If Pedro does sign up to film ‘Behemoth’ I hope there is a scene where he is playing that cello so vigorously, a curl falls down onto his forehead. That’s it, that’s all I wanna see.
your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes
first part is here >> the best decision <<
a few ways to break a heart [masterlist]
broken hearts seek redemption [masterlist]
One month. Two months. Three months.
Maria must have given birth by now. Frankie became a father.
Four months. Five months.
It didn't get any easier for you. The hole in your heart couldn't heal. Work and home filled your life, but you were still more of a vegetator than a real life. The worst were those little moments, good or bad, when you caught yourself thinking about calling him.
Frankie always knew how to calm your nerves and always exaggerated small successes to make you feel even better. But you were alone and you weren't even sure when you would forget about him.
She said you couldn't stay home all the time, that it wasn't good, that you had to go out in public. You didn't want to. You didn't see the need. But your friend convinced you so much that you finally agreed.
Even this bar reminded you of him.
You felt like a freak in a place where so many people were having a great time. Your friend was already dancing on the dance floor, and you were twirling a bottle of beer in your hands. The music, though clearly audible to others, couldn’t penetrate your bubble.
Every now and then you glanced at your watch, counting down to the moment you could escape the house and hide in your bedroom. You gave yourself twenty more minutes, just enough time to finish your beer and call an Uber. But when you looked up, your heart sank.
He was there. You would recognize him anywhere. Frankie. Your Frankie.
He was sitting on the other side, his dark eyes looking at you from under a worn baseball cap. You stared at each other for a long time, but when Frankie finally stood up with the clear intention of approaching you, you suddenly felt a shiver of fear. You couldn’t talk to him, you shouldn’t have approached him at all. He had a family, a child, maybe a wife. You quickly stood up, grabbed your bag and headed for the door, but you hadn't even taken a few steps when a strong hand grabbed your arm.
"Hey, wait."
God! That voice, warm and low, was pulling at all the strings inside you again. The grip wasn't strong and you could have easily pulled your hand away, but Frankie was standing so close that he immobilized you.
"I wanted to talk," he said, looking at you hopefully.
"I don't know if we should." You replied, "I came here with a friend, but I really should be getting back..."
“Please, I really need to talk to someone. And you... It was always easy with you.”
You saw something indescribable in his eyes, like a mixture of pain and concern. He looked tired or like he hadn’t slept well in a long time.
“Are you okay, Frankie?”
He shook his head.
The evening was pleasantly cool. The atmosphere of the bar quickly faded from your consciousness as you and Frankie climbed into his truck in the parking lot.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You didn’t know if he wanted to say so many things, or if he was just enjoying this moment together, like you were. For the first time in so long.
“How’s the baby?”
Your voice brought him back to life. He blinked and after a moment, looked at you with empty eyes. “The baby?”
“Your baby, Frankie. Yours and Maria’s. It's a boy or a girl?”
He swallowed hard. “A boy.”
Your heart clenched. “I’m sure he’s beautiful. What’s his name?”
“Gabriel.”
His responses were automatic, almost dead. There was none of the excitement of a young father, none of the enthusiasm of the family he’d built. This wasn’t the Frankie you remembered.
Silence again. Just yesterday you wanted to tell him so many things, and at this moment nothing seemed important.
"He's not my son." Frankie's voice was quiet, deep. It sounded like he was telling you a shameful secret, something he'd never told anyone.
"W-what?" you asked, surprised. "What are you talking about? You said that Maria..."
"She met someone when we were together. It's his child." He didn't look at you as he said it. He was staring at the neon sign in the parking lot, the words flowing out of him like a river. He'd been holding them back for too long.
"She broke up with me for him. But they had a fight and she was afraid she couldn't handle a child on her own... So she contacted me. She knew that I'd always..." His voice cracked.
You knew what Frankie wanted to say - he'd always wanted a family. He loved his cousins' and your friends' children, and they loved him. He'd be the perfect father.
“When Gabriel was born, his father called Maria again. She wanted to give him a chance.” He took a deep breath. “We broke up a month ago…”
“Frankie…”
Tears welled up in his eyes. You could see how devastated he was by all this and you just wanted to hug him. Finally, you reached out and squeezed his arm lightly, wanting to comfort him.
“I’m so sorry.” You let out a surprised sigh.
“It’s so fucking unfair…” he hissed, trying to calm himself down. “I felt him move when he was in her belly, I cut the cord, I got up at night… I tried so hard…”
“I know, I know…”
“I thought that since I lost you, at least I could be the best father to him. Me and Maria… It didn’t make sense, but Gabriel. He was everything to me.”
Tears welled up in his eyes. You could see how devastated he was by all this and you just wanted to hug him. Finally, you reached out and squeezed his arm lightly, wanting to comfort him.
“First you, then him… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing wrong. Am I a fucking loser?”
Tears were now streaming down your cheeks as you gripped his arm tighter. “Don’t say that.” You cut him off. “I… I don’t know how someone could be so cruel, but you’re definitely not a loser. It was me. I was the one who told you to go back to her. I thought it was the best thing to do.”
Frankie looked at you. His eyes were red and his breathing shallow. You felt like he could fall apart at the slightest gust of wind. You stepped closer and carefully took his face in your hands.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Frankie. You didn’t deserve this… You’re the sweetest, most caring guy I know. I thought about you every day, and even though it hurt like hell, I still hoped you were happy.” “How could I ever be happy without you, baby? I wanted to call so many times, to hear your voice, to make me feel better. I felt so betrayed and abandoned by everything…”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
Your arms wrapped around his neck as you hugged Frankie tightly to you. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you told him how sorry you were, how much you wanted him to have what he wanted. You were relieved to feel his strong arms hug you just as tightly. Frankie buried his face in the crook of your neck and soon you felt his tears on your skin.
You smelled like home, a safe place. He hugged you so tightly that you didn’t even whine, feeling like he needed to be as close as possible.
“I missed you so fucking much, baby…” he groaned quietly,
“I missed you too… Every day and it didn’t get any easier.”
He finally pulled away from you, his face wet with tears, but he looked like a weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
“You’re even more beautiful than you were then…” he whispered, and you felt a pleasant shiver run through your body. “Would you like to…”
“Yes!”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll come around six.”
“Great.”
You looked at each other like madmen. A madman with a second chance. You didn’t stop him when he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. On the contrary, you kissed him back with great pleasure.
Trauma decontextualized in a person can look like personality. Trauma decontextualized in a family can look like family traits. Trauma in a people can look like culture. Resmaa Menakem
Rating: Just angst & longing this part (my whole blog is over 18’s only please)
Wordcount: 3,200
Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller.
Chapter Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning. Reference to a c-section scar. Reference to character death (Sarah). Minimal descriptions of reader altho she does mention needing to comb her hair & has a nickname (darlin'). I'm always fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything.
A/N: There’s no real plan here, except I know they’re going to fall back in love, they just don’t know it yet. I don't have the chapters mapped out, but I know how it will end. This is an entirely new series, but if you wanted, you could read this as what would happen if my Difficult reader survived the apocalypse. Thank you to @toomanytookas for the beta read & being part of the incredible group of lads who keep me going & support my madness @secretelephanttattoo @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox
Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty
My Masterlist / Series Masterlist / NEXT
PART 1
You’ve never believed in happy endings. Even before the world came crashing down around you, you’d always been sharp, all pointed edges and a cynicism so deep that it ran black through your veins. Maybe it made it easier, watching everything fall apart, to not have had to let go of too much hope? You’d already worked so hard at crushing down any softness within you. The world ended and you could just concentrate on dragging your body through each day, finding new ways to survive, no pesky optimism slowing you down.
You know you’re lying to yourself. Right before the end, you’d let yourself feel something akin to hopefulness. Prised open your cold heart to a beautiful man and his daughter, had started to think that maybe, just maybe, your life could be gentle. With tender touches and morning kisses, with safety and warmth and Joel fucking Miller wrapped protectively around your sleeping body. Foolish really. Lost forever on outbreak day. You often wish you’d never met him, because how could you miss the taste of sweetness if it had never crossed your lips?
You’d been 22 when it happened. Try not to count the years now. Old enough to have a nine year old in tow and it be perfectly acceptable, although you often find yourself thinking you’re a teen mom. Making it up as you go along, not the confident, cool-mom you’d thought you’d be when you were young, before everything went dark. No fancy family car or monthly manicures, distinct lack of gossiping over wine and bitching about husbands stacking the dishwasher all wrong. You don’t let yourself do this often, but the new comforts of Jackson have brought it all rushing back; the what could have beens that you know it didn’t do any good to dwell on. How life would have looked if it hadn’t all blown to pieces is never a comfort, only a curse.
To think of your own misshapen life is one thing, to consider how your daughter’s might have been is even worse. You grip onto Sam’s hand, holding her extra tight, her warm little fingers curling into yours in response.
Sure, you’re not the mom you once daydreamed about, but you do keep her as safe as you can. Safe, protected, loved. She has shoes that fit her, warm clothes, and now, finally, Jackson to call home. It feels almost like a dream, being ushered in with the other newcomers to the place you were terrified was just a myth. A secret you nursed every night, a silent thought that never crossed your lips as you traveled the months it took to get here, listening to Sam talk so earnestly about what Jackson might be like. You had to believe the rumours were true, that Jackson existed in some form and could offer you both a kind of life rather than simply surviving. It was the thought of being able to put Sam into a real bed at night, soft covers and a door to close tight, that’s what had got you up off the hard ground every morning, helped ease the ache in your muscles from another long day on your horse, Sam tucked tight in front of you.
Maybe you did allow a little hope to creep in, just sometimes.
You like Maria instantly, she’s not exactly warm, but she’s practical, calm in a way you find reassuring. Your years of having to survive mean you’re good at reading people and you feel like you can trust her; you know she’s sussing you out just as much as you’re doing the same and there’s comfort in this knowledge. You make small talk as she walks you to your new home, the ground crisp with fresh snowfall beneath your heavy boots, the footprints of the residents of Jackson a stark reminder that you’re part of a community now, no longer just you and Sam.
You’ve spent a couple of nights in a building that houses new arrivals whilst the council sorted out a more permanent residence. It was all so organised and efficient, you couldn’t quite get your head around it. The hot running water had made you gasp at first, a feeling of real delight sat warm in your stomach as you’d helped Sam clamber into the bathtub and enjoy her first proper soak in years.
Everything feels so easy here, it aches at your chest in a way you can’t quite understand. You think it’s happiness, but it’s also a new fear: that now you’ve had a whisper of comfort, it will hurt even more if you have to leave. Or if it’s taken away from you, like so many things before in this hard existence.
It’s also a bit of a shock how well presented everyone is in Jackson, almost uncanny how next to normal it feels here. You half-heartedly run your hands through your hair, which hasn’t seen a comb in maybe years, suddenly feeling a bit self conscious for how bedraggled you look. You keep Sam’s hair in braids but it’s so long it’s almost down to her waist. You put your hand on her shoulder, holding her close as she walks beside you, feeling silly that you’re worrying about what you look like, what Maria will think of your mothering skills based on the length of your child’s hair and your own lack of self-care.
There was a time when you used how you looked like a weapon, the power it gave you was thrilling. You could twist men round your little finger with a simple flick of your heavily lined eyes in their direction. Your painted red pout enough to weaken any boy's resolve, a well-timed bite at your lips was practically lethal. But you’d stopped being that girl long ago, chose only to keep hold of her sharpness, carefully nurtured her pointed claws and her ability to wriggle out of tricky situations. That was what kept you alive all these years, not a pretty face.
Maria’s eyes are kind, you wonder if she’s seen this all before, a hesitation in the newest residents, almost scared they’re going to wake up and find Jackson isn’t real.
“I know it can be a lot to take in, but you’ll both find your place here. We’re happy to have you.”
You exchange smiles and she continues, “Once you’re a bit more settled, I’d love to have you both over for some tea, I can help you with a lot of the practicalities. We operate as a commune, so you’ll find plenty to keep you busy. We’ll get this little lady into school.”
Sam is nervous around strangers, but you feel her stand up straighter beneath your fingers, the excitement buzzing within her, “See Mama, I told you they’d have a school!”
“You did, baby, you did.” You squeeze at her shoulder gently, glance at Maria, “Sam’s a big reader, I hope you’ve got plenty of books. She’s read everything I could find her.”
“We’ve got a whole library for you, Sam. I’ll send one of the girls to come and show you round, maybe Ellie,” Maria’s face changes quickly, as if she’s realised she’s made a bit of a mistake. Her voice is slightly hushed as she looks pointedly at you, “How do you feel about swearing?”
Sam suddenly giggles, a little burst of noise that lights up her eyes and makes you join her, anticipating what’s coming next.
“Mama loves to curse. She says I have to wait until I’m 16 and then I can too.”
Maria joins in the laughter, “Your mother sounds like a sensible woman. Maybe she could have a word with Ellie, she didn’t get the 16 memo.” She waves at a dark haired man standing outside your new front door, turns to you, “I asked my husband, Tommy, and his brother Joel to stop by, there’s a few things in the house that needed finishing up for you.”
It all happens so fast.
Almost as soon as your brain registers the names, you realise you’re staring directly at the unmistakable face of Tommy Miller, who in turn lets out a, “Holy shit!”
You immediately freeze.
Joel steps out from behind his brother, a “What the fu…” falling from his lips, but there’s no end to his sentence. It sort of vanishes into the cold air, snatched into a horrible silence as Joel also stands stock still. His mouth actually falls open and you watch dumbly as his hand shoots up to Tommy’s arm, grabbing it tightly. You can see the white of his knuckles.
Joel Miller. The man you were in love with in 2003, who you never saw again after outbreak day. The man who’s haunted your dreams ever since, a remnant of the past that you couldn’t ever scrub off your skin however hard you tried.
You know you should speak but you can’t make any sound come out, you’re rooted to the spot and you feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on you, Sam’s included. She turns slowly into your body, pressing her face into your side and wrapping her arms around you. Her warm little body a reminder that you need to keep breathing, that this is real life and not a waking dream. You hold her close, try to calm the rush of thoughts that are crashing around your head, making you dizzy.
That he’s not only alive, but he’s here. Your Joel. Or at least, a man who used to be your Joel.
Joel speaks first, hesitant, “Is it really you, darlin’?”
His voice hits you square in the chest. Exactly as you remember it, surprisingly soft for such a tall, broad guy. You’ve never forgotten how it made you feel. You’d also never truly dared believe you’d hear it again.
You nod very slowly. Darlin’. That’s what he and Sarah used to call you, even Tommy did in the end. No one’s said it out loud to you in twenty years. You can feel your body start to shake, a tremble that you can’t control, a heavy pull at your throat where a lump of sadness has formed. You don’t cry, you never cry, yet you can feel tears threatening your eyes now. Sam’s arms grip tighter.
Maria’s voice cuts through the silence, “Well, now this is unexpected. Right, don’t just stand there boys, let’s help these ladies into their new home. There will be plenty of time for getting reacquainted but right now everyone is at risk of freezing, we need to get inside and warmed up.”
It breaks the spell, Tommy runs down the little wooden steps, practically tripping over his feet, takes the backpack from your shoulder, “Can’t say I’m not shocked but it’s good to see you, darlin’. You’re looking so well. And with a kid!” he shakes his head in amazement, “Welcome to Jackson.”
You manage to croak, “Thank you Tommy… I… I can’t quite believe this.” Your legs feel unsteady beneath your feet and Sam refuses to let go of your hand, her eyes suspicious as she takes in both men, a little scowl on her face. “It’s ok, baby, I’m ok. I was just surprised. I used to know Tommy and Joel a very long time ago.”
“Before the zompies?”
You stroke her hair, reassure her with your touch, “Yeah, before the zompies.”
Joel is right by you now, you can feel the heat of him, but you can’t look at him. Can’t bear to look at his face properly just yet.
“Zompies?” There’s a strain in his voice, like he’s trying to be light, doesn’t want to scare you away, mindful of the wary child clinging to your side.
You find some words, “It’s.. it’s a thing we say, about the infected.”
Joel repeats it slowly, “But… Zompies?”
Sam glares at him, “I couldn’t say zombies when I was a baby. I know they’re infected people.”
You sneak a look at him now, at Joel Miller being chastised by your child and seemingly taking it on the chin. There’s that lopsided smile, a flash of even teeth. It reaches all the way up to his eyes, with those heavenly crinkles there that you wished you didn’t remember so well. Deeper, a part of the texture of his face now, even when his smile drops as he catches your eye for a split second. The look on his face, like he’s just seen a ghost, you’re pretty sure yours is the mirror image. You feel like your stomach has dropped to your toes.
Maria calls down the stairs, “Hey, does anyone want to come up and see their new room?”
Sam hangs back, looks to you for reassurance, and you give her an encouraging nod, “Go on, baby, be brave. I’ll be right up after you.”
You watch as she scampers up the wooden stairs, glancing back a few times to check you haven’t disappeared. It’s the furthest you’ve been apart in months.
Joel makes a sort of little cough behind you, “I think we put some coffee in here for you, want me to make you a pot?”
“Real coffee?”
He nods, “Real coffee.”
“Fuck, yes, that would be amazing. Thank you.”
You follow Joel into the neat little kitchen. The cupboards are tired but everything looks functional, like a real home. Your home. You sit down on the high stool next to the small kitchen island and watch him carefully gather what he needs to make the coffee. You can look at him a little more now; broader than he once was, but still with that swagger when he walks. A confidence that you can’t learn packaged up in well-fitting jeans and a smart flannel shirt. Everyone is so fucking clean here. His hair looks freshly washed, threads of grey running through his curls. The curls are new. You’d always wondered what his hair would look like longer, often trailed your fingers through his thick locks and imagined tugging gently on an actual twist of hair. You shake your head as if to remove these thoughts because there’s a question burning away in your chest.
Joel turns slowly, faded mug in hand, those deep dark eyes meeting yours. Longer this time. Braver.
“You can ask. I know you’re thinkin’ it.”
“Sar…?” Her name dies in your throat. You wouldn’t ever normally have dared such a personal question, especially one you didn’t really want to know the answer to, truly dreaded it, but you find you’re desperate to know. Would do just about anything for her to be the next surprise to walk through the door.
Joel shakes his head and there’s no stopping the tears that again prick at your eyes. A memory of the sweet little girl that loved fairy stories and whose permanently sticky fingers would somehow always find yours, dragging you to look at her latest craft project or simply just to run around in the garden chasing after butterflies. It feels like a punch. You haven’t experienced the shock of a grief like it for a long time, as if someone has reached in and is holding your stomach tight, a closed fist that twists with an excruciating sharpness.
“I’m so sorry, Joel. I…” You try to scramble together some more words but your mouth just hangs open, you drag your fingers across your face uselessly, an attempt to stop any more tears escaping. It feels selfish, to push your new-found grief onto him when he’s had to live with this loss for so long.
Silence hangs in the air once more. Joel turns back to the coffee, lets you wipe at your eyes with your shirt in private. You’re both quiet with your own thoughts for a few minutes.
He turns and places a steaming hot cup of black coffee in front of you and you curl your fingers around the warmth of the porcelain.
“Thank you.”
He leans back, arms stretched behind him, open for you, “I got an Ellie. Not my kid… but you know… mine. My Ellie. Bit older than… yours?”
“Sam. Fairly sure she’s mine,” your hand instinctively reaches to your abdomen, “got the scar to prove it.”
You wonder if he remembers that Sam was the name of one of your best friends. A girl who you’d held onto for a few years after the outbreak before she slipped from your grasp like so many others.
Joel blinks. He’s better at you than this, been around some form of civilisation longer than you have, that’s for sure. He attempts a half smile, tender, “S’pretty name. She looks like you.”
You smile. Let him see how happy this makes you.
It feels strange, this stilted conversation, because it’s both awkward and gentle at the same time. You wish you could reach out and touch him, let your fingers feel the scratch of his scruff against your skin. You’re startled by this realisation, this need that has been hiding deep within you; you didn’t know that ache even existed in you still. Seeing Joel again is stirring up all kinds of confusing emotions, so you do what you’re best at, crush them down and try to blank yourself to nothingness.
“This coffee isn’t too bad, best one I’ve had in a long time.”
“No coffee where you were before?”
You shake your head. You really don’t want to talk about the before, it feels too big, too awful, “Not for a while. We’ve been all over, but mostly on our own. Wish we’d known about Jackson a long time ago.”
You lift the cup back to your mouth and see Joel hesitate, feel those big, sad eyes watching intently as your lips wet the rim of the mug, and it’s back, that intense need to touch him, to be touched. Almost a burn at your skin.
The tension is broken by Sam calling for you from upstairs and you slip away from his gaze, still clutching your coffee.
When you come back downstairs, he’s gone and you’re not sure what that feeling is that floods through your bones. Is it relief, or disappointment?
My Masterlist / Series Masterlist / NEXT
Dividers by @saradika all other images from pinterest
Tag list - let me know if you'd like to be taken off or added on
To his friends and family, he is Pepelo, Pipi, Pedders, and Peds. Years ago, on a movie set, someone started calling him Pepsi, which he loved.
Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.
The Fantastic Four’s Vanessa Kirby—who plays Sue Storm to Pascal’s stretchy genius, Reed Richards—tells me that her friend’s allure is “his immense vulnerability”: “He doesn’t have much armor, so he shows himself to you straight away, and you trust that person because he’s revealing himself to you in this very brave way.”
When I first meet Pascal, it’s in the lobby of his swanky hotel. I go in for a handshake, and he wraps me in a hug instead. On our way outside we pass a bar, and he offers to make me a cocktail, then whisks me out the front door into a waiting black BMW. “Baby, I’m taking you on a date!” he says.
Pascal is happiest and most comfortable when the people around him are happy and comfortable, and because he is naturally so curious and warm, there’s a sense of immediate safety with him. You’re grateful to be in his light.
We sit down at a Palestinian restaurant in Notting Hill. Pascal says he picked the restaurant because the last time he was here he admired the booth and the afternoon light, and thought it would be fun for us to share small plates of food. But he’s posted more than once on Instagram about what’s unfolding in Gaza, so I suspect he’s also making a statement of support by doing an interview here. He removes his leather jacket and his green sweatshirt, stripping down to a simple white T-shirt, and lays his thick-frame glasses on the table.
Pascal needed to make peace with “crossing this bullshit milestone of 50,” so he decided to lean in headlong, planning a multiday celebration he compares to a wedding. On April 2 he hosted an intimate dinner for family and friends at a London restaurant whose martini he knew to be a winner. All three of his siblings were there, along with his father. Lux surprised him with a slideshow of pictures of Pascal and his friends and family over the years—even Gretta!—that finished to the song “Corazón de Melón.” Three separate times he tries to explain how moved he was by his sister’s gift without crying. “I’m not like this every day, I swear to God,” he says, laughing. “But when you feel seen like I did that night, you feel touched by magic.”
As we’re getting in the car, Pascal mentions his mother: He was 24 when she died by suicide. My own mother died by suicide when I was 18, a fact I wasn’t sure would be comfortable or appropriate to share. But then Pascal mentions that his mother got her PhD at San Antonio’s Trinity University, where I was a college freshman when my mother died. The coincidence is so uncanny that I find myself spilling. Pascal immediately takes my hand. “Whether we like it or not, we’re bonded,” he says.
There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.
Pascal’s mother tried as best she could to know her son. She read To Kill a Mockingbird after seeing the profound effect it had on Pascal in grade school. She pored over For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf, which consumed Pascal after his high school English teacher read the Lady in Red monologue. She let her 17-year-old son skip school to see a pre-Broadway production of Angels in America. When Pascal came home awestruck—emotionally reorganized by what he’d seen—she bought herself a ticket so she could experience some of what her son felt.
Pascal has a tattoo of his mother’s signature on the inside of his right wrist. I have a tattoo in honor of my mother on the inside of my left. As a goodbye outside of Downey’s house, we touch our griefs against each other for a moment. Which is maybe what the movies, or literature, or theater allows us to do.
In honor of Pedro Pascal's cover shoot for Vanity Fair, here are some of my favorite excerpts from the amazing article that came with it, written by Karen Valby.
If people wonder why everyone and their neighbor has a thing for Pedro - this article has the answers.
Summary: do murder and mutilation count if you're just a girl and bad men deserve it?
-OR-
joel miller as the unhealthy coping mechanism and/or muse.
Rating: Explicit 18+
Content Warnings: qz boston au; graphic depictions of violence; attempted sexual assault; murder; blood&gore; discussions of sexual assault; assault attempt is NOT perpetrated by joel; morally grey fmc; brief use of misogynistic language; consensual! but not safe or sane; obsessive behavior; rough sex; use of restraints during sex (m!receiving); unhealthy relationships; somnophilia; vaginal sex; anal sex; power dynamics; mentor/protege, kinda sorta; dead dove: do not eat
A/N: heyyyyyy, happy father's day or whatever.
see end notes if you want a brief overview of the TWs before reading.
Word Count: 5.3K
Read on AO3
The first time I saw him kill someone, he was saving me.
Bare-bruised knuckles against split-slick flesh, over and over until there was brain matter splattered against the concrete. When he’d pulled his fist back for the last time, a pause to make sure the body was well and truly dead, it shook like he was afraid of what he’d done. Or, that’s what I told myself, anyway. That he’d frightened himself.
One of us needed to be disturbed by his brutality, after all.
If it’d frightened him, it meant he was good. Decent. Just another lick of proof.
A knife had been pulled from his waist and slipped quick and shucking into the body’s throat. I’d never seen something like that so up close before. It’d startled me at first, the jut of the knife. I had the sudden thought, don’t kill it, please, do not kill it. But then it was done, and I was glad for it.
And when I’d rushed back to my damp box room only to find slick lust against clinging cotton, I’d known it hadn’t been me, the frightened one.
She calls it an attempted break in, later, because she’s never liked the word rape.
Who does, of course? Caught unawares—she was new at this, after all, the business of smuggling or watching out for her own life—she’d been unprepared, fumbling a second too long with her gun before they were on her. Unpracticed in watching the blind spots, the dark corners. Didn’t know what to listen for and how a creaking door isn't always just that. An easy fist to the gut and a heavy boot crushing her hand and temple, her head painfully crooked, neck stretched and forced to stare one of the grunts in the eye as they all wrestled her to the ground. He was ugly and drooling, and if she focused on the memory of it, past the slimy cold claws and huffing breath touching her body everywhere, she could remember the saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth while she was touched against her will.
There had been six of them, against one girl. Which, aside from the act at hand, was just plain cowardly. One could’ve had her easy, she wasn’t very good at defending herself just yet. But now, maybe, she thinks she’d needed the incident to inspire her application to the strengthening of her body. And it’d worked afterwards, anyway. There was that.
And then there was him.
Now that was a man adept at making his body do the things he needed it to do.
Maybe he didn’t know the Pandora’s box he’d been opening when he’d done it. When he’d snatched that worm from between her legs, and had gone and gone and beaten until the face had caved in and his knuckles were split; an unsanitary mingling of blood. Maybe he wouldn’t have stepped in if he’d known what it was he’d open inside of her after that.
She thinks—later, though—what an unfair approximation of his character that’d been. He would’ve always stepped in.
It could’ve been called admiration, afterwards. By some.
He called it obsession. Obnoxious. Child’s fantasy. She called it a gateway, the whole thing, the men and their hands and his killing. The moment.
She’d become obsessed with picking apart the minutes she’d lain on the floor of that dark and damp warehouse until the fingers in her mind bled. How cold the concrete against her back had been where her shirt had ridden up, the gravel burn of torn skin and the sandpaper feel of foreign hands. The way they’d said she wanted it. The certainty within herself that she hadn’t, and how disgusted she’d been. And then, other things. Like how close it’d come to happening and how abruptly he had just made it stop. The quickness of it all. How it hadn’t really happened but it had. How it planted things inside of her chest cavity that weren’t there before.
Most of all, the sight of him killing the man. The nucleus of the memory. How the surface of the face had become sunken little by little. The nose concaved into the mouth, forehead like a bowl until the white of bone jut forward and cut his knuckles. How all the rest of them hadn’t even tried to fight him because they knew him by reputation alone, scared enough to run fast. How a human could become so frightening, his mere actions spoke his name in silence.
And then his hand with a tremor, extending towards her.
“I know you’re scared, but you’re okay,” is what he’d said when he was done with it.
How could he have known, though, if that were the truth or not?
But then her body had felt totally numb, almost perfect, completely fine. The only thing hurting, the inside of her throat where she’d screamed her animal screams.
Maybe she was not so afraid, not so hurt. He’d shown her something— What was there to be afraid of now? —How to kill.
First, you hunt for his name—
After, he'd led you back towards the QZ—careful to keep his distance from the wounded animal— when the quick skip of a large stag had come out of the forest brush to startle you both. It’s gait heavy and thumping, skipping in a zig zag, good at running away to avoid capture. He hadn’t said anything more after, and his abject silence had somehow been more unsettling than the fleeing animal or the brutal mauling of a human skull. He’d turned right back around and gone once you were safely delivered. Be more careful next time, he’d said, just as quick as he’d come. An abruptness of a sort that makes one well aware of how significant a person can be. Whole world tilting sort of thing because you’d turned to watch him go, and known he could not go away forever, that he’d be important still, that you needed to know more.
Joel Miller, that’s what they say his name is. Stay away, they add, too.
And there’s a woman, Tess. You go after her first. Slotting behind her in line for ration cards, can’t fucking stand the stench of these bootleg chemicals anymore, after a sanitation shift. She provides nothing more than a quick flash of a sideways glance, but when you see her at the commissary a few days later, going for the last box of overpriced tampons, falsely gracious in letting her take them, there’s recognition in her face, the willingness to chat now, too.
His Tess, she’s the one that gives up his name first.
It’s the second thing you ask, if they're together. Unabashed in your prying, masked as silly, girlish inquiry. Someone once, a long time ago, had taught you how to be a good liar. And you lie and lie and lie to the woman, and it’s a little embarrassing to see how easily she believes the earnestness on your face. You tell her about a boyfriend, who does sort of exist, but only when there’s an itch to be scratched and you’re in need of an easy fuck. What’s the use in love at the end of the world? Nothing but a guaranteed death.
You’d always thought to avoid the artifice of it at all costs. No need to drag around an iron lung in your chest, life was already rotten enough.
From there on, it’s easy. To ingratiate yourself with Tess, to slot yourself into their complicated little life. A third pair of hands can’t ever be a bad thing, or at least that’s what she tells Joel when he’s angry at your presence. You think he doesn’t like the reminder your face brings, of that ugly almost-moment. But after that first and singular time, you’re sure to never, ever let something like that take you by surprise again. Quick on your feet and good with knives if not your fists, you’re useful with the added bonus of a smaller mouth to feed and you learn quick, too. They both have a lot to teach you. Little protegé. You make sure not to ask for much, especially not when your eye is set on much larger game.
There is something, though, that does take you by surprise, in the weeks that follow. Which turns out to be nothing more than how easy the whole thing is—sowing discord between the pair of them. Perhaps it was less your own finesse, and more that Tess had already grown tired of him. How he didn’t feel exactly how she felt, love or whatever, maybe. Or how they were both just a little too type A for long lasting camaraderie. Maybe it was just that the whole world was dead and nothing is forever anymore, all partnerships, even those forged in blood and fear, eventually run their course.
Likely, though, it was nothing more than the regular human greed that ruins most things—both of them in want of someone to order around, and you, with the inclination to only obey one of them when you so chose to.
A lie here, an omission there, their house falls to pieces like it’s made of cards. No one seems to pay much attention to the spider in the cracks. Or at least that’s what you want to think. And when it’s only you left then, with a warm shoulder for him to console himself with, there are no real fangs to sink into his skin, but you imagine they’re there.
You have to show him you’re grateful, you reason, for saving you. Or you have to punish him, maybe. He’d opened a wound inside of you. Something delightfully festering that had maybe always been there, but that he’d ripped open by the mere act of saving a girl he didn’t know from something she didn’t want. Really, it was that he’d been the only man to ever do something good for you and not ask for payment afterwards.
And it’s easy to wear down such a lonely, broken creature. You see that in Joel eventually. He wants something so badly, he just doesn’t know what.
He fucks your mouth first. Real mean and rough-like. Something you’d offered as a little stress relief. He’d said he didn’t want to have full on sex because you’d end up getting attached, and he wasn’t looking for some young thing that couldn’t take a hint. He said he was unavailable, even though Tess hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. She looked at you with suspicion now when she saw you in the streets, like she knew what you’d done, what your intentions had been from that very first random meet in the rations line.
He said he didn’t really like you. But he’s a bad liar, and none of that really deters your persistence. Eventually, none of that stopped you from finding yourself bent over the kitchen table of some long-gone family’s abandoned home, his hips slapping wet and hurting against your ass, only a few weeks later.
In his defense, he really did try to keep to his word.
Joel Miller is an honest man, after all. Even if he is a killer.
In repayment of your debt, you teach him how to lie in a way that matters, a believable way.
You volley your little lessons back and forth. Where the best spots are to pilfer for things in long ago picked-over places. A good slight of hand to make a pull from deep in someone’s coat. How to shoot someone in the head without missing. How to breathe through your nose while a cock is lodged in your throat. Enough truth sewn through your lies to make your story believable. How to throw a knife at an angle that won’t veer. How to take a fucking without crying or complaining. The FEDRA soldier on Tuesdays and Thursdays posted on the East facing gate that’ll look the other way if you say or do the right things for him. How to make dessert without sugar or flour or milk and have it turn out actually good despite the fact. How to pretend. How to kill. How to get what you want.
He doesn’t notice at first, when you start to hunt them. Going out on runs together, coming home dirty and sweaty and tired but amped enough to fuck and then fall into an exhausted stupor, sweaty limbs intertwined; it keeps him distracted for long enough.
But people start to talk, after the third one goes missing and is later found chopped up and scattered in pieces. A well known gang through the QZ, the deaths start to cause a stir.
He starts looking at you funny after that one. Something like hesitancy in his touch, a subtle but cautious pause before he speaks. He tries to lie, to play it off, but you’re the one that taught him how to do that. Doesn’t he know it won’t work on the source? Men are always so stupid.
You kill them slow because the moment happened so fast. Taking your time to savor the way it feels to force each one of them out of their lives. You’re inventive about it, experimenting on how to approach each one differently. Reasoning that you remember the almost-ness of it so brilliantly because it happened so fast, and that if you take a more leisurely approach with your get-back, it’ll leave your mind quickly.
When there is only one man left, of the group of six, Joel starts to ignore you. When you come round, knocking on his door, trying to corner him when he’s getting off his shifts, the subtle brush offs, a heavy hand to your shoulder that tries to assuage you of his coldness. But you feel it and you don’t find it very fair, the fact he’d be frightened off by the very thing he wrought in you.
You’re only doing what he showed you to do at that very moment of your almost hurt.
It could be that he’s worried about attracting the wrong attention. The fact that you’re already on probation, an aside you’re not interested in dwelling on, for disorderly conduct, followed by an attack on a soldier several months back. It doesn’t really help your cause. You reason that he has a smuggling enterprise to keep going and the wrong attention could ruin things for him. You reason that you probably should not be going on a murder spree when you’ve already got eyes on you. But what must be done, must be done. And you do not like being ignored.
There is something else, though, that you have over him, that you introduced him to besides the art of lying, and that’s a great fuck.
Something more difficult for him to ignore or forget, than your words in the street are.
He’s sort of a coward about it. Sneaking in on you in the dead of night when you’re asleep and unable to force him into things he pretends not to want. Like he’s afraid to face you. Like he’s afraid of the questions you might ask and the answers he might give. Foolish of him to think distance might keep him safe.
One late afternoon, your face hot and sweaty with anger after you watch him actively turn the opposite way, ignoring you when you try to catch his eye, “Why are you ignoring me?” Because you want it said out loud, you kind of want him to acknowledge that he knows what you’ve been doing, even.
Do you want me? Do you like me? Could you love me?
Maybe he’s tricked you into believing in things you didn’t before. Who knows.
He’s getting off a shift, sweaty, too, dirty and grimy, that musk male scent of hard labor and a long day in need of a woman to soften it all.
“Not ignoring you,” he lies like you’d taught him, wiping his grimy hands down with an ever grimier rag, pushing dirt around needlessly.
“Oh, right,” you laugh. “You can sneak into my bed at night, but you can’t look me in the eye in the street. That it now, Joel?”
He looks around at your raised voice, wary of others listening in on your tiff. And the once over he gives you is mean, cold and condescending like a father readying to scold his unruly child for embarrassing him.
“Listen,” he sighs and you bristle, “We gotta talk—”
“Yeah, we do,” you cut him off. “You’re being kind of a pussy.”
“Watch your mouth, kid.”
That makes you cackle, head thrown back. “Kid. Not so much a kid when you’re balls deep inside of me, are you?” The words are ugly and you catch a woman hovering nearby out of the corner of your eye, her small shocked gasp and quick scurry away as you spit your obscenities.
His mouth tightens in displeasure and he takes you roughly by the elbow, yanking you down the street towards your room. “Don’t be disgusting,” he scolds, yanking your harder, whiplash to your neck. You try to dig your heels into the asphalt, reminded of your inability to fight off men who want to force you to do things you don’t want to do.
“Maybe that’s just me. Disgusting.” Your stubby nails trying to gouge at the skin of his wrist do nothing.
Maybe if it was possible to be rotten and still be loved, then you might be convinced to believe after all. But he’s doing a piss poor job of it so far. The both of you are, actually. This really is like you’re carrying around an iron lung. Feels terrible. And when he whips around abruptly, finally on the sorry stoop of your front door, he looks truly angry at you in a way you don’t think you’ve seen him look before.
“You’re killing them.”
That look, it almost makes you want to be sorry. To say, I’m bitter now, I want to be sweet again. I feel like a ruiner. Some strange emotion wells up in your throat, behind your eyes. Almost.
“Yes.”
Maybe it’s accusation mixed with worry mixed with fright, you don’t know. Because when the anger leaves his eyes and he drops your arm as if stung, it feels bad in a distinctly unpleasant way. He must see something sinister in your glassy eyes, to bring it forward.
Why can’t he see that this is all his doing, opening this thing inside of you and showing you how to do it as easy as a bare handed kill?
“The FEDRA goons’ll catch on, you’re not bein’ careful, and you’ll get caught ‘nd that won't be something I'll be able to get you out of. You’re out of control.”
“Not yet, I’m not.”
He shakes his head, disappointed look down his nose at you. “I won’t stick around to watch the crash out.” Very fatherly-like. You’d laugh in his face if you didn’t also want to cry in his arms just now, so you bare your teeth at him in an angry growl, and he’s the one to laugh in your face instead. Imagine an anger so weak it’s funny.
“Maybe we’re the same, Joel. Have you considered that? Maybe that’s what bothers you about it. That we’re too alike for your own comfort.”
“You only see what you want to see, that’s why bad things come your way.”
“That’s a mean thing to say, Joel Miller.”
“You’re bein’ fuckin’ crazy, not careful. I’m not stickin’ around to watch you hurt yourself. You understand me?” He’s really working himself up, red in the face. Real upset with a finger thrust into your nose that’s making you more emotional than you even think you really feel. But he’s got you all twisted up inside, obsessed and murderous and thinking you might believe yourself in love when you were so sure that wasn’t even possible. “Thinkin’ you’re so fuckin’ smart, so sly. I see you.” He thrusts his finger at your face, gets real close and personal. “I know what you are, you little mess.”
You have to force sound up through the knot in your throat, your voice cracks anyways, you swipe an angry hand at an escaped tear. “I’m just doing what you taught me. You can help me, if you want. If you’re jealous you’re missing out on all the fun.”
The look he gives you, eyes full of furious heat like he could throttle you. You can feel his panting breath against your mouth and those angry eyes flash to your lips for a second, and you know he wants to kiss you, too. Can’t even help himself. You taught him how to lie, how to trick his way into what he wants better than he already knew how. Showed him a good fuck. There’s things Joel’s obsessed with now, too, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. And it’s not such an easy thing to brush off as a weakness, an obsession, when the object of its desire is right in front of you and just as panting angry.
When he storms off in a huff, you make sure your mocking laugh is loud enough to follow.
He comes when it’s midnight dark outside, not like a ghost because Joel could never be something as ineffable. Whatever it is that can be worse than a ghost, though, that’s what he crawls into your bed as, you decide.
The night is dark. It is quiet. The air is still. If something bad were to happen, this would be the perfect moment.
You hang suspended in your dreamscape, not awake and not gone to sleep completely. The feel of his weight moving over you on hands and knees could be light as nothing the way you float on that edge. But the heat he radiates is unmistakable when he pulls the light sheet away from your damp body, and you can feel the bare heat of his naked thigh brush against the inside of your knee when he nudges your legs apart.
A coward is worse than a ghost.
He moves your limp body as he needs, spreading your thighs and hitching your hips.
“S’alright, just open your legs for me…yeah, baby, yeah. Lemme in, don’t need to be awake, just take it.” There’s the wet tuck of the wide head, “Here ya go, darlin’. Nice and easy.” Skin so hot it scalds, but so, so soft, too. The forward nudge, the slick slide because you were dreaming of this already, went to sleep wishing for it, so it’s tight and gripping but wet.
This is how one confuses lust with love. And you think: I want…I want. And I want it from him and he has to give it to me.
His thumb rubs along the stretch of your cunt around his cock as he sneaks his way inside your body, so sleepy, such a good girl, coaxing the taut skin to do what he’s demanding, gathering slick beneath the pad of his thumb to slide up the curve beneath your cheeks to press at your other hole, insistent on intruding even further.
You whine pitifully, still trapped in that half-dream place and he gruffs soft and chuffing in his chest, half braying buck, half soft, easily manipulated thing.
“You like this, baby,” he tells your half asleep form. “Like it when I use you like this.”
He’s got one arm bent over your head to cup the top of your skull, applying gentle pressure to press your body back into accepting his cock, and when he’s slid full into the hilt, fingers of his other hand hitching one knee higher to make more room for his bulk, he pauses and holds still to breathe into your neck. That’s what gets you to wake up completely. The concentrated scent of his body so close, the hot wash of his breath against your throat, the smell of his clean sweat blended with heat. Your own cold sweat blooms along the line of your vertebrae, and you can feel the thump of his aorta in his belly against the small of your back and deep in your cunt against your cervix, that thump thump thump. You wish you could reach in and take hold of that lifeline, grasp in your hand that which keeps him alive for you and guard it for him in thanks for his keeping you alive, too.
“So good, stay right there, just like that. Don’t move, baby, need this right now.”
He presses a very gentle kiss to your jaw, and then starts to thrust. You like that he’s always gentle when he sneaks up on you like this. That he’s always very careful about fucking you awake, ever aware of the fact that he’s taking something.
You moan softly for him, the feel of the wide head moving against the front wall of your cunt, rubbing against the sensitive spot there. The catch and tug at the ring of your entrance when he pulls his hips all the way back to slide in long and stretching next.
“That feels good, doesn’t it? Feels good to just lay there and take it. My little hole to fuck and fill whenever I want.”
You start to pant, quick and panicked, needing to get there already. You want it so bad. He presses in as deeply as he can go, tip to womb, grinding and you start to come, so hard it’s painful, like your insides are all stretched and wrong and bruised, and then suddenly pulls out of your belly with a wet, tight suction.
It forces a strangled little scream from your throat— “Come inside me, no, no, please, please, Joel. ”
“No.” —Your entire body spasms painfully and half-fulfilled.
“Don’t be mean to me. I can’t take it, not tonight, please— No, no, don’t, Joel—” Before he’s forcing that thick mushroom head into your ass, stinging and unprepared, and jacking the greater half of his cock to spend into your tight hole, his palm wrapped around your hip, fingertips pressed to the pulse in your groin to force you back onto his spurting erection. The sound he makes, loud, unrestrained groan with his hot, wet mouth pressed against your ear, the feel of his tongue licking at the sensitive dip below, and the unbearable heat of his semen bleeding into your belly, it makes your cunt spasm again, milking hungry at nothing.
Angry, greedy, starving tears slip from your eyes when he pulls out of your stinging ass. He doesn’t even frown when he sees your splotchy, tear streaked face, only licks them clean away like they’re exactly what he expected to slake himself with in the aftermath.
He’s a heavy sleeper when he’s in your bed. One of the silent reassurances because you know he wouldn’t be able to truly rest, to find real sleep beside you, if he didn’t trust you completely.
You straddle his waist, the soft thickness of his cock tucked between your bodies, and admire your handwork. The broad musculature of his chest, the thick vein, dark beneath his skin, running along his shoulder, highlighted by the intruding moonlight. You press the hard muscle beneath it, watching as the blue thread disappears for a moment and then bleeds dark again. When you grip his face, his lashes flutter for a moment, and then it’s just his stupid, animal eyes, helpless to your grace, following you even when you terrify him.
“I told you not to be mean to me,” you tell him, digging your nails into his cheeks. He looks at you blankly for a second longer, taking stock of his body, and then his head tilts up, up, following the line of his arms to where his hands are tied together at the bedpost.
The look he swings back your way, crooked brow and all, is condescending enough you take hold of his hardening cock between your bodies, tugging his hips off the mattress so he’s whimpering, hardening further immediately.
“What’re you up to, baby?” He pants, head falling back between his lifted shoulders, groaning when you squeeze the reddened head tightly.
“My turn to play,” you murmur, sitting back to admire the thick bulge of his biceps as he strains against the ties, his reddening chest.
“Fuck—that’s fuckin’ good,” Joel moans as you twist your fist around him, tugging his sac with your other hand, spitting to lubricate your fist moving up and down his length. He moans louder, your name, and his legs shift restlessly behind you, tipping you forward on your knees with the movement. You squeeze his balls tighter, trying to find your balance and he whines. There’s a tiny bead of sweat at the delicious notch of his throat that you taste with the tip of your tongue. Sweet and salty, both at the same time.
“Fuck, fuck, that’s enough now.” He widens his knees bent behind you, trying to dislodge your balance further, and you hear the creak of the headboard as he strains further against his binds, the muscles in his arms bulging obscenely. Your heart beats a panicked flutter of excitement. “That’s enough, you’re going to make me fuckin’ come—fuck.”
“I told you not to be mean to me tonight. I asked you to come inside me and you wouldn’t. You’re mean, Joel Miller, and I don’t like it.”
You shuffle your knees wider, and he looks down at you with glassy, delirious eyes, his erection throbbing almost violently in your grip.
“You’re bein’ a real bad girl right now.”
“I want you to love me,” you tell him, notching him at the mouth of your sex.
“I won’t.”
“I’ll make you.”
You press down on him until his thighs are against your bottom, both of you groaning ferociously at the tight fit caused by the angle you're bent forward at on top of him. Looping your arms around his neck, yanking his head back with your fingers in his hair.
“Fucking kiss me,” he demands, and you press your mouth hard to his, tasting his tongue. Tightening around him, you bear down, molding your chest to his. I’ll make you, I’ll make you, you tell him and he eats at your mouth, growling with the force of his strength when he rips the restraints free of the headboard to wrap one freed arm around your waist, pulling your hips still and lifted so he can pound up into you as hard as he wants until you’re both falling into your orgasm together, gasping mouth against gasping mouth.
When he’s finally caught his breath, he tells you, “If anyone could, it’d probably be you.”
The last of the six takes a long time to catch. Like a bad, sneaky rat that’s learned all the tricks. She takes too long, and he gets another girl, and what he does, it isn’t just an almost, not even just a breaking in. She’s forced to say the whole hateful word out loud. It’s all very brutal, makes her stomach hurt. Makes her cry and feel guilty and then relieved, terrified and then horrible again.
So when she finally catches him, she makes it really count, real slow.
“You gotta hold the knife like this. Forty-five degree angle, cock your wrist and press firm. But controlled. Don’t wanna go too deep, though, and knick the liver or he’ll bleed out right quick like a stuck pig. Real messy.” Joel’s instructions are clear, precise. “Yeah, good, like that. A little deeper.” The blood spurts, it is very red—arterial, too deep—the body bays like a dying thing.
“Thank you.” He knows what she means.
“Sure.”
She looks at him and he stares back at her.
“I told you I’d make you. Didn’t I?”
“You did.” His eyes are deep and soft. “Now focus,” he tips his chin at the dying body, “We’re almost done.”
Later, when Joel steps out of the old, abandoned house, her work cleared away not to be found, he sees that there is a large, dead stag just by the door, seemingly come out of nowhere—caught now.
End Notes: FMC is attacked and a sexual assault is attempted, she is pinned down and groped (body parts not specified) but Joel stops her attackers before it can be taken further. If you would like to skip ahead the description of assault starts from "She calls it an attempted break in..." and ends at "First, you hunt for his name."
summary: you meet javi in a club and he shows you his favorite way to foreplay sex.
warnings: no smut, no y/n, this isn't explicit but outrageously horny, naughty language and bad touching in public, slutty dancing
a/n: @ravensmadreads reminded me that the songs "Gasolina" and "Rompe" exist and then forced me at gun point to write this drabble. no one talks about what a good dancer javi would be and i've had enough!
🤍Masterlist
It started simple enough.
A smile at the bar. The tang of tequila and the sour bite of a lime. A touch against your thigh to see if you are easily startled. He has to lean in close to ask if he can buy you your next drink, the deep rub of his voice only audible above the pound and hum of the music when his lips brush the shell of your ear.
Then you tug him by that linen shirt, the tails already creeping out of the waistband of his jeans as if in anticipation of what comes next. His damp throat visible through the shamelessly undone collar, you wonder if he barely dresses himself because he knows some woman will just tear him naked again. His breath smells smoky, rich, like the mezcal he’s been sipping on, his broad chest warm under your palm as he now herds you onto the dance floor. There’s a grin on his face, a dark fire in his eyes that tells you he likes to play with his food, that this is nothing more than foreplay to him. Practice before the test. A dry run.
He wants you to know exactly where you liked to be touched before you bring him home, to surprise and bewitch you as if he had known those places all along.
But you’re not so easily convinced. Not so easily made dumb by slim hips and wide palms. He wants to dance, you want bailar.
It starts simple enough. His head hung low, teasing grin on his face, he encourages your arms around his neck. You feel his hair stick to your forehead as he leans in rough palms easing down over your wrists, your elbows, your shoulders, then steadying against your hips. He moves like many men in this country do, with the self-assuredness that the music listens to him and not the other way around. He’s light on his feet, cowboy boots taking two steps forward, one step back, and you wonder what kind of a job he has. What kind of a man he is, that he can dance like this but his palms are so rough. You wonder how he would dance if he didn’t have plans of fucking you in the club’s bathroom. His hands rest lightly on your hips, hardly respectable but a little possessive, a promise and a warning that you are going to only dance with him tonight.
You watch his eyes flick down to your chest only a few times.
But then the music changes, the crowd drunk and eager for something stronger than seduction. The bachata gives way to music not about love but lust, its desirable twin. It’s faster, something more metallic and driven.
The hands on your hips tighten and the pulse in your wrists quickens. It comes as no surprise that this stranger, this man can easily handle the switch – the slide into something that demands a change of pace, the roll of the hips instead of a sway.
He is never rough and never grips too tight. His hands glide up to the arch of your back, hot and rolling like candle wax, as he suggests silently that you come closer, that you let him feel only what you’ve been showing. You go willingly, curious and painfully turned on. What is he capable of? What can he do to you? What would you let him do to you?
His feet widen apart and you slot in like you’re supposed to. He seems surprised by it, as if every move you’ve made towards him all night hasn’t been bold, hasn’t explicitly told him what you want. His arm now up around the low dip of your ribs, the thumb on the other hand brushes under your lip. He won’t kiss you, you don’t kiss to this music, but you see he wants to breathe you in, wants to make your air his.
“Hermosa,” he murmurs, everything about him from his hair, to his mustache, eyes and eyebrows dark and heavy. “Que hermosa.”
You don’t realize you’re pinned to his chest until his arm has nowhere to go, trapped between you two. So he doesn’t move it. He cups the back of your neck, fingers pressing into the damp lining of your hair above the knot of your spine. This isn’t what he expected to happen and neither did you. His belt buckle digs into your hips and you can’t resist pushing into that cold pinch. His nostrils flare, eyes searching, breath short. Sweat drips over his left eye and you half-bite, half-kiss the spot on his forehead, tongue printing on his skin.
You feel more than hear the groan in his chest.
The music changes again, the lights spinning and dropping in the low beats. In the half-dark, he tugs your elbows from around his head, finger rubbing over the lining of your panties over your dress, and he turns you, barely allowing an inch of space between you.
You feel his breath on your neck before those wide palms curl around you, that hot, damp chest curl around you, and he’s dragged you against him, all without missing the flow of the music. You moan when his hard cock, confined by the seam of his jeans, spreads your ass cheeks apart and you drop your head onto his shoulder. His fingers twist the hem of your dress but don’t move it. The bareness of your skin is for him alone, in private, in the half-darkness. Instead, he palms the hand pressing into your thigh, your legs screaming from the constant movement, and brings it up to your chest, his fingers intertwining with yours. He nudges your jaw with his nose, breath heavy against your ear.
He likes to fuck like this too, you realize.
His hips flow and buck with the music, yours nestled as tight as you can without him physically being inside you. You purposefully fall out of sync for a fraction of a second, your ass grindings against where he is so deliciously hard and he grunts. He drops his head, tongue then teeth digging into the muscle between your shoulder and your neck. You intentionally rub against him again, in the opposite direction, and his other hand again overtakes yours, threading his fingers and yours together, and wraps your arm around your ribs, his own like a hot steel bar across you.
You toss your head back, gasping for air before you are pulled back under.
Wrapped around you, he fucks you without penetration, the music a whispered instruction to the pace of his hips. You turn your head and bite his ear, making him groan deep, the metal teeth of his jeans imprinting their shape onto your ass. His eyes closed, his fingers dig into your palms. Hot, humid air puffs from his wet mouth over your shoulder, into the curl of your neck. Your skin beneath your wet hair twitches with sudden goosebumps.
You realize, in a daze, he’s muttering the filthy lyrics to you, smearing promises into your skin long before you can reciprocate that pleasure. You push back against him, a reward, and this time, he purposefully rubs against you, against the music, his hand over yours dropping to your abdomen, just where your panties sit under your dress. He cups you as if he could mount you – drive you under him, and eat you out on his knees.
On the next flash of light, the drop of the beat, you slide your hand out from under him and wind up into his hair. His free forearm binds you just under your tits, keeping you against his grinds, his sweat-damp body, so you curl your fingers into his hair and yank. His head drops back as he pants from the sharp spike of pleasure and pain.
His heartbeat is the same as the bass, you think. Maybe yours too, the heat of his chest felt all the way down your spine.
He is minutes away from unwinding himself from you, from flushing you cold without the fervor of his body, your own drenched in sweat, only to all but drag you into the nearest bathroom, shove your panties down to your knees and actually, properly fuck you until you have bruises and beg him for more. But not yet.
There’s an intimacy in dancing like this. A familiarity that is too often rapidly lost and gained in the physicality of later acts.
You think deliriously that all couples should have to dance like this before going out or even hooking up. Because this, this chemistry, this natural heat and rhythm, can so often provide honesty that can rarely be spoken about so early. This, this dancing, asks, “are you going to fuck me like I need it?”
Yes, his body proves as his strong, thick thighs cage you even further into him, yes, he can.
He will fuck you. He will, he promises every time he makes you squeeze yourself with his hands.
Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)
Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.
But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.
You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.
Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)
Word Count: 9k?
(dividers by: @cafekitsune)
a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.
The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.
But he never does.
The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.
Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.
But you know better.
He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.
You let him. Every time.
Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.
And on Sundays — you never expect him.
Sundays are for her.
The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.
Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.
And if he ever did — you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.
But he doesn’t. He won’t.
And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.
It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.
The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.
He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.
You didn’t ask him where he’d been.
You never do.
You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.
The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.
He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.
It’s never urgent, with Joel.
It’s not tender either.
It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.
You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.
You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.
You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine.
Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.
You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.
Then he spoke. Just one word.
“Laura.”
You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.
He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.
You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.
You don’t cry anymore.
That part of you dried up months ago — somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.
Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.
You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.
And still, it lingers.
That feeling. That film.
Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special — you’re a secret because you’re nothing.
Because love is something he gives to her.
And you’re just flesh.
You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.
But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?
She gets him clean. You get him hollow.
You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.
Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.
You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow — in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.
He gives her Sundays. And you?
You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.
Maybe. If he’s not too tired.
Never Sundays. Never.
You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.
The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.
But he never does.
He doesn’t ask.
It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound — the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.
Joel Miller.
Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.
You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.
You didn’t speak. Not at first.
Just noticed.
He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.
The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.
He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”
And that was it.
No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.
After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”
Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.
One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.
You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.
Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.
You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.
That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way — just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.
He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.
It kept happening.
Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.
He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.
You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.
You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.
He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.
And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.
Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.
You just open it.
Let him in. And let him leave.
He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.
Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.
You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.
Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.
People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.
"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."
"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."
And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.
Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.
You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.
Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.
And he never mentioned her. Not once.
Not in words, at least.
But you saw it anyway — in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.
You don’t feel guilty.
Not really.
You’ve tried. God, have you tried.
But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.
You still do.
You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.
And maybe that makes you cruel.
Maybe that makes you hollow.
But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.
She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.
She’s his age. Maybe even older.
And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.
You hate that you envy her. But you do.
You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.
You envy that she gets all of him.
His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.
You only get what’s left.
The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.
And still — you open the door.
Every time.
Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.
Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.
He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.
And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.
He comes late.
Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.
He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.
You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.
You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.
You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”
He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”
You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”
His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”
And that hurts. Because it’s true.
You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”
His face hardens, but you press on.
“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”
He looks away.
You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his.
“Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”
He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”
“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”
He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”
You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”
Silence. Thick and final.
He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.
You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.
But he doesn’t.
He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.
Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.
“If you leave now, don’t come back.”
He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.
Just like that.
No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.
You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.
You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.
Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.
Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.
But tonight — You finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.
You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.
No — it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.
You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.
You don’t even know why it hurts this much.
You ended it. You told him to go.
But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.
And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.
You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.
But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.
And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.
He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.
You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.
But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.
Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.
You turn, expecting a trader.
But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.
Tommy.
You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.
Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.
But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.
“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”
He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving.
“You always this tough, or just showin’ off?”
You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”
And he smiles — not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.
It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.
“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.
It’s small. Fleeting. But real.
For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.
You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.
Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.
And you laugh. You actually laugh.
And when he looks at you — really looks — it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.
He flirts a little, too.
Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.
And when he leaves — when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around — you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.
You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.
But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.
And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.
Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.
Warm.
He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before.
Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.
Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.
“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.
And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”
At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.
But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.
Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.
He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.
And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.
It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.
The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.
You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.
There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.
But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.
And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”
You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.
He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.
A date.
Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.
A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.
Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.
Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.
You take your time getting ready.
Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.
Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.
You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt — short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.
And then the necklace.
A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.
Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.
You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.
You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.
You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.
You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.
And then — a knock at the door.
Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.
For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.
You smile before you even open the door.
Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward — and handsome as hell.
He’s dressed up. For you.
Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.
And in his hand — a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.
Your breath catches.
“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.
He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”
Your smile falters — just a flicker — at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.
You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.
And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.
Not tonight.
You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.
They smell like someone tried.
“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.
He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”
You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”
Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.
He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”
And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.
Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.
The forest hums low with night.
You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.
When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.
It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.
Chosen. Prepared.
Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.
You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.
The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.
He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”
You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”
“At makin’ fires?”
“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.
“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.
You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.
Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.
He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.
“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.
He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”
You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood.
The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.
Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”
You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—
A bottle.
Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.
He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”
Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”
He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”
You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”
He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses — one chipped, one cloudy — and you laugh, breathless.
“You came prepared.”
He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.
You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”
Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”
You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.
You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.
But it’s good.
You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”
He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”
You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.
And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.
He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”
You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”
You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.
The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.
Just soft. Open.
You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.
Neither of you say anything for a long while.
The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.
And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.
Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.
Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.
The stars have faded from your focus.
All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.
You haven't spoken in a while.
Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.
And then you feel it shift.
The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.
His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.
His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.
You don’t.
Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.
The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.
Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.
His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.
Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.
You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.
You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.
But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.
Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you
He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.
And then—
He deepens it.
Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.
And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.
Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.
Not Tommy. But Joel.
Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.
And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.
You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.
He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.
You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.
“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”
He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.
“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”
You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.
He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.
And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.
And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.
Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.
He walks you home in the moonlight.
You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.
But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.
And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.
“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.
Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.
You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.
And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.
It’s your day off.
The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.
A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.
You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.
You’re not really reading, though.
Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.
You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.
And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.
So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.
You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”
But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.
It’s Joel.
He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.
“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.
You blink. “What?”
He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”
Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.
Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?
But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.
He looks hurt.
“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.
“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”
You freeze.
“What?”
His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”
Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”
His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”
Your whole body goes still.
He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.
Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.
“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”
Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.
“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”
You blink hard, throat tightening.
And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:
He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.
He feels something.
But it’s too late. Too twisted.
Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.
“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”
You see it hit him.
Right in the gut.
Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.
And then — without a word — he turns.
And walks away.
No apology. No threat. No parting shot.
Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.
You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.
You try not to think about Joel. You try.
But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.
Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?
You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.
Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.
You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.
You hear his boots before you see him.
Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”
You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.
You freeze.
It hits you all at once — how different this feels.
How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.
And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.
But you can’t.
You can’t.
Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.
So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.
You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.
“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.
That does it.
He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.
Tommy’s house surprises you.
It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.
The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.
“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”
You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”
Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”
He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.
He doesn’t get annoyed.
He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.
“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”
When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.
“What the—?”
You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.
“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”
You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”
Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.
He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.
The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.
And then—
His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.
And you kiss.
It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”
You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.
Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.
And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
“Hi,” you say with a little smile.
He kisses your cheek in reply.
You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.
“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”
He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”
You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.
Then he asks: “How was your day?”
And you freeze.
Your smile falters for just a second too long.
He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.
You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.
“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”
He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.
You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.
You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.
And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.
But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.
Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.
Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.
You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.
Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.
You think, I could get used to this.
And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:
“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”
Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.
“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.
But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.
“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”
You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.
“Tommy—”
“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”
He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.
“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…”
He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”
Your heart drops.
Because God, you want to tell him.
You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.
But you can’t.
If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.
And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.
So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.
“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”
It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.
Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”
Your throat tightens.
He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”
You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”
Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”
His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.
“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”
And then he kisses you.
Not careful this time. Not shy.
It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.
That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.
And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.
Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.
His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.
So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.
His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.
It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.
You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.
He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.
Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…
Tommy feels like safety. Like home.
There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.
Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.
He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.
His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.
And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.
“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.
“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.
His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.
He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.
Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.
They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.
And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.
You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.
You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.
And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.
“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.
He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.
Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.
“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.
“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.
“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.
His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.
Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.
You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.
Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.
One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.
“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.
He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.
Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.
When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.
He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.
He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.
“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.
His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.
Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.
He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.
Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.
“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.
His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.
Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.
“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”
You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”
His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.
You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.
He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.
His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.
Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.
“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”
He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.
“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”
And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.
His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.
“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”
You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.
“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”
His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.
"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.
And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.
Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.
And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.
At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.
He’s still here.
Tommy.
His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.
Your chest tightens.
You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.
So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.
A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.
Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”
You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.
He sees it, though. He always does.
His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”
It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.
Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.
It was late now — past midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.
Then came the knock.
Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.
But when you opened the door, your breath caught.
It wasn’t Tommy.
It was Joel.
And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.
And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.
It was Sunday.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.
“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.
You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.
You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.
Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.
You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.
He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”
His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”
Your heart thudded.
“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.
Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.
“You happy?” he asked.
You blinked. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”
You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”
He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.
“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”
Silence.
“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.
You stared. Shocked. “What?”
“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”
Joel looked down, silent again.
And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.
“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”
Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.
“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."
"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."
"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"
"Joel stop."
He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"
"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.
He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."
You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.
Well... you have.
But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.
"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.
"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.
"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.
He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.
And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.
Just hollow.
You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.
And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.
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