Summary: Joel's been using you all day. Slow, deep, possessive. Until your body's trembling and your voice raw from begging. But when tommy walks in fresh off patrol and finds you wrecked and open, Joel decides to let him have a taste. Just once. Just to show him what he's been keeping to himself.
Content warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+). Threesome, power dynamics, voyeurism/exhibitionism, oral sex (fem!receiving), overstimulation, praise kink, possessiveness, slight degration, use of pet names ('good girl', 'sweet girl'), pussy pronouns, multiple orgasms, creampiesss, pervy!Joel, soft!tommy
Word count: 800
Your legs are still trembling.
Joel's been on you all day, dragging you to bed after breakfast, bending you over the counter after lunch, fucking you slow and deep until you were babbling his name like a prayer.
Now the sun's low, your thighs are sticky, your lips swollen and your whole body's boneless against the mattress.
"Can't take anymore," you whimper, breathing hard, legs slightly parted as Joel runs a heavy hand over your thigh. He hums, leaning back in the chair beside the bed, fully dressed expect for his belt undone and cock out, already thick in His hand.
"That ain't not true, baby. I know that pussy. She'll take more."
You whine softly, flushed and soaked, your whole body twitching when his thumb brhshes your inner thigh.
Then the front door opens and slams shut.
Boots. Footsteps. And then-
"Joel? You home?"
Tommy.
You try to close your legs but Joel grips your knee and spreads them wider. "Let him see," he drawls. "He's earned it." Your heart pounds as tommy appears in the bedroom doorway, face streaked with dirt and sweat from patrol.
He freezes when he sees you. Spread, open, flushed, slick and aching, while Joel strokes his cock slow beside you.
"Jesus Christ..." Tommy mutters, eyes wide.
Joel just chuckles, looking between you and his younger brother. "Shes been a mess all day," he says casually. "Cried on my cock twice already. Thought maybe you'd like a taste." Your breath catches, the hungry in Tommy's eyes is obvious.
You shiver as he steps closer, the heat of his body making your thighs twitch. "You sure?" Tommy asks, voice rough. "You want me to-"
"Shes alrwsy soaked," Joel cuts in, not even looking at you as he fists himself slowly. "Can't stop drippin'. Go on. Take your time with her." You meet Tommy's gaze, chest rising and falling.
Tommy kneels at the edge of the bed, his big hands curling under your thighs as he pulls you gently toward him. "Sweet girl," he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. "Look at you.." he noses along your folds, inhaling deeply before dropping his tongue up your slit.
You cry out, legs jerking, already too sensitive but tommy groans like he's starved, like you're the only thing he's ever wanted.
He takes his time. Tongue slow and wide. Lips gentle. Hands stroking your hips like you're something precious. Bjs mouth is soft, worshipful. Nothing like Joel's rough, greedy rhythm. And get, it makes you shake.
"Shes already twitchin'," Joel says low, his voice heavy with arousal as he watches from the chair. "You ain't even gotten started yet."
Tommy groans against you, lapping deeper. "She tastes so fuckin' sweet," he says, mouth shining. "Can't believe you been keepin' this to yourself." Joel chuckles, lazily stroking his cock as he leans back. "You think I'm gonna share often?" He mutters. "You better enjoy it while it lasts." Tommy does. He feasts on you, slow at first, gentle flicks of his tongue then deeper, firmer strokes as you writhe beneath him. Your hands curl in the sheets. Your body arches. You moan until your throat's raw.
Joel jerks himself slowly, eyes never leaving your soaked pussy and Tommy's mouth working between your legs.
"Fuckin' hell,' he rasps. "Look at you. One little tongue and you're already losin' it. Can barely speak."
"Joel," you cry, breathless. "I- I can't-"
"Yes, you can," he growls. "You'll come fo him, and then you'll come again for me."
Tommy hooks his arms under your thighs, pulling you deeper against his mouth and moans low as your back arches and your hips buck.
His tongue dosent stop, not even when you start sobbing, not even when your thighs clamp around his head.
He holds you don't gently and keeps eating you. Joel watches with a darkz hungry gaze, his cock twitching in his hand. "That's it," he groans. "That's my good girl."
You shatter, again and again, the pleasure rolling through it. He dosent come up until your hips are shaking and you're whimpering from the intensity. "Could stay here all night," tommy pants, resting his cheek against your thigh.
Joel grins. "Go ahead."
And Tommy does,
Over and over.
You lose track of how many times you come, three? Four? More? Your voice is gone. Your thighs ache. Your pussy's sore and soaked and glistening under the low light. Joel stands finally, fjsting his cock as he comes closer. "Move over," he growls to tommy. "I wanna come on that pretty little pussy."
Tommy pulls back, lips swollen, face wet, watching with hooded eyes as Joel strokes himself fast, staring straight at your wrecked body. He grips your thigh, moaning loud as he spills himself across your slit, thick white streaks painting your skin.
"Fuck, fuck- look at her," he growls, his body shaking. "So fuckin' good. Made for this."
You're trembling, lips parted, eyes dazed.
Tommy leans over toy and brushes your hair back gently. "You okay, baby?" You nod faintly, still whimpering as Joel lets go of her leg.
"Think she had enough for now, get some sleep," he said as he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on her forehead before covering her under the covers.
Caged - The Wedding Night || THOMAS SHELBY X READER || Part 01
Outline: Your father sold you to the head of the Peaky Blinders to pay off his debts. Now you're stuck with the most notorious mobster in Birmingham. Is he as bad as he seems?
Word Count: 1,660
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dark themes, multi-part
Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03 | Part 04 | Part 05
You stood in the foyer of the mansion, feeling dwarfed by it’s sheer size. You shouldn’t feel so out of place, after all, this was your home now. Wasn’t it? You were married to the man who owned it, so it was yours.
‘Are you coming in or are you gonna stand there gawking all night?’ The male voice brought you back to reality, and you turned, your gaze barely making out the figure in the shadows. His face was suddenly lit up when he flicked the lighter on, lighting the cigarette that was hanging from his lips. Thomas Shelby, your new husband. You wrinkled your nose; you hated the smell of smoke. Your father has always smoked in his office, but the smell seemed to permeate the walls of your home. You old home, you suppose. It was one of those office meetings that had gotten you into all of this mess.
Your father was a betting man; you always knew that. He never got himself into too much debt and somehow managed to wrangle his way out of it. Time and time again. Until now. Until he got into debt with the Peaky Blinders. A debt he couldn’t wrangle his way out of. And what else was the poor man supposed to do except sell his daughter into a marriage with a man who was more than a decade older than her?
You took a breath, waiting to feel the anger, the resentment. But nothing came; it was probably something to do with those pills. You stepped further into the mansion, clutching the tiny pearl purse as you moved.
‘This way.’ His voice was rough, turning away from you and leading you up the stairs. As you walked, your fathers words echoed in the back of your head.
‘Speak your legs for him, darling. Whatever he wants. Just give it to him. These will help. That’s when he shoved the pills into your purse, promising you that whatever happened on your wedding night would be a lot better with those. He had forced one down your throat before the ceremony. It had made you feel lightheaded, floaty, like you were drunk without having to down the whole bottle of vodka. But now the pill was beginning to wear off and, as much as you didn’t want to, you thought it might be a good idea to take another.
You wondered if they were the same pills he used to force mother to take, to keep her quiet and compliant. you tried not to remember her that way. You tried desperately to remember the bubbly personality she used to have, the one that lit up the room. That one that your father seemed to want to quell. Prehaps that’s why he kept you locked away in the country house, afraid that you’d become more like your mother, until he tried to dose you up too.
So wrapped up in your own thoughts, you didn’t realise you, Mr. Shelby, had stopped until you crashed into him, stumbling backwards. You looked up at him with wide eyes, the cigarette still hung from his lips, but his and was around your wrist, steadying you.
‘I-I’m so sorry, Mr Shelby-’ You mumbled, dropping your eyes to the ground.
‘There is no need for that, love,’ he interrupted your ramblings, his fingers loosening around your wrist when he was sure you were steady.
Even his casual use of the word ‘love’ seemed to send heat to your cheeks. Besides your father, you had never heard anyone call you that. He stared down at you for a moment before turning and pushing open the large double doors.
‘This is where you’ll say.’ he stepped to the side, giving you the space to walk into your new room. Your new cage.
The room was large, much to spacious to be just a bedroom. A large four-poster bed was against one wall, with silk canopies hanging from each corner. Each of the columns was intricately carved from oak wood, with delicate flowers and vines spiralling. The rest of the furniture matched it perfectly. The wardrobe, the vanity, even the chaise longue and coffee table in the middle of the room, were perfectly matched. There was a door on the other side of the room, one you suspected might be a bathroom.
‘Take a seat.’ he ordered, gesturing to the bed. You suppressed a shudder. This was it. You knew you should have slipped another pill before you got out of the car.
‘You can stop shaking, love.’ he chuckled, stepped forward. He took the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out in the crystal ashtray that was on the bedside table. Already there and waiting, like he knew he’d be here eventually.
‘Hand them over.’ he held out his hand to you. You stared down at it. What was he expecting? Did he have some sick and twisted desire to make you hand pieces of yourself over to him? Upon seeing your wide and confused eyes, he sighed.
‘The pills.’ he explained. Your cheeks burned as your gaze dropped to the purse in your lap.
With shaky hands, you clipped it open, the small paper packet with the pills in tucked neatly into the inner pocket. You pulled it out and placed the paper into his palm, not daring to look him in the eye. You didn’t want to know if he was mad, if he was furious. You squeezed your eyes shut as you prepared for the blow. But it never came.
Instead, you heard his footsteps cross the room, fading away as he entered the bathroom, followed by the sound of flushing a few seconds later. You kept your head down when you heard him coming back, still expecting the first hit. The slap. Some kind of punishment for hiding things from him. From your husband. you almost jumped out of your skin when you felt both of his hands on your shoulders.
‘Look at me.’ he ordered, but this time, he voice was softer, almost calming. You still didn’t move, your body frozen with fear. You tensed when one hand left your shoulder, you forced yourself not to flinch.
Flinching will make it worse.
You told yourself. What you didn’t expect was his fingers under your chin, gently lifting it to face him. You stared into his eyes. A vibrant blue that you could get lost in so easily. His face was inches from yours. Up this close, you had to admit, he was handsome.
‘I’ll not ‘ave you taking anymore of those, you understand me?’ he tone tried to carry anger, but you could hear something beneath it. Worry. ‘No drugs. Who even gave you those anyway? One of my men?’ he asked. You quickly shook your head.
‘M-My father.’ you finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. Mr Shelby stared at you, his eyes widening slightly.
‘Why would he give you those?’ he asked. You took a breath, unsure what to tell him. A lie he would see straight through, but the truth seemed so much worse.
‘He told me too,’ you uttered, hoping he wouldn’t press you for more.
‘You just take anything he tells you, too?’ he scoffed.
Now the pills’ effects had worn off, and you had no more, you could feel the anger bubbling inside you. He had no idea. He didn’t know you. Didn’t know your life, and yet he stood there and judged you? You bit your tongue, knowing that if you spoke now, it would come with a sharp tone, one that would most likely get you beaten.
Mr Shelby sighed, straightening back into a stand and rubbing his hand over his face.
‘No more drugs. You got it?’ he looked down at you, not waiting for an answer before he continued speaking. ‘No more listening to that father of yours. You’re my wife now, you listen to me.’ You nodded meekly, still trying to come to terms with being someone’s wife.
‘I ain’t gonna touch you,’ he added, which made your head snap up, your eyes locking on his as silent relief washed over you.
‘I’m not that kind of man.’ he continued, ‘You’ll not be touched without consent. Outside this room, however, you are my wife. Legally, publicly and everything else. You’ll travel with me when asked and attend whatever functions I request,’ he laid out the new rules of your life, but you could only seem to focus on one.
You’ll not be touched without consent
Just the simple words pulled all the tension from your body. You had been passed from one cage to another, and you had no idea whether it was better or worse. But at this very moment, it was better.
‘You’ll not hide yourself away in this room either. You’ll eat with me, three meals a day, and there is a library and a sitting room. Whatever your interests are, you’ll find them here,’
There was a silence between you, it hung in the air until you realised he was waiting for you to speak.
‘Thank you, Mr. Shelby.’
‘I’m your husband, not your employer. Call me by my name.’
‘Thank you, Tommy.’ you repeated, using the name you had heard his brothers call him. His lips quirked into a half smile, and he bent at the waist to lift your chin once more, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
‘Get some rest, Mrs. Shelby.’ he whispered against your skin. He lingered for a moment longer before pulling away and turning on his heel, exiting quickly and shutting the door behind him.
One cage to another. Who know’s if this cage was any better then your previous one?
☕ If you enjoyed this, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
ft: best friend! tommy miller x reader | no outbreak au wc: 3,8k
incl: 18+ mdni, masturbation, voyeurism, fingering, oral f receiving, p in v, safe sex, banter, teasing, praise, tommy being an absolute hunk of a man, not spec but all my readers + tommy have a slight age gap, dialogue heavy
summary: tommy has always had the worst timing. and you’ve always been bad at taking care of yourself. tommy teases you until you admit the truth: you haven’t had the big o. he’s outraged— you’re gonna get one today.
note: based off of this request. best friend tommy is my favorite tommy, you guys. literally have sooo many unpublished works around that whole concept. this one has a special place in my heart, thank you honey bun. i hope i did your request justice ♡
Your phone is still facedown on the nightstand, the little “do not disturb” moon winking like it’s in on the joke. The bedroom smells like your lotion and the warm, sweet bite of leftover soy sauce from the carton you never put away. You were right there—the kind of edge where your calves tremble and your breathing goes thin and mean—when the knock came.
“Hold on,” you snap, breathless, a little wild. You yank the first T-shirt you can find over your head and tug on cotton shorts that don’t bother hiding the damp patch you’ve been working into them.
You fling open the door with a bite. “What.”
Tommy stands there with a hand braced overhead like he’s been leaning on your doorframe for a hundred years. Dark henley, sun-brown skin, hair curled a little from the heat. That crooked smile that never learned manners.
“Well, hey to you too, sunshine.” His gaze sweeps your flushed face, your bare legs. “I offend ya in your dreams again or is this a daytime thing?”
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Come in before a neighbor sees you staring.”
“Me? I’m not the one answerin’ the door lookin’ like a fire alarm,” he says, stepping past you. He smells like motor oil and cedar. He beelines for the fridge like it’s his place, finds the leftover Chinese, and pops the lid with a plastic fork he digs out of your junk drawer. “Missed lunch,” he mumbles, already eating cold sesame chicken like it’s the cure to everything.
You kick the door shut, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ache. You stomp after him just to have something to do with your legs that isn’t clenching them together.
“What’s up with you?” he asks, around a mouthful. He eyes your pink cheeks, the sheen at your temple. His mouth quirks. “You got a… guest, sweetheart?”
“No, Tommy. I don’t.”
“Mm.” He chews, thoughtful. His gaze lingers on your mouth, then drops—one beat too low. “You… busy when I knocked?”
You stare at him like your face can kill. It can’t. He only grins wider.
“Gotta ask, ‘cause you’re standin’ there like I cut the wire on somethin’ important.”
You throw a hand up. “Can you not.”
He leans hip to counter, tapping the fork on the carton lid. “Oh, I can. Question is—were you?”
You glare. Silence stretches. His eyes light, slow and wicked.
“Oh, you were.” He laughs, low. “Well hell. Me and my bad timing.”
“Tommy,” you warn.
“I’ll be real quick,” he promises, tipping the carton to shovel in another bite like he’s trying to get out of your hair fast. Except then his eyes catch the way your thighs press together. The way you sway where you stand. His brow lifts. “Unless you want me to keep you from it. Keepin’ you from sin might be good for my karma.”
“Your karma’s a lost cause.”
“True.” He sets the carton down. “Where’s the emergency? Bedroom? Couch? Shower?” He looks at you, head tipping. “You doin’ the shower thing? People make a lotta promises about that one—it’s overrated.”
You sputter. “I’m not discussing my—my process with you.”
“Well, you ain’t gotta,” he says easily, pushing off the counter and wandering a few steps closer. “But since you look about ready to climb the wall, I could at least heat your leftovers for ya and get gone.”
“I was fine,” you insist, and even you hear the lie. “I was—God, forget it.”
He watches you for one long breath, then hums. “Call one of your little boyfriends, then.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those boys you go dancin’ with and then pretend aren’t starin’ at your ass the whole night.” He gestures vaguely. “They can come over, pick up where you left off.”
You scoff, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. No.”
“Mm?” He studies you like you’re a math problem. “Shy all of a sudden?”
“They never—” You bite it off, but the dam’s already cracked. Frustration leaks through, hot and humiliating. “They don’t… it doesn’t happen with them, okay?”
He frowns. “Doesn’t what happen?”
You give him a look like he’s being willfully dense. “It.”
The slow shock that breaks over his face would be funny if you weren’t vibrating with need. He sets the fork down, completely forgetting the food. “Hold up. You’re tellin’ me… not a one of those little bastards has ever made you cum?”
Heat crashes into your cheeks. “Tommy,” you hiss.
“No, I’m tryna understand.” His hands go out. “Not one?”
You throw your hands. “No! Okay? Happy? Can you go now?”
He stares at you like it’s a personal affront. “That’s—now, that’s a sin I can’t stand for.” He shakes his head, jaw tight with something that looks suspiciously like anger. “What are they doin’ down there, a guided tour of nothin’?”
“Jesus.”
“Nah, I’d be sayin’ Jesus too if I—” He cuts himself off, eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll let you take care of yourself. Clearly you were doin’ a better job than the roster.”
He turns toward the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel. You don’t think. Your hand closes around his wrist.
“I can’t either,” you blurt, soft, furious with it. “Half the time I can’t. I get—close—and then… I don’t know, I lose it.”
He goes still. Slowly, he looks down at your fingers around his pulse, then up to your eyes. Something changes in his face, the playful shine sinking to something intent and hot.
“Ain’t no way,” he says quietly.
You swallow.
He takes a slow breath, then nods to the couch. “Show me what you were doin’.”
“I was a hell of a lotta things,” he drawls. “Teacher’s one of ‘em. C’mon. Lemme help.”
You should tell him to leave. You should die of embarrassment. Instead, you back toward the couch like you’re being coaxed by a wolf. You climb up, sit, then slide down until your shoulders catch the cushions and your hips perch at the edge. Your heart’s beating in your throat.
Tommy drags a dining chair over and flips it, straddling it backward like every bad decision you’ve ever made. He props his chin on his folded arms over the chair back, eyes dark and steady on you. “Attagirl.”
You stare at him.
“Shorts,” he says. “We both know they’re useless right now.”
And because it’s Tommy. Because you’ve known him forever. Because he makes everything so easy and familiar and simple. You listen. Your fingers hook in the waistband before your brain protests. You peel them down and kick them off. The T-shirt sinks to your waist when you spread your knees. Cool air kisses you and your breath hitches.
Tommy’s eyes drop, slow. His swallow is audible. The tips of his ears go pink. “Christ alive.” His voice roughens. “Pretty as I figured.”
“Don’t—” Your voice shakes. “Don’t say things.”
“Oh, I got a lot to say, but you’re the one runnin’ the show.” He nods at your hand. “How were you doin’ it?”
You wet your lips, then slide a palm down your belly. Your fingers find yourself like they always do—press, rub, a little too fast because you’re greedy, because he’s looking and it’s turned your bones to gauze.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Slow it down. You’re chasin’. You ain’t gotta chase it.”
You glare; your hips twitch anyway. “If I slow down it goes away.”
“Not if you keep the rhythm.” He taps his knuckles—one, two, three—an unhurried beat. “Match me. Little circles. Don’t hunt—invite.”
You try. Your breath catches and catches again. He watches the way your stomach flutters.
“Good girl,” he says, almost absent. “Now left a touch. Yeah.” He leans in like he’s squinting at a map. “There it is. That twitch right there. Stay there.”
You whimper.
“Feels like pressure buildin’ behind your navel?” he asks softly. “Little ache?”
You nod too fast. “Yes—fuck—Tommy—”
“Language,” he says, smiling, and you want to murder him until your thighs shake and the smile slides right off his face. His jaw hardens. “Keep your wrist loose, baby. You’re white-knucklin’ it. Relax.”
“I’m trying—”
“Breathe.” He breathes slow, exaggerated, and you match him because you’ll do anything anyone asks if it means you get there. “Better. Now, you can add a finger inside if you want. Just one. Shallow. Curl toward your belly button, not down. Like you’re beckonin’. Two knuckles, not three.”
You do it. The angle is… different. A bright little hook that makes your hips jerk off the cushion. Your voice breaks. “Oh—oh my God—”
“There she is.” His eyes burn. “You feel that? That’s yours. Don’t run from it.”
You want to, because your body always does—clenches, darts away, skitters to the edges. You force yourself to push into it this time, heels braced on the edge of the couch, breath shattering. You’re aware of him in the periphery—big hands wrapped around the chair back so tight his knuckles blanch, chest barely rising because he’s holding his breath like he’s the one about to fall apart.
“Tommy—” It comes out a whine. “I’m—”
“Keep the pace,” he says, voice gone sandpaper. “Don’t get greedy. Let it—yeah, just like that, baby—”
You break with a ragged gasp, spilling over your own fingers, thighs trembling. It feels like heat and weight and a relief so sharp you could cry with it. You ride it through because he doesn’t let you lose it, murmuring, “uh-uh, stay with it, that’s it, that’s my girl,” until your hand finally slows.
You blink up at the ceiling. There are little bursts of light at the edges of your vision. You swallow and lick your lips and realize your fingers are still between your legs, and Tommy Miller is still sitting three feet away watching you like a war is over.
He scrubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, his mouth is a line. “I’m about to be extremely stupid.”
Your laugh is a small, wrecked thing. “Join the club.”
“C’mere,” he says gently, and when you don’t move quick enough he stands, sets the chair aside, and kneels between your knees. He doesn’t touch. He braces his hands on either side of your hips and looks at you the way people look at altars. “Can I?”
All the air leaves you. “Yes.”
He leans in slow, giving you a chance to change your mind, and presses his mouth to your inner thigh first. A kiss. Another. Then his thumb slides to the place you’ve just made tender and he looks up to see the way your lashes flutter.
“Pretty,” he says, so soft you barely hear it. “You’re so pretty.”
“Tommy—”
“I know.” He breathes out. “I’m gonna show you. How this is supposed to feel.”
He doesn’t dive in. He tastes you with small, reverent swipes, learning the shape of what you like. His tongue is unhurried; his hands sure. When you start to pant, he hums like he’s pleased with himself and says, “There you go,” into you, the vibration making you jerk.
“More,” you whisper, and he gives you more like he’s been waiting his whole life to be told what to do. He drags two fingers through your slick and eases one inside while his mouth works you in patient, devastating circles. When he adds the second his knuckles nudge that bright spot again and your back arches.
“Right there,” you gasp.
“Right there,” he echoes, voice breaking against you. “Hold me if you want.”
You fist your hand in his hair and he groans like the sound is pulled out of him, moving his mouth just so. He doesn’t speed up when you start to chase—he keeps you on that same relentless edge until your thighs tremble around his ears.
“Let it happen,” he says into you. “Don’t think. Just take it.”
You fall apart so hard your heels drum against the couch frame. He doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder, half-laughing, half-pleading. “Okay. Okay, okay—God, Tommy—”
He kisses the inside of your knee, then your hipbone, then the soft skin just under your T-shirt. He looks up, pupils blown, mouth wet and wrecked.
“Still with me?”
“Barely.”
“Good.” He stands, and you feel very small and very safe all at once with him towering over you. He thumbs a smear of you off his chin and licks it absently, eyes never leaving your face. “Lesson ain’t over.”
“You—” Your voice is a croak. “You think I’m gonna survive an advanced course?”
He laughs, chest-deep. “You’ll manage.”
He reaches for his belt, then stops. “Condom?”
You blink, hazy, then fumble end table drawer on the side of the sofa open and toss him a foil. He catches it one-handed without looking away and the little flare of competence should not be hot but it is; you feel your stomach drop like an elevator.
He steps out of his boots, pushes his jeans and briefs down, and for a second your brain pulls a hard blue screen. He’s thick, heavy in his palm, the blunt head flushed. He rolls the condom down with practiced ease, then leans over you, one hand braced on the cushion beside your head, the other cupping your jaw. Your eyes say keep going.
He drags the head of his cock through the slick he made of you, slow enough to make you whine, then presses. Your mouth falls open. The stretch is sharp, sweet. He pauses halfway, forearm shaking, eyes squeezed shut.
“You’re so warm,” he says, like a confession. “Jesus, baby.”
“More,” you say, and he huffs a laugh that sounds strangled.
“I’m goin’, sweetheart. I’m goin’.”
He pushes the rest of the way in and it knocks a noise out of you you’ve never heard yourself make. He’s deep, deeper than anyone’s ever felt, and you grab his shoulders without meaning to. He groans, low, into the hinge of your jaw.
“Look at me,” he says, and when you do his face goes soft and hungry all at once. “How’s that?”
“Like—” You struggle. “Like finally.”
He curses under his breath, like that hit him somewhere tender, and draws back. The first thrust is careful, gauging you, but the second rolls hard enough to make the couch creak. You gasp; he watches your mouth like he’s starving.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He finds a pace you can’t name—not fast, but deep and steady, like he’s trying to carve his name somewhere no one will ever erase. One big hand brackets your thigh and folds your knee up, opening you wider. The angle tilts and your breath breaks.
“There,” you say, already wrecked. “Tommy—there.”
“Yeah?” His grin is quick and sinful. He snaps his hips just right and your nails bite his shoulder. “There, baby?”
“Don’t stop.”
“Not plannin’ to.” His voice goes rough, the edges fraying. “You feel me? Huh? Doin’ alright?”
You can only nod. He fucks you like he’s been dying to—like you’re both getting away with something and also like there’s nowhere safer than this. The rhythm pulls you higher; that curl of heat builds again and your eyes sting with it.
“Relax into it,” he says, almost coaxing. “Don’t run. Let me—yeah, just like that.” He grits his teeth, control fraying when you squeeze around him. “Goddamn, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.”
“Don’t—” Your voice shivers. “Please, baby, please don’t stop.”
He laughs, breathless. “Bossy.” He cups the back of your head and kisses you, finally, nothing polite about it—his mouth hot and sure, claiming. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him, and he swears, deep, like you just took his knees out. “You sound so sweet when you call me baby,” he mutters against your lips. “That what i am now? Baby? Ruined me for bein’ your friend. You know that?”
“Been ruined,” you pant. “Keep—oh God, keep going—”
He reaches down between you, finds your clit with two slick fingers, and rubs the same exact rhythm he taught you earlier, like he’s memorized it. Your whole body lights up. You clutch the back of his neck and his thrusts turn messy, desperate.
“There she is,” he grits out. “C’mon. Show me. I want it.”
“Tommy—”
“Look at me,” he says, voice gone ragged. “I want your eyes on me when you cum.”
You do it because you always do what he tells you when he uses that voice, and the second your gaze locks with his the wave hits. You shatter around him with a broken cry, clamping down so hard he gasps your name like a prayer. He keeps moving, keeps rubbing you through it like he can’t stand the thought of you not getting every drop.
“Fuck,” he chokes. “God, baby—fuck.”
He folds over you as he drives deep and goes still, groaning into your neck as he comes, the heat of it pulsing even through the thin latex. The weight of him is everything—sweat-damp and solid and Tommy.
For a long minute, there’s only breath. His, yours. The tick of your wall clock. The way his thumb rubs your jaw like he forgot how to stop touching you.
“Tell me that was good,” he says finally, words muffled in your throat like he’s afraid to hear otherwise.
“Tommy.” You smile against his hair. “Good is rude. That was—” You breathe out, dizzy. “—that was missionary-position fireworks. That was baptism. That was illegal in some counties.”
He laughs, a burst that shakes his chest against yours. He tilts up and kisses your mouth again, softer. “Had to know. Had to show you.”
“You made your point,” you say, drowsy and warm. “Multiple times.”
“Damn right I did.”
He eases out of you with care, ties off the condom, and disappears to your bathroom for all of thirty seconds. He comes back with a warm washcloth like he’s done this in your space a hundred times, even though he hasn’t, and cleans you slow, almost reverent. You watch him with something like awe tugging at the edges of you.
“You okay?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes.
“Yeah.” You nudge him with your foot. “Hungry.”
He grins. “I can fix that too.” He helps you sit up and tugs your T-shirt back into place like you’re something precious he’s keeping warm. Then he pads to the kitchen in his socks and you admire the view as shamefully as you deserve to.
He reheats the sesame chicken and brings the carton and a fork back like it’s a prize. You take a bite and groan indecently.
“Careful,” he says, eyes dancing. “I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman for once.”
“First time for everything,” you tease, and he puts a hand over his heart like you shot him.
“Uncalled for,” he says, then sobers, mouth curving as he studies your face. He drags his knuckles under your chin, gentle. “Gotta say… I don’t like thinkin’ about those boys not… takin’ care of you.”
You tilt your head. “Jealous?”
“Pissed,” he admits, unabashed. “And yeah, maybe a bit possessive, which ain’t my right.” He shrugs one shoulder, eyes going a little shy in a way that doesn’t happen to Tommy very often. “You deserve to feel good. Every damn time.”
You stare at him. The room feels suddenly tender, the air thinner.
“You made me feel—” You break off, fighting a lump in your throat you didn’t invite to this party. “Like I could just let it happen.”
“Because you can.” He taps the tip of your nose with his fingertip like he’s the only person allowed to do something that sweet to you. “Because it’s yours. I just… helped you find it.”
You set the food aside and slide your hands up his chest. “Teacher,” you murmur, and he groans like the word does something to him. “You said lesson wasn’t over.”
His grin returns, slow and sure. “It ain’t.”
You crawl into his lap like it’s the easiest thing in the world and settle on his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. His hands come to your waist automatically, thumbs tracing the dip there.
“Second module,” you whisper, leaning in so your mouth skims his ear. “You show me how many times you can make me forget my name before I bite you.”
He laughs, husky. “Baby, I’m gonna have you forgettin’ your address.”
“Big talk,” you say, but the shiver that runs through you gives you away.
He stands with you clinging koala-style, mouth on yours. “Bedroom,” he says, already walking. “And for the record?”
“What.”
“You call any of those little boys again,” he murmurs, all grin and teeth, “they’re gonna have to submit a request in writin’ and I’ll get back to ‘em in seven to ten business days.”
You snort against his mouth. “Possessive.”
“Teacher’s prerogative,” he says, and then he’s laying you down, the afternoon light painting his shoulders gold, and you’re opening for him like it’s always been this easy.
𓍯𓂃𓏧♡
Later—after he’s wrung you out twice more by sticking to his own rules (“keep the rhythm,” “don’t run,” “breathe, baby, I got you”) and you’ve repaid the favor with your mouth until he cussed and laughed and said he was gonna have to build you a trophy shelf—he sprawls on his back with one arm flung over his face, the other hand idly combing through your hair where you’re draped across his chest.
“You know this changes stuff,” you say into his sternum, voice small in the big quiet.
“Yeah,” he says. “Kinda figured that when I had your knee by my ear.”
You bite his skin to punish his grin. He flinches, delighted, and drags that hand from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up so he can see you.
“We can take it slow,” he says. “We can call it a very hands-on study group and see where it goes. Or we can—” He exhales, smile softening. “—we can just keep makin’ sure you feel good for a while and not call it anything yet.”
You think about his mouth on you, his hands steady, the way he said my girl when you came like he didn’t mean to.
“Study group,” you say, trying for lightness and failing because your voice wobbles. “You bring the notes. I’ll bring… snacks.”
“Already did,” he says, nodding at the abandoned carton on the coffee table.
You kiss his chest, grinning. “I meant me.”
He groans like you actually did kill him. “I swear to God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Worth it?”
He looks down, all play gone from his face for a heartbeat. “Yeah, baby,” he says softly. “Worth it.”
He pulls you up and kisses you slow, the kind that rewrites history. And just like that, he’s shown you, patiently and then not, exactly how good it can be—how good he is at figuring out your body—until you’re breathless and bright and ruined for anyone who doesn’t know your rhythm like a favorite song. And just like that, that’s how friendships are ruined.
note ext: ah, this was just a joy to write. you guys can tell.. i love playful tommy so so so bad. ugh— this one gives me nothings gonna hurt you baby vibes. you guys are on fire with these requests omg.
Summary: short thoughts on some of the times when Joel is soft and Tommy is mean.
Masterlist
Is this something? Idk. The return to studying this week has kicked my ass 🥲 more than happy to put together an oposite version if its wanted!! Anyhow! Enjoy<3
Warnings?- smut, dirty talk, general pornnnn
Thinking about the juxtaposition between a softer Joel and a meaner Tommy. Walk with me🙂↕️
Soft!JoelMiller who has a thumb to your clit to ease the stretch, drawling praise like "thats it.. Easy does it baby" "there you go.. Jus' breathe alright, i gotcha"
Mean!TommyMiller who instead lets you relish in the sting. Who smiles pittifully when your eyes grow glassy and you whine, tutting and cooing. "Shhh, shhh, shh, no tears, baby" "awh honey, s' alright, you can take it"
Soft!JoelMiller who's work-worn palms cup and kneed soft flesh. It doesn't matter where, or even when. It could be your thigh as he sits beside you or the plush swells of your breasts as he works you up, its never harshly done.
Mean!TommyMiller whos hands always find you with intent; hot, possessive and wanting. Digits digging into your hips, swat down on your ass, grip at the flesh of your tits.
Soft!JoelMiller who's always checking in on what you want, on making sure nothing feels wrong. "S'it feel good like this? Yeah? Dont need more?" "legs gettin achy babygirl? Need a switch up?"
Mean!TommyMiller who instead follows your moans and desperate grasps. Who keeps pace when you react and slows when you dont, shifting your body however he feels fit. "Awh look at them tears.. S' good aint it honey" "ah ah, you want more you gotta tell me, keep makin them pretty sounds"
Soft!JoelMiller who eats you out like a man starved, who derives any and all of his pleasure from being the giver of your pleasure. Whos favorite place is suckling and lapping between your thighs, wether hes crouched or your on his face. He just loves it
Mean!TommyMiller who instead chooses to drop or spit globs of saliva onto your clit, who works it in with his thumb or the head of his cock. Who, when he eats you out, does so with the intent to make you shake- make you sob and tug harshly at his dark curls while his hands hold your thighs open; swatting them if you try to close up.
Soft!JoelMiller who asks, near pleads, to fill you up. Even if you'd already agreed prior, he needs to hear you say it. Needs to see that look in your eye and feel the squeeze of your cunt.
Mean!TommyMiller who cums whete he wants, how he wants. Who chuckles at your pout when he pulls out. Who jerks his cock off against your swollen pussy and mocks when you beg. Who'll side between your tits and fuck his way into giving you a pearl necklace.
MARRIED TO THOMAS SHELBY is never simple, even when he tries to make it soft. The world doesn’t get quieter just because he loves you—but he does change in the spaces where it matters.
Thomas Shelby isn’t the kind of man who is openly tender in front of others. He doesn’t perform affection. But with you, it slips through in ways people only notice if they’re paying very close attention.
⸻
How he kisses you
He doesn’t kiss you casually.
Most of the time, it’s controlled at first—like he’s holding something back even as he leans in. A hand at your jaw, thumb brushing once like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re real and here.
Then he softens.
When it’s just the two of you, his kisses lose that sharp edge he gives the world. They become slower, heavier with meaning rather than urgency. He’ll pause against your lips like he’s thinking about staying there longer than he planned. Like he forgets, for a second, whatever war is happening outside the room.
Sometimes he kisses you like he’s apologising without words. Other times like he’s trying to memorise you.
And when he’s exhausted—truly worn down—he’ll press one quiet kiss to your forehead instead of your mouth. That’s when it means the most.
⸻
How he is soft for you (in his way)
He doesn’t suddenly become a different man. He just lets you see what’s underneath the armour.
He listens when you talk, even when he’s pretending to read papers or pour a drink. He remembers small things you mention once—things he acts like he didn’t store away, but did.
If you’re cold, he’ll wordlessly drape his coat over your shoulders. If you’re stressed, he won’t ask questions at first—he’ll just sit near you until you start speaking on your own.
And when he does speak gently to you, it’s almost always when no one else is around. His voice drops lower, less sharp, like he’s saving a version of himself that doesn’t exist anywhere else.
He doesn’t say “I miss you” often.
Instead, he’ll just appear in the doorway where you are.
⸻
How he spoils you (Thomas Shelby style)
He doesn’t spoil you in loud, showy ways. It’s controlled. Intentional. Almost like he’s correcting a world that has been unkind to you.
~ If you admire something once—a dress in a window, a piece of fabric, a perfume—it has a way of quietly appearing later without explanation.
~ Your home becomes warmer over time. Better heating. Better food brought in. Better protection around the house, even if you don’t ask for it.
~ He has people “look into things” for you, but never tells you unless it matters. He likes making life easier without making you feel dependent.
And if anyone treats you with disrespect?
You never even have to ask.
It’s already handled.
Not violently in front of you—he’s too controlled for that—but decisively, quietly, like removing a problem from existence.
⸻
In private moments
The real softness is in the stillness.
Late at night, when the weight of his mind won’t let him sleep, he’ll come find you. He doesn’t always talk. Sometimes he just lies beside you fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while your hand eventually finds his.
And he doesn’t pull away.
That’s the thing about Thomas Shelby—he trusts very few things in the world.
But when he’s married to you, one of them becomes your hand in his.
notes: can be read as a standalone, long so read with time ♡
You hear it.
Hear him say how you’re wrong this time.
For a second, you freeze. Because it feels the same. Like standing on his porch with your heart in your throat, waiting for him to open the door. Waiting to see if he’d let you in…or leave you standing there.
You want him to be wrong. But he’s not moving. Not stopping you. Just like before. Just like always.
Your grip tightens around the handle of his bedroom door. Your breath catches in your throat as you pull it open. It sticks for a second before giving, the old wood dragging against the frame with a dull scrape. Cold air from the hallway slips in immediately, brushing over your skin.
“I fell for it twice,” you say, quietly. “Twice now I let myself believe there was something—some kind of future for us.” You try to keep your voice steady, but it slips anyway. “I wish…” you swallow. “I wish you never let me inside when I showed up with those stupid brownies. You should’ve just shut the door.”
You walk out. The door shuts behind you, loud enough to make you flinch as it slams into place. You leave him standing there in his childhood bedroom. The same way he left you asleep in his one ten years ago. Only this time, you’re awake for it. This time, you’re the one choosing to leave.
You don’t turn around. Adjust the strap of the bag on your shoulder. and keep going.
A sharp pain stings in your chest. Your breath hitches, but you keep walking anyway.
The wooden stairs creak under your weight. You take one at a time, careful not to slip.
You reach the sitting room, drowned in yellow-grey light from the sunrise, amber-shadows reaching in subtly from behind the curtains.
You pass the kitchen with the re-painted cabinets.
Past photos set on drawers of young Tommy and Brendan, before life tried to swallow them whole.
You try to picture him like that. Before everything hardened. Before leaving became easier than staying. Before you knew what it felt like to wake up and find him gone.
Paddy is still asleep. Tommy is still upstairs, right where you left him. And the house feels…almost peaceful like this.
You make it to the front door. Your hand closing around the handle. The cold metal bites into your palm. It almost stings.
You stay there for a moment, grip tightening until it aches.
Everything started with a door. And now it ends with one too. Back then you knocked—and he hesitated, but he let you in anyway. You should’ve known even then. He never knew how to keep anything once it was his.
In another life, you and Tommy could’ve been like Brendan and Tess.
But in this one, it always starts the same—soft, warm, open. And ends with you shivering because he’s no longer holding you.
You push the door open before you can stop yourself.
“Don’t,” he says, somewhere from behind you now.
You freeze.
You don’t know when he moved. But you feel him standing there.
“Don’t go.”
You don’t react.
A draft slips through the open door, brushing over your skin. Tugging at your clothes. Urging you forward. Just one more step. That’s all it would take.
You stare past the threshold; hand still fixed on the handle. You force yourself forward, before you can stop yourself.
The floor creaks heavy with his footsteps. “You ain’t walking out.”
He’s too close now. Close enough you feel his breath at your neck before you hear it—the heat of it against your neck.
You don’t turn. You can’t bring yourself to.
Your name leaves him anyway. The way it always did. Like it’s still his to say. It burns heavy in your chest.
You exhale slowly, eyes closing for a second like it might change something. Fix something.
Then you turn. Not fully, just a glance over your shoulder. Just enough to see his face. Just one last time.
He’s standing closer than you thought. Close enough that there’s nowhere to go but forward.
His shoulder sits wrong without the sling. The stitches along his brow are still fresh, pulling when his jaw tightens. A bruise has started to darken along his cheekbone.
He's pulled on a blue shirt at some point. It clings to him. Stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls when he shifts, like his body doesn’t know how to be still around you. He looks like he could take hit after hit and still not move.
His chest rises unevenly. Every breath forced into place.
His arms hang tense at his sides, muscles drawn tight. His hands flex, once, then still. He caught himself before reaching for you.
His blue eyes don’t leave you. Not even for a second. You feel it. The way they hold you there. Locked on you like if he looks away, you’ll be gone. He doesn’t hide what’s in them now. Not the restraint. Not the way something’s slipping behind them. Not the way he needs you.
You turn your head away again, but you can still feel him. Close enough it presses into your back without touching. Close enough that leaving won’t make you come out unstained. It’ll feel like tearing yourself out of something.
You push the door further open anyway.
“I shouldn’t’ve—” he cuts himself off. He hesitates, jaw tight, then drags a hand over his face.
“Shouldn’t’ve left,” he says, roughly. He looks away for a second. Like even that was too much.
It hurts your chest. Lands all wrong. The words are ten years too late.
“Don’t say that now.” Heat rises behind your eyes before you can shove it down again. “Doesn’t change anything.”
“Yeah,” he says.
Your vision blurs properly. You blink it back. Not here. Not in front of him.
You take another step and push the door open the rest of the way.
Cold air hits your skin. It feels like stepping out of something you won’t get back. And it’s the only way you’ll survive.
Behind you, his control snaps. “I mean I can’t—can’t lose you like that again.”
It almost makes you turn back. Muscle memory. Instinct. The same part of you that used to follow him without thinking.
This time you don’t. You keep walking instead.
And that’s when he moves. Your name tears out of him, and he then he’s there—reaching for you.
His arm slams around your waist, hard. It knocks the breath out of you as he yanks you back mid-step, your footing slipping, your back hitting his chest.
For half a second, his grip falters. Pain catching up to his shoulder. His arm locks around you fully anyways.
You twist, trying to pull free. He doesn’t budge.
“Let go Tommy—” your voice cuts as you fight him.
He only drags you further back against him. Thick muscle and heat holding you exactly where you are. Like he won’t let you leave the way he did. One arm does the work, the other lagging—but still there. Still holding you.
“You left me. You don’t get to—"
“You think I forgot that?” It’s right against your ear. “Doesn’t go away,” he adds. “Not for me either.”
His grip shifts—one hand splayed firm against your waist, the other braced across your stomach. Keeping you exactly where you are. Boxing you in.
“You changed your number,” you say, breath catching, still fighting his hold. “You just…” The words won’t come out right. “Cut me out. Like I didn’t—"
Your voice breaks. “Like I didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”
Like you weren’t the girl who showed up at his door with too much hope in your hands.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He swallows, forces it down.
“You think I don’t know what I did?” his grip tightens. “I do. Every day”
“You don’t know shit,” you snap. “Waking up alone like that.” Your voice slips but you don’t stop. “First thing I saw was your wardrobe empty and you were just…. gone.”
You stop fighting him long enough to look at him. And you wish you hadn’t.
Because he’s not hiding anymore. The distance he keeps, the walls he builds, are gone. It’s all there. Raw, exposed in a way you’ve never seen him. In a way that feels wrong to witness. Something in his eyes you were never meant to see.
You can’t hold his gaze. “You don’t even believe it yourself, do you?” you whisper, “That you’ve changed.”
“Don’t…don’t say that.”
“I’ll always have to carry it,” you say. “So don’t do this…don’t stand here acting like you’ve suddenly figured it out.”
“You think I don’t carry it?”
“God forbid you have to feel a fraction of what I did.” You shake your head. “Just… do me one last favour. Pretend the past two days didn’t happen.”
You wipe your eyes with your sleeve. “Pretend none of it did. Should be easy enough for you.”
Your words hit him, you feel it. The way his body flinches. You’ve cut at parts he keeps buried deep.
“No,” he says. “Not doin’ that.”
He drags in a breath. It scrapes on the way down.
“I’m not—” The words stall in his throat.
“You came back...” His grip on you tightens without him noticing.
“You came back to me. And now you’re standin’ here sayin’ it doesn’t matter?”
“I’m trying not to screw this up,” he continues, voice rougher now.
“That’s what that was this morning. I left ‘cause I—” he cuts himself off. “I left because I know what I do to things that matter.”
You shake your head, tears falling now. “No,” you say, like you can undo it.
“Would’ve ruined you. It’s what I do.” His teeth drag over his bottom lip. “Tried stayin’ away from you even back then,” he says. “Couldn’t.”
His jaw tightens, he’s still annoyed with himself, even now. “When I knew you were it for me—"he exhales hard. “That’s when I left.”
“You realised that… and then decided to leave me?” You struggle against his hold again.
“Thought it was the only call."
“For who?”
“For you.” He huffs, like it tastes bad. “You’re doin’ fine—without me. Didn’t need me for any of it.” His jaw tightens. “I’d’ve dragged you under.”
“Shut up, Tommy,” Your voice breaks but you don’t stop. “You stood there and promised me a future that never existed.”
“Yeah,” his eyes shine, and he looks away before it shows.
“Cause’ you made things better. And I can’t—" he drags a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to keep that.”
“Want you with someone better.” He shakes his head like he already hates what he’s about to say. “Still can’t let you leave now.”
“You actually think I’m staying?” You let out a short, disbelieving huff. “Wait around for you to do it again? Wake up every morning wondering if you’re gone? I can’t live like that.”
He flinches like you hit him. His arms loosen from around you. Not letting go all at once but slipping gradually.
You barely have time to move away before he steps around you, like he’s trying to fix something he can’t anymore. Reach for someone he can’t get to anymore.
And then, he doesn’t make it.
His shoulder gives first. The rest of him follows. His knees hit the floor before he seems to realise what’s happening. He drops in front of you before he can stop it—hands catching at your hips just to stay upright.
“Tommy, what are you doing? Get—"
“Every day,” he mutters. His grip tightens, uneven. “Didn’t matter where I was.”
He drags in a breath. “I loved you.”
He swallows hard. “Every day after I left.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I did,” he breathes. “Still do.”
“Stop.”
His hands slide higher up your hips. “I know I don’t get to ask you.” His hands tighten anyways, fingers digging into your skin there. “But don’t walk away thinkin’ I’d do it again. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
He looks up at you, and it’s worse than before. Every year without you sitting heavy in his face. Nothing held together. Just the knowledge of what it cost to leave—and how he won’t survive it twice.
“If you go…” his jaw tightens. “You ain’t goin’”
“That’s not your decision.”
Your name leaves his lips again. “I’m here now,” he says, “That’s not changin’”
You don’t move. Just look at him. Trying to understand him, this version he’s letting you see.
He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s committing you to memory. And he has a look on his face that almost makes you believe him.
“I needed this years ago, Tommy,” Your voice strains. “It’s too late.”
“Yeah,” he breathes.
“What happens when you think you’re doing the right thing again?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, tight. “But where you are…that’s where I stay.”
Your fingers catch his jaw. You hold onto it firmly. Like you’re trying to see how deep his promises go.
“Don’t ever make choices for me like that," you whisper.
“I won’t,” he says, blue eyes clinging onto yours, too bright up close.
Your fingers stay on his jaw, waiting for him to pull away. He doesn’t. But you feel it anyway, the way something in him fights it. Not to leave, but to not be seen fully. Not by you.
You let go of his face.
The pressure around your heart eases a fraction. Not properly. Enough that the cold doesn’t feel as deep. Just enough that you’re not already halfway out the door.
“We can’t just go back,” you say. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know.” He drags a hand over his face, trying to get a grip on himself.
“Don’t wanna go back either,” he adds, quieter now. “I want something new with you.”
You swallow and look away. Past him. Out through the open door, where cars pass through the quiet suburbs.
This isn’t the yellow house where he first saw you. Where everything started. There’s no porch between you now. No easy distance to cross. Just the absence of what you used to have.
Leaving would still be the safe thing to do. Keep the shield around your heart. But you’ve already felt the absence of what comes after. You’ve already lived like that.
You say nothing for a long time.
When you finally look back at him, he’s pushing himself up, unsteady for a second before he’s there again, right in front of you.
“We can try,” you say. So quiet it almost disappears.
Something in him breaks for a second, barely visibly. Just in the way his hands twitch, like he’s about to reach for you again. Bracing for you to still walk away.
You don’t. Even when your body almost does. Fear pressing in, familiar, telling you to leave.
You choose to stay, even when he couldn’t. And it’s not forgiveness. Not trust. Just the knowledge of what it cost to live without him.
He nods once. His arms tense at his side. Like if he moves too fast you’ll take it back.
Then it hits him. A sharp pain in his shoulder. His breath catches wrong. Sharp through his nose. The cut through his brow pulls tight for a second. He looks away. Trying to push through it.
“Tommy…”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, already pushing past you like that settles it. He doesn’t make it far.
His hands hit the wall just inside the doorway, catching himself. Fingers flex once against the surface.
You follow him in, keeping your distance. You nod towards the couch. “You need to sit down. You never took your painkillers.”
He exhales through his nose, like he’s about to argue. He doesn’t. Just drops onto the couch, a tight wince slipping through before he can stop it. Elbow braced on his knee, hand dragging over the back of his neck.
You turn away from him, already moving.
“You don’t need to get ‘em,” he says.
You ignore it. Upstairs, the box of painkillers is still where you left it.
When you come back down, he hasn’t moved. You set the water and pills in front of him. “Just take them now.” No edge left in your voice. No fight.
He looks at them, and there’s that same pause, like he doesn’t trust himself.
That’s when you realise. “You don’t take pills anymore, do you?”
“Used to take too many.”
“This isn’t that. It’s for your shoulder.”
He doesn’t move. Then he reaches for the water. For the pills. Takes them this time.
You don’t watch him. Try to find something, anything, to keep your hands busy.
You move to the sink. Grab some kitchen roll, pressing it hard to your eyes. He pretends not to see it.
You turn on the tap. Plates from last night stacked in front of you. You start scrubbing, like you can wash the past away with the grease.
He lets you do it for a moment, then you hear the creak of the couch as he pushes himself up. “Stop doin’ Paddy’s dishes.”
He moves towards you, too fast. His shoulder pulls immediately. His body locks for half a second before he forces through it.
“Sit back down,” you say, placing items on the drying rack.
“It’s nothin,’” he mutters. “Brendan did worse. In the cage.”
He’s already moving past you, towards the stove.
You straighten slightly, watching him. “What…are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens a cabinet like he still knows where everything is, grabs a pan with his good arm.
“You need to eat,” he mutters.
“You could barely stand a minute ago.”
“Well… I’m standin,’ ain’t I?”
You look away, hiding an eyeroll before it turns into something else
He sees it you do it, and the corner of his mouth pulls, almost a smile. Then it’s gone. He reaches for the eggs, fumbles one when his shoulder pulls again— catches it before it drops. His jaw twitches but he keeps going.
It looks familiar enough to sting. You used to have mornings like this with him.
You step closer before you can stop yourself. He stills when you reach past him to turn on the stove. “I can do it," you say.
“No. I’m cookin’” he start cracking eggs messily with one-hand. One carton. Then another. Until he has pan full of them sizzling. Twelve for himself and a few for you.
You suppress a smile, a small sniff slipping out before you can stop it, nodding towards them. “You still eat that many?”
He glances up at you, something softer in his face now. “Easy work.”
“Yeah? With one arm? You’ve got like fifty shell pieces in there, Tommy.”
That almost gets you there. A ghost of a laugh in his face before it disappears again.
He cracks another egg one handed, messily, more shell fragments slipping in.
You reach in quietly, fishing them out before they burn.
“Now you got your fingers in the food,” he mumbles, but he’s not complaining. Not really.
When you finish collecting the shells, your fingers catch the edge of the pan—then his hand. You pull your hand back, like you shouldn’t have touched him at all.
He stays still for a fraction longer than he should. Then he exhales through his nose and turns the heat down.
You swallow and step back again. Give him space and let him do it.
The kitchen fills with small sounds—the sizzle of eggs, the scrape of the spatula. Tommy putting toast in the toaster, buttering it for you. Makes you coffee exactly how you drink it.
He sets the plate down in front of you then another for himself.
You sit across him on paddy’s small wooden kitchen table. There’s a book left open near your elbow. You were part of the movie adaption years ago. He notices you looking and moves it away without a word. Like it doesn’t belong to him.
He sits but waits until you start eating to pick up his fork.
“You wrapped a film in Atlantic City then?” he asks.
You take another bite. “Yeah, character’s a psychopath.”
He huffs in response.
He eats slower than he used to. More careful. His body won’t let him forget what he went through during the tournament. It’s catching up with him even more.
“Tommy…you should’ve spent the night in the hospital.”
“Eat,” he mutters.
You glance at the food, take another bite. When you look back up, he’s already watching you. You look away first.
He doesn’t.
After his plate is cleared, he waits for you to finish before pushing up from the chair, slower than he wants. You look up from your fork.
“When they put your shoulder back in—did they even check anything else?” you blurt, unable to let it be. You know how this goes. He’ll let it get worse. Push straight through it.
“They checked enough.”
You shake your head. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Just need to change the bandage. That’s all,” he gestures vaguely toward the stairs. “It’ll be fine then.”
You don’t respond. Not because you agree. Because arguing won’t stop him.
He waits a second like he expects you to follow. When you don’t, he goes.
The house settles again as you finish up in the kitchen. The sun now fully shining into the window, a cat somewhere in Paddy’s back garden. You stand there for a moment, watching it. Until your eyes land on the bandages on the coffee table. He forgot those too even when he needs them to change his bandage.
You grab them, taking the stairs up two at a time. You reach his door, barely knocking, pushing it open. “Tommy, you forgot—"
He’s halfway through pulling his shirt up, just having come out of a shower. His grey sweats sit low, showing off his v-line. The fresh shirt he’s putting on caught at his shoulder, fabric twisted, one arm free, the other not cooperating because of the injury. For a second he doesn’t notice you.
And you take him in, properly this time. Not rushed. Not in the dark like last night. No excuse not to see him.
His hair is damp, darker at the ends. Water still clinging to his skin, trailing slow lines down over his chest, disappearing into his waistband.
The fabric doesn’t co-operate, twists awkwardly as he tries to pull it over his head. He keeps trying anyways, like it’ll just work eventually. He stills.
Then looks up at you. Aware of you now.
You clear your throat, lifting the bandages. “You’ll need these when you’re done.” You don’t offer to apply them for him. Not anymore.
He nods and goes back to trying to get the shirt over his head.
You watch him struggle. Tell yourself to leave it. But you cross the space to get to him anyways. “Hold on.”
Your hands come up, already reaching for the fabric, peeling it over his head gently, careful not to get it caught on his neck or shoulder. Your fingers brush over his damp, warm skin.
Then you start working on applying the new bandage for him. “I’m taking you to see another doctor today. Ask Paddy if we can borrow his car.”
“I don’t need—”
You shoot him a look, and he stops arguing it. For the first time.
Paddy’s car hums steady beneath you as you drive Tommy back from the Pittsburgh ER. Dark rural roads stretch out ahead in long, quiet lines. One of your hands is one the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift.
Tommy sits beside you, angled slightly away, shoulder help stiff. The wrap is fresh again, tighter than earlier.
You made the right call bringing him in after the pain this morning. Hours of waiting, tests, and a doctor moving his arm until his face turned pale just to check it was still in place.
It is. Just badly strained. They rewrapped it and told him to keep it still. You already know he won’t.
On his lap a box of brownies you picked up on the way back. He turns a toothpick between his teeth.
“Pain better now?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Was fine before.” He turns to where you crease your brows and mumbles a quiet. “Thanks…for bringing me.”
You nod and keep your eyes on the road. Mostly.
Silence stretches. Until you finally ask what’s been on your mind for the past three days. “You deserted, didn’t you?”
He rolls the toothpick between his teeth a little harder. “Why ask if you already know?”
Your grip on the wheel tightens. “You can’t keep acting like it doesn’t matter what happens to you. You fight like it doesn’t matter if you make it out.”
You reach a red light and glance towards him.
“It matters,” he says.
“Then what happens to you now?”
The lights stay red. His jaw clenches, hard. “They’ll come when they come.”
“That’s really reassuring, thanks.”
“And I’m gonna keep fightin’,” he adds.
“I figured,” you mutter.
You drive the rest of the way without another word, past the church paddy visits, until you reach his house. You cut the engine.
Neither of you move.
He’s already looking at you when you glance over.
“I meant what I said earlier. All of it.”
You look down. You know exactly what he means.
By the time you shut the door, he’s already halfway inside.
You don’t follow right away. The night breeze feels nice on your skin. The Pittsburgh skyline flickers in the distance.
You sit on the porch. Just for a moment, just to breathe.
The same cat from this morning brushes against your legs, a scruffy grey thing. It circles your legs, happily purring. You reach down, letting your fingers run along its back.
A minute later, the door opens again. He steps out, a black beanie pulled over his head and a blanket tugged under his arm. He has a mug in one hand, the box of brownies in the other. He sets both down beside you and sits. Nudges the box toward you.
“You feed that thing, it ain’t leaving,” he says.
He takes the blanket from under his arm and drapes it over your back. Hands sliding down your shoulders a second too long. “You should come in. Don’t freeze out here.”
“I will in a minute.”
He nods. Hesitates like he doesn’t want to leave you out here on your own. Then shifts, getting up anyways.
“Tommy…”
He pauses. “Yeah.”
He sinks back down beside you. Closer than he needs to.
The cat rubs against his leg and he pets it awkwardly. Tapping it’s head to hard.
You can’t hide your laugh fast enough, turning away, but he sees it anyways. “You think that’s funny? I’m a dog guy.”
This time you laugh properly. He looks at you—like he’s trying to remember it. How much he loved it.
“Makes sense,” you say. “You’re a bit of a pitbull, actually.”
He huffs, quieter, almost a laugh. Not quite, but it catches you off guard all the same.
You hesitate, then tug part of the blanket over him, even though he doesn’t need it.
His shoulders shift slightly under it, but he doesn’t say anything.
You grab one of the brownies. “My cats in Chicago would hate you, you know.”
His eyes flick to you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They’re old and grumpy.”
He huffs again, softer this time. “I’d win them over.”
“You?” you raise a brow. “You’d get humbled in five minutes.”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “I’d wait.” He glances at you. “They’d get used to me.”
And you can see in his face it’s not about the cats, not one bit.
You take another bite instead of answering. “Chicago’s far for you.”
He nods once. “Then I stay.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t argue. “Just means I do it anyway.”
You look back down at the cat, your fingers still moving absently through its fur. “Okay,” you murmur. “If you say so.”
That night, you’re facing the wall in Brendan’s old bed, across from where Tommy’s is.
You can hear him. Not properly asleep, just that uneven, shallow breathing he gets when his shoulders bad. A low sound in the back of his throat every now and then, like it hurts to settle.
He offered you the room. Said he’d take the couch downstairs. You refused, and now you can’t remember why. Even sleeping in the same room as him seems wrong after this morning.
And still, your body wants to be held by him.
You keep your back to him anyways, like even just sleeping in his direction means too much.
Across the room, his mattress shifts. Like he caught himself wanting to reach for you. Stopped himself. Again. Like he doesn’t trust his own hands around you. He never could sleep well without holding you.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to sleep. Try not to listen.
All your mind does is replay the words he said earlier, over and over anyways. You wish it would stop.
You feel the absence of his touch more every minute, until it becomes unbearable.
And then you’re standing in front of his bed.
He’s asleep on his back, chin tugged under his neck uncomfortably, a slight frown on his face, and he’s holding his arms across his chest, as to stop himself from reaching over towards Brendan’s bed again.
His eyes open—like he felt you there already.
“C’mere,” he mumbles, and you sink into his arms without another word, cramped in the tiny space. The duvet barely big enough for the both of you. The warmth hits you immediately. You hate how fast your body settles into it.
You finally manage to doze off when you feel his calloused hand slide under your shirt to press his hand against your stomach. He doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it. His body moving before his mind can even catch up.
“Tommy,” you whisper and gently pry his hand away. He stirs slightly, rumbles a ‘’sorry’’, and presses his broad shoulders back into the wall as to keep his distance again.
The part of your skin where he moved his hand away feels his absence immediately. You mentally scold yourself. It would be easier if you’d left. Or if wanting him had ever stopped.
“Wait,’’ you whisper, and before you can even react his big arm already covers you. Radiating warmth off it like a hearth, keeping you tugged away under his chest. And it feels so right. Like you belong right here.
When you start to fall back asleep again, you feel him shift against you. Careful with his shoulder, his hand dragging slow up against your skin as he pushes your shirt up, carefully. Almost waiting for you to stop him.
You don’t. Because you know what he wants. To feel you completely bare against him. Pressed warm against his chest. The way you used to sleep back then. Nothing between you, just skin to skin. When sleeping next to him still felt safe.
You turn slightly, helping him pull your shirt over you. And by the time both of you have peeled off all layers of fabric, he pulls you as close into him as he can. Breathing into your neck again. Shielding you from all harm with his big frame, tugging you in completely like you were made to fit there.
You put your hand on where his lies on your stomach, even though you know it won’t fix anything. Just makes it even harder if he leaves again.
Morning comes in grey. Light pushing on through the attic window, unfiltered, cutting across the room in angle. You wake slowly.
When you do, you don’t move at first. Afraid to reach behind you. There’s a moment where you brace yourself. For empty space. For cold sheets. For proof he’s gone.
But then you feel him. His arm still around you. Not gone.
Your back still pressed to his chest, his leg hooked loosely with yours like he didn’t let you drift too far even in his sleep.
His face is pressed into your hair, still half-asleep. You exhale, relief flooding through you before you can stop yourself.
His body moves closer towards you before he’s even conscious of it.
You turn, so your chest is against his. His grip tightens, then adjusts, like he’s working around the strain.
His eyes stay closed, breath changing as he starts to wake. His face looks different when his eyes are closed. You take in the split in his brow, the dark lashes against his skin, the rough stubble along his jaw.
“I got you,” he mutters, rough, barely formed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, holding you there.
You tug your head into his chest, your leg moving instinctively against him, hooking around his side. Fitting into him like its instinct.
He stills when you do that. Then his hand moves, slow, following the curve of your hip where your leg is wrapped around him. His eyes open just enough to find you.
You don’t move away. Instead pressing your hips more into him. His thumb dragging once against your skin.
His eyes close again, his breath catching against your neck.
“You sleep okay then?” he mumbles.
“Yeah, you?” you ask, as his leg moves between your thighs, tentative at first, then settling there.
He slides his thigh further between your legs until it rubs against your folds. “Better the second half.”
You shift instinctively, moving slightly against it, seeking friction.
Done holding yourself back.
Your name leaves him under his breath as he feels how wet you’re getting. The way your body reacts to him. Even now.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin.
A sound escapes you as he shifts his thigh, grinding up into you.
He pulls you in and kisses you, rougher this time.
“Don’t move” he mutters.
You do anyway. Your hips press against his thigh, chasing the pressure. A sound escaping you before you can stop it.
His fingers dig into your waist, he says your name like a warning, voice rough, cutting himself off as your body moves against him again.
He exhales harder this time, the sound low in his throat, and his grip changes, firmer now, as his hand settles into your back, holding you there, guiding your movements.
You feel it, heat blooming in your stomach, friction building where you need it. “Tommy—”
His hand slides down, fingers dragging slow over your hip before pulling you flush against him. “Yeah…go on,” he breathes, low.
His thigh shifts deliberately now, grinding up against your pussy, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. Your hands slide up his back, fingers pressing into muscle, holding on.
His hands drop further, gripping your ass properly now, keeping you exactly where he wants you as you rock your hips against him.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper.
He doesn’t, drags you further against his leg, the pressure building. He still knows exactly how to make your body react to him.
He lets his eyes to roam over you, towards where your leg is still draped over his side. The way your grind against his thigh.
“You’re soaked,” he says.
He lifts your leg higher around the side of his hip. “C’mere then.” he mutters.
He drags you closer to kiss you again, nipping at your bottom lip. He holds onto the inside of your thigh, angling himself, moving his hips closer until you feel his cock drag against you.
Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping it around his hard length, stroking up and down. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to yours.
You circle his tip with your thumb. He groans, catching your wrist with his hand. “Need to be in you,” he mutters.
You tilt your hips in response, and he drags his cock through your slick, slower this time, coating it, brushing your clit as he rubs against your folds.
He keeps his eyes on you, then he pushes forward slowly.
And you feel every inch of him as he sinks into you, the stretch making you moan.
He pulls back slightly, just enough that you feel the loss, and then pushes back in. Deeper this time. The movement knocks the breath out of you, your pussy tightening around him instinctively.
His hand clamps around your thigh, keeping you in place as he does it again, slower now, like he’s figuring out exactly how you take him.
Your head tips back slightly, a gasp leaving your mouth.
He watches his cock disappear inside you. “Take me so well.”
You pull him closer in response.
He doesn’t rush. Pulls out slow, before easing back into your pussy. Hips rolling into you, deeper each time, dragging against that spot as he buries his cock to the hilt.
Then he slows. Like he’s feeling it properly for the first time. He pulls back enough to look at you, like he needs to see your face. Your reaction.
“Feels so good,” you manage.
His breath catches and he pinches your inner thigh, his control slipping.
Your hands tighten on his back, nails dragging over ink and muscle there, pulling him even closer.
He groans at that, his gaze dropping between you again. Watching his cock slide in and out, the way your body takes him, tightening around him like it doesn’t want to let go.
His jaw tightens, and his next thrust lands deeper, abs tensing as he moves. Still slow, but heavier now.
Your body moves with him, hips lifting into every push, chasing it without thinking.
“Yeah…” he breathes, rough, almost to himself.
His hand drags you down onto him as his cock pushes into you again, slowly, completely covered in your slick.
“Don’t hold back,” you breathe, fingers sliding into to his hair.
He slams his hips harder into you, going faster now. Wet sounds filling the room.
Your head drops to his shoulder, pressure building low in your stomach.
You catch his thick neck between your teeth, just enough. He groans. Pinches your inner thigh harder and drags you down onto him as his hips stutter, then drives up harder, deeper, his control completely gone now.
His cock hits your g-spot again and again, making your breath catch, your walls tightening around him.
“Tommy—” it breaks out of you.
His hand comes up to your jaw, pulling you back so you have to look at him. His eyes fixed on you, on the way you’re taking him.
His hips grind into you, his pelvis brushing against your clit as he tries to bury himself deeper with every thrust.
Your pussy clenches, slick and warm around his cock, pulling him in, making it hard for him to not fill you up right then and there.
Then you feel the shift in him, the way his hips start to lose their rhythm, chasing it instead, sweat forming at his brow. Your hips lift into every thrust, needing more.
His grip turning almost bruising as he holds you in place and drives into you as hard as he can, like he can’t stop now even if he wanted to. “Come on,” he mutters roughly, more a breath than a command.
You press your forehead to his, eyes slipping shut for half a second as you come around him, and he notices. “Look at me.”
Your eyes open again, and he’s right there, blue eyes dark, lips puffy, watching you like he needs to see it happen, like this is the only way he knows you’re still with him.
You don’t look away this time as he slams into you harder, hitting your g-spot, your pussy milking him greedily until you flood his length with slick, moaning breathlessly.
“That’s it, good—",” he cuts himself off, crushing his lips to yours hungrily.
“Fuck…Tommy,” you whisper into his relentless kiss, still coming down from it, your body oversensitive, every movement pulling another reaction out of you. His hand slides back over to your hip, and he slides his cock out of you, coated in you.
Before you can catch your breath, his hands are on you again, guiding you over firmly, until you’re on your stomach, the sheets cool against your skin.
“Stay,” he mutters, following you down. His muscular chest pressing into your back before there’s even space between you. One hand presses at your hip, lifting you slightly, angling you exactly how he wants.
“Gonna make you cum like this,” he says, pressing a knee between your legs, spreading them. He follows down, his cock sliding through your slick first, dragging between your folds before he pushes in again, deeper like this—your body jolting as the angle hits harder than before.
You gasp, fingers gripping the sheets.
He follows it immediately, hips snapping forward again, finding the rhythm fast—each thrust landing deeper, rougher.
“Fuck…feel how wet you are.” he groans, as your hips shift back into him before you can stop yourself.
His chest presses further into your back, close enough that you can feel all of him on top of you.
His arm slides tighter around you, hand flattening against your stomach as if to keep you right there.
He buries his face into the curve of your neck, mouth dragging there like he can’t get enough of you, like he needs to feel every part of you under his mouth. Convince himself you’re really here.
His hips don’t slow—each thrust pushing you forward into the sheets, keeping you pinned beneath him.
He doesn’t let space exist. Keeps you pinned beneath him, chest to spine. Holding you there with his whole body as he drives into you.
Your body answers before you can think. Your hips pressing back, meeting every movement, forcing him deeper.
His hand tightens at your hip, dragging you back onto him as his cock angles just right, hitting that same spot again, precise.
Wet sounds fill the space between you, louder now, messier than before, as your body gives around him. Your pussy clenching hard around his cock, making his rhythm stutter for a second.
“Thats it,” he mutters, voice rough, almost gone. “Squeeze me like that.”
You push back harder, chasing it, grinding against him, arching to take him deeper. Your hand slips back, catching his wrist, holding him there, keeping him exactly where you need him.
“Don’t stop Tommy,” you manage, breath breaking.
His grip tightens on your hip, dragging you back onto him as he fucks into you harder, faster now, losing whatever control he had left. He groans your name, dragged out of him.
It hits you again before you can brace for it—your pussy fluttering around him, the sensitivity too much.
“There you go,” he says, voice gone.
He doesn’t let you drift this time either. Keeps you there, pulling you back onto him with every thrust as your body shakes around him.
He keeps you exactly where he wants you as your pussy milks him, still riding it out.
His pace falters for a second before it turns rougher, deeper, chasing it now, fucking you through it, making you cry out.
His breath breaks against your neck as he buries his cock as far in as he can and spills himself inside you. A low, strained sound leaving him against your neck, then your name dragged out of him.
Then his body finally gives a little, weight settling heavier against you.
You turn to look at him, and he presses his forehead against yours instantly, like he doesn’t trust any space between you. Not even now. His breath uneven as he stays buried deep, hips still rolling, keeping himself inside you. He moves to kiss you, mouth parting against yours, he’s breathing you in.
When you break it, your hand comes up to his face without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, holding him there. He doesn’t pull away. Stays close. Stays buried deep, hips shifting only slightly, not leaving—just keeping the contact.
You move beneath him, guiding him with you as you roll onto your back, and he follows straightaway. Even now he won’t risk losing the contact. Until you’re facing each other.
He settles between your legs again, still inside you, his chest pressed to yours. Close enough that you can feel every breath he takes against your collarbone. His eyes are already on you. Nothing pushing you out, no walls up. Just present. Just here with you.
He’s still warm from it, a sheen of sweat still on his skin, face softened, lighter than you’ve ever seen it. His hand reaches for your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek.
He looks different. Not the boy you knew. Not the man you saw three days ago either.
The lines in his face have eased. The tension you’re used to isn’t there, not even a trace of it. He isn’t hiding.
Your thumb brushes over his eyebrow. “Will you be alright Tommy?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, not looking away. Even when you expect it. For that flicker, that moment where he shuts down, pulls back and disappears behind himself again.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his thumb brushed under your eye, the gold star of the blue bracelet reflecting off the dim morning light. The touch of his knuckles so gentle. Like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s allowed to touch you at all. That you let him.
You reach for him, and he responds instantly, settling his head onto your chest. His breath still ragged. You weave your fingers through his hair as he looks up at you. Even now, not looking away.
And you realise he’s still your Tommy. Still him.
He shifts closer, presses his head further into your chest, mumbling your name again, quieter this time.
It feels too normal. As if it had always been like this. As if you woke up next to him a thousand times over. As if you didn’t lose ten years.
The thought catches in your throat.
“You’ll still be here?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
He stills slightly at that. Just for a moment. “Yeah,” he says firmly.“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You nod, and his mouth pulls slightly, not quite a smile. “Wouldn’t leave anyway.”
Your brow furrows faintly, and he huffs out something almost amused, shaking his head. “You’re my lucky star, aren’t you?” he mutters. “Never do well without you.”
Then, quieter, he adds. “Not ‘cause I believe that shit. Just...it’s you. Need you here.”
You let out a small breath, something like a smile. You’re still searching for that flicker of fear, for proof he might retreat. You still don’t find it.
He opens his mouth to say something else when a faint sound of movement comes from downstairs. Cabinets opening and closing, the cling of a mug. Paddy, and the distant sound of Brendan stepping into the house. Here to check on Tommy, like he said he would.
Tommy’s eyes move towards it before he exhales and turns back to you.
This time when you look at him, it doesn’t ache under your ribs. He didn’t leave in the night. Didn’t sit at the edge of the bed like he used to, like he was already halfway gone.
He’s still here. You can feel it in the weight of him, the way he hasn’t pulled away. For the first time in ten years, he stayed.
You swallow. “It won’t be easy, you know.”
“I know. We’ll manage.”
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his forehead. He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s memorizing it.
“Tell me ‘bout your cats in Chicago again,” he murmurs.
You smile, properly, and he watches you like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen. “Tommy they’ll hate—”
“They’ll get used to me.”
Warmth eases itself into your heart. You let your hand fall into his hair again as he settles back into your chest.
In another life, maybe it would’ve been easy. Like Brendan and Tess. But in this one, he always comes back to you.
You’ll tell him you love him too. You just haven’t said it yet.
a/n: if you're seeing this, thank you for reading their story♡ this is the end...for now. Until sometime in the future I'll add an epilogue filled with Chicago nonsense😛 until then, sending lots of love💕
Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)
Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.
But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.
You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.
Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)
Word Count: 9k?
(dividers by: @cafekitsune)
a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.
The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.
But he never does.
The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.
Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.
But you know better.
He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.
You let him. Every time.
Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.
And on Sundays, you never expect him.
Sundays are for her.
The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.
Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.
And if he ever did, you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.
But he doesn’t. He won’t.
And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.
It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.
The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.
He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.
You didn’t ask him where he’d been.
You never do.
You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.
The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.
He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.
It’s never urgent, with Joel.
It’s not tender either.
It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.
You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.
You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.
You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine.
Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.
You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.
Then he spoke. Just one word.
“Laura.”
You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.
Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.
He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.
You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.
You don’t cry anymore.
That part of you dried up months ago, somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.
Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.
You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.
And still, it lingers.
That feeling. That film.
Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special, you’re a secret because you’re nothing.
Because love is something he gives to her.
And you’re just flesh.
You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.
But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?
She gets him clean. You get him hollow.
You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.
Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.
You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow, in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.
He gives her Sundays. And you?
You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.
Maybe. If he’s not too tired.
Never Sundays. Never.
You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.
The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.
But he never does.
He doesn’t ask.
It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound, the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.
Joel Miller.
Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.
You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.
You didn’t speak. Not at first.
Just noticed.
He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.
The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.
He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”
And that was it.
No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.
After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”
Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.
One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.
You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.
Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.
You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.
That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way, just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.
He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.
It kept happening.
Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.
He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.
You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.
You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.
He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.
And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.
Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.
You just open it.
Let him in. And let him leave.
He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.
Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.
You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.
Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.
People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.
"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."
"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."
And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.
Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.
You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.
Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.
And he never mentioned her. Not once.
Not in words, at least.
But you saw it anyway, in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.
You don’t feel guilty.
Not really.
You’ve tried. God, have you tried.
But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.
You still do.
You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.
And maybe that makes you cruel.
Maybe that makes you hollow.
But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.
She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.
She’s his age. Maybe even older.
And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.
You hate that you envy her. But you do.
You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.
You envy that she gets all of him.
His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.
You only get what’s left.
The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.
And still, you open the door.
Every time.
Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.
Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.
He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.
And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.
He comes late.
Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.
He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.
You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.
You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.
You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”
He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”
You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”
His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”
And that hurts. Because it’s true.
You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”
His face hardens, but you press on.
“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”
He looks away.
You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his.
“Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”
He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”
“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”
He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”
You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”
Silence. Thick and final.
He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.
You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.
But he doesn’t.
He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.
Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.
“If you leave now, don’t come back.”
He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.
Just like that.
No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.
You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.
You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.
Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.
Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.
But tonight, you finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.
You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.
No, it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.
You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.
You don’t even know why it hurts this much.
You ended it. You told him to go.
But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.
And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.
You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.
But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.
And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.
He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.
You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.
But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.
Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.
You turn, expecting a trader.
But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.
Tommy.
You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.
Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.
But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.
“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”
He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving.
“Lookin' mighty strong haulin' all those boxes.”
You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”
And he smiles, not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.
It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.
“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.
It’s small. Fleeting. But real.
For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.
You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.
Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.
And you laugh. You actually laugh.
And when he looks at you, really looks, it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.
He flirts a little, too.
Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.
And when he leaves, when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around, you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.
You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.
But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.
And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.
Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.
Warm.
He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before.
Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.
Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.
“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.
And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”
At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.
But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.
Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.
He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.
And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.
It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.
The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.
You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.
There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.
But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.
And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.
He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”
You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.
He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.
A date.
Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.
A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.
Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.
Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.
You take your time getting ready.
Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.
Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.
You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt, short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.
And then the necklace.
A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.
Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.
You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.
You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.
You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.
You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.
And then — a knock at the door.
Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.
For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.
You smile before you even open the door.
Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward, and handsome as hell.
He’s dressed up. For you.
Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.
And in his hand, a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.
Your breath catches.
“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.
He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”
Your smile falters , just a flicker, at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.
You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.
And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.
Not tonight.
You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.
They smell like someone tried.
“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.
He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”
You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”
Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.
He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”
And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.
Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.
The forest hums low with night.
You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.
When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.
It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.
Chosen. Prepared.
Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.
You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.
The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.
He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”
You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”
“At makin’ fires?”
“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.
“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.
You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.
Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.
He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.
“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.
He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”
You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood.
The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.
Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”
You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—
A bottle.
Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.
He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”
Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”
He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”
You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”
He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses, one chipped, one cloudy, and you laugh, breathless.
“You came prepared.”
He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.
You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”
Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”
You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.
You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.
But it’s good.
You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”
He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”
You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.
And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.
He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”
You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”
You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.
The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.
Just soft. Open.
You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.
Neither of you say anything for a long while.
The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.
And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.
Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.
Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.
The stars have faded from your focus.
All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.
You haven't spoken in a while.
Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.
And then you feel it shift.
The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.
His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.
His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.
You don’t.
Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.
The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.
Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.
His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.
Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.
You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.
You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.
But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.
Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you
He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.
And then—
He deepens it.
Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.
And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.
Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.
Not Tommy. But Joel.
Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.
And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.
You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.
He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.
You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.
“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”
He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.
“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”
You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.
He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.
And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.
And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.
Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.
He walks you home in the moonlight.
You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.
But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.
And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.
“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”
And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.
Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.
You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.
And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.
It’s your day off.
The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.
A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.
You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.
You’re not really reading, though.
Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.
You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.
And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.
So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.
You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”
But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.
It’s Joel.
He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.
“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.
You blink. “What?”
He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”
Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.
Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?
But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.
He looks hurt.
“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.
“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”
You freeze.
“What?”
His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”
Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”
His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”
Your whole body goes still.
He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.
Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.
“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”
Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.
“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”
You blink hard, throat tightening.
And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:
He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.
He feels something.
But it’s too late. Too twisted.
Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.
“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”
You see it hit him.
Right in the gut.
Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.
And then — without a word — he turns.
And walks away.
No apology. No threat. No parting shot.
Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.
You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.
You try not to think about Joel. You try.
But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.
Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?
You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.
Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.
You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.
You hear his boots before you see him.
Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”
You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.
You freeze.
It hits you all at once — how different this feels.
How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.
And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.
But you can’t.
You can’t.
Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.
So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.
You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.
“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.
That does it.
He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”
He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.
Tommy’s house surprises you.
It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.
The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.
“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”
You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”
Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”
He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.
He doesn’t get annoyed.
He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.
“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”
When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.
“What the—?”
You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.
“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”
You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”
Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.
He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.
The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.
And then—
His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.
And you kiss.
It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”
You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.
Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.
And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
“Hi,” you say with a little smile.
He kisses your cheek in reply.
You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.
“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”
He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”
You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.
Then he asks: “How was your day?”
And you freeze.
Your smile falters for just a second too long.
He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.
You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.
“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”
He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.
You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.
You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.
And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.
But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.
Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.
Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.
You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.
Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.
You think, I could get used to this.
And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:
“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”
Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.
“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.
But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.
“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”
You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.
“Tommy—”
“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”
He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.
“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…”
He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”
Your heart drops.
Because God, you want to tell him.
You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.
But you can’t.
If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.
And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.
So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.
“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”
It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.
Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You do.
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”
Your throat tightens.
He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”
You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”
Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”
His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.
“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”
And then he kisses you.
Not careful this time. Not shy.
It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.
That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.
And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.
Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.
His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.
So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.
His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.
It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.
You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.
He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.
Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…
Tommy feels like safety. Like home.
There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.
Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.
He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.
His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.
And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.
“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.
“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.
His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.
He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.
Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.
They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.
And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.
You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.
You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.
And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.
“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.
He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.
Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.
“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.
“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.
“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.
His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.
Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.
You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.
Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.
One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.
“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.
He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.
Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.
When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.
He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.
He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.
“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.
His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.
Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.
He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.
Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.
“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.
His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.
Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.
“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”
You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”
His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.
You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.
He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.
His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.
Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.
“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”
He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.
“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”
And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.
His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.
“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”
You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.
“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”
His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.
"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.
And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.
Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.
And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.
At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.
He’s still here.
Tommy.
His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.
Your chest tightens.
You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.
So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.
A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.
Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”
You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.
He sees it, though. He always does.
His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”
It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.
Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.
It was late now — a little before midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.
Then came the knock.
Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.
But when you opened the door, your breath caught.
It wasn’t Tommy.
It was Joel.
And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.
And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.
It was Sunday.
You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.
“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.
You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.
You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.
Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.
You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.
He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”
His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”
Your heart thudded.
“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.
Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.
“You happy?” he asked.
You blinked. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”
You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”
He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.
“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”
Silence.
“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.
You stared. Shocked. “What?”
“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”
Joel looked down, silent again.
And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.
“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”
Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.
“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."
"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."
"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"
"Joel stop."
He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"
"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.
He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."
You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.
Well... you have.
But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.
"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.
"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.
"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.
He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.
And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.
Just hollow.
You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.
And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.
