about me: A. 30. she/her. romance writer and fan of writers. bi. aries. based on the west coast of the US. lore about my username.
about the blog: 18+ only MDNI. pedro pascal characters, occasional the pitt, and writeblr content. messages about headcanons, fics, or chitchat are very welcome. you can find status updates for my WIPs here.
recent writing of mine:
CROSSHAIRS - active series - jackson! joel miller x javier peña
thank youu for the tags @kokoluwie , @mcthsman , & @mytearsricochetm 🤍
haven't done much writing as of late, but here's a snippet from sabor a mi part 2. i haven't proofread anything so all mistakes are my own (i think i was half asleep when i wrote this 😀)
She squeezes you once before letting go to look at you. “It’s been too long.”
Unfortunately, she isn’t wrong.
After the divorce, you distanced yourself from Javier’s family. It felt like the right thing to do since legally they aren’t your family anymore. They took you in as their own, and that’s how you decided to repay them apparently.
You’re not proud of it – they had nothing to do with you and Javier’s relationship, but you know how they are and how they would’ve pushed for the two of you to get back together. One of his aunts even went as far as telling you that you could get the divorce reversed within the first 30 days and it would be like it never happened.
But it did.
The divorce isn’t something you’re ashamed of – you don’t want to hide it. Hiding it means that you pretend like it wasn’t a major part of your life. All the heartache and tears that were shed mean nothing if you ignore it, right?
That’s not something you’ll ever do, though.
You and Isabella talk for a while. She’s stopped her pacing and is sitting by the window now, overlooking all the people that showed up.
“How did you do it?” she asks, looking over at you from her spot, “Marry Javier.”
For a long moment, you don’t respond, thinking of the right words to say. On the spot, you can’t think of any. Marrying Javier was probably the easiest thing you’ve done in your life, and you don’t regret it as much as people may think.
The town has their own story of how the divorce went down, but only you and Javier know the truth. There’s no bad blood, you don’t think that he isn’t fit to be a father like someone mentioned to you; that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
You couldn’t ask for a better father for your daughter, and you’re forever grateful that the two of you are civil enough to raise her together. Even if you’re separate.
npt: @rosharanfiction , @petalsinblood , @gothcsz , @sawymredfox , and anyone else who wants to do this
thank you so much @isabellaboo2025 & @kokoluwie for tagging me in this!! i was going to make a wip whenever thingie last week and then it didn't happen so lol here i am to yap about my stuff!! i have a bunch fo tiny wips right now but underneath the cut i put something for chapter three of season of the wolf, and then marking, the hickey joel miller request i got the other day and also a tiny bit for a jack abbot one shot that i really want to post but idk if i ever will finish lol
season of the wolf.
You wake up in the middle of the night about a minute away from peeing yourself. Joel’s arm is still slung across your middle, heavier than it’d been before, and he doesn’t snore as loud while sleeping on his side. You just started to wiggle out of his grasp when Joel’s arm tightens around you, pulling you back to his chest as if you weigh nothing at all.
“Joel.” You whisper, poking his bicep. He grunts, but doesn’t show any sign of waking up. “I need to get up.”
You start to shuffle away when he doesn’t answer but, once more, Joel pulls you back.
“C’mon Mags, stop movin’.” He mumbles under his breath. Joel nuzzles against your neck for half a second before he freezes behind you and you can tell he’s fully awake now.
He’s fully awake, and he just called you by someone else’s name. You don’t answer, you can’t, any sort of response stuck to your throat; this time Joel’s arm loosens enough for you to slip away and you pad out of the room without looking back at him.
It’s not the first time someone mistakes your name. Your high school boyfriend used to call you by his best friend’s name all the time during sex, the girl he ended up marrying even though he always swore he never saw her like that. Your grandmother calls you by your mother’s name all the time, always with a poisonous downward twist of her mouth that makes it clear it’s not a compliment. The cashier at the grocery store that you went to school with gets your name just slightly wrong every time and you never have the heart to correct her.
None of those instances hurt nearly as bad as this.
marking.
You’ve never been particularly possessive of people before— Most of your boyfriends never caught much attention apart from yours and, in all honesty, you never loved them enough to feel threatened by anyone else. With Joel, however, you always find yourself sticking a little closer to his side, your hands roaming his shoulders a little bit more obviously whenever the two of you are out. He’s never given you a reason to feel intimidated, but you’ve never been with a man as attractive as Joel Miller.
He catches everyone’s eyes. The cashier at your favorite food truck, the teller at the bank, the security guard at the mall; everyone stares with varying degrees of want and need. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice: He thinks the cashier is staring because he orders way too many olives on his fish taco, and the teller because she’s trying to figure out if she’s met him before, the security guard is just doing his job at keeping the old man in check at Victoria’s Secret.
But you know better. They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away.
The first time you give him a hickey, Joel laughs it off. He says something about being too damned old for that but you’d noticed the way his fingers tightened on your hips, the way his breath stuttered and how he didn’t even try to pull away— The mark is on his chest, hidden away with any t-shirt, but every time you see it brings a thrill that you’ve never felt before, the little ‘O’ shaped bruise going from deep purple to a soft blue to green to finally fading entirely. You actually miss it when it’s gone, your fingers tracing the pattern you’ve memorized over his chest as the two of you lie in the afterglow one evening.
jack abbot one shot.
Jack is by your side in a second, taking your hand in his and almost dragging you from the kitchen with the excuse of getting drinks— You barely pay attention, though, because his hand is warm against yours, dry and softer than you expected it to be; it’s not the first time Jack has touched you. He does it constantly, in fact, a hand to your shoulder or a little poke to your bicep when you look away while he speaks and even a pat or two to the head or to the back of your neck whenever your hair is out of the way but this feels different. It’s not a fleeting, small touch that you can excuse as the action of a platonic friend that is a little too touchy; it lingers even when the two of you near the cooler by the pool, and he squeezes your hand for a second before he lets go as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your hand in his.
You look around, trying to discreetly figure out which one of the attendees is his wife. Ellis is by the grill, talking with her girlfriend; you’ve met the woman once before, when she came in one night because Ellis had forgotten to bring her dinner. And then Emery and Mateo are in the corner talking with Jesse, one of the day shift nurses you don’t know very well, and another man— This one you don’t recognize at all, but his arm is wrapped around Jesse’s middle and it’s not like he would be Jack’s wife anyway.
It also dawns on you then that, maybe, Jack’s spouse is a husband instead of a wife. Your eyes scan the backyard for any faces you don’t know but apart from a couple of day shifters here and there, there is no one you’re completely unfamiliar with.
“You came alone today?” You ask, taking the bottle Jack hands you, the question slipping out of your mouth before your brain can register how odd it is. Jack’s head cocks to the side a little, visibly confused, but he nods anyway.
“Robby was supposed to come too but—” He waves a hand, his thick wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. “You know how he is.”
Oh. Oh.
“Sorry he bailed on you.”
The intensity in Jack’s eyes is enough to have butterflies erupting inside your stomach. “ ‘S alright. I got you to keep me company, right?”
“Of course.” You smile even though you kind of feel like dying.
no pressure tag: @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @honey-moon-13 @mytearsricochetm @cozymochaa @rosharanfiction @broad-shouldrs @bergamote-catsandbooks @baronessvonglitter @hanahleah & anyone else that wants to join!!!
Not much. I mean I did reread a huge fic, but I worked on my book tbr at the beginning of the month. So this recap will be a short one.
Recap : 577 032 word count - 9 stories - Joel is very present this month!
✨ indicates my favorites - Listen, this month they are all favorites
Please comment and reblog the works you read. That’s how it makes these wonderful authors thrive.
Joel Miller
✨How to catfish a millionaire @baronessvonglitter - Joel Miller x f!reader - Totally obsessed and in need to know how this ends!
✨Healed @whocaresstillthelouvre - Joel Miller x f!reader - I will sing my love for this fic every time, still have the latest chapter to read and I'm keeping it for later cherishing it like a treasure.
✨What You Can't Have @rosharanfiction - Joel Miller x f!reader - This was so fun! So addictive! I loved everything about it! I loved the relationship between Joel and reader. I can't wait to read it again
✨He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not @auteurdelabre - Joel Miller x f!reader - Emma will never disappoint me. I'm hooked, crushed, and waiting to see how she can mend my heart back together.
✨So much to lose @auteurdelabre - Joel Miller x f!reader - What can I say? This is my third? fourth read? I was so happy to have the final part of the epilogue, so happy to read the little extras. I still love this story so much
Din Djarin
✨The Mage, The Fox and The Cupboard @littlemisspascal - Din Djarin x f!reader - Rae just knows how to write stories that are soft, warm and gut wrenching at the same time. I'm part eager to read the rest, part wanting to wait so that I still have some left.
✨Revelation @djarins-cyare - Din Djarin x f!reader - Exactly how I pictured this happening. Perfection, as always.
Other P boys
✨Wash it all away @petalsinblood - Reed Richards x f!reader - So sweet, so soft, I need this now, since I always struggle to remove my makeup.
✨Little things @couldsewyouastitch - Dieter Bravo x f!reader - Last but definitely not least, Dieter being a perfect, albeit clueless partner, when you ask him to buy pads for your periods. I adored this and will read it again and again and again
My own writing
Come Undone | Frankie Morales x f!reader | 🍬🔥🌶️
Little Dove | Ezra & Cee | Ezra x reader/ofc | 💔
When a Father-Light Touch is Agony | Din Djarin x f!reader | 🍬
Ahhhhh Cha I’m so happy you liked what you can’t have so much! It’s honestly such an honor that you tore through it - that fic has so much of my heart in it, and your nice comments on it (which I still shall respond to eek) literally made me beam. Thanks for including me on your list. ❤️
Am I posting a drabble on this very special date as I have done for the past two years? It seems so…🤭 It's all Din's fault. He's been very naughty, demanding my attention. Thanks @schnarfer for being the best writing buddy ever! (tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, din djarin x fem!able bodied reader, established relationship, smut, oral fem!receiving, feelings, no use Y/N)
Shoulders drabble// Broadness drabble
I'm thinking of Din—your riduur's eyes, the beautiful orbs you're one of the two sentient beings in the whole universe allowed to gaze at -Grogu being the other one- and encouraged to do so.
They are big, oval-shaped, intense, and grounding. Windows to every emotion he feels, his inner strength, determination, fear, sadness, joy, and love, never having learned to conceal his emotions, never needing to do so, always safe under the protection of his helmet. They are enclosed by a few lines that speak of years filled with resilience. Ethereal, solemn, with the hue of brown moonstones, with irises of molten dark chocolate wholly focused on you right now. Open and heavy. Bewitching you with their intensity, blazing you with the desire, the eros, shimmering in them, capturing your gaze as he pins you down to bed with his hands on your hips, and imprints his thick fingers on your skin. Watchful of every shudder you make, as he keeps you open with his broad shoulders, and feasts on your folds, slurping, consuming you as beads of sweat roll down between your breasts, and you moan his name, grabbing the sheets to tether yourself.
You will forever remember the first time you saw them, the guarded shade in his expression as he waited for your judgment, the vulnerability he had displayed for you, making your heart brim with love for him. You had rushed to him, your marriage vows still fresh between you, cradling his cheeks to kiss every inch of his face, and reassure him. Dispel his worries so there was only space for happiness and acceptance.
Your evening had started gently, typical, with Din meeting you on the way back home from your work after having picked Grogu from school. They had both helped you put the table on the back porch to enjoy the sun settling on Navarro's mountains as you ate the stew you had prepared for dinner.
But once Grogu had been put to bed, the night had become charged. Your hands had become bolder as you cuddled on the couch, still comforting and kind but arousing, avid for pleasure, to reach skin and incite, undoing buttons and zippers while walking to your bedroom.
And now you're drowning in ecstasy, at Din's mercy with your muscles coiling, ready to explode. It doesn't take much more to give him what he wants, one last swipe of Din's tongue before encasing your clit between his lips, sucking hard as two of his fingers enter you, reaching the spongy spot inside you, and you're conquered. Bucking against him, unbridled, barely keeping your wails controlled as waves of pleasure take control of you.
He rises, straining his arms to hold his weight, ogling your bare body, as if imprinting your sight into his soul. He takes his time, enthralled, pleased with what he's done to you, devouring the vision you are, spent, completely wrecked, still panting, as his tongue captures the last remnants of your essence from his lips, not daring to waste any drop, growling at your taste.
The magnetism in his eyes, the unsatiated hunger, pierces you, beckoning you to beg for him. "Din," you sigh, craving his weight on top of you.
One word is enough for him. He yields to your beseech, powerless to resist you. He moves, biting your navel, sucking your flesh hard enough to leave a love bite and make you mewl. He soothes the sting with his tongue, leaving a trail as he travels up your body, making you shiver as his chest hair brushes your erect nipples.
"I'm not done with you tonight, ner kar’ta (my heart)." It's a vow, a promise you both know he will make sure to fulfil.
He doesn’t let you answer, pressing his lips against yours, his moustache still wet with your arousal, as his fingers caress your jaw, compelling your mouth to open, to deepen the kiss.
You kiss him back, just as desperately, as ravenous and greedy as he is, mewling as your tongues start to dance together, scratching his back with your nails and circling his hips with your thighs, ready for him to ruin you one more time.
Npt! (tagging some friends and people who liked last year's drabble) @pattwtf @thundermartini @milla-frenchy @bergamote-catsandbooks @aurorawritestoescape @baronessvonglitter @simpingforjoel @almostfoxglove @604to647 @thedilfdiaries @tinytinymenace @maggiemayhemnj @jennaispunk @bluesweaters15 @ess-evo @kokoluwie @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @the-blind-assassin-12 @missadangel @tateypots @ak-vintage @sixhours @rosharanfiction
This is so sweet and slice of life and completely hot? The tension between them? The little vow he makes reader?? 🥹🥹🥹
Also something about waiting to put Grogu to bed before you get it on is just so domestic and adorable. Happy May 4th my friend, thank you for this gift.
ao3 | Gifted Kid Burnout masterlist | general masterlist
summary: Joel Miller comes as a package deal and the other half of it is not convinced you can stay over.
pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (gifted kid burnout couple, but you don't have to read to enjoy)
warnings/tags: 18+, Reader meets Sarah, (teenage) angst, fluff, Joel is a good dad, Joel is in love, he just loves both his girls so much, and he wants them to like each other too, Joel is oblivious to trends, matcha lattes, labubus (really), allusions to smut but nothing on page, playing it fast and loose with the pov
wc: 6.6 k
a/n: this story changed directions a 10000 times since I wrote the last scene in January and I spent way too much time on it, so I hope at least 6 of you still care about these two enough to read about their blended family drama haha. thank you so much for hyping me up to write these one shots, I'm genuinely so happy you like this couple. I think about them all the time. thank you so much @rosharanfiction for being the best beta ever and challenging me to access Joel's mind 💕
“That didn’t go well.” The moment the words left your mouth, you knew they were an understatement.
Truth was, you had no idea what to reasonably expect from a teenager. Sure, you could remember being fifteen yourself—but of all the things your family had put you through, divorce and new partners thankfully hadn’t been one of them.
Still, you’d had some expectations.
Not just because you’d imagined this evening over and over again, but because Joel—knowingly or not—had planted them there.
The Sarah he described was a sweet girl. A smiling girl. A girl who loved horses more than anything and caused her dad absolutely no trouble.
And maybe that version of her had existed once—the photographs on his wall were proof of that.
“It’s okay, baby. It went okay,” Joel said, patting your thigh reassuringly without taking his eyes off the road.
It went like this.
Joel cooked—the lasagna you loved so much the first time he’d made it for you. You arrived, still unsure about the outfit you’d been overthinking for the past week. He was tense, even if he tried not to show it, constantly checking your face, then hers, then yours again, like he wasn’t sure which one of you he should be more worried about.
“No, it didn’t,” you replied, staring at the road ahead. “She hated me.”
Sarah looked like the girl in the photographs and the stories Joel had told you, but she sure as hell didn’t act like her. She barely acknowledged you, staring at you like she hadn’t expected you’d be there at all. She ate quickly, reaching for her phone every time it buzzed, and after she was finished, she quickly brushed off Joel’s attempt to start a board game.
She didn’t say a single word to you. The few looks she did give you were sharp enough to make your stomach turn. You weren’t sure where to look the entire evening.
“Sweetheart,” he sighed. “Please don’t take it the wrong way, but I need you to be patient, yeah?”
He glanced at you, but you didn’t speak.
“She’s not even fifteen. It’s been just the two of us for as long as she can remember. The last time I brought a woman home, she broke her heart.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “She’ll come around, but I need you to work with me, yeah?”
“Mhm.”
You didn’t say anything else. You knew he was right, but knowing that didn’t make it sting any less.
It didn’t get better, but it also didn’t get worse, and according to Joel, it was something worth feeling relief for.
You didn’t even want to visit him when she was home after the first fiasco, but he insisted.
"She doesn’t want me there.” You shrugged when he drove you home for dinner.
"It’s just dinner.” He said. "I don’t always want her friends there, but they can always come. So it’s only fair.”
He patted your thigh, and you tensed, bracing for the evening of awkward silence and him overcompensating with stories you’d both heard times and times before.
Sarah wasn’t hostile towards you, but it was clear you were an unwelcome nuisance when she scrolled through her phone throughout the meal and never asked you anything.
You had tried, but with each attempt at a conversation, you were shut down so fast, it left you feeling like a complete idiot.
***
Like all things, a teenager can be worn down too, and it seemed it had finally happened.
It was Friday night, and Sarah was supposed to be at a sleepover, but it had been cancelled—some complicated story involving a boy and an overbearing mother.
You expected her to come home disappointed. About her evening and about your presence—but she seemed surprisingly calm about both.
“Sorry about your sleepover, kid,” Joel offered.
You were sprawled on the couch, your feet in his lap, when the door opened. In a hurry, he pulled a blanket over them.
You almost laughed at the instinct—but stopped when you saw how nervous he looked as Sarah stepped inside.
“It’s fine. Ally’s mom made a scene. You should’ve seen it.” She shrugged.
“Ally’s mom?” Joel frowned. “Was Ally there?”
“That’s the thing.” Sarah dropped onto the edge of the couch, inches from him. The blanket over your feet pressed tighter into his thigh. “She wasn’t. She told her mom she was going to Cassie’s, and she went to Eric’s instead.”
“Eric?”
“The boyfriend,” she said, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Her mom drove by to drop off her toothbrush. You should’ve seen her face when she found out.”
Joel swallowed, clearly imagining himself in that exact situation.
“I can imagine.”
“No, you can’t. She went ballistic.” Sarah’s eyes gleamed.
“Can’t say I don’t understand her.”
You caught the subtle eye roll Sarah gave him. You weren’t sure if he did.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t make a scene like that,” she said.
“Let’s not find out, yeah?” he replied with a small smile.
“Like you’ve never done stuff like this,” she scoffed.
“It’s not—”
“I’m sure you snuck out too,” she said, then—suddenly—turned to you.
“Well, I…” you felt both their gazes on you.
It was the first time she spoke directly to you, unprompted. You had to make it count.
“I may have, once or twice,” you said, trying to sound casual, when you met Joel’s pleading gaze. “But I was older. Definitely,” you added, glancing nervously at him, “Way older.”
The eyeroll your response earned was definitely unmissable to both you and Joel.
Instead of getting up and heading upstairs as you expected, she turned toward the TV.
“What are you watching?”
She stayed until the credits rolled—perched on the armrest of the couch, her side resting lightly against Joel. You barely moved, careful not to spook her and ruin whatever this was, and Joel seemed to have the same idea, sitting completely still.
It felt delicate, like any sudden movement might undo it.
When Sarah finally got up and headed upstairs, the quiet hum of her toothbrush echoing down the hall, Joel turned to you.
“Give me a minute,” you said, already shifting. “I’ll grab my things.”
“Hey—wait.” His hand came to your waist, stopping you before you could stand. “I thought you were staying tonight.”
You frowned. “I was planning to. But it’s okay.”
You tried to get up again. His arm tightened just slightly, keeping you in place.
“What if Sarah was okay with it?” he said.
You stilled.
“Is she?”
A beat passed as you searched his face.
“I could ask her,” he said.
“It’s your call.” You shrugged.
The corner of his lips twitched into a small smile, and he placed a quick kiss on your lips before rising from the couch.
"Be right back.”
Sarah was already in bed when Joel knocked lightly on her door before pushing it open, lingering in the doorway.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Yeah?” She glanced up from her phone.
He still couldn’t get used to how fast she was growing up, how fast her world was changing—her friends, her clothes, the bands she liked. The makeup, the phone, the parties, soon enough probably the boys, too. He used to tuck her in and read her stories not that long ago—she was probably way too old for it by the time he stopped, but neither of them cared—and now she was this separate person, with her own life and her secrets and her texts she hid from him when he entered the room.
“Can we talk for a second? You’re not in trouble,” he added quickly, catching the flicker of alarm on her face.
“Okay.”
He stepped inside, then hesitated, his eyes drifting around the room to buy himself time.
“I wanna ask you somethin’,” he said. “And you can say no.”
She squinted at him. “Ask me what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to weigh the words while he still could.
“If she can stay over tonight.”
“Ew, dad,” she said immediately, her face scrunching in disgust.
“You can say no,” he repeated. “I’ll drive her home.”
“I don’t care,” she said with a shrug, already looking back at her phone.
“I’m sure you do,” he said gently. His daughter was never difficult, but she could be particular. Despite the excitement about this new possibility building in him since he first started to consider it, it was hard for him to believe she actually didn’t care about you staying for the night.
She sighed. “Just don’t be… gross or whatever.”
He watched her for a beat. “You sure?”
“Dad, stop.”
He looked at her one more time, as if trying to give her one more chance to protest this, but she only shrugged. Ultimately, he didn’t exactly expect enthusiasm, so it seemed like confirmation enough.
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “I appreciate it.”
“Whatever.”
He lingered for half a second longer, like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it.
“Night, kiddo.”
“Night, dad.”
You slipped under the covers, acutely aware of the company down the hallway.
Realistically, you knew she couldn’t hear you from that distance—but you still kept your movements quiet, careful.
Joel, on the other hand, was beaming.
His steps were quicker than usual as he crossed the room, the mattress dipping as he climbed in beside you without much subtlety.
“Joel,” you whispered with a laugh as he pulled you into his arms, grinning like he couldn’t quite contain it. “You’re scaring me.”
“Why, baby?” he murmured, the sound warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to your jaw.
“I don’t know,” you said, trying to twist slightly in his hold. “You’re… giddy.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, tightening his arms around you.
“’Cause I got both my girls home,” he said, softer now.
Warmth spread through your chest as you looked at him.
He looked lighter—the usual tension gone from his shoulders, no careful watching, no quiet adjusting—just simple, unguarded happiness.
It hit you then, how rarely you saw him like this. He spent so much time making sure everything—and everyone—was okay, that he barely left room for himself. Today he could finally rest knowing he’s got you both, happy and safe under his roof.
You reached for him, threading your fingers into his curls, scratching gently at his scalp as he nuzzled into your neck.
He hummed softly, then his mouth followed—slow, warm kisses along your jaw, your throat, until he found your lips, sucking your lower lip between his.
You kissed him back without thinking, letting yourself sink into it, into him as he slowly crawled on top of you, not separating from you even for a moment.
Before you knew it, he was licking into your mouth, coaxing your lips open to make way for his tongue, as he pressed his broad body against yours and into the mattress.
With your thighs spread around his hips, you soon felt his arousal digging into your skin through your shorts.
“Joel,” you breathed.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmured, barely breaking the kiss. “Tell me what you need.”
You hesitated.
“I don’t know,” you said, quieter now, your hands pressing lightly against his chest.
“I got you, baby,” he said, gentle but sure, like he always was.
He grabbed your thigh to run his hand along it, until it rested by the hem of your shorts and panties, his fingers stroking you through the fabric.
“Joel,” you whispered again, more firmly this time. “Stop.”
He stilled immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t,” you said, shaking your head. “Not with—she’s there, and I…”
He softened, one hand coming up to cup your face.
“She’s asleep,” he said quietly. “Or scrollin’ on her phone.”
“That doesn’t help,” you admitted.
“She won’t hear us, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
You shrugged, but remained tense.
He studied you for a moment, then nodded with an understanding smile.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s okay.”
He shifted back, giving you space.
“Hold me?” you asked.
He didn’t hesitate.
“C’mere.”
You woke up tangled in him, the heat radiating from his body almost too much to bear.
“Hi,” he murmured into your neck, his voice low and warm against your skin.
“Hi.”
He kissed along your jaw, your cheek, careful to avoid your mouth—aware of how self-conscious you still were about morning breath. He didn’t seem to mind it at all, which only made you think, sometimes, that maybe he should.
You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the quiet of the morning settling easily around you.
After twenty minutes or so, you finally rolled out of bed and got dressed.
You’d usually just pull on one of his t-shirts and head downstairs like that, but today was different. You had company, and you wanted this weekend to matter—to be the one where things finally shifted, where you and Sarah found common ground, where it stopped feeling like something you had to tiptoe around.
You assumed she was still asleep when you turned on the coffee machine, but the moment you turned around, a fresh cup of black coffee in your hand, she was already standing there.
“Sarah,” you said, startled. “Hi.”
She mumbled something you couldn’t quite catch and brushed past you, heading straight for the fridge.
She didn’t say much more when you sat down for breakfast.
You chose not to push—you, of all people, knew exactly what it meant not to be a morning person. Joel, on the other hand, didn’t seem convinced.
He kept glancing at her, searching her face, trying to fill the silence with conversation.
“Got any plans today?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Care to tell me? I can drive you.”
“No need.”
She stood up before either of you could say anything else, plate still half full, a piece of sandwich caught between her teeth as she crossed to the sink and slid it into the dishwasher.
“Sarah—” Joel called after her.
She was already halfway up the stairs.
You watched her go, then looked back at him, and the tension in his face told you everything.
“I’m gonna go check on her, okay?” he said, already pushing his chair back, his hand briefly coming to your thigh. “You just stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Joel lingered before the door for a moment before gently tapping it. Sarah mumbled something in response, and he assumed he could at least peek inside.
“Hey, kid. You alright there?”
She shrugged, not even looking at him as she packed her bag. Her movements were abrupt and erratic, and the notebook she tried to cram into the bag kept catching on the zipper. After a brief struggle, she sent it flying across the room, hitting the dresser.
“What’s wrong?” he asked again, leaning against the doorframe, careful not to step too far inside.
“Nothing’s wrong. Go back to her.”
“I’d rather be here with you right now. You seem upset.”
“Well, I’ll be out soon, and you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” she said angrily, zipping up the bag.
With a sigh, Joel peeled himself off the door and walked inside, carefully sitting on the corner of the bed.
“Talk to me, kid. What’s wrong?”
“I’m going out,” she replied, her voice shaky.
“Why?”
“’Cause I don’t want to be here.”
“Did I do somethin’?” he finally asked.
“I don’t wanna talk about this!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the room. “You bring her here, and she acts like she lives here now and I can’t even stay at my own house anymore!”
“Sarah, you could—”
The bag fell to the floor with a thud.
“But I can’t!” she shot back. “You brought some stranger here, and now I can’t even go downstairs in my own damn house!”
His heart sank as her words echoed in his ears. She was so grown—scarily, infuriatingly grown—with the phone and the makeup and the way she spoke, but she was still a child, his child, one he needed to protect and make safe and comfortable. He wanted to kick himself for his stunt, the weird choice he thought he was giving her last night, the excitement in his eyes probably screaming please say yes.
He wanted to apologise and pull her into his arms and tell her he was in the wrong, that he shouldn’t have rushed all of this, but instead—
“Sarah, language.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
“Language? You wanna school me about language?” she said even louder now. “I could hear you last night.”
Joel opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment he was too stunned to form the words.
“Kiddo, there was nothing—”
“I don’t care!” she snapped, wiping at her face. “I don’t want to think about that. It’s disgusting. Disgusting!” She screamed over him.
Soon, she picked up the bag and stormed off past him, still frozen in shock, stomping heavily as she went down the stairs.
You sat still at the table, right where he left you, hesitant to move at all. You only overheard a few words, Sarah’s screams echoing through the house, before she stormed down the stairs. You didn’t hear Joel, and you wondered if he never lost his temper with his daughter and only spoke to her in his usual, soft voice, or if he was just standing silently as she screamed at him.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, you held your breath, but it was no use—she turned towards you and for a split moment your eyes locked with hers, damp with angry tears.
“What?” She snapped, but didn’t wait for your answer before storming out of the door.
With a bang of the door, she was gone.
Joel’s steps were slow and heavy as he descended the stairs. He finally emerged—shoulders slumped in resignation, brows knit tight with worry. You searched for his eyes, and as you expected, there was that look you knew all too well—one reminding you of a sad dog.
“M’sorry sweetheart,” he whispered as he reached for your shoulder, but you knew his thoughts were elsewhere.
You excused yourself to pack your bag, and soon you were both in the truck, silent and tense.
“M’sorry. You shouldn’t have heard that,” he finally spoke.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. It’s on me. She’s still just a kid.” He shook his head a little. "She’s just… She’s so grown, and sometimes I forget.”
You looked on the road stretching ahead of you, and something brewed inside of you, made your leg bounce up and down, and your chin quiver.
“Well, you asked her, didn’t you?”
"I shouldn’t have. We moved too fast. I’m sorry.” He reached to rest his hand on your thigh, and you wanted to put your hands in his, but something stopped you.
Anger bubbled in your chest, threatening to spill and you weren’t even sure what or who it was aimed at–Sarah or Joel, or yourself or each and all at once
You swallowed and nodded.
You didn’t see her for a while, and neither of you spoke about it. Not about Sarah—because Joel was always speaking about Sarah—but about you and Sarah, the possibility of going out together, or, God forbid, visiting him while she was there.
For a while, it felt good, great even. There had been this huge thing hanging over you, this huge issue you had to deal with, and suddenly you could both pretend it wasn’t there at all, that you didn’t really have to do anything about it.
Once, you caught yourself thinking maybe you could ignore the problem forever. That maybe avoiding it was the answer, because it had worked great so far, and maybe you could do it for the next three years and just wait until she’s in college and moved out and grown, and maybe she wouldn’t visit him often, and when she did you’d be out, or maybe she wouldn’t care that much anymore, and you could just pretend there had never been an issue at all.
The thoughts scattered whenever you saw Joel, and you felt guilty and vile and stupid for ever thinking them. It was his daughter, his world, everything he ever cared about in his life, and what he was always so frank about when he told you she had to come first.
There was no place for you in his life without her, and you could either confront it or give up on it—on him.
The first cracks came soon, but surprisingly it was you who crumbled first.
You lay tangled together, regaining your breath, as he pressed you firm against his bare chest, stroking the back of your head. After a few moments he shifted slightly and reached to the nightstand, and you felt more of his weight on you, grounding you, and you wanted him to fully lie on top of your body, to envelop you in him and press you into the mattress so you could feel whole and real again.
“Shit,” he murmured, pulling you out of the soft haze clouding your brain. “Gotta go.”
His body tensed in a way that was too familiar, the way it did when he needed to get up, to get dressed, to leave you alone in your bed again.
“Ten more minutes?” you asked, your hand clasping around his arm.
“Can’t.” He shifted to sit up and freed his arm from your grip. “Sarah will be home in thirty and I want to be there first.”
“Mhm.” You hummed and shifted onto your side, bunching up the comforter around you.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He said and placed a soft kiss on your temple. “You know I wanna stay.”
“You’d stay if you wanted to.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
“Don’t say that.” He whispered, his brows knit in surprise. “You know it ain’t true.”
You shrugged, avoiding his eyes. You suddenly felt naked and small.
“You know I wanna stay. Hell, I don’t wanna leave at all.” He shook his head. “I wanna take you home and have you in my bed and not have to go anywhere.” He leaned over you again to kiss your shoulder.
“Then why don’t you?” The question felt juvenile even to you as it left your lips, but the familiar anger bubbled up in you again.
“You know why.”
“’Cause you let her run things.”
“What do you mean?” he straightened up again.
“It’s your house. Shouldn’t it be your rules?”
He sighed deeply, and you knew he was battling himself on whether to use his last minutes at your place on getting mad at you.
“It is, sweetheart, but this is not how I do this.”
Your face flushed with shame. It always did when you acted selfish and stupid, and he just took it; he never even raised his voice at you, never even scoffed at what you said. Maybe Joel wasn’t only a good father, but he was a good man, a patient man, someone who could handle you and make you want to be better.
You turned your face towards him, shifting under the covers.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I just… I fucking hate it when you leave. Or when I have to leave.”
“I know, baby.”
“And I want to make it right. With Sarah. I don’t want you to think I’m avoiding this, I just—”
“I know. This one’s on me, okay? We’ll get there.” He whispered as he scooped you in his arms the last time before leaving.
“Roots and Stems?” You raised your brows in confusion, shifting in the backseat. “Why there?”
A trendy plant-based restaurant seemed like the most un-Joel place you could imagine.
“Don’t look at me.” He shrugged as you pulled into his driveway.
The door opened and Sarah tumbled into the front seat. Her hair was done differently than you’d seen before, the wild, puffy curls more defined and beautifully framing her face. You considered complimenting it, but bit your tongue.
“Hi,” you offered.
She sent you a side-eyed glance, then one at Joel, who now looked back at her, and for a moment it was a quiet staring contest—one you didn’t want to start or participate in.
“Hey,” she finally said with a slight shrug, then turned back around.
You let out the breath you’d been holding and relaxed back into the seat. Who knew the only person who’d ever really scare you would be a fifteen-year-old.
The restaurant was pretty—not fancy, but cool. A place Anya would take you to. The décor was minimal, but the blend of limewash walls, exotic wood tables, boucle chairs, and mismatched ceramic bowls looked like something straight out of Pinterest.
You sat at one of the tables and the waitress arrived with the menus, placing one in front of each of you.
You skimmed the page and quickly settled on your choice when you heard Joel huff at the options.
His brows were knit tight as he studied the menu, tilting his head slightly as if it were written in a different language.
“What’s an eggplant steak?” he finally huffed.
“It’s a steak from an eggplant, duh,” Sarah muttered, not even taking her eyes off the page.
“Do words not have meaning anymore?” he grunted, and she finally looked up, only to roll her eyes dramatically, making him break into a chuckle.
“Daaad.”
“What? Don’t they have anything normal? A burger?”
“They actually do.” You leaned toward him and pointed it out on the menu.
“Plant-based patty,” he muttered to himself, making a face at the page. “What’s in a plant-based patty?”
“I don’t know, does it matter?” Sarah scoffed, shaking her head. For a moment you thought she caught your gaze, but you weren’t sure.
“Would you eat a meat-based patty?” he shot back, mocking.
“Daad,” she whined through clenched teeth, and he chuckled.
You watched the two of them with quiet amusement, glancing at Joel. They seemed so relaxed today, so natural—almost as if you weren’t there.
“What are you getting?” you asked Sarah.
She lifted her gaze to you slowly, as if surprised the question was addressed to her.
“The eggplant steak,” she said. “You?”
“I’m getting three small plates so I can try more stuff.” You picked up the menu again. “I’m thinking tahini charred broccolini, nut-glazed cabbage, and… grilled peach and almond burrata.”
She nodded, then looked back down at her phone, texts buzzing against the table.
When the waitress came back, Joel’s hand rested on your thigh, gently rubbing through your tights. You relaxed into the touch, though you still checked if it was too obvious from across the table.
Joel ordered the plant-based burger with a grimace, making both you and Sarah laugh—and for a split second, your eyes met when you did.
Then it was her turn, but instead of ordering the steak, she recited the names of three small plates. Your eyes met Joel’s as he shot you a look and you shrugged, not quite sure what to make of it.
When the food arrived, it looked delicious and perfectly Instagrammable—you thought so as Sarah snapped a quick picture—but Joel was still not convinced.
He tried to scoop up the burger in his hands, but it was too big and the toppings kept trying to escape.
“Ever heard of a fork and knife, Dad?” Sarah asked between bites.
“Yeah, taught you how to use ’em.”
You laughed and turned to him again, watching the first bite of the plant-based patty land in his mouth. He chewed for a while, shaking his head from side to side, while you and Sarah stared at him in amusement until he finally swallowed.
“And?” you asked.
“’S not half bad.”
Sarah’s chuckles joined yours.
It felt warm and easy as you sat and laughed together—at Joel’s face when he sampled the patty, at the small plate portions resembling those for a baby bird—but it felt precarious too. Like something that could end at any moment—contained to one evening, without further meaning.
Joel squeezed your thigh reassuringly, his goofy mood largely because he finally had you both with him, eating and laughing and just existing in the same space together this way.
“What?” Joel asked as Sarah extended her phone toward him.
“Photo?”
“Sure, kid. Big smile for me,” he said and flipped the iPhone horizontally.
“Dad, no.” Sarah rolled her eyes, gesturing for him to flip the phone again.
He scrambled in confusion, but finally snapped a few vertical shots of her posing with her mocktail and returned the phone.
She scrolled through the pictures with a growing frown.
“Never mind,” she muttered as she tapped at the screen to start deleting them.
“But you look so pretty in them,” Joel protested, but it was too late.
“Can I try?” Your hands moved before you could think it through.
With a shrug, she handed you the phone, and you motioned for Joel to scoot further so you could position yourself in front of her.
“You see the grid on the screen—it’s—”
“Rule of thirds, I know,” you said with a tight smile as you pointed the camera at her. “Now look to the left.”
“Like this?” She turned her head.
“Like someone you like is coming up to the table.” You kept taking photos as she smiled at the imaginary person. “Yes, just like that.”
You snapped a few more pictures and handed her the phone.
She glanced at the screen, unconvinced—but as she scrolled through them, her expression changed.
“Oh my god. This is so cool,” she muttered as she zoomed in on one of the pictures. “I’m posting this one.”
Joel squeezed your thigh again, and even though she didn’t really look at you or didn’t actually thank you, you felt like you just scored a goal.
You didn’t suddenly become friends, or anything. There was an unspoken truce between you now, one that allowed you back into his house and into her good graces, but that was it. At 10 p.m., he drove you back, and you didn’t even complain or argue, because you didn’t want to go back to the starting point—not now, when things had started looking better for you.
No one could stop you from staying when she was away, though, sleeping over at her friends’ or Tommy’s, and you always made sure to make good use of that time, that you didn’t waste any of your evening on stupid things like staying in your clothes. It wasn’t just about sex—although of course you made sure to fuck on every surface—but the closeness, the intimacy of sharing a bed, the naked cuddles and watching movies pressed against his chest, legs tangled together, his large palm resting on your breast, absent-minded, not really aimed at anything, just there.
That Sunday morning you were both surprisingly dressed head to toe but still, your stomach sank, and blood rushed out of your face when the door opened.
“Hi.” Sarah said as she went inside, heading straight into the kitchen. “Can you drive me to the mall later?”
Joel froze too, but the casual tone of the question made him relax a little. He grabbed his coffee cup and leaned back against the counter, as if nothing had happened.
“Sure I can. We can all go together, it’s the same direction.”
“Sure.” She shrugged and headed upstairs.
You waited until she was gone to exchange relieved looks.
It wasn’t a big breakthrough, but from then on, Joel kept making sure you had the opportunity to close the distance step by step with each day. He took you both out more, having realised the neutral backdrop of a restaurant or a diner made Sarah less territorial. He invited you for dinner and had both of you help him make it, even if it meant a crowded kitchen and badly diced onions. Finally, he struck some deal with Sarah, allowing you to stay over from time to time, and sometimes you did, even if for you it meant walking on your tiptoes and speaking in hushed voices.
Still, at no point did she actually talk to you, and you didn’t spend any time without Joel’s supervision.
It was a quiet Sunday morning, and you stood in Joel’s kitchen, waiting for him to get back from the store with eggs for your breakfast. You slowly opened the fridge, trying not to make any noise as you pulled out the almond milk and the small metal tin you kept in the fridge door.
You measured the matcha powder with the tiny bamboo spoon into the ceramic bowl and waited for the water to almost start boiling. When it was ready, you poured it into the bowl and reached for the chasen, ready to whisk the liquid while trying not to wake Sarah up. You put the whisk in the bowl, and just as you started to move it, you sensed a movement behind you.
“What are you making?”
Her voice startled you, and you jumped a little, making the matcha liquid almost reach the rim of the bowl.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there,” you muttered as you regained your composure. “I’m making matcha. It’s a—”
“Yeah, I know what matcha is,” she replied in a bored tone.
Of course she did.
“Your dad went to buy eggs for breakfast,” you explained and resumed the whisking when you didn’t get a response.
She stood silently, leaning against the counter and watching you try to create the perfect microfoam.
“Can I have one?” she finally asked.
“Sure,” you said, a little taken aback. “Almond milk okay?”
“Mhm.”
“Vanilla?”
“Yep.”
She leaned further against the counter and took out her phone to scroll something. You whisked the liquid in silence and then took out two cups and measured all the ingredients carefully.
First, a splash of vanilla syrup, sugar-free.
Then, foamed almond milk.
Last, the perfectly frothy, emerald green matcha.
You placed two glass straws in the glasses and tried your drink, suddenly worried you’d mess this up, as if a matcha clump or not enough syrup could be the make-or-break of your relationship with your boyfriend’s daughter. And as much as you could remember being fifteen, they probably were.
“Here you go.” You pushed the other glass towards her as you decided it was good enough.
She sipped the matcha latte and nodded her head in approval, almost surprised.
“Is it okay?”
“It’s okay,” she said and went off with the glass.
You finally exhaled.
When Joel returned, he found you on opposite sides of the room—you, still in the kitchen, sipping your drink as you read your book, and Sarah with a similar glass splayed on the couch, watching some reels.
“You’re drinkin’ the green stuff too?” He furrowed his brows.
“It’s a matcha latte, Dad,” she explained with an eyeroll.
“Wanna try too?” You asked, raising your glass towards him.
“Nah. Did you make it from lawn clippings?”
“Daaad,” Sarah whined.
“It’s from Japan, and it’s ceremonial grade,” you explained, making him chuckle.
“Yeah, and what kind of ceremony are you hostin’ in my kitchen today, eh?”
He leaned in to kiss your forehead before heading towards the couch.
It started happening regularly then. She heard the whisk frothing the green liquid and appeared at the top of the stairs, then made her way down to the kitchen like you were her in-house barista now. You were happy to be one. You handed her the glass and watched her closely each time, searching for the small signs—the nod, the almost-smile.
After a while, it became a habit. A quiet little matcha date with no small talk and no real resemblance to spending time together. You took what you could get, happily passing her the drink whenever she came for it.
Joel noticed too. When he caught a glimpse of the ritual, he didn’t say anything—just grinned to himself, a contained, almost tentative pride.
It reminded you of when Anya adopted a kitten and spent a week introducing it to her resident Persian cat, hovering nearby, ready to intervene at any moment, barely containing her excitement when they finally sniffed each other, careful not to startle them when they played for the first time.
The teenage resident of this house was much the same—moody and skittish, hungry for affection, yet hiding just out of reach. If the offering of a matcha latte earned you passage through her home, you were more than willing to keep pouring.
It was a cold winter evening, and it was already dark outside when you exited the cinema.
The street was filled with Christmas decorations—bright lights, candy canes, reindeer, and Santa Clauses trying to lure you into the warmly lit stores, with all the latest gift ideas displayed in their windows.
Sarah convinced Joel not to head straight to the truck and to walk the street instead, to window shop, and you nodded along excitedly. He huffed and grunted, but he never said no—not to either of his girls—and soon the three of you were walking along the street, stopping at windows every time Sarah spotted something from her never-ending wish list.
She stopped in front of one of them, her eyes almost gleaming with excitement as she stared at whatever was behind the glass. You caught up to her, and Joel let out another huff.
“And what is that?”
“It’s a Labubu, dad!” she whined, as if surprised her dad wasn’t familiar with the latest monster-plushie keychain trend.
“Babygirl, didn’t you just tell me you’re not a kid anymore?” He raised a brow at her and turned back to the display. “What the hell do you need this doll for?”
“It’s not a doll!” she squealed in horror. “It’s a keychain for your bag! It’s not for kids! Everyone has them!”
Joel turned to you for help, his brows knit tight in utter confusion.
“Sorry, Joel,” you chuckled. “This is unfortunately true.”
“But it’s a plushie! An ugly one, too.”
“Everyone has them, Dad. Dua Lipa wears one.” She looked at him again, but that didn’t convince him. “Kate from my class, too.”
You glanced at him, and one look was enough to tell the man was already caving.
“How much is the thing?”
“Oh, it depends. This basic one is a hundred, I think,” Sarah said sheepishly.
“Dollars?” Joel’s eyes widened.
“Please tell him…” Sarah turned to you.
“Sarah, I’m sorry, but I’m with your dad on this one.” You laughed, glancing at her apologetically.
“Traitor!” Sarah whined and peeled herself away from the window.
“Oh, thank god,” Joel muttered, and you walked away from the store.
You kept walking along the street, stopping at displays and browsing a few stores. Sarah seemed to quickly forget about the Labubus and instead tried to convince Joel the newest airpods were necessary for her wellbeing.
You spotted a flannel shirt that looked like the most Joel thing you’d ever seen and discreetly saved the tag on your phone to keep it handy if Sarah needed a gift idea later that month—which she surely would. You passed a cute little store with handmade ceramics, and you caught Joel making a mental note of a cup you’d said would be perfect for your matcha lattes.
Once you were done with the stores and the lights and the Christmas songs blasting from everywhere, you headed back towards Joel’s truck.
“Don’t think I forgot about it,” Sarah suddenly said, making you both turn towards her. “I still want a Labubu.”
“Yeah, good thing I have two,” Joel chuckled, wrapping his arms around both of you and pulling you in, before leaning to place a kiss on Sarah’s forehead and then, quickly, one on your lips. The three of you walked toward the truck, still in his embrace.
tagging everyone who expressed interest in gkb/this story (no pressure!): @rosharanfiction @mcthsman @peepawmiller @ctrlaltthea @lizzie-cakes @picketniffler @primadonnasdream @okiegal68 @the-orange-tabby-cat @lilacs97 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking
IT’s HERE!!! And I love it so much!! I’ve been looking forward to seeing reader get to know Sarah since the middle of GKB and I adored how realistic this was - you did such a good job of showing how this unfamiliar stressful situation brought out flaws in all three of them, but also how all three of them fit together. And omg I’m SO happy you decided to venture into Joel’s head because you absolutely crushed it?
“’Cause I got both my girls home,” he said, softer now.
Literally all Joel wants is to be with his family it is the sweetest thing ever and I can’t handle it.
He wanted to kick himself for his stunt, the weird choice he thought he was giving her last night, the excitement in his eyes probably screaming please say yes.
Ugh no poor baby Joel!!! This reminded me so much of the early chapter of GKB where he panicked and felt ashamed for asking reader to suck his dick. Obviously not exactly the same but it’s so on brand for GKB Joel to have a shame spiral whenever he’s the tiniest bit selfish or pushes someone to go at his pace. This hurt my heart and I loved it.
It wasn’t just about sex—although of course you made sure to fuck on every surface—but the closeness, the intimacy of sharing a bed, the naked cuddles and watching movies pressed against his chest, legs tangled together, his large palm resting on your breast, absent-minded, not really aimed at anything, just there.
Their can’t keep their hands off each other thing is so freaking cute and hot, they make me giddy.
“It’s okay,” she said and went off with the glass.
I love this couple and this installment was so worth the wait! Thank you for trusting me to beta it, this fic brings me so much joy. 💕💕💕
Important question!!!! Who's top between Joel and Javier??? 🤔🤔🤔
HA. The million-dollar question. My boyfriend (who claims to have no interest in fanfic but knows what I’m writing) even came into my office and asked me the same thing a week or two ago. You’re going to have to wait and see how it goes in crosshairs, since it relates to some kind of spoilery plot points and I want to let the arc play out. But I’d LOVE to hear what you think.
I will say: The answer is different than what I originally thought it would be.
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
do you have any advice for feeling sort of lonely in your 20s? i’m mid-20s and never been in a relationship (mostly bc i am avoidant and i know i need to work on that) but i’m also so scared that i’ll just end up alone if that makes sense. i just feel like i’m falling behind in many aspects of life (finding a job, not being in a relationship, etc) and i know people say your 20s will feel like that but i just feel a bit like somewhere along the way i lost my path. sorry to put this in your inbox and you can also totally ignore it! i know it’s a lot, i just really appreciated your advice to the other anon about looking for a job so was wondering if you might have any advice about this (but again, i know it’s a lot so i totally get if you don’t). :)
Hi Anon. ❤️ I really understand how you feel. My mid-20s were also a hard time. I didn’t realize I’d already begun to find my way, and I suspect you have too.
There’s a reason everyone says your 20s feel like this. You actually have lost your path - the toolkit you needed for school is different from the one that guides you through adulthood. And you have to figure this out for yourself - you can’t even copy other people or google a rulebook or something, which is lowkey annoying. It’s not something you learn overnight, and it’s natural to feel scared sometimes, especially if you compare yourself to other people.
But you are not falling behind. There is no correct timeline, only the one that works for you. I have several friends who had their first relationships in their 30s, and they’re very happy people.
I felt acutely lonely throughout most of my 20s, and I now understand it was because of masking. This is common for neurodivergent people, but everyone struggles with a version of it. I always pretended to be someone I wasn’t, so even when I connected with friends/partners, I kept feeling lonely because I never gave them a chance to accept who I really was. Unmasking was the key to finding my way.
Some specific tips based on what helped me:
Pay attention to what energizes you. Minimize the time you spend on draining activities (or people), and make space for what recharges you.
Break the habit of comparing yourself to other people. They aren’t you, and you don’t even have all the data about them - you’re not in their heads. It’s a flawed comparison, and almost never a useful one. Your brain is going to think comparing thoughts no matter what, but if you choose not to follow them they will lose their power over time.
Be wary of social media. Most of it is comparison city, and it gets in the way of your ability to attune with yourself. I deleted all of mine a few years ago (except tumblr) and it radically improved my life. Figure out the line where social media helps versus drains you, and stay on the right side of it.
You don’t have to fix all your attachment issues before getting in a relationship. Avoidants and avoidants can have healthy relationships, or avoidants and secures. You’re not broken, and with the right partner you will be able to talk about your issues and navigate them together. It’s worth holding out for that person. Obviously it’s good to reflect on how your avoidance manifests and might make relationships difficult, and you want to be in a place where you can be kind to your partner. But it’s okay if being 100% “fixed” feels like an impossible hurdle, because that’s not actually the bar. I have attachment issues too and this was the case for me.
Get the help you need. If you’re struggling with mental health, therapy/psychiatry makes a big difference. Or if your therapist isn’t working for you, ditch them and find a style that does work. If you’re the sort of person who can keep up consistent habits, journaling is also really helpful. (I’m not this sort of person lol).
I have another quote for you, this one from Tress of the Emerald Sea:
Truth is, people are as fluid as time is. We adapt to our situation like water in a strangely shaped jug, though it might take us a little while to ooze into all the little nooks. Because we adapt, we sometimes don’t recognize how twisted, uncomfortable, or downright wrong the container is that we’ve been told to inhabit. We can keep going that way for a while. We can pretend we fit that jug, awkward nooks and all. But the longer we do, the worse it gets. The more it wears on us. The more exhausted we become. Even if we’re doing nothing at all, because simply holding the shape can take all the effort in the world. More, if we want to make it look natural.
I think confusion and loneliness often comes at times when we are forced to break that jug and find something better. It’s scary, but it’s incredibly liberating. Be patient. Be honest with yourself. Don’t worry about being ready for things you don’t need to be ready for yet. You will be okay. ❤️
thanks for the tags @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hanahleah @mcthsman @petalsinblood @inkandstardusts @aurorawritestoescape @cozymochaa @shadowqueen2024 @missadangel @milla-frenchy. I yapped a lot for this one.
🎵 Last song | listened to: The "Forth Eorlingas" theme from Lord of the Rings (the two towers is my favorite. Eowyn was crucial for my bi awakening). I have a playlist of fantasy instrumentals for writing and general getting hyped.
📺 Last series: The Pitt.
🎬 Last movie: The Drama. Surprisingly thought provoking and funny. But I described the plot to my boyfriend and he said "a 2 hour movie about a couple who can't have a conversation?". Which is not wrong?
🏅 Best thing about last month: My friends and I watch Survivor 50 on Wednesdays and look at our birth charts and goof around. It's nice to have a built-in mid week hang with people I love.
📚 Currently reading: I'm audiobook-ing The Haunting of Hill House, and I just started Fan Service by Rosie Danan. Not sure how I feel about it yet, but I do love books about us tumblr girlies (gn).
📺 Currently watching: Just Survivor for now.
🎮 Currently playing: I get motion sick easily so I'm really bad at video games besides Stardew Valley. But I forbade myself from said vale until I'm done with my thesis.
👾 Currently working on: crosshairs part 4, a jack abbot one-shot that really wants to turn into a 16k mammoth like somebody else, and the opening chapters of my first novel (!!)
🌶️ Sweet/Savory/Spicy?: yes
🎨 Favorite color: green
🤩 Current obsession: Joel Miller, Javier Peña, Jack Abbot, and this amazing instructor at my yoga studio who I either want to be or date.
☕️ Tea or Coffee: Coffee is essential, but I like tea too
🌐 Last internet search: Ok I always do these tag games when I'm taking a break from writing, so my answer is once again from fic research. But it's "what happens when the condom is too small". I promise I also google things that aren't smut.
👀 Looking forward to: An upcoming camping trip, Dungeon Crawler Carl 8, a few scenes I've almost gotten to in crosshairs, and lowkey this sheep detectives movie looks like it's going to be really cute.
npt: (sorry if you did it already!) @baronessvonglitter @kedsandtubesocks @quinnnfabrgay @tateypots @sunnytuliptime @jessthebaker @savedyounine @joelmillerspnk @bergamote-catsandbooks and anyone else who wants to.
thank you so much for the tags @rosharanfiction & @whocaresstillthelouvre 🥰
I haven't been able to write much lately, but I'm slowly chipping away at the final part of YLABMNS. Still trying to get out of my head and write before i edit and not edit while i write 😅
He leans down as if he’s going to kiss you, but he pulls away right before your lips touch. You wait with bated breath for him to lean back down, only for him to do it again, a sly grin plastered across his face. This time you lift your head up, trying to chase him, but he only leans back further out of your reach.
"Uh uh uh."
Oh if only you could wipe that smug look off his face.
Two can play at that game.
The next time he leans down, barely brushing his lips over yours before inevitably pulling back to tease you further, you firmly plant your feet on the mattress, using the leverage it gives you to lift your hips and roll them into Dieter's. You gasp quietly, feeling his hardened cock between the layers of clothing separating the two of you.
In turn he drops his forehead to yours, bucking his hips into yours again, pressing them firmly down into the mattress. "You really don't like to fight fair, do ya?"
"It's just like you said, I know what I want." He drags his nose across your own, slowly inching his lips closer and closer to your own. Your lips are barely brushing together when you continue. "And I just might have found someone willing to give it to me."
npt tags: @perotovar @ozarkthedog @kedsandtubesocks @sp00kymulderr @fuzzy @beefrobeefcal @bitchesuntitled @max--phillips @ghotifishreads @bergamote-catsandbooks & anyone else who wants to play ❤️
I love being a fangirl and writing fanfiction because yes that’s OUR man. Yes, we SHARE a boyfriend. We have a communal love interest and i appreciate the sense of community it brings.
The problem with commercial F/M romance is that it's written by the most heterosexual women alive and reading it you feel yourself slowly suffocating from the Gender of it all like a fish in a eutrophying lake. And what we actually need as a culture is F/M written by insane bisexuals violently allergic to heteronormativity
SUMMARY. After twenty-six hours and too much blood on his scrubs, Jack comes home hollowed out and half-human, only to find you asleep. For once, he doesn’t want to be good. He just wants to be home.
WORD COUNT. 4.6K
WARNINGS. established relationship, age gap, inappropriate relationship, attending/med-student, post-shift hurt/comfort, MDNI, smut, unprotected pnv, consensual somnophilia, dub-con bc of somno (but previously explicitly consented), sleep sex, soft dom jack, overstimulation, aftercare, lowkey porn without plot, no use of y/n.
NOTES. The first three paragraphs briefly mention a pediatric code/trauma case. Nothing graphic is described, and the child survives, but feel free to skip to the line “now it’s 2:47 AM” (the fourth paragraph) if that’s something you’d rather avoid.
Based on this request. In the universe of just between us, but you don’t have to read the series to understand.
If there's an exhaustion that comes with watching a twelve-year-old code twice in the span of forty minutes, Jack has endured it three hours ago, and ever since.
Jack's seen plenty of death. Too much, probably, though he's never been good at quantifying trauma in a way that makes sense to anyone who doesn't work in emergency medicine. But kids are different. Kids make his hands shake after the adrenaline wears off, make him stand in the hallway staring at nothing while his residents file past with careful, knowing silence.
The kid lived. Stabilized. Transferred to PICU with a pulse and a fighting chance. Jack had done his job. Done it well, even, according to the surgery attending he'd tracked down. But his scrubs had been covered in blood. Small bodies have less of it, objectively speaking, but somehow it always looks like more. Like it shouldn’t be possible for that much red to come from something so small. He'd stood under the locker room shower for twenty minutes trying to wash away the smell of it.
Now it's 2:47 AM and he's finally home. Finally done with the double-shift.
The apartment is dark, a reprieve after twenty-six hours of constant noise. Jack leaves his bag by the door, toes off his shoes. His body moves on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him down the hallway toward the bedroom while his brain is still stuck in that trauma bay, replaying every decision.
The bedroom door is cracked open.
He pushes through and stops.
You're asleep. Sprawled across the bed, somehow like you'd tried to wait up for him but lost the battle somewhere around midnight. One of his t-shirts hangs loose on your frame, the old Pitt Med one he'd been hunting for all week, looking way too good on you than it ever did on him. The fabric's bunched up around your ribs, leaving your entire lower half exposed.
Jack's brain, still operating in crisis mode, catalogs the details automatically. You're on your side, left leg extended, right knee drawn up toward your chest. The position would be completely innocent if you were wearing anything under the shirt.
You're not.
The curve of your ass is visible where the fabric's ridden up. More than that, your thigh is bent at an angle that leaves nothing to the imagination. Jack can see everything, the soft swell of your mound, pussy lips parted slightly, a hint of slick catching what little light filters through the curtains from the street lamp outside.
His exhaustion doesn't disappear. The weight of the shift still presses down on his shoulders like a physical thing, makes his eyes burn like he’s been staring at the sun, makes his whole body feel like it’s moving through concrete that hasn’t quite set. But something else surfaces alongside it. Something that bypasses his tired brain entirely and goes straight to his dick, which apparently didn’t get the memo about being exhausted.
If he were a better man, he would cover you with the blanket, pull the sheet up, climb into bed, pass out for the next six hours and try to forget everything about today.
He's not a better man today. His dick has other plans. The mattress dips when his knees hit it. You make a small noise, shifting slightly but not waking. Your face is peaceful in sleep, without the stress of exams and clinical rotations etched into your features. There’s a crease on your cheek from the pillow, which he so badly wants to smooth it away.
You'd told him weeks ago that you liked this, wanted this. Brought it up while you were both half-asleep, your voice shy but certain in the darkness. Said you wanted to wake up with him already inside you, that you trusted him to take what he needed even when you weren't awake to give it. The conversation had made him so hard he'd rolled you onto your stomach and fucked you slow and deep until you were crying his name into the pillow.
The memory makes his cock thicken against his thigh, uncomfortable in the confines of his boxers.
Jack settles behind you, careful not to jostle you awake, even though part of him wants to, to see your lopsided smile fuzzy from sleep. His hand finds your hip first, feeling the warmth of your skin through the thin cotton. It’s his shirt but it smells like you now. Like that body wash you use that costs too much and comes in the fancy bottle he can never manage to open. You don’t stir even as cold hands find solace in your skin. Your breathing stays deep and even, the rhythm of someone who’s completely gone, lost somewhere in dreams he’ll never know about.
His palm slides down, over the curve of your hip, along your outer thigh, fingers trailing back up the inside. Your skin is impossibly soft. Softer than his rough, over-washed hands have any right to touch. He’s touched you a thousand times but it still surprises him somehow, the smoothness of you under his calloused hands. He follows the path up until he reaches the apex of your thighs.
You're warm here. Really warm. Heat radiating like a fucking furnace.
Jack’s fingers brush over your cunt with barely any pressure, just exploring, just checking. Your pussy lips part under the gentle touch. He slides one finger between them experimentally, slowly, like he’s doing a physical exam, clinical about it except there’s nothing clinical about the way his cock jumps.
You're wet. Slick enough that his finger glides through your folds without any resistance at all, collecting your arousal on his skin. Whatever dream you're having must be good. Really good. He wonders if you're dreaming about him, if some part of your sleeping brain knows he's home.
Jack brings his hand to his mouth, slipping his finger between his lips, tasting you on his tongue. Salt and something faintly sweet, familiar from all the times he's buried his face between your legs and made you come apart on his mouth. Made you forget about exams, case presentations and all the other ways medical school tries to break you. Straining to get out of his boxers, his cock is fully hard noww, the exhaustion shoved to the background by this immediate, visceral need.
He needs to be inside you. Needs it like he needs air. Inside the heat and mindless comfort that your body gives him when it’s wrapped around his, when he can stop thinking about everything else and just feel something good, feel you.
Jack works his boxers down with his free hand, just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, already leaking. Already a mess, like he’s a teenager again instead of a middle aged man who should have better control than this. His hand wraps around the hard length, strokes to spread the precum down the shaft. Not enough, though.
His hand moves back between your legs. You're still asleep, breathing soft, completely unaware that he's about to defile you in the best possible way. Jack slides two fingers through your folds this time, methodical, making sure to coat them thoroughly in your wetness, in the slick that you’ve made for him even in sleep. Bringing them to his cock, he spreads your slick along his length, easier to take what he needs without hurting you. That’s the last thing he wants.
It's depraved what he's doing. Using your arousal to get himself ready to fuck you while you sleep, while you’re trusting and probably dreaming about something innocent like coffee or finally getting a full eight hours. But he also knows you're not dreaming about that. His hand moves base to tip, spreading your wetness over every inch until he's slick enough that he's sure he won't hurt you when he pushes in. His cock is heavy in his hand, thick and demanding, absolutely not caring that he’s been awake for over twenty-four hours.
Shifting closer, his chest presses against your back. He can feel your heartbeat through your skin, steady and strong, alive, alive, alive. His cock settles against the curve of your ass, perfectly plump and completely his. He reaches down to position himself, the head of his cock nudging your entrance. You’re so wet he could probably just thrust in hard, bury himself to the hilt in one movement and wake you up with his cock already deep inside you, make you take it all at once.
But he doesn't want to.
He goes slow. Savors it, maybe, or maybe he’s just too tired to be rough right now. Tiny pulses of his hips, easing forward, letting your body adjust to the intrusion even in sleep. The head of his cock pushes past the initial resistance, that first tight ring that always makes him grit his teeth, and your pussy opens for him. Impossibly tight, even though he’s fucked you enough times for your body to have learned the the shape of him by now.
Jack has to clench his jaw against the urge to just slam home. To chase the relief he knows he’ll find in the clutch of your body, in the tight heat that’ll make him forget his own name. But he doesn’t. He forces himself to go slow, controlled, even though every instinct is screaming at him to just take. He sinks in another inch, savoring the slide of his cock into your cunt, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper, the perfect heat of you that’s better than any shower, any drink, any amount of sleep.
A small sound leaves you, probably not a word, not a full one anyway. Probably just a whimper caught in the back of your throat, unconscious and so fucking sweet it makes his chest ache. Your hips shift slightly, pushing back against him. An involuntary movement, your body seeking more even when your mind is somewhere else entirely. Jack freezes, not wanting to wake you. Not yet.
Your breathing hasn't changed though, remaining absolutely still.
He pushes in the rest of the way, not stopping until he’s fully seated inside you, his hips flush against your ass, cock buried as deep as it will go. The position lets him get impossibly deep, his cock kissing your cervix, he can feel every inch of your cunt wrapped around his shaft like a vice. Like you were made for this. For him.
This is what he needed.
Jack exhales slowly, a breath he didn’t know he was holding, holding himself completely still, hust relishing in this feeling for a moment.
Not the orgasm, though that'll come, probably embarrassingly fast given how worked up he already is. But he enjoys the feeling of this, being inside you, connected to you. The way your body yields to accommodate him, accepts him, welcomes him even when you don’t know he’s there. The remnants of his shift start to fade from his mind, replaced by the sensation of your body yielding to him, the flutter of your walls, gentle pulses that feel like a heartbeat. The soft sound of your breathing in the quiet room, in the darkness that’s finally, finally peaceful.
He pulls back, barely withdrawing before pushing back in with the same careful control, the same measured pace that’s probably more for him than you. Part of him wants to see your eyes flutter open, wants to see the moment you realize what’s happening, how you'd react to it, especially since you basically begged him for this. His hand splays across your stomach under the t-shirt, holding you steady. The drag of his cock through your cunt is exquisite. Wet. Tight. Everything he needs.
Louder this time, you whimper again, hips moving, a tiny unconscious roll that pushes you back onto him, taking him deeper.
Jack's hand slides from your stomach to your hip, gripping, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to keep you in place. Pulling out fully — well, almost fully, just the tip still inside you — he thrusts back in. A little faster now, a little harder, your pussy clenching around him like it knows what it wants even if you don’t. He has to pause, has to breathe through the pleasure crawling up his spine.
Long, slow strokes let him feel every inch of you, one arm sliding under your neck, wrapping around your chest, holding you close. His face presses into your hair. You smell like sleep and shampoo and home. That coconut shampoo almost makes him smile now, the one you use that he pretends to hate but actually loves, loves the way it lingers on his pillows when you’re not here.
Your breathing changes, getting shallower. Little hitches that suggest your body is waking up even if your mind isn’t there yet. Jack can feel it in the way you’re moving now, hips rolling with him, small motions that meet his thrusts like your body remembers this dance even when you’re not conscious enough to lead. "Shh," he murmurs against your hair, his thrusts not stopping. Not even slowing down because he’s selfish like that, because he needs this more than he needs you to stay asleep. "Go back to sleep, baby."
Your answer is another whimper. Reaching back blindly, your hand finds finds his hip, fingers curling into the fabric of his boxers still tangled around his thighs. Like you're trying to pull him closer even in sleep. Like you want more, always more, greedy even when you can't even ask for it properly.
Jack keeps his pace slow, deep rolls of his hips that push his cock into you and drag out again, hitting every sensitive spot inside you on purpose. He can feel you getting wetter, your arousal easing the slide until each thrust is slick, both in feeling and noise in the quiet room.
Jack cannot see your eyes flutter open, not being able to see your face from this angle but he feels the change. The way you tense slightly. Awareness flooding back into your body like someone flipped a switch, like you’re surfacing from deep water.
"Jack?" Your voice is sleep-rough. Confused, scratchy in that way that makes him want to get you water and also fuck you harder. But your hips haven't stopped moving, still rolling back to meet him.
"Sweetheart." He presses a kiss to your shoulder, not stopping fucking you, not slowing down. "Go back to sleep."
"But —" You cut yourself off with a moan when he hits something deep inside you that makes your whole body shudder, your hand tightening on his hip. "But you feel so good." The words come out slurred, still half-asleep, floating in that space between dreams and waking where everything feels heightened and distant at the same time. Jack's cock throbs inside you at the admission, at the sleep-soft honesty of it.
"Yeah?" He pulls almost all the way out, just the tip still nestled inside you, and slides back in slowly, agonizingly slow. Your back arches, spine curving into him like you’re trying to become part of him. "Feel good, huh?"
"Mhmm." More whimper than agreement. Your hand leaves his hip, reaching for his arm wrapped around your chest. You guide it under your shirt with clumsy, slow movements, pressing his palm flat against your breast. "Touch me."
Jack's thumb finds your nipple, already peaked and hard, aching for him. He rolls it between his fingers and you gasp, your pussy clenching tight around his cock in response, in that direct line between your breasts and your cunt that he’s learned to exploit. "My dirty girl," he murmurs against your neck, hips still moving in that same steady rhythm, deep, controlled thrusts that make you squeeze around him like you’re trying to keep him inside. "Woke up with my cock inside you and all you want is more."
You mumble something incoherent, words dissolving into sounds, hips pushing back harder now, trying to get him deeper, trying to speed up the pace he's set. Jack's grip on your breast tightens. His other hand manoeuvres itself under your body, the awkward angle has his shoulder protesting, but he doesn’t care. He reaches between your legs, fingers finding your clit.
The touch makes you jolt, a sharp inhale, your whole tensing for a second before melting back against him. Jack keeps the pressure light, circling your clit with his middle finger while his cock continues that deep, grinding pace, while he fills you over and over.
"Jack, I —" You can't finish the sentence, your thighs trembling against his, shaking with the effort of staying still, of taking what he’s giving you. "Please, I need —"
"What do you need, baby?" His finger presses harder against your clit, circles getting tighter, mean little movements that make you gasp. "Use your words."
"More. Faster. Please." Clipped words and nothing more, best you can manage when you're so close already.
Jack finally lets himself go, hips snapping forward harder. The wet and lewd sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, obscene in the quiet of 3 AM, loud enough that he should be embarrassed but isn’t. His fingers — though this hand might be cramped now, wrist at a horrible angle — work your clit in tight circles, while his other hand palms your breast, thumb still teasing your nipple, rolling and pinching in the way that makes you incoherent. The angle lets him get deep. So deep each thrust punches a small cry from your throat, high and breathy.
Half-formed words and his name are the only sounds you're capable of producing, hand scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, twisting in the fabric. The t-shirt has ridden up completely, bunched around your ribs, leaving you bare from the waist down.
"That's it." Jack’s voice is rough in your ear, rougher than he means it to be. His finger speeds up on your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts. Relentless now, chasing your orgasm like it’s something he needs more than you do. "Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna cum on my cock?"
You make a sound that's an agreement, Jack has learned your little noises, familiar now, can read them like a language only he speaks. Your whole body is drawn tight, trembling, right on the edge. Jack can feel it in the way your pussy is gripping him, fluttering and clenching around his shaft with each stroke, getting tighter and tighter.
At the same time, he oinches your nipple, thumb and pointer finger pressing over the pebbled bud, while his other hand presses down on your clit, circling fast and firm, almost too much pressure, right on that edge.
Your orgasm tears through you with enough force that your whole body goes rigid, a cry rips from your throat, loud and completely unrestrained. Your pussy clamps down on his cock in rhythmic pulses that grip him so tight he can barely move through them. So tight it almost hurts, so tight he thinks maybe he’s going to die here and it would be worth it.
Jack fucks you through it, short, grinding thrusts that keep the pleasure rolling through you in waves. His finger doesn't leave your clit, working you until you're shaking in his arms, until you’re trying to twist away from the overstimulation, from the pleasure that’s starting to tip into too much."Can't," you gasp, your hand coming down to grab his wrist, trying to pull him away. "Jack, I can't, it's too —"
So much for not waking you.
"One more." He pins your wrist against your stomach with the hand that was on your breast, keeping you from interfering. His finger stays on your clit, the way you always like even though you protest everytime. "Give me one more, baby. I know you can."
Your protest dissolves into a whimper, hips still moving, still rolling back onto his cock even as you're trying to escape his fingers. The contradiction of it, the way your body betrays what your mouth is saying, drives him insane. The overstimulation is walking that razor's edge between pleasure and pain, and from the sounds you're making, you can't tell which side you're on.
Jack's close. The way your pussy is gripping him, the sounds spilling from your throat, the desperate way you're moving against him, all of it has him right on the brink, thrusts getting erratic, losing their rhythm, devolving into something more primal, more desperate.
But he needs you to cum again first. His finger changes pattern. Instead of circles, he’s strumming your clit now, quick flicks that make you sob, that make actual tears leak from the corners of your eyes. His cock drives deep and stays there, grinding against that spot inside you, pressing and not letting up. "Cum." It sounds like an order, it is one. "Cum for me right now."
Your body obeys, purely focusing on sensation, before your brain can catch up. This orgasm is quieter than the first. Your mouth opens on a silent scream, no sound coming out even though he can see your throat working, can feel the effort of it, whole body locking up tight, your pussy pulsing around him, clenching and releasing in rapid succession, milking his cock. Jack feels the gush of wetness as you soak his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath you.
That's what does it for him. Jack buries himself as deep as he can get, his own orgasm ripping through him, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, filling you with his cum, with everything he has, every drop, marking you from the inside out. Each wave makes him thrust shallowly, working himself through it, giving you everything he has until there's nothing left, until he’s empty and wrung out and finally, finally quiet inside.
The hand between your legs finally gentles. Stops. He pulls it away and wraps both arms around you instead, holding you against his chest while you both come down, cock still inside you, softening slowly, combined release already leaking out around his shaft.
Breathing raggged, your whole body is limp in his hold, boneless and spent. Jack presses kisses to your shoulder, sucking soft skin. Gentle now in a way he wasn’t a minute ago, tender in the aftermath. "You okay?"
You make a sound that might be words. Might not be. Hard to tell when you're floating somewhere far away, tethered to consciousness by the thinnest thread.
You whimper when Jack pulls out, however slow, the loss physical and immediate. A soft moan slips out of you, feeling of his cum sliding out of you and down your thigh. He rolls away just long enough to peel off his boxers completely. Finally getting rid of the damn things that have been tangled around his thighs this whole time, he heads for the bathroom.
The light is offensive when he flicks it on, bright enough to make him squint. He grabs a washcloth from the cabinet and runs it under warm water, wringing it out while he looks at himself in the mirror.
He looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, the exhaustion living in his bones written all over his face. In the set of his jaw, the droop of his shoulders, the way his eyes don’t quite focus right. But some of the weight is gone. Some of the tension. The thing that had been wound tight in his chest has loosened, unspooled, given him room to breathe.
Jack wrings out the washcloth and heads back to the bedroom, greeted by your unmoving body, still on your side, his t-shirt bunched around your ribs, eyes closed. Jack can see the shine of his cum on your inner thighs, the mess he's made of you, the evidence of what he’s done, what you’ve let him do.
"Sweetheart." He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand on your hip, gentle pressure to let you know he’s there. "Baby, I need to clean you up."
You make a sound of protest, not opening your eyes. A whine that sounds like ‘no’ but might just be a general complaint about being conscious.
Jack eases you onto your back anyway, gentle despite your mumbled complaints. Your legs fall open without resistance, your pussy puffy and swollen from his cock, from being fucked into submission, his cum leaking out in white streaks. Obscene in the lamplight, filthy in a way that makes him want to take a picture even though he never would, not without you having a say in it.
The washcloth is warm when he presses it between your legs. You flinch slightly at the contact, but Jack keeps his touch gentle, wiping away the mess, careful not to press too hard on your abused clit, taking his time.
When you're clean, he tosses the washcloth toward the hamper, and misses by a feet. His body doesn't care enough to get up and fix it.
Instead, he pulls your shirt down, covering you, making you decent enough for sleep. His hand finds your cheek, caressing gently, soft taps that has you mumbling. "Need you to wake up for a minute, baby."
A petulant sound, the softest of whines leave you, makes him smile despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Your eyes crack open just slightly, unfocused and glassy.
"Drink some water for me, will you?"
Your head lolls against his shoulder, when he helps you sit up. Jack has to wrap an arm around you to keep you upright. With his free hand, he reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand. A habit from residency that stuck, always there, always full. Holding it to your lips, "drink."
You try to obey, but push the bottle away after a few sips. Jack makes you take three more before he lets you stop, before he relents and lets you have your way.
"Good girl." He sets the water aside and eases you back down onto the pillows. You're already half-asleep again, curling onto your side, reaching for him with clumsy hands, grabbing at air until he gives you what you want.
He pulls the blanket up over both of you, sliding in behind, wrapping his arm around your waist, your back to his chest. The position mirrors how he'd found you, how he'd slipped inside you while you slept.
Over your stomach, your hands find his, fingers tangling together, warmth seeping into his skin. "Love you," you mumble. The words are barely audible, slurred with sleep, might not even be intentional.
Jack presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Love you too, baby. Go back to sleep."
Your breathing evens out, pulled back under by satisfaction and the safety of his arms around you, you're already gone.
Jack listens to the rhythm of it, feeling the rise and fall of your chest under his arm. His own exhaustion is creeping back now, settling heavy over him, dragging him toward sleep.
He tightens his arm around you and lets his eyes close. He's here. Home. Wrapped around you in the dark, your warmth seeping into his bones, chasing away the cold of the ER, the smell of your shampoo replacing the antiseptic and blood clinging to him all night, and everything else he’s trying to forget.
Sleep takes him under in minutes.
SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST
TAGLIST. @buckyscaptain @pascalsryissa @squishyfruitloop @nebulastarr @thatgreenlight + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST
oh I loved this - it was so hot and emotional and beautifully written.
He needs to be inside you. Needs it like he needs air. Inside the heat and mindless comfort that your body gives him when it’s wrapped around his, when he can stop thinking about everything else and just feel something good, feel you.
ugh Jack!! poor baby! I love this.
"Drink some water for me, will you?"
YES he is so the boyfriend who makes you drink water hahaha
As excited as I am to write the final chapters of Healed, Single Mom x Austin Joel has taken over my brain. So, a peek at what I've dubbed Golden Rod Lane. It's a no outbreak, very yearny and sweet slowburn. Protective Joel, Dad Joel, Yearning Joel, Shy Joel... all my favorite types of Joel.
"I think our new neighbors are here.”
“Oh yeah?” Joel asks, slinging his tool belt into the back of the truck.
The front door of what once was the Marley’s house opens. You step out, your hand holding the small hand of a smiling little boy whose mouth is moving a mile a minute. Joel blinks, a bit awestruck at the sight of you.
Tommy lowly whistles. “She’s cute as hell,” he whispers to him.
Joel can only nod.
“Go ahead, introduce yourself, or I’m gonna go over ‘n introduce myself.”
Joel now shakes his head. “Gotta… Sarah’s gotta get to school now.”
He slams the tailgate shut, quickly stepping to the passenger’s side.
“He’s so cute,” Sarah notes. “Maybe she needs a babysitter?”
“Maybe,” Joel says, sliding into the truck.
IDK when it will be out... I want a few chapters done, if not the whole thing, and I want Healed finished before I post any new type of series.
