or a way to see how Benny and his friends react.

While waiting for her, you smile, remembering the last time you saw Frankie, on Thursday evening. You stood on the tarmac to wait for him, and you had watched him land his helicopter after his sunset ride. You were here to give him the next day's weather report, since you weren't working that day, and you decided to wait for him outside, to make sure you wouldn't miss him. Not because you wanted to see him fly again. Not because you loved watching him from afar, as he maneuvered the tricky vehicle. Watch his face as he concentrates, his serious look and the headset that makes him look so competent. No, not at all.

After he said farewell to the passenger on his flight, he spotted you, and your heart jumped at the smile that spread on his face. This had to mean something, right? You felt like a shift as you both walked toward each other, and while you both talked about work. It felt like both your minds were elsewhere, not in the words you were saying. You felt it in the way he seemed to lose track of his words, on the way you both smiled at each other, at the way you both lingered instead of saying goodbye. The evening wind was blowing the curls out of your bun in every direction, sometimes coming on your face. And for a moment, it seemed like he was going to tuck a wild curl behind your ear. You saw his hand move toward your face, the finger twitch. But instead, Colin interrupted whatever was about to happen by calling out for Frankie, and you had no choice but to leave. But turning back to look at Frankie, you saw he was still looking, with a small smile on his face. You've been replaying the scene in your head ever since, wondering what might have happened if he had tucked that curl. You think you might have kissed him.

You're going to ask him out. You are done wondering, you've had fun with the flirting, but now you want more. Maybe you could ask him to that movie you talked about earlier. Something innocent enough, should he not want to date you, which you are doubting more and more. Yes, that's what you are going to do. You'll text him something tomorrow. By the time you are in Di's care, you are composing the text in your head.

"¡Carajo! [Damn it!] Why can't this thing stay in place?" He's been trying to fix Mia's hair into the same complicated harido she had when he picked her up last week. But he can't seem to follow the YouTube tutorial he found. His clumsy fingers are too big for his daughter's fine curls. And the fact that she keeps fidgeting on her chair doesn't help.

"Daddy!" Mia giggles and turns to put her hand on Frankie's mouth, totally unravelling the part that he had managed to secure on her hair. "You said a bad word!"

"Ooooh, Daddy is in trouble!" Santi, who has been sitting at the kitchen table, doing whatever on his phone, pipes up with a look that can only mean one thing: make Frankie's life harder. "Well done, mi princesa [my princess], for understanding the word, your Spanish is getting better and better!"

Frankie is torn between embarrassment at having cursed in front of his daughter, and wanting to kill Santi for not helping at all.

Mia is in stitches. Her shyness with Santi is now totally forgotten. They are like thick and thieves, and despite all the mischief that happened in the past week and the time he wanted to kick his friend out of the house, Frankie is trying very hard not to smile, especially when he can sense Mia is almost ready to repeat the word. He can see it in her face, the cute grin she wears and the way she squints her eyes in concentration. He cuts her off before she can say anything with a stern, "Mija," [honey] She giggles again and jumps from the chair when the doorbell rings.

"Your hair!" Frankie yells after her but to no avail. He follows her to the door, watching the last strand of hair fall off from the pin that was vialantly holding it on top of her head. He sighs and opens the doors as Mia yells, "Mama!" Selena picks her up and smothers her in kisses. She gives Frankie a look after taking a look at Mia's hair when she puts her down. He just shrugs, and Selena smirks before hugging Santi.

"Muñequita [Sweetie], ready to go to mom's house?"

"Yes!" Mia runs to get her small backpack that contains her most precious treasures: trinkets and toys she carries with her everywhere.

Frankie picks up Mia's other bag and hands it to Elena, apologizing, "I was trying to do a French braid, but I just can't get it right."

"That one's hard, especially because this little one moves around all the time." She tickles Mia, who is back in her arms and squirming as she laughs.

"Say goodbye to Daddy and Uncle Santi!"

Frankie goes to kiss Mia after Santi, patting her hair to try and make it less wild. "Goodbye muñeca [sweetie], have a fun week with mommy and Jorge, I'll see you next week."

"Bye Daddy!"

The door closes, and like always, Frankie feels some little relief in the quiet that settles in the house and huge sadness to see his daughter go.

"Shit, you were right, the place looks like a tornado went through it." Santi is standing in the middle of the living room. Toys are scattered all around, and Frankie knows the kitchen isn't any better. He is relieved his friend is here to help with the loneliness he feels every time Mia leaves.

"We'll have to take care of it tomorrow. We should leave now if we don't want to be late for Benny's fight."

"Yeah, right, let me grab my things."

Driving over the causeway, Frankie thinks back on last Thursday, when he could have sworn you wanted to kiss him. You had been waiting for him as he landed the helicopter, looking prettier than ever, loose curls flying around your head. Your pretty smile as you gave him a report that could definitely have waited for him to come back to the office, or could even have been left on his desk. Your eyes were sparkling as you laughed at a bad joke he made, he doesn't even remember what it was. And the way your eyes dropped to his mouth when he almost reached out for your hair. He could have killed Colin for interrupting the moment.

He keeps replaying this in his head, and the more he thinks about it, the more he knows he wants to take you on a date. He's been denying it, but he really likes you, and he is pretty much certain you like him too. Wh? He can't understand, he was such an ass the first time you met, but he isn't going to throw away his second chance. He'll text you tomorrow, there is a movie showing you mentioned wanting to see, and he hopes you haven't yet.

When you arrive, the place is already packed. The fight is supposed to start in less than 30 minutes, and people already have drinks in hand, and some are already seated. You are nervous. Not because you're about to meet your friend's boyfriend, even if she refuses to use that word, "we aren't in high school". It's because you are going to have to meet other people in a setting you are definitely not used to.

"I texted Benny, he's in the locker room with Jim, the guy he's training. He'll come out and say hi before going back there."

As you order your drinks, you watch as a tall blond guy comes up to Di; she squeals in delight, kisses him, and then introduces you to each other. You see what she meant, he is tall, muscular, very hot, and also the exact opposite of every guy Diana has dated. He looks like the type she sleeps with but never dates. And with the look of utter love he gives her, that she gives back, the smile they both have on their face while they chat as you wait for your drinks, you can tell this is serious. More than any other guy she had introduced to you. Benny is nice, he includes you in the conversation and even gets a kick out of your t-shirt. All in all, you feel at ease, until he says, "Let's go meet the guys. You can sit with them, and I'll join you when the fight starts."

You sense Diana tensing next to you, so you try to ease your own nerves. It doesn't matter if no one likes you. You have to be there for her.

You walk toward a group of 4 men; you immediately recognize Benny's brother, another tall, hot, blond guy who smiles at both you and Di when he sees you arrive. The guy standing next to him has brown hair, and when his gaze follows his friend's, he seems a little annoyed at the interruption. The two other guys have their backs turned to you. One is a little shorter, he has black and grey hair, and next to him, a silhouette that makes your heart stop. The shoulders, the hat- that can't be him? And then he turns around, and you exclaim, "Frankie?"

Upon arriving, the first thing Frankie notices is the beer Tom has in his hand. Unless the bar sells non alcoholic beer, which he doubts, it means he was right in doubting Tom's commitment, and he hates the feeling of being right. He doesn't have time to linger on the feeling, because Benny greets them with a big hug and a slap on the shoulder, showing his excitement at having everyone for his protégé's first fight. It's hard to stay fixated on his uneasiness when he sees his friend so happy, even more when he tells them, "Diana is coming with a friend."

Tom rolls his eyes and is probably ready to make a snarky comment, which leads Frankie to think this is not his first beer. Fortunately, Santi jokes about Benny's new relationship status, and after Benny leaves them to go check on Jim, the group of friends talks and laughs like old times. It feels like a moment coming around, like everything is folding back into place. The irony is not lost on Frankie that the last time they were all in this place was just before they left for Colombia and before everything fell to pieces.

Suddenly, Will, who was telling them about the latest project, stops talking, his eyes focusing on a point in their group. It only takes a second for Frankie to understand that Benny is here with his girlfriend, and when he turns around, ready to greet her, he hears, "Frankie?"

He sees you, standing in front of him, a bewildered look on your face.

"You two know each other?" Benny asks.

"We work together!" You say, turning to Benny.

"You must be Frankie's new colleague." Santi chimes in, extending his hand to shake yours, making Frankie want to hit him when he sees you confused as you nod.

Luckily, there is no time to linger on this, as Will greets Diana, Benny's girl, a very pretty tall brunette, who seems nervous but also very much smitten, which makes Frankie happy. They all barely have to introduce each other, as Benny leaves, asking them to play nice, kissing Diana and going back for the last pep talk.

"What are the odds?" Diana turns to Frankie, a grin on her face, one that clearly means trouble as she adds, "I've heard so much about you."

Frankie mirrors her smirk, "Have you? Not too much bad stuff, I hope?"

"You mean apart from your first impression? What was it? 'pretty face and no brain', something like that?" Frankie can't help his wince. You elbow Diana, hissing "Di!" and she laughs.

Soon after, the MC announces the arrivals of the fighters and everyone's attention is centered on the fighters and the ring. And you shuffle closer to him while Diana is drawn to Benny, who has just joined them.

"I can't believe you're here! I'm here to meet Di's elusive boyfriend, and you've been his friend all this time. She's been so secretive about him." She adds like an afterthought.

"I didn't even know Benny's was going to introduce us to Diana tonight. He barely talked about her, even we knew something was up. So yeah, not only was I surprised when he announced she was coming, but knowing you are her friend, that's inconceivable."

"Look at these two being so discreet when they evidently like each other so much." They both look at Diana and Benny. He has his arm over her shoulder and is whispering something in her ear. She tilts her head back as she laughs, still clapping for the fighters. You and Frankie look at each other and smile at the scene.

The fight starts, and he notices your wince when the first blow hits, and then your head turns away when another blow brings blood from a cut on one of the opponent's faces.

"First fight?" He leans in to ask, making sure you hear him over the loud cheers.

"That obvious? Yeah. Not my scene, but I was curious." You turn your face to him, eyes still showing your uneasiness.

"It does take a while to get used to it."

"You are?" You look at him intently, like you are trying to read him, search deep inside him. He turns his face to the ground. He isn't ready for you to see all the ugly parts he hides.

"Unfortunately, yes. But you don't have to watch, we can go sit in the back."

"I don't want to take you away from your friends. And I want to be here for Diana, it's also her first fight." Your eyes are drawn to your friend. "Promise you won't tell anyone, but she's so nervous to meet everyone. I know she's faking the ease she is showing right now to fit in."

"I don't think she needs to fake anything. If she makes Benny happy, which is definitely the case, we are going to love her."

For the rest of the fight, he makes sure to talk to you and bring your attention to something else when he senses it gets too much for you.

The fight is thankfully over soon, and Benny leaves them again to debrief the fight. The guys are actually a great group, not that you would have doubted it, but you might have had your own prejudice. But with Frankie there, it's fairly easy to feel included. And you can tell Will does everything to make Di comfortable in Benny's absence.

They are all a tight group of friends, joking around, rough and nice to each other. Santi uses his charm on both Diana and you, and you understand very quickly that it's just a facade when soon he launches into a talk about his own girl who is coming to join him in a few weeks, his eyes betraying the love he feels for her. The only one you have a hard time talking to is Tom. The more the evening goes on, the more aloof he seems to get, and you can't help but count the number of beers he drinks. It's hard not to notice his eyes going out of focus and his speech getting slurred, even if he still seems pretty held together.

When you return from a brief stop at the bathroom, you find yourself a little alone. Benny and Di are a little further away, in a corner, talking like two people in love, as if the world didn't exist despite the noise and crowd. You don't want to interrupt them, they seem so sweet together. But you feel a little nervous to go join the group of men, not because they won't welcome you, but just because you don't want to interrupt the heated conversation they seem to have. You grab a drink, and since you see that Frankie doesn't have anything, on a whim you get him the same drink he's had all night. You arrive with both drinks in hand, and Frankie, seeing you, smiles, which eases your nerves. But once you join the group, Tom turns to you and, with unconcealed annoyance, snaps, "Can't you see you are interrupting us?"

You feel shame and embarrassment, but also anger all at once, and you let anger take the lead because even if you were afraid of bothering, the exact reason you hesitated to join them, you won't let anyone talk to you like this.

"Fuck you!" That's all that comes out of your mouth. You barely see your surroundings, you have tunnel vision, and everything is red. "You don't get to talk to me like this."

"Excuse me?" You can see the rage radiate from him as he moves to tower over you. He is taller than Frankie, and he is using all his height to intimidate you, taking another step toward you. But you don't care; your fury is making you take a reckless decision, as you take your own step forward and look him straight in the eyes. You barely listen to the guys around starting to talk; you don't know, care, what they are saying, instead flare.

"I'm sorry I interrupted your chat, and I would gladly have left if you had had manners. And yeah, I'll leave, but fuck you for talking to me like this." And before you leave, you pour both drinks down his crotch, you don't care that it also soaks part of your shoes. You just look at his face as it goes red, and veins threaten to pop from anger on his forehead. You see hands restrain Tom on his arms and torso, and with a smile and one last look, you leave. As you walk away, you feel all the anger leave your body, and the adrenaline leaves room for anxiety and fear. You quickly leave the building, not daring to look back. You hope the guys will hold him because he definitely seems like the guy who could punch you, especially since he is drunk and probably not in his right mind.

Frankie is too shocked when Tom yells at you that he barely reacts, Santi being the first to hold Tom's arms, and Will putting a hand on his chest when he takes a step toward you. He does manage to warn Tom by calling out his name, getting closer to intervene. But he is still so stunned, he didn't expect your reaction and could almost have laughed when you poured the drink on Tom. And it's only when you leave that his temper flies. He is torn between wanting to punch Tom and run to you. He manages to contain himself, stepping in front of Tom, once you leave and look at him straight in the eyes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What the fuck? Have you seen what she's done?" Tom is ready to fight, Frankie can tell, but he holds still, pushing hard on Tom's chest to make him back off.

"Fuck off, Tom, you don't talk to people like this. I'm going to see if she is ok, but this right here, what just happened? We are going to talk about it. Get a grip on yourself and stop the fucking booze." He doesn't care if he angers Tom, if he embarrasses him in front of their friends, calling out his drunkness, he just wants to get to you and check that you are ok.

He needs to temper his anger, because he is furious. Before you arrived, Tom was back on his usual shit, talking to them all excited, booze running through his veins, rejoicing in Santi coming home, and starting to plan a very dangerous trip to get the money back. The disappointment he felt when he saw Tom drinking again was only heightened when he realised neither Will nor Benny seemed to notice. Only Santi sent a look his way to see how he fared. And as the evening went on and Tom got drunker, Frankie got angrier until this moment where he might have punched Tom and started a fight, instead of doing what was important, which was coming to see you.

You are out, a phone in your hand, when he gets to you. Calling your name, you turn around, and you seem relieved when you see him, but still a little apprehensive.

"I'm sorry about Tom; he should never have talked to you this way." Frankie wants to put you at ease.

"You don't have to apologize for your friend. He's a grown man and needs to own up to his shit."

"You're right, but I don't think he's in the right state of mind to realize that right now. And I don't want you to leave like that, thinking we are like that, that's not how–" He doesn't even know how to finish this sentence.

"He needs to stop drinking, that guy had some serious issues." He can see you are still angry, and the hand not holding your phone is trembling. He takes a step toward you and holds your hand. "I know, he does. I've been trying to talk to him. I'm really sorry."

You take a deep breath and leave your hand in his, letting him squeeze it.

"I'm sorry about my reaction, I might have gone a little too far."

"You didn't. I'm sorry I was so slow at reacting, I didn't expect this to happen. But I can tell you he didn't either, and he deserved it. You ok?"

You take another deep breath and take your hand away from his. You look at your phone and sigh. "Yeah, I just want to leave, but I don't think there are any cars around."

"Why don't I take you home?" Frankie doesn't want to see you go, but he understands your need to be alone.

"No, I don't want to bother you, you have to go back to your friends."

"Believe me, I don't want to go back there and face Tom after what I told him. What about Diana?"

"She'll be fine, she's with Benny now, and I don't want to bother her."

"Let me take you, I'm ready to go home too." He wants to make sure you get back home safe and that you are alright.

"Ok," you relent after another look at your phone.

As he takes you to his truck, he quickly texts Santi, letting him know his driving you home and seeing if he can get a ride with Will. He quickly gets an answer: "Don't worry, I have my key in case you don't come home ;)."

The drive is mostly quiet, he tries to talk a little but senses you need quiet. He can feel you relax, and that eases him. When you get closer to your place, you direct him, and soon they are in front of your house. He gets out before you can turn to him to thank him. He wants to walk you to your door. He wants to apologize again, wants to make sure you are ok, and maybe if he can muster the courage, ask you out. He doesn't get in time to open your car door, but you let him walk you to your door.

Once you get there, before you turn to thank him and take your leave, he speaks. "I'm really sorry about how the evening ended, but I want you to know the guys really enjoyed their evening, and that Diana was a hit."

You smile at that, and Frankie rejoices that he managed to make you feel lighter.

"I'm really happy. She hasn't had a relationship in a while, and I was surprised when she told me about Benny. I really hope this works out."

"Me too. Benny has been through some shit, and he had a hard time settling. Seeing him with her makes me happy. They look good."

"Yeah, I think they bring a lot to each other. I hope I didn't ruin anything with my reaction."

Frankie grabs both your hands, he wants to make sure you listen, and you look at him in surprise when he pulls you toward him.

"You did nothing wrong. Frankly, I've got enough of Tom's bullshit, and I think everyone has. This has to be his wake-up call. And nothing you do will ruin anything for Benny and Di." You look at him with such openness, like you are drinking his every word, that he almost bends his head to kiss you. But he doesn't want to do this now after what happened, so instead he adds, "And I promise, if the guys don't like you, they won't hold it against Di."

That makes you laugh, and he smiles watching the last bit of tension leave your body. For a moment you just look at each other, letting the moment fill you with warmth.

Until you say, "Frankie. Kiss me."

Spanish translation: muñeca/muñequita: literally doll, sweetie carajo: literally dick, cock, used to say damn it, hell, fuck

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[missadangel]

The tension between them was already so good, but Frankie immediately choosing her, defending her, and making sure she got home safely made me melt 🥹 And ending it with “Frankie. Kiss me.”?! You can’t just leave me there 😭❤️

[pedroscurls]

now comes us (pt. 2)

summary: harry's mother pays him a visit and later that night, you both have a serious conversation.

pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader content warning(s): harry insecurities, mentions of having trouble getting pregnant, work/home-life balance issues, implied smut, no use of y/n. word count: 5.3k a/n: hey y'all! it's a bit of a slow start for this one, but don't worry. angst is just right around the corner... hope y'all enjoy <3 part 1. - part 3. || series masterlist. || read on ao3.

Harry let the shower run over him, one hand pressed against the tile with his head hung low. He shut his eyes—it was another early morning. He usually was always the first one to wake up, since taking over the company, he’d been waking up earlier than normal. 

It wasn’t even light out when he woke up that morning. He didn’t even want to get up either—you had been lying on your side facing him, blanket pulled to your chin. He had been having trouble with balancing his work with his home life, especially now that Charlotte was pregnant too. He didn’t want to put too much stress on Peter, not if he could help it. 

But there were moments where he wished he could go back in time—when things were much simpler and easier. 

He was about to reach for his shampoo when he heard the bathroom door open. Harry looked up and watched your figure come into view. It was steaming inside the shower, fogging up the glass so while he couldn’t see you clearly, he could see your shape just fine. 

He bit his lower lip. Yesterday had been an amazing day, despite the stress he felt at work. And he promised you he’d try to balance work and his relationship with his family. 

A minute or two passed before he heard the door to the shower open. Harry turned around to face you, lips parting at the sight of your bare frame. 

“Morning,” you whispered quietly, letting out a yawn. “I figure maybe I should join you in these early mornings.” 

Harry reached out for you instantly. His hands darted out to grab a hold of your hips, gently and carefully pulling you flush against him. “You spoil me,” he said quietly. 

“Just want to spend as much time as I can with you,” you answered. Harry knew what you meant and he leaned down to capture your lips in a soft kiss. 

“I wouldn’t mind… having you join me in here every morning,” he whispered against your lips. 

“We wouldn’t be showering though, would we?” You smiled, your own arms now looping around his neck as you felt the water cascade down the top of your head and down your body. 

“No, I don’t think we would be,” he chuckled, moving his lips to your cheek lightly. “Did you sleep okay?” 

You nodded, tilting your head to expose more of your neck when you felt his lips brush past your cheek to the shell of your ear and down the side of your neck. “I just don’t like waking up to an empty bed.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, pulling away just slightly to look down at you. Harry reached up to and gently stroked your wet hair back and away from your face. “You know I’ve been getting up earlier than normal.” 

“I know,” you sighed. “But do you need to? I mean, you don’t even head into the office until after we drop the kids off at school.” 

“I do some work before I go in,” Harry reasoned. 

“So, you’re working at home.” 

He nodded. 

“But you’re still coming home late.” 

Harry sighed.

He knew what you were getting at. 

“Baby…” 

Almost like you realized what you were saying, you shook your head and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I just—I miss you.” 

“I’m right here,” he said quietly. 

“Not all the time,” you sighed. 

“I promised you last night that I’d try,” he whispered, moving his hand from your hair to the side of your neck. “I mean that.” 

“I know,” you nodded. 

“And besides, my mom will be coming by the office today,” Harry reassured you. “I’ll talk to her about everything, okay?” 

“And we’ll still have our scheduled morning walk?” 

Harry smiled. He leaned in and lightly pecked your lips. “We’ll still have our scheduled morning walk,” he confirmed. “Everything will be okay,” he nodded. “I promise. It’s just… hard right now, but it won’t always be.” 

“Okay,” you answered. “I trust you.” 

“Good.” Harry pulled away from you only to retrieve your body wash. “Now, let me take care of you, yeah?” 

You bit your lower lip in anticipation. “I didn’t come in here for you to take care of me. I came in here so that I can take care of you.” 

He chuckled. “Return the favor tonight. Deal?” While one hand held your body wash, the other moved between your legs. Harry watched you gasp in surprise. He smiled and leaned in closer. “I love you, baby,” he said huskily. 

Your eyes fluttered when you felt the pads of his fingers brush against you. Answering with a shaky breath, you replied, “I love you too.” 

Harry watched with a quiet chuckle and a permanent smile on his lips as both Frankie and Sammy were talking amongst one another at the kitchen table. You were helping Stevie get ready for school, having promised last night that you’d curl her hair. 

“Sammy, don’t make a mess, buddy.” He pointed out, grabbing the roll of paper towel to set on the table for him. 

“I won’t, daddy,” he answered. 

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Frankie giggled. 

“But you make a mess too,” Harry smiled. 

“No, I don’t! I’m cleaner than he is.” 

Sammy widened his eyes. “Nuh uh!” 

“Uh huh!” 

“No!”

“Yes!” 

“Okay,” Harry said, stepping in between the both of them. “How about we all agree that the both of you are messy? Even Stevie.” 

“Lies,” Frankie said, shaking her head.

Sammy agreed. “Yeah, exactly. Lies.” 

Harry let out a quiet snort and leaned down to wipe both their lips from the syrup that also drilled down their chin. “See, messy.”

Frankie and Sammy looked at each other, quietly giggling amongst one another. They finished their plates of pancakes quickly and stood from the table to set their dishes into the sink. Harry watched the with loving eyes and followed them closely, reaching over to run the water over the dirty dishes. 

“Go and get ready for school, okay?” He told them.

Frankie nodded.

Sammy did the same and then hugged his leg as the other girl ran down the hallway and into her room.

“What’s up, buddy?” 

“Nothing,” he said, looking up at Harry. 

Harry set down his cup of coffee on the counter and leaned down to pick Sammy up. “You’re still hungry, aren’t you?” 

Sammy giggled. “Can I just have some fruit?” 

He smiled and walked to the fridge, grabbing the bowl of grapes as he kept Sammy against his hip. “You can have a bit, bud, but you still gotta get ready for school.”

They younger boy nodded. “Okay, daddy. Did you eat too?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ll have some toast before we leave.”

“You don’t eat in the morning? But you’re always awake before everyone.” Sammy scrambled to his feet and walked towards the dining table again, hoisting himself back onto the chair as he reached for a couple of grapes. 

Harry bit his lower lip and sat down next to Sammy, reaching for some grapes too. “How do you know I wake up before everyone, hm?” 

Sammy shrugged, swinging his feet off the edge of the chair. “Well, you’re already dressed by the time we wake up, so…”

“So observant,” he chuckled.

“I just want to make sure you have some yummy breakfast too, daddy. Tomorrow, I’ll try to wake up before you and make you some waffles too!”

Harry looked at him and smiled, leaning forward to kiss his temple. “You’re the sweetest, buddy, but you don’t need to. I’ll make sure to eat beforehand, how’s that?”

Sammy narrowed his eyes up at his father. Harry couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh because it was the same look you’d give him. “Promise?”

“I promise, Sammy.”

“Pinky promise?” Sammy lifted his hand in the air, extending his pinky out for him.

Harry nodded and curled his own pinky with his. “I pinky promise, buddy. You all done eating?”

Sammy took a couple of more grapes before he climbed off the chair. “All done. I’ll go get ready for school now.”

“Love you, Sammy.”

He smiled and wrapped his tiny arms around Harry, kissing his cheek. “Love you too, daddy.” 

Harry watched the younger boy disappear down the hallway and into his room as he stood from the dining table. He went to retrieve his cup of coffee before making his way to Stevie’s room. He could hear the quiet chatter between the both of you, so when he slowly opened the door even further, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight before him.

“Dad!” Stevie said, turning her head to look at him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “You look beautiful, Stevie girl.”

She was wearing a white and black striped long sleeve tucked into a denim skirt. Her hair was curly and framed her face and she looked up at Harry with soft eyes—almost like she was looking for his approval too. 

“Y—You think so?” She asked.

You smiled and stood from the edge of her bed to wrap your arms around Stevie from behind. “Look at him,” you teased. “He’s got tears in his eyes.”

“I do not,” Harry said, blinking back the tears that filled his eyes. “I just—Your mom did a great job on your hair.”

Stevie grinned and leaned back against you. “I’m still wearing my converse though,” she said. 

“Ah, can’t forget about your converse,” he chuckled, walking further into the room and looking down at Stevie. “How are you no longer my little girl?” Harry asked with a sigh. 

“I’m always your little girl,” Stevie answered. “Just… I’m older.”

“I know,” Harry said with a nod. “I look at you and all I see is that same five year old little girl,” he continued. “But now… she’s got a crush that she’s trying to impress and—”

Stevie sighed loudly. “Dad, he’s just a friend.”

“Uh huh,” he replied. “How come you don’t dress up for your other friends then, hm?”

Stevie felt the warmth in her cheeks. “He’s a new friend.” 

You looked up at Harry and smiled, shaking your head as you pulled away from Stevie. “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Make sure to eat breakfast, okay, Stevie?” 

“Yeah, mom,” she nodded. “Thanks for doing my hair. I love it.”

“Taylor better love it too,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Both you and Stevie looked at him, gave him a look that said seriously without saying the words. 

He widened his eyes just slightly and lifted his hand in the air. “Okay, okay, I’ll knock it off.” Then, Harry leaned in and kissed the crown of Stevie’s head. “You do look real pretty, Stevie girl.”

“Thanks, dad,” she smiled, looking up at him. “Still got pancakes?”

Harry nodded. “You know there’s enough left for you, baby.”

“Oh good,” she said, leaving her room to go into the kitchen, leaving both you and Harry standing in the middle of her bedroom.

“She’s—She’s getting so big,” Harry sighed.

You nodded, walking up to him and gently running your hands up and down his chest. “I know, baby, but hey… we’ve got two other babies still.”

“What about… a fourth?” Harry asked.

Your eyes lit up. “Yeah?” 

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“Talk about it tonight?” You asked, hopefully.

Harry nodded and leaned in to lightly peck your lips. “Tonight, baby.” 

Later that morning when both you and Harry parked at the school, Stevie kissed both your cheeks before joining her friends. Sammy held onto your hand and wanted you to walk him to his class, which left Harry and Frankie. 

“Daddy, I think I know what I want to do,” she said, keeping a tight hold on his hand as she led him to his classroom. 

“What’s that, babygirl?” He asked, looking down at her. “Soccer? Gymnastics? Basketball?” 

“Martial arts,” she grinned, looking up at Harry. 

“Martial arts?” Harry repeated, tilting his head. 

Frankie nodded excitedly. “I want to learn how to punch and kick, daddy.”

“You don’t want to do any other sport? What if you get hurt, honey?” 

“Well, I won’t,” Frankie smiled, the dimple on her cheek appearing. 

“You can’t guarantee that, Frankie.”

“No, but I know that I’ll be good at it,” she said with confidence. “Can I at least try it out first?” 

“I’ll talk to mama,” he reasoned, scooping her into his arms and kissing her cheek. “How’s that?”

Frankie smiled, wrapping her arms around him. “Okay, daddy, but I really want to do it.”

“We’ll try it out first, see how you really like it, yeah?” 

“What if mama says no?” She asked quietly. “I think she might say no.”

Harry looked down at her, his lower lip pulled between his teeth. He never realized how much of a soft spot he had for his children. “I’ll—I’ll try to convince her for you to give it a try. I’m not saying that we’ll sign you up—”

Frankie nodded quickly. “Really, daddy? You promise?”

“I’ll do my best, babygirl.” Harry said, kissing her forehead. “But if you can’t do martial arts, what else would you wanna do?” 

“Hmm,” she shrugged. “I haven’t thought that far.” 

“Oh? You think we’ll agree and say yes to you doing martial arts?”

Frankie grinned. “Yes.”

“Confident, aren’t you?”

She giggled. “Yup.”

Harry chuckled and tickled her side, feeling her arms tighten around him as her giggles filtered his ears. He loved that sound—loved hearing every single child of his laugh because of him. “I love you, Frankie.”

“I love you too, daddy,” she smiled, pulling away from him and scrambling to her feet once they got to the door of her classroom. “Don’t work too hard, okay?” 

Harry bit his lower lip. Stevie had said something first, then Sammy, and now Frankie. Guilt filled his chest, so he leaned down and ran his hands down her arms and to her tiny hands to hold in his own. “I won’t, babygirl. Have a great day, okay?” 

Frankie nodded, kissing his cheek. “You too, daddy. See you after school!” 

Harry smiled to himself and watched her walk into her classroom, feeling someone’s arm wrap around him from behind. He turned slightly and noticed you instantly, his smile just growing bigger at the sight of you. 

“Kiddos are all in their classrooms,” you said. 

Harry nodded, turning in your arms and wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you both began walking away from Frankie’s classroom and back towards the car. 

“So… hear me out,” Harry said quietly. 

“What?” You asked, brow arching. 

He bit his lip. “Frankie wants to do martial arts.” 

Your brows lifted upward. “What?” 

“Her words, not mine. She said, I want to learn how to punch and kick, daddy,” he repeated. 

“She could get hurt.” 

“Yes, I told her that.” 

“Harry—”

“I didn’t say yes,” he interjected. “I said… I’d talk to you.” 

“You just can’t say no to our kids, can you?” You teased. 

He chuckled quietly. “I didn’t say yes,” he repeated. 

“But you didn’t say no either.” 

He rolled his eyes playfully and held you closer to his side, turning his head to kiss your temple. “I told her I’d talk to you,” he said again. 

“What if I say no?” 

“Then I’d push back and ask you to reconsider,” he answered. “Let’s just have her try a few lessons. See if she really wants to do it before we commit.” 

You looked up at him, leaning into him. “No sparring.” 

“Baby, she’s six.” 

“No sparring,” you repeated. “Or any physical contact with any other kid.” 

Harry nodded. “Just the foundations,” he agreed. “The basics.” 

“The basics,” you said. “Okay, we can let her know that we can check out some places.”

He smiled. “She’s gonna be so happy.”

Harry got into the office about an hour later. Peter was already there, walking towards his office with a large grin on his face. He always was envious of how easygoing his younger brother was. Harry, on the other hand, was always in his head, always overthinking and worrying. When things were out of his control, it only stressed him out further. 

But Peter was the complete opposite. 

He didn’t mind going with the flow, didn’t spend too much time worrying about one single thing, and he was able to separate his home life with his work. 

“Morning,” Peter said, hands in his pockets. 

“Hey,” Harry answered, holding the door to his office open. “We got a busy day today.”

“Nothing we can’t handle.”

“How’s Charlotte?”

“Good,” Peter answered. “Yours?”

“She’s good too,” Harry said with a nod, his mind drifting to you as he was already counting down the minutes until you got to the office. “Frankie wants to do martial arts.”

Peter chuckled. “You’re gonna have your hands full with that one,” he teased. “I wonder who she got her athleticism from.”

“Me,” Harry answered quickly. “Obviously me.”

“Uh huh,” Peter smiled. “Sure.”

“And Stevie’s got a crush,” Harry added. “Dressed up today. Had her mom curl her hair and everything.”

“Oh,” Peter said softly. “You’ve got a pre-teen on your hands. Good luck.”

Harry laughed quietly. “I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it? How am I gonna survive her teenage years?”

“Well, it’s good thing you won’t be doing it alone,” he answered with a smile.

Harry nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

“You both still trying to get pregnant?” Peter asked.

“We—we haven’t talked about it since we were having a tough time about a year ago,” Harry answered. “But yeah, I think we want to try again.”

“Could’ve been stress,” Peter suggested. “It’s been a year since we both took over for mom and dad, and… well, you almost overworked yourself until you collapsed last year.”

Harry sighed. “I know. Don’t remind me.”

“But… you’re still kind of doing the same thing, Harry. Maybe not to the same extent, but—”

“I’ve got it handled,” Harry interrupted. 

“Is that why mom’s coming today?”

He looked over at him. “How’d you know she was coming today?”

“Well, she called me. Asked me if everything was okay.”

He sighed. “I just—just wanted to talk to her, that’s all.”

Peter walked over to him and reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you know that you can lean on me, Harry. I know Char’s pregnant and everything, but I’m here for you too. We’re both co-CEOs for a reason.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I know.”

“I’ll take the morning meetings, you take the afternoon. Sound good?”

“Peter—”

“Great,” he grinned. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Peter,” Harry repeated. 

“I am capable of doing this job too.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“But you’re not letting me do anything.”

Harry sighed and nodded. He reached up to run a hand over his face. “Okay, fine. You get the morning. I’ll get the afternoon.” 

“Good,” Peter smiled. “I’ll see you later. You know where to find me.”

“Uh huh,” he said, watching his younger brother leave his office with a large grin on his lips. The door shut behind him and he sighed, walking towards his desk and sitting at his desk. Maybe splitting the meetings equally like this would work, but he couldn’t help the lack of control he was feeling. 

Harry felt his phone buzz. He pulled it from his pocket and looked down to see his mother text him that she was on her way. He replied with a thumbs up before turning his laptop on to at least get started on some work before she got here. 

Harry had been walking back to his office after refilling his cup of coffee when he spotted his mother at the end of the hallway, stepping off the elevators. His eyes lit up and he walked over to her, seeing her gaze find him instantly. When he got closer, she pulled him in for a hug and he relaxed instantly, kissing her temple. “Hey, morning.”

“Hey, honey,” she said. 

“Want a cup?” Harry asked.

His mother shook her head. “Already had my fix this morning,” she smiled. “And you? What number cup is this?”

“Two.”

“It’s not even ten in the morning, Harry,” she said.

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes and hooked her arm with his, following him towards his office. It didn’t take long for them to get there, so Harry held the door open for her before shutting it behind the both of them once they were inside. 

“How’s dad?” He asked, walking towards his desk to set his mug down. 

“Good,” she answered. “He’s good. Meeting up with Jay, actually.” 

“Oh?” Harry smiled, arms crossing over his chest at the mention of your dad. When your parents moved back to the city to be closer to you, both of them spent a lot of their time with his parents too. It was like they were long lost best friends now finally catching up. 

“At the gym, apparently,” she laughed quietly. “Which is fine. Considering how often they try to sneak in some sweets, it’s nice that they’re out there working out.”

“Good for them,” Harry said with a nod. “Maybe we should have you guys come over this weekend or something.”

Her eyes lit up. “I think we’d love that, honey. How are the kiddos?”

“Good,” he smiled. “Sammy made a new friend yesterday. Frankie wants to do martial arts. And Stevie—she’s got a crush and I don’t know what to do with that,” Harry answered honestly.

His mother laughed quietly and walked towards the couch, taking a seat on it with ease. “Oh, the joy of growing up.”

Harry followed her and sat down next to his mother, biting his lower lip as he looked over at her. 

“What, honey?” She asked, turning to face him. “You texted me for a reason last night. What’s going on? Are you—you having trouble with—”

Harry shook his head and interjected immediately. “No,” he answered. “We’re not having trouble.” 

“Then, what is it?” 

He sighed and looked down at his hands, his thumb grazing over his wedding ring. “Remember how it was like last year? When you and dad retired and me and Peter took over?”

She nodded. “You wouldn’t stop working… and didn’t let Peter do any of the work.”

“I did let him work.”

“Barely.” 

Harry sighed again. “I’m—I’m having trouble with that again,” he admitted. “I’m working a lot and I don’t know how I did it before, how I fixed it. I don’t know how you or dad even did it.”

“You’re not letting Peter help you,” she answered like it was the most simplest answer there was. 

“Char’s pregnant, mom,” he said. “And you know the challenges both she and Peter had just to get pregnant this time around.”

“Harry,” she sighed, taking his hand once she started noticing that he was fidgeting uncomfortably. “I know you want to take care of them, make sure that there isn’t any other added stress, but you can’t do this by yourself. Why else did you think we named both of you as co-CEOs?”

“I just—I know I can handle it myself. I just need to be better at separating my work life with my home life.” 

His mother said your name, causing his gaze to look up at her. “How does she feel about all of this?”

“Well, that’s the thing… it’s starting to affect us. Our kids are also taking notice.”

“That’s a problem, honey.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, guilt slowly crawling up his chest. “I’m trying.”

“What are you doing to try to make things better?” She asked. “If you’re trying… what exactly does that look like?”

Harry tore his gaze away from her. He couldn’t answer that. “Mom—”

“Your father and I didn’t name you both co-CEOs just for the hell of it,” she interjected. “We knew you both were ready, but if it’s causing you this much stress—”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” she sighed. “Why do you think you need to try and control everything, baby?” She said softly, reaching up with one hand to cup his cheek so that he could look at her. “The company’s thriving, Harry. Nothing’s going to happen.”

His eyes softened. “I just don’t want to do a bad job. You and dad worked so hard for it and I don’t—I’m scared that if I don’t keep up with it that it’ll just go under, that I’ll end up disappointing the both of you,” he answered honestly. 

His mother’s eyes softened too. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead and he sighed, leaning into her like he was that same, sensitive little boy who worried about the smallest of things. 

“Nothing you or Peter could ever do would disappoint us,” she reassured. “And this company—it’s just that. Your health matters more to me, Harry. Same with Peter. If it goes under, it goes under. This company isn’t our legacy,” she continued. “You and Peter are, do you hear me, Harry?”

He looked at her and felt tears sting his eyes. He blinked them back, tried to keep his composure. 

“I said, do you hear me, Harry?”

He nodded slowly, biting his lower lip as he looked into her eyes. “Y—yeah, I hear you.”

“Lean on your brother,” she added. “You aren’t the only one running this company.”

“But Charlotte—”

“Harry, it’s not your job to make sure that they are taken care of. You have your own family to think about too. If it’s affecting your marriage, if your kids are seeing it too, then how can you expect to take care of them if your cup is already empty?”

He sighed. “How did you do it? How’d you work when you had me and Peter?”

“I had help,” she smiled. “I didn’t do it alone. I knew I couldn’t do it alone.”

“Dad,” he said. 

“Exactly. I had your father.”

Harry nodded. “Okay, I’ll—I’ll let Peter take on more. Or at least an equal amount of work.”

“Good, that’s a start,” she said. “And make sure to keep your boundaries. Work should only start when you get to the office and when you step foot out of this building. At home, your priority is to be a father—a husband. Once you take work home with you, honey, it’s hard to separate work and home life after that.”

“Okay,” he repeated. “And waking up early?” 

She shrugged. “You can wake up early, sure, but don’t wake up early because you feel like you need to work.”

“Work when I’m at the office,” he said. “Boundaries—okay, I’ll work on that.”

“Won’t be easy,” she said. “But I know you love being a father and husband more than being a CEO, Harry. This company—it’s not everything.”

He nodded again and leaned against her. Harry shut his eyes and didn’t feel like the weight on his shoulders were dragging him down. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For talking to me. For coming here.”

“Of course, honey,” she smiled, arm wrapping around his shoulders as Harry rested his cheek against her. “I’m proud of you, both you and Peter. So, your homework today is?”

“Once I leave the office, work’s done,” Harry answered.

“Good,” she said softly. “Good.”

You were already in bed by the time he finished in the bathroom. Harry smiled to himself, feeling lighter once he left work once he left the office. It wasn’t easy, especially when he wanted to stay a bit longer after work, but this was the first step. 

“Kids went to sleep pretty quickly tonight,” you said, arms coming up to wrap around him once he laid down next to you. 

“Must’ve been because we let them watch a movie during dinner,” he chuckled.

“They do like their movie nights,” you smiled. “Did you see Stevie? She was grinning the entire ride home.”

Harry nodded, arm snaking around your shoulders. “Guess we’ll have to ask her about it tomorrow. See if she’s willing to let us know what happened.” 

“Wanna bet that she won’t tell us?” You teased.

Harry laughed quietly. “I think she’ll give us some details, but not all.” 

“You might be right,” you smiled. “She asked me if I could show her how to curl her hair.”

“Yeah? What’d you say?”

“I didn’t want to say yes,” you admitted. “Guess I’m also feeling like she won’t need me anymore either.” 

Harry nodded in understanding and leaned down to kiss your forehead. “She’s growing up.”

“I know,” you sighed. “Makes me sad too.”

“She’s still our Stevie girl though,” Harry said. 

“Yeah, she is,” you nodded. “How was your talk with your mom today?”

“It was—it was good,” he answered. “It was what I needed actually. Gave me some good advice.”

You smiled. “Yeah?” 

Harry nodded, turning to lie on his side to face you. His arm draped over your midsection, pulling you close to him as he felt your nose gently graze his own. “Did you know your dad and my dad work out together?” 

“My mom did mention something about it,” you laughed quietly. “I’m sure they get some sweet snack afterwards.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he smiled. 

You brought a hand up to his hair, running your fingers through his dark curls. “So… what’d your mom say?” 

“I need boundaries,” he answered. “Said that I should only focus on work when I’m in the office.”

“Good advice,” you said with a nod. “And how was that? Today after work?”

“Difficult,” he said honestly. “But felt good.”

You smiled and leaned in to peck his lips. “I’m proud of you,” you whispered. “I know it couldn’t have been easy but I—I’m glad that you’re trying, even if it’s hard for you.”

“I’m doing this for—for us, for our family,” Harry said softly. 

“I know, baby.”

“And I want to try again,” he continued. 

You bit your lower lip and sat up slowly, reaching over to turn the light on on your nightstand. Harry sat up as well, looking over at you with soft eyes. 

“If that’s what you want too,” Harry added.

“It is,” you nodded. “I do want to try again too.”

He smiled, reaching out for you and pulling you onto his lap. “And I know last year was a tough time for us. I know we tried and we didn’t have any luck, but I think it was because of stress,” he said, thinking back to what Peter had suggested earlier that day. “I think I was so focused on work that we just—we couldn’t get pregnant.”

You ran your hands down his chest and back up until they rested on his shoulders. “What about this time around?”

“This time around, I’m gonna be better. I’m gonna establish boundaries wth work,” he repeated. “I want another child with you.”

“A shit ton of kids, right?” You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips with his own. 

Harry chuckled, squeezing your hips tightly. “A shit ton of kids, indeed.”

“And maybe we don’t put a lot of pressure around it this time around?” You suggested.

Harry nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. While we wanted to get pregnant when Frankie and Sammy were born, we didn’t really put a lot of focus on it either. We just—weren’t careful.”

“So… we start trying,” you said.

“We start trying,” he repeated. 

“Can we start trying now?” 

Harry’s eyes lit up. He nodded and slowly rolled you onto your back, settling himself between your legs as his hands moved from your hips to slowly pull your shirt over your head. “Hell yeah we can start trying now.”

taglist: @picketniffler @kellyxo1 @arianmock13-blog @sunnytuliptime @orcasoul @brastrangled @callmebyyournick-name @copperhalfcent @inept-the-magnificent @ultimatewolverine @toxicwasteee @sesdeuxyeux @jothenurse91 @katw474 @kakiki3 @peelieblue @notyourlovemonkey @thatcorporategirlie @artsymaddie @lucillered66 @pascalispunktexas @noisynightmarepoetry @stylesispunk @vickie5446 @just-mj-or-not @pascalgold

[missadangel]

I loved seeing Harry finally admit that he can’t carry everything alone and actually start putting his family first 🥹 Their problems feel so real, but the way they communicate and choose to try again gives me so much hope for them. And that ending was very Harry of him 😂❤️

[gothcsz]

Obsessed: An After Hours Oneshot | Javier Peña x Original Female Character [Written as Reader/“You”]

SUMMARY: You invite Javier over for a mischievously good time.  ~8.9k Word Count.

RATING: E. Modern!AU. 18+. Mature topics and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work.

TAGS: The reader is kind of an OC since she has a backstory/last name, no use of y/n, alternating pov, drug/substance use, translated Spanish, jealousy, Javi being a grump, breaking and entering, lap dance, kissing <3, nudes, smut, indulgent blowjob because I said so, face fucking, Javi eats it from the back, squirting oops, messy sex, sex in front (below?) a mirror, doggy style, reverse cowgirl kinda, missionary, kat’s first daddy kink fic, pussy pronouns, (2) pussy spanks, lots of dirty talk, if I forgot to tag anything else please let me know, more tags found on series masterlist.

A/N: y’all we are so back on our bullshit. listen, i could not stop thinking about these two (with both my heart and pussy) so i had to get real self indulgent and write this smutty piece. i am actually so proud of it and i lowkey think it might be some of my best smut to date… what can i say, this pairing just brings out the kinky side of me lol. it’s also my first time writing daddy kink (which i’m not a big fan of) SO BE NICE TO ME! i’ve included a visual during one of the positions just in case the way i described it didn’t make sense 🙂‍↕️this takes place after chapter four! you don’t have to read the main fic to enjoy this but it’d be kinda cool if you did.  enjoy it, babes! 🖤 reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated, thank you for reading! (series masterlist) / (read on ao3)

Javier sits hunched over the wooden desk in his dimly lit office. Files and case notes are scattered everywhere, stacks of paper threatening to avalanche off the edges, the smell of cigarette smoke perfuming the air.

His eyes burn from hours of staring at the same documents, working overtime to give the rest of his team a well deserved break.

Then his phone chimes with a new notification… and another one… then another one. The insistency has him reaching for the device with furrowed brows, cigarette dangling from between his lips.

YOU: i got something to show u YOU: come over ;) YOU: [Attachment: 2 Images]

He stares at the lock screen, blowing out a plume of smoke. His thumb hovers for half a second before he opens the text thread.

The first photo hooks into his gut and reels him right in.

Your reflection is captured in what looks like a domed, polished silver platter. It’s shameless, really, your ass pushed out perfectly in black panties, the curve full and inviting, thin fabric disappearing between your soft cheeks. One hand is stabilizing you against the cart the platter sits on while the other holds the phone. 

Javier sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, eyes devouring every detail. 

He can already picture it. You on all fours, looking back at him with that challenging smirk as he grips your hips and buries himself deep in that tight, dripping pussy. And the sounds you’d make—Jesus Christ, Javi swears he hears your sweet, filthy moans echoing around in his head constantly, torturing him. 

He flicks the built-up ash into the glass tray with a tap then swipes to the second photo.

Your silhouette is reflected in the window of your bathroom, city lights glittering before you. He knows how much you love showing yourself off—so he wouldn’t be surprised if you had captured the attention of anyone walking along the street below.

He’d definitely stop if he saw you posing in front of the window naked.

The curve of your body is alluring. His eyes immediately drop to your bare thighs and how the teasing angle of the photo keeps your breasts covered.

Another fantasy swirls around in his mind, this time it’s of fucking you against the large window, the whole damn city an audience to the carnal debauchery that exists between you. 

He’s hard and aching to be inside of you. His fingers move across the screen as he sends you a curt response:

JAVIER: Be there in 20 minutes. 

The door is already unlocked when Javier arrives. He pushes it open and steps into the familiar chaos of the lower floor of your apartment, the space still a glamourous mess just as how he’d remembered it from the night of your birthday.

The main lights are off, leaving only the glow of a feathery floor lamp in the corner of the open space and the warm amber LED strips lining the loft area above.

Javier calls out your name, his deep voice carrying easily over the music playing through the speakers upstairs as he closes the door behind him.

“I’m upstairs.”

He hasn’t seen the loft level yet, but if the downstairs is any indication, he expects the same colorful chaos.

He climbs the stairs slowly, taking in the provocative framed photos of you hung against the leopard-print wallpaper, your body captured in differing sexy poses.

He’s never met anyone as unapologetically authentic as you are.

When he reaches the top, he stops for a second, taking it all in.

You’ve turned the entire top floor into your own private dance studio. One entire wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, reflecting every angle of the space.

Your chrome pole stands in the center. The other walls are lined with your impressive collection of Pleasers in every color and style, displayed like trophies.

You’re stretching in front of the mirror wall in a perfect split, hair pulled into a high ponytail, wearing a cropped Baby Phat tracksuit with booty shorts that show your ass off just right and matching pink leg warmers. The basic dancer heels on your feet complete the look.

“This is impressive,” Javier says, hands sliding into the pockets of his dress pants. He didn’t bother stopping at his place to change—he came straight from the office, jacket left in the car, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loose around his neck.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and bite your lower lip, eyes twinkling with that familiar lustful spark.

“Thanks,” you purr.

Javier watches, transfixed, as you rise gracefully from the split, the added sway in your hips from the heels making every step seductive.

You walk straight to him, locking your arms around his neck and batting your full lash clusters up at him with a knowing smile.

“Long day?” you ask innocently, body pressing flush against his.

He instinctively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, his other hand dropping to grab a generous handful of your ass, squeezing possessively.

“The longest,” he mutters hoarsely. His fingers knead the soft flesh, already imagining how it would feel bouncing against his thighs. “What do you have to show me?”

You flash him a flirty smirk and lean up to kiss his chin, lips brushing against the stubble there. “Come sit.”

You unwrap yourself from him, taking his hand and guiding him over to the chair you’ve placed in the perfect spot. Javier gives you a skeptical yet amused look, but sits anyway, spreading his thighs wide in that casual, masculine way that always makes your stomach flutter.

“What now?” 

“You ask sooo many questions all the time,” you tease, circling him slowly like he’s your prey. “It’s annoying.”

He scoffs, leaning back in the chair, one hand resting on his thigh, his silver watch glinting.

“Yvonne mixed me a tape for my new set,” you continue, walking over to your CD player. “I figured since I have you at my disposal, you’d be the perfect person to practice it on.”

Javier’s brows raise slightly. He knew better than to expect you to summon him here for an intel related meeting. Not that he’s complaining. God, never that.

“How lucky am I?” he murmurs, watching as you pop in the disc and adjust the lighting with a tap on your phone. The room dims to match the sensual mood. 

“Very,” you reply with a wink, pressing play.

The song begins and you move toward the pole in the center, hips moving with finesse, the heels clicking against the sleek hardwood floor.

Javier leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like a man watching his favorite sin unravel.

The hypnotic beat of the music blends seamlessly and most definitely adds to the attraction. Your vibe for the entire set is to give off more siren energy—as opposed to your usual lively and upbeat routines.

You swirl your hips at the right time and dance provocatively, showing off your flexibility in the sexiest way. You spin around the pole in different positions and tricks that speak to how naturally talented you are.

The only good thing your mother ever did was force you into doing gymnastics as a little girl, then cheer in high school. It really set the groundwork for your skills today.

The colored lights shift and bleed across your dancing figure in hypnotic waves, turning the entire top floor into a private stage just for him as you grip the pole tightly between your thighs, hanging upside down, blowing a kiss to him.

Javier feels the same pull he felt that first night at Ace. When you stepped onto the stage in that cowgirl outfit, dazzling under the lights as bills rained down around you.

But this is different. More intimate. More dangerous. You’re not performing for a crowd tonight. You’re performing only for him.

It further fuels this selfish entitlement he feels towards you. 

Deep reds and purples kiss your skin, making you look like a wet dream come to life. You catch his eye as you move, holding his gaze with that signature daring look, lips parted, a small, cocky smile playing at the corners.

Javier is rock hard, breathing heavier than he should be. He’s been turned on since your first text, but watching you now is torture of the best kind. His palms are clammy, fingers balled up into a fist as he fights to keep himself sat in the chair.

You approach him slowly but you don’t let him touch. Instead, you slowly unzip your cropped jacket, teasing him more, peeling it off and letting it slide down your arms then drop to the floor, revealing a sexy push-up bra that lifts your tits perfectly.

The sight makes his tongue feel thick in his mouth, eyes tracing down your toned sternum and to the shining gem of your pretty belly button ring.

Then go the shorts. You turn around, giving him the view he’s been dying for—sliding the fabric down your legs with agonizing slowness, bending at the waist to show off the perfect, round curve of your ass in the tiny thong.

The arch in your back is wicked, thick thighs flexing as you step out of the shorts and leg warmers, leaving you in nothing but the heels, bra, and thong.

Javier’s breath catches, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

You fall to your knees and crawl toward him on all fours, eyes locked on his. Your hands slide up his legs and onto his thighs. Purposely, you press your chest against the swollen bulge at his fly, feeling the print of his cock. It makes you hum as you rise to settle on his lap.

You grind your needy core right against his erection. The friction is electric. You smirk when you feel how hard he is, the exact reaction you were looking for, and how his hips twitch up instinctively to meet you.

Large, gun-calloused hands settle on your waist, groping as you reach behind yourself and unclasp your bra. You shimmy your shoulders sensually, letting the straps fall, then toss the garment aside. Your tits spill free, nipples tight and begging for his attention.

Javier’s hooded eyes drop immediately, heavy with lust. His mustache twitches as he licks his lower lip, fingers digging harder into your waist.

“Do you like what you see, baby?” you coo with a tilt of your head, biting your lip as you press down harder, rolling your hips in tantalizing circles against his cock to match the rhythm of the song.

“Fuck yeah. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen,” he rasps truthfully, guiding the way you move on him.

The giggle you let out is downright salacious. “I know.”

Javier groans, head falling back for a second as you keep moving, your damp arousal leaving a wet spot on his pants. He’s losing his fucking mind.

The mix fades out on a sultry, lingering note. You’re about to slide off Javier’s lap, but his strong hands hold you firmly in place.

He lifts his hips slightly, reaching into his back pocket with one hand. His wallet comes out, and he flips it open, pulling out some cash. The paper is crisp as he drags the edge of the money slowly between your breasts, the sensation puckering your sensitive nipples.

He continues lower, the bills brushing over your stomach until they tickle the sensitive skin around your belly button ring. You squirm on his lap, thighs tensing around him, a soft moan slipping from your lips as heat pools low in your core.

You stare down at him, intrigued and breathless, glossed lips parted.

Javi holds the money up between you in a challenge. You reach for it, but he pulls it back at the last second, an impish glint in his dark eyes.

“Dame un beso.”

The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Your clit throbs hard, a fresh wave of wetness soaking your thong. It’s rare when he speaks Spanish to you, but when he does, it always fucks with your head in the best way. It’s so impossibly sexy.

You grab his loosened tie, yanking him forward until your bare tits press against the fabric of his shirt. 

Your nose brushes against his strong, aquiline one, as you cup his jaw in both hands, thumbs stroking over the rough stubble on his cheeks. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean in and kiss him exactly as he asked—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier.

His thick mustache scratches against your skin, sending goosebumps racing down your arms. You bite his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth before slipping your tongue inside, tasting the remnants of whiskey on him. 

Javier loses himself in the kiss. He loves this almost as much as fucking you. The softness of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you melt against him like you were made to fit right here.

Your body is warm and pliant against him. It fuels every dark, possessive feeling he has for you. He’s too addicted to the way you make him feel.

You pull back first, nipping his bottom lip one last time, a thin string of spit connecting your mouths. You snatch the money from his fingers with a playful little smirk.

“Thanks, daddy,” you coo, pecking the tip of his nose before sliding off his lap entirely.

His cock twitches hard in his pants, a fresh surge of lust making his head spin. He’s never been called that before, but coming from you, it stirs something primal and filthy inside him. Though anything you call him makes him react this way.

“So, what’d you think of the set?” you ask as you move around the studio, changing the lights to a softer, warmer glow.

Javier feels a little disoriented. He expected the dance to lead straight into fucking you senseless on the floor.

“It was great,” he mutters, adjusting himself blatantly as he watches you. “Fucking amazing.”

“Think my tips are gonna be good?”

“Your tips are always good, muñeca.”

You laugh softly, a sinful little sound. “Smart answer, agent.”

You slip off your Pleasers and return them to their spot on the wall, then grab your phone. You approach him from behind, leaning down to rest your chin on his shoulder. Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt.

“I’m gonna change, then I want you to take us somewhere.”

Javier turns his head slightly. “Take us somewhere…? It’s late.”

“And?” You peck his lips. “You’re on Vegas time now, baby. No such thing as it being too late.”

He supposes you have a point. “Okay… where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” You wink, pulling back and walking down the stairs. He has no choice but to follow.

You change quickly, squeezing into a low-rise mini skirt that barely covers your ass and a tight tube top that stretches across your heavy breasts, slipping on your favorite pair of glittery pumps. Throwing on a cropped, bedazzled denim jacket, you let your hair down from the ponytail and fluff it out until it falls exactly how you want it to.

Snatching the nearest designer bag, you scoop a quick bump onto your pinky nail, inhale it sharply, and rub your nose with a sniffle before stuffing your essentials inside.

Javier watches from the doorway, arms crossed, the bulge in his pants still obvious.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” he asks as you meet him at the door.

You pop a lollipop into your mouth, the glossy pink sphere resting between your freshly glossed lips as you spritz on some perfume.

“Nope.”

Walking out into the night together, the city waits with the promise of more chaos, pleasure, and more of the beautiful disaster you two can’t seem to quit.

Javier’s Escalade rolls to a stop at the end of a long, private driveway. Ahead sits a sprawling, Tuscan styled house. It looks like something out of an architecture magazine. 

Palm trees sway gently in the night breeze and the distant lights of Las Vegas glitter far below like a spilled jewelry box.

He cuts the engine and stares at the house for a long moment, brows pinched together.

“Where are we?”

“A mansion,” you reply simply, popping the door open and hopping out, your short skirt riding up your thighs as you adjust the strap of your bag against your shoulder. 

Javier deadpans, exhaling through his nose. He kills the headlights, steps out, and follows you up the wide stone pathway toward the massive double front doors. His eyes scan the property automatically—looking for cameras, motion lights, anything that might scream you’re about to get caught trespassing!

You pause near one of the ornate windows flanking the entrance, then casually step off the path and into the neatly trimmed hedges, careful not to let the heel of your custom Swarovski Louboutin’s sink into the wet dirt below.

“What the hell are you doing?” Javier whisper-yells. He stays on the walkway, glancing over his shoulder like he expects a security guard to appear any second.

You ignore him, rolling the candy around in your mouth as you feel along the underside of the window frame. A few seconds later you make a soft, triumphant sound.

“Score.”

You pull a small metal key from its hiding spot, wipe the dirt off on the side of your skirt, and step back onto the pathway. Using the item, you unlock the front door and step in, immediately going over to the alarm and punching in the code to make sure it doesn’t sound off.

Javier remains in the doorway, framed by moonlight, eyes narrowed into slits.

“Are you just going to stand there looking like there’s a stick up your ass or are you coming in?” you ask with a tilt of your head.

“Whose house is this?” he demands.

He doesn’t recognize the property from any of the files on you or the Valentine family. The place is too clean and far removed from the usual circles of Ace and the Ivory Saints.

Granted, it could be under a different account or something, but he sincerely doubts it—especially with the way you’re looking at him right now.

“A plastic surgeon’s.”

His frown deepens in confusion.

You roll your eyes dramatically, popping the candy free from between your lips for a second. “For a federal agent—it really takes you a while to figure shit out sometimes.”

His tone hardens sternly as he says your name, hands settling on his hips.

You sigh, as if taking pity on him. “His name is Neil. He’s a frequent client of mine. Told me I could crash here whenever I wanted. Su casa es mi casa.”

“Bullshit.”

Yeah, complete bullshit. You’ve been here enough times to memorize the alarm code the other man always puts in and where he keeps the spare key. It’s not your fault that these men make it easy for women like you to take advantage of them. 

You shrug, completely unbothered. “He doesn’t even live here full-time. He’s usually off being the perfect, present dad with his family. He only comes here when he’s got a patient in town… or when he misses me.”

For some reason that manages to irk the fuck out of Javi. His jaw flexes, a flicker of jealousy crossing his handsome face before he can hide it.

“I’m not breaking into your plastic surgeon’s house,” he tells you firmly.

“Uh,” you’re almost offended by the statement, “he’s not my surgeon. This body?” You spin in place, showing off your banging figure in the tight outfit, running a hand up your side, over the swell of your hip, squeezing your tit. “All natural. You should know.” You flip your hair over one shoulder with a little smirk.

“Don’t be such a priss, baby. I just wanna have some fun with you.” you push your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout and look at him in that way that always gets under his skin. 

Javier doesn’t think he’s ever been this wrapped around someone’s finger before—not even his ex-wife, whom at one point in his life he truly had loved. Something about you makes him lose every ounce of good sense he’s ever possessed.

He rolls his tongue over his teeth, mutters something under his breath, and finally steps inside the luxurious home without another word, shutting the door behind him.

Your pout melts into a smug, victorious grin. You close the distance between you, kissing him hotly, tasting like sugar and whatever gloss you put on earlier. “I’ll make it worth your while,” you whisper against his lips. “Promise.”

Javier only grunts in response, but his hand finds yours anyway. You lace your fingers through his and lead him deeper into the darkened mansion, flipping on lights as you go, illuminating a path through this maze of house.

Once you reach the main bedroom, you adjust the dimmer slider. Soft light spills across the space, revealing an almost tacky display of wealth.

In the center of the room sits a massive circular bed draped in silk sheets. Glass doors open onto a private patio where a steaming hot tub waits. But what truly pulls Javier’s attention is the enormous mirror covering the entire ceiling. A perfect reflection of the bed beneath it.

Wrapping your candy in its wrapper, you slip it into your purse and sling the accessory onto one of the leather chairs near the small bar area. You shrug out of the cropped denim jacket, letting it fall in a heap next to it. 

“This is really what I wanted to show you.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of Javier’s mouth. He walks up behind you without a word, the warmth of his body pressing against your back as he lowers his face into the crook of your neck.

His hands begin to roam, one sliding up to cup your breast through the thin fabric of your top, thumb brushing over the already tight nipple, the other settling on your hip.

“I want to watch you fuck me, agent.” You whisper in the sweetest voice, thighs rubbing together as the pressure at your pussy intensifies. 

He bites down on the sensitive pulse point just below your ear, then licks a wet line up the side of your neck, grinding the hard swell of his erection against the curve of your ass.

With a request like that, he knows he has no choice but to deliver.

“Undress and kneel on the bed.” He orders in a raspy tone, which slithers down the length of your spine and makes you arch your back, pressing yourself against him even more.

He releases you and takes a step back. You inhale shakily, the sudden absence of him leaving your skin tingling, but you do exactly as you’re told.

Your compliance is rare. You don’t usually submit to just anyone. Javier just has this authority about him that makes you really fucking wet.

He watches with hooded eyes as he digs into his pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He taps one free, lights it in one smooth motion, and takes a long drag. The sweet burn of tobacco fills his lungs while he observes you peel the skimpy outfit from your body.

You kick the heels aside and crawl onto the circular bed, kneeling right in the center. Your hands cross behind your back, back arched, the submission in your posture a thin veil over the bratty attitude that’s embedded in your damn being.

Javier approaches slowly, the cigarette burning between his fingers. His gaze traces every inch of you lustfully: the perfect shape of your breasts, the hard points of your nipples, past your belly ring and down to your delicious thighs. 

You look sinful and expensive, waiting just for him to make you feel like no one else has before.

Doing some ogling of your own, you bite down on your lip.

You’ve never been particularly drawn to the suit-and-tie type, but something about the way the button up stretches across Javier’s broad shoulders and the leather belt cinches his narrow waist really turns you on.

The expensive silver watch further accentuates his toned forearms and thick wrist. His large, veined, capable hands are something that dreams are made of. His fingers feel almost as good as his cock inside you.

You can’t help the way you writhe slightly in place, restless, as you watch him smoke. His dark brown eyes meet yours through the cloudy haze, locked in a silent, heated challenge.

Silent as ever, Javier trails a hand slowly down to the front of his pants. He grips the thick, heavy outline of his cock through the fabric. He’d skipped the briefs today, and the material of his dress pants does little to hide how badly he wants you.

You watch, tongue slipping out to wet your lower lip, as he unbuckles his leather belt with one hand. The metal clinks softly. He pops the button of his fly free, then slides the zipper down with a deliberate rasp. 

You get a good glimpse of his pubic hair and that puts hearts in your eyes.

“Come here.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, the tension in the room so thick it feels like it could choke you. Just like earlier, you crawl across the circular bed on all fours until you reach the edge where he stands. You look up at him through your lashes, waiting for further instructions.

Seeing him in charge like this is really doing it for you.

Holding your gaze, Javier slowly pulls his cock free. The heat of him radiates against your face.

He wraps a firm hand around the thick base, then drags the flushed, leaking head across your lower lip, smearing sticky precum over the soft skin.

The salty-sweet taste hits your tongue the second you lick it, and your mouth waters instantly. He shivers at the contact, eyes darkening further as he takes another long drag from the cigarette, then reaches out to ash it carelessly on the surface of the nearby bedside table.

You part your lips eagerly, leaning forward to take more of him, but he pulls back with a soft, warning tut.

“Not yet.”

Javier begins stroking himself right in front of you. He uses his own precum to slick his shaft, fist gliding up and down.

“Spit on it.”

You gather saliva on your tongue, letting it drop from your mouth and onto his cock with a wet sound that makes your thighs press together. A deep, guttural groan rumbles in his chest at the added lubrication as he watches you on all fours, eager to suck him off and so fucking compliant.

“So you do know how to follow instructions.” Condescension lathers his statement. “Why do you always act so damn stubborn when I ask you to do something, huh baby?”

“Please, Javi—”

“Nuh-uh.” He cuts you off, taking another drag of the cigarette. Smoke curls from his lips as he looks down at you. “Don’t call me that.”

Your confusion lasts only half a second before understanding blooms right against your clit.

“Please, daddy,” you breathe, soft and needy. “Let me suck your cock.”

A satisfied, dark smirk curves his mouth. He then guides the swollen head back to your waiting lips. This time he gives you what you want, sliding into the perfect damp heat of your mouth in one controlled thrust.

His eyes flutter shut, cigarette dangling between his lips, head tipping back as an expletive in Spanish leaves him.

Your lips stretch wide as you take him as deep as you can. His big, veined dick fills your mouth, the heady taste of him flooding your senses.

When the bulbous tip nudges the back of your throat, you gag lewdly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Spit begins to drip down your chin as you hollow your cheeks and suck, determined to take more.

Javier’s hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, but he doesn’t force your movements. He just holds you there, hips shifting forward in shallow thrusts while he continues to smoke, watching you through half-lidded eyes as you worship his cock.

The ceiling mirror above captures the way your back arches as you push yourself deeper onto him. It’s a beautiful sight, especially when he sees the cute dimples at the base of your spine.

The hand in your hair tightens and pulls you back until only the flushed, glistening tip rests between your plump lips. You look up at him through wet lashes and start to taste it the same way you worked that lollipop earlier; licking and swirling your tongue, sucking on just the head.

The need to feel the rest of you again becomes too much. He guides you forward once more, feeding his cock back into your mouth, controlling the pace with firm, steady pressure.

You love sucking dick, thoroughly enjoying the stretch of your jaw, the fullness in your throat, the way his cock pulses against your tongue. Every time he bottoms out and the head nudges the back of your mouth, a fresh rush of wetness soaks between your thighs.

When he holds you flush against him, the wiry hair at the base of his cock tickles your nose, and your eyes water until tears stream from the outer corners, making your lashes clump together. The look you give him is so fucking inviting.

The lack of air and the relentless desire makes your head spin better than any drug you’re hooked on.

Javier leans over and crushes the finished cigarette against the glass top of the bedside table. With both hands free, he tangles them into your silky hair, gripping tight on either side of your head.

His hips start moving with more urgency, fucking your mouth with impassioned thrusts. The metal buckle of his open belt occasionally grazes your cheek, but you’re too far gone to care. Your cheeks are sucked in for maximum suction, spit bubbling at the corners of your lips and dripping in long, glossy strands down your chin and onto your bare tits.

The entire act is messy as fuck.

He pulls out suddenly, his spit-slicked length bouncing against your lips. He rubs himself all over your pretty face—smearing the remnants of your gloss and the minimal makeup you put on earlier, painting your cheeks and chin with his precum and your own spit.

Your eyes stay closed in pure bliss as you chase him with your tongue, licking and mouthing at the smooth, hard shaft whenever it comes near your lips.

“God, you look so fuckin’ perfect like this, muñeca,” he praises.

You smile indecently, then lean in and kiss your way down the underside of his cock until you reach his heavy balls. You suck one into your mouth, rolling it gently with your tongue, then the other, giving them thorough attention before licking all the way back up and deepthroating him on your own accord. 

The squelchy, rhythmic gluck-gluck sounds of the eager blowjob fill the room as you set out to make him spill down your gifted throat.

Javier catches on to your plan immediately. He uses the firm grip in your hair to pull you off with a vulgar pop, craning your head back so you’re forced to look up at him.

Your lips are swollen and numb, lids heavy, spit still connecting you to him in a thin string.

“Easy there, baby,” he rumbles, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Don’t be such an eager little slut. I’ll make sure you get what you want.”

The degradation sounds so sweet coming from him, sending another pulse of heat straight to your cunt.

“You taste so good. Please cum down my throat.” you stick your tongue out, enticing him to slide in again.

He tilts his head mockingly, mustache twitching at your words. Letting go of your hair, he pulls his loosened tie free and unbuttons the rest of his dress shirt. His pants drop the rest of the way to his ankles, leaving him half-dressed.

Javier maneuvers you into the position he wants you in, flipping you over until you’re bent over in front of him, ass up, face down toward the circular bed.

Pulling your hips up and forcing a deep arch into your back, he grips his cock again and runs the fat head up and down your puffy, swollen folds.

You’re dripping for him, wet and sensitive from just sucking him off.

“Beg for it.”

You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you. The sound earns you a sharp, hard crack across the plump cheek of your ass. The sting blooms hot and it feels so fucking good, making you yelp and push back toward him instinctively.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, half appeasing his command, half appeasing yourself.  “Fuck this pussy. She needs you so bad. I need you.” You roll your hips, trying to catch the head of his cock in your hole to force him inside the heavenly cavern of your pussy.

He doesn’t give in so easily this time. He uses the upper hand he has to tease you the way you’ve always teased him. His free hand gathers both of your wrists and pins them firmly against your lower back, making you collapse onto your cheek, even more at his mercy.

The position leaves you open, exposed, completely under his control. With a tight grip on your wrists, he holds you still and repeats the command.

“Beg for it like you mean it, baby. I know you can do better than that.”

You bite your lip hard, walls clenching around nothing as your tongue loosens.

“I think about you all the time,” you confess with a shaky voice. “When I’m at the club grinding on some small dick asshole who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. When I’m home with my fingers buried in my cunt, imagining they’re yours. I need you so bad, daddy. No one can please me the way you and your cock do.”

Javier’s jaw clenches hard. His cock jumps against your needy pussy at the filthy honesty of your words. He lands another sharp spank on the opposite cheek, making you moan, then—without warning—buries himself deep inside you in one thrust.

“Oh fuck!” you sob, the sudden, burning stretch overwhelming as he begins to ravish you entirely.

Javier braces himself with the grip on your wrists, pounding into you with everything he has. Your arousal splatters wetly against his groin with every hard snap of his hips, the creamy evidence of how badly you want him coating his cock each time he pulls out and drives back in.

Your pussy lips grip him greedily, the wet, filthy sounds of skin on skin filling the room.

“Just like that, baby,” he grunts, sweat beading at his temple, his face stern in concentration. “Take it.”

He leans forward, yanking you up slightly by the wrists and wrapping his other hand around your throat, holding you in that perfect, controlled position while he splits you open on his cock over and over.

The pressure of his fingers on your neck is exact. Not too tight, just enough to make every thrust feel more intense as he holds you in the perfect position.

“Oh my god—ah—oh my god, yesyesyes, just like that. I love taking your cock just like this. So fucking big,” you babble, voice high and a large fucked-out smile on your face. “Fuck this pussy harder, daddy, please. You make me so fucking horny.”

Dirty talk has never been something Javier particularly sought out, but hearing it spill from your mouth in that sweet, pornographic tone makes him fucking feral. He adds more force to his thrusts, adjusting the angle of his hips until he finds that perfect spot that tears those high-pitched, broken cries from your lips—the ones he loves more than he should.

Your walls squeeze him wetly as your climax coils tighter and tighter. Your clit pulses with every deep stroke. Tears stream freely down your cheeks as the pleasure builds to the edge of pain.

“Give it to me, Javi—please—fuck, I’m about to come,” you sob, eyes squeezed shut, body quivering around his shaft.

His gaze drops to the sight of your ass clapping back against his thighs, then lower, to where your pussy lips are stretched obscenely around him and the absolute mess you’ve made together. 

He lets you climb right to the brink of your orgasm, right to that perfect edge where you’re about to shatter wholly, before he pulls out completely.

You gasp loudly, the sudden emptiness leaving you disoriented and teeming with agonizing horniness. Your empty cunt clenches around nothing, desperate for the fullness he just stole.

“Javi… daddy… baby, please—”

He releases you entirely. You collapse forward onto the bed, trying to catch your breath. Your wrists throb faintly from his grip, and your pussy pulses emptily, hips chasing anything that might fill her.

He drops to his knees behind you, in a trance himself, and buries his face between your thighs, mouth opening wide against your used, fucked-out pussy.

The feeling of his mouth makes you cry out into the sheets, the sound muffled and broken. Your lips fall open, drool pooling beneath your cheek as Javier eats you from behind with an intensity that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head.

His tongue spears deep into your fluttering entrance, fucking you with it in short, wet thrusts while his coarse mustache scrapes deliciously against your swollen folds and oversensitive clit. You drench his face almost immediately, a fresh rush of arousal coating his lips, chin, and mustache as he groans into you like a man tasting something sweet for the first time.

He sucks your clit hard between his lips, the sudden pressure so perfect, and when his open palm cracks across the flushed cheek of your ass at the same moment, you peak.

The orgasm rips through you without warning. Your back arches violently, thighs shaking around his head as you come hard against his tongue, sobbing into the expensive sheets. Spit, tears, and snot leave a wet, messy patch on the fabric.

Your entire body buzzes and twitches in the aftermath, aftershocks rolling through you while Javier keeps licking, sucking, and groping the soft flesh of your ass and thighs like he can’t get enough.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he mumbles against your soaked cunt, the deep resonance making you whimper. He slows his tongue but doesn’t stop, lapping up every syrupy drop. “I’d do anything for this pussy, baby. Anything.”

You’re too far gone to fully register the words. Your mind is white noise and pleasure, limbs heavy and loose. You barely notice when he finally pulls back, stands, and finishes undressing—kicking the pants and shoes away until he’s completely naked, every hard line of his body on display.

Only when the mattress dips under his weight do you become aware again.

“You said you wanted to watch me fuck you,” he reminds you, his voice just barely reaching you over the roaring at your ears.

He moves you easily onto your back, spreading your thighs wide and settling between them. His broad, warm body covers yours as he wraps your legs around his waist and slides back inside you in one smooth motion.

You’re so wet and open that he sinks into the root with almost no resistance. Your back arches hard off the bed, acrylic nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders before dragging down, leaving angry red marks along his back.

“Watch yourself,” he grunts against your ear, pulling back enough to brace himself on one strong arm. His other hand cups your jaw firmly, forcing your face upward so you’re looking straight into the massive mirror on the ceiling.

The reflection is licentious and beautiful all at once—golden satin sheets tangled around your bodies like melted gold, your legs locked tight around his waist, the way his back muscles ripple and contract with every deep thrust.

His ass flexes as he drives into you. Your tits bounce with the force of it. Tears still gloss your eyes, making the entire image shimmer and blur, but you can’t look away.

You’re left completely speechless, lips parted as you pant and moan wildly. Another orgasm builds fast and vicious with the change in position and the visual of him taking you so thoroughly.

Javier feels the way your walls start fluttering and switches from long strokes to deep, grinding circles, pressing the base of his cock and the wiry hair at his pelvis against your swollen clit and rubbing it in intentful circles.

The dual sensation of being stretched full of him and the constant friction on your clit is too much. You topple over with a broken sob of his name, body locking up as you come hard around his cock, gushing in quivering waves.

“So pretty coming all over my cock like this, baby. Bet those other motherfuckers don’t get to see you like this, huh? Tell me. Tell me they don’t fuck you like I do.”

His fingers dig into the soft skin of your cheeks, holding your face steady so you keep watching yourself fall apart in the mirror. He grinds through every pulse of your orgasm, letting you ride it out, relishing the way your cunt grips him like a vice.

“They don’t fuck me like you do, Javier. No one does.” Your words slur, but you tell him the truth. There’s no need to lie. He is the best fuck you’ve ever had. 

Javier breathes heavily above you, satisfied with your answer, fighting off his own release, more interested in drawing every last drop of pleasure from your body than finishing himself. Your vision is blurry, eyes flitting between the mirror and his intense, dark stare.

His expression is focused, almost stern, locked on every little spasm and tremor you give him.

Still holding your face, he leans down and kisses you soft and slow—a stark contrast to the way he’s been fucking you. The tenderness makes more tears well in your eyes.

“Oh…” you whimper against his mouth, the contrast almost too much.

“No llores (don’t cry), muñeca,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’m giving you exactly what you asked for.”

You hiss when he pulls out, chasing after his lips as he begins to pull away. Javier rolls the two of you over with ease so that now he’s flat on his back and you’re draped fully across his chest, knees bracketing his waist.

“Turn over on your back. Lean on me.” His curved nose brushes your cheek as his fingers trail lazily up and down the length of your spine.

You hum in response, body still trembling, and carefully rearrange yourself. You sit up to reverse the position, then sink back until you’re lying flat against his broad chest, the hard planes of his muscles warm and sticky from sweat under your back.

Your thighs drape over his, feet planted on the mattress on either side of his legs. In the ceiling mirror the view is erotic—your body stretched out on top of his, tits rising and falling with every breath, the dark trail of his happy path visible beneath you.

Javier spreads his legs wider, forcing yours open in the process. You reach down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock and rubbing the head through your swollen lips. The contact makes your head tip back against his shoulder with a soft moan.

You guide him to your entrance and sink down slowly, taking every inch until you’re fully seated on him.

“Ohhh…” you whine, one hand flying up to tangle in his dark hair while the other cups your own breast, squeezing and tugging your nipple as you lock eyes with him in the mirror above.

That nearly does him over. You’re such a sight like this—the memory of this night will be burned into his mind for the rest of his fucking life.

He plants his feet firmly against the mattress for leverage and begins thrusting upward in a steady, powerful rhythm. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you steady as he slides in and out of your worked pussy.

Both of you watch, enraptured, as your bodies move together in the reflection. Your tits bounce with every upward stroke, the place where you’re joined glistening and messy, his thick shaft sawing into you over and over again.

“This what you wanted?” he whispers hotly against your ear, teeth nipping at the lobe.

“We look so good,” you moan, the hand on your breast sliding down to rub tight circles over your clit while the other yanks at his hair. “Fuuuuck, you feel so good daddy.”

Javier sucks a dark mark into the soft skin of your neck, uncaring that it might cause problems for you at the club later. Matching bruises are already forming under his fingers at your waist.

The dual sensations—the deep stretch of his cock and the pressure on your clit—make your thighs shake.

You grow more impatient and greedy. You start swiveling your hips in filthy circles, forcing him to slow his thrusts as you take control.

In a position that is much like reverse cowgirl, you let go of his hair and stop touching yourself. You arch up off his chest, flipping your hair over one shoulder, and plant both palms on either side of his stomach. 

Leaning back slightly, you begin bouncing on his cock in earnest—lifting and dropping, taking him deep on every descent. The new angle hits that spongey spot inside you and tears wild, panting moans from your throat. [🅴]

Javier’s molars grind at the feeling. His balls draw up tight as the orgasm he’s been denying himself for so long finally starts to crest. Watching you ride him with such abandon is too much.

“Where do you want it?” he growls, one hand reaching around to play with your clit again, rubbing tightly, then delivering a sharp little smack against the sensitive pearl that makes you yelp. The bright flash of pain mixed with pleasure nearly sends you over the edge.

As much as you’d love to feel the hot rush of him filling you, you want the visual. The mess.

“On my face… my tits… all over this pussy,” you answer in a pornographic moan, swirling and grinding down on him.

“Fuck—I’m gonna come, baby. Gonna make a mess all over your pretty body.” He curses, spanking your clit once more before both hands clamp down on your hips. He takes over completely, bouncing you on his cock like his own personal toy, using the luscious heat of your cunt to finish himself off.

At the last second he lifts you off and comes hard, thick ropes of his spend striping across your stomach, your tits, and the swollen lips of your pussy. Some of it lands high enough to streak your chin.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” you shriek like a delirious minx, smirking as he paints you exactly the way you asked.

Before you can even process his release cooling on your skin, Javier shoves three thick fingers into your gaping, cum-slick hole. He uses the fresh mess as lube, curling and pumping his fingers hard and fast, chasing one last orgasm from you.

Your face pinches in pure euphoria as you squirt around his hand, making an even bigger, wetter mess, walls fluttering wildly until your body collapses back against his chest as the final climax rips through you.

“Hmmmm… holy shit,” you slur, completely gratified, body fuzzy and heavy. His cum begins to dry on your sweaty skin in sticky patterns.

Javier’s chest rises and falls rapidly beneath you, breath uneven. “Fuck, I need a smoke after that.” 

His hands leave your hips to stroke slowly up and down your thighs. He looks up at the ceiling mirror, admiring the wrecked, post-coital picture the two of you make, your body marked and satiated on top of his. He reaches up and grabs both of your tits, squeezing them together and smearing the cum that landed there even more, thumbs circling your nipples.

“You’re fucking amazing,” he mutters against your ear, then starts kissing a slow path up and down the side of your neck, inhaling the mixed saltiness of your skin and the sweet florals of your perfume.

You only hum in response, a satisfied giggle escaping when his mustache tickles you.

You clench deliberately around the fingers still buried inside you, enjoying the lingering fullness and the way he keeps touching you like he actually can’t stop.

“I know.”

You sink deeper into the warm water of the hot tub, the heat melting the residual ache from your muscles as the jets bubble gently around you.

You track Javier as he steps into the water with you, the steam curling up around his bare chest and shoulders. He settles beside you with a soft splash, one hand holding a crystal flute of champagne he’d poured from the bottle you found in the bar area.

He reaches for you and pulls you fully onto his lap, your wet skin sliding against his. You settle with your back to his chest, the water lapping at your breasts, and take a slow sip from the glass he offers you. The champagne is cold and crisp, the bubbles fizzing on your tongue.

“Stay here tonight.”

Javier snorts, amused, as he glances around the spacious patio. After the second (or third) round in the bedroom, you’d been the one to suggest the hot tub. A perfect way to unwind and let the heat and water soothe the bruises and bite marks he’d left on your skin… and vice versa.

“And if your sugar daddy decides to come home?” he asks, one arm wrapping loosely around your waist under the water.

You shrug, uncaring, and take another sip. “We can ask him to join us. Not the first time he’s shared me.”

Despite knowing what you do and seeing you indulge in other men at Ace, Javi still can’t help but feel that harsh, jealous sting in his chest at your words. His arm tightens around you almost unconsciously.

“Not sure that I want to share you,” he mutters against your bare shoulder, then presses a slow kiss there before trailing higher up the side of your neck.

You press your lips together, tasting the lingering fizz of the bubbly.

Here he goes again, getting sentimental, letting this turn complicated. Good thing you’re an expert at navigating these types of situations.

What? Javier isn’t the first (nor will he be the last) to catch feelings for you. Or, well, your pussy—to be exact.

“You don’t really have a choice, do you?”

“Guess not,” he grumbles.

“Don’t be a grump, handsome.” You lean back on his shoulder and get a good look at him: swollen lips, flushed cheeks, perpetual frown on his face. “You know you’re my favorite. I wouldn’t just ask anyone to stay the night with me.”

“Not even Sebastian?” he asks, the name dry and pointed. 

Javier had personally arrested him that night out on the airstrip in the desert when his team had busted the event. He’d been aware of your little ‘relationship’ with him—so when he saw the guy there with his pimped-out race car and trunk full of drugs, he was more than happy to cuff his ass.

It had been more satisfying than it should have been.

You let out a loud, genuine laugh and finish the rest of the champagne in one swallow. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard that name.

“He served his purpose until he didn’t,” you say, setting the empty flute on the edge of the tub.

Javier is quiet for a moment. “What’s my purpose?”

You pull away just enough to twist sideways in his lap and look him fully in the eyes. Your own narrow slightly, studying him through the steam.

“Are you staying or not?” you ask instead, ignoring his question entirely. It’s a deflection and you both know it. 

Part of you wants him to stay—craving the feeling of being pressed up against him and the weight of his arms around you while you sleep… and the promise of lazy morning sex that would almost certainly follow. But if it’s only going to make things messier, if it’s going to give him the wrong idea, maybe it’s better he goes home.

Plus, there’s the bedroom to clean before you dip. Can’t have Neil coming home to find evidence of your little Goldilocks moment in his sheets.

Javier mirrors your look and decides not to push. He knows what this is. You know what this is. And for now, he’ll keep playing dumb about his feelings until he can’t, pretending this is nothing more than mind-blowing sex.

“I’ll stay.” His raspy voice concedes.

You flash him a bright, toothy grin and lean in to kiss him, pecking his lips repeatedly then spreading them all over his face.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you add in an overly sweet, teasing tone.

Javier rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth quirks upward. He pulls your naked body tighter against his under the water and kisses you back wantonly, one hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck as the steam rises around the two of you and dawn slowly begins to break through in the horizon.

@pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @pedrohoe04 . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @cozymochaa . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7 . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @mandaloriankait . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @angiewatson . @correapunk . @manureadsfanfics . @salingers . + more tags in notes 🖤

[missadangel]

The private dance, grumpy jealous Javi in that suit, and the ceiling mirror… were you trying to kill me? 😮‍💨🔥 These two are such a filthy, chaotic match—and him staying while they both pretend this is only sex has me completely obsessed 🫠

[cozymochaa]

sabor a mi

part 2 of 2 | ex husband!Javier Peña x f!reader

summary: you and your ex husband are forced to see each other every week since you share custody of your daughter. arguments are the only thing left between the two of you, but is that enough to let him back in?

contents/warnings: mature/explicit (18+ MDNI!) - former established relationship, shared custody, more background on them, Javier's job, Chucho appearances, original characters, falling in love again, feelings, angst, alcohol, some mentions of addiction and getting better, therapy, insecurities, pregnancy and postpartum talk (in the past), they're trying, healing, insecurities, reminiscing, no descriptions of reader (besides hair and female anatomy), no uses of y/n. Apologies if I missed anything.

smut tags: kissing, unprotected sex, dirty talk, intimate reconnection, making up during a storm, creampie, aftercare.

wc: 9400+ (i got very carried away)

song: purple rain by prince - "i never meant to cause you any pain"

a/n: honestly didn't think i would write a second part to this but here we are. this took me three months to write lmao. they've become so special to me and (spoiler alert) i do think that they end up happily ever after... and have more kids and get a dog :) anyway enjoy reading! and try to find nicer ways to ask people for the next part (sue me)

᯽ part 1 | read on ao3 | gif credit

Javier could hardly wait to see you again since the kiss. He’s been antsy – his daughter even pointed it out. Caffeine has been his holy grail because of it. 

Thoughts of you haunt him at night, leaving him tossing and turning until sunlight peeks in through the curtains. Then he can’t go back to sleep because it’s his week with your daughter. 

He goes through the motions of getting her ready for school; watching her brush her teeth, helping her pick out an outfit, taming her unruly curls, making her breakfast, packing her lunch. After dropping her off, he drives to his father’s ranch to work. 

Since resigning from the DEA, helping out on the ranch has been his only source of income. Although it pays decently, he still feels like the itch for action isn’t being scratched. The adrenaline from his old job is something he longs for every day, but he’s also very aware that it’s the main reason why the two of you drifted apart.

He’d come back to the apartment drained from his day at work. One thing leads to another, and the two of you are arguing for the millionth time that week. He’d push, yelling at you, only for you to push back harder.

He loved the fire you had – he did. But when it came to arguments, you never backed down when it was obvious that he was tired. 

His footsteps would carry him to the bedroom, you tailing on his heels, voice getting louder and louder now that his back is towards you.

During times like these, he regretted getting married to you fresh out of college. The two of you were still babies and didn’t know your position in the world yet. You didn’t hesitate when he asked you to go to Colombia with him, telling him that you’d follow him wherever he wanted you to. He appreciated it at the time, but over time realized that you resented him for uprooting your life before it even got started. 

You never spoke those words outloud, but he knew. It was written all over your face.

Then you got pregnant with your baby girl, keeping it from him for weeks until it wasn’t easy to hide anymore. 

His career was at its peak, the scent trail on Escobar closer than it’s ever been. He wasn’t home, wasn’t present. When he was, the stench of alcohol on his clothes made you gag in your mouth. 

The news hit him like a punch in the gut, his drunken mind not completely processing the pregnancy test you were showing him. His red-rimmed eyes darted back and forth between the word ‘PREGNANT’ and your stomach. 

It wasn’t until your palm splayed against the fabric of your shirt that he breathed, realizing what you were telling him.

He blinked, meeting your teary eyes.

“I’m pregnant, Jav.”

He did what he always did: ran.

According to Steve, he got so wasted that night that he blacked out. Javier obviously doesn’t remember that, but either way, he’s not proud of how he acted.

Now, he stares out at the Rio Grande, watching the same kind of people he used to catch for a living smuggle drugs into the country. Not only did he make a promise to himself that he wouldn’t go back to that life, he made a promise to you and his daughter.

The greenland expands in front of him, water rippling as the men move out in their small boats. 

They’re right fucking there, Javier thinks to himself.

His younger self would’ve already had them cuffed, faced down in the dirt. But he’s not that ambitious 30-something year old anymore. He’s 41, has a child to look after, a house to maintain, family to spend time with, and perhaps a relationship to mend with you.

How fast the two of you went from strangers, to lovers, to enemies gives him whiplash whenever he thinks about everything that went down. You’ve been divorced for a year now, but you haven’t really been a couple for a lot longer than that.

Guess you could blame his job for that.

The old thoughts of his job is something he allows but that’s all they are – visitors rather than something permanent.

“Javier!” his cousin, Ricardo, calls out to him, pulling him from his thoughts.

He turns around, walking up the small hill. “What?”

“A few of the cows got out. We need help herding them.” Ric announces, watching his cousin with narrowed eyes against the harsh Texas sun.

Javier nods, pulling off his work gloves to pocket them.

“You okay?” Ric asks, looking over Javier’s shoulder and spotting what he was staring at. “You know, it’s okay to go back, right?”

He shakes his head faintly at his cousin, clapping the man on the shoulder as he passes him. “C’mon.”

The two of them walk in silence, work boots crunching against the soil as they make their way towards the barn. Chucho owned the biggest plot of land in Laredo, making it difficult to herd the animals once they got out – which was extremely rare.

He can see his other family and ranch hands trying their hardest to get the cows back, only to be met with moos instead of movement. The sight causes a small chuckle to escape his lips despite himself.

You stand in the kitchen of your apartment, hands gripping the edge of the counter. The sink drips every now and then, a reminder that you’ve been meaning to call someone to come fix it, but haven’t because you’ve been so busy and caught up with legal things.

The divorce took a toll on you. Not only did it have to make your child suffer, it had to take your dignity as well. You can hardly remember the last time you felt like yourself, and that’s the last thing you ever wanted.

Dishes that you’ve just washed sit in the right side of the sink, waiting to be rinsed and placed in the dish drain. But you’re too busy reminiscing. 

Liquid courage has been your best friend lately, though it also means that buried feelings tend to come up to make you feel something. You and Javier used to be a picture perfect couple; the one your friends would admire and wish they had for themselves.

It’s a shame that the two of you ended up the way that you did, because you loved how the two of you were in high school and college. You thought the two of you could conquer the world together, get married, have a big family, and live happily ever after.

Life had other plans apparently.

The sexual chemistry between the two of you never left, but it felt more like a fling rather than a marriage. He was always too tired to do anything, and when he did have energy, you felt like the weekend lover you knew he didn’t have. Like you were just something for him to take his frustration out on from work.

You missed having him around so much that you never said anything about how you felt. Because of that, the two of you became strangers living under the same roof.

Now you’re strangers raising a kid together. You’re sure he’s grown as a person, and so have you, even if you don’t necessarily believe it. 

Besides your daughter, therapy has been a big part of your life for the last six years. It’s helped you at least try to come to terms with what happened. Sometimes, people just fall out of love. There’s no way to know or tell. But now Javier wants to rekindle things, and you’re scared of all your progress being reversed if you let him back in again.

After finishing up the dishes, you grab a pint of ice cream from the freezer and plop down on the couch. A commercial fills the TV screen when you turn it on, lighting up the living room in blues and white. You keep the volume low, not really wanting to watch TV but needing something on in the background to distract yourself. 

This has been your night routine when you don’t have your daughter: eating your sorrows when you don’t feel like drinking anymore. 

After you got pregnant, you stopped caring about your body image, which is why you always thought that was one of the reasons why you and Javier drifted apart. The other night, he convinced you that wasn’t an issue though. 

That made you feel a little better.

A part of you will probably always desire affirmations from Javier in whatever form you can get them in.

Is that horrible and toxic?

Perhaps.

But he does the same thing, so does it really matter?

It’s not like the two of you are dating other people.

The sharp shrill of your phone pulls you out of your thoughts, nearly sending you out of your skin for a moment before you pick it up from the coffee table. You hold it between your ear and shoulder, stabbing at your ice cream with a spoon. “Hello?”

“Hi, mama,” your daughter beams on the other end of the line. “I just brushed my teeth.”

At that, you look up at the clock on the wall, realizing that it’s already well past 8PM. “It’s your bedtime already?” you ask, propping your legs up on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, shuffling on the other end, “Daddy says that Tío Luis’ wedding is this weekend. Are we going?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. If you go to the wedding, that means you would have to see Javier and Chucho. But you also don’t want to deprive your little girl of spending time with her family. This isn’t about you – it’s never been about you – it’s always about her and what she wants.

“Yeah,” you start, leaning your head back against the couch, “I’m sure your cousins, tíos, and tías would love to see you.”

“They’d love to see you too, mama,” she states firmly, probably nodding her head.

A faint smile pulls at your lips at her comment, warmth blooming in your chest from your daughter’s reassurance. “Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better, mi amor.”

She giggles, “I know. I’m always right, aren’t I?”

You laugh with her, the conversation continuing about her day at school before she lets out a loud yawn. 

“You don’t have to stay on the phone with me, baby,” you gently say, sitting up to place your now finished ice cream down.

“I’m okay!” she exclaims, clearly not wanting to hang up just yet. “I just miss you.”

Your heart nearly shatters at that. “It’s only been a few days,” you murmur.

She exhales slowly, “I know, but that’s not what I mean. I miss you and dad… together.”

Oh.

Oh.

You take a slow, deep breath, blinking away the sudden tears brimming your eyes. It was obvious how strongly she felt about this entire situation, but you never thought she would just flat out tell you.

“Y’know,” you start, wiping away an unshed tear, “you’re too emotionally intelligent for your age, mi vida.”

“I know,” she sighs, “but I had to be, in order to survive this.”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Your daughter has rendered you speechless at this point. 

“Sorry, mama,” she mumbles, prompting you to shake your head and stand up.

“No, it’s okay,” you state, rubbing your thumb over your bottom lip – a nervous habit you picked up from Javier way back when. “I’ll speak to him at the wedding, okay?”

Anything to get her to stop talking about it, right?

“Yay!” she beams, pulling a small huff from you. “I think Daddy will be excited to see you. He hasn’t been sleeping much.”

Worry churns in your gut at that, but you focus on her first comment. “You aren’t excited to see me too?” you tease.

She giggles, “Of course I am, mama.” Your daughter goes quiet for a moment, probably chewing on her bottom lip before she speaks up again, “I hope you guys figure things out. I miss how things used to be.”

Your breath catches momentarily, fingers fidgeting with the ends of a throw pillow when you sit back down. This isn’t a conversation you want to have at all, but especially not over the phone. It’ll be discussed when the time is right, and right now, that’s not it.

She truly doesn’t know the worst of what went down between you and Javier. She only saw and knew what the two of you wanted her to.

“Bedtime, mi amor,” you whisper. “I love you.”

You can hear the pout in her voice when she responds, “I love you, too, mama. Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams.”

With that, you hang up the phone, tossing it to the other side of the couch and running a hand down your face.

How are you supposed to face Javier this weekend?

Your love for him has never faded – probably never will. It’s settled deep into your skin, a reminder of the bad decision that you’d make again in a heartbeat.

Javier pulls every button of his red flannel through their designated loops, leaving the top one undone. He’s more nervous than he’d like to admit about seeing you again, leaving his fingers trembling, resulting in it being a little difficult to button up his shirt.

He hasn’t felt like a lovestruck teenager since your wedding. Having it in Laredo, where both of you grew up, made it a lot more intimate and perfect. Not as perfect as how you looked that day but pretty damn close.

It wasn’t anything grand. Fairy lights on his father’s ranch, a wooden dance floor, his drunk cousins promising to protect you as one of their own. 

That was his favorite thing: his cousins always taking care of you when he wasn’t around.

He remembers how scared you were when he was training at the academy. Worried about him getting hurt when you called at the end of the day.

Not getting hurt was always his promise to you. But in the end, he ended up hurting his marriage with you more.

Now he has the opportunity to fix it, and he’s determined not to fuck it up again.

Your therapy sessions have been a pretty big deal to you since then – you’ve always been open about it, not too scared to show vulnerability. And he doesn’t want to reverse any of your progress. 

Besides the few spats the two of you have every now and then, you really have become the best person that he knows. You have been since he met you and it makes him want to do better as well. He knows not to push you, especially when you’re stripping yourself bare in front of him to explain how you’re feeling that day.

Don’t fuck it up, he repeats over and over again in his head, finishing up getting ready before he heads to his daughter’s bedroom.

He knocks three times before he slowly opens the door, peeking his head in. “You just about done in here?” he asks, placing his hands on his hips.

Her face lights up at her father, twirling in her red dress that matches Javier’s shirt. “Ready!”

Javier chuckles fondly, walking deeper into the room when she sits on the edge of her bed. He helps her put on her black boots after she puts on her socks. Her gaze on him is heavy, but he doesn’t say anything until she does.

“Are you nervous to see mama?” she inquires, rocking back and forth in her place.

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, patting her knee once he’s finished putting her shoes on. “Is it obvious?”

“You have that crease,” she points at his forehead, “between your brows.”

Javier relaxes his face at that, realizing that she’s right. “Then I guess I am, mi vida,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She smiles softly, the gap from her missing tooth showing. “That’s okay, daddy. I get nervous sometimes, too.”

He shakes his head slowly, awe spreading across his face as he stares down at his daughter. “You’re too smart for your age,” he gently pinches her chin, earning a giggle from her.

She leans into her dad’s side, wrapping her small arms around him. “I get if from both you and mama,” she looks up at him with her big brown eyes, “You, for your ability to figure out the toughest problems–”

“The math you’re learning isn’t that hard,” he scrunches his nose, shaking his head.

“It’s the ones with multiple numbers to subtract that get me!” she claims, holding up a finger before she continues. “And mama, for her ability to… overcome?” she looks towards Javier, a question written across her face on if she used the right word.

Javier nods slowly.

“Her ability to overcome her feelings,” she states triumphantly.

A smile pulls at his lips, “Yeah, your mom is pretty smart, isn’t she?” he murmurs.

His daughter nods, leaning her head against his side. Javier cards his fingers through her curls, pressing his lips to the top of her head. They’re silent for a moment, breathing in sync as they bask in the warmth of each other.

Javier never thought he would be a good father, but she just makes it so goddamn easy. She lights up every room that she walks into and steals everybody's hearts. She’s… a mini you, so to speak.

After a while, they leave to head to the wedding. Luis and his people rented out the barn at Tacubaya Ranch for the ceremony and reception. It’s a bit out of the way but it’s worth it for the family.

The place is beautifully decorated: multiple round tables with white cloth that can sit at least 8 people per table, warm fairy lights to set the mood, dangling diamonds in the shape of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, a dance floor towards the front, and the various food dishes surrounding it on three sides.

Outside, rows of wooden seats frame the long aisle; white rose petals in the grass, a big white arch that overlooks the view of the greenery. 

Javier sits near the front with his daughter and father, waiting for the bride to come down the aisle. He can tell that his cousin is fidgety – the man constantly adjusts his tie and he’s sweating bullets. All with a grin on his face, though.

Despite himself, Javier looks around for you. His arm is slung over the back of his daughter’s chair, craning his neck back every now and then to see if he can spot you. Family come over, greeting the three of them, but never you – the one he truly wants to see.

He leans down to murmur to his daughter, “What’d you and your mom talk about on the phone?”

Her brown eyes snap towards him. “I never tell,” she pretends to zip her lips, tossing the imaginary key.

Javier chuckles, shaking his head. “Did she say she was coming?”

She nods, beginning to look around as well. A small frown forms on her face as she realizes you’re not here yet. The same furrow Javier has between his brows forms between hers. “She promised,” she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back in her chair.

He watches his daughter, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and brushing back her curls. It’s one thing for you not to show up for him, but it’s a whole other thing for you not to show up for your kid.

So where the hell are you?

Your eyes follow Isabella’s form walking back and forth across the room. She’s been pacing for the last 10 minutes according to her mother. The older woman dragged you upstairs the second you arrived, hoping you could calm her down.

“You’re gonna burn a hole through the floor,” you state, walking into the room and closing the door.

Isabella stops dead in her tracks, a loud exhale of relief escaping her when she sees you. “You came,” she jogs over to you, pulling you into a tight hug.

You wrap your arms around her middle, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Bella.”

She squeezes you once before letting go to look at you. “It’s been too long.”

Unfortunately, she isn’t wrong.

After the divorce, you distanced yourself from Javier’s family. It felt like the right thing to do since legally they aren’t your family anymore. They took you in as their own, and that’s how you decided to repay them apparently.

You’re not proud of it – they had nothing to do with you and Javier’s relationship, but you know how they are and how they would’ve pushed for the two of you to get back together. One of his aunts even went as far as telling you that you could get the divorce reversed within the first 30 days and it would be like it never happened.

But it did.

The divorce isn’t something you’re ashamed of – you don’t want to hide it. Hiding it means that you pretend like it wasn’t a major part of your life. All the heartache and tears that were shed mean nothing if you ignore it, right?

That’s not something you’ll ever do.

You and Isabella talk for a while. She’s stopped her pacing and is sitting by the window now, overlooking all the people that showed up.

“How did you do it?” she asks, looking over at you from her spot, “Marry Javier.”

For a long moment, you don’t respond, thinking of the right words to say. On the spot, you can’t think of any. Marrying Javier was probably the easiest thing you’ve done in your life, and you don’t regret it as much as people may think.

The town has their own story of how the divorce went down, but only you and Javier know the truth. There’s no bad blood, you don’t think that he isn’t fit to be a father like someone mentioned to you; that’s the furthest thing from the truth. You couldn’t ask for a better father for your daughter, and you’re forever grateful that the two of you are civil enough to raise her together. Even if you’re separate.

“It was easy,” you finally answer, “I thought long and hard about whether he was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with…” you trail off, memories of that day flooding your mind.

You were so nervous that you nearly threw up. Your parents were as big of a mess as you were: that was the first time you ever saw your father cry. He barely managed to pull it together to walk you down the aisle. 

Isabella notices the look on your face, straightening up to join you on the couch. She adjusts her dress so she’s not getting it dirty, “So why’d you guys separate?”

That pulls you out of your thoughts, meeting her gaze momentarily. “It just happened,” you shrug, not really wanting to talk about it, “We became different people, I guess.”

Honestly, that’s the best way you can put it without going into detail. Yes, his job played a major role in your divorce. Yes, the pregnancy did, too. But if both of you had put in the effort, you probably would’ve been fine eventually.

To you, arguing with him was easier than admitting your insecurities. No one wants to deal with that, let alone admit it to someone. 

“Do you still love him?” she probes, tilting her head to the side.

“I’ll always love him, Bella,” you answer easily, “He gave me my daughter.”

“But are you still in love with him?”

You take a quiet deep breath at the question, averting her gaze. If you admit it, that opens a fresh floodgate of emotions that you don’t need right now. If you deny it, not only are you lying to her, but you’re lying to yourself as well.

“If it’s meant to be, then it’ll be,” you state, shrugging.

Eventually, the two of you have to go down; you have to find a seat and Isabella has to walk down the aisle. 

You hold your dress so you’re not stepping on the hem of it and getting it dirty. Clacking from your heels sound through the barn as you make your way outside to where everyone is gathered. 

A few heads turn towards you, followed by low murmurs. The gossipping isn’t something that you’ve missed at all.

Instinctively, you look around for your daughter. You have no intention of sitting near Javier, but you still want to know where she is. You spot her towards the front between him and his dad, and you relax your shoulders, taking a seat closest to the aisle in the back.

You cross one leg over the other, resting your hands in your lap. The Texas heat licks at your exposed shoulders, the sun blocked by the patio cover overhead. Thankfully, there are some outdoor fans that make the heat a little more bearable.

You watch your kid swing her legs, her brown hair fanning over her shoulders. She looks over her shoulder, scanning the people before she spots you in the back. Her face lights up and she waves excitedly, beckoning you to come over. The action catches Javier’s attention, his gaze traveling back to you. He doesn’t gesture or mouth anything, but his eyes do soften.

Briefly, it reminds you of how he used to look at you and it tugs at your heart, an unwanted lump forming in your throat.

Without really thinking, you get up slowly, your feet carrying you over to where they’re sitting. There’s an empty seat on Javier’s right side and you swallow your pride to sit down next to him. You cross your legs again, still keeping a respectable distance from him.

The two of you meet each other’s eyes, giving one another a small nod of acknowledgement before you face forward again. Though, Javier doesn’t look away. His eyes burn into your temple, making you wonder what he’s thinking.

His expression is completely unreadable, which is odd to you because once upon a time, you were able to read him like a book.

During the ceremony, tears are shed, whistles are made, family is united. All while you and Javier repeatedly steal glances at each other. You feel like teenagers all over again: too afraid to approach one another because you were scared of rejection.

When everyone stands to head inside, you linger back, needing a moment to breathe. Sitting next to him for what felt like an eternity messed with your mind. His scent clings stubbornly to your memory, cedar with a hint of leather. It sparks up memories that you aren’t sure you want to face yet.

Javier sits at a table inside with his father. The older man is eating the food that is being served while Javier chews on his nicotine gum. His daughter is on the dance floor with her cousins, a big smile on her face. Every now and then, he looks around for you again, unsure of where you went after the ceremony.

The reception is always Javier’s favorite part at a wedding. It was his favorite at yours too. Family get drunk, it’s an excuse to eat desserts that everyone knows isn’t good for them, laughs are loud and genuine, and memories are made. He remembers how chaotic his cousins were during his wedding reception, but they all had pure intentions.

Finally, he spots you talking to a man he doesn’t know towards the very front of the barn. He sits up a little straighter, chewing on his gun a little harder than necessary at the sight. You seem like you know the guy, putting a hand on his bicep when you laugh at a joke. And it’s not just some fake laugh that you give strangers that you no longer want to talk to, it’s your real laugh. One he hasn’t heard in a long time.

He’s almost about to get up before Chucho speaks up, “No lo hagas. (Don’t do it.)”

Javier glances over at his father, shrinking back at his words. “No voy a hacer nada, papá. (I’m not going to do anything, dad.)”

The older man gives him a knowing look, putting down his fork. “You’ve been the same about her since high school,” he claims, watching Javier take a swig of his beer and look back in your direction. “She’ll talk to you when she’s ready, mijo.”

He knows his dad is right, but that doesn’t stop him from getting the urge to walk over to you anyway. He’s also well aware of the fact that he has no claim over you anymore; you’re a grown woman and you can talk to other people. But it’s still not a sight that he likes to see.

To him, it almost feels like a betrayal. The two of you were together for so long that it feels weird not having you within arms reach. His hand would always be on your thigh, or your shoulder, or your lower back. In his own way, it was him silently telling people that you were already taken – if the rock on your left hand wasn’t already obvious enough.

Javier can’t even remember the last time he actually flirted with a woman. It’s only ever been you and he’s not sure if he wants to try with someone else. Not when you agreed to try with him again. He’s been loyal to you since you caught his eye and it will most likely stay that way, even if you don’t end up back together.

Eventually, you walk away from the guy and sit at an empty table. Javier sees this as an opportunity to approach you, regardless of what his old man said. He takes another swig of liquid courage before he makes his way through the crowd to you.

You look up with a faint smile when he comes up to the table, sitting down with one chair in between the two of you. Still giving you space, but leaving the option to move next to him available. 

“Why didn’t you come sit with me and Chucho?” he asks, draping his arm over the back of the chair.

You shrug faintly, taking a sip from your water bottle. Briefly, his eyes drop to the bottle, taking a mental note of the lack of alcohol. “It didn’t feel right to,” you claim.

Javier furrows his brows at that, keeping his gum in the back of his mouth. It’s a subconscious move, he thinks, knowing that you never appreciated when people smacked their gum during conversations. “You’re always welcome to, cariño,” the nickname slips out but he doesn’t take it back, and you don’t comment on it. “We’re still family.”

“Legally, we’re not,” you jab lightly.

“Regardless of that,” he starts, “you’re still family. You shouldn’t feel weird about hanging around us.”

It’s only then that he realizes how much you’re looking around, probably feeling out of place now that you aren’t binded to his family legally. But legality doesn’t choose that, you do. Especially since you’re the mother of his daughter. If anything, that makes you family by blood.

“It’s just…” you trail off, trying to find the right word, “A little strange that I’m here. People are looking at me like I broke your heart or something.” When you laugh it off, it tugs at his heart.

He shakes his head, “Well, they’re wrong and you shouldn’t worry about them.”

“I know,” you whisper, crossing your arms over your chest – a defense mechanism you’ve had since he’s known you. Like you’re shielding yourself from the worst.

Surprisingly, the conversation is still easy with you; no one’s yelling for once and it makes Javier feel at ease. The barn seems like it narrows down to just the two of you. You share laughs, reminisce about old family drama and the days before everything fell apart.

Just easy.

It was always easy with you, and he hates that he ruined things with his job. He still feels incredibly guilty about making you believe that he no longer loved you or blamed you for anything when that isn’t the case at all. 

He’ll always love you, even if the two of you aren’t necessarily together.

“So,” he draws out, deciding to just ask, “who’s the guy?”

You raise your brows slightly at the question, noticing the jealousy he’s trying (and failing) to hide. “Who?”

“The guy you were talking to before you sat down,” he reminds you, knowing that you’re playing dumb to mess with him.

You shrug, leaning back in your seat and sipping on your water. “Oh, that guy.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “that guy.”

A faint but audible chuckle leaves you, shaking your head slowly. “I thought we agreed not to be possessive of each other. I mean, we’re not together anymore,” you murmur.

He weighs his head from side to side, “Yeah, but that was before you said you would give me another chance.”

“Did I say that?” you inquire, feigning innocence. “I don’t think those were my exact words.”

Javier chuckles fondly, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and drawing your eyes there for a split second. “You didn’t flat out reject me either,” he claims.

“True,” you tip your bottle towards him.

He cocks an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. “We could’ve worked out, baby – we should’ve been able to fix things before it got to that point.”

You take a deep breath at his words, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the plastic table cover. You barely process it when your nail pokes a hole through it. “We were pretty young when we got married, Javi,” you shake your head slowly, “Not all couples that start like that actually last.”

“We were supposed to be the one that did,” he starts, hearing you scoff and avoid his gaze. “I am sorry for how I acted. I know how hard it was for you to be in Colombia with me, and I shouldn’t have put my job over our relationship.”

“All you do is apologize,” you express, “but you never actually change.”

“It’ll be different this time,” Javier claims.

“How?” you shrug, “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” he states firmly, “Because I’m going to put in the work. Whatever it takes to get you back.” He pauses, studying your exasperated expression. He knows it’ll take more than just words to fix this, so he suggests something. “I’ll go to therapy with you.”

You furrow your brows at that, confusion spreading across your face. “You know, couples tend to go to therapy before they seperate… not after.”

Despite himself, his lips curve into a small smirk. “I know, but I’ll do it; however many sessions of a stranger telling me my problems and how to fix them. I will do that for you.” He trails off, looking over at your daughter on the dance floor and then back to you, “For us.”

Javier has in fact stuck to his word. Every week, without fail, for the last two months, he’s shown up to therapy with you. Your daughter is ecstatic that both of you are putting in the effort to be her parents again… together.

Now that summer break has started for her, she hangs out with her grandpa while the two of you go to therapy. She’s beginning to push for family dinners every Sunday, but you’d rather take it one step at a time.

To say you’re proud of and grateful for Javier is an understatement. Your mother used to always tell you that he’d never clean up his act.

You’re glad that she was wrong.

This Friday, you and Javier even took the same car. It’s your week to have your daughter, so he thought it would be easier and save gas if you took one car. Plus, he had to drop her off at his dad’s and then head back into town to go to your therapist’s office.

Now, both of you are driving back to the ranch to pick her up. Today, it’s been gloomy all day, but that doesn’t dim your daughter’s smile. She nearly knocks the two of you over when she runs up and hugs you.

“Hola, dulce niña (Hi, sweet girl),” Javier greets her, stroking her hair back.

She looks up at the both of you with a big grin on her face. “¡El abuelo y yo hicimos galletas! (Grandpa and I made cookies!)” she exclaims.

“¿Lo sabías? (Did you now?)” you ask, looking over at Chucho when he gets up from his recliner. You haven’t had much interaction with the man since Javier started going to therapy with you, and you can imagine that he has some words he’d like to share with you.

“¿Puedo hablar contigo? (Can I talk to you?)” Chucho says your name in a soft tone, no sense of audible scolding.

You share a glance with Javier before you nod at his father, peeling away from your daughter and following him into the kitchen.

He sets his cowboy hat down on the island, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. You stand with your hands intertwined in front of you, like you did when you were younger and wanted to ask your parents something you knew they were going to say no to.

“You know he loves you, right?” he asks quietly.

The question catches you off guard for a second, not expecting that to be the first thing he says. “I do,” you murmur, fiddling your thumbs as your nerves build.

“So you can understand my concern when I say that I need you to be careful with his heart,” he expresses sincerely, no room for anything that isn’t serious.

You swallow visibly, your eyes not fraying from the older man. 

“I know you’re adults and you can figure out your feelings on your own–”

You exhale, nearly chuckling. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us,” you claim, shaking your head.

Chucho raises an eyebrow, nodding once, “Sure there isn’t.”

You open your mouth to speak again but your daughter comes running into the kitchen, Javier trailing behind her. 

“I’m sorry, I tried to catch her before she got in here,” he apologizes, picking her up and mumbling something in Spanish to her.

You know he’s lying but you don’t say anything. You’re still stunned about what Chucho just told you.

“Um,” you start, clearing your throat and looking back over at the man who was your father-in-law at some point. He’s still giving you that same knowing look, making your mind frazzled. “We should go before it starts storming. Don’t want to get caught in the middle of nowhere with no service, now do we?”

Before Javier can answer, you’re already heading out to the car, leaving him a little confused. He looks back at his father, adjusting his daughter at his side. “What’d you say to her, papá?”

The older man shrugs, “Nothing she didn’t already know. I just gave her a little push.”

On the drive back to your apartment, you stare out the window the entire time. By this time, the sky looks like it’s just about ready to open up. Every now and then, you glance in the rearview mirror, checking on your daughter. She’s not the biggest fan of storms, and her stuffed bunny is clutched to her chest tightly for comfort.

“Hey,” Javier gets your attention, placing a hand on your thigh and sending heat straight up your spine. 

Now that Chucho’s said something, you realize he’s right. It’s not like you ever stopped loving Javier, you just didn’t feel that connection anymore. But he’s been so patient and good to you for the last 8 weeks, that maybe, you are falling for him… again.

Is it even possible to fall for the same person twice?

If it is, that’s what’s happening to you right now.

“What’d my old man say to you?” he asks, glancing over at you when he stops at a red light. 

You give him the best smile you can muster at the moment, shaking your head slowly. “Just to be careful,” you whisper, softening your expression the longer you look at him.

When he turns his head to continue driving, you admire his side profile in the dim lighting. He’s always been perfect – he was your perfect guy. But even if you do get back together, who’s to say that it’ll be the same level of extreme love again. The kind that pressed in on all sides and kept you warm, safe, and comfortable. 

Honestly, you’re terrified to give your heart to somebody again. Even if it’s the same person that had it to begin with. Colombia made you into two different people that ended up growing apart and resenting each other for major things. 

Neither of you are getting any younger, and it feels like it’s too late to start over with someone else. And you have a child to consider.

“Be careful with what?” he probes gently, putting his hand back on the steering wheel.

The loss of warmth hits you like a punch in the gut, “With our hearts.”

He glances at you again and before you know it, he’s parked in front of your building.

“Can we go inside before it starts pouring?” your daughter asks, pulling you out of your daze.

Both you and Javier chuckle, getting out of the car finally. Javier helps her out, and you lean your head back and close your eyes, taking a much needed deep breath. Being in the car was starting to overwhelm you… well, your thoughts were, at least. Along with Javier’s cologne.

You don’t know how long you stand like that, but your face twitches when you feel the first raindrop. You open your eyes, being met with the dark grey sky and a dozen more drops hitting your face. A clap of thunder rumbles in the distance, telling you that the storm has finally rolled in.

“C’mon,” Javier murmurs, placing a hand on your lower back to lead you inside.

Once you unlock the door, you hear the heavy rainfall begin.

The storm rages on for hours, cutting the power and forcing all of you to huddle up in the living room. Javier is on one side of the couch, and you’re on the other, fidgeting with your earring as you stare out the window. The rain pounds on the glass, muffling the sounds outside completely. 

You look over, taking in the way your daughter is tucked into her dad’s side. She fell asleep at least 20 minutes ago, her body limp against Javier’s. The sight brings a small smile to your face. If you’re being honest, you miss these quiet moments within the three of you. Just basking in each other’s company rather than filling the silence with words. 

Javier catches your eyes, his lips curving to match yours. He shifts – careful of his sleeping child – and places his hand in between the two of you, his palm up. An offer to hold his hand.

You hesitate to overthink it. If you take his hand, you’re letting him back into your life intimately. If you don’t take it, he’ll think it’s a cold shoulder and possibly retreat on everything he’s been doing lately.

Fuck, who are you kidding? Javier’s never going to give up on you, whether you want him to or not. You’re the only person he’s ever loved and it’ll stay that way forever, you think.

Tentatively, you place your hand in his, intertwining your fingers. The warmth of his palm shoots straight through you, reminding you of the good days. 

He rubs his thumb along your knuckles, a contemplative look on his face. You wait, wanting him to ask on his own time instead of pushing him. That’s something major that your therapist taught you when it came to you and Javier’s tempers. Both of you are too stubborn to ever admit that you’re wrong, so you argue. Nine times out of ten, those arguments ended with sleeping in different rooms.

You were such different people back then. It feels like a lifetime ago when you were dating through high school and college. Both of you had high ambitions and thought you could get through anything.

But then his job got in the way.

You don’t think that could happen again, but you also know Javier. He can’t sit still for five minutes and constantly needs to be doing something. He’d deny it but you know he misses the DEA. Maybe not the bureaucratic part of the job, but definitely the thrill of the chase.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice soft and quiet.

“Honestly?” you meet his eyes again, your voice matching his tone, “Your job… and how we were before it got in the way.”

He nods faintly, not taking his eyes off of you. Subconsciously, you shift under his gaze, your skin suddenly feeling hot to the touch.

“Do you think we could ever go back to that?” he whispers, thunder rumbling and rattling the glasses in your cabinet. “Be that in love again?”

“I think we’re on the right track,” you admit quietly, “You’ve been so… supportive and patient, and I really appreciate it, Jav. I know I’m not the easiest to deal with sometimes.”

“Don’t sell yourself short like that, cariño.”

It’s things like that that come out of his mouth.

There are a million reasons you could think of, knowing that the two of you wouldn’t work again. But the heart wants what it wants, right?

By your daughter’s bedtime, the storm is still pounding on the glass and your mind is still warring with you.

The future is a scary thing for everyone. The knowledge that the decisions you make every single day either make or break your life. All you can do is hope that they’re the right choices.

So when you make the choice of leading Javier into the darkness of your room, you can only pray that you’re making the right decision for your relationship and your family.

Lightning strikes, lighting up the room as you light a few candles. Javier stands by the door, hands in his pockets, unsure of what’s happening. Hell, you don’t really know what you’re doing either to be honest.

Emotionally, you’re convinced that he wants you again, but you need some sort of physical tell.

You never thought the two of you could come this far in healing. It feels like a big piece of your soul has found its way back to you. That’s what Javier does to you – he makes you feel whole. Whole as a person, whole as a partner, and most importantly, whole as a mother. It’s time for your family to be complete again.

Tentatively, you take his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed with him. It takes you a moment to find the right words, but once you do, you’re completely open and honest with him. “Do you think we’re doing well?”

“I do,” Javier nods slowly, not daring to break eye contact with you. His thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand, easing your nerves. “You make it easy.”

Heat travels to your cheeks in the candlelit room, tilting your head down to let out an incredulous chuckle. “You can thank my therapist for that.”

“No, that’s all you, querida.”

You meet his soft brown eyes again, knitting your brows together when emotion threatens to spill over. “Do you really mean that?”

Javier doesn’t even hesitate to reassure you, “Of course I do. You’ve grown so much – not only for yourself, but for our daughter, too. She’s incredibly proud of you… and so am I.” He pauses, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and taking a chance, “I am proud of the woman that I love.”

Faintly, your breath catches in your throat. You haven’t heard him say that in years at this point. It was always easier for the both of you to bury your feelings than talk about them. They held so much weight that it sank your marriage. Neither of you ever stopped loving each other: Javier thought he was protecting you by pushing you away, and in return, you thought he didn’t want you anymore.

But that was never the case.

Javier wants and needs you so bad that it hurts. Pushing you away didn’t protect you, it only made things worse – he’s realized that now and he has to stop doing it.

Cautiously, he closes the distance between the two of you, still giving you the chance to move away if you want. When you don’t, he cups your face, rubbing your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb as he studies your infuriatingly beautiful features. Features he loves and sees in your daughter.

He shakes his head slowly, astonishment in his eyes. “You’re so goddamn gorgeous,” he whispers.

That’s all it takes before you close the distance completely, locking lips with him. His plush lips are warm and familiar to you, something you’ve missed deeply.

“Tell me you love me again,” you murmur against them, carding your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I love you.”

Kiss.

“I love you.”

Kiss.

“I love you.”

Kiss.

He does the same thing over and over, laying you down on the bed like you’re something sacred. The next clap of thunder shakes the entire apartment building, but neither of you notice, too busy drowning in each other after years of separation.

His hands slip under your shirt, palms flat on your skin and relearning your body. Yours nimbly unbutton his flannel, needing as much of him as you can get. Javier matches your fervor, pulling your shirt over your head and shrugging off his, tossing them both onto the floor.

You pause, noticing the chain dangling from his neck. His silver wedding band stares you dead in the face, making you wonder if he ever took it off in the first place. You wrap your hand around it, pulling him down for another kiss. The second your skin makes contact with his, he groans, lips trailing along your jawline.

“Javi.”

He pulls back at the sound of your voice, giving you his full attention even though he’d rather rip your clothes off and reclaim you as his once again.

“Promise me,” you start, looking up at him with your arms wrapped around his neck, “Promise me that this isn’t just a one time thing.”

“I promise,” he nods immediately, swallowing back his desire when he realizes how serious you are. “I will put you and our daughter above everything else because that’s what you deserve.”

You believe him. You have to. In order for this to work again, you have to be honest with each other and believe each other over anything else, right?

“Good,” with that, you pull him back down for a heated kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist.

Clothes are discarded, tossed to the floor without second thought. God, you didn’t know how much you needed this until the bulbous head of his cock breaches your entrance, stretching you sweetly. You both sigh in unison into each other’s mouths, kissing to distract from the sting of the stretch.

When you grip his bicep, Javier pulls back to make sure you’re okay before he fills you to the brim. He doesn’t move, allowing you to adjust to his girth as he mouths at your neck. It feels right – like coming home after a long day. In this case, it’s been years. You can finally come up for air after suffocating in your own feelings for so long.

He draws his hips back slowly, watching your face contort in pleasure, before he sinks back in, repeating the action over and over. The slow pace allows you to feel every heavy inch of him, your velvet walls pulling him in deeper. 

Your fingers grip his hair, heat churning low in your belly. “Jav,” you breathe, “Baby.”

He groans at the term of endearment, snapping his hips harder but still keeping it slow and deep, not wanting to rush this intimate connection after so long without you. “I’m right here, cariño,” he presses his forehead to yours, his hands hiking your thighs higher up his waist, “I’m not goin’ anywhere ever again, you hear me?”

A breathy whimper leaves you in response, your thighs being adjusted making you open up more. You feel Javier everywhere: his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling together, his thumbs caressing the underside of your thighs, his big hands gripping them tightly. All while you’re pliant underneath him, right where you want to be.

The storm still rages on outside, seeming to get more intense the longer the two of you stay tangled. The lightning is a blinding white, followed by loud claps of thunder that mask your sounds.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Javier rasps, kissing the corner of your mouth and picking up the pace. “Squeezin’ me so goddamn tight.”

The sound of wet skin slapping grows louder, your slick arousal seeping out of you, down to your ass. Every time his hips retreat, you clench around the head of his cock, chasing the feeling of him.

He adjusts the angle of your hips, driving into that sweet spot deep inside you, making stars burst behind your eyes. You shut them tight, unashamed of your noises now as you tilt your head back, one hand gripping the pillow under your head for purchase.

“Fuck,” your voice is shaky, the familiar tingle at the base of your spine growing more prominent. “I’m close, baby.”

“I know,” Javier whispers roughly, “Where do you want me–”

“Inside,” you don’t hesitate to answer, “Please.”

He lets out a ragged exhale, his cock twitching violently inside you. “Are you sure?”

You nod desperately, looking up at him with pleading eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I am.”

At your confirmation, he slips an arm under you, holding you in place, his other hand firmly holding your hip. A bead of sweat slides down his back as he increases his speed, keeping his length deep inside you. He grits his teeth, holding off on his own orgasm as you near yours, your walls clamping down around him.

Your nails rake down his back, vision going blurry around the edges. Breathy moans escape between your lips, spurring him on to get you to your climax. When you toss your head back, a strike of lightning rips across the dark canopy that is the sky, booming claps of thunder following, drowning out your loud shared noises as electricity ripples through both of you.

Javier’s warm seed spills into you in thick pulses, your gummy walls fluttering helplessly around his sensitive cock, milking him completely dry. He slumps against you, burying his face in your neck, peppering kisses along your sweat-slick skin.

It feels like it’s been forever once you’ve caught your breath, Javier slipping out of bed and padding to the bathroom to get a wash cloth.

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips, satisfied not only with the sex, but with the fact that the two of you have grown so much. When he said he would go to therapy with him, you didn’t think he would actually commit to it the way that he has. And just because the two of you have made up physically, you know there’s still some wounds that need to be healed over time.

Now, he lies beside you, your head resting on his shoulder. You lift it to pepper a few kisses along his skin, hearing him let out a sigh of content. “We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers, looking over at you.

You don’t know how much you believe him until morning comes, the sun shining through the blinds, no traces of last night’s storm. You smile at the peace, finally feeling whole again.

᯽ tags: @missladym1981 , @kirsteng42 , @mcthsman , @petalsinblood , @rosharanfiction , @cuteanimalmama , @harriedandharassed , @madpanda75 , @shadowqueen2024 , @picketniffler , @kokoluwie , @reedispunk , @milla-frenchy , @missadangel , @gothcsz , @kai-lovey , @sawymredfox , @baronessvonglitter , @hanahleah , @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 , @joelmillerspnk , @peepawmiller

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[missadangel]

This was such a beautiful and emotional second part 🥹❤️ I loved that their reconciliation wasn’t rushed—Javier actually showed up, put in the work, and earned her trust again. The therapy, their daughter, and that storm scene made everything feel so intimate and real. Such a soft and well-deserved ending! love them!!