#pedro pascal character fic
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Jealousy, Jealousy [ Joel Miller x Reader / Tommy Miller x Reader ]
Summary: you walk in on Joel & Tess, despite your building chemistry with him. Hurt, you turn to his brother for comfort. Joel finds out, and he isn’t happy.
CWs: derogatory language / unsafe sex / age gap implied / oral sex (m!receiving) / cum play / cum eating / choking / alcohol usage / use of pet names / very little plot it’s just a spicy mess
Tag List: @joelsgirl @loquaciousferret @dreamingofdaddydin @funnygirlthatgab
Notes: like always, this is for the girls, the gays and the theys. I wanted to finish my other WIP but this took over. Have fun.
Buy Me A Coffee?
Part Two / Alt Version
The whiskey burns your throat on the way down. You’re on maybe your third or fourth, but it’s still not enough to burn away the sight and sound you came across earlier.
You don’t have any claim on Joel, not really. Nothing has ever happened between you, even though there’s been a few close calls, but you were almost certain that he felt the same way about you as you do about him.
Until you walked in on him and Tess. Now you can’t get the image out of your head, the sight of her beneath him, the sounds…
You slam your empty glass down on the bar. It’s a shitty dive of a place in the QZ, one you all know well enough.
“Whoa there.”
You turn your head to find yourself face to face with Joel’s brother, Tommy, concern etched into his face. He’s not bad looking, not really, but you’ve never really been interested in him. Until now. Now, he’s looking pretty fucking good. Or maybe you’re just noticing him. Who cares.
“Come on, let’s get you home before curfew.” He holds out his hand to you. You don’t need it, not really, you aren’t drunk enough, but you take it anyway, let him lead you out of the bar and onto the streets.
“Why’d you come looking?” You ask as you let him walk you home.
“You didn’t show up to drop off this afternoon. Figured something was wrong, figured I’d find you here.”
“Didn’t think anyone would notice. Joel and Tess seemed too busy to care.” You can’t help the bitterness that creeps into your voice as you mention it.
“Ah.” Tommy shrugs, “try not to worry about it. My brother’s an idiot.”
Normally you’d argue. Jump to his defence. Tonight you just don’t feel like it, too hurt by what you saw to argue. Reaching your apartment block, you turn to him.
“You gonna come in for a drink? Least I can do after you walked me home.”
You know what you’re implying, don’t mind if he takes the hint that you’re offering more than a drink. You almost don’t expect him to follow you, but he does, up the stairs and into your apartment, shutting the door behind you both while you fish out two glasses and a bottle.
“Make yourself at home.”
You pour the liquor while he drops himself down onto your couch, spread out and lazy. Really, he’s quite attractive. You’ve never really noticed before, and maybe it’s the fact that you’re so angry and hurt that’s making you see him in this light, but still.
You hand him one of the glasses, down your own before you sit yourself down on the floor by his feet. You’re being forward as hell and you know it, but you’re tipsy and hurt and you just want to forget for a short while.
He looks down at you, surveys you with dark eyes so similar to Joel’s. The thought makes your heart hurt, so you push it away.
“What are you doing, hon?” His hand comes down to catch your cheek, tilting your head up to look at him.
Tommy doesn’t know what’s going on between you and his brother. Knows that Joel’s an idiot if he doesn’t realise that you’re interested. If he was a better man, he’d push you away, but, well…
It’s been a while since he’s gotten anything, and if his older brother is too stupid to realise you’re right there, dumb enough to fuck around with your feelings and Tess? Well, he doesn’t mind being the collateral.
“Trying to decide whether or not to suck your cock.” You admit, not bothering to be coy as you look up at him.
“Oh, yeah? What’s holding you back?”
“You haven’t said that I can.” You shrug, fingers creeping up his thighs.
“There’s a pretty girl on her knees for me askin’ to suck my dick, you think I’m gonna say no?” Amusement colours his tone.
“Well… I wanted to be polite and ask.” You smirk as your fingers find the zip of his pants, tug it out the way, your small hand reaching in and wrapping around his cock, stroking lazily.
He just leans back into the couch, watches you as you rub your thumb over the head of his cock, brushing across beads of precum, collecting them on your fingers to lick them up.
“Christ…” his eyes darken as he watches you, your eyes on his as you lean in and press feather light kisses to the tip of his cock. He’s nice and big, thick, slightly curved, and you love the slightly salty taste of him.
You don’t like to brag, but you know you’re good at this, enjoy it even, pressing little kisses along the length of him, tiny kitten licks to the slit in the tip, teasing until he fists a hand into your hair and yanks your head down onto his cock, almost making you choke.
You recover quickly, sucking his cock like he’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted, moving your head up and down, guided by the heavy hand in your hair.
“Fuck…” he rocks his hips up into your mouth, getting deeper into your throat, “such a sweet little mouth…”
You hum around him, urged on by the praise, eager to keep pleasing him, so desperate to be wanted…
You know full well this is messy and sloppy, your drool coating his cock, eyes watering slightly as you look up at him. You can’t see it, of course, but you’re a vision to behold, on your knees for him, mascara running down your face as your cheeks hollow out for him, his cock disappearing into your throat like you were made to take him.
God, he’s impressed, both by how well you worship his cock, and by how quickly you’ve worked him up.
“Gonna make me cum, pretty thing…” his hand releases your head, strokes your cheek lazily.
You pull away from him for a moment, wrap your hand around his cock and stroke slowly.
“Cum on my face.” You tell him, hazy with lust and drink. “On my tongue.”
He groans, moves to guide your mouth back to him, but you move faster, wrap your lips around him and let him rut up into your throat, moaning around him. Fuck, he tastes so good, exactly what you needed.
You can feel him becoming more erratic, groaning softly before he pulls out of your mouth, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it roughly as your lips part, tongue flicking out to catch the hot ropes that spurt from his cock as he groans.
Fuck, you’re a sight to behold, on your knees, makeup a mess, lips parted with his cum on your tongue and your face. You lean in and lick him clean, swallow every drop you can get.
His fingers reach out, swipe through the mess he’s left on your lips, press them into your mouth.
“Suck ‘em, that’s a good girl.”
You do exactly as he says, swirl your tongue around his fingers until you’re satisfied they’re clean.
“You want me to -?”
You shake your head. You’re exhausted, your throat hurts, and while the offer is nice, you don’t think you can stay awake for it.
“Nah, ‘s okay. I just wanted to give you something.” You offer him a small smile as you get to your feet, watch him tuck himself back into his pants.
To his credit, he’s not a jerk. He makes sure you’re safely in your bed with a glass of water beside you before he heads off into the night, leaving you almost wishing you’d taken up his offer.
——
A week later, you’re sitting in the same bar with one of your friends, pointedly ignoring Joel a few seats away.
Once again, you’ve had a few too many to drink, and it’s loosening your tongue.
“So, what’s the deal with you and that guy anyway? The mystery man you were telling me about the other day?” Your friend knows exactly the right questions to ask, and while normally you’re not the bragging type, seeing Joel again has sent that spike of bitter resentment and jealousy through you.
Sure, it’s not like he’d ever promised you anything, but he’d damn well seemingly made it clear he was interested. Only for you to walk in on him fucking Tess like he loved her.
You hate him for it. Hate him for hurting you. More than that, though, you hate yourself for not being brave enough to confront your feelings.
But right now, you’re feeling spiteful, and you know damn well he can hear every word you say.
“Oh, it wasn’t really anything, just a one night thing.” You shrug.
“What did you say his name was again? Jimmy?”
“Tommy.” You run your finger around the rim of your glass.
“As in Miller?”
“Mmhmm.” You can feel Joel’s gaze burning into you as you speak. “He walked me home, one thing led to another…”
“Fuck, he’s so hot though…” your friend sighs, “I bet he has a great dick.”
“I mean… I liked it.”
You giggle, a very uncharacteristic sound, but still. You don’t regret what happened, not at all. You like giving head, and it wasn’t like he had an unpleasant dick. If anything, you kind of wish you’d let him fuck you. Maybe another time, seeing as Joel is clearly no longer interested.
“Are you gonna give me any details, or?”
You’re about to open your mouth when a hand clamps down on your shoulder.
“Outside. Now.”
You don’t need to look to know Joel’s pissed; you do anyway, are met with his stormy glare.
“Nice to see you too, Joel.”
“I mean it. Outside, now, or I’ll drag your ass out.” One look at him tells you he’s not kidding.
Sighing, you excuse yourself from your friend. Follow Joel out of the bar into the street, or rather, let him tow you out. Let him drag you by the wrist back to your apartment. Nobody wants to be caught in the streets at this hour.
“What the fuck, Joel?” You demand as soon as he’s slammed the door behind you.
“Don’t you what the fuck me.” He growls, crossing his arms over his chest as he backs you into the small room.
“I absolutely will, what’s your goddamn problem?” You hiss at him, furious. Furious and still hurt, because the last time you saw him he was fucking another woman, and no matter what you do you can’t get rid of that image.
“You! You’re my goddamn problem, running your mouth in that bar where anyone could hear you.”
You roll your eyes at him, your own temper flaring.
“How is what I was talking about any of your business?” You demand, glaring at him. “How is what I do any of your business?”
Admittedly you’re not very intimidating in comparison, but still.
“You were making a damn fool of yourself. Do you ever know when to keep your fucking mouth shut?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your brother? He seemed to know how to shut me up.” The words come out before you can stop them.
Joel exhales slowly, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.
“Is there a reason you’re being such a goddamn bitch? Fucking my brother included.” He’s so damn frustrated right now, not understanding what’s gotten into you.
Usually you’re so sweet to him, the pair of you dancing around the mutual attraction you share. He’s not going to push it if you don’t, but maybe he’s misread things?
You stare at him.
“Are you fucking serious right now? You don’t know why I’m mad at you?”
He just stares at you.
“I heard you and Tess, you asshole. So yeah. I know that for all your sweet words and the way we’ve been dancing around the subject? That’s just how you are, right? Anything to get laid, I guess.” You spit the words.
Something in his gaze snaps as he crosses to you, backs you against the wall, slams one hand into the cracked plaster beside your shoulder, the other settling on your throat.
You’re too angry to be scared, even though you know he’s dangerous, know you’ve pushed him too far, like poking a goddamn angry bear.
“First, don’t fucking assume that you know any goddamn thing about what happened that day.” He’s leaning right down to you, you can smell the whiskey on him, but still you aren’t afraid.
“Second, don’t presume that I’m that sort of bastard. You really think I’d do that to you?”
You glare at him.
“You already have.” You hate that your voice shakes as you say it.
Joel sighs as he looks at you.
“I’ve known her almost as long as you’ve been alive. Almost but not quite. There’s a difference between me fucking her when it means nothing, and what you’ve done.”
You glare at him again, because you don’t see any difference.
“It may not mean anything to you, but it definitely does to her.”
“And that’s her fucking problem, I’ve made it goddamn clear to her that I don’t see her that way, that that would be the last time. Then you go and fuck my brother?”
Somehow, suddenly, it becomes important to clarify. As if somehow it will make him less angry.
“Technically, I didn’t fuck him.”
“You-“ Joel stops mid sentence and looks at you. “You didn’t?”
“No. I mean, I sucked his dick, but… I was angry, I was so fucking angry and I just wanted to feel something. I just wanted to feel wanted.”
Joel stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to understand you.
“And I don’t make you feel wanted?”
“Not when I walk in on you fucking someone who hates me, no. Not particularly.” You look away from him, before you do something stupid, like cry, which is a very real possibility whenever you think about what you saw, what you heard.
“Guess I need to change that.”
His hand drops from the wall, the other one releasing your throat as he leans in and devours your unsuspecting lips in a kiss. It’s desperate and angry and hungry, but you cling to him, your fury and your need pouring into it as he lifts you up, carries you across the room and into your room.
You pull him down on top of you, not letting go when he sets you down on the mattress, kisses still full of fury and rage but of something else, too, something you’ve been holding back for far too long.
“Still can’t believe you let my goddamn brother touch you.” Joel growls it into the soft skin of your throat, grinding his cock against you, your clothes still in the way.
You shove your skirt up, hands finding his belt. He catches your wrists in one hand.
“Were you this fucking eager for him, too?”
There’s that dark glint in his eyes again, possessive and jealous, even though he started this, even though he knows that really, he has no right to be angry. It doesn’t stop him.
“Does it matter, Joel? You really think I’d have done it if you’d just fucking…”
“Just what, sweetheart?” He releases your wrists, only because he needs his hand to tear your panties down, cup your bare cunt in his rough hand.
“Just fucking admitted you wanted me first!” You snap at him, grinding yourself against his hand in spite of your temper.
“Yeah, well. We all make mistakes, don’t we?” He plunges two fingers knuckle deep into your cunt, effectively stopping you from answering with anything but a strangled moan.
Your hands tear at his belt, yank his jeans down, your hand wrapping around the length of him. Fuck, he’s big, bigger than his brother, thick and hard and dripping pre cum, all for you, all because of you, because in spite of how angry he is, he still wants you.
Just as you want him, your cunt aching and dripping onto his fingers as he fucks you with them, hard and fast and punishing.
“I should make you suck my cock, refuse to touch you; but if I do that, what’s to say you won’t go and whore yourself out to someone else?”
His words are dark, gaze feral as he looks down, watches his fingers disappear inside you.
“Better I just take you, ruin you for anyone else. You won’t want anyone else when I’m done with you, it’ll be nothing in comparison.” He leans in and bites your throat, right above your collarbone.
“Is that right?” Your hand strokes him roughly; you can feel how needy you are for him, feel yourself tightening around his fingers but it’s not enough, you need more.
“Don’t fucking push me, sweetheart.” He growls it, drags his fingers out of you, presses them to your mouth.
Automatically you part your lips, suck on his thick, rough fingers until they’re coated in your saliva rather than your slick, your eyes on him the entire time.
He groans, a sound that’s still closer to a growl than a moan.
“Fuck sake…” he’s still furious with you, that fury coming back tenfold at the lewd way you suck his fingers, as if they were his cock.
“This how you sucked him off?”
“I don’t know,” you challenge, “are you gonna fuck me like you fucked her?”
He glares at you, and for a moment you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that you’ve pushed him too far.
He does the opposite, moves so fast you can’t keep up, lines himself up and slams into you, every inch of his cock pressing deep. You scream out for him, half in pleasure, half in surprise.
Fuck, he’s so big it hurts, you feel so full you’re not certain you can take him, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give you any time to adjust, one hand bracing himself on the mattress, the other gripping your waist to pull you onto his cock, over and over until your back arches off the bed.
“No,” he growls in answer to your question, “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve.”
He’s relentless, pounding into you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, rough and hard, growling against your skin the entire time, covering every bit of exposed skin with bite marks and bruises.
“Joel…” it comes out half squeal, half moan as he hitches your leg higher around his waist, gets deeper inside you.
“That’s it, sweetheart, can feel how needy you are for me. Don’t think you’ll ever want anyone else, huh?”
You shake your head, mute except for mewls and sighs of pleasure, your nails digging into his arms, trying to hold on, but unable to think straight, barely able to see or focus.
“That’s what I thought, baby, gonna get you so fuckin’ addicted to my cock you’ll forget all about anyone else. This sweet pussy is all mine.”
Fuck, he wishes he’d done this sooner, wishes he’d avoided this entire fucking debacle, because he’s afraid it’ll always hang between you now, unless he fucks you so hard you forget.
“Already was, Joel, always been yours…” you moan it out for him, fingers finding the sweat damp curls of his hair and tugging, hard.
He moans, a deep, guttural sound that you immediately commit to memory, the sound alone making your cunt throb around him.
“Oh, you like that, baby? You like hearing what you do to me?” He shakes his head, grinds into you slowly before resuming his relentless pace.
“Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna…”
Oh, he knows. He can feel you fluttering around him, tight little hole becoming even tighter as he fucks you, leans down and presses a searing kiss to your mouth before he pulls out of you.
You whine at the loss, but before you can say anything else he has you flipped onto your front, face buried in the mattress, ass in the air as he slams back into you, both hands on your waist as he fucks you so hard you see stars.
There’s no holding back, not anymore, your hands clawing at the mattress as your eyes roll back slightly from the pleasure, feeling yourself tighten painfully around him before your climax hits, hard and fast, washing over your entire body, leaving you shaking beneath him, screaming his name loud enough that the entire goddamn building can hear.
“That’s fucking right baby, you scream for me. You tell everyone that you’re mine.” He yanks your hair back, holds you upright as he ruts into you, thrusts becoming more and more sloppy and erratic with each movement.
“Every fuckin’ inch of you is mine, you hear me?”
“Yours, Joel, all yours…” you moan it for him, still on the high of your climax, entire body over stimulated.
“That’s goddamn right.” He slams in deep once more, one final time, grinds against you as he cums, fills your tight little pussy with hot ropes of his spend, groaning the entire time.
He stays there for a moment, catches his breath before he pulls out of you, flops down beside you.
There’s a moment’s pause, where you aren’t sure whether you’ll still see rage in his eyes if you look at him. Aren’t sure whether he’ll see it in you, either.
He saves you having to look, answers the unasked question by pulling you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest.
“I’m so-“
“Don’t.” You reach up to touch your hand to his lips. “Don’t be. I should be the one apologising.”
“I think we both owed each other an apology, to be honest.” Joel says finally, “though, uh… maybe that was a good start?”
You laugh, lean into him.
“Skip the apology and go straight for the makeup sex, huh?”
Joel smirks, presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Oh, darling. That wasn’t the makeup sex. That was the I’m fucking furious sex. You’ll like the makeup sex a whole lot more.”
Smirking yourself, you roll on top of him, lean down so you can press a kiss to his mouth.
“I like the sound of that. How do I sign up for it?”
“You promise we won’t touch anyone else. Ever.”
You press a long, heated kiss to his parted lips.
“Easy enough for me.”
“Good.” Another smirk before he rolls you, pinning your smaller frame beneath him. “I fucked you like I hated you. Now you’re gonna find out how I fuck when I love you.”
You just whimper, wrap your fingers into his curls and drag him into another kiss. It’s going to be a long night.
#my writing#joel miller#the last of us#tommy miller#pedro pascal#joel miller x reader#Tommy Miller x reader#joel miller smut#tommy miller smut#pedro pascal character fic#tommy miller x you#joel miller x you
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III ║ Edgestitch
Joel Miller x F!Reader
{ Part II: Threads | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }
Rating: M
Summary: You wear those jeans for Joel when you see him again at the baby shower at Tommy and Maria's - like he asked you to.
Warnings: Spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, flirting, mention of food and drink, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N
Word count: 7k
Notes: It's here! This one was a long and winding road as I mentioned in Behind the Seams, I'm so relieved and excited when it all finally clicked and fell into place! I'm absolutely blown away by the love you guys have shown Joel and Pin so far, thank you, there's no greater motivation for a writer ❤️ I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!
‘Damnit, Lucy,’ you mutter under your breath, this close to stamping your foot and pouting at the door that refuses to lock up.
Lucy may be your best friend, but you’re not blind to the fact that she literally cannot be trusted to get anything done around the shop. It’s been two weeks since she promised to get the locksmith to come in, but here you are on Friday evening, wrestling with the key that refuses to turn the last quarter of an inch in the faulty lock.
‘Hey, Pin!’
Glancing over your shoulder, you force a wane smile at Tommy, who has his hands full with a cardboard box at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Need some help?’
‘Yes, please,’ you reply sheepishly.
You nod at the bottles of wine that clink delicately against one another as he sets them down. ‘Getting ready for the party on Sunday?’
Tommy steps up to the door and wriggles the key left and right experimentally. ‘Yeah, you comin’, right?’
‘Yes, with Lucy.’
‘Good, the more the merrier!’ He makes a face at the door lock, which is not cooperating with him either. ‘You should get someone to look at it. Probably time for a new one.’
‘Lucy was supposed to get Andrew to fix it, but you know Luce.’
Tommy yanks the door knob backwards hard as he twists the key. There’s a grunt of metal, and a triumphant aha! when it finally turns, the internal mechanisms of the lock sliding into place with a satisfying click.
You nearly fall onto your knees in relief. ‘Thank you so much, Tommy. You’re a lifesaver.’
He grins and deposits the key in your waiting palm. ‘You can ask Joel for help, you know. He’s handy with this kind of stuff.’
You blink, blindsided by the seemingly random mention of his brother - but his dimpled smile tells you otherwise.
His brother, who was so solid and broad under you on the studio floor, just a few days ago. His brother, who you can still feel pressed between your thighs, in your bed in the dead of night. His brother, who has taken up residence in your mind, waking or otherwise, since he sauntered out of your shop with that infuriatingly attractive confidence when he asked you to to wear those jeans for him again on Sunday.
Joel has existed solely and safely in the parameters of your workspace for the past fortnight and a half, with only Lucy bearing witness to whatever it is between the two of you. Having to suddenly deal with any mention of him outside of it, especially with that knowing arch of Tommy’s eyebrow, has you completely flustered. It doesn’t help that his eyes are uncannily like Joel’s, a gorgeous deep brown, expressive and sharp, though the mischief sits a lot closer to the surface in the former’s.
Mercifully, your brain unscrambles long enough for you to reach the conclusion that of course, Joel must have told Tommy that he invited you and Lucy. It’s their party, after all. Surely, he doesn’t know anything else -
Or does he?
You’ve been quiet for too long to say anything about it now, so you clumsily change the subject, stumbling over your words. ‘I, uh - I was just wondering what I could bring on Sunday?’
Tommy graciously lets you off the hook. ‘We’re a bit short on sweets, actually, if you bake.’
You latch on to that gratefully. ‘I do - what kind of cake were you thinking?’
‘Do you make a carrot cake?’
You perk up. ‘It’s my favourite!’
He flashes you a cheeky grin. ‘What a funny coincidence, it’s Joel’s as well - the only way to get carrots in him.’
Your pulse spikes with adrenaline at the unexpected tidbit Tommy drops in your lap, and you greedily squirrel that little fact away, slowly colouring in the Joel-shaped space in your head.
With a wink, Tommy bends down to pick up the wine. ‘See you in a couple of days, Pin!’
At least you have the decency to wait until he turns the corner - once he does, you sprint across the road to the Jackson Grocer’s and clear out their stock of carrots for the day.
There are many things about Jackson that throw Joel.
The plentitude after years of rations. The safety, which comes off more jarring than comforting.
But most of all, it’s the sounds. The kettle on the boil and the pop of the toaster in the morning when Ellie gets ready for school. Friendly chatter on the high street. Laughter. It still makes him jump when he hears playful shrieks in the neighbourhood playground, blood rushing in his ears and sending him halfway across the house for his rifle before he remembers where he is.
Where he is not.
It was always loud in the QZ. Loudspeakers blaring, alarms wailing, the indistinct hum of conversation and radio through paper thin walls in the slums at all hours of the day. And he was always listening - for danger, for trouble, and everything in between.
And then all that noise had blown up, literally, with the State House. With Tess.
Joel finds it hard to remember those first few days after leaving Boston behind. Mostly the raw cuts on his knuckles that wouldn’t heal and the ring in his right ear from the explosion, lingering like a pesky fly.
But he knows it was Ellie who broke that silence first. And once that door was kicked down -
‘Fuck no, dude!’
His face snaps up and he scowls across the lawn, the stern reprimand rolling off his tongue like second nature. ‘Ellie!’
She’s sitting with her friends, crowded around her most prized possession of the moment, a boombox she found in the thrift shop a couple of months ago and begged him to buy and fix up for her.
Not that she needed to do much begging, he caved far too easily. It plays a bit wonky - the bass too heavy - still, it does the trick.
The teenagers around her cower immediately, but she defiantly stands her ground. ‘What?’
‘Watch your language,’ he barks, no real bite behind it.
She rolls her eyes so hard her head falls back, and he has to press his lips together to not smile.
It helps him sleep better at night seeing Ellie fit right in - at least one of them has. She doesn’t hate going to school half as much as she pretends to, the routine of homework and chores anchoring her to small town life. She’s even volunteered to help out at the farm, spending most afternoons in the stables with the horses.
There are times when he wonders to which extent all this is a coping mechanism. But well, at least she’s coping.
And while Joel still hasn’t made up his mind about Jackson, its townsfolk seem to have unilaterally made theirs up about him. The wary whispers and watchful stares have given way to cautious gestures of acknowledgement, some even bold enough to throw a good morning in his general direction as he walks down the street.
They nod at him now as they file into the garden party, still keeping their distance, but not as much as he would’ve liked.
The expectant parents have gone all out for the occasion. Several tables are lined up end to end in the middle of the garden, filling up with potluck dishes as guests arrive. Tommy lords over the barbeque, the brisket having been smoking since dawn, with chicken, bacon and homemade sausages sizzling on the grill. Maria is in her element, flitting from well wisher to well wisher with a protective hand over her rounded belly, making sure everyone has a drink and a loaded plate in hand.
Joel hovers in no man’s land, dodging the crowds and sipping on beer that has long gone flat, trying to remember the last time he celebrated anything.
Well, he supposes dinner parties at Bill and Frank’s count, as far and few in between as they were. Not that they ever celebrated anything specific, per se - they didn’t need a reason beyond the fact that they were all still alive and kicking. Bill, bless his soul, did make a mean roast, and Frank used to host with enough flair for forty instead of four. Tess had a black dress she stowed away at the back of her closet for these parties, and a red one that she saved for the really special occasions -
A strong hand on his back jolts him forward and out of his thoughts, spilling lukewarm beer over his fingers.
‘Havin’ a good time, brother?’ asks Tommy jovially, cheeks stretched with joy.
‘I was just now,’ he grunts pointedly.
Tommy grins. ‘Lighten up, man. Get drunk, be merry! You’re gonna be an uncle.’
‘Don’t try to butter me up. I ain’t babysittin’ for you.’
Thumping his chest in mock hurt, he asks, ‘What about all those times I babysat Sarah, man?’
Joel gives him a long-suffering side stare. ‘Please. You used to hire that college chick ‘cross the street to babysit whenever you were supposed to. Then you’d hit on her all night long.’
Tommy chuckles. ‘Damn, your mind’s in better shape than I give you credit for, old man.’
He can’t help a smile. ‘But for all your devious plans to get into her babysitter’s pants, Sarah did love her Uncle Tommy.’
He goes quiet for a beat and takes a sip of his beer, his eyes softening. ‘I think about that girl every single day, y’know.’
Joel nods, staring into his own beer, and it suddenly strikes him that he’s missed the shape of her name on his lips. ‘I know.’
Tommy nudges him on the shoulder. ‘I can only hope my kid will love their Uncle Joel just as much.’
Eventually, he harrumphs, ‘If they do - I’ll think about the babysittin’.’
Tommy chortles just as the backdoor to the porch swings open with a loud creak.
Joel spots you easily, trailing one step behind Lucy. You’re holding onto a cake on a round wooden board like a security blanket, shoulders tense and eyes wide at the noise of the festivities. Spotting Maria, Lucy bounds down the stairs, leaving you hesitating at the landing, and -
You’re wearing the jeans he asked you to.
Something primal swells in the cavity of his chest, between his ribs - a pride that is distinctly male.
Tommy shouts, ‘Pin! Over here!’
Joel shifts on his feet, swallowing thickly as you approach. If your shy smile is anything to go by, he’s not the only one feeling the nerves.
His brother gives you a careful hug around the cake and plants a kiss on your cheek. When he steps aside, Joel hesitates, uneasy with having an audience, his palms suddenly clammy with indecision.
Does he… hug you? He can count on three fingers who he’s hugged for the past twenty years, and he’s sorely out of practice. A kiss is an option, but the way his eyes dart to your mouth, it’s dangerous even entertaining that thought -
Tommy elbows him in the ribs and puts him out of his misery. ‘Why don’t you kids catch up, I think the brisket’s burnin’. Have fun tonight!’
Joel can feel the tip of his ears turning red as he stands there with his drink, one hand shoved in his back pocket, not knowing how to do this. How to entertain. Clearing his throat, he stammers, ‘Uh - can I get you a drink or somethin’?’
You give him a small smile, lips moving in an answer too quiet to reach him over the music. Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, he admits, ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m uh - a bit deaf in my right ear.’
You look apologetic, speaking up, ‘I’m sorry - I didn’t know.’
With a shrug, he jokes, ‘It’s ok, I’m a bit broken all over.’
You pinch your lips, and he recoginses that face - he knows that you want to disagree with him. But you hold your tongue, skirting around him to his good ear, and he stoops to close the distance, even though he doesn’t need to.
Your breath brushes his ear. ‘I’d love a drink, but I want to put this cake away first.’
‘Yes, of course - sorry, don’t know where my manners went.’ He puts his unfinished beer away and takes the cake from you despite your protests. The potluck table is packed to the brim, so he gestures towards the house. ‘It might have to go into the kitchen for now.’
You follow him, side by side with one polite body width between you, past bands of neighbours and friends catching up, the fairy lights catching your eyes and the well-kept lawn crunching beneath your soles. Unsurprisingly, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back as you go - Joel is still very much a novelty around town. Neither of you speak until he holds open the backdoor for you to slip inside.
It’s quiet in the kitchen, the muted conversation outside a low hum through the double-glazed windows. The free-standing island is already chock full of all kinds of baked goods and pudding, and Joel has to move an actual jelly castle (which wriggles precariously) to free up space for your contribution.
Dusting his hands, Joel turns to you. ‘That carrot cake?’
You nod, keeping mum.
‘It’s my favourite.’
‘I know - Tommy told me,’ you confess with a bashful half-shrug.
His warm eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Talkin’ about me behind my back, sweetheart?’
Your breath quickens at the sweetheart, and you wonder if the thrill of the nickname will ever wear thin. Emboldened, you tilt your head to one side and tease, ‘Why? You like the attention?’
A smirk on his lips, he steps into your space, the very proximity of him stealing the air from your lungs. ‘I might if you’re not careful.’
And there you are again - with nothing more than a dozen words exchanged and even more unsaid - on the brink of something, right where you left off on the workshop floor.
‘Wanna grab a bite to eat?’
Tucked away in an intimate corner of the back porch in a wicker chair, Joel surveys the party with a seriousness that is borderline comical.
The strategist in him clearly favours the higher ground the porch affords him so he can keep an eye on everyone and spot whoever approaches from a distance. His seat is an easy three steps to the door, an escape plan in his back pocket. For all his stillness, the intensity is unmistakable, if slightly out of place in a baby shower.
Two dirty plates licked clean are stacked on the coffee table between you, piled high with bones and leftover gravy, the delicious food sitting warm in your stomach.
‘They’re comin’ closer,’ Joel complains, taking a long gulp of his beer.
‘I guess they figure if I’m talking to you, it means that you don’t actually bite,’ you quip.
‘Will they back off if I make you cry?’
Your shoulders quake with a chuckle. ‘I think you’re too much of a gentleman to do that, Joel Miller.’
You’re taken aback by the flash of heat in his answering glance, as if there’s something he wants to say. But then, he changes his mind and leans back in his chair, one palm resting on his spread thighs, and he nods towards a couple standing close to the barbeque.
‘Who’s that over there? He lives on my street.’
‘That’s Andrew. He owns the only hot tub in Jackson.’
Joel splutters, ‘A hot tub?’
‘To be fair, it came with his house, but he managed to connect it to the water a few months ago.’
He snorts. ‘Not very communist of him to divert public resources for a private hot tub.’
‘Let’s just say Jackson is a commune with American characteristics,’ you say diplomatically.
He arches an eyebrow at you. ‘A cynic, sweetheart?’
You reply matter-of-factly, ‘We all know how communism ended.’
Fuck. He takes a swig of his beer and swallows hard. A woman after his own heart.
‘You want to keep him on your good side though. He’s really handy with electrics and the like.’
He shrugs. ‘So am I.’
You turn to him, surprised. ‘Oh?’
‘I was a contractor in another life.’
He notices your attention flicker to his hands, before you catch yourself and look away bashfully. ‘That’s good to know.’
‘You need things fixed?’ he asks, and promptly wants to kick himself for sounding so hopeful to be of service.
‘Here and there,’ you say with a dismissive wave. ‘It’s not important. It’ll hold up.’
He runs his tongue over his bottom lip thoughtfully. You have to work on asking for things, but it’s ok - he doesn’t push you. He files that away for later.
Glancing across the yard, he catches Ellie’s eye, who’s arching an inquisitive eyebrow and pointing straight at you with all the subtlety of a flying brick. He knows he should probably introduce you at some point, but he’s not ready to share your attention with someone else just yet, let alone the nosy teenage loudmouth.
Joel gives her a firm shake of the head, to which she responds with a disgruntled I’m watching you gesture.
Ignoring her for now - and knowing that he’ll pay for it later - he asks you, ‘And who’s that in the red dress?’
You crane your neck until you spot her. ‘Ah, that’s Patricia. She’s the dance teacher down at the school.’
‘Why’s she starin’ at me?’ he mutters.
You shoot him an amused grin. ‘Why, it looks like you’ve caught the fancy of our local femme fatale.’
He scoffs. ‘Should I be worried?’
‘Well, she’s been married and divorced three times since she arrived,’ you answer with a straight face. ‘The last one just disappeared. Never found his body.’
Joel stares at you in stunned silence, until you let out a poorly contained giggle. He grumbles, ‘Havin’ fun pullin’ my leg, sweetheart?’
‘Just a bit,’ you tease.
‘I liked you better when you were shy,’ he ribs.
You shrug. ‘Too late. You don’t scare me anymore.’
Glancing the other way, Joel sits up in alarm at the flutter of crimson fabric. ‘Shit, I think she’s comin’ this way.’
‘Time for carrot cake?’ you prompt.
He’s out of his chair quicker than you’d expect his knees would allow him to. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’
The state of the kitchen island stops you in your tracks, while Joel lets out a low whistle behind you. ‘Jackson really turned out for this party, huh?’
‘Well, your brother and sister-in-law are pretty popular around town,’ you quip.
You didn’t think it was possible, but every square inch of the kitchen island is now jam-packed with sugary confections, stacked on top of one another.
‘I can’t even find the bloody cake,’ you laugh, literally searching high and low as you skirt the parameter.
On the other side of the island, Joel tosses a dry good luck in your direction and puts the dirty plates and cutlery that he brought in into the sink with a clatter, turning on the hot water. You stutter to a stop opposite him, gawking at how his broad shoulders fill the frame of the window that sits in front of the sink, before your gaze inadvertently trails south - over the nip of his waist and the hem of his shirt skirting the back pockets of his jeans. You find yourself wishing he’d tucked the tails in.
Rooted to the spot, you watch him unbutton the cuffs on his flannel shirt and push up the sleeves to the crease of his elbows, baring his strong forearms. Your mouth goes dry despite the wine you’ve been sipping on all evening, peering at the sinewy muscles flexing and straining as he lathers the plates with an offhand familiarity, his thick fingers dwarfing the sponge in as he works the grease stains.
Making quick but thorough work of the washing up, Joel dries the plates and then runs the tea towel over his big hands and wrists, catching you staring as he turns around. If he knows you’ve been watching all along, he lets it slide. Tossing the towel to one side, heat prickles under your cheeks when he sidles up to you with the clean plates.
The sight of this man doing something as mundane as dishes really shouldn’t get you this hot and bothered.
‘Is that cream cheese?’ he asks conversationally with a nod at your cake, which you have found sitting on top of a tall plastic caddy, a chocolate cake inside.
Having to consciously unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you’re surprised your voice doesn’t shake. ‘It’s not carrot cake without it.’
‘Where did you get the cream cheese? Never seen any ‘round town.’
Almost bashful, you admit, ‘I made it.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You made cream cheese? How?’
‘It’s not that big a deal. It’s just milk, lemon and salt,’ you say, trying to downplay it. Your arms are definitely not aching from the hours of straining and beating and whipping.
‘And the walnuts?’ he asks.
‘Someone I know grows it,’ you say vaguely.
Joel hums doubtfully. ‘Ain’t seen any walnut trees in town.’
Biting your bottom lip, you can pinpoint the exact moment he figures it out, brows drawing together in a frown. ‘The only ones I’ve seen are outside the walls, ‘round the north side of the gates.’
Knowing for a fact that you’re a terrible liar, you don’t even try. You choose to ignore him, idly smoothing the frosting on top with a clean knife, trying not to flinch at the weight of his gaze on you.
‘Sweetheart, please tell me you didn’t go outside just to get walnuts for me.’
‘Not for you,’ you shoot back unconvincingly, flustered. ‘I made the cake for Tommy and Maria.’
Lies. You know it. He knows it.
His shoulders stiffen, the fabric of his shirt bunching with the movement. ‘You can’t just go outside like that, y’know, there could be infected ‘round -’
‘Joel, I’ve been living here for years, I know what I’m doing,’ you argue huffily, not expecting a lecture, of all things. ‘I’m not stupid.’
He shakes his head. ‘Ain’t what I’m sayin’, Pin -’
‘Just leave it, ok?’ you reply sharply and, signalling an end to the conversation, you slice into the cake with an aggressive stab - not noticing that it is hanging over the edge of the caddy below.
You squeak when it flips unceremoniously, and on pure impulse, you pitch forward to stop its upward trajectory, meeting it mid-air with an ominous splat.
‘Fuck!’
To his credit, Joel barely skips a beat, quickly but calmly grabbing hold of the cake board and pulling it off you, setting it down on the counter, while you gape in dismay at the damage done.
The side of the cake that made contact with you is smushed in, most of the thick frosting now painted all over your front, from your neck down to the lovely, thin cashmere top that Lucy picked out for you for the party.
You really hope there’s a big guy up there watching, because someone might as well enjoy this mortifying brand of comedy you keep dishing out around this man.
Two seconds more, and you’re pretty sure you would’ve burst into tears for lack of knowing what else to do - but without another word, Joel takes the lead, wrapping a firm hand around your wrist and pulling you out of the kitchen.
You gratefully let him.
It’s none of your business really, but it comforts you that Joel’s obviously here often enough to know his way around the house.
You glance around the dimly lit room where he deposited you on the edge of a neatly made bed, water trickling in the adjoining ensuite. When he returns, he has a small, wet towel in his hands. Towering over you, the low lights don’t quite reach his face, but you can see the way his gaze slips downwards, carefully, as if he’s afraid to startle you.
But he doesn’t - not even when he slides the crook of his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up and opening up your throat.
His lips twitch wryly. ‘What a waste of perfectly good cream cheese.’
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Must something always go wrong whenever we’re in the same room?’
The corner of his mouth teases a smile. ‘Never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’
You smile back, but it falters when his eyes burn in a quiet but unmistakable smoulder.
‘May I?’
You’re not even sure what he’s asking. But he can ask you anything in that raspy, low baritone, and there will always only be one answer.
At your nod, Joel drags the tip of his index finger down the column of your neck, and your lips part when it glides over your windpipe - pressing just hard enough for you to feel the pressure - collecting the velvety frosting as it goes.
Then, holding your eyes, he sucks the cream cheese off his fingertip, a hum deep in his throat. ‘Delicious, sweetheart.’
You’re sitting down, but somehow, you still feel your knees give way at how he smacks his lips at the sugary aftertaste.
He looms closer, bending at the waist and for one moment of madness, you think he might lean down and lick your neck clean.
At the prospect of those plush lips and the burn of his silvered, patchy beard on your skin, your head tilts further back invitingly. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, like he’s picking up on what you’re thinking, and his eyes dip to your mouth.
But he doesn’t.
You don’t even have time to be disappointed before Joel carefully gets down on one knee in front of you, one palm landing on the mattress next to your hip for balance. Knowing the state of his joints, you want to ask if he needs a pillow, but instead of your mouth, it’s your thighs that part to make room for him. His chest keeps them splayed open, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage with each breath through the denim.
You try to focus on your own breathing as Joel presses the wet towel to your skin and mops up the sticky mess, his face set seriously as he cleans you up inch by inch. But all you can think about is how you can feel the imprint of his fingers through the thin fabric, and how the span of his hand can easily fit over the column of your throat -
You don’t realise you’re leaning into him until he draws back when he’s done, and you tip forward, chasing his touch. His knee groans as he stands up to his full height, and he nods towards the bathroom with a wait here in his eyes.
The water is scalding as Joel washes out the frosting from the towel, but he keeps his hands under the tap, longer than he needs to. Wringing it dry, he takes a moment, wet palms gripping the cold porcelain edge of the bathroom sink, shoulders hunched over as he tells himself to calm the fuck down.
Except, he is calm. He’s held back, even when you looked at him with such straightforward, honest want that has him grinding his teeth.
Thing is, he knows you would’ve let him nudge you backwards into the mattress and crowd you between his arms, switching places the two of you were in under your sewing desk in the workshop.
He knows you would’ve let him wrap your legs around his hips, sliding his palms up the back of your thighs in those skin tight jeans - the sight of which is enough to make his head spin - and he knows you would’ve let him nip, suck, lick the tangy buttercream off your very neck.
Not only would you have let him - you would’ve trusted him to do all those things to you.
That last realisation awakens something he’s not so sure he has a handle on. But he knows for a fact that with the whole of Jackson milling about downstairs, in the middle of his brother’s baby shower, is neither the place nor the time.
You’re where he left you when he steps back into the bedroom, your palms planted on the bed, your shoulders relaxed. The neckline of your blouse gapes loosely, teasing the soft skin of your cleavage.
Joel breaks the loaded silence with a bit of common sense. ‘You best get that top off and soak it in the bath before the stains really set in, sweetheart.’
You bite your lip hesitantly. ‘I - I don’t have anything to change into.’
‘You can have my shirt,’ he offers.
You sit up, attention piqued, when his hands move to the top of his flannel, thick fingers sliding each button out of the holes one by one. You know he’s just taking off his shirt, but you can’t help the way your jaw goes slack, watching shamelessly, the comforter twisting in your grip as you scrabble for something to hold onto.
Joel doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him like that, but it’s so flattering to watch you watch him, eyes hooded and your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip, like he’s giving you a fucking strip tease or something.
Goddamn if it doesn’t go straight to his head.
A white undervest comes into view, inch by inch, as the shirt falls open, the thin fabric pulled taut at the seams over the broad stretch of his chest. When the last button is undone, he shrugs the shirt off with a smooth roll of his arms, and your jaw drops.
The undervest barely contains the bulk of him, and you’ll be damned if you know where to look first - the lean, solid line of his arms, or the effortless ripple of muscle in his shoulders - but it’s lower where your attention makes landing, and it takes you a second to realise why.
He’s not sucking in his tummy.
The swell of his abdomen sits above the top of his jeans, where the vest is neatly tucked in. You remember too well the brush of that soft strip of skin against the back of your hands when you were on your knees, cutting him out of his jeans; and then beneath you, straddling him under the sewing table.
While there’s an undercurrent of self-consciousness in the way he holds himself, conspicuously missing is the self-deprecation that drew your ire the day he walked into your shop with a broken zipper. A tentative confidence has taken its place, which is at the same time so endearingly vulnerable, as if your reaction to the little show he gave you just now isn’t enough to assure him of what you’re thinking.
Your fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and tug him in by the front of his jeans, to untuck that vest and push it up and off. You want to snake your hands around his waist, hold him to you by the small of his back, and starting with his tummy, kiss your way across the soft belly - maybe with a cheeky scrape of teeth - up to his firm chest, his strong neck and to his lips.
Or maybe, the calling southwards will win out. You’ll push him back to make room for yourself at his feet, nudging your way down his front with your nose, breathe him in, your hands finding his belt buckle and tugging it out of the loops instead. Never mind you've lost count of how many years it's been since you've wanted to do that, or if you remember how at all -
‘Pin.’
Your whole body jolts backwards when his voice pierces through your addled haze, low and raspy, snapping out of your sordid stupor almost grumpily - how rude of him to interrupt? - only to find him peering down at you with a lopsided smile.
‘Get changed, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.’
Leaving your top to soak in the sink, you pad back into the bedroom in just your bra, and you stare down at his shirt laid out neatly on top of the bed.
You press your palm over where his heart would be, the flannel still warm. For one indulgent moment, you pick up the shirt and hug it to you. It smells like him - the outdoors, a crisp spring day, with a whiff of the barbeque smoke from downstairs. You bury your nose into the soft fabric, eyes closed, imagining the weight and shape of him in it.
Even as you put your arms through the sleeves to button it up, you already know it will be hard giving it back. You leave the last three buttons undone and you’ve just tied up the too-long ends in a double knot when there’s a polite but firm knock on the door.
‘You decent?’
‘Yes.’
You hope your face doesn’t fall too obviously at the sight of Joel wearing a shirt again, probably one borrowed from Tommy. He leaves it unbuttoned though, which is small consolation. The air hums between you with stolen glances and words unsaid.
‘You wore those jeans for me,’ he says suddenly.
The for me rolls off his tongue coated in his delectable Southern drawl and a heady satisfaction.
You decide to be brave and shrug one shoulder in a show of attitude. ‘It was the only thing I didn’t have in the wash.’
His grin makes your heart swell. Stepping out of the open doorway, his eyes trailing heat where they linger over you, he says, ‘You look good in my shirt, sweetheart. Real good.’
You bite your lower lip at the compliment, replying shyly, ‘I like this look on you too.’
‘Used to be Tommy’s uniform during our contractor days,’ he reminiscences. ‘I’m just missing the utility belt.’
Oh. You actually find it offensive that the fleeting mention of something as banal as a utility belt should get you going like this. You try to palm off a non-committal hum, but your body betrays you with a strangled choking sound that gives you away.
Joel arches an eyebrow and closes the gap between you with three long, deliberate steps, one finger skimming where his shirt meets the waistband of your jeans. He teases with a smirk, ‘What’s that, sweetheart? This contractor look doin’ somethin’ for you?’
Your cheeks grow hot as both his palms latch boldly onto your hips, and you swear you can feel the burn of his fingertips through the denim, a moan gargling in your throat as your ability to form words abandons you.
‘That a yes?’ he prompts, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops in your jeans and tugging your body flush against his, his stubbled chin brushing the sensitive crook of your neck as he speaks into your ear.
‘Joel,’ you whine, which is the best you can do right now, grabbing onto the open flaps of his shirt just to stay upright.
You feel the rumble that goes through his chest under your palms when he purrs, smiling down at you, head cocked to one side with a playful condescension that’s going to be the end of you. ‘Yes, Pin?’
Your mouth opens, but you’ll never get to find out what you intended to say, because you hear it first - his right ear is to the door - the thunder of rubber soles on the stairs, and you're lucky you manage to stumble two steps back before a deafening (no pun intended), drawn-out call of his name follows.
‘JOOOOOOELLLL!’
Ellie crashes into the doorway with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, slightly out of breath like she’s been running all over the place searching for him, already in the middle of a sentence, as usual.
‘- also Maria says they’re doing a speech now and you’re not getting out of -’ she breaks off abruptly when she spots you, eyes wide and brows - all one and a half of them - reaching for her hairline. ‘Oh shiiiiiit.’
Running a tired hand down his face, Joel’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender. ‘Ellie, this is Pin. Pin, I’m sorry.’
You bite your lip to hold back a laugh at the resignation in his tone as the teenager wrinkles her nose. ‘Pin? That’s a weird name.’
‘Ellie!’
You smile. ‘It’s ok. Pin's just my nickname. I’m a seamstress at the Main Street Outfitters.’
Her face lights up excitedly, an open book if you’ve ever seen one. ‘No shit! I’ve been bugging Joel for a leather jacket for ages. Can I get one?’
‘Please,’ he interjects.
Ellie tucks in her chin and juts out her bottom lip at you. ‘Please?’
You demur. ‘Well, it depends on what you can trade in for it.’
‘My boombox!’ she volunteers without skipping a beat.
Joel scoffs. ‘Good to know those three weeks fixing that piece of junk for you was time well spent.'
‘Sorry, man, but I can’t wear a boombox can I?’ she argues.
Giving Joel an amused look, you come to his rescue. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie, but we only take clothes in exchange.’ At the way she deflates, you counteroffer, ‘Or, you can come work at the shop on Saturdays for the next couple of months. Lucy always needs help out front, and you get a staff discount.’
He turns to you, protesting, ‘That’s very kind, but it ain’t necessary -’
Ellie cuts in, rushing up to you to shake your hand before you can take it back. ‘Deal! When can I start?’
‘There’s no rush,’ you reply with a chuckle. ‘I’ll get back to you next week.’
Stepping back, Ellie winks, ‘So - let’s put a pin in it for now?’
Joel groans at the terrible pun. ‘Get outta here!’
She cackles, firing triumphant finger guns at you as she retreats. ‘What? Pin liked it, she laughed! You’re no fun old man!’
She then pauses by the door, her eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on something smeared on your jeans. ‘Wait - what’s that white stuff on your leg?’
‘It’s cream cheese, you little shit!’ Joel snaps as your ears burn in embarrassment. ‘Out!’
She scampers out of sight, but then reverses into view, sneakers squeaking. ‘ - Are you wearing Joel’s shirt?’
‘ELLIE!’
She throws her hands up. ‘Alright, I’m gone, I’m gone! See ya Pin!’
Joel is the very picture of an embarrassed dad, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. ‘Sorry, she’s a handful.’
You grin, ‘She’s just a teenager.’
‘You can say that again.’
The quiet seems louder after Ellie, and you restlessly pick at the sleeves. Lifting your eyes shyly, it seems the moment has passed - but Joel has other ideas.
‘C’mere,’ he hums, drawing you close again with one hand on your waist, peering down at you through his lashes. ‘This ok?’
At your nod, he brushes his thumb on your bottom lip, catching the soft plump skin, and your tongue darts out to taste him, his eyes darkening.
‘Can I kiss you, sweetheart?’ he asks, voice hoarse.
It’s been years. Years since anyone has cared enough to kiss you, let alone cared enough to ask if they could. And it’s as if he knows - you don’t know if you’ve somehow given it away, or maybe it’s just him.
‘Yes, Joel.’
He coaxes you closer so that you’re pressed along the whole length of him. His big palms are warm and solid on the small of your back, holding you to him like he intends for you to have trouble standing after he’s done with you.
The tip of his nose bumps into your cheek, nudging its way across and down, and your eyes slide shut when his shaky exhale grazes your gently parted mouth. Your breath hitches at the sweet burn of his beard on your jaw, fingers grabbing onto the scruff of his neck when he finally, finally brushes his lips against yours.
For a man as hardened as Joel Miller, he sure kisses soft. He steals a whimper straight from your throat with nothing more than the clever angling of his lips, the slow drag of tongue on tongue, and a growl deep in his windpipe that you answer with your own moan.
You don’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed when your shins knock into his, breaking the kiss with a laugh as Joel hauls you up into his chest, looking very much pleased that he’s literally made your knees buckle.
‘Sorry,’ you squeak, beaming despite yourself.
‘You really know how to flatter a guy, sweetheart,’ he answers, his voice warming you like a smokey campfire, steadying by his hands on your hips.
‘We should probably go before Ellie comes back for us,’ you say reluctantly.
Joel huffs, ‘Ain’t gonna hear the end of it if she does.’
‘Something tells me you won’t be hearing the end of it tonight anyway,’ you tease.
He chucks you gently under the chin, his eyes soft. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’
‘You’ve made yourself scarce,’ remarks Lucy as she ambles up to you with a glass of wine running low. ‘Where you been, hon?’
‘Had some trouble with the cake,’ you answer vaguely.
‘Sure,’ she winks at you, unconvinced. ‘If we’re calling him that.’
Right on cue, Joel strides across the lawn with three plates to join you. ‘Thought you might want some of Pin’s carrot cake.’
‘Such a gentleman, Joel Miller,’ chirps Lucy, making what can only be described as a 'thirst face' at you when his back is turned to her.
‘Thanks, Joel,’ you smile at him, letting your fingers graze his deliberately when you take the plate from him.
Saluting you with a forkful of cake, he says, ‘Thank you for bakin’, sweetheart.’
You watch as his lips close around the fork, dragging the cake clean off the slots, cream cheese smearing the corner of his mouth. He frowns, as if in deep pain as he chews, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows.
‘Okay?’ you ask nervously, your slice still untouched.
‘Perfect,’ he declares, already having a second, bigger bite. Knowing he doesn’t have a superfluous bone in his body, your chest warms at his words.
‘Wait a second,’ Lucy interrupts, bringing up her plate to inspect it closely. ‘Why does the cake look all wonky?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Luce,’ you answer coolly, taking a bite yourself.
Humming around a mouthful of moist crumb, the sweet carrot balanced out by the tangy frosting, you meet Joel’s eyes in the soft glow of fairy lights, and he flashes you a conspiratorial smile that makes you grin.
More notes: On Ellie - I was so so nervous about writing our resident teenage badass. I hope I've done her justice, I certainly had a lot of fun writing her introduction to Pin! If you're interested in a detailed deep dive into my process writing this chapter, I do recommend you read the Behind the Seams for this part ❤️
I also went back and forth on the tone and style of this chapter a lot. I wasn’t happy with the way it read, probably still not 100% happy. I like the way Seams and Threads were written better, but the fact is that this chapter is a very different setting and narrative compared to the first two, so I’m trying to be too hard on myself.
So, I have some ideas for where the story will go from here, but nothing concrete. As I've mentioned, I see this fic as more of a loose-fit series, so there's no overarching plot per se, but there's definitely a lot of room for future episodes of these two - I mean, they haven't even done the deed yet 😉
Comments, asks and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always! Thank you so much for reading, I'm so excited to hear what you guys thought of this chapter 😘
#fuckyeahseams#seams iii#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x female reader#joel miller x fem!reader#joel miller imagine#tlou fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal character fic
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title: my tears ricochet | part i
pairing: husband's best friend!joel miller x female reader
rating: chapter - t; full work - explicit (18+ MDNI)
word count: 7k
summary: after moving from new york to texas with your fiance, you expect to jump right into wedding planning with his help. when he claims to be too busy, he suggests asking his best friend, joel miller, to help you instead.
you weren't supposed to fall in love with him.
author's note: this story is a three part fic inspired by the song "my tears ricochet" by taylor swift. this first part is reader's POV, part two will be joel's POV, and the third part will be dual POV. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging or commenting!
chapter tags: modern au, infidelity, emotional abuse, the fiance is shitty, no use of y/n, single POV (reader), wedding dress shopping and other wedding planning activities, angst, arguing, alcohol consumption/mention, kissing, no smut. please let me know if i've missed any!
major work tags: modern au, infidelity, explicit sexual content, character death
You stare out at the manicured yard, watching as guests move about the grounds and waiters in black uniforms carry trays of food and drinks through the crowd. Your boyfriend -- wait, no, fiancé -- Alex laughs boisterously with your father, a hand on his back in easy familiarity. You know you should be down there with him given that this is your engagement party, but you were starting to feel overwhelmed by the constant smiling and greeting strangers and showing off your shiny new engagement ring that you needed a break.
The door opens and a man you don't recognize steps into the room, pale blue dress shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and a pair of wrinkled dress pants. He runs a hand through his messy dark curls.
"Sorry, I didn't think anyone would be in here," he says. As he looks you over, his brown eyes go wide with surprise. "Shit, you're the bride!"
You smile at him. "That's me," you reply. You hold a hand out towards him as you give him your name, his rough palm sliding against yours as he grips it firmly.
"I'm Joel Miller," he tells you. You know the name well, being that he's your fiancé's best friend. "Didn't mean to make our first time meetin' so awkward."
"No, no, it's not your fault. I've just been feeling a little overwhelmed with all the," you wave your hand towards the window, "festivities. It's great to finally meet you."
"I don't blame ya. They can get pretty stuffy down there. Congrats, by the way."
"Thank you." He lets go of your hand. "So, why are you hiding?"
He laughs, deep and full bellied. "Alex's mom doesn't like me much. I'm sure she was hopin' that we would stop bein' friends when he went to school on the other side of the country, but I’m like a stubborn tick."
"How could she not like you, Alex told me that the two of you have been best friends since kindergarten!"
"There may have been a few mishaps in high school," he says. "You ever tried eggin' your principal's house?"
"Can't say that I have," you reply.
"Well, it doesn't end well if you get caught." He looks out the window with a smile on his face. "We got arrested. Alex's dad had to bail us out. Probably had to throw some hush money around so that it wouldn't show up on his record when he applied to school."
"He's never told me that!" You say, laughing hard enough around the words that your stomach hurts.
The door opens and this time, Alex himself steps into the room. His serious expression morphs into a smile when he sees you and Joel.
"There you are," he says, crossing the room to kiss your cheek. He greets Joel with a hug, patting his back roughly. "What are you two doing in here?"
"I just needed a minute alone," you tell him.
"And I crashed her minute alone. Told her about the time we got arrested in high school," Joel adds. Alex's jaw tenses, his smile tight as his eyes flick to you, like he's worried about your reaction. "She laughed. It's all good."
"Right. Well, I came to find you because its time for the toast and dinner," Alex says. "Let's get back down to our guests."
A hand at the small of your back urges you towards the door before you can reply.
"Alex, are you listening to me?" You ask. Your fiancé looks up from his phone.
"I'm sorry, baby, I was finishing an e-mail," he says. He sets his phone down on the table, dark screen facing up, and gives you his full attention. "What were you saying?"
"I wanted to schedule the cake tasting. Do you have any free time this week?"
He grimaces. "I don't think I do, sweetheart. Your dad's got my schedule pretty packed."
"I can just ask him to--"
"No," he says sternly. "You know I have to make a good impression with the rest of the firm."
"But--"
"Babe, no. I can't do this week. Why don't you ask my mom? Or Joel?"
While your future mother-in-law is kind enough, you don't have much patience for the way she tries to take control of your wedding planning. Joel, however, might be a good idea. He knows Alex well enough to be a stand in for a decision like cake and icing flavors.
"Could you give me Joel's number?"
Alex smiles, seemingly pleased that he's off the hook as he takes his phone in hand and sends you his best friend's phone number.
You meet Joel at the bakery that week. To your surprise he's there before you, dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt and he smiles brightly at you as you approach.
"Hey," he says. "Ready to eat some cake?"
"I think this will be my favorite part of planning this whole wedding," you reply. He laughs as he pulls the door open for you to step inside, following in behind you.
"Welcome to Buttercup Bakery! Can I help y'all with anything?" A young woman with a name tag reading BEVERLY asks from behind the counter, pink and white apron tied around her waist.
"I have a cake tasting appointment," you reply, giving her your name for the reservation.
"Excellent! If you want to go ahead and take a seat anywhere you'd like, I'll bring out the tasting options and we'll get you squared away in no time!"
She disappears through swinging doors as you and Joel take a seat at a pink acrylic table with matching chairs. He looks around the shop with interest.
"What made you pick this place?" He asks.
"Had the best reviews," you say with a shrug. His brow furrows.
"Alex didn't suggest it? He helpin' you at all with this weddin'?"
He says it with a laugh, but the question makes you dig your fingernails into your palm. "He's just really busy with work. I've been doing a lot of the planning."
“What about your uh, what are they called? Bridesmaids?”
“They’re all back in New York. It’s just me.”
“I thought your parents were here, too? Isn’t Alex workin’ with your dad now?”
“It’s just my dad, he’s back in New York. His partner opened a firm in Austin and Alex is working with that office. He’s hoping to make partner soon, too.”
Joel nods, eyes scanning your face but you keep your expression as neutral as possible. The swinging doors open and Beverly returns with a marble tray, bites of cake artfully arranged on the surface. She sets it on the table between you and Joel.
“Okay! These are our six most popular flavor combinations for you to start with and if there’s something more custom you have in mind, we can totally make that happen,” she says. “Starting at the top, we have classic vanilla with vanilla buttercream, chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and chocolate buttercream, our signature champagne cake with strawberry buttercream, lemon cake with lavender buttercream, caramel cake with caramel mocha buttercream, and white chocolate cake with raspberry jam and white chocolate raspberry buttercream.”
Joel grins at you. “This might be the best thing anyone has ever asked me to help with.”
“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Beverly says with a wink, walking back to the counter.
“I don’t know which to start with,” you say, eyes scanning the selections.
“That chocolate one is callin’ my name,” Joel replies, spearing one of the chocolate cake bites with a fork and taking a bite. He hums appreciatively. “Oh yeah, that one is a winner.”
You choose the vanilla to start, taking a bite of the moist cake with buttercream that tastes strongly of vanilla bean with a hint of cinnamon. The simplicity makes it good, but overall the flavor doesn't stand out to you. Joel continues to take bites seemingly at random while you opt to go around the tray in the order that Beverly introduced the flavors.
"Any of them stickin' out to you?" Joel asks when you've reached the half-way point.
"They're all delicious," you reply. "I think Alex would probably like the vanilla best, though."
"I didn't ask what Alex would like, I asked if there were any that you liked." He spears the remaining piece of white chocolate raspberry with his fork and holds it up to you. "Here, try this one next."
You eye the fork dubiously. "I don't think--"
Joel slips the bite of cake into your mouth despite your interrupted disagreement, smiling at you triumphantly. You chew the bite begrudgingly.
"I think that one and the chocolate one are my favorite," Joel says as you swallow.
Beverly returns at that moment, a notepad in hand as she pulls up a third chair to the tiny bistro table.
“So? What are your thoughts?”
“I think I’m going to get the vanilla,” you tell her. Joel’s jaw ticks, almost like he’s upset you’ve chosen the flavor that you said Alex would like. “But, could I get alternating tiers of the white chocolate raspberry, too?”
Joel’s lips quirk up in a small smile and you try to ignore the way it makes your stomach flip.
Joel: Have you picked flowers yet?
Not yet.
Joel: I know a place. You busy today?
You stare the at the message in surprise. You weren’t expecting to hear from Joel again, but his name on your screen has you fighting back a smile.
I’m not busy. When did you want to go?
Joel: They open at noon. Here’s the address.
“Baby, have you seen my blue tie?” Alex calls from upstairs. You drop your phone to the counter like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.
“Which one?” You reply, pressing a hand to your chest.
“The plaid one!”
“Should be in your tie drawer!”
“It’s not here!”
You pinch your nose, making your way to the stairs to join him in your shared bedroom. He’s standing in front of his tie drawer, hands on his hips as he stares at the contents. You peek over his shoulder and reach into the back, pulling out the neatly folded blue and green patterned tie.
He takes it from your hand. “That one should be towards the front. Can you remember that next time you put away dry cleaning?”
“Sure.” You bite your lip to hold back the sigh that threatens to spill. “You want me to tie it for you?”
“No, thanks, I need it to be perfect. Big meeting,” he says, his lips tilted in a smile that feels condescending. He leans into you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” you murmur, watching his back as he enters the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
Joel is waiting outside of a dark green storefront when you arrive at the address he���d sent you. He smiles when he sees you, a true one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, and it gives you this strange feeling of emptiness because you can’t remember the last time Alex smiled at you like that.
When you’re close enough, he pulls you into a hug that envelops you in strong arms and the scent of woods at nightfall with a hint of citrus. Your eyes flutter shut as you hug him back and breathe him in.
He releases you and immediately you feel a chill in losing his warmth despite the oppressive Texas heat. You look at the shop as he steps back, taking in the gorgeous floral arrangements in the window and cursive script painted on the glass that says PETAL TO THE METAL.
Joel opens the door to the shop, a brass bell ringing to announce your entrance. A man at the counter in the center of the store looks up and grins at you both.
“Joel! Nice to see you,” the man says. You watch as they shake hands with familiarity, the man behind the counter smiling kindly. “You must be the bride. I’m Frank.”
You give Joel a look of surprise before introducing yourself and shaking Frank’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you two know each other?”
“Joel’s an old friend of ours.”
“Ours?”
A back door bangs open, someone emerging with their arms so full of potted plants you can’t see their face. A deep voice let’s out a series of curses.
“This is my partner, Bill,” Frank says. “He’s not much of a people person. Great with plants, though.”
“A little help would be nice,” Bill grunts. Frank rolls his eyes but leaves the counter to take a couple pots from Bill’s hands, revealing a man with long brown hair and a grizzled expression hidden amongst a thick beard. Frank leans in and kisses his cheek.
“You need only ask,” Frank says. Bill’s cheeks turn pink beneath his thick facial hair. Despite the annoyed expression on his face, his eyes are soft as he watches Frank. “Let me grab you the event portfolio and we can talk about your wedding. Have a look around.”
As Frank leaves and Bill busies himself arranging the new plants, you and Joel wander the shop and take in aisles and shelves of different flowers with little gold name cards in their pots or on their buckets.
“So,” Joel says, “How are you liking Austin?”
“It’s…hot,” you reply. “Really, really hot.”
“That’s the south for ya, sweetheart.”
Your face grows hot at the endearment and how it seemed to just roll off his tongue. “Have you lived in Austin your whole life?”
“Texas born n’ bred,” he says proudly, puffing his chest out.
“You never wanted to live anywhere else?”
“I’ve always thought Wyoming sounded nice. A farm that I built, some sheep, no neighbors for miles,” he says wistfully. “Maybe someday.”
“Building a farm, huh? You good with your hands, Joel?”
He blinks at you. “Y-yeah. I mean, I’m a contractor. I gotta be.”
“That’s impressive,” you tell him, biting your lip to hold back your laughter at his flustered response.
Frank approaches, lifting a heavy book in his hands. “You ready to pick some flowers?”
Joel holds the door open for you as the two of you leave the flower shop an hour later. He waves goodbye to Bill and Frank with a promise to visit them for dinner soon before following you down the sidewalk.
“You wanna get lunch?” Joel offers. “My treat.”
You pull your phone from your pocket to check your messages and finding none from Alex, you think to yourself, why not?
“Sure,” you agree.
That's how you find yourself sitting on a bench in the park with Joel Miller, your husband's best friend, talking to him about everything and nothing as you eat street tacos from a food truck nearby. He makes you laugh so hard you choke on birria, the sauce dripping down your chin. He reaches out, wiping the mess with a brown napkin while he smiles so bright it puts the sun to shame.
Later that night, while you're in bed, you can't help but think today was the best day you've had in a long time.
And you're not sure what that means.
You begin texting Joel regularly. You ask him for his opinion on things that Alex can’t be bothered with — the suit colors for the groomsmen (navy blue), the invitation stationary (the linen finish), and favors (miniature bottles of hot sauce - Joel assures you this will be a hit with the Texas crowd). In between those conversations, he sends you pictures from his construction sites or asks you how your day has been and whether you had gotten the chance to check out that show he recommended.
When you tell Alex about the wedding decisions you've made, leaving out the extent of Joel's help, he hums and nods at the appropriate intervals, feigning attentiveness while his thumb moves rapidly across his phone screen. It should bother you, you think, that your future husband is so uninvolved with planning his own wedding, but then your own phone lights up with Joel’s name and a goofy photo he sent from a construction site, his hard hat askew on his head and his eyes crossed, and your annoyance with Alex fades into background noise.
There’s one last item on your checklist that you’re more nervous to ask Joel for help with than the others — dress shopping. You could probably fly back to New York and be with your friends for the momentous occasion but you’re certain that Alex wouldn’t appreciate your absence for something he considers so frivolous.
Not that you say anything when he’s gone for his golfing trips.
You’re staring at Joel’s contact screen, working up the nerve to call him and ask him if he’d be willing to come dress shopping with you, when it lights up with an incoming call, his name at the top of the screen like just your thoughts summoned him. You answer on the third ring.
“Hey, I was just about to call you,” you tell him.
“So that’s why my ears were itchin’,” he laughs. “You need somethin’?”
You take a steadying breath. “I just have one more thing I need help with and then you won’t have to deal with me.”
“I don’t mind helpin’ you, sweetheart.” You stomach flutters at the nickname and he clears his throat to fill the loaded silence that follows his words. “Now, tell me what you need.”
“Could you come dress shopping with me?”
“That all? Just tell me where and when,” he says. You breathe a sigh of relief, giving him the details of the appointment you made at a local boutique. He promises to meet you there this weekend before hanging up.
The word sweetheart in Joel’s deep voice echoes through your mind for the rest of the day.
Joel looks hilariously out of place on the pristine white couch located in the middle of the dress boutique, a dainty glass of champagne held in his large hand. You sit beside him, your legs touching as you watch the sales associate flit around the store, pulling hangers of dresses from the racks.
“That’s a lot of dresses,” Joel comments, taking a sip of champagne.
“You not up for the challenge?” You tease. He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his wide smile.
“Trust me, I’m up for the challenge. We’re goin’ to find you the best damn weddin’ dress Texas has ever seen,” he promises.
“Alright, I’ve got some gorgeous choices here for you,” the associate announces, holding up a handful of ivory hangers draped in all types of fabric from satin to chiffon. “You wanna follow me and we’ll get started?”
You follow her to the fitting room and she sets the hangers on a rack, fanning out the dresses so that you can get a better look. There’s five of them in a variety of styles, including an impressive ball gown boasting layers of tulle that trails to the floor.
“I’ll try that one first,” you tell her, pointing to ball gown.
“What’s your fiancé’s name?” She asks as you undress, taking the gown from the hanger and arranging it on the floor for you to step into it.
“Alex,” you reply. She drags the bodice up and instructs you to hold it to your chest while she laces up the corset back.
“I think it’s sweet that you’ve brought him with you.”
“Oh, no. That’s Joel, he’s my husband’s best friend.”
“Really?” She asks, the strings tightening around your waist. “The way you two look at each other, I would have bet money he was the one marrying you." You're about to ask what she means when she finishes tying off the bodice and says, "Wow, this dress is stunning on you."
Her comment retreats to the back of your mind as you look at yourself in the mirror. The strapless white gown hugs your chest and waist, flaring out into a layered skirt with lace appliques. There's beading on the sweetheart neckline that trails down the bodice in intricate patterns that catch the light of the fitting room. The dress is stunning.
Marnie leads you back out to the showroom, helping you step up onto a raised platform in front of a trifold mirror that shows you your reflection from multiple angles. You twist and turn, taking in all the details of it before finally facing Joel.
"Damn," Joel says. "That sure is one hell of a dress."
"It's...a lot." You twist your hips from side to side, the heavy skirt swishing across the floor. "I feel like a cupcake and I don't know if I'll be able to dance in it."
"You wanna test it out?"
He's standing before you can respond, reaching a hand into yours to guide you down from the pedestal. When you're on the floor, he wraps an arm around your low back, pulling you close while swaying side to side.
The world around you goes a little blurry and the only thing in perfect clarity is Joel. The feel of his hand in yours, the weight of his arm at the small of your back, the clean smell of soap and citrus, everything is just....Joel.
"How's it feel?" He asks, voice low. You tilt your head back to look up at his face.
"Huh?"
"The dress...dancin'...how's it feel?"
The question drags you back to reality, where you're currently dancing around a bridal salon with a man who isn't your fiance. You pull away from him, returning to the pedestal as the bridal associate joins the two of you again.
"Uh...I don't think this is the dress for me. Can we try the next one?"
You try on two other dresses in quick succession, neither of them leaving a lasting impression. It's the fourth dress that really gives you pause as you look at yourself in the fitting room mirror.
"Honey," the associate says, adjusting the off-the-shoulder sleeves of the dress, "This dress was made for you."
The scooped neckline highlights the lines and curves of your neck and shoulders, the corset bodice hugging your curves in satin folds. The skirt fans out from the waist, similar to the silhouette of the ball gown without all the additional weight and fabric and a thigh high slit allows for some extra movement.
She leads you back out into the showroom and helps you once more onto the pedestal. You grin at your reflection as she fixes the skirt into place.
"Well?" You ask, catching Joel's eye in the mirror. His mouth is set in a serious line, brows pinched together and his arms crossed over his chest. You own smile falters. "You don't like it? What's with the look?"
He shakes his head, his serious expression morphing into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You look..." His voice trails off and he clears his throat. "Alex is a lucky son of a bitch."
You laugh, lifting the skirt so that you can step off the pedestal. Joel's eyes drop, his gaze fixing on the skirt as you walk towards him.
"You think so?" You ask quietly, stepping in close.
"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs. A single finger runs down your arm, goosebumps erupting over your skin in its wake. "I know so."
With the wedding plans finalized, your attention returns to your work as a web design consultant. Your client portfolio starts to build once more, keeping you busy in the months leading up to your big day. Alex remains focused on his work at the firm, working long days and longer nights that have him arriving home well after you've gone to bed, the two of you just ships passing in the dark. You would feel lonely, you think, if not for Joel.
The two of you still message each other frequently, though you don't see him again until a month before the wedding, when Alex invites him over for dinner one Saturday night.
The doorbell rings just as you put the chicken in the oven and you wipe your hands before going to answer it, your heart racing. Joel's sweet smile greets you when you open the door and seeing him across the threshold has the tension in your shoulders easing the slightest bit.
He steps across the threshold, strong arms wrapping around your waist in a tight hug. Footsteps on the stairs have him releasing you far sooner than you would have liked.
"Joel, my man! Glad you could make it," Alex says as he reaches the first floor. "Honey, is the table set?"
"No, not yet," you reply.
"You need any help?" Joel asks. You open your mouth to respond, but Alex jumps in to say, "No, she's got this. Let me give you the tour."
You watch as Alex leads Joel upstairs, commanding his friend's attention. You swallow down the anger that rises in your throat at your fiancé's dismissal and return to the kitchen, gathering the place settings and arranging the table to his liking.
"It's a nice place," Joel says as the two men enter the living room, which opens to the kitchen and dining areas.
"All that work finally paying off," Alex comments. You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to mention that you were the one who fronted the down payment for Alex's choice of home in Texas. The oven beeps and you pull out the chicken parmesan that had been baking.
"Smells good," Joel comments. You look up, catching his eye. A wordless understanding passes between you, a quiet appreciation that makes your blood run hot.
You plate the food while your fiancé uncorks a bottle of wine and pours it into the wine glasses at each place setting. Alex settles in at head of the table and Joel takes the seat to the left, leaving you with the seat to Alex's right, across from Joel.
The three of you make small talk between bites of dinner and sips of wine. Alex asks Joel about the contracting work he's been doing, Joel asks him about his work at the new office and how he's settling in, being back in his home state. It's halfway through dinner that Joel looks to you and asks, "Are you excited for the wedding next month?"
"Of course," you reply, fingers tangling in the cloth napkin resting across your lap. "Planning it was a labor of love."
"Right, thanks for helping her with the cake, man," Alex chimes in.
Joel chuckles. "Helped with a lot more than just the cake."
"What do you mean?" Alex asks, glancing between the two of you.
"Well, I helped get the flowers, the cake, pickin' out the stationary. Dress shoppin'," Joel clarifies. Your stomach drops as Alex's jaw grows tense, his brow pinched as he nods and pastes on a forced smile.
"Wow, I didn't realize you'd been so involved," Alex says. He removes the napkin from his lap, setting it on the table. "Would you excuse us for a second?"
Alex stands, looking down at you expectantly. You smile at him and Joel in turn, but the expression feels hollow and you taste bile in the back of your throat. As soon as you're on your feet, Alex has a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, urging you along behind him as he makes his way towards the stairs.
Once he's reached your shared bedroom, he turns to you, eyes filled with rage. “What the fuck is that about?”
“What do you mean?” You ask. He laughs, the sound devoid of any humor.
“He helped you pick out your dress?” Alex paces the length of the bedroom like a caged animal and for the first time in your relationship with him, a frisson of fear courses through your veins. “You can’t possibly be that fucking stupid?”
“Excuse me?” You snap. “You told me to ask him for his help!”
“With the cake!” Alex shouts. “Not the entire goddamn wedding! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”
“You weren’t exactly offering much help, Alex!”
His eyes narrow. “I thought you would be perfectly capable of planning shit on your own, but I guess that was giving you too much credit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask. “Why are you being such a fucking asshole right now?”
“Because you’re my fiancé, not Joel’s!” He steps in close, towering above you as he hisses, “Did you fuck him?”
“No!” You shout.
His eyes search yours and whatever he finds seems to extinguish his anger, his coiled muscles loosening. He grips your shoulders, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you head back downstairs and I’ll stay up here for a minute to cool off, okay?”
The sudden switch leaves your head spinning but you manage to nod. Alex kisses your forehead and you take that as your cue to leave, escaping the confines of your room. In the hall, you grip the banister of the loft that overlooks the living room and take the first real breath in what feels like ages, your eyes squeezed shut as you try to calm your racing heart.
You return to the kitchen and Joel’s head snaps up when you enter. He rises from his seat at the table, rushing to your side.
“Are you okay?” He asks, low voice filled with concern, his brows pinched with worry. “What the fuck was that?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” you murmur, pushing past him.
“That’s bullshit,” he hisses. “Is he always like that?”
“Like what?” You sigh.
“An asshole. Yellin’ and threatenin’ you.” His fists are clenched at his sides. “He ever hit you?”
“What? No, of course not.” You take a deep breath, beating back the wave of tears pressing at the corners of your eyes. “He’s just got a lot going on with the move and work and the wedding.”
Joel is quiet, watching you with keen brown eyes that you, for once, wish weren’t focused on you. He steps close, voice low as he says, “Be honest with me, sweetheart.”
“I’m fine, Joel,” you tell him. The lie claws at your throat and sends your stomach into a tailspin. “I promise.”
Footsteps echo on the stairs and you step away from Joel, busying yourself with loading the dishwasher, clearing the counters, anything to keep your hands occupied and stop their shaking. Alex enters the kitchen with a sharp smile.
“Hey, man, sorry about that,” he says, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “I think we’re ready to call it a night. Ain’t that right, honey?”
You force yourself to keep your eyes on Alex as you smile and say, “Yeah, baby.”
“Let me walk you out, Joel,” Alex says. “Honey, say bye.”
“Goodbye, Joel.”
Joel: Hey
Joel: You having a good week?
Joel: Been a while. You doing okay?
Joel: You’ve been quiet
Joel: I need to know you’re okay.
Joel: Just let me know
Joel: Please
“Just two more days until you’re my wife,” Alex says, pressing a kiss to your lips. He smiles at you and you mirror the expression as best you can.
“I can't wait,” you reply.
"I gotta get going," Alex says. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he passes where you're sitting at the bar. "Love you."
"Love you," you repeat, out of reflex more than affection.
The front door slams shut and quiet settles over the house. All you want to do is crawl back into bed and pull the covers over your head in the hopes that it protects you from the way time continues to creep forward despite your uncertainties. Maybe, if you lay there long enough, time will move on without your involvement.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. You’re not sure who it could be — your dad is scheduled to fly into town in the late afternoon and your friends arrive early tomorrow morning and you’re fairly certain you don’t have any deliveries scheduled. Sliding from the bar stool, you leave the kitchen to answer the door.
Joel stands on the other side of the threshold, haloed by the morning sun. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’re dreaming.
“What are you doing here?” You finally ask.
“Can I come in?” He replies, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I need to talk to you.”
You step aside and allow him to enter the hallway, shutting the door behind him. You avoid his gaze as you return to the living room with him following behind you. The silence that settles between the two of you makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
"Why haven't you been talkin' to me?" Joel asks. He takes a step closer, brown eyes searching yours for an answer you try to keep hidden.
"I've been busy," you say.
"Cut the bullshit," he snaps, surprising you. "Is it because of what happened at dinner?"
"No," you reply. Joel must sense the brief hesitation, hear the weakness in your voice. His eyes go soft, full of pity, and you can't fucking stand it. "Don't look at me like that."
"Look, I've known Alex a long time, and all those years weren't exactly peachy," he says cryptically. "I love him like a brother but even family ain't without faults.” He steps in close, his hands cradling your face in a delicate grip. “Tell me this is what you want," he demands. "Tell me that you're happy with Alex. Tell me that there's nothin' here between us."
The words are there, right on the tip of your tongue, but nothing can bring them to life. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm against your ribcage, the rush of blood in your ears the only thing you can hear. He leans closer, eyes dropping to your lips and you know what's about to happen next but you can't bear the thought of stopping him as he closes the scant distance between your mouths.
For the briefest moment, you allow yourself the chance to just feel. No thoughts, no panic, no worry. Just Joel's warm lips moving against yours, the trace of his palm from you cheek to behind your head, pulling you closer even though you're already tightly pressed to him. It's slow and deep, like he's trying to convince you down to your marrow that this is where you're supposed to be.
But it's not.
You push him away and he doesn't fight you, but the look he gives you damn near shatters your resolve. His eyes are dark, jaw tense, hands flexing at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach out and pull you back, damn the consequences. Your eyes and throat burn with the effort of holding back the tears that threaten to spill.
"You need to leave," you whisper. "You can't do this, we can't do this. I'm getting married in two days, Joel!"
He runs a hand through his hair, pulling on the strands in frustration. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't lay awake at night thinkin' what a fuckin' asshole I am for fallin' in love with my best friend's fiancé?!" He shouts.
"This isn't love, Joel--"
"Don't," he snaps. "Don't you lie to me. I know it, you know it, hell, the fuckin' lady at the dress shop knew it!" He takes a deep breath. "I'm showin' you my whole hand here and you won't even lay down a goddamn card!"
"There is no card!" You shout.
"You kissed me back!" He counters.
You stare at each other for a long moment, like two scared, wounded animals. Eventually, one of you has to back down, retreat, lick their wounds until they've healed in a messy pattern of scar tissue that will serve as a painful reminder of what could have been.
Joel sighs, another pass of his hand through his hair as he says, "You know what? Fine." He turns to leave, the line of his shoulder lower, his head low.
A glutton for punishment, you call out, "Joel?"
"Yeah?" He asks, weary. Bone tired. You feel it, too.
"Will you still be there tomorrow?" You ask, unsure of which answer would be worse.
Another sigh. "Yeah. I'll be there."
The door slams shut behind him.
Your rehearsal dinner is torture.
This should be one of the happiest events of your life but all your energy is being directed at avoiding Joel like the plague. He moves through the crowd comfortably, having known many people in attendance for most of his life, and you feel like an unmoored boat, hoping a wave doesn't crash over you.
Alex sits beside you, drinking from a glass of whiskey as he talks to one of his uncles that has been praising him for landing the opportunity to work with such a prestigious law firm right after college. A dizzying rotation of people approach you through the night - friends who chatter excitedly about the big day tomorrow, aunts who ask when you think you'll have children, uncles who tell you that they're proud of you for landing such a successful, promising young man. It's those last comments that have you hiding a frown in your champagne glass.
It drags on forever, this constant stream of polite conversation and forced smiles. When you finally return to the hotel that you're staying at for the night, you start to feel like you can breathe again. You have a suite separate from Alex's for getting ready early in the morning and he walks you to your room, hand on your low back, a smile on his face.
"I'll see you in the morning," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. "My almost wife."
The sentiment has bile rising in your throat and as he turns to leave you're blurting the words, "I can't do this."
"Sweetheart, you're just nervous," he says, voice surprisingly calm. He squeezes your shoulders. "You just need to sleep it off and everything will be fine in the morning."
"No," you tell him, shaking your head. "No, it won't be fine."
His smile drops, like a mask has just been removed. "Where is this coming from? Everything was fine at the rehearsal."
"Everything was not fine at the rehearsal!"
Alex takes the room key from your hands, unlocked the door and ushering you inside. He flicks on the light to the sitting area and takes a seat on the couch.
"What's going on with you?" He asks, exasperation dripping from his words. "What do you mean the rehearsal wasn't fine? Did you not like the food or something?"
You stare at him incredulously. "The problem wasn't the food, Alex! The problem is us!"
"There's no problem with us," he says. "Unless there's something you want to tell me?"
"What do you mean?" You ask.
He stands, coming close. "Is this about Joel?"
"No!" You snap, perhaps too quickly. "This isn't about Joel."
"Then what is it? Because as far as I know, we're a perfectly happy couple."
"Perfectly happy? Alex, you didn't even help me plan this wedding. Not a single minute of it."
"Not this again," he groans. "Sweetheart, let it go. I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you need to hear?"
Your jaw aches with how hard your teeth grind together as he dismisses you so easily. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth steadies you enough to say, "I'm not marrying you."
"Baby, please," Alex says. For the first time, he sounds panicked. "Don't make any rash decisions, alright? Whatever this is, we can work through it. If I lose you, I lose everything."
Maybe he's right. Maybe the stress of the last few months has just caught up to you.
"Okay," you whisper. He breathes a sigh of relief and presses another kiss to your temple.
"I love you," he says. "Everything will be okay after tomorrow. You'll see."
You don't say anything back, and he doesn't wait around for a response. He leaves your suite, the click of the door shutting loud in the late night silence. You stand there for who knows how long, wondering if he's right. Would everything be alright after tomorrow? Could you sweep those lingering feelings for Joel to the side in favor of the life you'd been building for the last few years?
You know what the safe choice is, but is it the right choice?
It's the morning of your wedding day and you've been poked and prodded with makeup brushes and your hair has been perfectly styled for the occasion. Flashbulbs have been going off on the cameras that are documenting your special day, capturing moments like your bridesmaids helping you into your dress and your dad's first look, a handkerchief clutched in his hand as he smiled at you.
For the first time in hours, you're alone in your suite. The makeup artist and hair stylists have packed up and taken their leave and your friends are downstairs, waiting for the limousine. You told them you would be just a minute longer.
A soft knock at your door has you realizing that you may have taken too long and you shout an apology as you rush to answer it. But it's not one of your friends on the other side like you had expected.
It's Joel.
Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. His hair is styled, curls smoothed and slicked back into submission. His white shirt is a stark contrast to his navy blue tuxedo, matching bow tie tight around his neck. His boutonnière is slightly crooked where it sits pinned to his jacket lapel. He looks you up and down with a small smile.
"You look beautiful," he says. He reaches for your hand, fingers tangling with yours. Never quite folding together, but never quite letting go, either.
"Thank you," you whisper.
"Are you ready?" He asks. You wonder if he knows, if Alex told him or if he can just see it on your face.
"Yes."
It's a lie, one you've been repeating since your alarm went off this morning after a night of tossing and turning. His smile falters, but doesn't drop.
"Good, that's....good," he says. His hand leaves yours, and you feel like you've had an entire unspoken conversation that's left you both defeated. "Lets go get you married."
Joel Miller masterlist
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divider graphic by @saradika-graphics.
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x female reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel tlou#no use of y/n#joel x reader#joel the last of us#joel miller fanfic#joel miller tlou#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fic
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Middle of the Night
Joel Miller x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit
Summary: He comes to you for comfort.
A/N: Thank you to my loves @mourningbirds1 @the-ginger-hedge-witch and @krissology looking this over for me ❤️
—
Tucked onto his side with his broad back facing you, you crawl into bed and press your nose into the curls that cover the nape of his neck, breathing him in. Your hand maps his firm shoulder, running a well worn path over the curve of his side and his calloused hand grasps yours, pulling it close.
You sleep, because you’re exhausted, and so does he.
It’s the middle of the night when he finds you.
When his guard is down – not all the way, it’s never down all the way – but when the fog of sleep dulls his brain and his heart and he’s reduced to nothing but a man seeking out your warmth in the dusky black of the room, that’s when he finds you. His hands pulling you close, his mouth seeking yours.
Those hands that deliver brutality when needed, that curl into fists or mold around his rifle - a semblance of their old tenderness comes out in his touch when he guides your sleep limp limbs around him; the wet heat of his mouth felt against your skin when he tucks his face into the crook of your neck and inhales.
His strong arm winds around your side, holding you tight and he pulls you from sleep when you feel the drag of his lips as they pepper light kisses along the curve of your jaw. You shift your face down to his and he looks up, his mouth meeting yours.
It’s a languid kiss, a sleepy one laced with a low simmering need. His tongue dips into your mouth, opening you up for him and your fingers brush against the wiry hair of his gray streaked beard, pulling him closer. You shift to face him fully, fitting your body along his and he reaches down, impatiently tugging away the blanket you’ve wrapped yourself in. He needs that barrier to you gone and when it is, his thigh finds the space between your own and he rolls you onto your back, deepening the kiss with a low sound at the back of his throat.
If you had met before all this happened, there might have been a time where you did this sort of thing with affectionate smiles on your faces, kissing each other breathless through teasing words. There might have been open delight in the act as you had fun with it, laughing quietly into the dark room as you peeled off each other’s clothes in a playful, clumsy fumble.
But you met now, and so you still peel the clothes off, but there is no laughing. No silly words, no teasing. There is only raw hunger for each other as you find every inch of his firm, bare skin as it’s revealed and he does the same for you.
“Joel,” you breathe into his kiss when you’re naked and pressed against each other tight, his cock a stiff heft against the curve of your ass as you wind your legs around his waist. He’s a heavy weight on top of you, forcing you into the mattress and you relish the security in his warm drape; tuck it away for later, when you’ll need to recall it. His beard scrapes the palms of your hands, your hold shifting up to thread into his hair.
Pulling back just enough, he brings his fingers up to his mouth with a suck, wetting them. Your eyes watch the lewd gesture before he reaches down between your bodies and finding the pearl of your clit, he rubs it with a firm, practiced, slick glide, pressing his mouth back against yours.
Arching into his touch, you keen underneath him and your thighs open wider, your hips rolling lightly against his hand.
“Fuck,” you exhale, a blooming heat building. “Keep touching it like that. Keep –”
“I know what you need, pretty girl. I know.” The lilt of his accent slips deeper, pairing with the husk of his low voice.
He does know. Keeps doing it until you start to force your hips against the swift circle of his touch, keeps doing it until you tell him that you need him and that’s when he slips himself inside: when your achingly empty cunt flutters around the snug fit before pulling him deep. His hand, still damp with your slick, finds your own and with a strength you’ve seen him display in so many situations, he circles your wrist, forcing it into the bed above your head. You wiggle it free, lacing your fingers with his.
He fucks rough. Bruising strokes, harsh snaps of his hips, ones that betray his need for you. You take everything he gives, his hand tightening its hold on yours while the other one cups your cheek, making sure your mouth stays on his.
You squeeze his bicep, moaning into his hungry kiss and lift your hips so he can slide in deeper.
“Goddamn you feel so good,” he groans, breaking the kiss to rest the bridge of his nose against your cheek. He grunts with every deep push forward, the puff of hot air trapped against your skin. “I don’t ever wanna stop.”
“Don’t,” you encourage him, tipping your head back into the pillow and he takes the opportunity to lave his tongue along the hollow of your throat, just before biting down on the juncture of your shoulder. When you hiss, he smiles against your skin.
“The only good part of my day is this. You, and this pussy right here,” the last words punctuated with a harsh fit of his hips into your own.
Slipping your hand from his hold, you reach down and follow the dip of his spine to dig your fingers into the meat of his ass, forcing him deeper. His mouth follows the swell of your breasts, his tongue curling over a hardened peak before drawing it into his mouth with a suck. His hand cups the bottom of it, greedily pushing the plump of it up and he opens his mouth wider. His teeth catch, before his tongue soothes.
“Did you think about this today?” he asks, his hand skating down to curl around the bend of your knee, tugging it higher. “Did you want it?”
“Yes,” you admit, moaning the word. “I always do.”
When he’s away - either physically, or when he withdraws into the depth of pain that haunts his memories - you do miss it. Miss this version of him that allows himself to seek comfort in someone else. To love with his body, even if he’ll never say the words.
“I wanna be sore tomorrow. I wanna remember. I wanna think about how deep you got, how good you fucked me, Joel. Make me sore, okay?”
A depraved part of his soul, the one that’s grown to cover up the lighter version of him that used to exist, responds instantly to the words and he growls, fucking into you harder.
“Like this?” he asks, breathless and forceful. His hips snap forward, again, again. “Like this?”
Yes, you cry out for him. Please.
The old mattress you sleep on rhythmically thudding against the wall, black creeps around the edges of his vision. His gaze fixes on your open mouth, your plush lips, your clenched shut eyes and he fists the worn sheet, using it for leverage. He fucks you like he wants to bury himself inside you and sensing what he needs, you curl your arms around his shoulders, tugging him close.
I’m right here, I’m right here, you chant in a whisper, right into the shell of his ear.
“Goddamnit,” he groans loudly, and then again, much lower, almost to himself, like he can’t believe how good you feel. “Goddamn.”
When you come, he groans low when he feels it like a tight fist around him, all the way down to the base of his cock. You’re so wet there’s an audible sound between you as he fucks you through it and he closes his eyes with a frown, trying to last as long as he can. Sweat gathered where your limbs are pressed together, he never wants to leave the flushed heat of your body and waiting until the very last second, he pulls out and spills hot along the inside of your thigh, streaking it with pools of white.
Then, it’s quiet again.
His body relaxes on top of yours, letting you soothe it. Your nails drag over his back, your fingers kneading into the base of his spine and he melts with a low, content groan.
This man. The man everyone is afraid of. The one who delivers blunt, efficient violence when it’s needed. The one who is ruthless and hardened, who will stop at nothing to survive and protects what is his: he’s none of those things right now; his arms pushing beneath your body to hold you close. His cheek rests against your thrumming heart and his breathing evens out, slowing into a steady, deep pattern.
Then, he’s asleep.
Looking at him in the dark, you wonder how he used to be. Was he funny? Did he joke? Did he have someone to love? Did he have a wife? A family? Did he like movies, or sports, or books, or whatever people did back when they had time for anything else but just surviving? The anger that he bundles up inside of him, the one that pours out in his narrowed gaze and tight jaw and bursts out of his fists - did it always live there? Or did the infection infect him too, only in a different way?
These are questions you’ll never know the answer to. You won’t ask, and you know he wouldn’t tell. It’s a mutual understanding between the two of you: what’s the sense in talking about the past, when it only brings more pain into a world where that’s all there is?
Better to not think of it. Better to savor the small moments when you get them, like the one you’re having right now.
He hasn’t moved, his face relaxed in slumber, but his arms are still tight around you as if he’s afraid you might leave him in the night. His unconscious body betrays him — just like his actions, instead of his words.
The edge of your mouth curls up, your hand brushing back a lock of hair from his forehead and you admire the scarce seen softness in him for a moment, eventually closing your eyes.
#joel miller/you#joel miller/reader#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#tlou joel#joel miller#tlou fanfiction#pedro pascal character fic#pedro pascal
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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡
Word count: 12.2k
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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier
Make us come, baby. Make us come together.
These words are yours.
Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep.
He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body.
They’re yours, right?
Even if you don’t get to see him ever again.
—
It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles.
Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here.
It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.
Not today. Please. Not today.
Friday.
Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head.
Today is Friday.
You reject the obvious.
Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.
Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.
Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night.
You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons.
Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours.
Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping.
Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.
And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you.
You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet.
You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.
Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can.
You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine.
It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor.
—
On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body.
You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze.
You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste.
Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.
Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you.
If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be.
With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia.
You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste.
All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down.
Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums.
At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again.
All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.
Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.
You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black.
—
In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation.
You did want to get better.
You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities.
On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results.
But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality.
For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.
Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were.
Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.
As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.
Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.
Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all.
And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.
—
The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places.
Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed.
Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…
Frankie.
You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?
“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”
Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through.
Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before.
He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel.
The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.
Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish.
There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.
So many cords. Too many sensors.
“Where’s my phone?” you mumble.
Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore.
“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed.
You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.
“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”
He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness.
“What day is it?” you try again.
“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”
The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.
“What happened?”
“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”
You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you.
Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it.
“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.”
You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape.
Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”
“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.
It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.
Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most.
The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate.
“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”
“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week.
Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.
“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.
There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping.
“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”
So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known.
It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.
There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute.
“Polly’s not old,” is your answer.
“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”
“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”
“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.
The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt.
“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”
You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline.
He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small.
“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”
The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence.
“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation?
You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out.
You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show.
Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology.
“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!”
He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine.
“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.
“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink.
And he’s gone.
Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping.
Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse.
The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location.
Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.
Is this how it ends?
Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close.
You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday.
Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.
The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.
Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE.
The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case.
Your heart rate slows down.
Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.
—
The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you.
You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.
On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation.
Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed.
You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.
You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.
After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.
One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you.
You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.
Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.
Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.
Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week.
In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak.
You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid.
Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.
You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours.
You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it.
On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in.
She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child.
While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse.
True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material.
At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”
So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image.
“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”
As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.
Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC.
That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood.
You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted.
You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.
“Fuck it.”
You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic.
The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour.
It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut.
Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper.
As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor.
You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.
Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks.
That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.
You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity.
Is this how it ends?
Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here.
Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours.
The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes.
Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar.
“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“
A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again.
“I come in every week?”
Jesus.
“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”
“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”
You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.
“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”
“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”
“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”
“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund. Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“
“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”
Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long?
If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will.
“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”
The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe.
“Do you want to book it?”
You shake your head slowly.
“No. Thank you.”
Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot.
He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding.
You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you.
You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.
All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years.
The before and the after him.
He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him.
Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story.
The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed.
That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel.
“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan.
His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob.
It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind.
Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.
“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers.
“What?”
His smile drops when you take a step back.
“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“
Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall.
He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.
“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.
“What happened to you?”
The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms.
“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper.
“Did he do that to you?”
“What?”
“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.
“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”
“How did you fall?” he presses.
He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to.
The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own.
“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”
“I��m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze.
“You can barely stand.”
However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.
“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.”
“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”
“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”
He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.
The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all.
“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.
“Wanna bet?”
You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could.
“Listen,” he begins with a sigh.
“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“
“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.
His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness.
“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”
Our minds.
He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Yes, ok.”
He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”
—
The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you.
What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?
On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing.
You hate yourself for that, too.
After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard.
Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual.
The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it.
“Hey. You ok there?”
In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate.
“C’mere.”
The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his.
The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer.
You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart.
“I’m not married.”
“Ok.”
The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it.
“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”
“Ok.”
The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit.
“And I really fell.”
He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist.
“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”
You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened.
He tightens his embrace.
“That when you hurt your head?”
“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”
“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”
“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”
You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”
How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again?
“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.
If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks.
“No,” you lie.
“Mmh. And for real?”
You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.
“A little. I’ll be fine.”
The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines.
Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.
“He wouldn’t hit me.”
“Ok.”
“That’s not what he does.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“What does he do?”
You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason.
“He makes me doubt.”
“Him?”
“Myself. And him too.”
Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel.
The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights.
His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist.
Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.
“You ok? Want me to close the window?”
His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness.
“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”
Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy.
—
When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare.
Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone.
You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin.
At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light.
You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there.
Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then.
You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh.
“Wait. I need to talk to you.”
His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will.
You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him.
“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes.
Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest.
“I understand.”
“I imagine you can’t be here either.”
No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always.
“No, I can’t.”
The following week, either. But you don’t share that.
This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.
Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.
In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you?
Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket.
“Kiss me, Frankie, please.”
“Yes.”
His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips.
All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his.
Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else.
His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too.
You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness.
Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire.
There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent.
He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.
Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles.
“Want me to make you come, baby?”
He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration.
“No, I want you inside me.”
“Shit, you sure?”
“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.”
You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth.
“You think I don’t know that?”
So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back.
Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.
“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.”
It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place.
“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans.
“I know you can.”
When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair.
It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.
You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside.
In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes.
He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart.
Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue.
Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.
Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.
“You ok?”
His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff.
His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.
Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it.
He stays like that for a while.
Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes.
“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”
“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.
“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”
You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts?
“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.
But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him.
Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”
You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within.
“I want you.”
His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion.
He doesn’t.
He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling.
Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named.
You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice.
“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt.
The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties.
You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face.
He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest.
The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale.
Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you.
“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”
He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.
“Fuck you’re tight.”
“Please, Frankie–”
His frame tenses up under your palms.
“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”
“No!”
That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out.
“I can—“ You trip over your words.
“What?”
“I can sit on it.”
Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles.
“Yea. Yea you can.”
He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal.
“Spit on it,” he says.
You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.
“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”
Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed.
His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours.
“Sit on it, now.”
His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look.
“Yes,” you pant.
Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.
Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing.
The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel.
Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back.
You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help.
You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically.
His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs.
“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”
You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.
A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.
You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats.
His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit.
And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall.
“Too much?”
“Oh god yes.”
You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.
“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”
His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind.
You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.”
He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire.
His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.
“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?”
You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are?
“Say it again, please.”
“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you.
“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”
“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.”
He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon.
You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already.
He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk.
You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave.
And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss.
****
#one day I will understand why I am more obsessed with Frankie driving his truck than flying a fucking aircraft?????#it's like Kelli said: it's my safe space 🧡#Kelli's a genius#anyway#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic
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𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
COMPLETED
Pairing: FEDRA!Javier Peña x firefly!reader
Genre: slice of life, smut, romance, angst, enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, TLOU AU, minors dni
Summary: Javier, a former member of the Federal Disaster Response Agency in Kansas City, is haunted by the guilt and violence he indirectly caused by not taking action when he should have. After fleeing Kansas City in the aftermath of Kathleen's violent overthrow of FEDRA, you and Javier seek refuge in an abandoned train in the middle of a forest.
As you and Javier turn the train into a living space and learn to navigate the dangers of a post-apocalyptic world, you gradually overcome your differences and form an unlikely bond. But when your pasts catch up with you, you must confront the demons that haunt you and make a choice that could mean the difference between life and death. Will you choose to protect each other and find a way to build a new life together, or will the ghosts of your pasts tear you apart?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAO3 | Main Masterlist | Playlist
ㅤ CHAPTER INDEX
➽ Chapter One — Deadhead
you and javier get off on a rocky start.
➽ Chapter Two — Whistle-Stop
heavy words are exchanged, and swallowing your pride, you try to make it up to Javier. Scouting for supplies doesn't go as planned.
➽ Chapter Three — Semaphore
you and javier go for a swim.
➽ Chapter Four — Whiffletree
some days are harder than others. you and javier go hunting in preparation for the coming winter.
➽ Chapter Five — Railhead
new dynamics, new outlooks. the story comes to an end.
➽ Epilogue — Turntable
seasons change, leaving joyful imprints of time's passage in their wake.
#javier peña x reader#javier peña x you#javier peña x y/n#javier peña fanfiction#javier peña#javier pena x reader#javier pena x you#the last of us fic#hbo the last of us fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#narcos fanfic#narcos fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal character fic#pedro pascal character fanfiction
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Designated Person | 9
Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader
Chapter 9: Where The Wild Things Are
Rating: Explicit (18+ only)
Word Count: 8.6k+
Tags / Warnings: alternating pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food mention, jealousy, alcohol & alcoholism, lying, conflict avoidance, crying, internal conflict, birthday party, a low-key dudes rule moment (bros! bros! bros!), tried my hardest hardest with Spanish but I am a white girl I’m sorry if its wrong pls let me know, a lot of dialogue like so much dialogue fuck, children, toxic relationships just bad all around
Notes: WELL HI, long time no see! I know it’s been over 6 months since I’ve updated. I went on a warpath with another series (Psychomanteum—it’s finished if you wanna check it out). But I’m back to force these two dummies to walk through hellfire 💘
[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ]
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Nothing seems right.
For what has to be the hundredth time, you sift through the sparse collection of t-shirts and dresses hanging in your closet. Each time you push a hanger aside to consider a potential outfit, your brain falls into the same pattern.
First, you wonder if Frankie would like it. Granted, if you showed up wearing a cardboard box he’d still want to fuck you.
You want him to like it more than that, though.
You want him to see you and get all weak in the knees. You want him to look at you in that way he does sometimes. That soft, magnetic look that tugs at every part of you. The one that argues against logic and speaks to intuition instead. That can't-eat, can't-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, World Series kind of look.
After considering this entirely reasonable and attainable goal, you picture yourself wearing the clothes through Angie’s eyes.
You dissect each potential outfit as she would. This dress too low cut, that one too frumpy, the other too short. A critical chorus of slut slut slut plays in the back of your head, accented by the memory of her manicured hands wrapped around your throat, the growl she let out when she squeezed around your windpipe.
“You little slut, I will fucking kill you.”
Throughout this whirlwind of turmoil, snippets from this morning rise to the surface and drown out everything else.
Frankie’s lips on yours, hungry and certain. His strong hands on your body, digging into your skin. The way he talked to you, voice low and strained—Whose pussy is this?
Every time these words repeat, your heart hammers in your chest. Tingles trickle out from between your legs and work up your spine.
The time before this, right after he moved in, when you fucked on the couch… you felt dirty afterwards. It sent you into a spiral of self-guilt that gnawed away at you for days. It reminded you of how sex was towards the end last time. Like you could have been anyone. Like he needed something to make him feel alive, and you were just the most ready and willing participant.
But it felt different this time.
Intimate in a way it hasn’t been in so long. It felt like an act of something bigger and stronger, like he needed you specifically. Not the rush of endorphins. Not just the heat of another person. Not a substitute for the love his wife wouldn’t give him. It felt like he needed you and nothing else would sate him.
“I won’t do that to you again, mariposa, I promise. I’ll fix it, I promise I’ll fix it, ok?”
Right about here is when indecision ties your brain off in a knot that seizes the production of valuable output.
Then you return to yourself, staring into the closet like it’s fucking Narnia, and slide the hanger aside to do it all over again.
—
Frankie collapses into a patio chair with a groan, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair before replacing his cap, then tilts his head up towards the blazing sun and closes his eyes.
When he trekked through the Andes with his team, there were nights where he felt the cold so deep in his bones, he wondered if he would ever be able to get warm again.
Right now is the opposite of that.
Right now he would give up fistfuls of cash to feel that bone-deep freeze.
He casts a longing glance at the cooler and fantasizes about drinking a cold beer. That psssch-ahsound it would make when he opened the tab. He imagines the condensation cooling his heated skin and the alcohol calming his fried nerves.
Fuck, that sounds perfect.
Through the open window to the dining room, he can hear Angie and her sister Marta gossiping to each other, talking about how so-and-so is dating what’s his face again and blah blah blah. His ears perk up when Marta segues into their personal life.
“Speaking of people getting back together… How are things with you and Frankie?”
Angie doesn’t say anything, but must make a face at her sister because she follows the question up by giggling, “What, can I not ask?”
“Ay, Marta. No seas metiche.”
A beat of silence passes. Marta must non-verbally pry, because Angie speaks again, quieter this time.
“We’ll see.” Then quickly, almost defensively, she adds, “He’s getting his act together, you know. He quit drinking, and he’s doing this parole program. It seems like… it seems like he’s trying.”
“Mmm. Is he still living with that girl? Su amante?”
Frankie knows Angie well enough to know she rolls her eyes in response.
Marta tsks, but any further conversation is cut off by a sudden commotion of squealing and bickering.
He looks down at his watch, reading 1240, and guesses that Angie’s friend Carmen arrived with her five children.
His eyes clamp shut and he fantasizes about drinking a beer. Maybe three. Hell, make it ten. Ten would do just fine. Ten would anesthetize him just enough to let him clear his head and make this whole ordeal manageable.
“Just get through today,” he tells himself, “Just one more goddamn day, then you can be done with this fucking charade.”
The backdoor opens, releasing a burst of chaotic noise. Angie and Carmen step out, and he stands at attention.
“Oh wow, look at all this,” Carmen tells Angie, “Damn girl, you really went all out, didn’t you?”
“We don’t really know what the situation will be next year, with Frankie and everything,” Angie’s eyes flick to him, and she shrugs, “So I figured, make it memorable. For all of us.”
“Sure,” Carmen nods, concern creasing her brow, then she acknowledges Frankie with a quick head-to-toe scan, “Francisco, how’re you doing?”
“Better than I deserve,” he smirks, and gestures to the gift bag hanging off her wrist, “Let me take that for you. Want anything to drink?”
She hands off the present and glances at Angie, then back to Frankie, “Can I get a beer?”
“Sure,” he nods to Angie, “How about you, amor?”
“I’ll take a beer, too.”
“Two beers coming up,” Frankie calls behind him while descending the stairs.
As he walks to the 10’ x 20’ white canopy tent, he tries to eavesdrop, but the two women talk to each other in hushed tones. He has no doubt it’s about him, though, because he hears Carmen exclaim, “Oh shit, really?” then, quieter but still distinguishable, “Good for you, mamá.”
After dropping the gift bag on the designated table, Frankie goes to the cooler to grab two cans of beer and a bottle of water, then returns to the deck, where Angie and Carmen both lean against the railing. They both murmur a thanks when he hands them their drinks.
He rubs between her shoulder blades, “Need anything else?”
“A fucking Xanax,” she jokes while cracking her beer open. He watches foam bubble up from the mouth of the can and his pulse surges green with envy. She takes a long sip, then sighs, “Mmm let’s see. Food is done, Mamá and Marta are bringing everything out. Your mom should be here with the cake any minute. You got everything set up in the tent?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Alright, well,” she takes another swig and shrugs, “Wanna get the slip ‘n’ slide going? We can get the kiddos changed into their suits.”
“You got it.”
He starts away, but she grabs his shirt to stop him.
When he turns back to her, eyebrows raised in question, her golden brown eyes meet his, then drop to his lips, “Thank you.”
His hand finds her waist and he nods, “Not a problem.”
She kisses him, and he kisses her back, thinking of you—always fucking thinking of you— as he tells himself: One more day.
—
Leah picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Tell me I shouldn’t go to this party.”
She releases a big sigh that makes you grimace, then says, “Tell me you’re not actually thinking of going.”
You glance up at the Morales residence through your windshield, sinking down into your seat when you spot Benny, Will, and Dani making their way up the driveway.
“I’m outside in my car.”
Leah is quiet for a moment before she asks, “Do you want to go?”
“Yes and no,” you watch the Millers open the door and go inside the house, “I want to see Sarah, and I wanna be there for Frankie, just because… I don’t know, everything, but…”
“But Angie?”
You nod, casting your eyes down to your hands to pick at the frayed cuticles, “I’m afraid she’s going to say something or do something to retaliate against me.”
“You did have an affair with her husband—”
“I’m well aware,” you snip.
The silence that follows wrings guilt from your stomach. A burning sensation works up your throat behind your eyes, so you pinch them shut and hang your head.
“Fuck, sorry. You’re right. She has every right to despise me. I deserve it. I shouldn’t go, it’s stupid.”
Your words come out all pathetic and warbled by tears, but you continue anyway.
“I feel so torn. I care about them a lot and I wanna be there. I want it to be better so that… fuck. I don’t know. Nevermind.”
“Why do you want it to be better?”
“It’s stupid.”
“No, I want you to tell me.”
You take a deep, shaky breath, tilting your head up towards the drooping ceiling of your car. The answer pulses through your body and tingles on the tip of your tongue. If you speak it you might shatter to dust.
Instead, you offer up a consolation prize to distract her.
“I did something I shouldn’t have,” you whisper, then swing your head down to stare at your steering wheel, “I… had sex with him.”
Leah snorts, “I fucking knew it.”
“Shut up, you did not,” you scoff, “It just happened this morning.”
“Rach owes me $10.”
“You bet that—God, you are the worst.”
You hang up on her, then stare at your phone for a few seconds before sending a text to Frankie.
< ME:
< Are you sure I should come? I feel nervous
A few unresponsive seconds go by before you flip the visor down to inspect your reflection in the mirror. Not terrible. Some black smudges around your eyes. Could use some lipstick.
You remedy these problems while trying not to think too hard about what you’re about to do, lying to yourself in hopes that you can somehow warp the truth.
This will be fine.
—
By the time Frankie gets the hose hooked up to the slip ‘n’ slide, his mother- and sister-in-law are setting the last few food items out on the long folding table under the tent.
Two of Carmen’s sons dash across the deck in their swimsuits. As he passes them on the stairs, he ruffles the older one’s scraggly dark brown hair, calling after them, “Soda and water in the cooler if you boys are thirsty.”
They holler an acknowledgment as Frankie makes his way inside.
The relief of stepping into cool, conditioned air quickly dissipates as the commotion hits him.
At least a dozen conversations meld together in this wall of indistinguishable sound. He can’t quite focus on any of the vaguely familiar faces or isolate one single voice from the warble of people talking.
A heavy, frantic pounding starts in his chest. His hands start to tingle. Noises disappear completely for a second, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
Jesus fucking Christ, I’m losing it.
He pulls a chair out from the dining room table and sits down, praying nobody notices him clench his eyes closed to inhale a deep, wide breath.
Then another.
Then another.
Everything starts to come back into focus, and he tunes into someone asking, “Fish, you ok?”
He startles when a broad palm settles between his shoulder blades. Looking towards the source, he finds Will’s dusty blue eyes studying him with concern.
“Shit,” Frankie mutters, running a hand over his face before he clearing his throat and standing, “Sorry, yeah. Think I got too much heat or something.” He gives his friend a quick, one-armed hug, “Good to see you, man.”
When Will parts ways with Frankie, he gives him a look that says he doesn’t buy it for a second, but doesn’t push the subject.
His wife, Dani, approaches with a cautious smile, “Frankie, good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too” Frankie gives her a hug, “Thanks for coming.” They separate and he asks Will, “Benny here yet?”
“Yeah,” he smirks, jerking his head towards the living room, “Shooting the shit with your mom.”
“Figures,” Frankie chuckles and shakes his head, “I gotta go make my rounds, but, uhh,” he gestures from the gift box in the crook of Will’s arm to the back door, “There’s a gift table outside. Food and drinks and all that, help yourselves.”
“Catch up later, yeah?” Will nods.
Frankie mirrors the action as a few waist-high kids race past, budging in front of them when Will opens the door.
He notices a cluster of aimless partygoers lingering between the dining and living room, and starts directing the halted human traffic out to the backyard. It prods them into action, thinning out the crowded common area as he makes his way to the couch, where he finds his mom sitting with Sarah in her lap and Benny at her side. Benny says something to Sarah that makes her and her grandmother giggle.
“Is this guy bothering you?” Frankie asks, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face.
“Francisco!”
She passes Sarah to Benny and struggles to get to her feet.
“Christ, mamá, let me help you” he mutters while taking her well-worn hands in his to pull her upright.
She’s always been a woman of small stature, barely measuring up to his shoulders once the growth spurts petered out and left him as tall as he’d always be. But each time he sees her, she seems to have shrunk a little bit more.
As soon as she steadies herself, she kisses his cheek, then pulls him down into a surprisingly tight embrace, telling him, “I missed you so much, mijo.”
“Missed you too, Ma.”
She pulls back from the hug, but holds onto his arms to look him over, “How have you been?”
“Fine,” he nods, looking away when her keen dark eyes narrow, “What about you, hmm? How was the drive?”
“Bien bien,” she waves off his questions and takes a step back to smile at the birthday girl, “She’s getting so big, Pancho. Such a pretty dress.”
Sarah grabs at the puffy hem of her skirt and giggles at the attention.
Frankie snorts in admiration at his daughter, then asks her, “You wanna go see your party, princesa?”
“Yes!”
He looks at Benny, “I gotta see if Ang needs me to do anything, do you wanna…?”
“Escort these lovey ladies?” Benny winks at Julieta, “Shit, I’d love to.”
“Jesus Christ,” Frankie mutters, then tells Sarah, “Go with Uncle Benny, I’ll be there in a minute, ok?”
She jumps off Benny’s lap and runs to the back door, leveraging her weight against the knob. It swings open and she escapes, sending Benny chasing after her, laughing, “Hey, wait up!”
Julieta starts after them just as Sarah’s bedroom door opens, and two little girls come charging towards the back door. Carmen and Angie trail behind, the former carrying a baby tucked into her side, the latter looking around with a puzzled expression pasted to her face.
“Everyone outside?” Angie asks her husband, slowing to a stop a few feet away from him while Carmen continues outside.
“Yeah. I, uhh, got the slip ‘n’ slide set up, all the food is out—anything else you need me to do?”
“Is your girl here?”
She smirks and tilts her head at him, like she’s joking or teasing, but the humor doesn’t reach her eyes.
His skittish heart skips in his chest.
Sensing a trap, Frankie searches her face and shakes his head like he doesn’t understand.
Angie raises an eyebrow at him, “Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about.”
So fucking sick of this.
“Whatever,” he blinks, “No. I haven’t seen her yet. Anything else?”
The forced amusement immediately drops from her face and she stomps outside, slamming the door closed behind her.
He takes a deep breath, pulling his hat up to run a hand through his hair, then glances at his watch.
1308
He shakes some of the nervous energy from his fingertips and starts to pace the living room.
What if you decided not to come?
Honestly, it would make today much easier. He could just go out there and play his role. Put on his mask and blame his disposition on the ongoing legal battle. His mother, wife, and friends, they’d be none the wiser.
Something inside him lurches at the thought.
Suddenly and very clearly, he understands that if you don’t show, nothing will change. He will drive this ship into the ground.
As if on cue, the doorbell rings.
He jogs down the steps, swings the door open, and there you are, wearing a pretty floral sundress and a nervous smile.
“Hey,” he backs up to allow you entry.
“Hi,” your smile grows wider, and you step past him as you enter the house, “Long time no see.”At the foot of the stairs, you turn to face him, “Where’s the party?”
“Backyard.”
“Oh.”
When you glance down at his mouth, one hundred butterflies start chittering away at his stomach. He licks his lips and notices himself gravitating towards you. It doesn’t help that you’re doing it, too. The subtle way your body bows in his direction, inching so close he can smell the bright burst of your perfume and the damp musk of your sweat.
“Is everyone out there?”
“Pretty sure,” his eyes flick to the vacant upstairs, then back to you, “Why?”
Just an inch away, you clamp a grin closed and shrug, “No reason.”
“Uh huh,” he raises an eyebrow, daring to rest his hand on your waist. The contact floods his body with a hot, thudding pulse he can taste.
Searching his face, you slide your palm over his heart. Beneath your touch, the muscle pounds at its seams.
Against his better judgment, he leans in to capture your lips in his. Warmth spreads out from his chest through his limbs. You hook a hand behind his neck and pull him closer, your body curving flush against his.
Only hours have gone by since he last saw you, but it feels like months. It’s like that with you. Timeless when you’re together and an eternity when you’re apart.
Pulling back, you look at the floor and shake your head, “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“We shouldn’t, umm,” you swallow hard, shaking your head again as you glance upstairs, “Here, now, you know…”
He glances at the back door, “You’re right. We should get to the party.“
“Yeah,” you take a big step back and clear your lungs with a deep breath, then hold up your gift bag, “Where should I put this?”
“Right this way—”
“Wait, look at me,” you chuckle, tugging at his hand.
He faces you, asking, “What?”
You cup his cheek and lick the pad of your thumb, bringing it to his bottom lip, “Lipstick.”
Your brow furrows in concentration, tongue poking out the corner of your mouth as you scrub off the evidence.
It’s kind of adorable, the way in which you do this. Doting, almost. Reminds him of the times Mamá would catch him with a dirty face in public and try to make him more presentable.
Briefly, he pictures you as the matriarch of a rowdy crew of children. Driving a minivan to school drop-offs and extracurricular activities and family outings. It suits you.
He can’t stop his lips from curving into a smile.
“What?” you grin, eyes flicking to his.
“Nothing,” he murmurs as you tilt his face around and inspect him. “Better?”
“Better,” you nod, “How about me?”
He pinches your chin and looks you over, correcting a smudge before telling you, “All clear. You ready?”
You give a half-hearted shrug, looking around at the ground, then ask, “Your wife isn’t gonna like… yell at me in front of everyone or pelt me with produce, right? This isn’t an elaborate revenge prank?”
“Is that what all the tomatoes are for? Shit,” he teases, earning a chuckle and an eye roll from you. “No, but really. She agreed to be nice.”
“Ok,” you nod, “So I’m like allowed to talk to you and everything without worrying she’ll try to murder me?”
Frankie snorts, “She wouldn’t murder you—”
“She has literally told me ‘I will fucking kill you.’”
“That was—” he shakes his head, then brings his hands to your shoulders and stares into your eyes, “It’s gonna be fine, mariposa. We’re gonna go bullshit with people and eat some food, and then we’re gonna home and watch a stupid fucking movie. Ok?”
You laugh, dropping your gaze for a moment before returning with a bashful smile, “Ok.”
—
As you make your way down the food table, piling tamales and Spanish rice and fresh fruit on a flimsy paper plate, you feel eyes on the back of your head. Whether it’s just one set or ten, you don’t care to know, but the feeling sends a shiver up your spine.
When you reach the end of the line, you take a deep breath before turning to find a place to sit.
Like every other party, the crowd is mostly separated into cliques.
Parents from around the neighborhood stick together at a few long tables, bribing their children to eat and drink water before returning to the slip-n-slide. At another table sits Angie’s family, including the queen herself, whose pointed stare you gloss over, ignoring her and Frankie at her side. You find some familiar faces at a table near the edge of the big party tent: Benny, Will, and Dani. With them is a small, elderly woman who must be Frankie’s mom or an aunt or something, due to the striking resemblance.
The whole thing reminds you of choosing a place to sit in your high school cafeteria. Much like you did in those days, you gravitate towards an empty table nearby, but halt when some calls your name.
Frowning, you look around to find Benny waving at you.
“Over here,” he pulls out the chair beside him.
You approach with a smile, the tension held in your shoulders dissolving just a little as you take the open seat and greet everyone.
“Thanks. I didn’t know if, umm… it was ok,” you chuckle nervously and drop your eyes to your plate, shaking your head.
“Oh, come on now, you’re always welcome with us,” Benny grins, leaning back in his chair to reveal the tiny graying woman on the other side of him, “Have you met Frankie’s mom, Julieta?”
“I have not,” you reach across Benny to shake her hand, “Good to meet you, I’m—”
She waves you off and pushes her chair out behind her. You half-expect her to furiously walk away at your presence, but instead she wobbles over to you and holds her arms open.
“I know who you are. Come here, mija.”
You stand to accept the invitation, stammering out, “Oh—ok—”
Emotion wells up in your chest when her bony arms squeeze tight around you and she tells you, “Thank you for taking care of my boy.”
Not sure what to say, you just hug her back for a few long seconds. The embrace says it all. It feels maternal and earnest and brings a few tears to your eyes. When she pulls away and smiles at you, you notice she’s a little misty-eyed, too, and you smile back at her. She gives your cheek a few pats before you both return to your seats.
“How’ve you been?” Dani asks.
You contemplate the question long enough for Benny to interject.
“Well, she’s keeping Fish out of trouble so I’m sure she’s having a hell of a time.”
You shrug, “It’s nothing compared to some of the toddlers I’ve had to deal with.”
Your audience chuckles, then awaits a follow up.
“No, I, umm… I’m doing ok. Going through a breakup, so that’s tough, but… mostly I’m good.”
Why did I say that?
“A breakup?” Benny leans back and drapes an arm over the back of your chair, “What happened?”
“Oh, we don’t have to—” you laugh at your plate, stabbing a chunk of watermelon.
“Come on, give us the dirt,” Benny prods.
You shove the watermelon in your mouth and wrinkle your nose at him, shaking your head.
“Let the girl have some privacy,” Dani scolds, “If she doesn’t wanna talk about it, she doesn’t wanna talk about it.”
“If she didn’t wanna talk about it she wouldn’t’ve mentioned it,” he counters.
“It’s fine, it wasn’t even a big deal. We were only dating for a few weeks and it wasn’t a good match,” you explain, glancing around the table, “I don’t know why I said it, sorry, I’m just, umm… nervous.”
You notice Will studying you and hold his meticulous gaze for a moment before dropping your eyes to your plate. He speaks up then, drawing the fire away from you.
“Hey, that’s alright. Not like Benny has room to criticize,” he gives his brother a lopsided grin, “Remember that girl that tried to stab you?”
“Not this again,” Benny groans.
“Ok well now you have to tell me,” you say, flashing a grateful smile to Will before nudging Benny, “Come on, give me the dirt.”
“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm about it.” He visibly shifts into storytelling mode, sitting up straighter as a glint of mischief sparks in his eyes, “First of all, I had no business dating her to begin with. She had a PT Cruiser with whiskey plates. If that’s not a red flag, I don’t know what is.”
—
Trying to be a halfway decent host, Frankie makes his way around the party checking in with people, introducing himself to all the unfamiliar faces and making small talk, recycling the same lines.
Drinks are in the cooler if you’re thirsty. Thanks for coming. I’m doing great, how about you?
Meanwhile, Ang seems to have taken on his former role as the champion beer drinker of the party. Every time he glances at her she’s either guzzling it down or popping open a new aluminum can.
When she and Carmen start directing slip ‘n’ slide traffic and seem sufficiently distracted, he walks up to the table where some of his favorite people are seated and takes the open chair next to Will.
“Look who it is,” Will smirks at him, “We were just talking about you.”
“Christ, do I wanna know?” he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table.
“Probably not, I was talking mad shit about you,” you tease, looking at him with a grin that makes his heart swell.
“Figures you would be,” he shoots back.
You chuckle and shake your head, “No, actually I was just telling them about how I’m teaching you to cook.”
“Oh yeah,” he looks around the table, “Did you tell them about the stir-fry?”
“Ok, you tried with the stir-fry and it was almost edible—”
“Almost edible?” Benny laughs
“Somehow the rice was both undercooked and burnt, and the veggies were mush,” you share, sitting up taller when you meet his eyes, “But it could’ve been worse. You’re learning!”
“I’m just impressed you could get him in the kitchen in the first place,” Benny says, then turns his attention to Julieta, “Mamá, you didn’t make him cook anything growing up?”
She tsks and waves him off, then explains, “His father wouldn’t let me. He was very traditional, you know, said it was women’s work.“
“It’s ok, Ma,” Frankie assures her.
“I am glad you’re learning now.” A smile stretches across her face, “You must be grateful to have such a good teacher.”
“I am, really,” he nods and glances at you before admitting, “I’d be a fucking mess without her.”
Everyone at the table seems to sit with this information in silence for a moment before Will clears his throat and asks, “Are you still working on that car?”
Frankie leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, “Here and there. Lately it’s just been collecting dust.”
“Mind if I check it out?” Will inquires, “It’s been, what, a year and a half since I’ve seen it?”
“Sure,” he frowns, looking over at you and your creased brow as if seeking permission, at which point you give a shrug, then he squints up across the yard and spots Angie talking to her mom and dad. “Let me just tell Ang so she doesn’t lose her shit if she can’t find me.”
The three men stand from the table. Frankie gives you one more glance before starting off towards his wife. With each step he takes across the grass, he wishes more and more that he could kiss you again. Give you reassurance that you’re doing great in this precarious situation.
Angie’s father glares at him as he approaches, which isn’t abnormal. Angie follows his line of sight, wobbling a bit as she lays eyes on him. Surprisingly, she smiles, “Hey!”
“Hey—”
She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him, the action so unexpected he stumbles back a step. Her lips taste of beer and poor judgment. When he pulls away, he plasters on a fake grin and says, “The guys wanna look at the car, is it ok if I slip away for a few?”
“You boys and your toys,” she rolls her eyes, “Fine, just be back for presents in a couple minutes, yeah?”
“Alright,” he searches over her shoulder, “How’s Sarah doing?”
“Good, good,” she nods, “She’s playing with Carm’s kids in the sandbox.”
“Make sure she gets some water, I don’t think she drank any with—”
“She’s fine, Francisco. I’ve got it,” she insists, patting his chest.
He studies her for a moment, then says, “Ok, I’ll be back in a minute. We’ll be in the garage if you need me.”
“Give me a kiss,” Angie demands, her long nails scraping at the nape of his neck. He leans in and presses his lips to hers, feeling nothing but irritation and disgust.
—
When Frankie and the Miller brothers disappear into the house, so does your social armor, leaving you exposed.
For a while you make scattered small talk with Julieta and Dani, discussing Sarah and the party and the weather. You watch Sarah play with her friends from a distance, not wanting to disrupt their sand castle building by approaching. Every once in a while, your eyes cheat to Angie.
A vile, familiar sensation sits heavy in your stomach.
He warned you that it might be difficult seeing them together, but you forgot how bad it hurts to witness.
The way she kissed him doesn’t help. Hanging off him, looking at him with bedroom eyes.
It’s not the same this time. He’s different now.
The foul thing in your belly goes dead weight, making you lurch.
What if he’s not?
Before you can spiral too much, you hear, “Chacha!” and realize Sarah is running towards you
“Hi, pumpkin!” you smile and outstretch your arms to catch her as she slams into you.
“I’m not a pumpkin, I’m just a girl,” she giggles.
“Are you having fun at your party?”
She grunts out an “mhmm” while you pull her up onto your lap. Her face is flushed, skin all heated and damp with sweat.
“You look like you’re hot, do you want some water?”
“Um. Ok!” she smiles.
“Ok let me get you—”
“I got it,” Dani stands and starts towards the cooler.
You murmur a thanks and return your attention to Sarah, “Thank you for letting me come to your party. I’m having so much fun.”
She giggles in response, leaning into you.
“How are you liking daycare? Do you get to play with your friends?”
She nods.
Dani returns with a cold water bottle, twisting the cap open before handing it to you.
“Here you go, sweetie,” you bring the bottle to her lips and slowly tip it back as she takes big gulps of water. Periodically, you pull it away and let her catch her breath, then start again until she pushes it away.
“Better?”
“Much better,” she nods.
“Maybe she should go inside and cool down for a minute?” Dani suggests.
Julieta leans over to feel her forehead, “Too much sun, hija.”
“Do you wanna go inside for a minute?” You ask, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“Chacha will you go with me?”
“You want me to—oh, um… should we ask your mom…?” You frown at Dani, who grimaces, then Julieta.
“Just take her,” Julieta insists, “I’ll tell Angelica if she comes looking.”
“Ok. Ok sure. Let’s go, sweetie.”
You rise from the chair, sliding Sarah to your hip, then carry her up the stairs into the house. Once inside, you sit on the couch with her for a few seconds before she wriggles away and scampers off down the hallway.
“Chacha come see my room!”
“Oh my fucking god,” you whisper under your breath, glancing nervously up at the back door before following her, “Ok, but just for a minute, then we should go back out to the party.”
—
“Are you seriously calling him?” Frankie blinks, leaning back against the workbench.
Will shoots him a look while raising the phone to his ear.
“Unbelievable. It’s like six o’clock in the morning there, you’re gonna wake—”
“Hey Pope, I’m gonna put you on speaker.” Will presses a button and sets the phone down next to Frankie, “Now I want Fish to tell you what he just told me and Benny.”
Gnashing his jaw back and forth, he stares at Will, then Benny. They both watch him expectantly while Santi speaks up, his voice groggy from sleep.
“Alright, let’s hear it.”
Frankie clears his throat and rubs his mouth before saying, “I’m gonna ask Ang for a divorce.”
“Oh shit, ok.”
Will prods Frankie further, “Tell him the other part.”
“Will you just—Fuck, ok. I’m… seeing someone.”
On the other line, Santi chuckles a little, “Uh-huh.“
“Any guesses on who that might be?” Benny asks.
“Oh, I have one—”
“Wait wait wait, let me give you a hint,” Benny grins while scrolling through his phone, pushing off the hood of the car to grandstand, “On June 10–only seven weeks ago, mind you—Fish said about her, and I quote: It’s not like that, we’re only friends. To which you said—”
“—I said bull-fucking-shit!” Santi finishes, then howls, “That is fucking delicious, thank you.”
Frankie crosses his arms and shakes his head at Will, “See, this is why I didn’t wanna tell him.”
“How long?” Santi asks.
“How long what?”
“How long have you been sleeping with her?”
“It’s… complicated, ok?”
Benny giggles and repeats, “Oh, it’s complicated.”
Santi questions further, “Sure, well, let me ask you this: How long have you been in love with her?”
“Why does it matter?”
“You do, though, right? You love her?”
Frankie crosses his arms and glares at the phone, “Yeah.”
“When did that happen?”
Heat flares through his veins. He wrings his neck and mutters, “That’s a stupid question.”
“Why’s it stupid?”
“Cuz, Pope, that’s like… that’s like asking how long ago mankind came to exist. Or asking what point a chrysalis becomes a butterfly. I don’t fucking know, man, it just does. I just know that I do, I love her, and I have for… a while.”
The two men before him are silent, along with the voice on the phone. Frankie, on the other hand, finds momentum in his confession. He continues.
“And Ang… Jesus Christ, I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve felt like this with her. And the longer I think about it, the more I convince myself I never did. Not this way, like I can’t live without her, you know?” He taps his fingers against his lips, then shrugs, “Maybe I could have at one point, if I tried. But even then… I don’t like who I am when I’m with her. It doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s skin and it doesn’t fit me.”
He glances up at Benny, then Will. Their faces are somber, but understanding. Benny approaches, leaning on the workbench beside him to rope an arm around his shoulders and give him a supportive squeeze.
“When are you gonna tell her?” Will asks.
“Soon. Not today, but this week probably.“
Benny withdraws his touch and crosses his arms in front of his chest, “She’ll go right for the jugular. You know that, right?”
“I know.” Frankie takes off his cap to run a hand through his hair, then puts it back, “She’s gonna try to take Sarah. Fuck, I’m gonna need another goddamn lawyer, aren’t I?”
“Can you afford that right now?” Will furrows his brow, studying him, “Be honest.”
“Probably. Well, maybe. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but is now the right time? You’re on parole and looking to add felony charges to your wrap sheet. Not to mention the infidelity. On paper, your custody case is shit.”
Frankie shakes his head, “If I have to keep living like this… all this lying and pretending… I don’t know, man. I can’t do it anymore. Something inside me is about to break. I can feel it.”
The Millers exchange a look.
“I don’t think I’m speaking out of line by saying we all just want what’s best for you, Fish,” the voice over the phone tells him, “We want you to be happy. If you need to get out, get out.”
Frankie glances up at Will, who nods in confirmation.
“Thanks. It-it means a lot to me,” he shifts his weight to one leg, looking down at his wristwatch, “We better get back to the party. Talk soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Santi says, “Hang in there, buddy.”
After hanging up the phone, Will gives Frankie a pat on the shoulder, “We’ve got your back.”
As they file out of the garage into the entryway, Angie walks out from the bathroom. When she notices them climbing the steps, she calls, “Hi boys.”
To his credit, Benny puts on a convincing smile and greets her with a high five, “What’s up, Angie?”
She steps aside to let him pass, then fixes her glassy eyes on Will, “How’s the carcocha looking?”
“Better than the last time we saw it,” Will shrugs, glancing over his shoulder at Frankie, “Just needs a little TLC.”
“Needs to go to the scrapyard if you ask me,” she snorts and tilts her head at her husband as he reaches the top of the stairs, “Hey handsome.”
He gives her a half-hearted smirk, then frowns, “Where’s Sarah?”
“She’s fine, still playing. Francisco,” she tugs on his shirt, so he comes to a stop.
Jesus Christ, her breath smells like a brewery.
His eyes flick to the Millers stalled at the back door. After waving at them to clear out, he raises his eyebrows at Angie, “What?”
“I need your help with something.”
“Sure, what?”
Instead of answering him outright, she takes his hand and leads him down the hallway. His stomach twists with understanding when she pulls him through the doorway towards the bed.
“If you wanna lay down for a bit, I can take care of every—”
She turns to face him, placing her palms on his chest and sliding them up to his shoulders, “I want you to fuck me, Francisco.”
“Ang,” he chuckles with exasperation, shaking his head, “We have a backyard full of guests here, come on.”
“They’re all having fun, no one will notice.” She takes his hand and guides it to her face, gently folding down all his finger but the index and pouts, “Please, Frankie.”
He swallows a groan when she wraps her full lips around his digit and sucks. The wet hot plush of her mouth makes his eyelids flutter and weakens his resolve.
“I don’t think—”
She pulls his finger from her mouth like a lollipop and bats her eyelashes at him, cooing, “Don’t you wanna fuck me like you did the other night? Didn’t that feel good?”
“Well, yeah—”
“We can be quick.”
As she reaches for his belt, something moves at the edge of his vision.
“Mommy, Daddy!”
He looks at the doorway to find Sarah in the hall, holding one penguin toy in each of her pudgy toddler fists. A big, toothy grin spreads across her face and she giggles, galloping into the room.
Thankful for the diversion, Frankie smiles and takes a big step away from his wife, crouching down to ask Sarah, “Hey sweetheart, what’re you doing in here?”
“Showing Chacha my penguins,” she tells him, holding up her toys, “This one is an emperor penguin, and this one is a macaroni penguin!”
“Chacha?”
Something inside him drops to the floor. He looks up and sees you emerge from Sarah’s room. You pause briefly in the hallway, glancing at Angie before meeting his gaze. The pained look on your face rips his heart in two.
“I, umm…” you stammer, dropping your eyes to the floor and shaking your head, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just—leaving. There’s a thing and-and I have to go.”
With this, you flee down the hall, then the stairs, your footsteps still echoing heavy in his head while the front door slams shut.
—
“Whiskey coke?”
You look up from the bar top’s glossy wood finish to give Bubba a nod.
“Ain’t seen you around here in a while,” he comments while scooping ice into a glass.
“Yeah.”
It surprises you a little, how hoarse your voice sounds. A self-awareness passes over you and you straighten your spine, glancing around the bar before digging a compact mirror from your purse. By the time you finish rubbing the bleeding mascara from your swollen eyes, Bubba is placing your drink in front of you.
You exchange the mirror for your wallet, but when you fish out your card and hold it out to Bubba, he shakes his head.
“On the house.”
“What, do I get the sad sap discount?”
He chuckles a little at this, then shrugs, “If that’s what you wanna call it.”
“Thanks.”
Leaning forward onto the bar, you pull the glass closer, then stab the ice with your straw a few times. Little bubbles of carbonation fizzle up to the surface and release the gassy scent of rail whiskey. Nostalgia sours your stomach.
“Everything alright?”
A deep ache branches out from the weight beneath your sternum and curls around your shoulders. Every cell in your body feels heavy and burdensome.
Staring at the glass, you shake your head.
“I’m all ears if you wanna talk about it.”
“It’s a long, messy story.”
“I got time.”
You glance up at him, studying his concerned expression, and sigh, “You know that guy who meets me here sometimes? Brown hair, usually wearing a hat? Started a fight that one time?”
“The vet?”
“Yeah,” you nod and swallow down the thickness in your throat, then tell him, “We’ve been off and on for years. He’s, umm… he’s married. I was their nanny when it started. I fell in love with him. He made it clear he didn’t feel the same and he wouldn’t leave his wife, but I kept seeing him because I’m an idiot.”
“Sounds like you kept seeing him because you loved him, not because you’re an idiot,” Bubba observes.
“Same difference,” you shrug and tilt your head at your drink, “He’s an alcoholic. After his wife caught us fucking, he went off the rails completely. Still kept seeing him even though he kept me at an arm’s length and drank himself dumb every night. The thing is… I never believed him when he said he couldn’t love me like I loved him. I felt it, and I thought…”
Tingles work up your throat behind your eyes, and everything becomes blurry as you choke out a sob.
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s ok.”
You shake your head and wipe away your tears, but they keep coming.
“I thought if I kept loving him he would see how good it could be and come around. I thought he would admit to himself that he does love me like I love him. I wanted that with him so bad, I just couldn’t fucking let go. Then, umm…”
You clear your throat and take a deep, shaky breath.
“I had to give him an ultimatum. Her or me. He picked her. I cut it off and tried to move on with my life. He called me a few months ago from jail and asked me to bail him out. I got roped into being his custodian while he’s on parole, so he’s been living with me. We agreed not to get involved in, umm, that way again.
“He’s been sober and opening up emotionally while working through this shit. It’s been really hard. But it’s also been good, you know, because we’ve had to hash out all these problems that we’ve ignored for years. I’ve been able to see the real him, and… I love him more than I ever have.”
“Uh-huh,” Bubba raises an eyebrow at you, crossing his arms above his beer belly, “So what happened that’s got you in a fuss? He still doesn’t love you back?”
The question pierces your heart.
Your voice balances a tightrope as you confess, “I thought he did. I really did this time, I was so fucking certain. He promised he would fix it, that we could be together—and I fucking believed him—”
Waves of emotion swell in your chest and flood your eyes with hot tears. You fold forward, burying your face in your hands, releasing sob after sob as you replay the last two months in your head and wonder how you could be so fucking stupid to think it was real.
The world around you melts away until it’s just you and that dense, pulsing pain. Like it’s always been. Like it always will be.
It doesn’t matter how hard you try to help him. It doesn’t matter that you love him more than anything else in this world. It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters, because he doesn’t love you and he never will.
A hand rests on your shoulder blades and pulls you back to reality. So lost in your self-pity, you didn’t notice Bubba come around the bar to console you. You sit up and wipe your eyes, mumbling out an apology.
“It’s fine, darlin’. Can I do anything to help?”
Sniffling, you shake your head, “I’ll be ok.”
“You sure?”
You inhale a shattered breath and give him a weak smile, “Fifty-fifty.”
He furrows his brow and studies you for a moment before nodding, then taking a step back.
As he makes his way back to his side of the bar, you stare at your drink. A fat droplet of moisture rolls down the thick condensation lining the glass and gets swallowed up by the cardboard coaster beneath.
You wish you could forget about him.
You wish you could feel nothing.
You wish you could hurt him the way he’s hurt you.
So, you pluck out the straw, raise the cup to your lips, and start drinking.
—
The setting sun paints the wispy clouded sky above a brilliant shade of orange. Beneath his feet, the soles of Frankie’s shoes scuff against the driveway. He glances down at his mom, with her arm hooked in his, and says, “Thanks for coming out, Mamá. I hope you had a good time.”
“It was a very nice party, mijo.”
She gives him this stifled polite smile like she’s holding something back. So he prods her.
“What?”
She waves him off, “Nada nada.”
“Come on, Ma.”
They come to a stop at the driver’s side door of her car and turn to face each other. She studies him a moment, then gives in with a huff, “You have been like this all afternoon. Why?”
“Like what?”
“So stormy.”
He deflates, “Don’t worry about it.”
Her lips purse as she tilts her head at him. The ‘don’t make me smack you’ look.
“It’s messy, mom. How I’m feeling,” he wrings a hand behind his neck and shrugs, “I don’t know. Everything is a mess and it’s all my fault.”
“All your fault how? Did something happen?”
“No—well,” he catches himself, swallows, then corrects, “Yeah. I did something bad. And I lied about it. Then I got caught in the lie, and, you know…”
She nods slowly, waiting for more.
“I think I might be a bad person.”
Her expression softens when Frankie says it. She cups his cheeks and stares straight into his soul. Suddenly, he’s five years old all over again, Mamá comforting his bruised heart.
“There is a good man inside you. I know him well because he’s my son. Let him be brave.”
He absorbs this for a moment, then croaks, “Ok.”
“Give me a hug.”
He hunches over to hug her, burying his face in her neck, “Quiero mucho, mamá.”
“Yo a ti,” she squeezes him, then pulls back and asks, “Will you call me tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
He waits for her to get in her car and drive away before returning to the house. Inside, he finds Sarah and Benny reading a book on the couch, while the siren song of the party still roaring out back rubs at his nerves.
Frankie pulls out his phone to confirm you, predictably and rightfully, did not respond to his messages or calls. Reconciling with you will be a fucking nightmare. Going home to face the consequences seems less appealing with each passing second.
He starts to consider other options.
He could stay and drink. Join the party. Doubtful that Angie or any of her people would give a shit. Hell, they would probably encourage him.
Better yet, he could stay and drink by himself in the garage. There’s enough booze laying around, nobody would notice if he drained a bottle or two in order to reach that blissful numb.
He plops down on the couch next to Sarah and brings his attention to Benny’s reading.
“—‘Now stop!’ Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all. Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.
But the wild things cried, ‘Oh please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!’ And Max said, ‘No!’ The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved goodbye… and sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day… and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him… and it was still hot.”
Benny flips the paperback closed and looks down at Sarah, who yawns and rubs her eyes, then to her father.
“Still want that ride home?”
Frankie considers this for a moment before nodding, “Yeah. Let me put her to bed and talk to Ang, then we can take off.”
#designated person#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#francisco catfish morales#frankie catfish morales#francisco morales#triple frontier#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales angst#x reader#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character#pedro pascal character fic
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Pairing: Javier Peña x reader
Warnings: 18+. sexual themes, kissing, spitting, Javi just really loves your mouth. Reader wears lipstick, is described as slightly shorter than Javi, no pronouns for reader but some pet names (cariño, baby). Unedited.
Word Count: 1.2k
Summary: "The lipstick guarantees you’ll get what you want most"
A/N: This is majorly unedited and mostly drivel, i just need to get a wip out of my drafts and in to the world. To follow for fic updates only go to @sp00kyupdates or see taglist details on my masterlist. Header by me. Credit to banner maker @/saradika.
It begins with the application of a cherry red lipstick, and this isn’t the first time.
The one in the sleek dark tube that sits on your dresser, usually only picked out for special occasions.
Today might not involve any kind of occasion but you feel a sparking need in you to apply it as you get dressed for the work day, as the craving of attention from the man in the next room sets in.
The lipstick guarantees you’ll get what you want most, and you know it as you swipe the bright colour onto your lips once, then blot, and swipe again. You’re satisfied when you look in the mirror. You look good.
When you enter the kitchen where Javier is pouring a cup of steaming hot coffee, you rise your head to look in his eyes and he stops in his tracks immediately. You don't miss the twitch of his fingers, a subtle movement as he looks to your eyes, and then down to your lips and lets out a quiet breath. He stares for a beat longer, not saying anything.
"What?" you ask innocently, looking at him only as he steps forward, and then again and once more until he's crowding you against the near wall. He’s so easy to entice, you could almost laugh. If he wasn’t looking at you like that.
"Wearing that for me, cariño?" Javi asks, eyes focussed still on your lips. You bite your bottom lip a little, as you continue to watch him watch you. You both know where this is headed.
"What do you mean?" You feign obtuseness that makes him give you a stern glare, but your heavy breath betrays you. "Oh, the lipstick? Just thought it went with my outfit. Don't you think?"
Javi groans, and one hand traverses from the wall to caress his fingers on your cheek.
It had been clear to you since your second date, when you'd worn a bold colour on your lips and things had ended heatedly. Javier had a certain obsession. Desirous always, but even moreso with the entice of brightness like a beacon to you - a man possessed by even the thought of your lips on him, near him, him in your warm wet and waiting mouth. Your mouth is almost his favourite damn thing in the world; the way you spew pretty, filthy words and spill even prettier, filthier moans from those lips. He stiffens at just the feel of your mouth anywhere on him, warm breath ghosting against his skin and teeth scraping delicately.
You’d learned a while ago that when you wear this lipstick it's a guarantee you'll both be out of the house late, stains smudged on him as a reminder for later in the day.
"Wore it for me, didn't you?" He asks again now and damn him, you can't do much but nod. Suddenly struck dumb as his thumb swipes across your bottom lip and he watches in rapt attention at the detail of the smudge it makes on your skin and his.
"Fuckin' beautiful" He mutters and leans in to kiss you more chaste than you anticipate. He's deliciously delicate in this kiss and you turn to putty, like always.
"Javi…gonna be late" you mutter like you even care but he's shaking his head and already pulling back from the too-short kiss, a subtle hint of the colour on his own pouted lips now.
After a short moment of contemplation of you, he’s dragging his thumb again to smear the painted colour even more.
"Too pretty for us to go anywhere right now" Javi says softly, lovingly in a way that makes you ache, "Too god damn pretty"
Fuck, he makes you feel dizzy the way you make him feel it. Want and need coursing electric through you both as he presses his mouth to yours again for just a moment longer and grinds his growing bulge against your front for not long enough before he pulls himself back again with effort.
“Open, cariño” Javi growls, thumb back to tracing the plush of your lips. You do as he says, of course, and he slips the digit inside your mouth, groaning deep at the feel of wet heat when you suck on it.
“Fucking perfect. Made all for me, weren’t you?” He murmurs, other hand reaching to his belt and deftly unbuckling with practiced ease.
“Only for me” Javi adds, low tone sparking heat in your core. He presses softly down on your tongue, then traces the ridges of your teeth. A muttered ‘fuck’ that’s almost a whimper when you bite down a little
You let out a pathetic little whimper of your own that only spurs him on. His thumb pushes all the way in, down to the knuckle and you make sure to suck harder, wetting it with your saliva just like he wants. Once more he pulls it back and passes the digit across your teeth, feeling the indent they'll make on his flesh as you bite a little harder this time.
"Careful" He warns, but it's an empty threat and you both know it. He's hard and needing and he won't do anything but give exactly what you want when you have him wrapped around you like this.
His belt is long unbuckled, that free hand now working down to unbutton and unzip his jeans with ease - not the first nor the last time he's done this particular act, one hand occupied with you.
"Open up wide for me" He rasps, voice wrecked already. It makes your knees buck a little, glad for the wall behind you supporting you.
Once more you do as he says, always so good when you're both getting what you want. You open as wide as you can and he watches with interest as he pulls his thumb out, a string of your saliva attached to it. His attention completely fixated on it.
He repeats the motion again of swiping his thumb across your lips but this time with the added wet the lipstick smudges more, making a beautiful mess just like he likes and when he lifts the still wet digit from you it's stained a diluted red as he sucks between his own gorgeous lips.
"Keep it open, baby"
You can't help the moan that leaves you at his rough voice and the look of devoted lust in his eyes. He's so enraptured with you. With what you have. What he needs.
He directs you a little by pulling you by the chin with his thumb and forefinger, and for a moment there is silence as he looks slightly down at you. You share a breath, quiet and slow, before you stick your tongue out like you know he wants. When he spits directly into your mouth it’s lewd and filthy and perfect when you feel it land on your waiting tongue. You don't swallow down, not yet, you've played this part enough to know not to.
"Fuck me" He groans, and spits again before telling you in a strained tone to close your mouth.
And you do. And he nods, so you swallow like he wants.
"Perfect" Javi sighs again
You feel it. Like a perfect, glorious thing to be seen the way he sees you. Even as he takes his cock out with a sigh of relief all of his attention is on you; not just on the smudge of the lipstick, the pout of your lips, the heat of your mouth, but on you, the one he needs.
One more beat of silence, as he gives you that look.
"On your knees for me, amor"
#javier pena x reader#javier pena x you#javier pena smut#pedro pascal character fic#pedrostories#this is nonsense I just want Javi to spit in my mouth 🤷
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Hinterland
Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x female reader
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Unprotected PiV and half-asleep sex, established relationship
Word Count: 600 on the dot
Summary: Camping with Frankie, and why 3am half-asleep sex in a backcountry tent is superior.
Notes: A little scene inspired by @trulybetty's gorgeous little fic "Campfire" and the discussion it inspired with @goodwithcheese via reblogs about the joys of camping with Frankie. (Are you still not convinced?!) I'm an Outdoors Girl, so this would be my dream.
Stillness at 3am in the backcountry is primal. Nocturnal creatures have finished their hunts, but it's too early for birdsong. Even the insects have stopped clicking and chattering.
The air around your tent is quiet. Heavy. It's echoed in the way Frankie softly grinds against you from behind, his hard cock teasing your entrance. He doesn't have to ask if you like it; all his half-conscious brain has to do is track the pace of your breath, register the slight hitch in your hips that begs for more.
His calloused fingers, wisps of woodsmoke still clinging to them from the campfire, automatically travel down from your stomach to lazily circle your clit. He's too lost in his half-lidded dreams to be intentional with his movements, but it sparks your fire all the same, until you're wide awake.
Being with Frankie in these early morning moments, when he's half asleep and acting purely on instinct, is your favorite thing in the world. When you're at home spread across your luxurious bed and not inside this pitch-black tent at 3am, he's controlled, so focused on your pleasure instead of his own, a people-pleaser to the point of fault sometimes. But not now. He can have whatever he wants.
Frankie's cock finally slides into you. His breathing is soft and even against the back of your neck, and you reach back to twine your fingers gently through his hair. After a minute or two to adjust -- he's always so thick inside you, especially in this spooned position -- you start to clench around his length, matching the rhythm of his breaths as they slowly pick up speed.
Lazy and languid gradually turn visceral as his hips instinctively move faster, his thrusts hard enough to hit and drag across nerves deep inside you, but without the force behind them he can give when he's conscious and you're loudly begging more, harder Frankie, please fuck me, I want to feel all of you.
Little drops of condensation bead on the inner nylon of the tent, rolling lightly down the walls.
His fingers dig into your hip to push and pull you over his cock. His hand has given up doing anything to your clit, but that doesn't matter. You can take over. It won't take much anyway.
His breath catches repeatedly, forming grunts and groans that echo loud inside the tent. You know he's close, even though he's still not fully awake.
Your hips are moving faster now to pull him in and drag him out, just far enough to brush the nerves around your entrance with each slide. Your hand draws familiar and practiced circles on your clit, bringing you to the edge and drawing soft whimpers from your mouth. Not too loud; you don't want to wake him.
You press your palm against your clit at just the right spot and you come with a whimper, squeezing down on Frankie's cock just as he presses deep with a groan and spurts, his cock pulsing and twitching inside you, deliciously filling you up as you ride out your orgasm.
He never really woke up, and you can tell by his breathing pattern that he's already drifting back into deep sleep.
As you start to doze off yourself, his softening cock still inside and his arm wrapped around your chest, the forest outside the tent gently starts to wake. You cling to each other like it's the final moments of a delicious dream that will be gone forever once the sun rises.
In a few hours, you'll wake up exactly like that.
#frankie morales x reader#triple frontier smut#francisco catfish morales#pedro pascal character fic#still managed to get a hair mention in there#juice collective
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Breaking the Girl~ 18+ dom!joel
Summary: as a casual photographer, you find the opportunity to go with your neglectful boyfriend to his hometown for the summer thrilling. Taking photos of his neighbors and friends whilst not blowing money on a huge vacation sounds perfect, a small job with his mum, neighborhood summer get-togethers and weekend beach trips accompanied by your trusty camera, why not?! But when a certain charming Southern man, known as your boyfriend’s old boss, enters the mix, you cant take your lens off the fine older man, and he cant seem to take it off you either.
Pairings: (no-outbreak) dom!joel miller x sub f!reader
Warnings and notes: 18+, smutty smutty smut, dom!joel and sub!f!reader, piv, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, doll, darling), dirty talk, drinking, swearing, oral sex (f! receiving), arguments, age gap (reader is afab! in their early 20s and Joel in in his mid-early 50s), reader in uni, bit of a praise kink ngl, boyfriend being an asshole and Joel being just as charming as ever, reader has some cunty thoughts but good for her honestly, just pure unbridled filth with a semi developed backstory<3 no use of y/n
~ 7.2k (oops)
A/N: hi all<3 I wanna thank you guys for the support of my previous Joel fic, I appreciate it so much<3 this is just a string of pure filth with limited backstory. my inbox is open for requests as usual, your feedback is always welcome and if you enjoy this fic please like, comment and reblog<3
~
She was the girl
Left alone
Feeling the need
To make me her home
I don't know what, when or why
The twilight of love had arrived
~
Summer was approaching quick and with your exams out of the way and all the stress of the last few months, the final week of university seemed kinda pointless. Yet here you were in class, daydreaming about all the things you would get up to. Perhaps you could rent a sea-side batch and spend your warm afternoons in the ocean before settling down with a book and a bottle of wine for the evenings. Or maybe, you could blow your barista allowance and go to Florida for the sweltering months. Truth is, you didn’t have any plans for the summer, and with the days counting down much too fast to comprehend, you found yourself at a loss for what to do on your break. No matter what you did, however, you know your trusty camera would be tucked to your side, film loaded in and an extra pocket in your bag to store the developed photos. Photography had been a passion of yours for as long as you could remember. You had saved up birthday and Christmas money for years in order to afford a camera for yourself and you had never gone anywhere without it. Unfortunately, the impending doom of your hobby “having no jobs”, as your father put it, meant that you had to change your uni major. Although, you had been cheeky and added in a photography paper here and there, just to satisfy yourself and to no knowledge of your father.
The sound of a backpack being thrown down next to you made you retreat from your thoughts with a jump. Your boyfriend pushed himself into a seat next to you, “So babe”, he began; god, how many times had you told him you hated being called that. “I was thinking, for the summer, you could come back home with me?” he finished. You looked at him with a frown, the last thing you wanted to do was spend another summer cooped up in a small town like the one you grew up in, the one you visited every holidays, just to be wrapped in uncomfortably tight hugs from elders commenting on, “well well, I haven’t seen you since you were this big”, making their hand level with their knees, “look at how pretty you’ve gotten, you have your mothers eyes dear, you must be so proud of her”, they would always say, giving a warm smile to your father as he too looked at you with a grin, knowing how insane you must think these strangers were. You loved seeing your father on breaks, but c’mon, sometimes you yourself needed some time to yourself.
You contemplated his offer briefly, “Hmm I don’t kno—” “Cmon!” he insisted, unwarily cutting you off, “It’ll be great, we can stay in my parents sleep out, I’ll be working for one of my neighbors who I had a job with in high school, and I’ve already asked my mom if she can find some work for you around her office. On weekends we can walk to the beach and go to the mall and whatnot, c’mon babe, it’ll be fun”. Great, a summer working in an office and hanging out with your boyfriends’ rich parents, sounds… delightful. But truth is, you didn’t have anything else to do over the summer, and maybe this would be a way to relax without spending a boatload of your hard-earned money on a shitty trip. “Hmm... fine, you’ve convinced me”, you pretend to be annoyed about it. He smiles and gives you a quick peck on the cheek which you ignore. “It’ll be great, we can go up Saturday afternoon. First day of summer, the adults in the neighborhood usually throw a barbecue at Joel’s, the guy I’m working for. Yeah, it’s a little rowdy with drunk adults and a pool thrown into the mix but I always find myself actually having fun”. At this point you felt a little excitement creep through you. You arrive and immediately there’s a party, hell yeah. Who cares about drunk middle-aged people when at least there are free drinks. “I’m sure we will have a great time”, you force a smile as he gazes at you, “as long as I’m with you”, he replies earnestly before adding repulsively, “can you bring something hot to wear, like those little shorts- I wanna impress everyone in town that you’re mine”. You cringed at the sudden ruin of the mood and his claiming you as his. It sends a nauseous feeling straight to your stomach with a hint of rage.
Six months ago, you may have laughed and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, but truth is, you had been meaning to break things off with him for a couple of weeks now. His constant unawareness to vile comments and the fact that you were always treated as an accessory to him, as if you weren’t a person at all, had just brought you to your breaking point. Not to mention your friend Em, who dated his much kinder friend, had broken the news that him and a girl in another one of his classes had been fucking on the regular. This should’ve hurt, but truth be told, you two had been distant for months now. The only reason that you hadn’t broken it off sooner was the slamming of exam period, as you spend two weeks with your head buried in books, barely seeing anyone, including him (you had kinda forgot about him over that time, if you were honest with yourself, and, you know you weren’t supposed to say it, but it felt kinda nice, not having the responsibility of constantly thinking about a significant other). Remembering all the outliers in your relationship, you cursed yourself for saying yes to the trip and not just calling it quits to spend summer alone. Well, you guessed you wouldn’t be seeing him all that much, with both of you working and you could use the excuse you wanted to check out the town to get away for a bit. God, you felt like a major bitch, but still, it was a free trip. So, fuck it. Call it compensation for how neglectful he had been of your relationship.
The trip back to his hometown was draining. You couldn’t help but wish your boyfriend would just ease up on the constant chatter so the two of you could sit in comfortable silence with the music blaring instead. He told you all about his neighbors and his parents and you couldn’t help but find yourself intrigued by this Joel Miller character he was working for. Single parent, self-made wealthy contractor with a charm about him, or so your boyfriend complimented, as he told the story of how Joel had offered him a job in high school when times were tight through his parents’ divorce. “Listen okay, literally everyone in town swoons for him but I’ve never seen him with anyone, I don’t know, maybe he’s just not looking to settle down. I personally don’t see it, he’s just an old man”, he mentions offhandedly. You were a little nervous to meet him after the string of admiration by your boyfriend.
Once you had arrived and his stepfather and mother had showered you with acclimation (“My goodness Sammy, look at this gorgeous thing, how did you manage to lock her down”). Getting ready for the much-awaited barbecue, you settled for simple, as the humid evening approaching told you that anymore layers, and you would be drenched in sweat. You added some accessories, equipping yourself with your camera and extra film as you and your boyfriend headed across the road to, supposedly, Joel’s house.
Already there was a congregation of neighbors and friends, all gathered around a pool in the backyard, beers in hands, chatting enthusiastically with others they, presumably, were all familiar with. It was utterly suburban, the sight bemusing you slightly as you force away a smirk. Making your way across the lawn and through already intoxicated neighbors you find a full cooler, preparing yourself with a beer before observing the strangers. Your boyfriend had taken off to greet friendly faces, taking the opportunity, you fixate your lens to your eye to capturing the action.
A sweep of the back garden and a few shots later your lens focuses on a tall man leaning on a porch pillar. You can’t help but stare through the disguise of your camera. The cross of his tanned broad arms stretching his t shirt against his chest, making the expanse that much more noticeable. One hand jammed into his pocket, the other superlatively cradling a beer.
His patchy beard lined his structured jaw, squinting as he laughed, dimples inverting the sides of his mouth exquisitely. All these featured crafted the most handsome man you think you had ever laid eyes on. Pressing the shutter, you snap a photo of him mid-laugh as a neighbor entertained him. His admirable laugh carried across the garden, a melody to your ears, you can’t help but smile to yourself.
“Babe!” you boyfriend calls from across the lawn, cringing once more at the pet name, you wander across the garden after being summoned. “This here is Joel”. Your eyes meet the older man finally greeting the stranger who has piqued your interest the past few hours. He had a southern charm about him, and the closer you get, you can see how broad he really is. His muscles sculpted through his shirt, the veins in his arm mimicking those of Michelangelo's David. What the hell was your boyfriend talking about “just an old man”, you couldn’t take your eyes off him, allure and all.
“Ah, so this is she”, he envelopes your hand in his, his calloused palms connect more gently than you expected with your own young, soft padding. “I’m Joel”, he introduces himself, “I noticed you snapping photos over there”, his smile softens his features, you can’t help but mirror his beaming. “Speaking of”, you say, reaching into your pocket, you hand him the photo you had taken earlier; his attractive face radiating from the Polaroid, “Here”.
Taking it, he inspects it closely, you hold your breath, faintly, always nervous of reactions to your craft, no matter how friendly the gathering. A mesmerizing smile breaks out on his feature, “Probably the best photo taken of me ever. And that’s saying something”, he adds, grinning. “Its all yours”, you offer, watching him pocket the photo with pride.
Joel and you fall into conversation seamlessly. You tell of your uni and photography endeavors as Joel starts telling you about his contracting business. How he got it off the ground with the help of his brother, Tommy, who was lounging on a pool chair beside Joel’s daughter Sarah, who he mentioned with a sparkle of joy in his eye any proud father would have. “So, after Sarah’s mom left, I decided to get my shit togeth—”
“Holy shit”, your boyfriend interrupts. Joel raises his eyebrows in confusion, and you sigh in question, as you were enjoying talking to Joel, “Listen, my old high school buddies are having a boys night at theirs”, he raises up his phone, showing the brightened notification on the screen. You don’t bother to read it. “I gotta go babe, sorry. Ill see you later on tonight, okay?”, he gives you a quick kiss on the cheek, leaving you standing there speechless before weaving through the crowd of people in the back garden and leaving. You’re shocked, frankly. Sure, he’s been neglectful of you, but this was a new low. Ditching you at his neighbor’s party to go hang out with other people… you are truly dumbstruck. Tears of humiliation and pure anger burn on your lashes, threatening to leak down your face. You turn your attention to Joel leaning next to you, the same stunned expression accessorizing his features, brow slightly furrowed. “Well,”, he sighs after a beat, “that was a bit fucking rude. Sorry about th—“
“Excuse me”, it was your turn to interrupt him, as you fled from his domineering presence, frankly, embarrassed by your bastard of a boyfriend. Tears lighting a fire behind your eyes as your blood boiled.
“Fuck”, you took a look at the bottom of your empty beer bottle, heading over to the cooler. “Fuck!!”, you repeated to yourself upon opening the now empty chiller. Adults really did drink a lot huh, you thought, glaring daggers at the once full bin before wandering across the garden and inside the house.
You navigated the modern, utterly suburban house plan until you found a garage. Damn middle-aged men and their garages, you swear every dad you knew decorated their garage better than their own rooms. Thank god Joel was no different, because you knew there would be a fridge there filled with the good stuff. Once alone with your new full beverage, you let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. You were here, alone now, with people only he knew, did he expect you to just stand in the corner and drink by yourself, observing the party? Did he expect you to just go home? Honestly, the mere thought of it sent a rush of anger traversing up your spine. “Asshole”, you muttered to yourself, taking a swig of your stolen beer.
“Didn’t think pretty girls were thieves”, you heard a teasing voice behind you. You whipped your head around to make out Joel in the doorway of the garage, muscular arms tucked into his sides again, one supporting his almost empty beer. Had he… followed you? He uncrossed his ankles and made his way over to where you stood by the fridge.
“The door was open, arrest me officer”, you retort sarcastically, already over this whole shindig after being ditched by your boyfriend.
He chuckled lightly before noticing your peeved demeanor. “Ah”, he whispers to himself, “boyfriend troubles huh? More so, than the whole ordeal before hm, darling”. You glance at him through your lashes and roll your eyes, “You don’t know the half of it.” Sighing, he moved closer to you, his elbow caressing yours slightly, he looks down at you with an expression you cant quite make out, “All I can say is”, he begins, his voice low and gravelly, “if I had a pretty thing like you for myself, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight”.
Was he… making a move on you? You couldn’t tell. In your drunken state, you didn’t really care either, why not pursue it. Your boyfriend hadn’t touched you in months, the least Joel could say was no; so, fuck it, right?
You inch toward him, “and what would you do if you had me, Mr. Miller”, you coo, your voice tantalizing, wavering on a whisper as you gaze at him.
“Maybe one day I’ll get to show you”, he smirks. The two of you are unbelievably close, you can feel his breath fanning on your face and can smell his cologne. He is inundating your senses and you can’t get enough. You take the opportunity to weave your hands around his waist. He reaches an unbearably large hand up to your face and skims your cheekbone, his sizeable thumb halting on your bottom lip. You use the opportunity to take his finger into your mouth, suckling gently before releasing it with a soft kiss on the padding of his digit. You can feel him harden against you through his jeans.
“Fuckkkken hell”, he drawls, “temptress,” a darkness scintillates in his eyes.
A loud bang of a door close by followed by a whining, “Daddddddd”, has the both of you jumping apart as Sarah appears in view of the doorway. The young girl is rubbing her eyes, messy curls adorning her cute face. Slumping, she complains again, “Dad, I’m tired, can you tuck me in, please”. Joel gives her a warm smile, “I'll be right there baby girl, go get into bed okay, gimme a second”. She notices you for the first time, “I like your hair”, she grins, you cant help but smile at the young girl, “thank you honey, I like yours too”. With that, she disappears back through the door and up the stairs as Joel’s attention turns back to you, his former dark, eager look has returned.
“Come around tomorrow.” It’s not a question. Rather a demand. One hand engulfs your upper arm, giving it a light squeeze as he plants a soft kiss to your cheek, leaving you in the garage to comprehend the exciting conversation you had just had. Before he does, however, he stops in the doorway and turns back around to face you. “For the record, your boyfriend’s an asshole. Has been since high school.”, he gives you a grin but there’s a hint of concern behind his eyes. It was a shitty thing for your boyfriend to do and he understands that.
Your boyfriend had passed out on his parent’s couch when you left Joel’s house, so you made your way to the sleep out, thrilled to have some time alone to think about the events of the night. You couldn’t help but admit to yourself that the entire conversation with Joel felt good. Right, even; like Joel was actually trying to talk to you as any decent human being would. And maybe the bar was on the ground for your after your shitty relationship, but you didn’t feel guilty about wanting the older man. And he wanted you too. Maybe it’ll only be for a quick fuck, but it felt nice to be wanted. You thought about the conversation again before slipping a finger down through your wet folds, rubbing quick fast circles to the nub of your clit, exhaling soft moans. You imagined your hand wasn’t your own but Joel's.
The next day you woke up early. Your nerves shot as you take a shower, taking the opportunity of seeing Joel again to dress in lacy, barely there lingerie under your clothes (why you packed it… just in case, you supposed). If nothing happened between the two of you, or he admitted that perhaps he was drunk and just fucking around, then nobody would know your effort but you. However, if he did get to undress you, the choice to dress up would be an ideal one.
The door is open when you arrive, the summer entering uninvited through the hallway of the cozy home. Entering the doorway to the living room, you knock on the door frame, Joel appearing moments later behind you on the stairs. “Hi again, doll”, he greets you with a genuine smile, walking to the kitchen. Those dimples, carved by Donatello himself, you supposed. “You want something to drink?”, you nod as he leads the way past you. Handing you a dewy beer, you make your way to the couch to sit on the edge like a nervous child and admire the man in front of you. His t shirt tightening at the sleeves, barely able to fit over his muscular, slightly tanned arms. Jeans, ungodly tight around his crotch. You blush at the realization that you’re staring at him in all his glory. Your breath hitches as you focus your gaze on the skew of family photos dotted around the living me.
“Why’d you ask me over?” you come right out and question. In your drunken state last night, you didn’t care if it looked like you were coming onto him, if he said no, your intoxication dulled your embarrassment. But now, in your sober state, you needed to know, so as not to do just that. “I wanna take care of you”, he expressed nonchalantly, his focus occupied on finding a bottle opener. “And how do you presume to do that”, you continue, bemused by his confused expression lightening once he found what he was looking for, popping the cap before coming to sit next to you on the couch. He crossed his ankle over his knee, your eyes unfortunately for you, travel straight to the bulge in his jean. Perv, you curse to yourself. “Well, it just seems like your boyfriend isn’t doing a very good job, is he sweetheart?”. An exasperated sigh emits from your throat, your eyes roll unwillingly at the mention of your partner. You lean against the back of the couch, head resting on his forearm relaxing lazily behind you, as you take a sip from your bottle.
You realize you really do want him… badly. “Maybe I do need your help, Mr. Miller”, lolling your neck to look at him through your lashes, putting on a sad face whilst the hint of seduction in your breathy tone communicates everything to Joel.
He leans in and kisses you, gently at first. You deepen it, needing more of him as you moan into his mouth, giving him easy access to slide his tongue across your teeth. Tongue and teeth collide in a hot, messy kiss. His hand glides up your waist to your throat, where he cups your jaw with two giant fingers and squeezes gently. Quickly realizing you’re in the middle of the living room, gasping pulling away. “Shit, is Sarah home?”, you pant. “Friend’s house”, Joel says shortly, reconnecting your lips to his.
“Then, make me feel good Joel”, you coo, teeth running over his bottom lip. He exhales a low animistic groan, watching his eyes darken to a lust-filled gaze. “Yes ma’am”.
Next thing you know, he is walking you backwards to the spare bedroom downstairs. Both of you are so needy, you can’t even wait to make it upstairs to his own bed. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, he works at your panties, lips connecting with your throat, neck, collarbone, a symphony of needy groans accompany your pleasureful sighs quickly filling the empty space of the room. Slipping a calloused hand between your thighs, he begins working to collect your arousal, coating the tips of his fingers before slipping a digit into your cunt. You exhale a gasp, he swallows into a groan, “Fuck, doll,” he breathes softly, watching his finger pumping in and out of you, “does this pussy ever get this wet for your boyfriend?” He palms himself through his jeans, relieving some of his building tension. “No Joel”, you gasp, “not like it does for you”. Mascara gathers at your lashes as you squirm on his sheets. Joel’s touch fills you with ecstasy, but you still need more.
“Joel—” you whine, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, desire and devotion flooding his features, you follow his line of vision to the sight of his digit fucking you, then to your camera lying on his bedside table. You see the gears turning in his head, barely able to comprehend what he is up to before he grabs the camera, taking it in one large hand, positioning the base on his palm as he bends his fingers to the shutter button. You turn your head away in bliss, all you can focus on are his expert fingers rhythmically pumping in and out of you. “C'mon baby, you don’t need to be shy around me”. The camera looks miniature in his hand, the flash blinds you, snapping your pure pleasure, freezing it as a passionate moment in time. Joel holds the strap by his teeth, yanking the filthy portrait out, throwing it on the bedside table. Fuck, that just made you even wetter, if that was even possible. “Joel—ah- Joel” you continue to whimper, unworried about the physical evidence of your filthy endeavors due to your young, committed cunt clenching unwilling around his fingers by how good it feels.
“I know, sweetheart”, he whispers understandingly, “Just gotta warm you up a little longer, okay sweet girl”, he slips another digit between your walls. Your back arches against the mattress, head thrown back as a string of moans and whimpers tumble from your lips. Joel’s eyes darken into a hungry, heavy look with every squirm and curse that falls from your lips. Your eyebrows knit together in pleasure as his filthy words and his tantalizing, skillful fingers aid the coil in your stomach to release slowly. Joel, camera in hand, snaps two more of him fucking you with his fingers, discarding them on the table again. “Fuck, my own little cam girl”, he drawls in your ear, smirking, “we got four left, gotta use them wisely now”.
Joel abruptly pulls his fingers out, leaving you gasping for air, whining, as the bliss slowly fades, your arousal still hot and heavily in need of him like the air you breathe. He drags his jeans and boxers off, tossing them carelessly onto the floor by the bed. Taking in his girth, you understand why he had to warm you up first. You damn near moan at the sheer side of it as the slick from your pussy assists his thick fingers to pump himself a couple of times. He smirks at your needy expression. Cocky bastard, he knows he’s big too. Settling between your legs, his tip of his cock teases your entrance. You can feel his pre-cum mixing with your slick, creating an exquisite cocktail. Repetition falling from his lips in an unsteady gravelly tone as he coerces you to take ever inch of him inside your cunt, with a melody of “good girl” and “you’re doing so good for me, pretty baby”.
Joel slides inside you so easily, with how wet you are for him. A soft hiss, and then his features mold into a symphony of pleasure and hunger. His capable fingers tangle in your hair he glides his length in and out, painfully slow. You finally find your voice amongst the soft gasps and ah’s. “Joel— need more, please”, your voices emerges as a breathy whisper; making his features darken with craving. “I know baby, I know”, he coos, “you’re so full right now, aren’t you. That’s it sweet girl, you’re so good, taking every inch of me into that pretty little pussy”.
Your mind is whirling 100 miles per hour as he whispers filthy phrases in your ear, the promise to fuck you hard and slow being almost unbearable to comprehend. His thick cock stretches you out, rock hard, forcing your legs wide open as your ankles cross around his waist for support. It’s too much, fuck! After a few seconds of adjusting to this size, he pulls all the way out. You whine slightly at the loss of him inside you before he slams back into your cunt, filling you all the way before repeating again and again and again. The head of his thick, impressive length kisses your g spot like no other mans has before. All the while he has one large, veiny hand around your throat providing a slight bit of pressure, his thumb caresses your lips, opening them to slide a finger inside. You take the hint as a call back to last night at the party, slipping his fingers to the back of your throat and sucking on them. He groans out a string of profanities, eyes glued to you as you feel his cock twitch inside you at the image before him. You release his fingers, a string of spit still attaching you and him, he uses his thumb to spread it around your lips before dragging your chin down to open your mouth, pressing his lips to yours delicately. You can barely keep up with his kiss as he continues to slam into you at a rapid pace. You’re moaning out his name, a chorus of Joel, Joel Joel-, he smothers your whines with his lips. Rocking his hips up into you slowly, he brings his thumb down between the two of you, his calloused finger after years of contracting, makes contact with your clit, rubbing circles to your neglected nub. You push his hand away after your body jolts from the stimulation and he lets out a low chuckle. “You about to come, sweetheart?”, his voice is restrained and needy. You can feel your orgasm building inside of you, teasing you as the crescendo builds. You nod quickly. Squeezing your eyes shut, your moans begin to become rapid sighs on your tongue.
“Eyes on me, doll”, Joel demands, you open them to be met by the southern man, slamming his hips into you. Fuck he looks so good on top of you right now. A thin layer of sweat coats his forehead and chest, his hair messy, two curls decorating his forehead. You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a beautiful sight. He lifts himself up on his knees, grabbing the camera once more, he takes a selection of photos of you taking him deep into you. He thumbs lightly at your clit for a shot, before the film runs out, a satisfyingly dirty collection of photos to remember your time together by lying next to the both of you.
Your hips move together in conjunction. His hands weave around your back, pulling you into him as his lips attached to your breasts, he anchors his tantalizingly expert fingers into your hair, the plush of your ass, circling your waist— Joel holds you as close as physically possible, his muscular arms crush you, teeth grazing the nub of your breast. There’s a starving kind of desire laced into his kiss. Involuntary clenches of your cunt around his impossibly hard cock, and your fingernails digging into his shoulder blades, you slide your hands around his neck to hold yourself steady.
Then, he’s pulling away slightly, his hungry eyes watching his length pump in and out of you, as he plants a strong hand on your thigh, spreading you open to receive impossibly more of him. You are simply a toy at this point, as he dictates the sheer brutal pace of how he fucks you. “God, you look so beautiful, full of my cock, doll”. He moves his lips wetly up your throat, your head thrown back. He smiles against your mouth, you give him a shaky “mmm”, he ardently peaks your lips, releasing after each kiss to watch your cock-drunken expression, his name the only word you can attempt, like worship on the edge of your tongue. “Joel- Joel- Joel, mmm”, you stutter a praise for the captivated audience, who is relishing in the sound of your pleading gasps.
“I wanna see how appreciative you are for this cock, baby, keep your eyes on me”.
His voice is firm as his hardened hands caresses the length of your spine. You feel him flex inside you, his dominant gaze securing you as he speeds up, watching as your tits bounce with his rough strokes. “Ohmygod–Joel–”, the promise of your climax rapidly approaches, the ache undoes all the tension inside you, overtaking every inch of you, causing your thighs to squeeze him impossibly tighter.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me now, Darlin, you’re doing so good, come around me, doll”. The praise, the pet names, him inside you, all sends you over the edge. Your cunt starts to flood and shudder around him, your eyes rolling back into your head as you feel your orgasm release. You squeeze around Joel’s cock so tight; your lungs can only gasp out a mixture whines as you come around him. Joel continues to fuck you through your orgasm, its hard and fast to the point where you can feel another coil build inside you. He can feel it too, shifting your hips up slighting in a way that makes your mind blow, you nearly scream out at how good it feels. “That’s my good girl, I need another one, baby. You can give me another. That’s it, Yes, give it to me pretty girl”, his lips attach to a soft spot behind your ear, making you moan his name, your delicate hands rake through his hair. He pulls out for a brief second, flipping you onto your side as he lies behind you, sliding back inside you again. Its almost as if he never left, you’re so drunk off him fucking you that you can barely comprehend what is happening. Just that it feels so good, his hand weaves around you to play with your nipple, squeezing it slightly as his lips pepper kisses to your neck. he gently hooks your leg over his, stretching you open impossibly wider. “I wanna feel that pussy squeezeing me again, baby”. He continues lacing a string of filthy words into your ear while retreating back to his signature move when the two of you first started, pulling all the way out and slamming into you again.
“Lemme, feel you comin’ when I fill you up, good girl.”
Your second orgasm blinds you as you moan through your bliss. Joel’s gravely groans behind you sound like a melody. His warm breath in your ear and progressive sloppiness, encasing the room in leud noises, accompanied by his broken moans signals to you that he is close too. You turn you head to capture his lips as the aftershocks of your orgasm spark through you, your thighs twitching against his. He meets them brutally, and you know you’re going to be bruised inside and out when this is over. By the time he’s pumped you full of his cum and pulled out, it’s leaking down the inside of your thighs. You attempt to catch your breath, as his cock settles between the two of you on your lower back. You cant help but smile as he rubs lazy circles to your bare hip.
“Fucken hell, that was incredible”, he whispers, more so to himself than to you. “You are something else, doll”, he breathes, still catching his breath. You turn yourself around so that you’re half on top of him, throwing your leg over his so his cock is resting between your thighs. “You’re not so bad yourself”, you retort, smirking up at him.
“You know, you look so fucking pretty on top of me like that, darlin’. Next time, ill have to get a shot of you riding me”. Your heart jumps slightly at the promise of a next time, which he notices, following up his sentiment.
“Are you staying the whole summer”, he questions, his roaming hands worshiping your waist. “Sure am”, you respond hopefully. “Well then, I guess I’ll be seeing you soon”, he gives you a genuine smile, capturing your lips against lip for a delicate kiss, his patchy,lightly groomed beard scratching softly at your cupid’s bow.
You’re still unable to form a coherent sentence, as you feel his slick cocktailed with your own leaking out of your cunt. You slide off him, propping yourself up on a trembling elbow, watching Joel pull his jeans back up over his hips. “Until next time then”, he promises, gliding your panties up your still-weak legs, a wet patch already forming on the fabric. Aren’t you glad you decided to wear these. He hands you the photos and your camera as you attempt to dress yourself again, feeling weak and so empty without him already. Handing them to you, he slips one into his jean pocket with a cheeky comment. Walking you to the door, he kisses you deeply, his grey-flecked beard scratching your cheeks. After your goodbyes you can’t help but miss him. Hell, you’d only known the older man two days; still, you wanted his company more and more as the hours went by, so you reached for what he had given you to remember you by, “until next time”.
You stand in the sleep-out kitchen, admiring the Polaroid’s he had taken of you. You filter through them, blushing more at the sight of each one, dirtier than the last, too caught up to hear the door open. “Hey”, the familiar voice makes you jump. Your boyfriend, out of breath comes stalking through the door. You scramble to hide the photos, collecting them in a bundle, attempting to put them in your jean pocket. You force a smile at him as his eyes travel down to the photos in your hand. “From the party right, lemme take a look at those,” he says enthusiastically, closing the gap between the two of you as he reaches for them. “No”, you try to brush it off, “the lighting isn’t right, they didn’t turn out great, ya know, night shooting is a bitch”, you try to pull the photos further from his grasp, but he has a firm hold on them, yanking them slightly. You gasp as they flutter gracefully to the ground, face up, dropping to your knees to quickly pick them up but he’s already seen. “What the fuck”, he whispers, grabbing one and gazing it, a deep-rooted frown carved into his brow. It was you, mouth frozen in a pleasureful ‘ah’ as a peak of Joel entering you was seen at the bottom of the frame. “You wanna tell me what the fuck this is”, his voice was wavering on a yell.
You decided not to try to explain, “you wanna tell me about the girls you’ve been fucking these past few months, huh?”, you retort. “Everyone knows, everyone has told me to break up with you because of it, shit, you don’t even try to keep it a secret”. You voice is laced with venom, it was high time this discussion was happening, you just wished you had the courage to bring it up on your own, and not in this unwanted circumstance.
“Dont change the subject, who is he?”, he demands, his tone reaching shouting point. “Take a wild fucking guess. Do you need a hint? He stayed with me while you ditched my ass at your neighborhood party. While you humiliated me by just fucking leaving me there with strangers like the asshole you are.” You can feel rage-filled hot tears collecting at your lash line reminiscing about the event. “I know you’re going to try to break it off and think its your own doing but trust me, this”, you direct your finger between yourself and him, “this, has been over for a long time”. You push past him with force, grabbing your bag which you hadn’t even bothered to unpack, thank fuck, what a nice coincidence. You stomp toward the door.
“Fine”, he responds, “but as if he’s going to want you. He’s a middle-aged man with a kid, you were just a fuck”. It spirals you. You turn on your heels to look at him, he is frowning on the verge of tears (how many times had you been there before in his presence) and there’s a contortion of anger in his face, “At least he actually made me come”, you retorted hotly, walking out the door before you remember an extra detail. You pop your head back through the door to utter, “three times, actually”. And then you’re off. You ask his mother to drive you to the train station, explaining the split, briefly, and that you didn’t feel comfortable to stay. She insisted you did, kind lady, but didn’t pry into the details.
Once you had boarded and the train sped away from the dreaded events of the town, you felt relief course through you, no longer chained to that asshole. Sure, you know you should’ve done it sooner, and yeah, it wasn’t an ideal option what had happened, but this meant you could have some time to yourself this summer.
As you were back at square one, you daydreamed of the handful of friends who usually spent their summers on campus to call once you got back. Your phone screen lighting up with a ding, caught you off guard, the name causing your heart to skip a beat.
“It’s Joel. I heard the rundown from his mother, got your number in the process. Are you alright, doll?” he writes. You read it in his voice, subconsciously smiling at how his pet names aren't limited to face to face conversations.
You look at the bright screen in disbelief. He asked your exes mother for your number, meaning he wanted to stay in contact. Perhaps? One could only hope. You didn’t let your excitement get the better of you, however.
“Guess word travels fast. I’m fine, it should’ve happened sooner, honestly. I’m so sorry I got you involved”. You put your phone down, not expecting a reply after your apology. But the immediate ding had not only butterflies, but a whole zoo trampling around your stomach.
“If you’re going to be at your dorm over the summer, let me come visit sometime darling? Tommy offered to work more after your ex quit, so my plate is free”. He adds, much to your delight, “plus I think Sarah would love to see the campus.”
You smiled at the thought of showing the young girl around your college, she would be in awe of the library, you thought, remembering a glimpse of a large collection of books strewn across the table and shelf in the living room. You started to type a reply to Joel before another message comes through.
“and, for the record, those photos were hot, sweetheart”, he adds, a blush coloring your face, your gaze immediately drifting to the pocket of your bag where they lay, safe, sound, and where no one would be able to see, thank god.
“I suppose I could work something out, for you” you reply, a smiling creeping across your features before double texting, “you know, I have extra film in my dorm... for emergency”. Discarding your phone on the table in front of you, you watch the countryside melt into a blur, feeling the most relaxed and content you had in a while.
~
if you enjoy this fic please like, comment and reblog! your feedback is always appreciated<3 thank you for reading
#joel miller#joel miller smut#joel miller x reader#joel x reader#joel x you#joel miller fic#joel the last of us#joel tlou#pedro pascal character fic#pedro pascal characters#the last of us hbo#the last of us#joel miller fanfic#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x afab!reader#dom!joel miller#∘* ✧･ﾟ ➳ audie writes
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Oblivion { Joel Miller x Reader }
Summary: Joel bends you over and fucks you until you pass out. You’re into it. There’s no plot, it’s just smut.
CWs: established consent / choking / praise / dirty talk / use of “good girl” / no daddy kink this time / unsafe sex / rough sex / dom!Joel / aftercare
MDNI / 18+ ONLY
Tagging @dreamingofdaddydin & @joelsgirl 💜
Joel has you on all fours. It’s one of his favourite positions, because it really gives him a good sense of how much bigger than you he is.
You’re not sure what the fuck he was eating in the QZ, but he’s far more broad and strong than most men in Jackson. Hell of a lot better looking, too. And not that you know really, but you get the sense that he knows his way around a woman far better than most men, too.
Not that you can really think of anything right now beyond what he’s doing to you.
He’s so much bigger than you, easily caging your body with his whenever he pleases, which is often. He goes between draping himself over you and sitting up straight, depending on how he wants to look at you.
Presently it’s the latter; he has both hands on your waist, pulling your much smaller body back against his hips, slamming his cock into you without much care as to how rough he’s being.
He knows you can take it. Knows that if you couldn’t, you’d tell him. He’d stop if you asked, wouldn’t be remotely pissy about it or guilt trip you for it, no questions asked. But you’ve never once asked him to stop.
Begged for more? Absolutely. Demanded he be rougher? Also a yes. You’re open to pretty much everything and anything, as long as it’s with him.
Your hands - so fucking tiny, they look so small and delicate whenever they’re wrapped around him - are fisted into the rumpled bed sheets, like holding on will keep you from losing your mind entirely. It won’t. Not with the sounds he’s already dragging out of you, high pitched moans and mewls that sound sweeter than anything he ever heard in a porno or real life.
You’ve got your ass in the air, back arched down in just the right position for him to hit that sensitive spot inside you with each thrust, heavy balls slapping against your clit as he fucks you.
And still, somehow, it registers that he’s holding back on you. That’s not what you want. You want him to fuck you senseless, literally. Fuck you so dumb that you can’t speak, can’t think, left a drooling mess in his bed with his cum dripping out of you down your thighs.
“God dammit, Joel…” you wriggle yourself back onto him, earning yourself a slap on the ass for your trouble.
“What, sweetheart? Not hard enough for you?” He grunts as he slams into you, hard, forcing your body forward into the mattress with the momentum.
You squeal loudly at the force of it, letting him know that’s exactly what you wanted.
You don’t know where the fuck he got his stamina, but you love it. Know he’ll complain about his back hurting later, but that’s fine. You probably won’t be able to walk later, so it seems even enough.
He doesn’t slow down, one hand leaving your waist to snake up to curl around your throat, hard enough to cut your airflow. Not too tight, not dangerous, but tight enough that with the force of how hard he’s fucking you, the room starts to spin.
Joel knows you, though. Knows the telltale signs of your body about to hit its peak, grinding his enormous length into you hard enough to tip you over the edge. He releases your throat just as you start to cum, holding you up with one hand as you shake beneath him.
“Fuck, baby, you get so tight when you cum for me…”
You know; it feels so fucking good it hurts, feeling your comparatively tiny cunt fluttering around him as he fucks you through … fuck. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum for him tonight. Four? Five?
You’re getting to your breaking point, but you still won’t ask him to stop, won’t tap out. You don’t care what happens to you, how overstimulated you get. All that matters is him, the heat of his body against yours, the feeling of being so full of him, the rough praise of his deep voice as he fucks you.
“Such a good girl for me. Getting tired, darlin’? Want me to stop?” Joel knows the answer, taunts you anyway. He just wants to hear you say it.
“Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
You almost hiss it over your shoulder at him, feel his cock throb inside you at the words.
It’s like you’ve awakened a whole new side to him; his hands are vicelike on your waist as he pounds into you, no longer trying to be remotely gentle after you’ve just climaxed.
Harder and faster, one hand twisting into your hair and pulling hard as he fucks into you. The room fills with the sounds of your bodies moving together, your mewls and whimpers, his increasingly louder groans and curses.
“Fuck, baby, could just stay buried in this tiny perfect pussy forever, just made for me, weren’t you?”
You can’t answer him, just scream for him instead, the only intelligible word that comes out is his name. You’re exhausted, your climax building again, closer and more uncontrollable this time.
He knows it, holds you as steady as he can as he feels you start to shake, your tiny body finally reaching breaking point as you come undone around him.
Your eyes roll back in your head, vision fading with the intensity of your climax, every nerve in your body on fire as you shake in his arms.
It’s not the first time he’s literally fucked you unconscious. The first time, he stopped, and when you woke up? You demanded to know why.
It’s a spoken rule now that he doesn’t stop. There’s something unbelievably fucking hot about waking up to him inside you.
Still, he slows, caresses your back, strokes your hair, being almost gentle with you now as you slowly start to come back to yourself.
“There you are… there’s my good girl… you doing okay, sweetheart?”
You blink a few times, open your eyes. He’s still inside you, thick and full and practically splitting you open. Perfect.
“Mm… Joel?”
“Yeah, baby?” He rocks his hips lazily.
“Don’t fucking stop.”
You can’t see the grin on his face as he keeps moving, chasing his own release now. He won’t admit it, because it feels a bit fucked up, but he likes that you trust him so much, likes how helpless you are when he fucks you into oblivion.
“Not gonna stop, darlin’. Gonna make myself cum now, pretty little pussy gonna make me cum…”
He’s been holding his own release back for god knows how long, edging himself just to get you to this point, but fuck if it isn’t worth it.
He’s comparatively gentle now as he chases his own release, still rough but less controlled, deep sloppy strokes that have him groaning as he bottoms out each time.
“Fuck, baby, so good for me…”
He punctuates the sentence with a long moan, the sort of sound you want to commit to memory because it’s so fucking sexy, but then he’s throbbing and pulsing inside you, filling your aching overstimulated cunt with hot, thick ropes of his seed, grinding deep before he pulls out, watches it drip out of you onto the sheets.
Finally, finally, you collapse onto the bed, eyes half closed, panting and whimpering. The bed creaks as he gets up; vaguely you’re aware of him coming back, a warm cloth between your thighs, cleaning you up.
Once or twice, you’ve both been too exhausted to move, but Joel likes to take care of you after. The mattress dips again and then he’s there behind you, pulling your exhausted body against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest, the slight softness of his stomach.
“Did so well for me, sweet girl. So proud of you.” He presses a kiss to your temple, strokes your hair.
“Sleep now. My perfect girl…”
You’re more than happy to let him rock you into oblivion, a small part of you hoping you’ll wake up to him inside you again.
#my writing#pedro pascal#joel miller#the last of us#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fic
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VIII ║ Silver Pony
Jack Daniels x f!reader
{ Part 7: Fleabitten | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 9: Warmblood }
Rating: E
Summary: And just like that, your week at the Statesman Ranch comes to an end, leaving you grappling with the prospect of saying goodbye to Jack.
Warnings: Mentions of food and cooking, angst, feelings, grief, flirting, insecurities, very light soft!dom overtones, sexual innuendoes, risky unprotected sex (wrap it up, kids!), dirty talk, language, no use of Y/N
Word count: 7.5k
Notes: Here we are, the penultimate chapter of Palomino. I had the last scene in mind since the very beginning of the series, actually putting it into words has been so emotional. Thank you as always for your patience and your love for this series, I'm eternally grateful that you're still with me as we wrap up this beautiful journey cowboy Jack and his Darlin' started almost a year ago ❤️
P.S. Please excuse typos and any mistakes as I had very little time to edit with the husband ill this weekend.
Coaxing Scotch to a halt at the end of the track - the last lookout point before the trail slopes downhill and homeward - you let the leather reins slip long and loose as he stretches his neck and shakes out his mane with a low nicker.
A hundred feet drop below, between the palomino’s ears turned forward in anticipation, is the Statesman Ranch in all its glory, nestled in the fertile valley of green pasture, with its winding creek and red roofs. You can see tiny people milling about, the stables busy in the middle of the afternoon, and horses grazing in the fields bracketed by white picket fences.
Out of the corner of your eye, Whiskey comes to a stop next to you, close enough that your knee bumps into Jack’s.
You keep your gaze on the ranch below as you ask half-jokingly, ‘Is it too late to turn back now?’
He chuckles, and you twist towards him, your own lips curling. ‘I believe we had this exact same conversation the first day, darlin’.’
It’s not too late to back out, you know.
Oh no, you’re not getting rid of me now, cowboy.
You don’t even realise you’ve fallen quiet until his calloused hand slides over yours, fingers tangling together. Jack brushes a sweet kiss to the heart of your palm that goes right to the one in your ribcage.
He cocks his head to one side in a gentle question. ‘Shall we rip off the bandaid, darlin’?’
Knowing there’s no other way around it, you squeeze his hand. ‘Let’s go, cowboy.’
Jameson is the first to spot the five of you passing through the backgates. The sight of him zooming up the slope with his ears pinned back in excitement has you laughing, the horses nickering hello as his barks echo in the valley.
It makes no sense really - you barely know this place after all - but something inexplicably comforting and familiar tugs at your insides as you ride through the ranch. Stable hands call out to Jack in friendly greeting and to you with polite ma’ams, between bales of hay being loaded, saddles and tack polished, and the clang of steel on iron from the farrier’s workstation out back. All the while, Jameson trots faithfully by your side, as if he’s known you all his life.
‘You sure know how to make a girl feel special,’ you coo at him and he barks back, tail wagging.
Jack winks at you and says cryptically, ‘Well, you’re about to feel a lot more special, darlin’.’
Sure enough, when the horses clop into the main stable yard, your jaw drops.
‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ bellows Champ with a huge grin on his face, standing in front of the stable doors with hands on his hips, larger than life than ever.
You chortle at the huge Welcome Back! banner stretched over the barn door, complete with over-the-top cowboy themed helium balloons, bumping into each other in the afternoon breeze. You catch Jack rolling his eyes fondly at the scene.
Champ gives Scotch an affectionate ruffle on the mane as he comes to a halt by the wooden post. ‘So - how was it, m’dear? Was it everythin’ I promised it would be?’
‘Everything and more,’ you answer in the affirmative as you dismount, letting him pull you in for an enthusiastic hug.
‘That’s what I like to hear!’ he beams and pats the palomino soundly on the rump. ‘And Scotch? Was he a good boy?’
‘The bestest boy,’ you gush, throwing your hands around the horse’s neck in a hug. ‘He deserves all the carrots and apples in the world.’
Swinging his leg over the back of Whiskey’s saddle and landing gracefully on booted feet on the opposite side of the post, Jack quips, ‘But you’ve already fed him all the carrots and apples in the world.’
Champ chortles. ‘And what about our cowboy? Was he on his best behaviour?’
Jack points a self-righteous finger at his boss. ‘I’ll have you know our guest rated the pack trip a perfect ten out of ten, so I’ll be expectin’ an immediate raise. Ain’t that right, darlin’?’
A loud scoff coming from the stables turns your head, and you smile when Tequila emerges, wasting no time taking his aim at Jack. ‘Hold your horses, Daniels. Pretty sure the food poisonin’ knocks a few points off!’
Crossing the yard with his usual swagger, he sidles up to the other side of Scotch and tips his hat at you, leaning his elbows on the saddle. ‘Welcome back, sweetheart. Good to see you up and runnin’.’
You bite your lip at the mischievous wink he tosses your way.
Champs harrumps indignantly. ‘You have some nerve askin’ for a raise, son! Poppy was madder than a wet hen she heard about that. As you well know, she expects a full report at dinner tonight.’
Jack huffs in jest. ‘I’m puttin’ in a call to my attorney as we speak.’
The banter is spirited and relentless as the cowboys make quick work of untacking and unloading the horses, Champ insisting you shouldn’t lift a finger and talking for more than the three of you.
When the stable hands take away the last of the bags with your dirty laundry to be laundered, Jack takes a hold of both Whiskey and Bourbon. Clearing his throat, he seems to hesitate for a second, a tick in his jaw, but he eventually nods at you and says, ‘Well. I best be bringin’ the boys in now. Catch you later, darlin’.’
The bottom of your stomach gives out at the catch you later, darlin’, knocking the breath clean out of you, unprepared for the dread that courses through your veins like lead at the sudden prospect of being apart. Your fingers twitch with urgency, wanting to reach out, grab him by the front of his shirt, and cling to him -
Get a grip, woman.
You physically shake yourself out of it, and instead, try to bide your time. ‘Or, you know, if can I help with anything at all -’
Jack clearly catches on to your reluctance, but Champ is insistent. ‘Absolutely not! Now, it’s just gettin’ to four o’clock, so there’s plenty of time to go back to your room, clean up and join us for sunset drinks in a couple of hours. How does that sound, ma’am?’
Jack’s mouth stretches into a reassuring smile that you wish were imprinted into the skin of your forehead instead. With a promise in his eyes that it’ll only be a couple of hours, he leads the chestnut and pinto into the stables.
You don’t even try to hide the slump in your shoulders and your wistful, lingering gaze on the cowboy’s retreating back, nearly jumping out of your skin when Tequila gives you an almost brotherly pat on the shoulder over Scotch’s back. ‘I gotcha, girl.’
Speaking up, he calls out, ‘Hey Champ, Ginger was just tellin’ me that you got an urgent message from Harry, so you better give him a call back - you know how he gets when you don’t.’
The older man flinches dramatically at the mention of his accountant, flinging his hands up in frustration. ‘Damn distillery is more trouble than it’s worth! I better go - you remember your way back to your cabin, young lady?’
Before you can get a word out, Tequila cuts in, ‘Jack can show her the way if she doesn’t, I’m sure.’
The sly reference goes straight over Champ’s head as he bustles off, but not without a polite tip of his hat. Once he’s out of sight, you smile at the cowboy. ‘I appreciate that, Teak.’
He winks at you and spins on his heels to take Scotch to the washing bay. ‘Consider it part of our excellent service at the Statesman Ranch, sweetheart!’
You find Jack hatless in Bourbon’s box, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline, slick with sweat, when you slip in and shut the door quietly behind you.
‘Whatcha doin’, darlin’?’ he asks with a lopsided smile.
Even though you didn’t run into anyone on your way in, you glance around to make sure you’re alone before grabbing him by the open neck of his shirt and tugging him into you. One palm on his cheek, rough with the stubble starting to peek through since his last shave at the Halfway House, you press your lips to his, blood thrumming with the thrill of sneaking around.
You catch the hitch of his breath with a wet suck on his bottom lip and he groans - too loudly in the mid-afternoon quiet. Cheeky hands wander south and grab you shamelessly by the ass, his tongue questing deep into your mouth, and you can feel him hardening against your stomach, drawing a whimper from you.
Pulling back reluctantly, his nose still on yours, he growls. ‘Such brazen behaviour.’
Your tongue darts out and swipes the underside of your upper lip, drunk on the taste of him, and his dark gaze follows. ‘I think you like it, cowboy.’
‘Too fuckin’ much,’ he admits with a pained moan and a chaste kiss to your temple, nose in your hair, as if to calm himself down. ‘You should go clean up, I need to finish up here and you’re distractin’ me.’
You pout, laying your cards on the table. ‘But I miss you.’
His gaze warms at your admission, and he stoops to kiss you again. ‘I know, but it’s only for a little while, okay? I’ll come ‘round your room to pick you up at six.’
‘Fine,’ you reply begrudgingly. ‘Be quick, ok?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he teases and swats you on the bottom playfully as he herds you towards the door. ‘I won’t be long, promise.’
Taking two steps down the corridor, you look back one last time at Jack, who’s still watching you from the stall, leaning on the top of the door. When he blows you a lingering kiss, the thought strikes you unbidden -
If it’s this hard leaving him for a couple of hours.
Feeling the tell-tale sting in your nose and the prickle of tears at your eyes, you push the thought out of your mind -
You put one foot in front of the other, and walk away.
You didn’t realise how much you missed civilisation until you surprise yourself with the longest sigh under the rain shower. Head bowed under the steady stream, you take your time, lathering yourself until you’re cocooned in olive scented bubbles before rinsing, relishing the firm water pressure soothing the knots and soreness lurking under your skin.
But there’s a deeper ache, one that can’t be reached from the surface.
You have literally not been apart from Jack for the last four days. You’ve been showering together since the Halfway House, for crying out loud. It hasn’t taken you more than the stretch of an arm to catch his hand, or the turn of your cheek to find his lips.
A laugh bubbles in your throat as you wrap yourself in a fluffy towel. The word codependent springs to mind.
Standing in the middle of the room in just your underwear, you sort through the clean clothes that are folded neatly on the bed. Pulling on the prettiest top you brought and the same pair of jeans you wore on your birthday, you dig out your makeup bag and settle in front of the vanity, putting on a Spotify playlist and humming along as you get ready for dinner.
One second you’re blending in your foundation, then the next - liner in your grasp and poised over the corner of your eye - panic rudely sets in.
What if -
What if the chemistry between the two of you was conditional on forced proximity?
What if Jack was only attracted to you because there was literally no other woman for miles and miles?
What if -
You startle at the knock on the door.
It’s deja vu when you pad across the oakwood floors on bare feet, your heart threatening to thunder out of your chest when you twist the knob clockwise.
Jack is leaning on the doorframe, freshly showered himself, damp locks curling into his forehead. The yellow flannel he’s wearing is new to you, but not the way the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, over his sunkissed forearms.
For one moment of madness, you want to sink your teeth into the thick, sinewy -
‘What is it, darlin’?’ he asks, amused by your scrutiny.
You shrug, fingers fidgeting with a touch of shyness. ‘Just thinking about the last time you were on this doorstep.’
‘When you were swept away by my good looks and charm?’ he quips, arching an eyebrow.
You let him have this one, teasing, ‘Something like that, cowboy.’
Straightening up to his full height, he pulls you in by the waist so that you’re almost standing on the worn leather tips of his boots, the span of his palms warm on the small of your back. He doesn’t even bother checking over his shoulder before brushing a tender kiss on your lips, and it takes you right back to that first time in the field of wildflowers at dawn.
And you just know, in your heart of hearts - there is no what if.
In the middle of nowhere, up in the mountains, the sunset hour demands nothing short of worship. Miles and miles of grassland, trees and summer blooms become altars dipped in bronze at which to prostrate oneself as the sun sinks, rejoicing at the rapture of the end of day.
Whilst not as transcendent as what you experienced on the trail, the last sunset over the ranch is giving as good as it gets. The sun gilds the fields in gold on its descent as the stable hands bring in the last of the horses for the night while the swallows fly home above. The river that winds through the ranch is ablaze with the refracting light, and across the yard, you can hear the impatient whinnying of those waiting for their supper.
Jack and Tequila are setting up the barbeque and firepit, the orange glow of the twin flames taking the place of the fading daylight. The familiar scent of burning wood grounds you - you’re feeling a bit out of practice being the centre of attention after being alone with Jack for the past week.
Ice cold lemonade in one hand and buffalo jerky in the other, you smile when Ginger approaches with a hug. ‘I’m sure you’ve had to answer this question about fifty times today, but how was it?’
‘You want the short answer or long answer?’
‘I want a dissertation if you have it in you!’
You sneak glances at Jack over Ginger’s shoulder while you chat, and he watches you back from afar as he bustles in and out of the kitchen, always trailing two steps behind Poppy. You catch snippets of their conversation as they go back and forth, and you pick up enough to know that she is grilling him on the ‘food poisoning’ incident. He shoots you puppy eyes every time he passes by, which makes you grin.
You may or may not have been a bit distracted by the cowboy when Ginger asks, ‘So, did you catch Jack washing in the river in the end?’
A violent cough racks your entire body as you choke mid-swallow, and she chuckles, giving you a comforting pat on the back. ‘It’s ok, girlfriend - I don’t have to know!’
You knock back more lemonade and choose to play coy. If only she knew.
Champ is in his element, swapping out your drink for a whiskey soda as the dusk deepens and making sure the snacks platter is topped up with locally made boar and elk salami. Despite only having half an ear in the conversation while he keeps an eye on the dinner prep, he’s somehow still fully invested, and is particularly interested in the photos and videos you’ve been taking on Jack’s DSLR.
‘And that’s what you do for a livin’, young lady?’ he asks, putting on his reading glasses so he can study the photos downloaded onto your phone.
‘Adjacent. I’m in marketing, I do quite a lot of business-to-consumer social media campaigns,’ you explain, switching to Instagram to show him your employer’s profile.
Champ turns to Ginger. ‘Do we have the social media?’
She exchanges a fond smile with you. ‘No we don’t, boss, but we do have a website. I think it was last updated in 2012.’
Champ holds his chin between his thumb and index finger thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, m’dear? Should we get the social media?’
‘It depends,’ you answer truthfully. ‘If you want to boost occupancy, social media will definitely help connect new guests, and also encourage repeat visits. But if you asked me, I think the real potential is on the distillery side of the business.’
Champ perks up under his cowboy hat. ‘I’m listenin’.’
You tap the bottle of Statesman whiskey that’s sitting on the barrel table. ‘Jack told me that you only handle wholesale orders right now, which is perfectly fine. But if you want to go direct to consumers one day, social media is the way to go. I’ve worked with vineyards and gin distilleries, so I’ve seen how effective these campaigns can be.’
Humming pensively, Champ sips at his whiskey, neat, a faraway look in his eyes as he mulls over your words. ‘Well, that’s somethin’ to think about, I’d say.’
There’s no other way to end the trip than with a western cookout. The barbeque station is packed with trays of beautifully cut and aged meat from neighbouring ranches, sausages and brats, while the smoked brisket and ribs that have been cooking all day are brought out from the smoker in the kitchen.
On the side, a picnic table draped with a chequered table cloth is crammed with baked beans (smoked in-house), corn on the cob, pasta salad and soda bread; and on the greens front, there’s homemade coleslaw, potato salad and greens freshly picked from the vegetable patch.
It’s a feast of epic proportions, and it doesn’t surprise you at all that Poppy is pulling out all the stops.
Jack mans the barbeque under her supervision, wielding the tongs with showmanship, and your heart purrs at the familiar sight of him cooking by firelight as darkness well and truly sets in. You feel slightly adrift not being by his side, but Champ is keeping you entertained and well fed, piling seconds upon thirds on your loaded plate despite your protests.
By the time Teak takes over at the barbeque and Jack makes his way towards the communal table where you’re all standing, you’re sipping slowly on your third whiskey and soda. You smile at him over the brim of your tumbler which he returns, and your body leans unconsciously towards him, before remembering where you are. He tucks his right hand into his back pocket, and you want to think that it’s because if he doesn’t, he would reach out for you.
Being denied his touch when he’s right there has you shifting your feet restlessly. Your fingers itch for him, there’s an insistent prickle under your skin that you know he alone can placate.
You venture a peek at Jack, wondering if he’s faring any better than you are. Feeling your eyes on him, he turns to you, his gaze dropping to your mouth none too subtly, the muscle in his neck tensing. Caught in the moment, all you want to do is to run your tongue down the hollow of his throat and taste the smoke on his skin -
You look away in case you do anything rash.
You’re barely holding it together when the conversation moves on to your birthday at the Halfway House.
‘And how was the dinner?’ asks Poppy animatedly. ‘Did you like the cake?’
Despite yourself, you beam, ‘Like it? I loved it, thank you so much! I was so spoiled.’
‘Did Jack show you a good time?’
‘Oh I should say so,’ cuts in Tequila despite being six feet away at the barbeque. At Jack’s glare, he quickly adds, ‘He decked out the place real nice, y’know, with balloons and shit.’
With a shake of your head, you chuckle, ‘And he dressed the horses up in birthday hats and tinsel!’
With the barbeque dying down to a low, simmering flame, Poppy slides in a couple of peach cobblers in pie dishes directly onto the embers to warm up. Leaving behind gravy-stained plates stacked up high on the barrel table, the group drifts over to the low-set deck chairs sitting in a tidy circle around the firepit.
Emptying the last of the whiskey into his glass, Champ calls out, ‘Jack, m’boy, how ‘bout you run to the cellar and grab us another bottle of the fifteen years?’
‘Sure, boss,’ he replies, hanging back and catching your attention. ‘You wanna come look at the cellar, darlin’? It’s quite a sight.’
Champ is delighted. ‘What an inspired idea! Take your time, young lady, it’s not quite the distillery cellar, but we’ll save that for next time.’
Teak gives you a two-fingered salute and a knowing wink as Jack leads the way. ‘Enjoy the tour, sweetheart!’
Jack barely waits until you’ve turned the corner behind one of the barns before backing you up against the wall. You taste whiskey and woodsmoke on his tongue as he pins you in place with his broad frame, and you haul him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.
‘I missed you, darlin’,’ he whispers against your lips.
‘I was standing right next to you, cowboy.’
‘I know,’ he whines. ‘Took everythin’ to keep my hands to myself.’
Your cheeks warm at his words, and you reach up to brush an errant curl back from his eyes. ‘Me too.’
Jack grabs your hand and takes you on what must be a shortcut to the kitchen, since you don’t recognise the route. Practically dragging you down a flight of steps at the back, he lets go of you only to pull open a heavy oak door. Your eyes widen when the orange lights flicker on, stepping into the cellar lined with hundreds, if not thousands of bottles, floor-to-ceiling shelves nestled into stone arches carved into the walls.
You wander the perimeter of the room, carefully pulling out dusty bottles high and low to inspect the years printed on the labels, but Jack is having none of it. Face nuzzled into the nook of your shoulder, he grinds his half-hard cock into you impatiently, calloused palms sliding under your shirt and squeezing your tits through your bra.
You moan, the sound echoing under the low vaulted ceilings. ‘What are you doing, cowboy?’
‘Want you now,’ he rasps into the back of your neck, teeth catching the sensitive skin.
‘What’s gotten into you?’ you ask, a laugh caught in your throat as he ruts against the cleft of your ass needily, a shudder rippling through you when you feel just how much he wants you through the denim.
‘It’s the change in altitude,’ he rasps, dry humping you in earnest now, his fingers fumbling with the front of the zipper. ‘And you’re really fuckin’ sexy in these jeans.’
‘Such a sweet talker,’ you tease, reaching behind you to undo his pants. ‘We got to be quick.’
He yanks the front of your jeans down so hard the movement jolts you forwards, flipping the denim inside out and dragging it down to the middle of your thighs, your panties going with them. His question is hot in your ear. ‘Want me to use protection, darlin’?’
You don’t skip a beat with an emphatic, ‘No.’
‘Fuck,’ he growls at your one-worded answer. ‘Lettin’ me fuck you bare? I’m one lucky cowboy.’
Your pussy throbs at his words alone, and you gasp in surprise when Jack manhandles you to the middle of the room, where a row of aged barrels rest on their sides, elevated on a sturdy shelf to keep them off the floor. He bends you unceremoniously over one cask so that your front is pressed up against the curved wooden surface, then, kicking your legs apart and notching the head of his cock at the mouth of your cunt, he sinks into you in one determined thrust.
‘Jack!’ you cry out, voice hoarse, filled almost painfully full, suspended on the tips of your toes as he plants his feet and drives into you, pulling out to the tip before plunging all the way back in, so deep you feel him in your throat. His breath is harsh and hot on the shell of your ear, but you can’t hear him over your own cries.
‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he croons throatily, his jeans rubbing the back of your thighs raw as his grip on you bites into your sides, holding you in place as you writhe. ‘Such a good girl, lettin’ me bend you over like this, takin’ me so well.’
Nails skidding over the wooden grain of the barrel as you scrabble for something to hold onto, you mewl, ‘Yes, yes, yes, feels so fucking good, cowboy!’
The slap of skin on skin bounces obscenely off the walls, and between the buck of his hips and his groans, you hear the slick squelch of your pussy stretching for him.
It seems to spur him on, and he snaps harder into you, rasping, ‘Look at you naughty thin’, lettin’ me fuck you in the middle of the cellar when anyone can walk in.’
Only then does it hit you - the absurdity of having fucked your way across the open country on this packtrip, taking for granted the liberty of literally screaming to the high heavens, free from prying eyes and ears. Juxtaposed against the sudden and very real prospect of getting caught, your body instinctively reacts.
Jack feels you clench wetly around his cock, a choked chuckle halfway in his throat. ‘Fuck, you filthy girl, you like that, don’t you? Want someone to walk in on us when I’m balls deep inside this pretty pussy?’
Your back arches, and he slides in so deep you’re sure you’ll be feeling him for days after, even when you’re a thousand miles from here. ‘Yes, yes, yes sir -’
The next thing you know, he’s gripping your hair and pulling, making you watch him over your shoulder. His eyes are black, jaw hanging open and teeth bared, and he’s gone - he’s thrusting recklessly into you, and you have no idea how your spine hasn’t snapped from being bent so far backwards. Then one rope-worn palm comes down on your right ass cheek in a cracking slap, making you gag on a half-groan, slick trickling down your thighs at the sting.
Jack leans over you now, caging you between his arms, his soft kisses on your neck an antithesis to the uncompromising rhythm at which he’s pounding into you. He coaxes, ‘Gonna cum for me, darlin’?’
Two of his fingers nudge between your legs and you whine when they make landing on your swollen clit. You nod desperately, clawing at the smooth wooden barrel under you. ‘Yes Jack, please make me cum. Please.’
‘Don’t you worry, you will,’ he says matter-of-factly, smearing mouth and tongue down the side of your neck. ‘You can do it. Make a mess on my cock, c’mon, darlin’ -’
When you clamp down around him, it takes Jack everything - everyfuckin’thin’ - not to let go and pump into you, fill that tight little cunt as you wail his name, quaking and squirming in his grasp. Air doesn’t quite reach his lungs, and he’s biting so hard on the insides of his mouth that it swells instantly, wanting so badly to mark you, to possess you in the most primal way a man can -
With a strangled groan, he pulls out, but only just - he’s already cumming before he can even wrap a fist around his cock, spurting crudely all over the swollen lips of your pussy and the curve of your ass as he milks himself dry, shudder after shudder. His spend drips so prettily down the back of your thighs, stopping just short of staining your jeans, that he goes light-headed for a moment. He sways, and if not for you grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him down for a lazy kiss, he probably would’ve keeled over.
He looks down at the mess he made, crooning into your ear, ‘You’re so beautiful covered in my cum, darlin’.’
You squeak, startled, when he runs this thumb down your slit, still so slick and wet for him, and he has to fight the urge to fucking scoop up his cum shove it into you, filling you only to have it drool out of you when he holds the pretty lips open -
He feels your eyes on him, like you can tell what he’s thinking. He winces, shame rearing its head as he apologises, ‘I’m sorry, I got carried away. Was it - too much?’
Cupping his cheek in your palm, you pull him down for another kiss. ‘Never. I’ll take everything you’ve got, cowboy.’
Jack somehow has a handkerchief in his shirt pocket, which he brandishes with a flourish, prompting a giggle from you. ‘A gentleman if I’ve ever seen one.’
With a playful smirk, he declares, ‘Damn straight - my mama raised me right.’
Gently, Jack cleans you up, and you’re happy to let him do all the work, your body heavy and sated. When he’s done, he swivels you around and presses his lips to your temple. ‘Come back to my house tonight, darlin’?’
You tuck your nose into the crook of his neck and breathe in deeply. ‘I’d love to, cowboy.’
He’s carefully folding up the soiled handkerchief and tucking it into his back pocket when you hear footsteps on the stairs, and the two of you have barely pulled up your jeans when the door swings open.
There’s a dramatic pause as Teak takes in your dishevelled state and none too guilty faces. Looking distinctly unsurprised, he bursts into laughter nonetheless. ‘The cellar? Is nothin’ sacred to you heathens?’
The cookout winds down over bubbling hot peach cobbler and homemade vanilla ice cream that Teak collected from the freezer in the kitchen on the way back. It’s pushing ten o’clock when Champ calls it a night, and you all help with bringing the dirty dishes and leftovers inside.
Poppy and Ginger make quick work of putting all the food in tupperware and into the fridge. Jack and Teak load up the dishwasher as you finish off the last of your drink.
Champ dusts his hands, as if he’s the one who’s done all the tidying up, and asks, ‘Your flight tomorrow isn’t until afternoon is it?’
You nod, passing Jack your empty glass. ‘Yeah, I need to drop off my rental truck as well, so I think I’ll have to leave around eleven.’
He pats you on the back. ‘Alright then, we’ll see you tomorrow mornin’. Have a good night’s sleep, young lady.’
‘Say goodbye before you go,’ adds Ginger, giving you a peck on the cheek.
‘Dinner was incredible, Poppy, thank you,’ you smile as she pulls you into a warm hug.
The redhead winks at you. ‘My absolute pleasure. I’ll fix you a little takeaway lunch to go tomorrow for the journey home. No plane food allowed for our guests!’
The kitchen empties until it’s just you, Jack and Teak, with the latter grinning at you two like a lunatic. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shrugs. ‘So you guys wanna hang, or -’
‘Get the fuck outta here, Teak!’ Jack growls.
The taller cowboy ambles over to you, joints loose with alcohol, and gives you what can only be described as a bear hug.
‘Just try keep it down, will ya? It’s real quiet in the valley at night and some of us have to work early tomorrow,’ he ribs with an insolent wink. ‘Guess we won’t see you lovebirds at breakfast?’
‘Not if you’re there,’ Jack retorts, to which Teak flashes a good-natured middle finger and saunters off into the night.
Jack draws you into his arms and you slump against him, relieved that you’re finally alone. ‘Shall we, darlin’?’
His fingers curl securely around the back of your hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles at the base of yours as he closes the kitchen door behind you. It strikes you this is actually the first time you’re holding hands - there was no need for that when you were in the saddle, or camped in close proximity.
Your cheeks stretch with a smile so wide that the muscles ache. The mundanity of walking side by side, hand in hand, shouldn’t be this thrilling.
It’s quiet other than the grind of gravel under your boots and Jack’s heavier ones. The night air is sweet, the blanket of stars above you just as magical, but it’s not quite the same kind of stillness at the lower altitude. Perhaps it’s the way the sound travels with buildings and other people around, maybe the very physics of it is fundamentally different.
Turning into the parking lot, your attention is piqued by a handsome motorcycle parked all on its lonesome next to the main lodge.
Pride in his voice, Jack says, ‘Darlin’, meet the Silver Pony.’
You know nothing about motorcycles, but you can appreciate the sleek lines, the classy tan leather seat and the retro elegance about her as you circle it. Her silver paint job gleams in the lonely porch light. ‘She’s beautiful, cowboy.’
‘She’s an old girl but she got good bones. I restored her myself,’ he proclaims proudly, before admitting, ‘And well, Teak helped too.’
Opening a little cabinet attached to the side of the main lodge, Jack pulls out a helmet that has you laughing. It’s painted red white and blue, stars, stripes and the full monty, with the word WHISKEY painted across the front in bold formation.
He grins at you. ‘Found it in a yard sale. Too good to pass up.’
Lowering it over your head, he tightens the strap carefully under your chin. It’s a bit big, but it’ll do for a short ride. Blinking up at him, it brings you back to that first day in the stables, and you feel the same pull that you did when he fitted you with your hat.
Except this time, you can do something about it. Standing on your tiptoes to kiss him, you giggle when your helmet slips and knocks into his forehead with a clunk.
Putting on his own sensible black helmet, he plants his left foot by the side of the bike and swings his right leg over the leather seat.
You’re taken aback by the spike in your pulse at the sight - you’d think that having seen him on horseback all week would have prepared you for it. But there’s something about the way he leans over the top of the motorcycle, thighs wrapped around the metal body, forearms flexing as he grasps the handlebar.
Starting the ignition and knocking back the kickstand with the heel of his cowboy boot, Jack nods at you. ‘Hop on, darlin’.’
You do, and you don’t need to be told to hold on tight.
The Silver Pony purrs to a stop outside a modest cottage, about a ten-minute cruise from the ranch, down a short dirt track from the main road. It’s pitch black except for the headlights that illuminate an unexpectedly floral front garden. You hop off and take off your helmet before Jack kills the engine, plunging you into a very familiar darkness.
Switching on the light on his phone, he reaches for your hand and pulls you gently to his side, his solid warmth welcome even though it’s nowhere as chilly as it was up on the mountains. Flashing the light towards the front yard, he tells you, ‘Ginger has quite the green finger, this is all her work. It took some time, but the vegetable patch is just startin’ to come through this season.’
Keys jangling, Jack unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, flipping on the lights.
It’s a cosy space, not big by country standards, but more than spacious enough for one cowboy. It’s clearly a man’s house, with a distinct lack of decorative touches other than a vintage map of Wyoming hanging over a dining table and a crowded bookshelf by the door. Dark wood with orange knots line the floors and ceilings, the warm tones reminding you of nights around the campfire.
Walking through the tidy but lived-in space, you pass an open kitchen with a breakfast bar that backs into the living room. A rustic stone fireplace stands in the corner, bracketed by a cosy sectional with deep seats.
Jack watches you mill about, taking everything in. When you stop by the fireplace, he asks jokingly from across the room, ‘So, what’s the verdict?’
You tease, ‘Not gonna lie - I’m disappointed there aren’t more spurs and lassos on the walls.’
He chuckles and steps into the kitchen. ‘You want a nightcap?’
‘Just water thank you, I think I’ve had enough to drink.’
Filling up two glasses at the sink, he crosses the room to join you at the mantelpiece.
‘How long have you been living here?’ you ask, setting your glass on the shelf after taking a sip.
He takes a moment to reply. ‘I took a long break off work after my wife died, then moved in here straight after. Couldn’t stand bein’ in our house alone - couldn’t bear bein’ there at all.’ He pauses, and his lips quirk with a wry smile. ‘Champ and Teak packed everythin’ up for me and drove it all here.’
His honesty hits you squarely in the chest, the weight of the grief behind his words nearly knocking you back a step. You reach for him, closing the two-step distance and wrapping your arms tight around his waist.
Eyes closed, he lets you anchor him to the moment. Maybe he shouldn’t, but the confession slips right through his teeth. ‘I haven’t brought any women here. Ever.’
He holds his breath as he feels you hold yours.
You mumble into his chest, ‘You have to stop making it harder for me to leave, cowboy.’
Then don’t.
The two words are on the tip of his tongue, and for a second, he worries that he actually said them out loud. But he knows he can’t. It’s mad. It’s been a week. It’s not fair on you, not when you have a whole life back in the city, thousands of miles away, and his is right here in the shadow of the Bighorn Mountains.
So he says nothing.
Eventually, you pull back and tip your face up towards him. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the wetness lining the seams of your eyes.
‘Let’s go to bed, cowboy.’
He watches you from the doorway, where he leans idly against the frame, body relaxed from the whiskey sodas at dinner. The curtains are drawn and the light from the bedside lamp soft, casting orange shades on the walls and your skin as you shrug on the shirt he leaves out for you. The last button done, you snuggle comfortably under his sheets, and his heart lurches.
Not for the first time, the thought crosses his mind -
You look like you belong here.
‘Are you gonna stare all night, cowboy?’ you tease, sinking into the pillows.
He shrugs and closes the door behind him, shedding his clothes as he goes. ‘Can’t help it, darlin,’. You look good in my bed.’
‘It’s so comfy,’ you sigh happily, watching him strip down to his boxers.
‘It’s just the hard ground talkin’,’ he says, climbing in next to you. Bundling you into his arms and sliding one leg between yours, he kisses you, a deep exhale leaving him as he does. You smile so wide the corners of your eyes crease, and he watches as they land somewhere behind him.
His stomach drops when it dawns on him what catches your attention.
But it’s too late. You sit up, leaning over him and grabbing a hold of it with gentle hands.
You stare up at him. ‘Jack.’
He doesn’t even remember the last time he really looked at the photo. It’s there when he wakes up, when he goes to bed. It sits on the bedside table by the lamp, probably covered in dust.
Untouched.
His silence doesn’t deter you, but your tone is soft, and he understands that you’re giving him an out if he wants it. ‘What’s her name?’
His throat goes drier than sandpaper, and he’s suddenly speaking through a mouthful of cotton. It takes him two tries before he manages to enunciate. ‘Addison. Everyone called her Addie.’
‘Was this taken at your wedding?’
He nods, picking at a loose thread on the comforter.
‘Look at you all dashing in a suit, cowboy,’ you hum appreciatively, tracing a fingertip over the smart dark grey tweed jacket with navy accents. ‘Where did you get married?’
‘At her parents’ ranch.’
‘Under this magnolia tree?’
He nods again. ‘It was her favourite spot.’
‘She’s so beautiful,’ you say quietly.
His eyes dart to the photo in your grasp despite himself. Swallowing thickly, he says, ‘She’s buried there now, where she was always happiest.’
At that, you return the photo to its place on the bedside table, almost solemnly. This is usually the point when people stop asking questions, so when you snuggle into the crook of his shoulder, gazing at him expectantly, he frowns in confusion.
‘What is it, darlin’?’
‘Tell me about her.’
Jack is stumped, flustered at your request. He shifts, sitting up stiffly against the headboard. ‘Like what?’
You shrug. ‘I don’t know. Like - how did you meet?’
His answer is short, factual. ‘On the rodeo circuit. We both worked on the tour.’
You give him an encouraging nudge. ‘And? What was she like?’
‘She -’ he pauses and holds his breath, weighing his words. In the end, it’s the truth that he tells you. ‘She was the best person.’
He stutters to a stop again, but you’re still peering at him, your expression curious and open. He knows you won’t push him, he trusts that you wouldn’t. He could reach out and switch off the light right now, and he knows you’d leave it at that.
But a small part of him demurs. He doesn’t have the words to describe it, but something unsettling and hopeful at once stirs in his stomach, one that is stopping him from cutting short this somewhat unconventional pillow talk.
So he tests the words on his tongue, starting with something small. ‘She was a cat person. All the barn cats loved her, no matter where we went on the circuit.’
Watching the way your eyes smile at the detail, he feels a little lighter. He adds, ‘We literally had cats camping out in our truck, and I’m allergic, so I’d be sneezing and covered in hives on the long-distance drives between rodeos.’
You laugh, and his chest swells with the realisation that he doesn’t remember the last time any mention of his wife sparked anything but sad side glances and commiserating pats on the back - let alone joy.
Over the years, he had let go of her joy. Because it doesn’t hurt as much to mourn her this way.
And the guilt that he did this, took the easy way out, is almost too much for one soul-crushing moment - until you lay your head on his chest, unfurling one hand and pressing it into his side, literally holding him together, rib by rib.
He tells you about Addie. Things he’s been afraid to remember, but even more afraid that he had forgotten. Her likes, pet peeves, where she went to college, her favourite show, her irrational fear of butterflies, her favourite dress, the song that always got her up on her feet dancing wherever she was, whatever she was doing, when it came on the radio.
You listen, picking up on the way his voice falls back into that beautiful Southern cadence that you have come to know as he remembers his wife, nothing but love in his eyes as the guardedness fades with each memory he confides in you. You pepper the pauses with follow-up questions and playful quips where you’re draped across him, one arm folded underneath you and the other over his waist, but you feel yourself nodding off as the hour grows late.
He holds you to him, his palm spanning your lower back, until you go quiet.
Jack is tired, his own lids drooping with impending slumber, the sprint down memory lane taking more out of him than he expected. Brushing a kiss to the crown of your head, he rolls you off his front and onto your side, tucking you into the rumpled sheets. Spooning you from behind, he murmurs one last thing on the shell of your ear.
‘She would’ve loved you, darlin’.’
Notes: When I first started this series, I didn't have a backstory developed for Jack other than that his wife died eight and a half years before Darlin' comes on the scene. It's been such an organic and fulfilling journey developing his character and his history over the series, filling in the blanks as we and Darlin' got to know him better.
It's so important to me that his wife and his grief isn't pushed to one side for the sake of easy story telling. I've dropped little hints of his bereavement throughout the series, nothing too loud, but it's there in the background, my way of paying respect to one aspect of canon Jack that touches me very deeply despite the mess the movie makes of his story.
Out of all my Reader! characters, I would say that Darlin' is my most unassuming one. Not in a bad way at all, it's just that she doesn't have as loud a personality as Shiv or Pin, or as dramatic a storyline as Sweetheart. But this chapter, she just really came into her own. That last scene will stay with me forever ❤️
Edited to add a reminder that we still have one more chapter to go before we say goodbye to these two. I’m not ready 😭
#palomino series#jack daniels fanfiction#jack daniels x you#jack daniels x f!reader#jack daniels x reader#agent whiskey x female reader#agent whiskey fanfiction#agent whiskey smut#agent whiskey fic#agent whiskey x f!reader#agent whiskey x reader#agent whiskey x you#jack daniels au#agent whiskey au#pedro pascal character fic
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along for the ride
pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x female reader
rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)
word count:
summary: when joel finds out tommy put out a craigslist ad to get him a date for valentine’s day, he doesn’t expect it to go as well as it does.
author’s note: i finally finished something! was it anything from my extensive wip list? no! don’t think about it too hard! anyways, if you enjoy this fic, please consider giving it a reblog, a comment, or dropping into my ask box 💕
warnings/tags: explicit sexual content (18+ minors dni), no use of y/n, pre-outbreak!joel miller, no mentions of sarah, little shit!tommy miller, blind date, internet safety whomst, vaginal fingering, oral sex, woman on top, p in v, dirty talk, pet names. let me know if i’ve missed any!
“I have a surprise for you,” Tommy says at dinner. Joel pauses, fork scraping against his plate.
“That can’t be good,” he sighs. “What now?”
“Why do you assume it’s somethin’ bad?”
“Last time you said you had a surprise for me, I had chickens in my backyard.”
Tommy laughs. “It’s nothin’ like that this time.”
“Well, then, spit it out,” Joel demands.
Tommy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper that he opens on the table, smoothing out the creases before sliding it over to Joel.
“Reservation confirmation?” Joel reads. He recognizes the name of the restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters dress in all black and the menu doesn’t have prices listed beside the items.
“Yep. I got you your first Valentine’s Day date,” Tommy replies proudly. Joel glares at him.
“What do you mean?”
seeking valentine
36M looking to treat a lady to a date to remember. pic attached. email [email protected] with a pic and bio for consideration.
[img01.jpg]
You’re half a bottle of wine deep when you stumble across the Craigslist ad. When you click on the picture, your interest is further piqued by the handsome man that appears on the screen. He’s standing in front of a black pick up truck dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that stretches across his tan muscles. His brown hair is cut short, just enough length for you to notice that it’s beginning to curl across his forehead and by his neck. His beard frames a bright smile that crinkles the corners of his dark eyes.
Whoever he is, he’s hot. He’d be the perfect way to get over being dumped two weeks ago by your boyfriend of two years.
Your logic was lost somewhere between your second and third glasses of wine, which is why you click on the e-mail address in the ad and start typing. The reply is normal, at first, facts about yourself like your name and age and occupation, but you quickly end up derailing the message with an explanation about why this handsome guy should pick you, making sure to include that you’ve already got a reservation at a popular restaurant for the occasion. The picture you add is a recent photo from a cousin’s wedding that your aunt had e-mailed to you.
Before you can think better of it, you click send. You take one last look at the man’s photo before shutting your laptop and stumbling off to bed to dream of brown eyes and tan skin.
Joel taps his fingers against the white tablecloth, eyes fixed on the door of the restaurant. This is stupid, he thinks. Why did he agree to this? Why did he let Tommy convince him this was a good idea? He should have just told him no and been done with it but somehow he’s here, sitting at a table for two in a fancy restaurant and feeling like a sore thumb in the only suit he owns.
He’s lost enough in his thoughts that he doesn’t see you when you first come in, doesn’t realize you’re here until the hostess is walking up with you close behind in a beautiful dress and he suddenly remembers exactly why he agreed to Tommy’s idiot scheme.
“Joel?” You ask. He stands, nearly knocking the table in his haste to greet you. You lean in for a brief hug and he catches the warm vanilla scent of you before you pull away and smile at him.
He rounds the table to pull your chair out for you and makes sure you’re settled before returning to his seat. A waiter swoops by to offer the wine menu and explain the pre fixe menu for the evening while he pours two complimentary glasses of champagne into the crystal glasses beside your plates. An awkward silence settles when he leaves, Joel’s leg bouncing anxiously beneath the table as he tries to think of something to say.
“This is weird, right?” You finally say. “This feels weird.”
Joel breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s just what I was thinkin’.”
"Oh, thank god." You take a long sip of your champagne. "I can't believe I actually responded to a Craigslist ad for a date."
"I can't believe my stupid brother came up with this whole thing," Joel replies. "I could'a killed him."
Your eyes go wide. "Wait, your brother made the post? Why?!"
"He seems to think that at thirty-six, I should have had a date for Valentine's Day by now," Joel explains. "Why did you respond to the ad?"
"I had been drinking a lot of wine and having a lot of feelings and the internet was unfortunately not helping the situation."
Joel laughs, tension leaving his shoulders as he does. "We're an interestin' pair, huh?"
"Cheers to that," you reply, lifting your glass for him to tap his against with a gentle clink.
As the dinner progresses, the conversation starts to flow with surprising ease. No topic goes untouched, from jobs to hobbies to a long list of favorites. When you’ve exhausted those topics, you move on to swapping stories about your friends and families. By the time he finishes paying a hefty check (and declining your offer to split the cost), Joel feels like he’s known you for a lifetime.
"I had a really nice time, Joel.”
"Me, too," he replies. Christ, you're pretty, bright eyed as you look at him with a soft smile. He reaches for your hand, pulling you closer until your chest brushes his and can wrap an arm around your waist. "This okay?"
"Mhm," you hum with a little nod. Joel's gaze drops to your mouth and he finds himself wondering what your pretty lips would feel like as he kissed you. Would he be able to taste that chocolate torte from dessert on your tongue?
“Joel?” You whisper. He didn’t even realize how close he’s gotten, a few scant inches separating you now. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
He chuckles. “You want me to?”
“Please.”
Joel kisses you, warm lips moving in perfect harmony with yours. It’s chaste, until it’s not. It’s chaste, until his tongue sweeps against your bottom lip and dips inside to tangle with yours. It’s chaste, until his hands are pulling you closer with a tight grip on your hips and—
“Get a room!”
You break apart, startled by the shout from someone passing by on the sidewalk. You can’t stop the laugh that breaks free, your shoulders shaking with the force of it.
“You wanna get out of here?” Joel asks. “I can walk you to your car.”
“I took a cab, actually.”
Joel smirks. “You want a ride, sweetheart?”
Your face grows hot from the look in his eyes, the double meaning to his words not lost. He holds a hand out and you slip your palm against his, fingers folding together so that he can lead you to the parking lot down the street from the restaurant.
Joel opens the passenger door of the truck you recognize from the photo in the ad, helping you step up into the cab and going so far as to pull the seatbelt down, reaching across your body to fasten it. He looks up at as he pulls away, hand dragging across your stomach and making you shiver.
He shuts the door and gets in the driver’s seat, pulling out of the parking lot and following your directions toward your apartment. At the first red light, he settles his broad palm on your thigh, just above your knee, giving you a little squeeze. Feeling bold, you spread your legs the tiniest bit and Joel takes the invitation for what it is, sliding his hand higher.
The light turns green and the sudden movement presses you to the back of the seat, jostles you enough that your legs fall open further. You move to close them, but Joel’s hand moves again, high enough now that if you moved the slightest bit, you could probably get some relief from the ache that’s been building since he kissed you.
His pinky stretches, barely grazing your pussy, but it makes you gasp nonetheless, squirming in your seat from the want. At the next red light, he abandons all pretense, slipping his hand beneath the elastic of your panties and dragging his fingers through the embarrassing amount of wetness that’s already gathered there for him.
“Fuck,” he groans. You turn your head to look at him, his sharp jaw clenched tight as he circles your clit with his index and middle finger. “This wet for me already, baby?”
You moan in response, unable to form words as he touches you, alternating between soft strokes and fast circles over your sensitive clit. Your hips chase his every movement, desperate for relief from the pressure building in your core.
“Joel,” you whimper, grabbing his forearm, digging your nails into the muscle. Your eyes squeeze shut against the overwhelming sensations.
He turns the truck and hastily throws it in park, pulling his hand from you just as you were cresting that wave. You whine at the loss but he shushes you, undoing your seatbelt and getting out of the truck with a slam of the door. It takes you a second to realize he’s stopped because you’ve reached your apartment complex.
The passenger door opens and Joel is there, gripping the door tightly. “Let’s go.”
You lead him to your door on unsteady legs. He follows you inside your apartment, pressed close to your back while you set your bag on the table by the door.
“Where’s your room?” He asks, hands already rucking up the fabric of your dress. “I gotta finish what I started.”
You hurry down the hall to your room together and you silently thank your past self for cleaning up before your date. Joel wastes no time reaching for the hem of your dress, tugging it up over your head and tossing it into a heap on the floor.
“Fuck, even prettier than I imagined,” he groans, dropping to his knees. “Soon as you walked in wearin’ that I knew I was a goner.” He eases your panties down your thighs, helps you step out of them without toppling over. “On the bed.”
You obey without hesitation, crawling across your familiar mattress and lying on your back, head on your pile of pillows. Joel removes his suit jacket, eyes dark as his gaze roams across your body and makes your skin prickle under the intensity. His shirt and pants follow in quick succession, leaving him in a pair of boxer briefs that highlight an impressive bulge.
Joel joins you on the bed and you’re hypnotized by the movement of muscle beneath tan skin. He urges your legs apart, calves draped over his broad shoulders to give him room to settle between your thighs. He looks up at you, holding your gaze as he takes his first taste of you with a deep groan you feel through your whole body.
Your head drops back to your pillow with a shout, legs tensing around Joel’s head. You bury your hands in his hair, holding on tight while he devours you. His tongue circles your clit before dipping down to your dripping center to curl inside of you. A thick finger follows, pressing deep and withdrawing slowly.
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” Joel says. “How’s that feel, huh?”
“So good,” you moan. “More, please, Joel.”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
He eases another finger into you, curling them along your front wall with pointed focus. That knot of release tights again, your muscles growing tense with it the longer he moves with your body. He wraps his lips around your aching clit, alternating between sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth and working it with his tongue until you’re shouting a string of curses and shatter beneath him.
Joel works you through your orgasm until you’re gasping for breath, more puddle than human. He crawls up your body, leaving kisses on what seems like every inch of you as he does and you pull him close when he’s face to face with you, kissing him deeply and chasing the earthy taste of yourself from his mouth.
His hips press against yours, grinding his length against your inner thigh. The kiss turns sloppy, his breath coming in sharp pants and thrusts growing frantic, skin dappled with sweat in the warm air of your room. You tilt your hips, pushing a hand against his shoulder to get him flat on his back with you straddling his waist, stomach flexing beneath you.
He’s deliciously disheveled beneath you with messy hair and kiss swollen lips. His hands find your thighs, sliding upward over your stomach to find your breasts, pinching a nipple between his fingers and making you hiss. Your hips rock over the softness of his belly and you reach behind yourself to palm his cock.
“Look real good like this,” Joel pants, flexing into your touch.
“Well, you did ask me if I wanted a ride,” you tell him.
You lean over towards your nightstand, tugging the top drawer open and rummaging around for a condom. Foil packet in hand, you lift off of Joel for a moment to allow him the chance to hastily shove his underwear off before settling back down on top of his thighs and taking his length in your hand with a slow stroke that makes his mouth drop open, cock pulsing against your palm. You lean forward, licking the flushed tip clean of the pre-cum gathered there.
“You’re killin’ me,” Joel says through gritted teeth. “Wanna feel you, quit teasin’.”
You decide to put you both out of your misery, ripping the condom wrapper and rolling the latex over him. You lift up and he holds his cock steady with a fist around the base as you position yourself over him on your knees and slowly take him into your tight heat, twin moans echoing in the room as you do.
When your hips are flush with his, the wiry curls at the base of his cock grow damp with your arousal as you rock above him, grinding your clit against him and clenching around his length. He holds your hips in a loose grasp, not urging your movements but feeling them as you chase your pleasure.
“Christ,” Joel moans, head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut. He plants his feet, thrusting up as you grind down and making you gasp. “Ain’t lastin’ much longer, baby.”
You lean forward, changing the angle and allowing him to pound inside of you, his cock pulsing as his release nears. You’re right there with him, the drag of his cock against that sweet spot inside of you making you tip over the edge with a shout muffled into the sweat slick skin of his neck.
He slams himself deep, cock pulsing as he spends himself into the condom inside of you. You collapse against his chest, the two of you catching your breath in the aftermath. When you roll off of Joel and onto the mattress, he’s quick to pull you back against him, your head resting on his chest.
“That was—“
“Yeah,” you interrupt breathlessly. “It was.”
After a moment, Joel quietly asks, “What now?”
“You can stay…if you want.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing along your shoulder. “I want that.”
Joel’s phone rings at an ungodly hour the next morning. He struggles to find his discarded pants in the dark but when he finally unearths the obnoxious device, his greeting is a snapped, “What?”
“He lives!” Tommy cheers from the other end. “It was a fifty-fifty chance you were dead or in bed.”
“What do you want, Tommy?”
“Just checkin’ to see how the date went. Must’ve been pretty good, seein’ as how I’m at your house and you’re nowhere to be found.”
Joel rolls his eyes. “Fuck off,” he says. He’s about to hang up when he hears Tommy shout, “Wait!”
“What now?” Joel asks.
“Ain’t you gonna thank me?”
Joel snaps the phone shut, tossing it into the piles of clothes and crawling back into bed with you.
Joel Miller masterlist
All masterlists
#joel miller x reader#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller x female reader#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel tlou#no use of y/n#joel x reader#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal character fic#tlou fanfiction#tommy tlou
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Sunglasses
Married!Javi series Masterlist
Follow me on @javierpenaisapunk for my fic recs
Fandom: Narcos
Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader
Rating: G (wooo, that’s a first for me) Just fluffy fluff, you guys.
Word count: 1.6k words
Summary: Of all the things Javi has seen through his sunglasses, the sunglasses’ favorite sight is his relationship with his wife.
A/N: Apparently I’m writing fics from the POV of objects now. Hopefully it’s not really weird lol. Hit the follow button to read my next fic golf from the perspective of the sex Afghan on Javi’s leather couch (jk). Leave your girl a comment and reblog to fuel my obsession with writing this guy.
The Aviators were a staple of his look.
They could be anywhere. Dangling off the third or fourth button of his shirt at the bottom of the deep V that began at the collar. Perched on his nose, amber glass masking the intense gaze of intoxicating brown eyes.
They knew more intimately than most, his deepest fears. They had front row seats as he stared down the barrel of guns pointed at him. They knew the fear of seeing a teenage boy at the end of his gun, his hands shaking as the foundations of his morals stained under the pressure of his job.
If you asked them, they’d tell you of everything Javier saw at work, even the memories that he repressed to be able to wear his gun and badge another day. If you asked them, they’d tell you the first time he saw her. It was momentary. Fleeting. Nothing special. The aviators would let you know that his eyes did not linger, contrary to what his pretty pink lips whispered into her ears at night when he buried himself inside her. “Couldn’t take my eyes off of you the first time I saw you, Hermosa…” She’d moan and pull him close and kiss the lips that waxed poetic in between the dirty, dirty words that made her clench around him and pull his hair and arch her neck to let his lips taste her.
The aviators would tell you that they served as cover when he wanted to keep his emotions to himself. Police work did not take away how emotive those brown eyes were. So they sometimes served as blinds on the window to his soul.
She was the sunglasses’ favorite sight. Not because she was extraordinarily beautiful. Their owner would disagree- he would argue that she was extraordinary in every way, including beauty. He would add a couple more adjectives. But the aviators were more objective than the man they belonged to. However, both man and sunglasses could agree that she was their favorite view.
For Javier, it was her beauty- the spark in her eyes, the upward turn of her lips when she spotted him, the sign of desire when she looked him up and down, the way her shirts clung to her breasts, the fabric of her skirts that hugged her ass— you get the gist. For the sunglasses, the joy was in the way his eyes responded to the view.
First it was just curiosity. Pretty woman, sat by herself at the same restaurant where he sometimes had breakfast. Hard not to notice that she was a regular, one who sat at the exact same table and ate the same breakfast everyday.
Then it was desire. Nothing out of the normal for the man, the aviators would tell you. They’d seen desire on his side plenty when he saw women through them. The glasses were an accomplice to the way his eyes would gallivant over beautiful bodies. They sat close as his mind evaluated just how much he would love to have other parts of his body enjoy what his eyes had spotted.
As the relationship progressed, the aviators found themself in the mix a lot. Their owner found himself visiting her more often than other women. The pair was sometimes pressed against the chests of the couple as they drank from each other’s lips. Her hand sometimes took them off its place tucked in his shirt and set them on her bedside table.
The sunglasses would be the first to tell you when everything changed between Javier and the woman. At least on Javier’s part. Eyes that roamed the surroundings frantically to look for danger in every room acted uncharacteristically around her. They’d stop on her, take her in. Just when the glasses thought that their owner’s eyes had had enough, they’d find him continuing to stare. They were glad the man had her to look at. Something nice. Someone that made him happy.
She got closer to him than anyone else. And he let her.
The aviators weren’t a perfect barrier. If one stepped closer, stood heart to heart with the man, emotive brown eyes would reveal the depths of the soul.
She saw it through the sunglasses’ amber barrier. He allowed her the spot in front of his chest from where she could see it. She seemed to like what she saw, staying in the spot he gave her though he was afraid, though his mind told him to step back before she saw too much— before he liked what he saw more than he should. The aviators could tell you that he was long past that point.
There was no stopping now.
It was because of her that the aviators knew there was a world beyond sicarios, sex workers, and bosses cross at Javier for his transgressions.
There were dates in grassy parks, picking her up from university, and accompanying her to markets where she bought vegetables that Javier loaded in his jeep. The aviators were unaware of the existence of vegetables before that. They would be quite annoyed if you mocked them for this lapse in knowledge. To be fair to the object, Javier’s diet was strictly limited to whiskey and cigarettes.
The aviators were loyal. Javier only.
But they didn’t mind when she playfully snatched them off Javier’s face and placed them on her own. She played at his seriousness, looked through them in a mockery of his stern police-like gaze and let some expletives slip off her tongue in an imitation of him. It pleased the sunglasses that this woman who was so close to him believed them to be such an essential part of him that she used them to mimic him.
They got a glimpse into her soul then, could see that she had no malicious intent in snatching them off the rightful owner. It was not theft.
The twinkle in his eyes when she did that told the glasses that he enjoyed it. Other belongings found themselves on his women quite a lot. Especially his colorful shirts. They told stories of the beautiful women who’d wear them for a period after they’d been discarded on the floor in favor of access to the chest they covered up. The aviators didn’t have any such stories.
Until her.
The aviators would tell the shirts that they’d met her eyes, seen into her soul, seen that she liked him just as much as he liked her. The shirts in turn shared that he liked seeing her wear them after they found pleasure in each other’s bodies. It was different with her, the shirts would say. He liked her wearing them— the shirts — not just because he liked evidence of beautiful bodies in his belongings. No, he liked his woman wearing his shirts.
He lent them to her sometimes. When she squirted under the bright sun, he’d pluck them off his own face and offer them for her to wear. She’d smile and accept them, taking it as a gesture that he cared.
The sunglasses knew before the man himself that he’d fallen in love. Closest to the windows to his soul and all. His shirts would argue that they knew even before the sunglasses— they felt his heart beat faster when she came into contact with him. The sunglasses would argue that they knew better than the shirts— shirts changed everyday, but sunglasses didn’t.
They had the full picture if you will.
Ironically, the full picture was forgotten when it came to her. He had eyes only for her when she was around, the background blending together and fading away. Nothing else was important. They stared before only because of her physicality, but now they stared to learn and memorize every inch of her. They delighted in every micro expression, every smile and every frown, every which way she responded to him.
If you asked the aviators, they’d tell you proudly of being there when Javier’s eyes found a sparkling diamond ring in a jewelry store display. He took them off to admire it, to see its natural twinkle without the amber barrier. He didn’t buy it.
It was after all the biggest, shiniest rock that made it to the display of the store.
Not something one could afford on a government salary. Nothing you’d find on a humble professor’s finger. But, it put the thought in his head. Marriage. It frightened him, but not because of the commitment. No, it was fear that no sparkly bit of carbon would make her agree to a lifetime with his ass. He didn’t feel it with the last woman, Lorraine.
They blended in with her things soon. Next to her hair clip, her novel, both their wristwatches, and her earrings that he removed and set aside carefully when they made love. Just as his pants and shirts acquainted themselves with her dresses— on their bedroom floor, their laundry hamper, their dresser drawers.
Amber glasses would acquire scratches over the years. Javier would leave it forgotten in a drawer somewhere in his new home with his wife. Another pair of aviators, shiny and unscratched, would sit on the bridge of his beautiful nose. But if you asked them, they’d tell you of their clear vision though the scratches and from the dark depths of the drawer. They’d tell you that he still looked at her with the same adoration despite the years.
They’d find themselves roughhoused in small hands that like to play pretend. They'd sit on a nose, smaller yet similar to Javier’s as little lips that definitely belonged to her tried to talk like Papa. She’d laugh and tell him that their little one sounded exactly like him. He’d roll his eyes but enjoy the peaceful bubble he’d managed to forge with her.
The new aviators stayed shiny for not having seen the horrors, for having only the sight of his happy wife and growing family. But the OG, they’d proudly tell you that they shined despite the horrors of his old DEA job because they were there when it all began.
#javier peña#javier peña x reader#javier peña x you#javier peña x y/n#javier peña x ofc#javier peña fluff#javier peña fic#javier peña fanfiction#javier pena x you#javier pena x reader#javier pena fic#javier pena fanfiction#javier pena imagine#javier pena narcos#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fic#all that i've inflicted on the world
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The Date
Marcus Moreno x f!college student, The Secret Universe
Rating: E, age gap, heavy daddy kink y'all -- they are exploring it together ❤
A/N: all the thanks in the world goes to @the-scandalorian who reassures me every time I am worried the smut is not hitting -- your comments in the doc keep me going. thank you ❤ a special dedication to @swiftispunk who was really brave earlier this week and not only inspired me with that bravery, but also deserves a treat for it ❤
--
The door of the coffee shop swings open, cold air skimming across your back. Shifting your chair to angle yourself away from it, you glance down at your phone as it rings.
Marcus
Swiping right, you answer.
“Hi,” you grin.
“Hey, baby.”
His low voice flowing syrupy warm and deep into your ear, you play with the edge of a notebook page, still smiling.
“What’s up?”
“I’m at work, so I don’t have long, but I was calling to see what you’re doing this weekend. I’m free, and I was hoping you might be too?”
“Marcus Moreno. Are you asking me out on a date?” you tease.
You hear a low chuckle through the phone, and you press your finger over your earbud to drown out the espresso machine in the background.
“Yea I am, smart alec.” His scolding is laced with paternal endearment, and you smile wider. “I was thinking I’d pick you up tomorrow night after work?”
“Sure.”
“I gotta run into this meeting,” he says, and you can almost see him hurrying through the hallways, checking his watch. “But pack an overnight bag, okay? And put something pretty in there for me. I’m gonna take you to dinner.”
“Something pretty, huh? Kinda demanding, aren’t you?”
A small smile curls at the edge of your mouth and you can hear him match it with his own when he huffs a laugh, picturing the way his eyes crinkle at the corners with fondness.
“There’s this hotel I always pass on the way up north, with a dinner place underneath. I made a reservation for us.”
You shift in your seat, feeling almost shy. The premeditated planning and the thoughtfulness behind the idea makes you feel cherished, and for a reason you can’t fully explain, feminine. Delicate, meant to be taken care of. This grown man, thinking of you while he’s at the office, making plans to be with you later. Asking you to wear something pretty, just for him.
“That sounds perfect,” you reply. “I’ll pack tonight.”
“Great,” he answers.
His voice slips into something more hushed, as if he’s stepped to the side of a doorway before heading into a meeting room. “I’ll be thinking about you until I see you. Been thinking about you since I booked the room.”
So open with his affection, something stirs deep about the sweet sentiment of the words paired with their true meaning. With what you know he’s been thinking about.
“Oh yea? Anything you want to share with me now, over the phone?”
He lets out a soft, good humored groan. “I wish, baby. I wish I could.”
The sound of his voice coils something deep in your belly, warming you from the inside out. It’s always so overwhelming when he calls you and you have your earbuds in – especially when he lets out those soft groans. Made even more intimate due to the fact that your relationship is still a secret, it makes the low tone of his voice that’s just for you all the more arousing.
“Tell me on the drive up there?” you ask sweetly.
He lets out a slow breath into the receiver, and you close your eyes for a moment.
“Oh believe me, I will. Gotta run though. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You say your goodbye and hang up, your assignment forgotten as you stare out the window with a far away, content expression.
Taking a sip of your latte, you slide into a daydream: an image of him driving, the way his blue dress shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. Him checking into a hotel room, with the sort of casual confidence it requires. The soft brace of his hand on your back as he guides you through the carpeted hallways, the soft click of the door behind you.
Taking another sip of your drink, the images roll on from there; the coffee shop humming with life around you.
–
“Wow,” you say, walking into the room. Turning to him, you give him a shy smile. “Pretty fancy.”
“Yea, it’s not bad, huh.”
He tosses his key card on the dresser, placing your overnight bag down next to it. Clicking on the lamp, he bathes the room in warm, inviting light. The furnishings are understated but luxurious, the king sized bed enormous and lush. The sight of a single bed in the room sends warmth through the cradle of your hips and down, and a rolodex of images flashes quickly through your mind: crisp sheets, sweat slick skin, his broad, bare shoulders hooked under your knees.
His words interrupt your fantasy. “I thought I could let you get ready, and I’ll go down and get us a table? Order us a drink?”
It’s never been this way with anyone else. Something that drew you in from the first time you met him, he’s always been so caring and attentive. Always anticipating the situation and making a clear plan for it, always considering your desires and putting them first. Never to the detriment of his own, but rather alongside his. Because he likes it. Because he can’t help doing it. Like it’s second nature, after spending so many years as a single dad.
Still, every time he offers to do something before you ask, you find yourself touched. So considerate and thoughtful – while booking you a room with the clear intention of doing something depraved in it.
“Don’t take long, okay?” he says, stepping closer. His hands curl around your hips, and you turn to fully face him. Letting your touch find his firm chest, you splay your fingers over the crisp fabric of his dress shirt, warm with his body heat.
“I won’t,” you promise.
Leaning in, he presses a gentle kiss to your mouth, one you chase when he pulls away. Studying your face closely for a moment, his expression softens.
“You know, you can say it here if you want.”
Immediately understanding what he’s referring to, you swallow, vulnerability spreading across your features.
“I want you to,” he softly encourages.
You bite your bottom lip for a moment, hesitating. You haven’t said it since that night in his guestroom, but the memory of it has brought you to release more than once. The word has echoed in your mind for weeks; his lust-soaked groan after you said it fills your mind every time you close your eyes.
The definitive statement of his encouragement gives you courage as he meets you halfway with a vocalization of his own secret want. A seemingly large leap to take, you know he’ll catch you when you fall – he always does.
“Okay,” you agree.
His expression so achingly soft yet with an undercurrent of lust hidden in the depths of his dark eyes, he leans in again, skimming his nose across your cheekbone with a featherlight brush. His hands gently tug your hips closer, and his mouth finds the soft hollow beneath your ear. Pressing a kiss there, he gives you another, and another, his tongue tasting your skin.
Your head lolls to the side, and your eyes slip shut, focusing on the plush, warm give of his mouth.
“Say it,” he whispers, and you melt into him, a heavy ache pooling inside you.
You focus on the wet glide of his tongue and the solid sturdiness of his body in your grip, and the word comes pouring out of your mouth, saturated and soaked with want.
“Daddy.”
A soft groan catches in the back of his throat, the sound pressing into the delicate skin of your neck. His fingers tighten in their hold, and he gives you another lingering kiss. His teeth scrape against the slope of it this time, his mustache tickling your skin and when you let out an involuntarily whimper, his mouth gets more demanding, his grip tightening as he sucks, the bulge of his stiffening cock nudging along the top of your thigh as he flexes his hips towards you –
And then he’s pulling himself back with his eyes closed, a small frown gathered between his brows. Trying to rein his desire in, he lets his forehead rest against yours for a moment, collecting himself with a sigh.
“Good girl,” he praises you, the warm words ghosting humid across your lips.
Your fingers curl into the smooth fabric along his sides, and you resist the urge to tuck your face into the crook of his neck to hide how much the endearment affects you.
You cling to him for a moment, waiting for his body to settle and then he takes a step back, scrubbing his jaw with his hand and blowing out a heavy breath. Swiping the key off the dresser, he pats his pockets to make sure he has everything he needs.
“I’ll be downstairs at the bar.” He takes a step towards the door, and then stops, hesitating. His eyes drop down your body and back up again, taking their time. “Seriously, don’t take long.”
Laughing, you wave him out the door, standing in place with a grin as you watch it close behind him.
–
The white wine he ordered pairs with the delicious food just right, and though you want to eat more, you stop yourself, not wanting to get too full. So you share with him instead, eating off each other’s plates as you talk.
It’s been a couple weeks since you’ve seen him last, and he covers every topic: school, your schedule, how you’ve been spending your free time, what books you’ve been reading. He wants to know it all, just like he seems to want to touch it all, with the way his hands never leave you. The warm weight of his hand on the top of your thigh makes you bold, the proximity of his fingers to your core a bright, beckoning pressure.
You lean in, asking him to name at least one of the things he promised he would tell you in the car.
Watching the waiter come over with a refill of your wine, he whispers in your ear.
“I can’t stop thinking about your pussy. How much I want it.”
The filthy words are a direct contrast to the way he seems so outwardly relaxed and polite, and the words play on a loop in your mind when he presses a gentle kiss just under your ear.
His solid body fits against the length of yours in the booth after you’re finished eating and then again out on the small, intimate dance floor. Feeling bashful at the slightly old fashioned request, you take his hand and let him lead you out to it, winding your arms around his neck.
One of his hands splayed across your lower back with a protective hold, the other one strokes along your side, seeking out the smooth fabric of your dress. Waves of romantic music guide your swaying steps and lightheaded with drink, with happiness and with him, you rest your face at the corner of his jaw, breathing him in.
The picture of romance to anyone observing, you pull back just enough to look at him sweet and soft – before opening your mouth.
“I think I’m ready to go upstairs now.”
His steady gaze just as intoxicating as his charm and attentiveness has been tonight, you hold it and tilt your chin up, lowering your voice even more.
“Take me to bed, daddy.”
The only outward tell of the effect your words have on him are his hands tightening in their hold, but you can feel his body subtly stiffen the way it’s pressed against yours. He waits until the song is done, and then he’s leading you off the dance floor, the weight of his hand resting on your tailbone all the way to your room.
When he steers you inside, you expect him to turn on the lights…but he doesn’t.
His hands cupping your jaw, he kisses you instead.
“You looked so beautiful tonight.”
The words are whispered into the darkness, the only light in the room coming through the sheer curtains. The firmer edges of him meet your softer ones: a deft, skillful handling of your dress as he takes it off, his dry palms skating over your bare skin as he unhooks your bra and tosses it onto the floor, the delicate brush of his fingertips as he slides your panties down your legs and off.
Sitting on the edge of the bed with you standing bare between his spread thighs, there is something so…erotic, about the way he just looks. By contrast, he is still in everything he wore tonight, save for the shoes he slipped off when you walked into the room and you fight the urge to squirm under his attentive, reverential gaze. He takes his time, his hands exploring every slope of your skin he can reach.
“When we were downstairs,” he starts, looking up at you with doleful, heavy lidded eyes, “I just kept thinking about how much I wanted to come back to the room. How much I wanted to undress you and see what was waiting, just for me.”
His touches get heavier, more weighted, slightly more needy when he palms the weight of your breast in his hand and you watch the slow swallow of his throat, a steady throb beating between your thighs. Slick pools sticky and wet along your seam, smearing across his fingertips when he nudges them between the soft skin of your thighs, skating his touch through the silky curls that cover your cunt.
“This is mine, right?” His voice drops into a low husk, his eyes on where he’s touching you.
“Yes,” you answer shakily, trying not to succumb to the weight of your want.
“I wanted so bad to taste this instead of the food we were eating.”
He does then, bringing his fingers to his mouth with a frown and a soft groan and a suck, and you bend at the waist, cupping his jaw to bring his mouth to yours. Kissing him fiercely, you crawl onto his lap.
“Do you want it just as bad as I do, baby?” he breathes, molding his lips against yours. His arm hooks around your back, tugging your body against his. His broad hand settles on your hip, a slight tremble to his hold. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you,” you confess.
Getting lost in the cool sensation of his clothes against your heated skin, one hand grasps the collar of his shirt, and the other wraps around the nape of his neck. Grinding yourself down onto the stiff heft of his cock, it strains through his pants beneath you. His mouth demands more from yours, and the anticipation that’s been building in you since yesterday when he called breaks, the words rushing out against his lips.
“I want you to eat my pussy, daddy. I want you to taste it.”
Only the third time tonight that you’ve let yourself say it, he growls, flipping you onto your back. Covering you with the weight of his body, he guides your still moving hips against his own with a weighted grind just for a moment, and then he’s pulling himself away to sink to his knees on the side of the bed, tugging you swiftly to the edge.
“Marcus.”
The moan you let out is guttural and loud when he gives your cunt an open mouthed kiss, his head shaking “no” between your legs.
“Sorry, sorry,” you pant. Your fingers slipping through his hair to press him closer, his tongue swirls heavy around your clit, his shoulders spreading you wider as you grind against his face.
“Daddy.”
The rumble of his corresponding groan of approval is felt deep inside you, and there is an urgency that slips into his movements as his grasping hands cup your breasts with a squeeze, smooth down your torso with a weighty drag, and wrap around the back of your knees to push you open wider for him. When you come in his mouth, he buries the bottom half of his face with a groan of satisfaction, letting you ride it out against his chin.
Leaving you breathless and sated for the moment, he stands and strips his clothing quickly. Buttons ripped open and shirt untucked, belt undone before he pushes everything down and off, he impatiently tugs his undershirt over his head before he’s crawling up on the bed to join you. Your eyes drop to his cock, bobbing with weight as he makes his way over to you and you think he’s going to spread your legs to make room for himself, but instead he stretches out alongside you, pulling you in for a kiss.
Your taste thick on his tongue, he waits until you’re restless in your movements against him, and then rolls over on his back, guiding you on top.
He’s a lot like this, in this position. His cock thick to begin with, the stretch of it takes his mouth to get you ready to begin with, but paired with the weight of your body as it presses him deeper inside you, your breathing hitches as you work him in. Overwhelmed with fullness, you squirm on his lap and rocking your hips forward just to feel him slide inside of you, you tip your head back with a moan.
“Daddy.”
His hands envelop your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your peaked nipples. He plays with them, forcing his hips up to meet yours.
“Daddy, please.” You’re begging, but you don’t even know for what.
The sensation of him beneath you and inside you, the relief of saying the name you have for him in your heart. You know he brought you here so you’d feel more comfortable saying it, and so you do. You let the word spill into the dark room, absorbed by the walls – spill, spill, spill out of your mouth just like he does down your throat, tucking himself into the deepest parts of your body.
The quiet intimacy, the warm, dry, comforting hold of his big hands as they move you on top of him, the solid strength in his body between your flexing thighs – it all swirls into something intensely arousing, sending shivers along your skin, your breath catching in your throat.
Your moans are breathless as you start to ride him, pleading for him all the same. “Please daddy. It feels so good.”
Everything centered between your legs, he buries himself to the hilt and makes you grind down on it, filling you to the brim.
“That’s my girl, letting go like that. Do you need more?”
You shake your head, your teeth pulling at your bottom lip as you focus on how deep he is.
“No. No, it’s just – “ Your hips work faster; a groan spilling out of his outstretched throat. The sound makes you look down at him and he is wrecked underneath you. “You feel so good. So good.”
His thumb rubs circles against your clit, a groan crawling out of his chest when you clench hard around him. “I want you to come on it, baby, okay?”
His hair mussed against the white pillow, his glasses askew on the bedside table. His plush mouth, open in a pant as he watches you ride him.
These are things that only you get to see, and similar, contrasting images flash through your mind: his thumb a slick drag over your clit (wrapped around the steering wheel as he drove here), his open mouth, begging just for you (smiling politely at the receptionist as she checked you in), his fingers hooked around his drink tonight at dinner (the same ones that have been buried inside you and tucked into your mouth).
His broad back at the sink as he does the dishes; the same one filling the space between your spread thighs. The voice that makes polite conversation with his coworkers; the husky, filthy orders given to you in the privacy of your room.
This reserved man; this depraved man. This good father who loves to debase his daughter’s best friend.
This unassuming and handsome man with a want cradled within him so deeply that no one can tell — no one but you, who gets the brunt of his tightly held restraint that spills loose every time you’re alone.
No one knows him like this. Only you.
You come on top of him, and then he’s rolling you onto your back again, before sitting back on his heels and tugging you up onto his lap. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before he’s smearing the wet tip of his cock along the curve of your ass, guiding himself to sink back inside your soaked cunt with a groan. The snap of his hips is harsh and hard, your fingers digging into his shoulders for purchase and when you let out a soft sob, his arms wind tightly around you.
Secure and safe, he cradles against his broad chest.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, and all mine. All mine,” he chants, pressing kisses along the slope of your shoulder.
His hand slides down to rest against your lower back, and when he pushes the weight of his hold along it to grind you harder against him, your back tries to bow with pleasure, but he holds you so tightly you can’t. A couple rocks of his hips upwards that have you trembling against him, and then he’s pushing his hand between your bodies, seeking out your clit.
“Daddy,” you plead, your hand wrapping around his thick wrist as his fingers work, work, work.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he praises breathlessly. “Such a good girl. I’m almost there, I just want you to come again. Can my sweet girl come for me again?”
You could – you’re already halfway there with the way he won’t stop playing with your clit while he fucks into you from below, and when you start to come, he holds you even tighter. The air squeezed from your lungs by his strong arm wound around your back and his nails scratch the skin between your shoulder blades as his own groan sounds deep and low over yours.
Pliant and loose on his lap as you come down, you are so wet it’s audible when he fucks half a dozen harsh strokes into you and when he comes, he forces you down onto his lap as tight as he can, his strong grip holding you in place as he floods you with his spend. The heavy rise and fall of his chest matches your own, and you feel the rumble of his deep, sated groans of relief against your sensitive breasts.
Tacky with sweat and the inside of your thighs sore, you shift to move, and his hold tightens.
“Stay,” he pants, hooking his chin over your shoulder to clutch you to him, bowing his head. “Stay.”
–
He’s so boyish when he’s on the verge of sleep.
His features lax, the wrinkles that surround his eyes softened. You play with the curls at the nape of his neck, the action soothing to both of you.
You think of how neat his hair is normally styled, and how much you like seeing this version more. Always so buttoned up for everyone else – so reserved, so polite and kind – and yet so undone, just for you. Flushed cheeks, loose curls, bright eyes flashing in the darkness.
Only you know what he looks like when he comes.
Only you know that he likes being your daddy.
A tide of gratefulness swells in your chest, and you whisper to him in the darkness.
“I love you.”
He stirs, lifting his arm to cover you with the weight of it. “Come here.”
You tuck yourself in along his body and when you’re shielded by the width of him, he presses a kiss to your temple, and then the apple of your cheek, pressing you closer.
“My sweet girl.” His words slur, his tone softening as he slips away. “I love you too.”
#marcus moreno#marcus moreno x you#marcus moreno x reader#marcus moreno/you#marcus moreno/reader#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fic
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Tonight you belong to me
Series, ongoing
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?
Set a few months after the TF events.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader
Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.
Rating: Explicit 🔞
TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.
A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡
A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.
Chapters
Prologue - In The Beginning
Chapter 1 - Dirt
Chapter 2 - Closer
Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier
Chapter 4 - Frankie (coming... before May. I hope. Tell my employer to leave me alone)
Chapter 5 - ...
Chapter 6 - ...
Epilogue - ...
Playlist
#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#I’m scared#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#Spotify
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