Always keep fighting

You can call me Niffi, Tv series, movies, addicted to reading, she/her, 20's

[pascalispunkczechia]

Javier Peña as a single dad?!

Single dad Javi trying to raise two little kids after their mother leaves. Exhausted, overwhelmed, heartbroken and still doing everything he can to make sure those kids feel loved every single day. Tiny apartment chaos, bedtime stories, messy ponytails, emergency snacks, cartoon naps and Javi learning that being somebody’s dad matters more than anything else. Soft, emotional, slightly funny and painfully domestic.

• javi fic masterlist • javi headcanons masterlist

• He is constantly tired. Like genuinely exhausted all the time. One kid wants juice, the other one is crying because their sock “feels weird,” and Javi’s just standing there in the kitchen holding coffee he reheated three times already.

• He learns how to do little girl hairstyles from pure survival. The first ponytails look rough as hell, but he keeps trying because his daughter gets excited every time he manages one that actually stays up.

• He lets the kids sleep in his bed way more often than he probably should. Especially after nightmares or when they ask where mommy is again.

• He still gets that horrible feeling in his chest every time one of them asks why their mom doesn’t live there anymore. Never talks badly about her in front of them, no matter how hurt he is.

• Sometimes has to pause before answering their questions about their mom because he genuinely doesn’t know how to explain adult pain to a three and five year old.

• He falls asleep during cartoons with one kid laying on his chest and the other half on top of his arm. Wakes up with a sore neck and absolutely zero regrets.

• The apartment is always messy in a very lived-in way. Tiny shoes near the door, crayons everywhere, juice boxes on the table, one stuffed animal somehow always ending up in Javi’s bed.

• He keeps emergency snacks everywhere because one of those kids is somehow always hungry. One kid definitely cries because daddy cut the sandwich wrong and Javi just stands there like “it’s literally the same sandwich…”

• He reads bedtime stories while barely keeping his own eyes open. Sometimes starts mixing up words because he’s so tired and the kids think it’s hilarious.

• Lowkey feels guilty all the time. That he’s working too much, too tired, not doing enough, all of it. But the second those kids run to him yelling “DADDY,” none of that matters for a minute.

• His daughter paints his nails once and he just leaves it on for days because she looked so proud of it 😭 Also secretly keeps every ugly little drawing they make him. Desk drawer full of crayon chaos.

• Sometimes sits alone after they fall asleep, just staring into space because this is not how he imagined his life going. Still, if you asked him if he’d change having them… not even for a second. The kids become his whole reason for getting up every morning. Even on the days where everything hurts.

💌 @idknananchimaybe @theeverodriguez @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ningaispunk @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2

💌 you wanna be tagged?

Apparently I cope by putting Javi through emotional devastation over and over again 💔 But I love him too much to only write the “easy” versions of him. I like exploring every side of his character – the soft parts, the exhausted parts, the angry parts, the broken parts, the loving parts. Sometimes it hurts like hell, but there’s something so special to me about Javi still trying to be gentle and loving even when life completely falls apart around him. He deserves softness too 🩷

[petalsinblood]

Author's note: So from now on I'll be doing little sneak peek days for Falling through centuries. So when y'all see this pic, just prepare to see my little medieval time story. Alright, that's it.

Part one - The bend of time

Joel leans against the car, his eyes immediately falling on the circles around different places, the sites big enough to make him realize that this is going to be one of the harder jobs again.

But oh, how he loves these works.

Even when in the end he gets home all dirty and sweaty. Even when the handle of the shovel hurts his hands. Even when they dig all day and don’t find anything interesting or important. Even when the beginners don’t stop bombarding him with questions.

Because in the end all he sees in front of him is that he made it. They made it.

“Hey, Earth to Joel,” Tommy calls out, waving his hand in front of Joel’s face, and that’s when his brother snaps back to reality.

“Yeah?”

“You seem a little distracted,” Tommy says in a suspecting voice, and Joel leans his head to the side.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy smirks and shakes his head as he folds the map again. “Did you finally sleep with someone?” he asks without looking at him.

Joel quickly looks around, making sure that no one hears them before he looks at Tommy with wide eyes. “Hell, no I didn’t. Why would you ask somethin’ like that? And if I would’ve, I probably wouldn’t talk about it with you.”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t been with anyone in years, man,” Tommy tells him, walking towards one of the tables that are set out. Joel follows him closely, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Wait, are you attracted to men?”

“Now where the hell did that come from? I’d rather go back to the age of executions than sleep with a man,” Joel answers, picking up some important tool from the table while his brother is standing beside him with his arms crossed, studying his every move and expression.

“You know that I wouldn’t judge you if you were gay, right?”

“Oh my God! Can you just drop it already? I’m not gay. I just… Don’t have luck with women. That’s it.”

“If you say so.” Tommy lets it go, shrugging his shoulders as he picks up a shovel too. “Should we start at that little creek that I circled?”

Joel just nods, not really bothered where they would start.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @cozymochaa, @eviispunk, @aphroditekillz, @mystickittytaco, @prettylovley, @daniel-bruhhl, @gunnersaurusrex, @norahlolzz, @ijustlovemensm, @mmarysha, @anothergojostan, @xojdmasf, @lovelyandferal, @kunakizen, @my-tearsricochet, @goonersquad101, @johnssherlock221, @mrs-joelmiller, @christinerose380, @laprofesoratinacita, @kokoluwie, @nutbutterjellie, @hazzzy418

[petalsinblood]

Author's note: So from now on I'll be doing little sneak peek days for Falling through centuries. So when y'all see this pic, just prepare to see my little medieval time story. Alright, that's it.

Part one - The bend of time

Joel leans against the car, his eyes immediately falling on the circles around different places, the sites big enough to make him realize that this is going to be one of the harder jobs again.

But oh, how he loves these works.

Even when in the end he gets home all dirty and sweaty. Even when the handle of the shovel hurts his hands. Even when they dig all day and don’t find anything interesting or important. Even when the beginners don’t stop bombarding him with questions.

Because in the end all he sees in front of him is that he made it. They made it.

“Hey, Earth to Joel,” Tommy calls out, waving his hand in front of Joel’s face, and that’s when his brother snaps back to reality.

“Yeah?”

“You seem a little distracted,” Tommy says in a suspecting voice, and Joel leans his head to the side.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy smirks and shakes his head as he folds the map again. “Did you finally sleep with someone?” he asks without looking at him.

Joel quickly looks around, making sure that no one hears them before he looks at Tommy with wide eyes. “Hell, no I didn’t. Why would you ask somethin’ like that? And if I would’ve, I probably wouldn’t talk about it with you.”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t been with anyone in years, man,” Tommy tells him, walking towards one of the tables that are set out. Joel follows him closely, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Wait, are you attracted to men?”

“Now where the hell did that come from? I’d rather go back to the age of executions than sleep with a man,” Joel answers, picking up some important tool from the table while his brother is standing beside him with his arms crossed, studying his every move and expression.

“You know that I wouldn’t judge you if you were gay, right?”

“Oh my God! Can you just drop it already? I’m not gay. I just… Don’t have luck with women. That’s it.”

“If you say so.” Tommy lets it go, shrugging his shoulders as he picks up a shovel too. “Should we start at that little creek that I circled?”

Joel just nods, not really bothered where they would start.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @cozymochaa, @eviispunk, @aphroditekillz, @mystickittytaco, @prettylovley, @daniel-bruhhl, @gunnersaurusrex, @norahlolzz, @ijustlovemensm, @mmarysha, @anothergojostan, @xojdmasf, @lovelyandferal, @kunakizen, @my-tearsricochet, @goonersquad101, @johnssherlock221, @mrs-joelmiller, @christinerose380, @laprofesoratinacita, @kokoluwie, @nutbutterjellie, @hazzzy418

[petalsinblood]

Dirty move

Pairing: Reed Richards x gn!reader

Summary: Playing Twister with Reed seems unfair, but surprisingly he doesn't break the no-stretch rule. Instead he comes up with a dirtier move.

Warnings: established relationship, Reed playing dirty, pure fluff, allusions to smut

Word count: 807

You still don’t know why you thought that this would be a good idea.

Reed has been in his lab for the whole day, and all you wanted to distract him somehow. You didn’t even think about which game you picked up from one of the shelves, you just brought it to him. You only realized that it was Twister when you were already standing in front of Reed.

Now you are in your bedroom, preparing the game while Reed sits on the edge of the bed with a smirk on his face. His usual formal clothes are discarded. His shirt is folded neatly on one of the chairs alongside with his pants, leaving him only in his undershirt and briefs.

“Are you sure that you want to play this game?” he asks, looking down at you as you kneel in front of him and try to smooth out the play mat.

You glance up at him before moving to the other corner. “I’m not, but it’s already ready.”

You stand up when you don’t see any more wrinkles on the mat, and you watch him, pointing one finger in his direction. “No dirty moves. If I notice you stretch any part of yourself then I’ll automatically win.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

“What’s not fair is that you have he ability to stretch to impossible levels,” you answer. You lean down to pick up the little wheel, holding it out in his direction. “You start.”

He takes the wheel from you, spinning it with a confident flick. You both watch how the little arrow moves before it comes to a stop. “Left hand on blue,” you call out.

He walks over to the mat, leaning down to place his left hand on one of the blue circles. “Alright, your turn,” he calls out as he looks up at you.

You place the spinner to a reachable distance from the mat, spinning it once. The arrow lands smoothly, and your already moving to take your position next to Reed. “Right leg on blue.”

“You know, I already hate this,” he says, and you just let out a soft laugh at the look on his face.

You don’t even remember how many rounds you go through without any struggle. At least not physical struggle.

You are currently in a bridge position, your right leg extended to reach one of the red circles. Reed is just above you, hands placed carefully in each circle beside your head, and the sudden proximity of him makes your head dizzy.

“This game should be illegal,” he tells you with a huff, and you feel your body melt under his voice.

“This is a good game. Just maybe not for us.”

“Definitely not for us,” he agrees. A smirk appears on his face, and he suddenly leans down and starts to pepper your neck with feather-light kisses. Your whole body shudders at the contact, and you have to focus hard to not just collapse under him.

You try to pull away. “Reed, I said no dirty moves.”

“Yeah, but you only told that I can’t stretch. You didn’t say that I can’t try to distract you.”

He continues his kisses down to that little place where your shoulder meets your neck, and your whole body shudders before your arms give out and you fall to the mat.

He looks down at you with a triumphant smile on his face, and you roll your eyes as you try to get out from under him. But his hands catch your hips before you can move, pinning you in place. You swallow hard as leans down to you, and you let your hands come up and rest on his chest.

“I think I know a game that’s just for us,” he whispers next to your ear, letting his mouth fall to that sensitive little spot just behind it. “I’ve been wanting to do an experiment for a long time now anyway. Maybe we can try it now.”

“I’m not your guinea pig, Reed,” you say, panting heavily as he moves his head, and his mouth is inches away from yours now.

“No, you’re not,” he agrees with a nod, and lets his lips touch yours. “But we’ll see if you’ll say the same things when you’ll be moaning my name over and over again.” His lips crash over yours and you let out a soft yelp when he suddenly picks you up and carries you to the bed.

You spend the whole night experimenting together. Fingers tangled in his hair, nails running down his back, holding onto him like there is no tomorrow, allowing him to try out new moves and positions.

And God, how glad you are that you picked Twister out off all the other games on the shelves.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from it): @picketniffler, @speaktothehandpeasants, @harriedandharassed, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @misstokyo7love, @shadowqueen2024, @missadangel, @annwrites24, @baronessvonglitter, @cozymochaa, @eviispunk, @johnssherlock221, @goonersquad101, @my-tearsricochet, @laprofesoratinacita, @nutbutterjellie

[auteurdelabre]

HOLDING PATTERN

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

a03 link here

Summary:

You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

THIS STORY IS ON A03

tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.

notes: Remember when I said this was the second to last chapter? So, I lied because this story needs a little more time to breathe... Don't hate me.

THEN

The party is so loud Frankie can barely hear himself think. Bodies bump into his shoulder, alcohol-soaked breath wafting over him. 

And he can't stop smiling. 

Frankie is twenty one, he's in the air force and he shouldn't be this giddy at the thought of being someone's boyfriend. But with Pip, he's nearly beside himself with joy. 

He sneaks a look at you across the party, watching with fondness as she talks to her girlfriends. He's in love with you, he acknowledges. But he's too scared to admit that part out loud to anyone. It's too soon to tell you that. Liking you feels safer. 

Even though it's not just liking that has him fantasizing about them living in his house when they're both done with school and training. Of shared dinners after work, long nights of lovemaking and laughter. He thinks of the marriage his parents had and how he will do everything different.

He's always been quiet, prone to deep reflection and slower to anger than most of his peers. The air force has taken a bit of that from him. It can feel dehumanizing at times, exhausting and frustrating. But when he's behind the stick of his favorite chopper, everything else fades.

He just wishes Texas wasn't so fucking far away. 

He thinks about asking Pip for a photo he can bring back to his barracks. Something to look at that reminds him he has a future waiting for him back here. Would it scare you to know how much he's imagined a future with you? That this summer hasn't just been amazing because of the sex, but for the quiet moments in between?

"Can you believe my parents locked the liquor cabinet? 

Frankie is brought back into the moment, Travis at his side holding a solo cup and whining. 

"They have so much in there and they never started locking it up until now. Fucking idiots. I wish they'd leave and never come b-." He catches himself, eyes going wide as he looks at Frankie. He's said an impossibly stupid thing. "Shit... I'm sorry, Frank."

"No worries," Frankie mumbles with a wince. "You seen Santi?" 

"Nope. But I've seen Christy," Travis replies, briefly flashing a wag of his pink tongue. "Damn, she looks good." 

"Oh yeah?" Frankie replies distractedly, dark eyes scanning the room. Travis watches this, voice turning exasperated. 

"He's here with some hot date apparently," Travis says with an eye roll. "Surprised you don't know about it, being his boyfriend and all." 

Frankie's jaw feathers. He's always had to maintain a civil relationship with Travis, but as they've gotten older he finds the boy more and more annoying.  It's also painfully obvious that he has a thing for you even though she's given no indication that she feels the same. And why would you? You like Frankie. He still can't quite believe it. Seems almost too good to be true. You’re so smart and gorgeous and funny and... He feels his cheeks heat delightedly. 

"I've been sorta busy lately," Frankie finally says distractedly when he sees Pip's head weaving through the crowd. 

You glance Frankie's way and he feels his whole body going warm when their gazes connect. Everything about you is just so fucking perfect. Even the subtle smirk you send his way.

Travis' must notice the gooey look Frankie shoots her. The small smile you share before averting your gazes. 

"You try anything with Pip and Hilary will kill you," Travis murmurs. "If she doesn't, Santi will."

Frankie is quiet, unhappy that he's been so obvious in his desire for you. 

When Travis turns, Frankie can see the young man's attention is fixed on your smiling face. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. His eyes scan down your body in a way Frankie knows he wishes his hands were. 

"Would be worth it though," Travis continues in a low voice. "I've been dying to get a piece of that ass for years." 

Ugly jealousy twists in Frankie's guts. His fingers are curling into a loosened fist at his side. 

"Yeah, well, like you said, Santi and Hilary would kill us." 

Travis laughs in response and Frankie watches as his attention moves over the other girls in your group. They land on Christy and her skimpy outfit. 

"Can you believe Christy's a real beauty queen?" Travis says, clicking his tongue appreciatively. "I mean I always thought she was hot, but that's insane."

"I guess." 

Frankie knows that Christy is attractive. He's not blind. But he also knows she only ever flirts with him to get to Santi. He also knows he doesn't care what she looks like or what she does because the only girl Frankie has ever truly wanted actually wants him back. 

It's hard not to smile when he thinks about that. How the girl he grew up alongside became the woman he can't think of life without.

You're standing there stiffly observing what Christy is saying. You look upset. This look is magnified when he notices Christy approaching from the corner of his eyes. 

"Hi Travis. Hi Francisco," Christy says. He notices her voice is pitched higher, bubblegum sweet. 

"Hey."

"Enjoying the party?"

She steps closer and from this distance he can smell the floral perfume she wears. Can see her nipples jutting through her thin camisole. He forces his eyes to the ground, feeling lecherous. 

"Sure." 

She tilts her face forward, ignoring the way he doesn't look her way. She's so close he feels the heat of her body. 

"You look good tonight, Francisco."  

Knowing that you're watching from across the room this makes Frankie flush with embarrassment. "Thanks," he mutters, voice low. 

Travis excuses himself with a sneer. Clearly Frankie is taking the attention he wants for himself. Once he's out of earshot, Christy leans forward again. 

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"I always liked you, you know, during school," she says, giving a girlish giggle and ducking your head like she's feeling shy. "I can't believe I just told you that. I must be drunk."

Frankie takes a sip of his beer, head rising to look for you. But you've escaped somewhere, lost in the shuffle.

"I hear there are some empty bedrooms upstairs," Christy purrs, her hip bumping into his. "Should we go check one out?"

Frankie cringes, trying to think of a nice way to say no. 

"You said you're drunk," he says flatly. "I don't fuck drunk girls." 

"I'm not that drunk," she insists. 

He feels his jaw tighten. He's not an unkind person at heart, but her closeness is making him uncomfortable. "Not interested, sorry." 

Christy gives an overdramatic pout, jutting her chest his way. When she sees he's not giving in she moves her face in again. "C'mon Francisco," Christy says, lips almost brushing his cheek. "I'll make you s-"

"I'm with someone," Frankie interrupts, no longer interested in being polite. She pulls back in shock, eyelids fluttering dramatically.    

"What? Since when?" 

"For a while," he replies smoothly. "And I'm really into her." 

Saying it out loud makes his insides quiver delightedly. He almost wishes Pip was there to hear it. 

Christy looks like she's just swallowed a stink bug. She's not used to being rejected and that's clear in her expression. But then her face slowly smoothes out. She leans her hip against his again, trying her best to get him to grind against her. 

"I won't tell if you don't," she says, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile as she drops her voice. "Could be our little secret." 

Frankie places his empty beer cup down on the nearby side table. "Maybe Travis wants to hook up," Frankie replies. "He's heading back now." 

Christy briefly lifts her eyes to see Travis returning with two new solo cups before her attention flicks back to Frankie. 

"You're telling me you don't want to fuck a beauty queen?" She asks with a disbelieving scoff. 

Frankie shoots her a piteous look.  "Have a good night Christy." 

He gives her a kind smile, hoping that it will soften the harshness of his departure. She doesn't seem to enjoy it though. She rolls her eyes and goes stalking off in the direction of upstairs. 

Travis smirks, handing Frankie one of the cups. 

"Damn what did you say to Miss Florida? She looks pissed." 

Frankie shrugs. He doesn't care that Christy is offended. He doesn't want her. 

"You seen Pip?" 

He wants you at his side. Or at least he wants an eye line of you. 

"You really like her, huh?" 

Frankie feels his stomach bottom out, turning his attention to Travis. The young man is looking at him in a way he's never seen, or perhaps never noticed, before. A dark kind of look: cold and dangerous. 

"What are you talking about, man?"

"Pip. I see the way you look at her these days," Travis says smoothly, like this is a fact everyone knows. "And we all know she's been in love with you for years." 

The tips of Frankie's ears burned in both embarrassment and delight at the word. "I'm just used to her always being around." 

"Is that why you wear that hat everywhere?" 

Frankie's cheeks burn as he absently taps the rim of his hat. 

"This?" he says forcing a laugh. "I'm just used to it is all."

Travis laughs back but it’s a hollow sound. It doesn't touch his eyes, his mouth barely moves. 

"Right. Sure." His eyes flick to Frankie's head again. "You won't mind if I borrow it then?" 

His arm jerks out, hand swiping Frankie's ball cap right off of his head. Frankie goes to snatch it back, but Travis has already popped it on over his shorn curls. Before Frankie can attempt to take it back again, Travis hears his name being called. 

"You can have it back in a bit," Travis said with a cruel kind of amusement as he walks backwards towards the call. 

Frankie feels his teeth clench. Not just at having his shit taken, but knowing that Travis is probably on his way to tell Santiago about Frankie's obvious affection for his cousin. 

"Hey, man." 

A frustrated Frankie glances over to see several young men on the couch. All are fuzzily bearded and sleepy-looking. The bigger one with a baseball cap extends his arm, a joint held out in his fingers. 

"You want a toke?"

Frankie hesitates briefly before shrugging. "Sure." 

He didn't smoke pot often; his dad always knew when he did. He tried popping gum and spraying cologne but it couldn't compensate for the scent that clung to his clothing. But now his old man is gone. Frankie could do whatever he wanted. He's free in so many ways. 

He takes a deep inhale, letting the sweet smoke fill his lungs before thanking the guy on the couch, handing him back his joint. 

When the pot hits him a few minutes later it feels good. He takes a seat in one of the free chairs, listening to the men talk about government cover ups. But he's not really listening. He's daydreaming about his girlfriend. 

Pip. The most beautiful, smart, funny, sexy woman he's ever known. A woman who never takes bullshit. Who sees him at his worst and still likes him. 

He thinks he sees you stealing through the crowd and his heart leaps. He jumps to his feet, moving clumsily towards you. He calls your name but you don’t hear him over the crowd.  Frustrated, he tries to muscle through the groups when he tumbles into a familiar figure. 

"Frank? What're you doing?" 

It's Santi; one arm around a cute blonde. He looks at his friend with amusement, much to Frankie's relief. Travis must not have said anything. 

"I was looking for.... Well, you actually." Frankie runs his hand through his short hair, frustrated to feel his cap still missing. He feels naked without it. "Can we talk?" 

"Sure." 

"Uh... It's private. Can we talk outside?" 

Santi trails a look over Frankie before glancing back at his date. He mumbles something and she nods, shooting Frankie an annoyed look as she moves to grab another drink. 

Santi nods towards the back door, indicating Frankie should follow. "C'mon. Let's go." 

They make it into the backyard where several groups talk loudly. Some playing chicken on the grass. 

"It's Pip," Frankie says, rubbing his clammy hands on his jeans when they find a quiet spot. 

Santi furrows his thick brows. "What? She okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, she's fine." Frankie feels his stomach twist, his head spacey. He's trying to say it but he feels like he is outside his body. 

Santiago Garcia is his best friend. The two of them have suffered through childhood, puberty, heartbreaks, abusive fathers, shitty home lives. There's the potential that he'll be giving all of that up. Years of friendship, of brotherhood, taken from him with this confession. 

So he has to ask himself, is Pip worth it? 

The speed of his decision surprises even him. 

"I like Pip," Frankie says, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. "Like, a lot. And I want to date her."  

He physically flinches, awaiting the discipline for his affection. He waits for Santi to start cussing him out, for hatred and ugly accusations. 

"You ask her out yet?" 

A beat. 

Frankie isn't sure that Santi actually said that or he hallucinated it. He's further confused when Santi laughs, pointing across the room at one of their old friends. 

"Oh shit, did you see Jordan just bail off the table?" 

Frankie doesn't bother looking over in the direction of the laughter and whoops. All he can fixate on is his friend not looking upset at all. 

"... You're cool with it?" He says incredulously. "With me dating Pip?" 

"Does she like you back?"'

Frankie has to bite back a grin. "Uh, yeah. Pretty sure." 

"Then sure, why not? I mean.... She's a grown-up," Santi shrugs, eyes glazed from booze. "She can date whoever she wants." 

"You're not upset?"

"This has been a long time coming as far as I'm concerned. Plus I know I can trust you to treat her well." Santi shrugs, giving Frankie a mischievous look. "Better you than Travis." 

The two men laugh and the tightness in Frankie's chest unravels. He feels like he can breathe again. 

"Speaking of which... I'm pretty sure I saw Travis heading upstairs with Christy a while ago," Santiago says with a bemused look. "I just know that's going to end disastrously." 

"You never know," Frankie shrugs, smiling toothily. "Maybe it's fate." 

He doesn't actually believe that. He's just so relieved at Santi's response. 

"C'mon, lemme kick your ass at beer pong."

Frankie follows Santi to the other room, the two of them watching the game currently in progress. Frankie intends to only watch, but eventually it's dragged into the game but a very convincing Santi. 

"You're gonna be family soon enough," Santi jokes over the gathered crowd. "You better stay in my good books." 

Frankie knows he's kidding, but something about the concept of being a family with Santi and Pip and even Hilary makes his eyes water.

They win the next three games, hands sticky with booze, throat raw from cheers. Frankie feels naked without his hat the entire time. He taps out when the suggestion of a fourth round is mentioned. 

"I gotta go find Pip," he says with a light slur. 

Santi only punches him lightly in the shoulder, giving him a knowing look before turning back to start on the next round. 

Frankie manages to walk away from the busy table, his mood serene, and his heart full. He feels happy and warm and he wants his girl with him. He can be public with her now. He can't wait to tell her. 

He notices something dark blue on the coffee table, the familiar logo staring at him. It's half under a pizza box, forgotten, and Frankie grimaces. 

"Fucking Travis," Frankie mutters, grabbing his baseball hat and shaking crumbs from it. He places it on his head, feeling more secure already. 

"Oh my gosh are they making out?" 

Frankie hears the scattered whispers of amused teens nearby. Several of whom are gathered by the large bay window, peering out into the front yard. Normally he wouldn't care about something as banal as a party hookup but he wants to laugh about this with Pip later.

He pictures them back at his place under the covers, laughing about the party, holding each other as they fall asleep. 

He walks to the window, an amused smirk on his face. He joins the search in the darkness, eyes weaving until they land on the couple making out against the tree. Frankie goes to laugh when he sees that the boy is Travis, his movements quick and jerky. 

But the laughter, the smile, all of it dies the second he sees the girl Travis is making out with. The girl who holds onto him and kisses him back ardently. 

No. No she wouldn't. 

But the longer Frankie watches the more the figures become clearer. So clear that Frankie feels like he can hear your whines, the same ones you gave him only hours ago. He feels his heart crack when he observes how you touch Travis in that same soft way you do with Frankie. 

With that he's surging through the crowd, shouldering the front door open with a growl. Like a missile he's guided directly towards the oblivious couple. 

A part of him is so desperate for this to be a nightmare. A bad trip. Anything but Pip willingly making out with Travis after admitting her feelings for Frankie. His mind is completely blank, his feet marching quickly across the grass. His face is on fire, his heart breaking as he sees Pip being pressed into the tree by Travis. 

This turns Frankie's vision red. 

He doesn't remember much of what happens next. The memory is like snapshots of moments. Travis falling to the ground. The anger in a Pips eyes, the casual sneer at the thought of sleeping with Frankie. 

Pulling Travis off of you wasn't an issue. Having everyone circle and whisper didn't affect him. It was the coldness in your voice, the ugly look in your eyes and the disgusted scoff when you said you'd never sleep with him.  

What the fuck had happened?

He's numb by the time he turns away, everything in his body cold. He doesn't notice the laughter or whispers. He couldn't care less about that. All he can think of is your disgust, the chill in your gaze. How could he have ever thought he knew you, his Pip? 

You're a stranger to him. 

He hears his name being called, but its several blocks before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, spinning him around. 

"Frankie, what the fuck happened?" 

Santi is doubled over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and looking at Frankie with utter confusion. 

"Forget it," Frankie says his expression dark. "Forget all that dumb shit I said about Pip earlier. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What-"

"Just drop it, okay?" Frankie snaps, eyes black with hatred. "Don't mention it again. I'm serious. Not to her, not to Travis, nobody."  Frankie has to look away from him when he speaks again. "As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist." 

Santi is quiet, eyes big and sad. 

"Okay, Frank."

Santi is still talking, you know this because you can see his mouth moving across from you. But you're not getting any of what he says. You feel as if you're being held underwater, the world spinning and growing dark at the edges, sound muffled and your body numb before going sluggish. 

"No," you whisper, closing your eyes. "No," You repeat to yourself, but it's coming out in a whisper. The room is spinning and you grip either side of the table to stop your stomach from flipping. 

"You’re lying," you croak, head shaking violently from side to side. "That's not what happened.”

"I don't know what to tell you," Santi shrugs, brows tight. "He was with me the whole time playing beer pong." 

"No, no, that's not ..." Your throat closes up and you're suddenly spluttering for air because you can't formulate a response to what Santi is telling you. 

But your cousin doesn't lie to you, he never has. He's been there for you during the hard times as much as any brother would be. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat, your stomach heaving. You force your lips shut, swallowing aggressively. You will not vomit in a fucking Denny's. 

"Pip." Santi's voice is low and warped. Like he's a tape being rewound. "Breathe slowly. In and out."

You're starting to shake, legs going cold. 

Breathe. Breathe you fucking idiot. 

You take a deep, sputtering lungful of air, eyes blowing wide. Santi looks beside himself, hand holding your wrist. You clutch at his arm with your free hand, nails digging into the warm flesh there. 

"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw them."

"Travis came down and talked about how he fucked the beauty queen," Santi says quietly, as if it pains him to tell you this. 

"That can't be what happened," you say, lips trembling. "That can't be." 

Because that would mean you kissed Travis in front of Frankie for no reason. That this decades-long feud has been going on because of a misunderstanding. 

Years spent without the one man you've ever really loved, for no good fucking reason. 

Santi leans forward, voice light. "Pip, he never would have done that to you. He told me that night that he liked you. He wanted my blessing I think." 

You feel dizzy because things are starting to come together. Travis and Christy's secret relationship. The taking of Frankie's hat. The way the two of them look so similar from behind. It was Travis who fucked Christy in that bedroom, who came down afterwards and tried to do the same to you. Your skin crawls in revulsion at the thought of you letting him kiss you. 

And an even more distressing, you think of the hurt way Frankie looked at you at that party. The layered cruelty of you words and actions. Punishing him for a slight he never committed. 

Because you know deep down in your bones that what Santi has told you is the truth. That there's no planet in which Frankie Morales would willingly break your heart. 

The nosy patrons, the tired looking servers, everyone fades into the background as you stand, looking at your cousin with your lips quaking. 

"I have to go." 

THEN

Frankie lies in bed that night, heart aching, chest tight. It feels like finding out his parents are dead all over again. That same hopeless feeling. But during that you had been there to bring him comfort and affection. To hold him in his sleep. 

Now who does he have? 

He was going to answer your question later this evening. Of when he first realized he liked you as more than just Santi's cousin. 

The truth is he was pitifully unaware of you as a woman for most of your acquaintance. You'd just always been there in the gang, a sexless figure he liked to laugh with, to protect. 

But the summer of his eighteenth year you asked him to hunt lightning bugs while Santi and Travis were off camping. You had a mason jar and lid ready, your denim shorts high on your thighs. 

"Thanks for coming," you said, tapping the rim of his hat playfully. "Hilary says it's lame to still catch them." 

Frankie didn't tell you he felt the same. But he'd been bored and there was nothing else to do. Plus the summer air wasn't too heavy, the night balmy so Frankie led you both behind the old baseball field. 

Fireflies moved lazily in the dark, blinking like tiny dying stars and Frankie, only half heartedly invested, found himself watching you instead. 

Your smile was wide as you darted after a one flickering flash. The same look you wore when you beat the boys in a race, or said something to make everyone laugh. The smile you'd worn since childhood. 

He followed close behind, pretending to help, but getting caught up in watching how you moved, the way your face lit up when you succeeded in capturing your first.

"Got him!" You crowed, holding up your jar in triumph. 

"Not exactly a skill, Pip. Kids do it every summer." 

"Where's yours then?"

"Didn't feel like it."

You nudged your shoulder against his, rolling your eyes as the two of you took a seat on the grass. 

You never asked him about the air force or how he felt about it. You tucked your knees to your chest, eyes stuck on the jar. 

"They're so gorgeous."

You held up the jar to eye level, light flickering against your cheeks. You turned to grin at him, your face beautiful in the warm glow.

Beautiful. 

That wasn't really a word he associated with you before. But he couldn't deny that in this moment you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Like a painting come to life. 

He was curious as to what it would be like to cup your cheek, to feel the plump of your lips beneath his thumb. 

Something warm in his chest caught him strangely off guard, making his head spin.You were almost three years younger than him. Sixteen to his eighteen. He wasn't supposed to think about you like that. 

He felt the need to fill the silence. 

"How come the sudden need for fireflies?"

"Uh, guess I just needed to get out of the house," you said quietly to the jar. "Mom was just ... "

You trailed off, face dropping. Frankie could see it, illuminated by the swarm inside the mason jar. 

Instinctively he shuffled closer, throwing his arm casually around your shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. Only now you snuggled against him, exhaling lightly. 

"Thanks, Frankie." 

Your head was at his cheek and he inhaled the scent of your hair before he swallowed thickly. You felt good against him, and he longed for you to tip your face up to him so he could capture your mouth in a sweet kiss. 

It wasn't until that warm thread began to weave its way around his lower belly that he realized something had shifted. 

Something he wasn't going to be able to ignore. 

You can't breathe. 

You know you're managing it, gulping deep lungfuls, but it doesn't feel like enough. The air is so hot and humid; it feels like it's coating your insides.

All a misunderstanding. Frankie never cheated. Frankie never cheated. I walked away from the most amazing man because of a misunderstanding.

You stop the truck midway home, your stomach heaving. You manage to stumble out of the cab before you're bent over, vomiting into the grass at the side of the street. Cars whizz by, some calling out to you, telling you to party less hard. You don't even hear them. All you can picture is the hurt in Frankie's eyes. 

You empty your stomach, eyes wet, body trembling. Your throat is scorched when you finally crawl back behind the wheel, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

You finish the drive to your house, truck parked haphazardly. You realize you're crying when your view turns into a watercolor blur. You make it through the door, slumping against the wall just inside with a ragged cough. 

A figure grips your hand, lacing their fingers with yours. You stare at the chipped black nails and many rings and look over at your sister. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

You tell yourself that you don't want to tell Hilary everything that happened. You need time to process this, but your chin wobbles, eyes filling again. 

"Let's go on the porch," she says gently tugging you. "C'mon."

You allow your sister to guide you out onto the porch, both of you seated on the old creaky chairs before she grabs a smoke from her pocket. 

You watch her light it with an old bic lighter, orange flame springing to life. She looks at you through tired eyes, face drawn as she exhales a ribbon of smoke. 

"What the hell is going on?" 

You grip the sides of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. 

"Hilary I fucked up so bad. I fucked up everything." 

Your fingers rake through your hair again and pull as the devastation floods you. The pain serves to keep you anchored in the moment.

She sucks in a slow breath. "What? When?"

"Frankie," you say through a sudden sob. "I thought... Fuck, Hilary, I hated him for so long..." 

The pain feels so sharp, like needles along your aorta. It propels you out of your chair, legs weak. You fall to your knees on the rotted porch planks holding your head in your hands as sobs ravage you.  

You shake; feeling Hilary kneel beside you, hand on your shoulder, pulling you to face her. 

"Tell me what happened." 

She soothes you by rubbing your arms, almost like one would do if someone was cold. It calms you a fraction, allowing you to catch your breath. 

"It was during Travis' party..."

The story pours out of you, ugly and raw and accompanied by warm tears that slip down your cheeks. You can't make eye contact with her during the story, terrified to see the piteous look she'll shoot you. 

You live through that horrible memory, the sounds of Christie's moans, the sight of the standard oil logo looking back at you. 

She's silent the entire time. As you finish the story and raise your eyes you see that she's just squinting at you, perplexed. 

"You thought Frankie cheated on you?" 

"I did," you tell her, eyes blurry. "I really thought I saw it with my own eyes. But it was fucking Travis wearing his hat. This is all so fucking stupid."  

She's frowning, creases starting between her brows.  

"That's why you were kissing some guy at the party," she whispers as if things are starting to fall into place for her. 

You don't even question how she knows that bit of information. Santi probably told her, which causes your face to heat up and embarrassment. 

"It was Travis," you tell her with deeper shame. "I was kissing Travis."

"That fucking snake." She exhales shakily, furious adrenaline clearly coursing through her body. "Fucks Christy and then tries to get you into bed."  Hilary looks like she wants to punch something. Simultaneously infuriated and disgusted. "Have you and Frankie talked about it?"

"I don't think I can say anything," you insist, heart pounding. "I just found out the truth from Santi. I'm still processing." 

"Go have a shower and clear your head then," Hilary says urging you inside. "And brush your teeth because your breath is fucking disgusting."

THEN

Frankie sees Hilary from time to time in town. She's usually buying cigarettes or heading off with some new guy. Tonight she's at one of the bonfires the locals put on at the start of every summer.

Frankie had nothing better to do and with Santi overseas and Travis moved, he doesn't have much of a connection here. He thinks of going home after this to the house of his childhood. The empty one with no warmth. The one he had Pip in for several weeks. 

Barely any time at all. 

"Hey Catfish," Hilary says, handing him a beer as she approaches. Like you, she'd taken the nickname and run with it when his patchy beard grew back. 

"Hey Hil." 

The two drink quietly next to one another looking at the flames of the bonfire. Frankie tells himself he's not going to ask about you. Not going to torment himself.  But it comes out, a slow murmur. 

"You talked to your sister lately?" 

"Not much," Hilary says. She takes another deep pull of her beer bottle. "She doesn't really love talking on the phone." 

"Mhm. She like school?" 

She gives him a look. "Why don't you just call and catch up with her yourself?"

"Not much to say." 

"I know you like her, Frankie," Hilary says shrewdly. "And I bet she'd love to hear from you." 

Frankie's face goes red, splotchy pink leading up his neck. He tries to shrug it off, but fails. 

Hilary saw him that night with the flowers, with the open look of desire he had for you. There's no point in lying to her. 

"I know she cares about you," Hilary says, eyes scanning his face. "And I know because she's never cared about a guy like that. Ever." 

"You don't know that whole story," Frankie says. 

"So tell me." 

He shakes his head. That's Pip's story to tell.

"Look, it's obvious the two of you like each other. Or liked. So I don't get why you both don't just admit that to each other." 

"We did, right before the party," Frankie snaps, before catching himself. "Hours before I saw her making out with-"

He slams his mouth shut, furious at having lost his temper and given away something so private. 

Hilary looks stunned. She seems to grope for words. 

"Wait, my sister was kissing some guy at a party?"

Frankie thinks about telling her that the guy was Travis, but he doesn't want to think about it too much. Saying the details makes it hurt worse. So he stays silent, eyes on the sand. 

"She must've been drinking," Hilary continues. "There's no way she'd do that sober." 

Frankie is quiet, not having considered this. Hilary blinks at him slowly, like an animal considering something. 

"I just, I know my sister, Frankie. She's not a cruel person. There must have been something deeper going on." 

Frankie is embarrassed to feel tears starting along his lash line. He blinks them back furiously, looking away as he shakes his head. 

“You should call her, Frankie,” Hilary adds before walking away from him. “She’s still at the dorms until tomorrow.”

He watches her move over to the group she arrived with, a cigarette hanging from her lips, a beer in her hand within moments. He watches as she whispers something to the muscular man at her right, laughing gaily when he nods, stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf.

She’s always been able to charm people, to convince them to be brave. And when Frankie strides back to his truck an hour later, he realizes that she convinced him too. However, she was gone with some guy from the bonfire before he could chase her down for your number. 

That’s led him here to the hospital where your mom works.  

Would you really want to hear from him? And mostly, why does he want to talk to you? You broke his fucking heart. You acted like you were into him, agreed to a relationship and that same night you were making out in front of everyone with fucking Travis. 

He's sick when he thinks about it. A memory he's tried time and time again to exorcise through booze and women. Because there have been other women in the four years since all of that happened. At first to prove he was over you and then to help him forget you. 

Neither worked. 

Frankie notices some nurses heading out of the hospital on their break. They talk quietly to one another between puffs of their cigarette. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel before removing the baseball cap nestled over his curls. He smooths his dark curls back, long fingers carding through the strands before popping the hat back on.

He raises his eyes to the rear view mirror, grimacing at his reflection, because this grey hat with the fishing logo doesn't sit right because it's not the one you gave him. That one sits at home in his bedroom, a shrine to your betrayal. Standard Heating Oil. 

He should have burned it. Should have given it away. Should've buried it where he didn't have to see it every day. And yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bear to erase that part of his life, of you, for good. 

Even after everything, he can't stop this deep want for you. A burning ache that won't be extinguished. 

He'd forgive you if you'd just explain what happened. How you could go from crying his name between his sheets to letting Travis stick his tongue down your throat. 

He needs answers. 

He needs to hear your voice. 

He pushes himself from the cab of the truck, fingers tapping at his thigh as he moves through to the nurses’ station. The hospital is very quiet at this time of night, voices hushed, wards closed. 

It doesn't take long to locate your mom. She works in the same unit she always has and tonight, despite the quiet atmosphere, looks frazzled. She's writing down something in her charts before she notices Frankie approaching. Her face drops and she comes around the desk, meeting him mid-stride in the hallway. 

"Francisco, what happened?" Her hands grip his elbows. "Is everything okay?"

Her breath seems overly minty when she says his name and he knows that its to cover the vodka she keeps in a nearby water bottle. 

"Everything is fine, ma'am," Frankie says, giving her a polite smile. "I promise."

"Santi? Hilary?"

"As far as I know."

"Thank Christ," she says, a hand at her sternum. 

When she gives a relieved smile it reminds him of yours. He never noticed until now that you both have the same smile. 

"It feels like ages since I saw you," she observes, arms crossing as she looks him over. "You've grown up into such a handsome young man." 

Frankie feels himself grow a bit embarrassed at the attention, looking down at the scuffed floor. "Thank you." 

"And I hear you're still flying helicopters? That's so exciting." 

Frankie can't help but smile shyly, pride suffusing him. 

"Yeah, it's pretty great." 

She nods, starting to walk down the hall to check on the charts. He follows beside her, hands in his pockets. 

She scribbles away, talking to him over her shoulder. 

"So, why are you here, honey? Anything I can help you with?"  

Frankie's neck and the tips of his ears go pink, his face warm. Saying this to your mom suddenly feels daunting. 

"It's, uh, well, I wanted to know if you had Pip's number at school." 

She falters only a moment, scanning him. "You don't have it?"

"No ma'am." 

"Of course I have it. Come back with me to the desk and I'll write it down for you." 

He follows her to the desk, sidestepping a young orderly. Your mom digs in her purse for her address book, a few items shifted. 

He sees a postcard inside as she rummages. It's from Seattle, obviously from Pip. She sends postcards home instead of visiting, he muses. Santi tells him as much.  

She notices him looking, her smile toothy as she produces the postcard. He catches your writing on the back, his heart clenching. 

"Just got this one from her today," she says holding it up. "Strange to imagine my baby all the way across the country, but these help." 

"I bet." 

Your mom digs in the desk for a pen and post it note, grumbling about the other nurses being disorganized. 

"Ah, there's one," she announces, brandishing a pen with the hospital logo on one side. "Why did you need her number? You sure Everything's okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just..." Frankie swallows, cheeks flaming as he stands there. "Uh... I wanted to speak to her." 

He meets her eyes and despite the glazed look she wears, he sees something else. A knowing, an understanding. A softness that moves to her mouth, hitching at one side. 

"I see." 

He watches her scribble down the number, tearing the yellow sheet from the others and holding it out to him. 

"Here you are, honey." 

Frankie reaches out to take the paper, eyes already memorizing the digits before he folds the page and stuffs it in his jeans pocket. 

"Thank you very much." 

Your mother nods, looking at him curiously. 

"I bet she'll be really excited to hear from you." 

Not so sure about that, he thinks.

"I hope so." 

A beat. The two of them don't move, neither sure how to end the conversation. 

"Your parents would be so proud of you, Francisco. I just know it." Your mother adjusts her scrub top, looking at Frankie with tenderness. "I mean, hell, I'm not even your mom and I'm so proud of all you've done with your life." 

The words are gentle and said with genuine affection so sweet that it makes Frankie's eyes grow damp. 

He'll never hear those words from his parents. No observance of his hard work. No celebration for his accomplishments. Hearing them from your mom takes his breath away. 

He tries to thank her but the words are getting stuck in his throat. 

As a mother she seems to sense this, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his middle. He's a head taller than her, but it doesn't stop making him feel like a child again when she squeezes.

"If you ever need anything, you come see me," your mom tells him. "To talk, to eat, to sleep. Anytime. You promise?"

"Yes ma'am," Frankie says, a tear escaping down his cheek. "I promise." 

He moves from her with a small smile, the drive back home quick. But once inside the quiet house his bravado fades and he takes his time puttering around the kitchen.

The Post-It note sits on his kitchen table, but it could be in the trash for all he cares. He had the number memorized before your mom even finished handing it to him. The phone sits in is cradle on the table, intimidating in its stillness.

He can imagine your soft surprised voice. He loves how you say his name. The slope you put to the end of it. He feels his mouth lift at the corners in anticipation. 

"Just do it," he rasps to himself. "Just fucking do it." 

He picks up the phone, fingers trembling. He internally practices how to start the conversation. 

Hi Pip. Congrats on graduating. No, that's fucking stupid. Hey Pip, it's been a while. How've you been? Hey Pip, you broke my heart and I want to know why. Hey Pip-

"Hello?"

A man's voice. 

Frankie frowns at the phone, confused. This is your dorm room. Hilary mentioned that you live with girls a few times over the years. So why is a guy answering your phone at this time of night? 

"Hello? Is anyone there?" 

I dialed the wrong number, Frankie decides. Stupid of me.

But he still grips the receiver tightly, holding his breath. 

"Nothing." 

He goes to hang up when a voice drifts in the background. A voice he knows all too well. 

"Just hang up and let's go to bed." 

You. 

You telling another man it's time to go to bed. A leaden rock drops inside Frankie's stomach, causing an anguished noise to escape him the second the phone receiver is placed back on the cradle. 

He stares at it in numb shock for a few moments, mind going to the worst places possible. Your and some faceless guy in bed together. Him able to draw sounds from you that Frankie was incapable of. 

What was Frankie thinking? That you'd magically stay single all this time? That you'd be pining away for him like he has for you? 

Humiliation scalds his cheeks, sorrow heavy on his shoulders as he moves to the bedroom. He throws himself onto the bed he once shared with you, holding a pillow to his chest and falling into a dreamless sleep. 

The shower is restorative, the mint toothpaste still clinging to your teeth. You feel better as you enter into the kitchen. 

Hilary is seated there, ashtray half filled. You join her, breathing unevenly. Your body is still vibrating with all of this new information. 

“You need to talk to Frankie about what happened.”

An anxious twist starts low in your belly. "I don't know what to do or what to say. I don't want to bring up all this hurt again. He doesn't deserve it."

"You need to tell him."

“Why?” You keep your voice quiet, not wanting to be overheard by your mother. "It’s been almost twenty years." 

"Because he deserves to know," Hilary defends, brows crossing. "And you know it." 

You think of the lipstick tube you found in his house that one day. The clear sign that Frankie has found someone else; a woman that feels comfortable enough to leave her things behind at his home. 

You push yourself up to your feet, starting to pace around the room.

"Frankie is over all of this, Hil. I'm just the loser that never moved on." 

She gives you a sneer.

"Bullshit. I know he cares about you. He's always cared about you. Even after the party."

"Not true," you scoff. "Until this visit, Frankie has loathed me."

"No," Hilary says shaking her head. "He hasn't." She pauses, grimacing. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

You stop your pacing, eyes over your shoulder. "What?"

"Frankie has been visiting Mom since she got sick." 

You draw back, dropping into the same seat. “What?”

"I was working doubles to pay for stuff for a while and he knew I wasn't at home as much because of it. Santi probably told him. So he started showing up to bring her treats, clean the house, visit over tea. When she could walk he'd take her for walks." 

"No. That's not possible. Mom never..." You pause your sentence. 

Mops. Brooms. Bringing by your mom's favorite brownies. The way she looked at him. The way he knew exactly how to be gentle with her. 

"He only stopped when he heard you were coming back," Hilary says and looks hesitant, like she's betraying his trust by telling you. "He made me promise not to tell you anything." 

"Why would he do all that?”

Hilary sighs, lighting up a new cigarette and giving you a leveling look. 

"Why the fuck do you think?" 

THEN

"A beach birthday is such a fun idea," Inaya says walking alongside Frankie, a cooler full of drinks carried between them. "I'm so bored during the summer." 

Frankie grunts and nods, pulling his baseball cap down a little lower over his eyes. A red one this time. One from the flight school he teaches at.

It's where he met the very beautiful Inaya when she came to take lessons. She works at a daycare during the school year, she's patient and she thinks Frankie is charming.

They both keep it casual. What started as drinks after class has turned into the odd dinner out, sleeping together when they both feel like it. Sometimes it's just nice to go to the movies with someone who isn't Benny or Will. 

Frankie likes Inaya because she fills a lot of the silence between them with chatter about traveling, about her job and her family. 

He's jealous of her stories of close multi-generational family life. That she's excited about visiting her grandparents back in India. It seems surreal that anyone could enjoy being around their family.

She also carries a pain, and it's the only thing she doesn't like to talk about. The death of her fiance, Michael, when they were both still in their twenties. He was in the air force too, shot down over Paraguay. 

He thinks that's why she likes to keep things surface level. It's easier for both of them that way. 

"Do you think Santi will like the gift card?"

"He'll like anything," Frankie assures her.

She laughs, head tilted back. Frankie brought her today because the other guys have been bugging him about bringing her out. They keep telling him that he needs to have a proper adult relationship instead of flings. 

In Frankie's opinion they're the last people he'd turn to for romantic advice. Santi is a serial heart breaker whether he's in Florida or working in Columbia. Will has been seeing the same girl off and on for the last few years and Benny is so focused on his boxing career he might as well be celibate.

"I know you guys served together in Argentina, right?" 

"Yep." 

"Loquacious as always, Morales," she says shouldering him playfully. 

Frankie scans the perimeter, taking in what the BBQ's are, where the bonfire has been started. He takes note of how many umbrellas and towels are lying out, how many bodies rest in various states of repose, sunglasses on, drinks in hand. 

It's a habit that won't leave him, one that he cultivated overseas; making sure no danger lurks anywhere if he can control it. Yet there's only one danger that he can't see. One that terrifies him more than any other. 

You. 

As far as he knows you won't be showing up. You're in Seattle, living a life away from your home life in Florida. Still, his stomach clenches anxiously as his eyes drift over the smiling faces. He searches each one as Inaya makes some crack about millennials and driftwood. 

His shoulders lower when he doesn't see your face, the knot in his stomach loosening. 

He can survive this. 

Inaya is a hit with the guys, not to Frankie's surprise. Will seems particularly enamored with her, hiding it poorly from Janette who hangs off his arm possessively. Frankie cracks a beer, smirking over at Santi who has observed the same. He drifts over to his friend, waving at those who wish him a happy birthday.

"Oye perdejo," Santi greets him, tapping his beer can against Frankie's. "Stop having so much fun." 

Frankie rolls his eyes. If it was just the guys he'd be able to relax. But with this crowd of revelers he just feels awkward. He's never really enjoyed big crowds of drunken people.

"Enjoying your party?"

"Depends, what'd you get me?"

Frankie digs into the back pocket of his shorts holding a small envelope his way. "Gift card." 

"So sentimental," Santi quips, snatching it and shoving it into his pocket as he motions to Inaya laughing with Benny. "So, your girlfriend's pretty great."

"Not my girlfriend," Frankie murmurs huskily against his beer can, eyes hidden behind his aviators. 

"Right." Santi nods, his own eyes fixed so long on Frankie's profile that he feels his cheeks burn.

"What?"

"Nothing." Santi taps his beer can with his pointer finger absently, a small wistful look on his face. "Just wondering when you're gonna be honest with yourself."

"About what?"

"About the reason that you never want commitment with anyone."

Frankie's heart is in his throat. “There’s no reason. Just not the settling down type.”

His friend presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "Frank, c'mon-"

"I'm gonna go check on Inaya."

It's clear he wants to say more and Frankie wants nothing less. Santi gives a rueful shake of his head as Frankie crosses the sand, stopping to grab a beer bottle from the cooler before coming to stand next to a bemused Inaya . She's standing politely listening to Benny peacock.

"I'm still new but they're already calling me the 'blue-chip prospect' of the division."

"That's so cool," Inaya says with such sincerity Frankie would think it was real if he didn't know her so well. She glances over at Frankie taking a deep pull of his beer. 

"Forgot mine?"

"You didn't ask for one." 

Inaya gives an exaggerated look of exasperation over at Benny. 

"Since Frank here decided chivalry is dead, I guess I'll have to go get a beer myself," she says, elbowing a smirking Frankie in the ribs. "Be right back." 

"Dig to the bottom," he calls after her. "Stuff on top is still warm."

Benny is smiling broadly when he looks back. Will slowly approaches as well, Janette having just left in a fit. 

"So," the younger Miller says in a teasing drawl. "She's pretty great, Fish."

Before Frankie can explain that he and she are casual, something stops him; something in the air. A strange sense that has gooseflesh starting on his arms and the back of his neck. 

 Santi's voice rings out over the crowd. 

"Hi, Pip! There you are!"

Everything narrows down to a pinprick. The world is muted, save for his shallow breathing. He might as well be back in Argentina with the guys, focus fixed on his surroundings. His heart pumps slowly, body tight all over. His arms have tensed up, knuckles white around his beer bottle. 

It's you. 

He doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly how you'll walk, the way the sun will highlight parts of your hair, the curve of your mouth. 

But he does. 

He moves slowly, sunglasses plucked and moved to hang from the collar of his t-shirt. His pulse plays a cruel staccato in his neck as he finally views you and your sister approaching the group in. 

It's been almost ten years since he last saw you and time has done nothing but add to your beauty. You've developed into your curves; you walk more confidently, your hair loose instead of its customary low ponytail. 

Deep, aching want spreads through his body as he takes in the way your eyes shyly look around, just as they did when you were teens. You may be more at ease in crowds, but you've never really shaken off that initial insecurity. 

"Is that the cousin?" 

"Thought she was in Seattle," Benny murmurs to Will. 

"As far as I know she still is," his brother agrees.

He looks over to Frankie who shrugs even though he knows very well you are. Did you fly out just for this? Why the hell didn't Santi tell him? 

"Here take this first," you say to Santi, your voice makes Frankie's mouth dry. 

He remembers that quiet murmur in his ear wishing him a good morning. He remembers the way you looked when you told him you loved him. He remembers the perfect comfort of being with you whether it was riding bikes through the neighborhood or between sheets. 

You shared more than sex. You shared childhood. A history. Each other's ups and downs. The awkward stages. The milestones no child should have to endure. There is joy at seeing you here and now, pure and honest. 

"She's hot," Benny observes, eyes trailing over you slowly in a way that tells Frankie everything he needs to know about his friend’s intentions. 

"Down boy," Will chuckles. "Pope will kill you if you mess with Pip." 

It all comes rushing back in that moment. And then all of a sudden that same pathetic joy turns to a feeble flame that is easily extinguished. All that's left is ash and ruin at the reminder of your callousness. Your sickening betrayal. 

Fury plumes up Frankie’s throat, a scowl etched across his full mouth when your gaze finally shifts over to him and your eyes connect. He doesn't expect your stare to betray the same simmering agitation, nor an accusation in every blink you don't make. But he long gave up any ability to understand your anger. 

Finally, like a physical severing, the two of you tear your eyes away and turn back to your respective conversations. 

"Lemme get you a burger," Frankie hears Santi offer you. 

Frankie clears his throat, not wanting to hear your reply. He doesn't give a shit about you. He never should have. 

Will's eyes drift over to Frankie who has turned back away from you, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. He feels like he's going to punch something. 

"You okay, Fish?" Will asks, puzzled. He scratches at his eyebrow as he stares at him. 

"M'fine," Frankie mutters. 

He moves from around the BBQ, trying to distance himself. He glances around for Inaya, horrified when he notices her laughter from across the fire. She's standing with you, beer extended as the two of you talk. 

Why the fuck is she talking with you? 

He ducks his head, grabbing some veggies and popping them onto a plate. He sees some blonde guy from one of Santi's poker nights. 

The guy - Barry? Terry? - greets him, starting a lively conversation with him about how they need to have a rematch so he can win back his money. Frankie is only half listening, he keeps sneaking looks out the corner of his eyes at you and Inaya. 

The two of you are still talking, making his stomach a quiver uneasily. 

He distracts himself with conversation, trying to look un-phased that you're here. Before long an hour has passed and Frankie can't stop the itch under his skin. The one that compels him to casually scan the party. 

Inaya is nowhere to be found, but even if she was Frankie wouldn't notice. His dark eyes are dragging over the sand for you and you alone. 

He spots you over by the BBQ, looking tense as you go about fixing a burger. You've got that serious look you wear when you're frustrated. Brows pinched, jaw clenched. 

You could be six, sixteen, and twenty six all at once. You'll always have that same expression and Frankie will always melt at the sight of it. 

He misses you. Misses the way you could comfort him like no one else. Misses the way you said his name. Misses the scent of your skin. He misses lightning bugs and ghost stories around campfires. 

And he knows in that horrible moment, that he's still so in love with you. Despite the party. Despite the man in your dorm room. Despite Seattle. Despite the silence. He misses you so much it feels like a physical pull of his sternum. One that forces his feet over the cooling sand, just to be near you. 

He halts a few steps away, watching the way your body tightens at his nearness. Can you hear his shallow breathing? Can you just sense him? He holds his breath and comes to stand next to you, reaching for a plate that he doesn't even need. He can't eat right now, his stomach is in knots. 

He tilts, eyes finally catching yours and he thinks he might faint or throw up. He's not sure which. You're not glaring at him anymore; instead it seems you're cataloging his features, taking in what a decade has done to him. 

What do you see? The lines between his brows? The patchy quality to his beard that he never grew out of? The length of his messy hair? Or are you looking at the hat he wears today? The old green one from his closet? 

Say something, Frankie tells himself when he realizes he's just been staring at you. Say something. Anything.

"Didn't know you'd be here. Didn't think you'd fly back for it," he adds before clearing his throat, hating how stilted he sounds.  

Your focus moves back to your plate. He watches you work, ears growing warm. 

"Sure." 

Silence extends as you both busy yourself with condiments and sides to your burgers. He keeps sneaking looks at your profile, questions running through his mind. Why did you never call him to explain? Don't you understand he would have forgiven you? Who was that guy in your dorm? Do you miss Frankie? 

"Your girlfriend seems nice," you say. 

Fuck. Inaya. 

He could tell you she's just a friend from work. Could tell you that he just met her recently. But he's never lied to you before, so why start now? 

"She's not really my girlfriend. We just... Hang out together sometimes." 

He doesn't want to talk about Inaya. He wants to talk about that night. He wants to know what happened. He wants to know if you still care about him. 

"Guess some things never change,” you say with a curl to your upper lip. Gone is the sweet voice he remembers, now replaced with something cold and flinty. 

"Huh?"  

“You’ve just always been good at making girls think they mean more to you than they actually do," you clarify.  

Old hurt comes rolling back, like a furious locomotive up his spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"  

Your name is called by Santi and the other guys. Tom has arrived and is clearly eager to meet you. You give a false smile and wave their way before looking back up at Frankie. 

"It means whatever you want it to, Frankie," you say with a disgusted scoff. "Just keep me out of it."  

He watches you leave, hips swaying as you move over the sand to greet the guys. They'll love you, he's sure. 

"That's her, huh?'

Frankie nearly jumps when he hears Inaya's soft voice at his elbow. "Huh? Who?"

"Morales," she sighs in mock exasperation. "C'mon."

Her eyes move from Pip back to Frankie and his nostrils flare slightly, eyes squinting. 

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, In." 

She steps closer, voice quiet, only for him. 

"I think I just met the reason you don't want to commit to a relationship."

Frankie's eyes narrow on her, anger clear in his expression. "Since when do you want commitment?"

"Not now," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But someday with someone." 

"Not everyone has your penchant for romance, I guess," Frankie hisses, cheeks splotchy

She looks at him with a worried expression. His jaw tightens, long fingers twitching at his sides as he shuffles in the sand. Inaya knows him well enough to recognize the signs. 

"You wanna leave?"

Frankie glances over her shoulder to see you at the rest of the guys laughing loudly. Just like he suspected, they love you already. 

"Yeah." 

She nods, taking his hand in hers and heading back to the truck. He doesn't bother saying goodbye to anyone. He just wants to slink off into the encroaching dusk and forget this ever happened. 

“That Benny is like an oversized puppy who doesn't know whether to bite or chase its tail,” Inaya laughs, her feet propped up on the dashboard as he drives.

Frankie can smirk at that, nodding. "Spot on." 

"You know, today I think I saw how you would have been as a boy," Inaya says affectionately, "All nervous and serious, hiding under that hat.”

She reaches over and tugs at the stray curl under Frankie's ear. He flinches away from her, scowling. 

"Quit it, I'm driving." 

She giggles, hair dancing in the air from the open window. She glances at the passing houses when she speaks next. 

"Pip seemed cool." 

Frankie is silent. He goes to turn on the radio but Inaya stills his fingers. She pulls herself into a properly seated position, braid falling over one shoulder. 

"Frank, c'mon. I know something happened there. You were avoiding her like the plague for most of the party. And the second you saw her you were, like, in a trance." 

Frankie swallows thickly, trying not to look unsettled. He had no idea he appeared that way to others. Is that what inspired Santi's stupid comments earlier? He's quiet, knowing that his silence is its own damning admission.

Inaya reaches across the cab of the truck, fingers light on his forearm. 

"I just wanna know what happened. I'm your friend, let me help you." 

Friends. He and Pip were friends. Inaya is nothing like you. The comparison makes him furious. 

"We're not friends, Inaya," Frankie snaps, teeth clenched as he jerks to a stop at a red light. 

Inaya takes a slow breath in, fingers lacing in her lap. "We're not?"

"No," Frankie says with a brutal curl of his lip. "We watch movies and eat food and sometimes we fuck. That's it." 

For a moment he thinks she might slap him, but she remains self possessed, voice controlled. 

"I see." 

The light turns green and the truck jostles to life as he aggressively pushes down the accelerator. The rest of the ride is incredibly tense. Inaya flicks the radio on this time and Frankie is thankful for the normally annoying sound of Barry Manilow. 

He eventually drops her off in front of her apartment building, turning the engine off with a slow twist of his keys. Frankie feels dead, his body heavy and useless. 

The two sit in a heavy silence, the day and the harsh words from earlier still echoing around the cab of the truck. Both seem to know this is the last time they'll see each other. 

Inaya unbuckles her seatbelt, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before she looks his way. 

"We get one shot at life, Frankie," she says as she opens her door and climbs out. "Don't waste yours." 

Frankie doesn't say anything. He just watches her move to the building as he settles himself behind his steering wheel. He waits until she's safely inside before he pulls away, eyes wet and heart aching. 

“I need to see him.”

You move on shaky legs, eyes wild and shaky hands gripping the strap of your purse. Everything you’ve learned in the last hour has shifted your universe in a monumental way. There’s no way you can just sit here any longer

Hilary stands, trying to grab at your wrist at you attempt to leave. “Hey, slow down.”

“I need to see Frankie,” you say sharply. “Right now.”

“You can always call him up and ask him to come over." 

“Face to face.”

"You shouldn't be driving," Hilary tells you, face soft with concern. "Take a minute to breathe.”

"I'll be fine," you insist, shaking off her hand. "I promise." 

Your hurried feet almost catch on the carpet as you rush for the door. Hilary is calling after you, but you don't hear her. All that pounds in your ears is the thrum of your heartbeat. 

Frankie. Frankie. Frankie. 

Images of your time together are assaulting you, the kite, the pool, your first kiss, the funeral and his arms around you. His eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes. 

Your vision is blurry, but you blink the building tears back as you practically tear the door of your truck open. 

You need to see Frankie right this second. You need to clear this up. No more misunderstandings. 

You peel out of the driveway, small little hiccupping sobs escaping you as your foot slams against the accelerator.

You think of the lost years. Of the twenties you two could have shared, could have spent building a life together. Instead you diverged like branches away from one another. Lives led with carried animosity. All because of a fucking misunderstanding. 

I fucked up.

All this time we could have been together.

I didn't trust him.

We could have had so much time. 

These thoughts make your breath catch in your chest, distracting you the vehicle that slams into the side of you truck. For a moment everything seems to go in slow motion. You take in the squeal and scent of burnt tires, the crunch of metal.

And then darkness.

DON'T HATE ME.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

taglist

@ashleyfilm

@beezusvreeland

@doblasftcisco

@harriedandharassed

@joeldjarin

@maried01

@menshipsandthesea

@peppermintfury

@severelysentientnova

@speaktothehandpeasants

@vickie5446

@yellowbrickyeti

[fullmoonlovestuff]

Hello mutuals, followers, anons...

I wanted to celebrate our little community with you. Which Pedro Pascal character is accompanying you as your spiritual protector or guide the upcoming week?

I made custom Lenormand-inspired edits for each result! Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and let your intuition guide you to your number.

Pick a number and reveal your spiritual guide! A little Lenormand-inspired quiz featuring Pedro Pascal characters to celebrate my followers,

share if you want....and enjoy

This quiz is for entertainment purposes only.

[kokoluwie]

Thank you for making this, Sio! 🩵 am I even surprised anymore that I got Javi? 🤭

Needed this reassurance today🌻🥹

npt (anyone who'd like to play)🩷: @sawymredfox @missadangel @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @awkwardpaws @daltoncharm @broad-shouldrs @maggiemayhemnj @petalsinblood @pedroncigarettes @annwrites24

[petalsinblood]

Thank you for tagging me, Koko! 💜

Well, 'heavy load' is an understatement... It's more like they threw a few car on me, topping that with a few elephants and expecting me to walk around the world with that on my shoulders. But I'm trying I guess! 😕

npt: @baronessvonglitter, @annwrites24, @tateypots, @time-for-my-weekly-spanking, @mcthsman, @picketniffler, @shadowqueen2024, @pedroscurls, @bergamote-catsandbooks

[picketniffler]

Thankyouu for the tag @petalsinblood

This was fun!

Yeah....I guess that's right?

Npt: @elvenhymntoelbereth @bergamote-catsandbooks @missadangel @cozymochaa @orcasoul @stylesispunk @shadowqueen2024

[bergamote-catsandbooks]

Hi! Hello! 👋

I’m breaking my somewhat vacation semi hiatus to share a little something that’s been on my mind for the past weeks. I’ve been gaining some new followers and mostly attention to my Din fics, which is, of course, very nice. But I’ve also noticed the pattern of many likes and almost no comments or reblogs.

I don’t want to sound whiny and I also understand that some might be new to this place and fandom, brought here by the Mandalorian movie. I once was like you and didn’t know better. But after reading a post about it I changed my ways, so if this reaches at least one person and helps them change their way of consuming then I’ll take it as a win. If you read a fic, appreciate an art, are delighted by gifs, REBLOG IT. At the the very least leave a comment to express that you enjoyed it. Doesn’t even have to be a long comment. Just a  ‘♥️’ works fine, or a little ‘Loved this!’. I can assure you, it will make the creator feel giddy with joy. Because when you only like it, well we don’t know if you read our fic.

On my last Din fic I have 378 notes, 18 are comments and 56 are reblogs. And for my little blog this is a lot. But you can half that because I try to answer every one of them. So for me people 37 read it. The 308 who liked it don’t count. Because I have no way of knowing if they’ve read it or not. It might just be a bookmark, or someone liking it without real intention, like you would on an instagram post. But understand this, this place doesn’t have an algorithm. So the only way a fic can get more attention is if you reblog it. And if you don’t reblog for whatever reason, at least leave a comment to let the artist know it was appreciated. Because in the end, people will stop creating, thinking what they do is not worth any attention.

That’s all for me. I really do hope at least one person will read this and think about it.

If you’ve read this all the way, here is your little treat

[berryispunk]

-`♡´- tags: soft!Frankie, safe love, a lot of feelings, fluffiest fluff summary: While a storm rages outside Frankie recognizes the saftest place is in your arms. word count: ~ 460 a/n: Happy Frankie Friday from the sidelines! I hope this little fluff warms your heart just as much as it did mine writing it. Btw, I am working on something bigger behind the scenes involving our favorite pilot. Hopefully I can tell you more about it soon. 😉

The storm was raging outside, throwing itself against the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder in its frame. There had been a time, not even that long ago, when sounds like that made Frankie tense instinctively. Sweat gathered at the small of his back while ugly memories flickered behind his eyelids like lightning. A life carved open by violence had a way of following a man home, even years later. It never mattered much that the things he had done were in the name of a country. That kind of reasoning didn’t quiet the ghosts. Didn’t help him sleep either.

The only thing that ever truly silenced the noise in his head was you. 

Your body tucked against his, his arms wrapped around you tight enough to feel real. Face buried into your hair while he inhaled the familiar scent of vanilla and something warmer underneath it. Something impossible to bottle up into words because it was simply you. Home in a way Frankie had never allowed himself to believe existed for men like him.

In all the years Frankie Morales had spent dragging himself across this godforsaken earth, he had become terrifyingly good at running. Never staying anywhere long enough for roots to catch around his ankles. Movement was easier. Easier than explaining himself. Easier than letting anyone look too closely at the wreckage. “No strings attached” had become less of a preference and more of a survival tactic he wore like armor. Or at least that was what he told himself.

Then somewhere along the way, there was you.

You made him pause long enough to wonder if the life he’d been living was actually freedom or just another kind of prison. Frankie had been buried so deep inside himself for so long that some days he couldn’t even see the sky anymore. Days blurred together. Time passed without him noticing. Survival became muscle memory.

But you came into his life like sunlight through storm clouds, soft and stubborn and impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, he realized he would move mountains just to keep that warmth close to him.

Now peace looked like this: the two of you tangled together in bed while rain battered the world outside. You complaining sleepily about him taking up too much space while simultaneously stealing the blanket for yourself. Frankie smiling quietly against the curve of your shoulder blades anyway, because somehow this became his favorite thing in the world.

To be loved gently.

To be held without expectation.

To learn, little by little, that not every touch had to hurt.

Wrapped up in your softness, Frankie was finally beginning to understand that staying still wasn’t weakness after all. Sometimes it was the bravest thing a person could do.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!): @misstokyo7love @sheepdogchick3 @god-is-an-astronaut @sawymredfox @chasingthepoguelife @librosylove @keylimebeag @diabaroxa @beefrobeefcal @greenwitchfromthewoods @katw474 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @whirlwindrider29 @yellowbrickyeti @capuccinodoll @missadangel @cozymochaa @sidelit @simpingforjoel @kirsteng42 @carmillahepburn @peterhollandkait @picketniffler @hotforpedro @thepilatesprincess @perfectpoetrybluebird @theanothersherlockian @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @rav3n-pascal22 @perpetualharpyresonance @perodjarin @daltoncharm @baronessvonglitter @beezusvreeland @lillaydee @underneath-the-sky-again @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @angiewatson @vampiredoggies-blog @vickie5446 @titabel @ashleyfilm @finco99 @mariamorales1998 @severedbloodlines

[pedroscurls]

his second chance (pt. 9)

summary: javier breaks down in front of you. unexpectedly.

pairing: javier peña x fem!reader (POC/AAPI🇵🇭) content warning(s): MATURE 18+ (MDNI), javier has PTSD, nightmare, panic attack, low self-esteem / self-worth, no use of y/n. word count: 3.5k a/n: ok y'all - i know this is so long overdue, but i appreciate your patience! this one was a tough one to write bc it hits so close to home for me, but it's the reality of PTSD and i knew that i wanted to write this side of javier at one point in this story. anyway, we got one more chapter left... stay tuned <3 part 8. - part 10. | series masterlist.

Everything was going so well. Javier truly thought that things were finally working out in his favor; it finally felt like a new chapter in his life was starting. The memories of his time in Colombia still lingered, but never as intense as it was before he met you. 

It even felt okay enough for him to start thinking and talking about his mother. You started helping him and Chucho around the ranch, going so far as starting to grow marigolds again in the garden that hadn’t been used in decades. 

Javier truly felt like he was healing. 

Not only from the events in Colombia, but also from the trauma he carried when he lost his mother too. 

And it was all because of you. 

Because with you, things started to feel better, more tolerable. He even felt comfortable enough to share with you certain details of his time in Colombia. Never too explicit though, just enough for you to understand why some nights he had trouble sleeping. 

Even his father noticed a difference. Javier felt lighter. He was sleeping better too. If he wasn’t at your apartment, you’d be over at the ranch, and Chucho loved it whenever you spent the night. 

Because it meant laughter and warmth filling the home again. 

Javier still continued with his routine and stopped by your coffee shop during lunch and made sure to be there every night to help you close and walk you home. He couldn’t remember a time where he was ever this excited to be around someone, yearning for more time to spend with the other person. Every time he’d make his way to your coffee shop, he’d feel the butterflies in his stomach and the warmth in his chest. 

Because he loved the way your eyes would light up when you spotted him. 

And how you’d stop what you were doing just to greet him with a peck on his lips and a tight hug. 

Everything just felt better with you around. 

Still, he struggled with telling you how he really felt. Not because he didn’t love you, but because saying it out loud made it more real and the thought of ever losing or hurting you would become that much more possible. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of how you’d react, but he was afraid of what would come after. Telling you that he loved you meant cracking himself open even more—allowing you inside parts of him that he wasn’t sure you’d be okay with. 

So, he didn’t say anything. Hadn’t said anything. Because right now, things were great. He didn’t want to ruin it with the possibility of telling you that he loved you. 

“When did you tell mom that you loved her?” Javier asked one morning, pouring himself a cup of coffee as his father was seated at the dining table. 

Chucho furrowed a brow. “When?” 

Javier nodded. 

“Are you asking me when, specifically, in our relationship did I tell her?” 

“Yeah.” 

“About a month in.” 

Javier almost choked on his coffee. “A month?” 

Chucho smiled. “Well, I couldn’t tell her the day I met her. That would have scared her away.” 

“Did you love her the day you met her?” 

“Oh yeah,” Chucho said, staring down at his wedding ring with a distant look in his eyes. “I knew she was the one for me the moment I met her, mijo.” 

“Wasn’t that scary?” 

Chucho laughed. “Love is scary, Javier.” 

He sighed and sat down across from him. “When do you know it’s the right time?” 

“You just do,” he answered. “You can’t… you can’t plan for these things, you know? They just happen.” 

Javier nodded. “Yeah, that—that makes sense.” 

“When did you tell Lorraine that you loved her?” Chucho asked. 

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t. I mean, I did, but she said it first.” 

“Hmm.” 

“What?” 

“And her?” Chucho asked, saying your name quietly. “What about her?” 

Javier shrugged. “She hasn’t said it.” 

“But you want to.” 

He looked up at his father. “I don’t know.” 

“You do know, Javi,” Chucho said. 

“What if—what if I tell her and she just… doesn’t feel the same way? Or what if she does?”

Chucho’s brow furrowed. “What do you want, Javier?” 

“Her.” 

“Okay, would it be so bad to have her love you too?” Chucho asked. 

“What if she does and—and she finally sees who I really am?” 

His father sighed. Chucho reached out and gently patted the back of his hand. “She already sees who you really are, mijo… and she still is choosing to stick around.” 

“I’m afraid,” Javier muttered. “I don’t know how to navigate this. Everything is just—it’s great, Papá, and I don’t want to ruin it.” 

“You telling her that you love her won’t ruin it, Javi.” 

“And how do you know?” 

“Because that girl is already in love with you too.” 

Javier’s brows lift upwards. “What? How do you know?” 

“I see the way she looks at you,” Chucho smiled. 

“That’s just who she is…” 

Chucho scoffed. “Sure, okay.” 

He sighed. “I do. I really do love her,” he confessed quietly. “And that scares me.” 

“Good,” Chucho smiled. “It should scare you.” 

Javier let out a quiet laugh. “And why’s that?” 

“Because that’s how you know it’s real… that’s how you know how deep your feelings are for her.” 

He nodded in understanding. “I don’t think I’ve felt this before,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I ever would actually.” 

Chucho smiled once more and stood from the chair. “We all deserve happiness and love in our lives, Javier. That includes you too.” 

Javier exhaled slowly. That was part of it too. He didn’t think he was deserving of this, of you, of loving you and being loved by you. 

“You spending the weekend over at her place?” Chucho asked. 

“Yeah. You’ll be okay?” 

Chucho smiled. “Yes, mijo. I’ll be okay. What about you?” 

Javier nodded. “I’m better when I’m with her.” 

He pulled up to the your apartment and parked his truck. Before he could even climb out, you were already running towards him. Javier smiled and stepped out of his truck, extending his arms out for you. Within seconds, you collided against him and he picked you up off your feet, your legs wrapping around him as you held him tight. 

He buried his face against you, holding you firmly against him as he let out a relieved breath. Javier would get this type of greeting all the time from you; the excitement that he had when seeing you was the same kind of excitement you had too. 

“Hey, cariño,” he whispered. 

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back enough to look down at him. 

Javier set you down on your feet and leaned in to peck your lips. “Work okay?” 

You nodded. “Just glad to have the rest of the day off. It’s been nice… not having to be there all the time.” 

Javier smiled and grabbed his duffle bag from the seat, draping it over his shoulder as he nodded ahead of him. “Me too… means I have more time to spend with you,” he winked. 

You let out a quiet laugh and led him to your apartment, shutting the door once you were both now inside. He kicked off his shoes and set his bag down, pulling you back into his arms once more. 

“I missed you,” he said quietly. 

“I saw you last night.” 

“I know,” he chuckled, hand coming up to your cheek. “Still, I missed you.” 

You smiled and leaned into his touch. “I missed you too, actually.” 

“Yeah?” 

You nodded. “I like sleeping next to you and waking up with you too.” 

Javier felt the butterflies in his stomach. He picked you up with ease and carried you down the hallway and into your bedroom. You had begun peppering kisses along his neck, causing a quiet groan to leave his lips. 

“What else do you like?” Javier asked, kicking the door open and walking you to the mattress. 

“Your hugs,” you smiled, looking up at him once he set you down on your back. “Your eyes. Your lips.” 

“Oh, my lips, huh?” 

You nodded. “Your voice. I like everything about you, Javier.” 

He stared down at you. One hand propped on the bed above your head and the other resting lightly on your hip. He started thinking about his father’s words. Maybe you did love him too. 

“Hmm,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. “I like everything about you too, baby.” 

“Like what?” You asked, wrapping your arms around your shoulders as he pulled back just enough to look down at you. 

“Your smile,” he said, bringing a hand to brush his fingers over your lips. “Your eyes,” he continued, leaning in to press a soft kiss atop your eyes once you shut them for a moment. “I love how safe you make me feel,” Javier said softly. “And I love the way I feel whenever I’m around you.” 

You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks as you tightened your arms around him to bury your face against his neck. 

Javier chuckled and slowly rolled onto his side to lie next to you. He pulled you against him immediately as your head rested against chest. 

Then, you said something took him by surprise. 

“I want you to meet my family.” 

Javier turned to his side, arm draped over your waist. He knew how important it was to meet your family, how serious it meant. 

“Yeah?” He asked. 

You nodded. “Would you be okay with that?” 

Javier leaned in and pecked your lips lightly. “Yes, cariño. I’d be okay with it.” 

“Are you sure?” You pulled back to look away, lower lip pulled between your teeth anxiously. “I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.” 

“Baby,” he said softly, pulling you back closer to him. “I want to meet your family.” 

Your eyes softened. “Really?” 

He nodded. “Yeah… I want to meet the people that matter most to you.” 

You grinned, then pushed against his shoulders until he was lying on his back. You moved to straddle his lap, placing legs at either side of him as you leaned down to brush your nose with his. 

“Okay,” you said softly. “They’re excited to meet you too.” 

“Been talking about me, cariño?” 

Your cheeks flushed. “Yes.” 

He felt his stomach flip. 

Felt his heart race even faster. 

You were telling your family about him. And god, he could have told you right there that he loved you. 

But he didn’t. 

Maybe after he meets your family. 

“My mom, especially, is excited to meet you,” you continued. 

“Oh, yeah?” 

You nodded. 

“What have you been telling them, hm?” He teased. 

“Oh, nothing… just that I really… really like you,” you smiled, burying your face against the side of his neck as his arms snaked around you tighter. 

Javier chuckled quietly into your hair, one hand coming up to rub your back gently. “Oh, you really really like me?” 

You nodded against him. “I do.” 

“Good,” he whispered. “I really really like you too, cariño.”

But what Javier wanted to say was that he loved you. 

So fucking much that he sometimes forgets how to breathe. 

He should have known something was wrong. The minute he sat up abruptly in the middle of the night, gasping for air, Javier should have known that he couldn’t hide just how troubled he was from you anymore. It was the first time he had woken up like this in a very long time and the worse part about it was that you were here. 

You had a front seat to just how broken he truly was. 

He looked over his shoulder at you, back turned and facing him as he tried to focus on your soft breaths and the movement of you breathing. 

It didn’t help. 

Every small sound, every little thing that caught his attention, put him on edge. So, Javier stood carefully from the bed and pulled on his shirt, slowly stepping out of your room. 

The walls felt like they were closing in on him. His chest felt tighten with each breath. He walked into your kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, hands shaky as he twisted the cap open. 

He didn’t know what triggered this. Didn’t know why he had woken up the way he did. He couldn’t think of anything that happened about the day he spent with you. In fact, it was a very normal day. Nothing too crazy or over the top. 

He walked to the living room and sat on your couch, turning the television on and keeping the volume low. Javier shut his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Everything had been going so well. It wasn’t supposed to happen again—this wasn’t supposed to happen again. 

At least certainly not while he was with you. 

In your fucking apartment. 

While you slept soundly in your room. 

And all of a sudden, he heard a screeching of the car outside. Javier immediately stood from the couch, hand instinctively going behind him to retrieve a gun that he no longer had. His heart was beating out of his chest and he walked to the window, only to see the car speeding away. He cursed under his breath. It wasn’t anything serious, just some stupid driver trying to wake up the entire community. 

Javier started pacing. Back and forth in front of the television. To and from the kitchen and the living room. It didn’t help. Instead, it just put him more on high alert. You hadn’t woken up yet and part of him was relieved. 

But there was a small part—something inside of him screaming for help—that wanted you to wake up so that you could see him like this. 

Because this was the reality of what it meant being in a relationship with him. 

It took you about ten minutes to realize that you were alone in bed. Even in your sleep, you could feel his absence. You sat up and blinked the sleep away, hearing the faint noise of the television from the living room. Standing from the bed, you pulled on your sleep pants and slowly opened the door. 

You could hear his heavy footsteps, could hear that he was walking in your living room. Furrowing a brow, you walked towards the sound of the television. You didn’t know what to expect, but you weren’t expecting to see Javier looking the way you never had seen before. 

His hair was in complete disarray. He was muttering under his breath and you could see the way his shoulders were tense, could see his hands shake at his sides. 

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was still pacing. 

Quietly and softly, you said, “Javier?” 

His eyes turned to you. Wide and glassy. 

“Hey…” you continued, taking careful steps to him. “You okay?” 

Javier wasn’t looking at you. At least not really. There was a distance in his eyes, like maybe he wasn’t really here. 

“Baby,” you said, just a bit louder now. 

“You—you’re awake,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you reassured softly. You took another step closer to him. “Are you okay?” 

Javier shook his head immediately. He took a step back. “I should go home.” 

“What?”

“I need to go home,” he corrected. 

“Javier—”

Then, someone from upstairs sounded like they dropped something. It was louder than he liked it to be. It rang in his ears and immediately, he lunged for you, pushing you behind his back as he glanced around. 

Your brows furrowed. Slowly, you reached out to rest a hand on his back. It was light, careful, just enough to let him know that wherever he thought he was at wasn’t reality. That he was here, with you—safe. 

Javier flinched. 

You dropped your hand. 

“I’m right here, baby,” you said. “We’re okay. You’re okay,” you reassured. 

He looked at you. Eyes were still wide, but they had softened just a bit. 

“Stay,” you whispered. “You’re safe here.” 

His lower lip trembled. You wanted to step towards him, wanted to wrap your arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. 

But you didn’t. 

Because you didn’t know how he’d react if you did. 

And this was the first time that you’d seen him like this—this on edge, on high alert. 

You remembered the bits and pieces he shared with you during his time in Colombia. He mentioned that he’d use alcohol to numb the pain and he’d go through several packs of cigarettes a day just to ease his nerves. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“Javier—” 

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupted. “Can’t you see how fucking broken I am?” His voice trembled; it caught in his throat. “This—you—it’s too good to be true.” 

“No,” you whispered quietly. “You deserve me, deserve to be happy.” 

He shook his head. Javier brought a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled shakily. “How can someone like you ever want to be with someone like me?” 

You bit your lower lip. Hesitantly, you tried to reach out for him but he just shook his head. 

“I have to go.” 

“You don’t.” 

“I do.” 

“Javier…” 

He finally looked at you. He could see the concern etched on your features, the sadness in your expression. He was causing this. It was all because of him. 

“You deserve someone better than me,” he continued. “Someone who doesn’t have all this shit.” 

Tears filled your eyes now. “You can’t make that decision for me.” 

He clenched his jaw. He hated the look on your face, hated that he was the reason why you were about to cry. Still on edge and still on high alert, he tried to step closer to you. Tried to find his way back to some normalcy. 

“I—I don’t want you to regret your time with me,” he mumbled. 

“I don’t,” you replied quickly. “I wouldn’t.” 

“This…” he said, waving at himself. “This is who I really am.” 

“That’s who I want,” you said. “I don’t want some version of you where you keep parts of yourself hidden. I want all of you. The good, the bad. All of it.” 

“What if you don’t like what you see?” 

You took a small step closer to him and let out a relieved breath when he didn’t step back. “I’m choosing you, Javier. All of you. I know the man I want to be with,” you said softly. 

Another step closer. 

You could see the clarity slowly coming to his features. Like the episode he had just experienced was slowly passing. 

“And that’s you. I don’t want you to be perfect,” you continued. “I don’t need it and I don’t want it.” 

“I’ve hurt people. Killed people,” he confessed. “Gotten people hurt because of my actions.” 

You nodded. Then, you reached out to rest a hand on his chest. He let out a shaky breath at your touch. 

“And they don’t define who you are.” 

“But they are a part of me.” 

“I know,” you whispered. “And I’m still choosing to stay.” 

“Why?” Javier asked, looking into your eyes. 

“Because,” you said quietly, taking another step closer to him until you could feel the warmth of his body. Your other hand moved to his cheek, brushing away the tears that had fallen. “Because you’re worth it.” 

He let out a breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding. Javier nodded and immediately wrapped his arms around your frame, burying his face against the crook of your neck. He loved you, loved every single thing about you. 

But this—the fact that you were choosing to stay—made him realize just how serious he felt about you. 

“We’re okay,” you repeated, hands moving to wrap around him as you rubbed his back. “I promise, we’re okay.” 

His arms tightened around you. Javier didn’t want to let you go. He let his eyes fall shut as he allowed himself to relax, tried to wrap his head around the fact that you were still here. 

“You’re safe with me,” you continued, turning your head just enough to kiss his cheek. “You always will be.” 

He pulled back to look down at you. Javier’s eyes softened instantly and he leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“Yes, you do,” you said. 

He sighed. 

“Will you stay?” 

Javier nodded. “I’ll stay.”

“Good.” 

“But I can’t promise that this won’t happen again,” he said hesitantly. 

“Baby,” you said quietly. “I don’t want you to promise anything. I know these things will happen and I know that it’s out of your control.” 

He nodded and leaned in to lightly peck your lips. “It’s going to be hard.” 

“I know,” you said softly. “I don’t want easy.” 

He sighed. 

“I want everything with you, Javier… and that includes moments like this.” 

Javier nodded again. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” he whispered. 

You smiled. “Good. I like being the only one.” 

He felt himself relax. As the minutes passed, he no longer felt on edge. It felt like he could finally breathe again, and as he stared into your eyes, he knew that he was getting close. 

The words lingered at the tip of his tongue. 

I love you. 

I love you. 

I love you so fucking much. 

taglist: @honey-moon-13 @milytae @copperhalfcent @sunnytuliptime @perpetualharpyresonance @cuteanimalmama @joelmillerspnk @misstokyo7love @sincerelywithheartt @picketniffler @cowgirlcosplay @jaxmom66 @indiegirlunited @faiantas-blog @cozymochaa @idknananchimaybe @jaxmom66 @needz1nk @umadirectioner @kakiki3 @sophsturnioloz @lilacs97 @qpiiee @mothmanuwu @stonerlaur4

[pascalispunkczechia]

Pedro Pascal who, cariño?!

New Javi’s Marriage Survival Journal entry! And yup, this one is chaotic!

If you need context, check the journal masterlist, new entries will keep showing up there. Also available on my javi peña ig

w/c: 620 • javi fic masterlist • taglist form

Today I discovered that apparently I have competition. In a magazine. From a man I’ve never met. His name is Pedro Pascal. Fantastic.

I walked into the living room expecting peace. Maybe coffee. Maybe five minutes of quiet. Instead, I find her on the couch. Dead silent. Leaning forward. Very focused. That alone is suspicious. Then I notice the magazine. And the look on her face. Oh no. I slow down. Carefully. Like I’m approaching a crime scene. “Cariño.”

No response. Not even a blink.

I step closer. “What are you looking at?”

Still nothing.

Now I’m concerned. Or insulted. Hard to tell. I move around the couch just enough to see the page. And I stop. Because…

Are you kidding me. Pedro Pascal. Sitting there like he owns the world. Shorts. Shirt half open. That whole… look.

I stare at the page. Then at her. Then back at the page. “Really.”

Nothing. She’s still staring.

I lean a little closer. “You good?”

She exhales slowly. “Wow.”

I blink. “Wow?”

She finally looks up at me. Eyes wide. Completely serious. “Look at him.”

I stare at her. “No.”

She turns the magazine toward me anyway. “Look.”

“I am looking.”

“Properly.”

I glance again. Then back at her. “He’s sitting.”

“That is not the point.”

I cross my arms. “What exactly is the point?”

She gestures at the page like it explains everything. “The thighs.”

I stare. “The what.”

“The thighs.”

I look down at my own. Then back at the magazine. Then at her. “I have thighs.”

She squints. “That is not the same thing.”

I let out a quiet, offended laugh. “Unbelievable.”

She leans back again, eyes drifting right back to the page like she physically cannot help herself. “This is… a lot.”

A lot. Right.

I sit down next to her. “So we’re just openly admiring Pedro Pascal now.”

She shrugs. “I have eyes.”

“So do I.”

She turns slowly. “Oh?”

I immediately regret speaking. “Not relevant.”

“Very relevant.”

“No, it’s not.”

She smiles. Dangerous. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You are absolutely jealous.”

I shake my head. “I’m observing a situation.”

“Where I’m minding my business and appreciating art?”

“That is not art.”

She glances back at the page. “It kind of is.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “You were just staring at him like you forgot I exist.”

She gasps. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“I was processing.”

“Processing what.”

She glances at the magazine again. “The confidence.”

I let out a breath through my nose. “Cariño.”

“What.”

“You’re really gonna sit here and admire Pedro Pascal while your husband is in the same room.”

She finally looks at me properly. Really looks. Then her expression softens just a little. “Oh, relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You are not relaxed.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Because she’s right. Again.

She nudges her shoulder against mine. “You’re hotter.”

I pause. “Excuse me.”

She nods toward the magazine. “He’s trying very hard.”

I glance at the photo again. Then back at her. “Trying.”

“Yes.” She taps my chest lightly. “You don’t have to try.” That lands. Harder than I expect.

I look at her.

She smiles, softer now. Then… “But his thighs are still impressive.”

I stare at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

She grins. “And yet you love me.”

Yeah. Unfortunately. I reach over, close the magazine, and set it aside.

She makes a small protest noise. “Hey–”

“No.” I pull her closer, arm around her waist.

She laughs, but melts into me anyway.

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter and I glance once more at the magazine. Then at her. Then pull her a little closer. Yeah. I’m not losing to Pedro Pascal in a magazine. Not happening.

💌 @idknananchimaybe @theeverodriguez @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ningaispunk @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2

wanna be tagged in my fics? lemme know

[petalsinblood]

Heyya babe!! I'm very curious about your wip "Present full of ghosts" 👀 the title sounds really interesting! 💕✨️

Hi, darling! 💜 Present full of ghosts is completely @picketniffler's fault 😂 No, but really. The other day I was talking to her about how I'm planning to make our poor Frankie suffer, and then she asked if I would like to make Javi suffer too. And I was like "why not?".

So unfortunately it's not some cute fluffy-smutty story, but a more angsty one.

The title is giving away a lot. Basically Javi and the reader go back to Laredo together, start a new life, but memories from Javi's past wouldn't leave him alone. And Javi has to lean on the reader, has to let her help him, to try and work things out together.

I don't have much written for it yet, but I'll leave just a very tiny snippet of it here:

Now all that he can remember are bodies.

Bodies in cars. Bodies laying in streets. Bodies zipped into black bags while politicians give speeches about progress and safety.

[picketniffler]

🫣🫣🫣🫣

[picketniffler]

My 10 favourites poll

Rules: make a poll with 10 of your favorite shows (they can just be 10 shows you loved watching or your top shows of all time) then tag 10 people.

Thank you for the tag @bergamote-catsandbooks @orcasoul 🩷🩷

What's your favourite?

Supernatural

the Last of Us

the Mandalorian

Heated Rivalry

Modern Family

Brooklyn nine nine

Hudson & Rex

Charmed (1998)

Ghost Whisperer

White Collar

Voting ended onJun 6

Npt: @petalsinblood @missadangel @cozymochaa @greenwitchfromthewoods @stylesispunk @pascalispunkczechia @elvenhymntoelbereth @berryispunk @shadowqueen2024

[stylesispunk]

"Baby blossom"

Jackson! Joel Miller x fem! reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Joel's first month with his baby olive and him being in love with his family.

w.c: 4,3k

warnings: just fluff. (Soft Joel)

A/N: Baby Olive and Joel are here, and well, the whole gang. I often miss writing this story, but I love being able to come back to them everytime I want and writing more about it. I hope you enjoy this fluffy one and please, if you want to particularly read something about them, let me know as well.

PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS WITH ME!

From the days of you and I but you can read it alone.

THEN

The fire crackled softly in the middle. The night had fallen into a cold pit of darkness, only lightened by the flames of that fire in front of you.

Ellie had fallen asleep almost an hour ago, curled beneath a blanket on the opposite side of the camp, one arm hanging off her backpack, snoring lightly enough that she would deny it in the morning.

Joel sat against the stone, poking absentmindedly at the fire with a stick.

You had been watching him for a while. How the orange glow danced across his features, softening the hard lines the years had carved into his face.

You shifted closer, seeking warmth. Joel noticed, and without a word, he adjusted, making room for you beside him.

Your shoulder brushed his arm.

"Tell me again."

Joel glanced at you. "Tell you what?"

"About the farm."

He sighed. "The farm again?"

"Yes." You smiled.

His eyes rolled slightly, but there was no real annoyance behind it.

"The sheep?"

You nodded. "The sheep."

Joel looked back at the fire. "There'd be sheep."

A small smile tugged at your mouth. "What else?"

"A porch."

"You always say that."

"Because every house needs a porch."

"According to who?"

"Me."

You laughed quietly and Joel's mouth twitched.

You loved those little almost-smiles. The ones he tried to hide.

"What else?"

Joel thought for a moment. "A garden, maybe."

"Are you going to garden?"

"No."

You laughed again.

"You just said—"

"I said there'd be a garden."

"Who takes care of it then?"

"Somebody." Joel shrugged.

You narrowed your eyes. "Somebody."

"Yes.” A small and brief smile splattered across his face.

"You've thought about it a lot." Your voice softened.

Joel was quiet for a moment. The fire popped.

"Yeah."

"Does that include me?"

Joel froze. The stick in his hand stopped moving.

"What?"

"The farm." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

You stared at the flames. Unable to look at him now.

"Does it include me?"

Then Joel looked at you.

"Of course, baby.”

Your head lifted, meeting his eyes. Joel looked away first, ashamed.

"Yeah," he repeated. "Of course it included you."

The corner of your mouth lifted. A smile you couldn't stop, even if you tried.

“And would you like to have a baby in there?” you asked.

Joel nearly choked. His head snapped toward you.

"What?"

You laughed quietly. "The farm."

"I heard the question."

"Then answer it."

Joel stared at you as though you'd completely lost your mind.

You couldn't help smiling.

"A baby?"

"Yes."

Joel rubbed a hand over his face. "Fuck, baby."

"What?"

"You ask the strangest questions."

You nudged his shoulder.

"You thought about having a sheep."

"That's different."

You laughed.

Joel shook his head, but there was no irritation behind it.

The firelight danced across his face. You watched him carefully.

"Well?"

Joel sighed heavily.

"I don't know."

You raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

"No." His gaze returned to the fire.

For a moment, he seemed older and more vulnerable than usual.

"It’s not something I let myself think about."

NOW

“Babe?” Joel called out, carefully. Voice low as he stepped upstairs.

Over the last four weeks he had learned how to lower his voice tone. Now that there was a baby living inside these walls, even his footsteps had lowered.

It has been a month since Olive’s birth. Since that little bundle had come unexpectedly to your lives during that especially warm day.

The memory of her tucked against your chest afterwards still lingered in the back of his mind, the feeling of her slippery skin on his hands after he handed her to you felt like a tattoo all over his skin.

Life had started to smell like roses ever since Olive came. That kind of essence that clings tightly to you. That permeates your clothes and your skin, that stays with you at all times and that you can't wash off no matter how much water you use.

Perhaps it wasn't a real smell, perhaps it was just a sudden moment of a feeling that Joel wouldn't be able to recognize again.

One he was learning about.

Being a father, once again.

If Joel Miller could see the boy who first held Sarah in his arms, a young man unsure of what to do with the responsibility life had placed upon him, he wouldn't believe that the man he had become was still so terrified. It was a fact; the man who first held Olive Miller was terrified too.

The decades-long age difference between them didn't change the outcome of an act born of the heart. They were both terrified of it because no one prepares you for being a father.

Yet somehow, everything felt lighter this time.

Soft and worth it.

Perhaps it was because he had you by his side and he wasn’t all by himself this time. He had a partner to lean on, to share the countless of sleepless nights with, to laugh with when Olive decided three in the morning was the perfect time to be awake and staring at the ceiling.

Someone who understood him.

Someone who had lived the same things as him.

Someone who loved that little girl as much as him and someone who looked at the daughter the both had made the same way he did.

Like she was a miracle.

Your miracle.

"Babe?" Joel called out again, eyebrows frowned at the absence of noise in the house.

He followed the silence to the bedroom. Step by step, noticing the door was half open, light going through the space as in heaven, or at least what he imagined of.

Joel pushed the door gently.

And of course, there you were.

Asleep on the bed, with one arm stretched above your head and Olive tucked on your chest.

The baby was sleeping with her tiny cheek pressed on you, her little fist curled around the fabric of your, well his shirt as though even in sleep she needed to make sure you were still there.

Her mother was there.

Joel’s heart clenched in the most beautiful way. He still couldn’t get used to this life.

Joel still couldn't understand why a man like him now had the opportunity to see this with his own eyes, that behind a door a wife and daughter were waiting for him instead of the announced death that had hunted him for so long and that had found him more than a year ago.

So, for a long moment he just stood there, watching and tasting the flavor of a quiet life.

Your now longer hair spreading on the pillow beneath your head, and Olive´s dark curls starting to appear as little wisps on the top of her head.

He noticed and the sunlight through the window painted both of you in gold and for a quiet flicker moment, Joel thought this was heaven for him.

A month ago, you both have been through the overwhelming panic of bringing a child into a world like this.

Just to ended up on here, with this picture of you and your baby sleeping on your shared bed.

Joel leaned on the doorframe, smirking at the memory of Tommy’s voice after he had met Olive.

"You aren’t gonna stop staring at those two anymore."

And he was right, Joel would never stop looking for you in every room.

Your eyes opened, suddenly. Carrying slept and confusion, but when they met his, a smile spread across your face.

"Hey you," you murmured.

Joel stepped closer, carefully not to make any noise "I’ve been looking for you."

A tired smile appeared on your face. “Oh, we were taking a nap."

"I can see that."

You looked down at how Olive remained completely asleep in your arms.

"She won." You spoke.

"Again?"

"Again."

Joel sat carefully on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

His hand found Olive's head, feeling the warmth of her tiny body beneath his fingertips, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest and that tiny heartbeat hidden beneath the floral onesie.

You studied him. You had noticed him doing the same ever since she was born.

"You know she's breathing, right?"

"Mm." Joel grunted.

"And alive."

"Mm."

"And she is perfectly healthy."

"Mm."

You smiled.

"Joel."

Finally, he looked up. The expression on your face was so fond it almost embarrassed him.

He believed you were the most beautiful woman he had ever met, not because he loved you with all his heart and soul, but because you had saved his life in ways, he no longer thought possible.

In the old world, he had never imagined growing old with someone, and when the world transformed into a nightmare that smelled of death, those thoughts faded into the back of his mind, to never return.

But one day, death was stalking him, perhaps not him, but you.

For many times, he remembered your widened eyes staring directly at him, the gun in his hand, a lifeless body beside you, and the trembling in your gaze because you didn't understand why a complete stranger had saved you from a Clicker.

At that very moment, Joel didn't know he had sealed his fate with a story that men like him don't have, that perhaps they don't deserve, yet somehow, life had placed it in his hands anyway.

Because at this very moment, looking at your tired face, the bags under your eyes, and the gray hairs that had begun to adorn your hair, all the thoughts of growing old with someone had returned.

Just to watch year passing by instead of merely surviving to them.

Just to watch his baby growing.

“You are exhausted, baby.” he said, looking at you.

“Yes, I am, but I don’t care.” You said, looking at him, but moving your gaze to look down at your daughter.

Joel's gaze followed your gaze to your daughter.

Olive was still asleep against you, completely unaware of the effect she had on the two of you.

A tiny hand rested against your chest. Her presence lingered in every corner of the room.

You brushed your fingertip on her cheek and Joel watched you.

"You know," you murmured softly, "I thought I'd be more afraid."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "Of what?"

You smiled faintly. "All of this." You said, "I thought I'd spend every day worried that something would happen."

Joel understood that feeling immediately because he still carried the fear everywhere he went to.

Every day, every hour.

Every time Olive slept longer than usual.

Every time you left the room with her.

Every time he closed his eyes at night.

"I just keep looking at her." A small laugh escaped you. "And then I forget to be scared."

Perhaps that was something motherhood gave women. A kind of bravery he couldn't quite understand and the ability to walk straight into fear and somehow find wonder waiting on the other side.

You looked down at your daughter again. At the tiny face pressed against your chest.

“The day she was born she mended my heart, Joel.” You said, smiling at him this time.

Joel smiled too.

He raised his hand to caress your face, gently brushing your cheeks with his thumb, a gesture that made you close your eyes.

You kissed his wrist because after all the time you had spent together, you both had learnt how to speak a secret language which didn’t need of words but gestures to be understood.

"Now, what if I took this beautiful tiny baby and mommy rests?" he asked, already reaching toward Olive. "When baby sleeps, mommy should as well."

You laughed softly a that. "You've said that about 3 times today."

"And I'll say it three more."

"Joel—"

"Nope."

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he would say something like that. Over the past month, he had become the most protective man in the world.

Protective of you.

Protective of Olive.

Joel carefully slipped his hands beneath Olive, moving with a confidence that he hasn’t four weeks ago.

Back then, he had held her like she was made of glass, but right now his hands knew his baby. He knew how to support her little head and he knew exactly how to settle her against his chest.

Olive barely stirred at his father touch as a tiny sigh escaped her lips.

Joel smiled at that, so you as well.

You loved him so much, but that feeling didn’t hurt anymore. It didn’t startle you anymore.

This feeling now came to you so naturally that you had finally learned how to love him without the fear taunting you.

Joel adjusted Olive against his chest.

His gaze lifted to yours. "What?"

You hadn't realized you were staring every movement he made.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

You laughed. "You are a really good dad."

You meant it.

Joel looked away. That alone told you how much it affected him.

His jaw tightened and his attention became very focused on the baby in his arms.

"Joel."

"Mm."

"You truly are."

His eyes still lingered on Olive. The little girl had somehow managed to wrap her tiny fingers around the collar of his shirt in her sleep.

His entire expression softened. That sight still amazed you.

At how this hardened man became soft. How every wall he'd spent years building crumbled.

Joel swallowed, then finally looked back at you. “I got myself a good teacher."

Your heart squeezed at his words because he was talking about the way you had stepped into this new life together.

You reached for his wrist, the same one he was using to support Olive, and then, you pressed a soft kiss there.

Joel's eyes softened, "Go get some sleep, baby," he said quietly.

Suddenly, the exhaustion hit you a little bit deeper.

"Okay." You whispered.

Joel smiled, then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"I got her."

After ten minutes, the room fell into silence and for the first time in all day, you were asleep and Joel intended to make sure it stayed that way.

So, he quietly pulled the bedroom door almost closed and carried Olive downstairs since the little baby had chosen to wake up right now.

He curious hazel brown eyes like his, very wide as he walked her down to the living room.

"Well," Joel murmured. "Looks like it's just you and me, baby girl."

Olive answered with a long babble.

Joel nodded "Mm. I agree, baby."

Another, this time louder sound, followed.

"You're right about that too."

Her tiny legs kicked in his arms and he smiled. He'd discovered over the last month that babies apparently had a lot to say despite not knowing any words.

And Olive especially seemed convinced she was able to hold long conversations with people around her.

Joel adjusted her to his chest and continued walking. The floor creaking beneath his feet as when paced by.

Outside, Jackson carried the busy of the days, but inside these walls it was just him and his tiny baby.

His baby Olive.

It felt almost unreal how he was in charge of a tiny human who now was staring up at him as if expecting for him to do something.

Joel raised an eyebrow. "What?"

A tiny squeal came from her lips.

He sighed. "Fine."

"Okay, baby, do you wanna hear a story?"

She babbled as an answer, so Joel took that as a yes.

"Alright." He settled into a slow pace around the room. "When I was little..."

Olive's eyes followed him carefully.

"There was this dog."

The baby's eyebrows furrowed and Joel smiled.

"His name was Buddy." Joel hadn't talked about his childhood in years, but for his daughter he would deep in those vaults of memories.

"Buddy wasn't very smart."

Olive let out a tiny noise.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too."

He continued walking. "He used to steal food right off the kitchen table."

The baby responded with another string of incomprehensible sounds.

"Now hold on. I'm telling the story here, baby."

But she squealed and Joel couldn’t hold the laugh back.

The sound was strange and foreign for him most of the times, but it had become common since Olive arrived.

"Okay, so one day," he continued, "Buddy stole half a chicken for our barbecue."

Olive's eyes widened.

"That's right and Oh, it gets worse."

Joel shifted her higher on his shoulder.

"He ran through the whole neighborhood with it."

The baby made a delighted sound.

"Your uncle Tommy chased him for three blocks."

Olive suddenly burst into a laugh. One of those early babies sounds that seem a squeal and a giggle at the same time.

Joel froze, his eyes widened. "Did you just laugh?"

Olive stared at him. Her tiny face scrunched in an adorable way Joel felt something in his chest completely melt at the sight.

"You're trouble, little bird."

Olive made another happy noise.

"Yeah." He kissed the top of her head; her soft curls tickled his lips.

For a moment he imagined the years ahead with her. Olive running through the farmhouse. Her chasing chickens, learning how to ride a horse and she growing taller and older.

It was a beautiful thought but it terrified him. He had seen his baby Sarah grow until life took her away and he didn’t know if he was going to be lucky to witness Olive becoming a strong beautiful woman.

"Don't grow up too fast, alright?" he murmured.

Olive immediately yawned.

Joel chuckled. "Yeah, I know it’s pretty tiring.

The baby settled further against his chest as Joel continued pacing slowly around the living room.

The little girl was fighting sleep again. Her eyelids kept drooping only to snap open again a second later, as though she was terrified she might miss something important her father had to say.

Joel smiled. "Do you wanna hear a princess story now?"

Olive blinked up at him, then she made a tiny sound.

Joel nodded. "Just what I thought."

He adjusted the blanket around her. "Alright."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the ceiling, his thoughts drifting to the bedroom where you slept.

Then he looked back at his daughter. "Once upon a time there was a princess."

Olive immediately kicked her feet.

"Now, this wasn't one of those fancy princesses. “He continued walking. "She didn’t have a castle."

Olive babbled.

"Nope." He smiled, "She didn’t have crown either."

More babbling.

"Yes, I know. Doesn't sound much like a princess."

The baby seemed deeply concerned by this and Joel laughed quietly.

"But she was one." He glanced upstairs again. "Because she was the bravest person anybody had ever met."

Olive stared at him, listening. Perhaps she was only looking at his beard, Joel kept talking anyway.

"This princess was stubborn." A pause. "Real stubborn. She never listened."

The baby squealed.

“Just like you, baby.”

He walked another lap around the room “And one day she found this grumpy man."

Olive blinked as Joel pointed at himself.

"That's me."

The baby immediately grabbed at his shirt.

"Yeah." His smile softened. "The old man wasn't very nice. He thought he was better off alone."

Joel's voice had become quieter now. "He thought every good thing in his life was gone."

Olive rested her cheek against his chest, listening to the vibration of his voice.

"Then this princess showed up."

Joel swallowed, His gaze drifting up.

"She kept bothering him."

The baby yawned.

"And she wouldn't leave him alone." Joel could picture the way you'd roll your eyes at him.

A warmth spread through his chest. "The princess saved him."

His hand moved gently over Olive's back.

"Twice."

His voice softened even further. The kind of softness that only existed around you and Olive.

"The first time she saved his life was she came to his life,” he smiled at the memory, “The second time…”

His mind drifted to those moments where he should've died and the moment you had refused to let him go.

His eyes held Olive’s ones. “She gave him something he thought he'd never have again.” He went silent for a moment, his throat suddenly trembled. “A family and the most beautiful girl in the love.”

Joel smiled. "The old man got everything he ever wanted."

You hadn't meant to eavesdrop what Joel was saying. You had only woken up because ethe bed felt empty because after years of walking beside Joel, your body noticed his absence before your mind could.

So, you had followed the sound of his voice downstairs, but now you were standing in silence and listening as your heart felts immense.

Joel had his back partially turned toward you, completely unaware of your presence.

Still talking softly to your sleeping daughter. "The thing about your mom," he continued, "is she doesn't know what she did to me." A small laugh followed. "Or maybe she does."

You felt tears prick your eyes immediately and Joel adjusted Olive higher on his shoulder you knew his expression softened.

"I spent a long time thinking I wasn't meant to have any of this." His gaze moved around the room and he thought of the future ahead for the three of you.

Then he looked back down at Olive.

"But then she showed up and she stayed." He smiled at Olive, "and somehow that stubborn woman convinced me I deserved this."

"You do."

Joel froze and his head snapped up to the bottom of the stairs where you were.

Sleep-rumpled hair and his shirt hanging off one shoulder.

"How long you been standing there?"

"Enough to hear those beautiful things you were saying." You smiled despite the tears threatening to spill.

Joel closed his eyes. "Damn it.".

He looked shy, a ridiculous thing for Joel Miller to be.

"You were supposed to be asleep."

"I was."

You took a few steps closer. Olive had lost her fight to sleep, it seemed like the stories her father was telling worked. The little girl was completely asleep against Joel's chest, her tiny mouth slightly open, one hand still clutching his shirt.

You stopped in front of him, Joel noticed the tears gathering in your eyes.

"Oh no."

"Oh, no?" You laughed.

"You cry, I cry."

Your heart squeezed painfully and you smiled, stepping closer until your forehead rested on his shoulder.

Joel immediately tilted his head toward yours, his cheek brushing your hair.

For a few moments neither of you spoke, all you could hear was the steady beat of Joel's heart beneath your ear.

The sound home.

"You know," you murmured, your voice muffled on his shoulder, "I wasn't supposed to hear that."

Joel groaned. "Yeah, well."

"You told her I saved you twice."

His arms tightened slightly around Olive. A nervous habit he had developed whenever emotions became involved.

"You did."

You closed your eyes for a moment, lifting your head to look at him.

His eyes were already on you."I didn't save you, Joel."

A faint smile touched his mouth, “Baby…” The way he said it immediately told you he disagreed. "You did."

You shook your head. “No."

Joel looked down at Olive, then back at you.

And suddenly his expression softened, "you gave me something to stay for."

Joel rarely spoke about himself this way. Rarely let anyone see these pieces. Yet somehow, ever since Olive had been born, he seemed a little more willing to let you see those vulnerable parts.

Maybe because becoming a father again had cracked something open inside him. Maybe because loving Olive had reminded him how to have hope.

"You gave me her." His gaze drifted to Olive, then like gravity pulling you both in, his gaze found yours "And you."

His voice broke “I got both."

Then leaned forward, pressing a long kiss on your temple. Inhaling you in, the smell of roses in your head and the scent of baby plastered in your skin. He closed his eyes for a second, taking in his reality.

“Are you gonna eat me, Joel Miller?” you asked, curving your lips.

You felt his lips going upwards against your temple.

“You know I could.” He said, smiling still there.

He pulled back to look at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“I'm serious,” he said. “You're very cute.”

Your eyebrows shot “Did you just call me cute?”

Joel immediately regretted speaking; you could see it happen.

“Oh, this is great,” you said.

“Forget I said that.”

“Never. You think I'm cute.”

Joel groaned, as you laughed.

Olive stirred slightly between you because of the sound.

Both of you immediately froze. A month into parenthood and you had already developed the same instinct.

Don't wake the baby.

The tiny girl shifted against Joel's chest, sighed, then settled quietly again.  The three of you remained still for another few seconds.

Just in case.

Finally, Joel exhaled.

“See what you did?”

“What I did?”

“Got her all worked up.”

His hand found yours automatically, thumb brushing across your knuckles. Inside this house the world felt very small.

You looked at Olive sleeping peacefully against his chest, then at Joel.

At the man who had spent years convinced happiness wasn't meant for him. The man who still looked surprised every morning when he woke up beside you.

Your chest tightened.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

You smiled, “You’re such a good father, Joel.”

Joel's expression softened immediately, so he leaned forward, kissing your lips so slowly it was dangerous if you hadn’t a baby in the middle.

Afterwards, neither of you said anything because some moments were too full for words.

Joel looked down at his daughter again.

Then at you.

His girls, his whole world, standing right in front of him.

And as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed another kiss on your hair, he thought that maybe happiness wasn't something you earned.

Maybe it was something that arrived unexpectedly one warm day of August, wrapped in his own clothes, with a father’s eyes and a mother’s nose.

And maybe, if he was lucky, he would get to spend the rest of his life holding onto it.

tags:

@heartpatch @jasminedragoon @picketniffler @grayandthyme @ccmoonshine

@theoraekenslover @stcrrjoon @stupidthoughtsinwriting @officialjellydoughnut @dshc99 @eleganthottubfun @mystickittytaco @fvispunk @daydreamzsworld @comicccc

@nosebeers @whirlwindrider29 @person-005 @bunnyofribbon

@ainhoetaaa @keileighr @callofdiva @pinkcabinet

@tomie-it-girl @shadowpheonix @unknownomgg @22thumbs

@magss-07 @insertclevernamehereplease

@secretlettersfromyourlove @periwinkledust @kellyxo1 @wildthyng

@anheloamores @missadangel @shinsegismylove @its-different-for-girls66 @deansimpalagirl @violinchick @goodvibesonly421 @the-sophverse @milytae @bratmillers @joelmillerspnk @longlivekingminnn @isabella-rose-trastamara @hiroikegawa @librosylove

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 33: Bright

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: He’s never felt so strong, so wanted, as he does when you’re under him and he fucks you through an orgasm, and then another, until your sobs echo across the meadow over the rain. He laps at the side of your throat, sucking the rain from your skin, and when he cums, it’s with a growl, teeth scraping your collarbone as he spills inside you. Chapter Warnings: only joel's pov, smut, unprotected p in v sex, unprotected anal sex, pussy licking, fingering, ass fingering, in the words of @mothandpidgeon "time for mallory's rain kink", sex in a meadow, restraints, soft dom joel, joel sings my favorite george harrison song because fuck you i can write what i want, come step into my delusions Words: 5,850

A/N: I vowed to finish Healed and post it all, no matter what's going on inside/outside this site, and I will keep myself to that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon for her eyes and love, even if I eat frozen foods that should be cooked. Two chapters left.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

What is this freedom called? Joel hasn’t worn anything more than his boxers in days, and this morning it’s not any different. And you, goodness, you’ve been living in only your robe and tiny dresses, and it’s the best wedding gift he could’ve ever received.

He holds his second cup of coffee, a midafternoon treat, gifted by Ellie and Dina for the honeymoon, and when he glances out the window, he loses his breath. He’s seen you naked hundreds of times, but nothing ever prepares him for it. You’ve gone ahead and shucked your dress, opting to sunbathe naked on the porch. It feels like the sunlight is going to blind him—the way it shines off your bare skin, stretched out on an old towel.

Good god, he loves his honeymoon.

He reaches down, past the waistband, cups himself, cock already aching at just one look at you. You’re not even moving, just basking in the sun, eyes closed, ankles crossed, chest rising slow. Your wedding ring glints as you lift your hand to scratch at your sternum, and the pink-gemmed stone glows against your skin.

He watches, ogles even. You must feel his eyes on you, because your hand moves, smoothing along your thigh, then between your legs, all casual as anything, as if you’re not the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He toes open the sliding glass door and steps out onto the deck, coffee in hand, boxers tented with need. “Jesus Christ, baby,” he growls.

You open one eye, lift your face to the sun with a lazy smile. “Hi,” you say, and then—fuck him—you stretch your arms overhead, and his mouth waters.

He stares, quite rudely. You’ve got a bottle of oil in your hand… some sort of fragrant thing Wendy made you. You open it, pour a thin line straight down the center of your body, let it pool and run around your navel, then spread your palm wide and rub it slow, up one hip and down the other. Your hands trail up your sides, fingers running over your breasts, playing with your nipples.

He means for a chuckle, but it comes out as a whimper, and he’s already on the first step down when you lift your hand to stop him.

“Not yet, you’ll block out my sun,” you tease, hands dragging down your thighs, legs parting wider, heels dug into the towel to gift him a good look at your pussy. You pick the oil up, let a stream run down your stomach to your mound, it pools across your skin, and you rub it in, letting your fingers slip and trace circles across your cunt. You’re a slick mess for him, hips rolling as you begin to touch yourself.

He can’t help but stroke his cock, throbbing when he presses some relief into it, but you know… eyes snapping open, a temptuous smile on your lips. “No, baby. You can have your fun later. Just watch me.”

He wants to protest, but he’s never been so transfixed in his life. The restraint it takes to drop his hand is superhuman. You keep your legs spread, one hand circling your clit, the other splaying oil along your ribs and up to your throat, as if you were anointed. The pink wedding band beckons, bright against your finger as it moves over your pussy.

Coffee’s getting cold, but he holds onto the cup as if without it, he’ll float away from you. He’s sweating, feels like he’s shaking from the restraint, from the need to spread you wide open and know you.

You’re moaning, hips rocking up off the faded green towel. He’s obsessed with the way he can tell your whole body is clenching and releasing as you begin to fuck yourself with more urgency, panting his name. “Fuck, Joel. Fuck, Joel. Fuck, Joel,” floats up and out into the vast wilderness.

The muscles in his back and arms are so tight, he can hardly breathe, hand clenched around the mug, and his boxers grow wet from the steady leak of precum he wants to grip more and more out of.

“Do you want to fuck me, Mr. Miller?” you say it deadpan, head turned so you’re looking at him through your lashes.

He lets out a “Yes,” almost a bark.

“You want to put your cock in me, Mr. Miller?”

He nods, jaw too tight, tongue thick in his mouth. You keep up the torture, fucking yourself with two fingers, thumb pressing your clit. Your breathing turns into little gasps and you stare him down. You know exactly what you’re doing to him, it drives him even madder.

“When I let you. I want you to fuck me hard, Mr. Miller. Can you do that for me?”

He nods again, frantic now. “Anything. Just tell me what you want.”

You smile, lift your legs, and part your knees wide. The slick shine of oil and wet glistens, and you fuck yourself with two fingers, drawing them out and showing him how shiny they are.

“I want you to bend me over that railing,” you nod at the deck rail, “and fuck me hard. I want you to smack my ass, call me a good girl as you cum in me.”

He loses it and groans as his back turns to jelly.

Your face sets in determination as you slip your fingers out of you. You get on your knees, reaching your hand up. “Now, come here.”

His mug teeters on the edge of the table he tossed it on, coffee splashed across the withered wood. In two strides, he crosses the deck, takes your shiny fingers into his mouth, and tastes the sweet slick of you. You work his boxers down and off, and he grunts against your fingers when you take his hard cock into your mouth. Your tongue is warm and swirling as you suck him off, tasting his desperation for you. He hits the back of your throat, your chin shines with spit, hungry eyes staring up at him. Joel’s fingers slip into your hair, resting, anchoring himself to you. He can’t breathe, can’t even fucking think, his world is just this: the hot sun blazing down, the wet choke of your throat, your hands planted on his thighs, his fingers through your hair.

You pull off him, mouth leaking a sticky trail of spit and precum as you grin, tongue out, and slap his cock against it. It’s almost cruel in the way his legs begin to shake and he groans. He wants to beg, fall to his knees and worship you, his perfect bride, but you take his cock back, slower, letting the head of his cock drag over your tongue, sucking the crown. Joel’s hands tighten in your hair, and he can feel every muscle in his arm clench as he fights the urge to push farther, to fuck your mouth full of his cum.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck, you’re—” he chokes when you take him deep again and pull off with a gasp. His eyes grasp shut, and all he can see, hear, and feel is his need for you. He fights the pooling low in his belly, reaches for your shoulders. You read him, letting his cock drag out of your mouth, letting him haul you up and kiss you, sucking the taste of himself from your tongue and lips.

He picks the towel up from the deck, places it against the splintered railing, and bends you over it. The angle is perfect, your feet spread wide, your pussy presented to him like a masterpiece. He grabs the oil, pours a river down the crease of your ass, letting it cascade down across your pretty pussy. He runs his hands over you, smearing the oil across your skin, dipping in and out between your legs.

Back and forth, Joel rubs the head of his cock against your pussy, lingering through the oil and your slick. He pushes forward, just enough to rest at where you need him the most, his hands pressing into the cleft of your ass, pulling you open to watch himself rut against you, the tip of him kissing precum right against your hole. He smears it in, drags his hand across your ass before he pulls it away and delivers a sharp smack to it. The sound of his palm meeting your skin echoes across the cove. Your arms flex, head dropping as you moan.

He can’t help the incredulous shake of his head and the grin he sends to the sky when he pushes in and your tightness swallows him. You didn’t want slow and sweet, and he gives you what you want, setting a brutal rhythm, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back into each thrust. The towel scrapes against the bannister as you fuck against, just as desperate as he is. You’re a mess of sweat and oil, radiant and beautiful under the sun.

He slides his thumb up, pressing it against your asshole, circling it before rolling it into you. You gasp, arch your back, and ask for more. “Like that?” he growls.

“More,” you order again.

He grabs the oil, pours it over your ass until it drips down onto the deck. He rubs circles, works you open with his thumb, fucking both holes so hard the railing groans.

Your pussy pulses around him and he feels you cumming, cunt squeezing him so tight he has to grit his teeth and tell himself not to cum. “Good girl,” he snarls, “feels so good. Cum f’me.” His thumb delves deeper, stretching you as you flood his dick.

“Joel, please,” you gasp, babbling, “Joel, please I want… I need…”

He knows. He pulls out, letting the heft of him thump against your asshole. “You want me here, baby?” You nod, a slithering “yesss,” answers him.

He slides in slow, waiting for the stretch to go from burn to ache for you, but you’re greedy for him, pushing back on him, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved you more than in this moment. The sounds that leave you are otherworldly, high, and beaming. He covers your back with his chest, arms locked around your sticky, sun-warmed body, grinding your ass back into him, both of you rutting against the railing.

His hand snakes between your legs, rubbing your clit, your whole body loses tension, knees almost buckling as your muscles go slack and his finger rubs another orgasm out of you. Joel’s arms tighten around you, keeping you standing as he fucks you through it and past it, until he lets himself go, cumming so hard he feels as if he might collapse the whole deck. His hips stutter, and he holds you tight, unable to move as his cum floods your ass.

When he feels his breath again, he nuzzles your neck, sucking at the sweat along your skin. “Good girl,” he groans as he pulls out. “World’s best wife. Jesus Christ.”

You chuckle and slump against the deck before he gathers your cumdrunk body into his arms. He’s never felt freer in his life. Sunlight, the blue sky, the cool wind and the smell of pine needles. His beautiful wife blissed out and smiling in his arms. Joel thinks maybe this is paradise.

—-

This is all Joel Miller could ask for… a crackling fire burning by the cove and a beautiful girl in a pretty dress watching him play guitar. He sits in the half-dark, back propped against a wood stump, legs outstretched, feet at the edge of the fire circle he made. You’re a little ways off, on a quilt, knees bent, dress tucked under your thighs. He picks up his guitar, tries to tell himself he knows the song well enough to perform it and gives you a shy smile before he begins to play.

“All alone in this world am INot a care for this world have IOnly you keep my eyes open wideYes it's trueI live for you”

You tip your head back, eyes on the starry sky as you listen, a sweet smile spreads across your lips. He can’t remember a time he wasn’t trying to earn a smile from you.

“Not a thing in this world do I ownOnly sadness from all that is grownIn this darkness I wait for the dayYes it's trueI live for you

For many years I waitFor many tears I wait

All this time my thoughts return to youGive my love, that is all I can doWait in line till I feel you insideYes it's trueI live for you”

When the chords fade, you clap a delighted sound. “That was beautiful,” you say. He grins, heat rising into his cheeks, hating and loving that he still feels bashful when it comes to you.

For the next song, he picks a low, moody tune that he knows you love. He plucks the strings slow, and you instantly know the song.

“Underneath the bridge, the tarp has sprung a leak…”

He doesn’t expect it, but you join in, your sweet voice joining his, voices harmonizing as you both repeat “something in the way.” Your face is set in thought, the flames flickering over it as you lean forward, elbows on your knees, almost studying the moment, the feeling. The two of you, out here, under the safety of the night sky and a ring of flames. Joel’s voice gravels towards the end, letting you take over.

When he finishes, your smile’s brighter than the fire. “That’s my favorite,” you say.

“I know,” he grins. “C’mere.”

You crawl to him, and he wraps himself around you, arms tight, chin on the top of your head. Your sigh warms the hollow of his throat.

“Play me another, tomorrow?” you whisper.

“Every day,” he says, kissing the crown of your head.

—-

“Homebase to Love Shack, do you copy?” Ellie’s voice echoes, and Joel can hear the smug little smirk in her tone even through the distortion. Joel clips towards the radio resting on the countertop, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still wet from your shared shower.

He grunts, presses the button. “Yeah, we’re here. What’s up?”

Tommy’s voice comes on: “Morning. We’re headed your way with the delivery. ETA thirty… so be dressed.”

You wander into the kitchen, also only clad in a towel. “Who was that?” you ask.

“Tommy ‘n Ellie will be here in a half hour.”

Guests during a honeymoon really aren’t a thing, but Joel doesn’t mind. Gravel crunching under horse hooves announces their arrival. Joel steps outside and waves before heading over to help untie the saddlebags. You’re on the porch, and when Ellie sees you, she hugs you. Joel feels the warmth spread from his heart through his body as you pull away, and straighten her collar in such a maternal way.

The bags are left by the floor, and Tommy pulls a sack from the pack and lays it on the kitchen table, revealing sandwiches from the Tipsy Bison, wrapped in waxed paper and still warm.

You sit at the table, next to Joel and across from Ellie, and he sees the happiness etched on your face. It’s in the way your hand rests atop his, the way you listen wholeheartedly when Ellie talks, and the way you smile at all her jokes… even the bad ones.

“How’s Jefferson doing?” you ask, napkin wiping away the mustard on the edge of your mouth.

Ellie chews, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “He’s good. He and Sally are happy. But I know he misses you.”

“How’s the honeymoon? Do we gotta worry about y’all never coming back?” Tommy asks.

Joel laughs and shakes his head. “As much as I love it here, I miss our house… ‘n Jefferson.”

It’s a strange thing to feel so content in a world built amongst chaos. For so many years, every meal was wolfed down in silence, every conversation was quiet, every moment of happiness overshadowed by loss. Now, there’s laughter, and food, and light shining in through the windows of his temporary castle.

He watches you and Ellie, talking and giggling. He looks over at Tommy, also watching the scene with a similar dumb grin, Joel knows is plastered on his own face. “Thanks for hosting us, we’ll get out of here, leave you two lovebirds to enjoy the rest of your time.”

Ellie hugs you again as she and Tommy leave, and Joel gets a clap on the back from Tommy. “Radio if you need anything,” he says before he mounts up. “Anything at all.”

“We will,” Joel promises.

Tommy nods and turns the horse, Ellie falling in beside him, and they ride away.

You slide your arm around Joel’s waist, resting your head against his shoulder as you watch them go. “That was nice,” you say.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees. It was. A reminder of the life waiting for them when this perfect week is over… a life full of people who love them.

You stand there together until Tommy and Ellie disappear from view, then turn to go back inside, hand in hand, back to your perfect honeymoon.

—-

Joel wakes before you do, most days he usually does, but today he lets himself lie there and holds you in his arms. Outside, the sky is beginning to turn from pink to gold to blue, and the light gilds you in a dreamy glow. He gets lost in admiring his wife, how you look asleep, the soft, unfurrowed peace of your brow, the line of your lips. He never imagined having this, a woman and a life so soft, he gets to watch the sunrise as he holds his wife.

He could stay here for hours, but he has a plan. He’s careful not to wake you as he gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen and puts the coffee on. He makes a couple of sandwiches, packs some strawberries, and wraps up a few chunks of cheese before filling the thermos with coffee and tucks everything into a rucksack.

When he comes back to the living room, you’re just getting up. “Morning,” you yawn.

“Mornin’, baby,” he says, and you smile sleepily for him.

“Better get up, we’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Hmm?”

Joel shrugs. “Just wanna show you something.”

—-

There’s something about the way you hold onto Joel as he navigates the horse. Your arms are snug around his waist, your thighs squeezing with every jostle. If he had to pick one way to travel for the rest of his life, this would be it.

It’s a crisp morning, but the sun is climbing and warming the world. You ride through the pines and the hush of the forest, the only sound is the soft plod of hooves and the birds in the trees. The trees break into a clearing, and Joel can hear the gasp behind him when you see the bright meadow full of wildflowers.

The horse is barely pulled to a stop before you’re bounding off, already giggling and spinning amongst the wildflowers as tall as your knees. It’s almost painful in the way he watches you, the smile that breaks across his face is wide and unwavering, and his heart aches in the best way at the sight of the woman he loves joyous amongst a field of purples, yellows, and little stars of white.

He dismounts and spreads the blanket on a patch of soft grass. The rucksack gets unpacked, and brunch is spread out across the faded blue blanket. You’re already deep in the field, plucking flowers from the ground, soundtracking the day with your happy hum.

“Gonna bring half the meadow back to the clinic at this rate,” Joel teases, dropping down onto the blanket. You soon join him, leaving your bundle of flowers at the edge of the blanket. You tuck a flower behind his ear, and he pretends to scowl as you giggle.

Coffee, sandwiches, and cheese are enjoyed under the sunlight in a field of wildflowers swaying in the wind. Joel saves the best for last, picks up a strawberry, and lifts it to your mouth. You take a bite, and then kiss the pad of his thumb that catches the juice dripping down your chin. He pops the other half in his mouth, never taking his eyes off your stained lips.

He grabs a smaller one, nestles it against your lower lip so you have to open your mouth for him. Your tongue flicks it in, and you lunge forward, climbing into his lap to kiss him, sweet strawberry on your tongue and coffee on his breath. His hands plant low on your back, splayed possessively over the thin cotton of your dress, and you kiss him slow in a way that makes him almost feel drunk off of joy and sharing a special morning with you.

He studies the horizon. Storm’s brewing, he sees it in the way the grey clouds choke out the blue and roll in. He wraps his arms tighter, presses a kiss to your hair.

“Rain’s almost here,” he notes.

“Mm, could just wait it out,” you say, pushing him down onto his back, straddling his hips, hands sliding under his shirt, nails dragging up his sides. “I don’t want to leave.” You grind yourself against his jeans, making little gasps that have his cock straining for you, and he digs his hands into the curve of your ass, squeezing hard as you rock against him. “Plus, don’t you want to fuck me right here?”

Joel’s breath stutters. “You want me to?”

“Mmmhm.”

The first fat raindrops pelt the blanket. Joel’s never seen anything so beautiful, your face turned up to the gray sky, mouth open to catch the drops. Raindrops patter faster and faster as you grind, the picnic blanket wilting in the grass, starting to soak through from the downpour.

You unspool his belt, pop the button open, and drag his zipper down. Your wet hand wraps around his cock and gifts him a sweet, wet stroke. He grunts, jerks your panties to the side, finds you already soaked for him, heat searing him even through the rain, two fingers slide through your folds, spreading you, coaxing out those sweet whimpers that float out into the damp air.

Rain streams down your back, soaking your dress plastered to your skin, but you don’t care. You just grab the hem and haul it up and off, baring yourself to the empty world. You’re a tangle of soaked dress and thighs atop him, running your soaked cunt along him.

He surges up, twists and rolls you over, covering you, body hunched over yours, rain pelting down and dripping from his nose and chin to your. He noses at your jaw, sucking your bottom lip, then trails kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. Your breasts are glossy with rain, and he bites at your hard nipples, tongue circling, drinking the water from your skin. The rain makes you taste even sweeter.

You push your hips up, seeking his cock, and he easily finds you and sinks into you, slow and so fucking deep. He waits, groans into your breast, and you clutch his damp hair with both hands. The grass and wildflowers tangle around your bodies, the blanket a sopping mess beneath you. He thrusts slow, letting the pulse of you patter along with the falling rain. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. Rain plasters your hair to your cheek and forehead, and you’re gasping his name with every drive of his cock. You’re keening under him, hands all over his back, clutching, holding, pulling.

He’s never felt so strong, so wanted, as he does when you’re under him and he fucks you through an orgasm, and then another, until your sobs echo across the meadow over the rain. He laps at the side of your throat, sucking the rain from your skin, and when he cums, it’s with a growl, teeth scraping your collarbone as he spills inside you.

He collapses atop you, huffing against your skin, rain washing over him and pooling across the divots. For a long time, you just float amongst the wildflowers like that, the storm subsiding over the two of you and the small world you can call yours.

When he finally rolls off, everything gleams in the aftermath. You reach for his hand, fingers twining. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”

“Don’t say that yet,” he says, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. “We got all day. All tomorrow.”

He wants to stay here, just like this, forever. You and him, both lying in a puddle, grass and dirt sticking wet to your skin, in a perfect meadow after a thunderstorm.

The storm slackens to a soft, foggy drizzle on the ride back to the cabin, and neither of you say much, trying to commit the memory of today to your hearts and minds.

—-

Once back at the cabin, you unload all of the flowers you picked while he ties off the horse. There’s a way in which you’re watching him untie the ropes and leads. He looks up, catches your gaze, cocks an eyebrow as he knots the rope and stows it. “Something on your mind, Mrs. Miller?”

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah? About what?”

You step closer, run a hand down his arm, fingers pausing at the rope looped. “I like the way you look handling these ropes.”

He stares at you, surprised, then grins. “That so?”

You nod.

He tucks the rope in his back pocket, grabs your waist, and pulls you in. “We can do something about that.”

He leads you inside and pours a glass of whiskey in the kitchen. You enjoy it together, staring into each other’s eyes with each drink. The empty glass is left on the countertop, and Joel escorts you upstairs to the bathroom.

It’s a team effort as Joel undresses you and you undress him. He turns the shower on, lets you step in first, watches from outside the large panels of glass. God damn, how did he get so lucky? You stand under the spray, water streaming down your face and shoulders, eyes half-closed as you let the warm water wash over you. He follows you in, crowding you up against the tile, hands roaming all over your body, washing away the mud and grass and wildflower pollen from your skin. You do the same for him, over his chest, down his arms, across his stomach. The care you show him, the gentleness of your fingers almost undoes him right there.

When you’re clean, he towels you off, walks you to the bed, and lays you down. The rope is already waiting, coiled on the table.

“I have an idea,” he says.

Your lips part, and he sees the hitch in your breath. You smile, a devilish smirk. “Show me.”

He ties your left wrist to the headboard, then the right, just loose enough that you can move a little, just tight enough that you can’t get free. He stands back, takes in the sight of you, arms stretched, wrists tied, body offered up like you’re his own gift.

He walks to the closet, grabs the blue bandana he usually keeps in his pocket and holds it up. “Can I?”

“God, yes,” you gasp.

He wraps the bandana over your eyes, ties it snug, and you gift him a moan before he’s even touched you. He kisses your forehead, your cheek, your lips. “You tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joel takes his time, lets himself savor you, hands dragging down your arms, your chest, your ribs. He licks and kisses your nipples, bites gently at the soft skin of your breast. He trails kisses down your belly, nips at your hipbone, then kneels between your legs and spreads you open. You tremble, you’re so wet for him, and he wants nothing more than to get lost in you, drown in you, live in the heat between your legs forever. His tongue finds you, licking you, savoring and slow, tongue pressed flat against your clit, drinking down every moan and surge you bestow upon him. Your arms are spread tight, anchored to the bedposts, straining against the blindings, and it only makes Joel want you more.

He spits across your cunt, slicks his fingers and slides two in, slowly fucking you, pressing into you until you cry his name. Your hips are bucking, frayed pleas of his name leaving your lips.

Joel works you, one hand in your cunt, one hand pinning your hips to the sheet. He pulls away, lets his breath feather over your wet, swollen clit and grins. “Look at you, sweetheart. Can’t even sit still for me.”

He fucks you deeper, curling his fingers against the sweet, gushy spot that makes you squirm. You’re close, he can feel the strain, so he pulls out, denies you exactly when you’re on the edge for him.

You whine a desperate keen, yanking at the ropes. He loves how gone you are for him, how you beg for him. He denies you his fingers, but gives you his tongue, licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit. You gasp, and he returns it with a hum into you as he sucks your clit. His cock aches, leaking against the mattress, but he ignores it… he’s having too much fun.

“Joel—fuck, I can’t—” you beg.

Every desperate shake, every bead of sweat, every taut muscle of yours only makes him want you more.

His fingers interrupt you, three of them now, stretching your tight hole. He doesn’t pump, only lets them settle and he just waits, feeling the way you clench, seeing how strung up your body is for him.

“I can’t,” you repeat.

“Oh, you can, sweetheart. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he growls, fingers twirling, thumb pressing against your clit. You tighten, flutter, and clamp, cunt gripping his fingers as you orgasm for him.

God, he wants that to be his cock so bad. He can’t take it anymore, he grips himself, stroking slow, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you.

“You look so good,” he gruffs. “I’m touchin’ myself, baby.”

That gets you, your body tightening as you give him an orgasm, shaking so hard the ropes creak. He watches your lips part, head thrashing, sweat and desperation slicking your body. You’re the most beautiful mess he’s ever seen.

He finally climbs up your body, kisses your mouth, lets you taste yourself on his tongue as he palms your thighs, pushes your knees wide, then folds you up so your calves press against the backs of your arms. You’re folded and wide open for him at the same time. “Can you take more for me?” he asks.

You nod all eager and desperate, so he gives it to you slow, watching your face as he seats himself inside your eager hole. You moan so loud he’s sure you’ve moved the mountains back, and he can’t help but groan at how perfect you feel wrapped around him. He fucks you like that, slow and steady, hands locked around your calves, folding you up. He whispers your name, tells you how good you are, how perfect your pussy is, how much he loves you.

He’s obsessed with the way you’re splayed out under him, hands bound to the bed, blue blindfold across your eyes, bottom lip captured between your teeth. Fuck, you’re perfect.

The bed creaks and the sound just makes him want to go harder. He pistons into you, lets his rhythm drum faster and faster into you. There’s a wet slap echoing across the vast bedroom, escaping out of the cracked picture window. Sweat drips from his brow, and his vision stays locked on where you take him, greedy and gorgeous, wet and swollen.

He leans forward, lets his weight press down onto your body, arms braced by your head, hands clasped around the crown of your head, holding you in place. Your breathing is wild, body and rope and pussy so impossibly tight.

You cum again, your whole body quaking under him, your voice hoarse with tears and Joel knows he can’t last, not with you like this. He pulls out, jerks himself twice, and cums all over your stomach and chest, white and hot, marking you as his. His legs want to give out, but he unties you first, peels off the blindfold, and gathers you up, kissing your wrists, your throat, and every salty tear on your cheeks. He rocks you in his arms, lets you come back down to earth, grounds you with each kiss and “I love you.”

The sun sets, and the cabin is filled with the smell of whiskey and wildflowers and sex. You lie tangled together, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart. He looks down at you, kisses your hair, and he feels it again—the peace, the rightness, the sense that maybe he deserves this after all.

—-

Every day of Joel’s life begins perfect now. Even on the days his knee aches, or he wakes up with a knot in his back, or his shoulder clicks when he reaches for something, the first thing he sees is you—warm, soft, still tangled in sleep. And every time he does, he’s reminded that he survived for this. Not just the world, but you, this impossible grace.

He slips out of bed in the early gray of morning, careful not to wake you and pulls on his robe. He pads into the kitchen, sets up the percolator, and leans against the countertop, savoring the ritual. The grounds, the gurgle, the first rich waft of coffee.

The early morning cold hits his face when he walks outside on the porch, but it feels good, makes him feel even more alive and present at this moment. The world is alive, and he’s alive, all because of the woman he loves.

The porch step digs into his thighs, but he doesn’t mind when he settles atop it. He thinks about all the things that should have killed him. Guns, fungus, loss, heartbreak. Things that haunted him every night before you. Anything could still happen, he knows it’s not a safe world by any means. But, he’s grateful to still be here, with you by his side.

You join him outside, robe cinched tight.

“Morning, baby,” he greets.

You smile, sit beside him, and lean your head on his shoulder. He holds out the mug of coffee, and you take it, hands brushing, eyes still half-closed.

Later today, you’ll head back to Jackson, back to the old world and its routines and worries. But for now, he savors you, the early morning, and the happiness you’ve given him.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 32: Luxury

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: This is your honeymoon. It’s such an absurd concept in the existence you live in that it almost feels fictional. A week alone with your husband, Joel Miller, with no responsibilities, no patients. Just you and Joel in this perfect, hidden place. Chapter Warnings: only doc's pov, smut, joel jerkin' it, like i think this chapter is mostly just sex?, strip poker, uhhh more sex Words: 6,100

A/N: Hey. After this chapter, there are only three more left, feels insane to say seeing as this fic has been part of my life for over a year... but here we are. My thanks to @mothandpidgeon and @sin-djarin for their eyes and notes.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

The ride takes you a few hours away from Jackson, west and north. You’re in awe, out here, the silence surrounds you, reminding you how far you are from the hustle and bustle of your mountain town. There’s nothing but the sound of the wind breezing through aspens and the clip of the horse hooves on the sun-warmed ground. 

You’re plastered to Joel’s back, arms wrapped around the warm, worn fabric of his jacket that he wore just yesterday as he married you. Sometimes when the trail gets rougher and the horses jounce more, you’re jostled so close to him his shoulder blade digs into your cheek. Neither of you says a word, just enjoy the bright sunlight and the hush of the green world.

The trail forks and you take the overgrown part, the path rising before the trees part. That’s when you get the first glimpse of a cabin. But, cabin is not the word for this. It’s massive, a fever-dream lodge built by someone rich who wanted to live like a king of the woods. Thick, cured logs, the color of golden honey, are stacked two stories high. There are windows upon windows reflecting the sky and trees. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.

“Oh my god,” is all you can offer.

“Our home for the week. We call it Patroller’s Secret Paradise,” Joel shifts in the saddle, turning to meet your eyes. “S’impressive, isn’t it?”

You melt at the thoughtfulness and the soft pride in Joel’s voice. “It is.”

Tommy and Jesse are already there, unloading the supplies from the packs. You swing off the horse first, reaching a hand out to help Joel down. When his feet hit the ground, you catch the wince across his face.

He still smiles, though. “Long ride,” he reasons, “but worth it.” Big, sun-warmed arms wrap around you as you marvel at the house. “They cleaned it all up for us,” he whispers. “Tommy and Jesse. Fixed it up ‘n stuff. Stocked it too.” His voice gets lower, catching almost. “Wanted it… to feel special for you… for us.”

It’s like a fantasy come true, and all you can do is stare and blink unbelievingly. “How did you...?”

“Tommy ‘n me found it years ago. Use it sometimes as a hideaway when we’re out scouting. Barely anybody knows about it.”

“It’s... I don’t even know what to say.” You shake your head, overwhelmed by the sight and the secret of it all.

“Got something else to show you too.” 

He leads you around the side of the house, down a stone path, broad shoulders block most of the view in front of you, but when he steps aside… you see it: a secluded cove, water lapping at the pebble-and-sand-lined shore. The sound of running water, from the stream feeding into the cove, might just be the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

“Joel... It’s perfect.”

“Follows all the way up to the lake,” he points. “Water’s crystal clear. We can swim.” His gold band flashes in the sun, and you follow it to the horizon, where tall trees flank all sides.

This is your honeymoon. It’s such an absurd concept in the existence you live in that it almost feels fictional. A week alone with your husband, Joel Miller, with no responsibilities, no patients. Just you and Joel in this perfect, hidden place.

“We’re gonna have a good week,” Joel says, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

A sharp whistle breaks the sweet moment. You both turn to see Tommy standing at the edge of the path, hands on his hips. “Got the horses unloaded, and we should probably head back before it gets too late.”

You walk back to the cabin, Joel’s arm around your waist. Tommy and Jesse are already mounting their horses, the pack animals relieved of their burdens. Tommy tosses something to Joel—a small black radio.

“Check in every morning, afternoon, evening, and night,” he instructs. “I’ll be here Wednesday to drop off more things.” He tilts his head, a wide brotherly grin spreading across his lips. “Other than that, y’all enjoy the week.”

Jesse nods respectfully and offers a smile and a “Congrats,” before yipping his horse into a trot.

You and Joel stand together, watching as they ride away. Tommy’s hand raised in a final wave before they disappear around the bend.

“Ready, baby?”

You nod, too overwhelmed for words. Joel leads you up the steps to the wide porch and pushes open the heavy front door. It creaks open and your jaw drops. 

You’ve never been anywhere like this. Everything here is decadent and huge, the foyer alone is massive. Golden wood is everywhere: the walls, the floors, the furniture. The floorboards almost look just polished in some places and ancient and sun-bleached in others. On your left, a wooden staircase curls, and you imagine the grand entrances that once happened here.

Joel holds your hand tight as you wander past the entryway. In the living room, the stone fireplace is the focal point, taking up most of one wall. There’s a ripped leather couch, sitting caddy corner, and a mattress lying on the floor already covered with a patchwork quilt and pillows.

And then, there’s the windows. You cross the room to them, the view outside is staggering. The cove, the mountains, and the expansive Wyoming sky. You feel like you’re on top of the world.

“I know it’s not much,” Joel says, his voice low with an almost uncertainty. “But I thought—“

You turn and catch him mid-sentence, and kiss him.

“It’s perfect,” you tell him. “Everything’s perfect.”

His smile is so slow and gentle, it makes you want to cry. “Happy honeymoon, Mrs. Miller.”

The tour continues, the kitchen almost feels like the owners just stepped out for groceries, frozen in time from almost thirty years ago. There’s a walk-in pantry, empty now, but you still like to imagine all of the shelves lined with cans and boxes. The counters are made of stone and still glossy, even under the smattering of dust.

You walk up the staircase together, hand in hand, and the steps hardly even creak. There’s a long hall, lined with doors. It’s almost as if you’re playing house, pretending at a life you never got to lead as you make your way through every room. 

The master bedroom sits at the end, windows taking up one whole wall with a king size four poster bed in the middle of the room. You run your hand along the mattress and grin. “This is the biggest bed I’ve ever seen.”

Joel stands in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and lets you take it all in. “Figure we can sleep in here or downstairs, wherever you want. I just wanted to make sure you had a real bed.”

“Anywhere with you is good.”

He gifts you that shy smile of his, before his head tilts towards the bathroom. “Think you’ll like what’s in the bathroom.”

You do. It almost feels like you’ve been dropped in the middle of a museum exhibit titled “Wealth In 2003.” There’s a giant clawfoot tub set directly in front of a window. It gleams, all polished brass and bright white porcelain. 

“Do we have hot water?”

Joel nods. “S’also hooked up to the dam.”

It doesn’t take long for you and Joel to unpack your bags. The walk-in closet is palatial, and you place your simple and practical belongings in the drawers while Joel hangs his flannels and your dresses. It feels so strange, like you’re really on vacation, especially when Joel kisses you, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, big arms surrounding you.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark as they roam over your face. “Wanna go for a swim?”

—-

You slip off your shoes, burying your toes in the cold mud and smooth river rocks. There’s a new sensation shooting through your body, an almost relief in this action, like one of those moments when a patient pulls through, or you remember you’re safe and loved.

Joel lays a towel down, covering his pistol, still mindful that though this is paradise, danger can still lurk right around the corner. 

The daylight radiates off the water, and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt so warm and complete, especially as you watch Joel unbutton his flannel and peel off his white undershirt. You can hardly pay enough attention to slip your shirt and pants off, struggling especially when you lower your jeans down your legs as Joel does the same.

“Take it off,” he says, reaching for the hem of his black boxers. “All of it.”

You’re so quick to shuck your underwear, to feel this rare type of naked independence with the man you love. Joel’s all precious metals lit by this light. Golden skin speckled with bronze freckles and silver scars. 

You both wade in, hissing through teeth as the water creeps higher up your thighs, then stomach, then chest, until you’re both wading. Joel’s groan echoes through the water as his buoyancy gives him relief, and you anchor yourself to him, arms wrapping around his neck, letting your legs entwine. He lifts you, hands gripping your ass under water and gives you the sweetest, happiest smile. You grin back, unable to stop the glee coursing through you.

“We’re really here,” you say, unable to keep the wonder from your voice. “On our honeymoon.”

He groans and stares down at you, eyes heavy-lidded. “Told you I had a surprise.”

His smile meets yours when he leans in for a kiss. Your hand slides down his chest and the plush of his stomach, he’s already hard, and you stroke him once, slow, pulling away to watch his head tip back and his mouth go slack.

He groans and you laugh, until he captures your lips again. You make out lazily, floating in the water, your legs wrapping around his hips. You grind against him, letting the water slosh before he lines himself up, eyes locked on yours, and then pushes in. The water buoys you, makes it easier. He braces both hands on your ass and starts to fuck up into you, his teeth bared with the effort of keeping it gentle, but you can see how badly he wants to let go.

“Harder,” you say, and he does. He lifts you higher, so that you can ride him, your breasts bouncing above the surface. Here, there are no infected, no patrols, no alarms or obligations; there is just you, and your husband, and the endless blue of the water and the sky.

He cums with a low groan, arms squeezing you so tight it’s almost painful, and you follow, burying your face in his neck as your body shudders and then goes limp. You cling to him, Joel’s heavy breaths against your ear, and you chuckle at how perfect this moment is.

When you both trust your legs enough to finally stagger out of the cove, Joel wraps you in a towel, hands rubbing up and down your arms until goosebumps fade. He snags your abandoned clothes and slings them rakishly over his shoulder as you both stumble up the path back to the house.

—-

Inside the cabin, you check in with Tommy as Joel builds a fire in the massive stone hearth. You curl up together on the mattress, bodies still damp from your swim. He pulls the patchwork quilt up and tucks you into his side. Your eyes move from Joel to the sunset and back, neither of you says a word to each other, just trade kisses and sighs of contentment.

It’s only when your stomach growls when you get up. “I guess we should eat.”

You share a dinner of leftover pizza from last night’s celebration, sitting at the eight-person dining table as the mounted deer heads and golden-framed landscape paintings look down upon you.

When it gets too dark to see, you light a few candles and lie together on the mattress in the living room, naked under the quilt. Joel’s soft bicep is your pillow, his other hand traces circles along your stomach so gently it almost feels absentminded were it not for the way he’s studying your face.

“Happy?” he asks.

You nod. “Incredibly.”

Joel tells you about the day he and Tommy found the cabin, how it was so untouched they almost wondered if it was a trap, how it was easy to convince the council to let you two leave for a week, and how patrollers haven’t seen anything worrying around these parts in over a year. You feel overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of how Joel made sure to gift you this beautiful “vacation.” You don’t know what to say to thank him, so you just lean in and kiss him.

The kiss is sweet at first, but it deepens with every traded grunt and moan. Joel pulls you closer, and his chest rumbles against yours when you nibble against his pillowy bottom lip. He cups your cheeks, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw. The shivers of need follow his hands as they drift lower, grazing your hip, then your thigh. He gently rolls you onto your side, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the soft spot behind your ear.

“Get on top ‘a me, baby, wanna see my pretty wife.”

You oblige, straddling his hips, giving him a slow rut and grind, sliding your pussy along the heft of him resting against his stomach. His hands grip your hips, big brown eyes and furrowed eyebrows staring up at you. You feel like a goddess, lit by the candles and fire, and the heated gaze of dark brown eyes. Joel’s hand flows down your hip to between your legs, pressing his thumb against your clit, kissing it with the sweet pressure of his thumbprint. You fold over, lips pressing against his, tongue licking into his mouth. He grips himself, runs his weeping head against your wet, and you moan, hands cording through the waves of his hair.

“Fuck me,” you plead, hips lifting, hovering right above his cock. Joel lines himself up and your bodies work in tandem together when you sink down with a gasp.

“Christ,” he groans, head falling back against the pillow, neck corded with the tension only you can give him. You pull away and sit up, the pink stone of your ring flickering against his chest when you brace yourself. You rise, thighs trembling, then sink back down, hips gyrating to take all of him and his stretch. 

You’re still amazed at your fortune. Joel is your husband, yours to ride, yours to take, yours to love.

He lets you move at your pace, and when you lean back even more, pounding and grinding against his cock, greedily riding him, he lets out an incredulous chuckle. “Look at you takin’ all of me.”

You watch his face, the reverence there. Joel’s always loved you with devotion, but you feel a new edge to it, an almost worship. Maybe it’s the honeymoon, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re forever, but he looks at you like he’s found God. He grits out your name, brow furrowed and jaw taut. That vein on the side of his neck pulses, matching the flutter of your own pulse.

His hand cups your cheek, and you give his wedding band an impulsive kiss, pressing your lips to the gold as your bodies move together. The gesture undoes him. His eyes flutter, and his body turns uncontrollable, hips bucking up into you. “Jesus—” he gasps, “baby, fuck—”

You keep kissing the ring, again and again, letting your teeth scrape the metal just enough to make him groan. He wraps his arms around you and sits up, chest to chest, and you clutch at his shoulders as he thrusts harder into you.

You grind and ride, using his cock to fuck yourself into oblivion, totally blissed out. Maybe it’s the luxury of having nothing to do, nowhere to be, or maybe it’s the candlelight or the fire or the fact he’s finally your husband now.

Joel’s hands dig into your hips, pulling you down with each snap of his pelvis. You feel the stretch in your calves, in your hips, every nerve below your waist.

You’re so close, your clit riding the thick root of his cock. You keep your eyes locked on his, begging him to see you, to keep you here in this impossible, perfect present. He can’t look away either. 

Candles burn low, the fire dying to embers, and yet you both glimmer in the dark as this perfect moment becomes a world of its own. The pleasure and love are bright and hot, and when Joel tenses beneath you, his face burrowing in your neck, your name almost sobbed into the sensitive skin there, you cum with him. He fills you, thick and pulsing as you clench around him and breathe his name out.

Joel collapses back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. His cock throbs inside you, and you’re so full of his bliss, you’re sure it’s running down the seam of your thighs, but you don’t dare move. You nuzzle your nose into the fuzz of his chest hair, breathing his skin and sweat. Beneath you, his ribs rise and fall, slowing down, your body synced to his.

“Mrs. Miller,” he groans, lips pressed to the top of your head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You never thought you’d see a day like this, never thought you’d have a husband, or a honeymoon. Joel makes the world feel like it never ended, like everything that matters is right here, with his arms around you and his heart hammering against your ear.

—-

This morning might just be the brightest you’ve ever woken up to. The birds chirp outside, and the golden sunlight slanting through the cabin’s windows gently rouses you from sleep. Joel sleeps heavily, mouth open, one arm draped possessively across your ribs.

You lie there for a long time, just memorizing all the small, beautiful things about the man you love. You trace the line of his jaw, the crease at his mouth, the dimple that’s soft in sleep. You’ve woken up so many mornings like this, marveling at how handsome a man Joel Miller is, even in slumber.

No clinic waiting for you, no blueprints for Joel. Just this cabin, this bed, and your husband for seven glorious days.

You carefully shift out of his arms, pull on his discarded flannel lying on the arm of the couch, and pad into the kitchen. The percolator is filled and set on the stove, some ginormous hub that easily set the original owner back six figures. All of it seems like a part of the world that’s been lost for so long… from the matching appliances, to the shiny stone countertops, and the huge windows that look out amongst nature undisturbed.

You unwrap Joel’s trusty chipped owl mug, which you packed just yesterday morning, and fill it with black, bitter coffee. Your husband’s favorite thing in the world.

You settle on the edge of the mattress, and Joel stirs, his eyes slowly fluttering open, fixing on the coffee cup before they drag up to you. He smiles and stretches. “You’re an angel,” mutters, voice still half asleep. He rolls and rests on his side, a content smile lifting his lips, before his eyes turn dark. “Put the coffee down, it can wait. C’mere, Mrs. Miller.”

He makes love to you as the sun rises above the vast treeline and the perfect cove. It’s lazy and decadent the way Joel takes care of you, grinning up at you as you ride him again, growling out all the filth and adoration he knows you love—how you’re perfect, how you’re his everything, how you feel so fucking good, how you’re all he wants. When he cums, his big hands cup your ass, and he growls your name so loud it echoes off the walls of your vast, temporary palace.

You share the cup of coffee, tangled in each other and your perfect morning. 

—-

There’s a banditry of chickadees singing in the trees, and you look over at your husband, at his big bare feet, the lazy stretch of his thighs under the blue robe, the band of his wedding ring shining as he scratches his chest. He has never looked more satiated and peaceful than he does as he lets the sun dry him off. You’re spread across your towel, face and front heated by the afternoon.

The water was just as perfect today. You could get used to this.

“We should do this every day,” you say, the words floating up toward the clouds. “Just... this. Nothing else.”

You hear rather than see Joel’s smile. “We could,” he agrees. “Whole week’s ours.”

What a luxury to do nothing, to make your time stretch, to only tell time in kisses and smiles.

When you get too baked by the sun, you and Joel move to the mostly-covered part of the back patio. There are some holes and beams missing, but it shields the sun just fine.

You choose Joel’s lap as your seat, and his arms hold you tight against him. He picks up the book he’s been reading, yet another novel about cowboys in the wild west. “Read to me?” you ask.

He hmphs a sound and clears his throat. His voice rumbles that low level that makes every bad thing disappear. You relax in the crook of his arm, eyes shut, body humming with warmth and contentment. Old West violence and drama, gunmen and dusty trails unfold. He even does the voices. Low and tough for the outlaws, gruff for the aging sheriff, strong and powerful for the hero. You wonder if he knows how much it means to you, the way he tells you the story as he holds you. The slow cadence of his voice and the rise and fall against your head help you drift off.

You wake to the sound of him closing the book and the set of his arms around you. “You’re out,” he whispers against your forehead.

“Just resting my eyes.”

He chuckles. “Figured as much, baby.”

He burrows you closer to him, gently rocking you back and forth like the trees in the wind. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so at peace before.

—-

There’s leftover wedding cake in the kitchen, and you’ve had it for lunch for the past two days. You’re atop the perfect marble countertop, legs dangling, Joel standing in between them.

He feeds you a bite. It tastes of chocolate and the memory of your perfect wedding. You hum an approval, and Joel watches you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world, even as there’s frosting on your upper lip.

“Good girl,” he grits.

You know exactly what he’s doing, and you let him, your legs sliding apart. He’s already sliding the edge of his thumb up inside your thigh.

“Ya’ know, you have frosting on your face,” he says, all smooth and deep. He leans in and licks it from the corner of your lip, then lingers at the seam, tongue pushing softly into your mouth. You taste chocolate and coffee and the wolvish smile he’s not even trying to hide. He grins when he pulls back, then grabs another forkful of cake, but he doesn’t bring it to your mouth… he taps it against your collarbone, splotching you with chocolate.

“Joel?!” You laugh, a surprised, breathy sound.

“Gotta get that too.”

He tongues the sweet off your neck, wide palms resting over your knees, prying them even farther apart. The fork clatters into the plate when he sets it aside, and then both his hands are under your thighs, hitching you forward. Your ass digs into the edge of the marble, and you yelp at the sudden movement, laughing and catching yourself on his broad shoulders.

Instinct overtakes you, because you already know where this is going, and you arch forward on the countertop, hands braced behind you. Joel’s lips are still sticky with frosting as he kisses you again, his body pressing against the cradle of your spread legs. He’s got you, strong arms caging you in, the heat of his chest pressing against you. But you can only focus on his fingers against the damp seam of your underwear, pulling them aside and dipping deep into your cunt.

You gasp into his mouth, startled but so ready for him. He grins against your lips, and you can feel him smile when you moan. He curls the pads of his fingers inside you, just how you like, so he can watch your eyes roll up for him. “Like that, pretty girl?”

You whine a yes as his thumb digs up to circle your clit. All the while, he feeds you cake. Another bite, this time smeared on his thumb that he slips into your mouth. You suck it clean, and Joel watches you greedily.

He stays close, kissing and biting under your jaw, salt and sugar on his tongue. Your ankles lock at his back, hips rutting against his hand, your wet coating his hand.

“Fuck, you’re so wet f’me.” 

You nod and arch for him, and he sets the cake plate aside. His thumb circles your clit, and you can’t even hold your own head up; you loll back on your elbows, blinking at the high beams of the ceiling, and wonder how it’s possible this man can know your cunt so well.

He keeps going, two, then three fingers, stretching you, and his eyes never leave your face. “There you go, baby. Squeeze my hand. Lemme feel you.”

Your cunt flutters and pulses, choking his fingers so hard he can barely move them. He growls a chuckle, pressing his mouth over yours, swallowing your moans and whines. You cum so hard you see gold behind your eyelids, the same gold of his wedding band that runs along your cunt. You sigh Joel’s name over and over, watching the way pride lights his face as you get off for him.

When you blink the light back into your vision, Joel’s already licking his fingers clean with a groan.

“Shall we get a bath, Mrs. Miller? Get the cake I missed washed off?” You nod and let him help you off the counter, shaky legs and all.

You and Joel spend the time it takes to fill the tub kissing. He gets in first, lowering the bulk of him slowly and settling against the porcelain before you get in, scooting back until your back meets his chest. The water laps and rises, sloshing over your bodies, and you’re caged in by Joel’s arms, bracketing the sides of the tub, his thighs sitting wide apart with you seated in between.

You hum as you feel the warmth of the sunbeams radiating through the windows. Outside is the cove, the pine trees dancing in the wind, and the invisible birds singing you and Joel songs as you relax. You inhale the steam, the luxury, the perfect moment you’re currently living in.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask, head lolling back onto Joel’s shoulder.

He laughs, kissing the crown of your head. “No, baby. S’all real.”

You’re not exactly subtle when you rub your ass across his crotch. It doesn’t take long for Joel to grow hard, cock pressed between your bodies. With a tilt and a tweak, you guide him between the slick of your folds. You arch up, then sink down, taking him this way… he fills you in such a different way, and you moan at the fullness. Joel lets out a groan, hips rocking up, pushing deeper until you’re flush.

His arms snake up under your arms, wrapping around your ribcage, fingers massaging and pinching your nipples, his mouth at your neck, tongue and teeth licking and scraping against your pulse. Water splatters against and out of the tub's walls when you rut against him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Joel breathes against your ear, his hand slinking lower down your body, thumb circling your clit as he fucks up into you.

The world outside of the tub begins to turn to a watercolor… green and blue, and sunlight swirling as you let Joel’s body bestow his luxury on you. He roars your name against your ear as he hammers himself into your cunt, flooding you with his cum. Your orgasm ripples through you, the waves of hot water and Joel’s cum getting fucked into you send you right over the cliff. The tub water ebbs and flows as you both shudder through your aftershocks, collapsed against each other.

When you finally trust yourself to move, you lift, turn in his arms, and kiss him until the water grows too cold, still unbelieving that this life is yours, and Joel Miller is your husband.

—-

Joel is hopeless at poker, hopeless at bluffing, and even more hopeless at hiding how much he wants you. There are cicadas revving in the trees, a wind brushing through the open windows, and the warm candlelight flickering gold. You’re at the dining table, clutching a crinkled hand of cards and biting back your smile. Joel sits across from you, hunched over his own hand, staring at the cards under furrowed brows. He’s barely even dressed now, wearing one sock and a pair of navy blue boxers.

You, on the other hand, are winning and still fully clothed. 

You did not expect playing strip poker with a grown man as competent as Joel Miller would reveal how abysmal he is at cards. You’ve beaten him every game, and you’re loving the trophies of more and more of his clothing being removed. 

Joel reveals his hand: two pair, not bad. But not enough.

Your straight flush is laid down on the table with an exaggerated little “boom.” Joel grunts and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Tough luck, baby,” you mock.

He pouts, scoots his chair back, bends down with a sigh, and takes off his sock. All that’s left is his boxers. The sock is tossed in your direction, and you avoid it with a duck and a chuckle and deal the cards.

A six, two nines, a Jack of clubs, and a King of diamonds. Nothing. You keep your expression neutral but Joel’s watching you like a hawk. No matter what you try to figure out, none of the cards work, and you finally lose to Joel’s full house.

“Well, well,” he growls, leaning forward, candles lighting all of his shadows. “Looks like it’s your turn to lose something.” His eyes flick up and down, possessiveness and desire inking them black.

You’re half drunk on whiskey, and the feeling of being in love, in a house no one else knows exists. You lean back and slip your shirt off. Joel’s eyes go wide and a greedy warmth spreads over his face. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

You stretch and roll your shoulders back and Joel’s nostrils flare. “This was a bad idea.”

Joel was right. It was a bad idea. His luck lasts for a single game, and your flush beats his three pair.

You squeal in delight, collecting the cards. “Deal’s a deal, Mr. Miller,” head tilting towards his crotch. “Take ‘em off.”

He stands slowly, hands planting at the waistband of his boxers. He inches the waistband down and all you can do is stare at his beautiful, wide, half-hard cock. The boxers fall to the floor, he steps out and lets you ogle. He’s all broad and powerful: the furrow of his belly, sprinkled with graying hair, the mass of his shoulders, the thickness of his thighs. The candlelight flickers over the lines of him, lighting the constellation of scars across his golden skin.

“Stroke him for each time you lost, Mr. Miller.”

He snorts, but he spits in his palm and wraps it around himself. It’s always a little overwhelming to see Joel like this, to luxuriate in watching the way his lips curl in a snarl as he thumbs the bead of precum from the head of his cock. He gifts you five long, slow strokes, and you’re pretty sure you don’t breathe through any of it.

“Keep going,” you say, your own thighs squeezed together, slick and desperate from nothing but the sight of Joel in front of you. He spreads his feet wide, starts stroking faster, eyes locked on you. He’s already huffing, chest heaving, the cords in his neck tight.

God, you want him in your mouth, want to taste the slick salt of the precum he’s leaking for you, but this is all part of the game. You want to watch Joel lose it again, naked in the golden light, putting on a show for you, his wife.

One hand grabs the edge of the table, while the other jerks himself, hissing between clenched teeth. He’s bent over the table, fucking his fist. “Baby,” he groans, all ragged and desperate.

“Yes, Mr. Miller?”

“Close,” whimpers out of your big, strong Joel.

“Then come here.”

He does, stepping to your fast, cock still in his fist. He looms over you, all big, broad, and hard. You’re so close now, you have a front row show. You marvel at all of him… the bead of precum on his slit, the way his balls draw tight, the flex and strain of his plush stomach.

So, you take your breasts in both hands and squeeze them together, showing him your intent. “Here?”

He doesn’t even answer, just grunts your name and shudders as the first thick rope of his pearlescent arcs up, landing on your collarbone, the second splattering across your tits and running down the valley between them. He keeps jerking, unable to stop, squeezing each pulse out, milking himself until he has nothing left, the last few drops clinging to his cock before he smears it across your nipple. “Fuck,” he growls.

Hands planted on the chair’s arms, he drops forward, gorgeous face right in yours. He grins with a low chuckle. “Fuck, baby. Feels like I won.”

—-

There’s a large boulder by the cove, the bright sun bakes it in the afternoon, making it the perfect place to rest your back against after enjoying the chilled water. You’re sitting against it, book in hand, while Joel sits next to you, fiddling with his guitar, strumming random songs and notes.

It’s odd, the lazy luxury of the past few days has almost made you forget all the strife and stress of the world, but there is still a reminder that you live amongst destruction. Joel’s gun goes with him everywhere, hidden in plain sight just in case, and you still turn your head whenever you hear a sound escape the heavy treeline. But the danger never comes.

There’s a sound of rustling to the left of you, and Joel instantly stops strumming, placing the guitar to his side and slowly reaching for the pistol… just in case.

But your fears are quickly tamped down by the sight of a herd of deer, approaching your secret cove. You watch them, both silent as they part their way through the tall grass, heads flicking to watch you and Joel, pausing for a moment, then ultimately deciding that you’re no threat.

Joel lowers the gun back to the ground, leans his head against your shoulder, and you watch the wild animals, safe in their peace and their own world.

Neither of you speaks until you watch the deer move back through the tall grass just as the sun begins to set. The sky is lit orange, with streaks of purple and pink all bleeding into each other and the horizon. It’s a sunset for the books.

"Never used to notice them much,” Joel muses, almost absentmindedly.

“Hm?” you ask.

"The sunsets."

"They were always there," you reply softly.

You feel his exhale before you hear it, his thumb rubs thoughtful circles over your knuckles. "Guess you just start seeing things differently when..." He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished.

When you almost die, perhaps. Or when someone saves you. Or when life gives you an unexpected second chance.

"Yeah," you agree, understanding what he doesn't say. "You do."

He takes your hand, finger brushing against your ring. “You changed m’life,” he whispers.

You look at him, his earnest eyes full of the rarest form of joy. Not the bright, guileless rejoicing of a life that’s never been wrecked. No, this life is the hard-won thing. “And you changed mine, Joel Miller.”

Next Chapter

[orcasoul]

Across an Ocean of Stars ✨🌍

Summary: Nothing much happens in your small town of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, USA. All of that changed one morning when strolling in the woods, you encounter a strange metallic man and his even stranger green child.

Warnings: Swearing, injury, toxic mother/daughter relationship (mother is a bitch!), smut, angst, violence, fluff, protective Din, hurt/comfort, found family, no use of Y/N. Reader has a nickname.

Word count: 4,201

A/N: This has been on my mind for a looong time now. I'm not sure if there's much call for a Din x Earthling reader but nonetheless, I've been longing to write this. I hope you enjoy...

Chapter 1 A Whole New World

Life moves slowly here, the same boring, monotonous scene stuck on replay. Work, home, eat, sleep. But that's just the norm for this small, town in the middle of Arkansas. With a population of 2,245, everybody knows each other and it's pretty easy for word to get around. Gossip and rumours spread like the plague here, and right now the gossip is unfortunately centred around you, pitying looks and whispers of 'that poor girl' and 'can't believe they did that to her' accompanying your days now. For the most part, you just ignore it -or try to- but in the quiet moments, when the world is still, your mind is racing. In recent weeks it has become too much to bare and the only way to drown out the inner voice that tells you you're a failure and not worth loving is to keep busy.

So that's what you've been doing. Working day and night, just so you'll be able to sleep at night and have some relief from your inner turmoil just for a little while... unless of course said turmoil finds you in your dreams as it often does. A small part of you wishes you could pack up your old life and have a fresh start, anywhere but here. Of course, it's not that simple. The thought of 'going out on your own' is terrifying. Even though the ranch you own (left to you by your grandparents) would sell for a decent price, that option is unthinkable. This place holds too many memories of better times for you to just up and sell it, your entire life engrained into the very walls.

Like it or not you can't bring yourself to leave, so you're stuck here, where you have to constantly face the two people who betrayed and destroyed you. It would have been bad enough to walk in on your fiance fucking another woman, but when said woman turns out to be your best friend... How do you even begin to move on from that?

Two Months Ago

A series of unstoppable yawns slip out as you wave off your guests. Your tipsy brain is running on empty and ready to crash. Walking into the living room you raise your hand to cover yet another yawn. Relaxing on the setee are your fiance Cole and your best friend Amber. They look just as exhausted as you, slouching with their heads lolling against the back of the settee. You clumsily plonk yourself down between them, resting your hands on their knees and throw your head back to join them.

"I'm beat," you exhale sleepily. Cole tucks you under his arm and kisses your forehead. "Did you have a good time?" he asks groggily, his blue eyes heavy. "I had the best time." You turn to look at Amber. "Thank you both for the surprise party. You guys are the best." "We couldn't let your 30th birthday pass without a big celebration," Amber smiles, resting her hand over yours. You squeeze her hand and return the smile. "Well, I'd better get going," Amber began to rise but you pull her back down. "You're not going anywhere this late alone. You'll stay here tonight."

"Are you sure?" she asks with a yawn. "It's fine," Cole insists. "I'll make up the spare room for you." While Cole prepared the spare room, you and your best friend giggled drunkenly about anything and everything, and maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's just you, but you suddenly feel so lucky to have such wonderful people in your life. You hadn't realised you'd nodded off until Cole woke you up by tapping your cheek and grinning. "Hey, time for bed sleeping beauty." A lazy giggle escapes you as he scoops you up bridal style and carries you to your shared bedroom.

Looking over his shoulder you see Amber opening the door to her room. "Gooodniiiight," you slur, waving your hand. You barely hear her reply as it's muffled by her yawn. A while later, you wake up with the driest mouth you've ever had. You wish you could ignore it and stay in your soft bed but that's not going to happen. Begrudgingly, you throw the quilt off and sit up, the room spinning slightly. The alarm clock reads 3:15am. No wonder you still feel a little drunk; you've only been out a few hours.

You drag yourself to the en-suite for a glass of water, gulping it down as you walk back into your bedroom. The light from the bathroom shines across your bed and it's then you notice that Cole's side of the bed is empty. That's odd, you think to yourself as you walk to the bedroom door and open it. The landing is dark but a hazy light is shining from downstairs. Your head is still slightly woozy as you make your way downstairs and into the kitchen, where the light is coming from.

You frown in confusion, but that confusion is quickly replaced with dread as the unmistakable sounds of moaning and panting emanate from the laundry room adjoining the kitchen. Suddenly you're as sober as a priest on sunday, knowing what you can hear but hoping to god you're wrong. A cold sweat breaks out across your skin. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slowly open the door. Your heart lurches and plummets to the ground! You want to scream and turn away, but right now, you have no control over your body, your frozen muscles forcing you to stay and watch wide eyed as your fiance pummels himself balls deep inside your best friend, your 'Sister', her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he brutally fucks her against the wall.

Their shared moans and her pleasured expression causes bile to rise up your throat, you whole body shaking with increasing anger. "Oh shit!" Amber gasps as she locks eyes with you. Cole's head spins over his shoulder and he drops Amber to her feet, his flushed colour draining in shock as he tucks himself back into his boxer shorts. "It's not what you think!" "I can explain!" they both blurt at the same time. "Really?! It's not what I think!" You explode as tears begin to run down your face. The fucking audacity of them to deny it when they've just been caught red handed! In a fit of rage you hurl the glass in your hand at them, narrowly missing their heads, the glass smashing against the wall. Damn it! You always were shit at aiming.

Clenching your fists, you turn and storm across the kitchen, unable to bare witness to this disgusting scene a moment longer. Cole and Amber rush to follow you, like pathetic lost puppies! "Wait! We need to talk about this!" Cole pleads, desperately. You spin to face them, wishing that at this moment you could burn them to ashes with the fury burning inside you. "Sure, let's 'talk' about it," you say sarcastically. "Let's talk about how I just caught my fiance and my best friend," you throw a hateful stare at Amber, "Fucking under my roof!"

You're met with silence and guilty expressions. You shoot them a look thats says 'I dare you to try and talk your way out of this'. They know they can't. The damage is done. "I'm sorry," Amber croakes with tears in her eyes. "No you're not," you spit the words. "You're sorry you got caught!" "Please, just listen," Cole began and gripped your shoulders. Nausea rises up your throat. Just the feel of his flesh on yours now makes your skin crawl. The fact that he has the nerve to put his hands on you after they were just pawing at your 'Sister's'' ass ignites a new wave of anger deep within. Now you understand the saying, 'A red mist descended' as you completely lose control.

It's as if an entity constructed from pure hate and rage has possessed you. Without even thinking about it, your knee connects with Coles' worthless balls, sending him whimpering to his knees. A gasp from Amber draws your attention to her and a sharp slap echoe's through the kitchen. You shake your hand out, palm stinging furiously, as she holds her reddend cheek in shock, her long dark hair spiliing across her face. "Get out! Get the fuck out of my house, both of you! Get out! Get out!" You scream over and over again. Amber helps Cole to his feet, his legs still shaking from the pain inflicted upon his manhood. With heads lowered, they scurry out of your house like the filthy little rats they are.

The silence that falls is unbearable. Now that you're alone, you have time to absorb everything that just happened. Fury still trembles under your skin, along with shock and the overwhelming with the gut wrenching grief that comes with such a betrayal. All of a sudden, your legs can no longer support your weight and you fall to your knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

Present Day

Drunken voices boom across the bar, amplified by the speaker onstage. It's karaoke night at the Whiskey Business and the spectacle that drunk people make of themselves in the name of good fun always brings a smile to your face. Karaoke night is by far your favourite night to work. "Oh my god, they sound like a bunch of banshee's," grumbles the stocky, grey haired man at the bar, shutting his eyes in exaggerated pain. "Good thing my hearing isn't what it use to be or my eardrums would explode."

Your face crinkles in laughter at his unashamed insult. "Okay Gene..." You shake your head affectionately at the man who is not only your closest neighbour, but also a lifelong friend of your late Grampa, and the closest thing you have left to family. "I think you've probably had enough for tonight." "I think you're probably right," he half chuckles through a yawn. "I'm gonna call it a night kid. You be safe getting home after work, okay?" His tone is more serious now, his facial expression matching his voice and you roll your eyes, playfully. "I always am."

That seems to placate him, his eyes softening. "G'night Rae." "Night Gene," you call after him as he makes his way to the door. You just know he'll be waiting on his front porch later as always, waiting for you to pass. It brings a warmth to your heart, knowing you still have one person in your life that cares for you. The next two hours pass by quickly- too quickly for your liking. The busier you keep yourself, the better you feel. Which is why you are dreading the coming weekend. Despite your objections, your boss has demanded you take a few days off.

Apparently, working day and night with only one day off in the past fortnight isn't good for you. You want to tell him that the extra shifts are all that's keeping you together right now, but at the same time you don't want to come across as desperate, lonely, pathetic, so you'll just have to face the dark thoughts and emptiness that relentlessly plague you when you have nothing but time to think. Grin and bare it as they say.

*****

The late summer air is cooler at night, a sign that change is on the way. Walking down the quiet country road, hands in your pockets, kicking up stones in front of you, your mind begins to drift to places you'd rather not go. Must it always come back to those two? It's been almost 4 months, for god sake. You really need to move on now, you try to reason with yourself. Of course it doesn't help that you live in a small town where gossip is the number one source of entertainment. You've heard from friends that Amber and Cole are now living together.

A bitter pill to swallow, but nevertheless you must try to move on with your own life. Not wanting to dwell on this another second, you raise your eyes to the night sky. The infinite black canvas, dazzling with an endless smattering of twinkling beauty never ceases to amaze you. For a brief moment you lose yourself in the vastness of all that exists beyond this world. "Hey, Rae..." your silent observation is interrupted by Gene, calling to you from his front porch.

"Hey," you throw a wave and ask, "Seen anything yet?" "Nope, but they're out there, believe me," Gene replies while studying the heavens. You shake your head and laugh to yourself. For as long as you've known him, Gene has always been a UFO enthusiast, but more than that, the man seemed to know a lot about space, often prattling on about Physics and the intricate details of astronomy that usually leave you dumbfounded, but you'd nod along and engage with the topic for his sake. He may be a bit of an eccentric, but he's a fountain of scientific knowledge. "Well, if you find E.T. I want to meet him," you tease. "You'll be the first one I introduce him too, Goodnight darling." "Night Gene." Your attention returns to the stars as you continue the walk to your house.

In a galaxy far, far away...

"Hold on kid!" Din shouts as he desperately fights for control of the Razor Crest. Being a slightly older model than his previous ship, it has been a bit temperamental lately. "Ehhh..." Grogu mumbles nervously from his seat, gripping tightly to the seat belt holding him in place. Flashing warnings lights and alarms bounce around the cockpit. "Dank Farrick ...urgh ... come on!" Dins' efforts to stabilize the ship are futile. The scanners indicate a pocket of immense energy nearby, unlike anything Din has ever seen before. The readings are off the chart.

"Don't worry... we'll urgh... we'll be okay." Right now that's more a prayer, than a certainty. This is the first and last time he'll track a bounty this far out. There's a reason hardly anyone comes to this mostly unknown region of the galaxy. Containing only a handful of habitable worlds and a lot of Dark Matter and cosmic storms, this 'No Man's Land' is not for the faint hearted. On the other hand, it's the perfect hideout for those on the run. The muscles in Dins' arms stretch and burn as he wrestles with the control panel, heart beating wildly, sweat running down the back of his neck and into his cowl.

Grogu whimpers from behind and Din suddenly feels very angry with himself for putting his son in perilous danger. He has to get him out of here; has to get him to safety. That's all that matters right now. All at once the entire ship groans and rattles, causing every loose item onboard to fall and clang against the steel walls. More alarms join the chaos as the ship begins to somersault and pick up speed. Din doesn't have the time to gather his thoughts before ropes of bright lights streak past the cockpit windows and the intense weight of gravity twists his stomach in all directions.

Then, just like that, it's over. The ship resumes it's normal speed, the alarms cease and the warnings lights turn off (except for a couple of lights, indicating some minor damage) and the white streaks become distant stars once more. "Buir..." Grogu squeaks and Din turns just in time to see him vomit on his clothes. "Oh boy," Din grumbles, reaching for the edge of his cape to clean him up. "You okay, pal?" Grogu's little smile and nod puts Din somewhat at ease. At least they've come out of this in one piece. The only problem now is, where the kriffing hell are they?

Din swivels the chair back to the control panel, engaging the mapping system. After a few tense moments, the words 'System Unknown' flash across the screen. "Shit," curses Din under his breath, hoping the vocoder in his helmet muted his tone enough to not alarm Grogu. Thankfully, he's already distracted himself with his soft toy froggy, floating it in front of himself, as he often does to the frogs in his pond back home on Nevarro. While Grogu seems largely unaffected by the whole ordeal, Din is barely holding it together on the inside, rising panic, and hopelessness washing over him. How the hell do we get out of here? Where even is here?!

In desperation he tries the mapping system again, with fingers crossed. 'System Unknown' flashes again. Dins' shoulders slump in defeat. He let's out a tired huff and looks out the cockpit windows into nothing but inky blackness and far off stars. With no obvious signs of planets close by, there's only one thing left to do. If he can pick up a radio signal from a distant world, he could hone in on it and follow it. Turning on his built in radio dish, all he can do now is sit and wait - no, hope. "Buir?..." Din had be so lost in thought he didn't realise that Grogu had climbed up into his lap, reaching his little hand out to rest on top of Din's, large curious eyes holding a look of concern for his father.

"It's okay. I'm okay," Din gently strokes the back of Grogus' head. "Just..." he sighs, "Try'na figure out what to do now." If he doesn't pick up a signal soon... well he doesn't even wan to think about what that would mean. Grogu snuggles further into Dins' lap, hugging his froggy tight. Dins' stomach sinks as he takes in the image of his founding, thoughts of he trusted me, this is my fault, I did this consuming him. 'I'm sorry, kid. I got us into this and I'll get us out." I hope. "Mmm," Grogus' ears droop and he sounds as uncertain as Din feels. Din sighs and looks out into the desolate void, praying for a miracle.

*****

Crackle crackle crackle! Din shoots forward in his chair, holding tight to Grogu so he doesn't fall. "Mar'e!" Din exclaims as the much hoped for salvation hisses through the speakers. A few moments later, he manages to pinpoint where the signal is coming from. The longer the signal continues, the more obvious it becomes that this signal isn't natural, as one would expect from magnetic fields. It seems this signal has been artificially generated, which can only mean there's a planet in that direction with intelligent life. "I need you to go strap in, pal," Din instructs Grogu as he sets him down on the floor. Without complaint Grogu returns to his seat. "We're gonna follow where this signal is coming from. It'll be okay." Grogu nods and hugs his froggy for comfort.

Several hours have passed - Nevarro hours, which Din always goes by now - when multiple signals are picked up. In amongst them all, the same artificial one stands out. There are other worlds nearby, all letting off their own signals, but they all sound natural unlike this seemingly intelligent one. Another hour later and a brownish blob faintly emerges in the distance. The closer the Crest Gets, the clearer it becomes. It now appears to be a tan and reddish brown... planet? Moon?

Din turns on his mapping system once more, and, even though it still says 'System Unknown', the powerful sonar composes a clear map, consisting of eight planets and well over one hundred moons. Out of all the planets, the signal seems to be coming from the sixth planet away; a blue and green world. With renewed hope, Din sets a course for this mysterious celestial body.

A gentle breeze filters through your curtain, blowing a few strands of hair across your face, waking you from yet another broken sleep. Sunlight spills onto your bed, warming the quilt with its early morning rays. Checking your phone, you're surprised to see the clock showing 10:45am. Another night of tossing and turning has left you feeling more exhausted than refreshed, hence the reason for the late lay in. You're usually an early riser, but lately your sleep pattern is all over the place. Your foggy head is begging for "five more minutes" but if you don't get up now, you never will. With a stretch and a groan you pull yourself out and bed and head for the bathroom.

A few minutes later you make you way to the kitchen to make breakfast. The cloudless baby blue sky outside the kitchen window, beckons you outside. Grabbing your toast and cup of tea, you step out into the summer air and settle on the swing seat on the decking, silently observing the world go by. The wood land just beyond your garden seems more vibrant and inviting in the golden gleam raining down from above. Maybe it's just the beautiful weather, accompanied by birdsong and a warm breeze, but for the first time in... god knows how long, you feel a sense of ease ebbing over you. After months of dwelling at what feels like rock bottom, you feel somewhat... lighter, like you can breathe again.

An ember of hope flickers within; maybe I will be okay... in time. That ember of hope turns into a small smile as you bring your cup to your lips and gently blow the steaming contents. Then, just like that, as if the universe itself realised you've had enough of a good thing already, it pulls the rug from under your feet, bringing you back down on your ass. The name flashing on your mobile phones' screen wraps you in a sense of foreboding. Fuck sake! What does she want now? Reluctantly, you swipe to answer.

"Hi, Evelyn," you try to sound casual but your voice betrays you. If she notices, she doesn't say. "Hey, sweetie..." you cringe at the pet name and roll your eyes. "How are you? It's been a long time," she says as though there wasn't this huge emotional distance between you both. "Um... I'm good, thanks." Right now you're anything but. "How've you been doing?" You honestly can't bring yourself to actually care, but ask out of politeness " Much better now. I left rehab a few weeks ago and things are going well." "I'm glad..." is all you can offer.

An awkward silence lingers for a few moments before she continues, "I'm going to be in town for a bit and was hoping... that uh... maybe we could catch up...?" Oh god, no! You begin scrambling around inside your brain, looking for reasons as to why you can't. "Um... look Ev, I'm actually really busy with work most days-" She gently interrupts your obvious excuse. "I know it can't be easy to hear from me after so long, and I know I don't deserve your time but..." she sighs, "Please?... I have so much I want to tell you." The earnest lilt of her voice sows a little seed of guilt inside you and, against your better judgement, you find yourself agreeing.

"Oh that's wonderful. Thank you, sweetie. I'll be in town next week. Maybe I can call you then?" she asks hopefully. "Sure," you reply flatly. "Okay," she let out an audible breath of relief, "I'll see you soon. I love you." "Yeah, see you soon," you repeat before hanging up, unable to bring yourself to say those words in return. Your phone drops into your lap and you place your head in your hands. This is not what you need, and today of all days, just when you felt like there could be light at the end of the tunnel. The good mood you'd woken up in is slipping further and further away, anxiety rising in it's wake. Why would she contact you now after so long? And what could possibly be different this time?

Your thoughts gravitate to your grandparents. At times like this they were your rock, your comfort. How you wish they were here with you now. Taking a deep, soothing breath, you sit up and stare at the scenery around you. Nature has always helped you to de-stress. Maybe a hike would clear your head. Rising to your feet, you head into the kitchen, placing your cup and plate in the sink. You reach to turn the tap on but before you can even touch it, the whole kitchen starts to vibrate and you jolt on the spot. Your hands fly to your ears, as a heavy rumble builds all around you, shaking the dishes and cups in your cupboards, and then a rumble that almost burst your eardrums sounds directly above you.

What the hell? It sounds like engines. The sheer intensity of it all causes you to instinctively duck and cover your head. A few seconds later, the roar begins to fade and the shaking stops. You look around, wide eyed before bolting out the back door, eager to see what could have caused such a ruckus. Outside, the blue sky remains undisturbed. You'd expected to maybe see a smoky trail or something, but all that remains of the disturbance is a distant rumble in the forest beyond.

Series Masterlist Ch 2- coming soon Ch3- coming soon

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