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kiwisbell · 2 months

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helen ; chapter one

dear joel

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the inciting incident.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, (retired) hitman!joel, husband!joel, graphic violence, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), blood + injuries, murder, cars, joel lifts reader once, reader has hair, oral sex (f receiving - aka munch!joel returns), married fluff, angst, threats of rape/SA, home invasion, disgusting awful men, childhood/religious trauma, the typical alcohol + smoking + profanity, erotic paintings, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 8.2k a/n: so i'm posting this and sprinting away because i'm terrified. that being said, this story means more to me than words can say and i sincerely hope you enjoy what i have to offer. thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think!! gigantic thanks to @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter and being generally incredible throughout this whole process. i couldn't have done it without ya baby ❤️ next

PREFACE

“Love is my mover, source of all I say.”

— The Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto II.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Joel Miller grins as the punch rocks his jaw.

His opponent hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, the man stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

The man drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's about to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of the man’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, the man drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves the man’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his own broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

Joel staggers backward to pick up the knife, clamping his hand over the curve of his opponent’s shoulder, and drives the blade down into his neck.

“Yeah.”

He leaves him slumped against the railing, choking on his own blood, and limps his way to one of the beaten-up Range Rovers whose front right bumper was totaled in the crash. Joel groans as he settles into the front seat, gnashing his teeth together as he lifts the hem of his dress shirt to inspect the damage.

The bullet has pierced the soft flesh of his stomach. Blood blossoms bright through the white fabric and spirals outward. Joel blinks away rainwater and pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen smeared with blood. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him.

He grits his teeth and makes a call.

In the back of his head, Joel vaguely recalls an old song of prayer. He used to watch others sing it while he lingered in the shadows at the back of the cathedral. He would memorise the shape of the words leaving their mouths and wonder how a benevolent God, who had shaped man—perfection—from red clay, could have made him.

He would lower his head as if swept up in a tide of repentance, examining the bones beneath his hands. The flickering of tendons. The bulge of veins as he delicately folded his fingers into a fist.

Red clay. Blood. The old dance of serpent and man.

He was fourteen when he escaped.

Joel looks down at his bloodied hands. They’ve grown since then. They’re stronger, thicker, scarred. There are no pictures of him as a young boy, but if he saw one, he knows he would not recognise himself. Not his eyes nor his hands nor the set of his jaw. God makes man makes boy. He is destined for Hell.

The call goes to voicemail.

Joel curls his hand into a fist and whispers a prayer.

Something cool and wet collides with Joel’s forehead as he stalks into the airport. It’s begun to rain.

His target gate is close, and he's early. The press of bodies begins to crowd him. Prickling body spray and sickly-sweet perfume and sunburned skin from Spring Break return flights. Joel shoves through them, unseen, unnoticed amid the rowdy din of reunions. The collar of his shirt sticks to the nape of his neck. It’s the sensation of being strangled, clammy palms slick against his own skin. He adjusts his jacket and tightens his grip on the black fabric dangling from his hand.

Joel waits by the gate, his eyes flitting between its apex and the people milling about him, reuniting with partners and parents and children. Nobody seems suspicious, but his fingers still dance upon the blade hidden in the inner lining of his leather jacket. Those performing wide berths around the scowling man try not to make eye contact. Most don't notice his presence at all.

He waits, flicking his sleeve up every couple minutes to check the time on the inside of his wrist. Every tick of the thin hand registers in the pulse of his heart against his ribs.

He hears the suitcase before he sees it—and it’s hard to miss. One wheel is wonky, and the case stutters in its path along the polished floor. It’s huge, pink, hideous.

His hand dropping from the blade in his pocket, Joel makes his move.

You see him approaching and drop the lopsided suitcase, shrieking as he takes you up in his arms.

He swings you around twice, holding you firm against him, your fingers grabbing desperately at the locks of his curly, brown-grey hair. Joel nestles his face in your throat and breathes in: vanilla and shampoo and the unmistakable scent of a you he can never shake. Home.

You shudder into him, your feet barely scraping the floor as he holds you around the waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. Joel lets his eyes close.

Daisies made of diamonds dangle from your wrist, connected by a fine golden chain. He can feel the faux petals dig into the back of his neck, etching their shape into the phantom pain of the ink peeking out from his collar. Sometimes, his skin would pull back with the needle, briefly protruding from his body like a tent made of flesh, as if grasping feebly onto some innocent time before the black hands of Dürer were permanently his. His to remember. His to loathe.

There is a slight in the way his gift to you, wrapped snugly around your wrist since the first anniversary, kisses the old wound, the tip of the cross, and all he feels is the echo of agony. He holds you tighter.

“Can’t breathe, honey,” you croak, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Joel mutters an apology, loosening his grip on you just enough to pull away and cup your face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you beam up at him, smoothing back the hair you’d tousled with your fingers. A curl swoops back down over his forehead.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” says Joel, already on his way to kissing you, his mouth slanting over yours.

He tastes of mint and smells of his dark cologne, pine, Joel. Your Joel. And you kiss him like it—your hand cupping the nape of his neck, the other sliding up his strong, broad back, your lips meeting in a consuming kiss that knocks you off-kilter. He bends slightly over you, keeping you upright with a large hand on your lower back.

“Never leave again,” mumbles Joel, grinning against your mouth, his hand sliding down your arm to your left hand, where two glimmering bands rest on your third finger. Your hands intertwine, and he bumps his nose into yours.

You give him another short kiss. “Get me out of here.”

Joel slides your raincoat over your shoulders and you slip your arms through. He presses his lips to your forehead and closes his eyes, letting himself linger briefly in your space before he scoops up the handle to your affront of a suitcase and escorts you out back to the car.

He opens the passenger-side door to let you slide into your seat, securing your case in the back, and makes his way around the vehicle. You reach for the collar of his jacket and pull him toward you for a kiss, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger. He grins crookedly when you pull away, bushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Missed you,” he says.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. “Yeah? How much?”

He reaches across the console and kisses you deeply, making you gasp into him as his hand slips underneath your silky little blouse and fits his fingers in the grooves between your ribs. Your skin prickles with goosebumps under his touch as his exploration migrates to your belly, sliding south, ever lower, his hand playing at the waistband of your panties—

“Okay,” you laugh, smacking his hand away. “Okay. You’re paying for parking, Miller.”

“I’ve got money,” he says plainly, dipping his head to kiss you again, his pupils fattening as he tries to gorge on all of you at once. You place a hand on his chest, enjoying the strong pulse of his heartbeat where you typically rest your head, and gently push him back.

“Take me home,” you coo, your gaze sweeping fondly over the face that hasn’t changed, that you cannot forget, “and show me how much you missed me.”

His wedding band coolly kisses your cheek as he retracts his hand, reluctantly turning his key in the ignition. “Yes, ma’am.”

He’s always been a meticulous driver, expert in the way he flattens his palm on the wheel, his other on the back of your headrest, turns the car out of the spot, and merges onto the freeway. When he no longer needs his other hand, he gives it to you, and you bring his long-scarred knuckles to your lips.

His hands are marked by years of use, of abuse, speckled with little white scars, freckles, divots, curves. You already know the lines in his palms, have traced them and painted them and put them under sensitive study with your body. But you turn his hand over nonetheless, your own fingertips careful in their examination, following their contours as if searching for a change. But they’re the same—he’s the same—and so you tuck your fingers between his and bring your palms together in a warm, awaited kiss.

It’s only been a month, but you study his profile as if years have passed. He’s still Joel, still surly, plush lips curved into a permanent pout, the space between his brows marked by a ponderous gash, the vein in his throat fluttering in silence when a driver cuts him off or he spots a car following too closely. He’s a good study, practised in his stoicism.

His nose is artful. Its convex slope, pronounced, strong, curves deliciously into his upper lip, the soft greying hairs in between a space of waiting. His mouth, soft, learned, often languageless, is what you know best of him. You know it like your own—can trace its shape in the dark, hands behind your back. The strong jawline, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, ones he never had before you met him, the patches of skin disrupting the fullness of his beard: they’re the picture of the man you married, and there’s always something you’re disappointed in discovering you’ve missed. A something you’ve never noticed, a something you wish you could go back and add to all your canvases.

When you left him at the airport, it was a freckle just beneath the hollow of his throat. Now, it’s the frayed hairs just behind his ears, crimping in frizzy patterns that don’t match the languorous curls on the rest of his head. They look singed, as if he’d put a match to himself.

Maybe it’s making up for lost time, for all the days you’d missed being away from your Joel. But there’s a second, smaller something: the little round scar beneath those wild hairs. You lift your hand to it, and before your thumb can make a pass over the white, puckered skin, he speaks.

“It’s a burn.” Merging off the freeway, he pulls into a gas station. His fuel ticker is tapping gently at the E. “From a cigarette.”

Your heart tips off the edge of a yawning chasm, and your hand pulls back in a wary twitch of your fingers. Throat tightening, you feel a distinct pressure behind the T of your nose and forehead. “From the people who raised you?”

A muscle in his jaw spasms, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. “None of that,” he says softly, meeting your eyes that well with unshed tears.

No tears for me, he once said to you. Not until I’ve earned ‘em.

You sniffle, watching him nuzzle his cheek against the soft flesh of your wrist, his lips finding your vein and following it halfway up your forearm.

“Tell me about your show.”

You let him tuck your tears away in the grooves between his joints and smile. “Successful, but lonely. So many people knew my name, and I’m pretty sure I knew about a quarter of theirs. Made me feel like some snobbish pig.”

“Nah, that’s my job,” says Joel. “Everybody loves you, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Either way, the gallery was a hit. The triptych sold for the highest at the auction.”

Joel smirks. “The nude ones?”

“Yeah, dirtbag. The nude ones.” Your smile is dry, still somehow saccharine.

“I liked those,” says Joel, fingers playing upon your upper thigh.

“Perv.”

He playfully smacks your thigh. “Goddamn right.”

“It was good. It was. But I missed you.” Your voice breaks, and Joel squeezes your fingers in response. “Could hardly sleep without you there.”

He nods like he knows. And you know he does; he barely sleeps, even if you’re on top of him. “I know everybody loves you,” he says, “but next time you go away, remember I love you most.”

You blink away the shimmer of tears so you can see him clearly. “Casanova.”

“That's right,” he says, nosing his way into another kiss. “Don't ever leave me again, baby. My heart can't take it.”

You shake your head, laughing into his mouth as your tears slip onto your tongue. “Never again,” you whisper, “unless the hotel food is good.”

He nods. “I’ll make an exception, long as I can go.”

You grin. “You know… if I’m at home all the time…”

“We’re not getting a puppy.”

“Joel—”

“No.”

“Don't you want to make your wife happy?”

He faux-snaps at you like a dog, catching his teeth around your earlobe. “As a goddamn clam.”

You gasp as you feel his mouth suckle gently at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “I… I want… We should at least talk about…”

“Hmm?”

He’s playing with the hem of your blouse, deft fingers leaving warm imprints on the soft skin of your belly, fingers enveloping your precious heart when he places his hand on your upper back. The organ pounds under his touch, pouring its blood into his palms.

You haven’t felt his touch in so long.

“I want…”

Joel hums again, prompting, his pinky finger dipping under the strap of your bra and pulling back, snapping it against your skin.

“What was I talking about?”

He chuckles, bringing his lips back to yours. You grasp for him greedily, trying to fix him to you this time, your fingers bunching the fabric of his T-shirt. But he’s pulling back, his forehead falling against yours.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you can convince me.”

Giddily, perhaps stupidly, you smile. “I’m very prepared to convince you.”

“Uh-huh. I don't doubt you, baby. How ‘bout you let me fill up the car first?”

The throbbing bass of house music Dopplers as another car approaches the gas station. Three men exit the vehicle, one of them already lighting a cigarette while the other two make for the convenience store. One is wearing a backwards cap and the other a pressed suit.

Nice move, you think, sinking back in your seat a little as Joel slides out of the car, smoking by a gas pump.

“Nice ride,” says the man at the opposite pump, puffing at his cigarette.

“Thanks,” says Joel with a polite smile, locking the nozzle in the fuel tank and folding his arms over his chest. He’s hovering by the passenger door, halfway to blocking you from view.

The man surveys the hood, his fingers gently tracing the cool silver. “Boss Mustang 429. She a ‘70?”

“‘69,” says Joel.

“Very nice,” muses the man, drumming his hands on the hood. You feel the crude vibrations in your spine and straighten in your seat. This man—this kid, all his puffing and grinning and loud music—is bad news. Your stomach coils taut when his gaze shifts from Joel to you, staring hard through the windshield.

“How much?” he asks Joel.

You notice the minute stiffening of the muscles in Joel’s shoulders. “What?”

“How much for the car?”

Joel pushes off the car and dislodges the pump, brushing the kid aside on his way back to the driver’s side. “It’s not for sale.”

The kid wanders to the passenger-side door before Joel can turn on the car and roll up the window. He leans his elbows just inside, his face mere inches from yours, and you can smell the sickly, cloying smoke of his cigarette as he blows it in your direction.

He says something to Joel in Spanish that makes your husband’s hand still on the wheel.

And your Joel, your courteous Joel, your never-the-shit-stirrer Joel, narrows his eyes at the kid and says something in kind, his voice a low scrape that shudders through you.

It’s too fast for you to hear, and you never learned Spanish, and you were under the assumption (until right fucking now) that Joel never did, either. But he starts the car and rolls up the window, and you’re peeling away from the gas station before the kid can reply.

“That was…” You cast around for the words and instead rest your eyes on Joel, whose jaw looks ready to snap. “Joel, honey, when did you learn Spanish?”

He’s silent for a long while, and you would assume that he didn’t hear you—if you didn't know that he has stellar hearing. When he pulls onto the long stretch of road, signalling your first firm tug away from the stifling noise of civilization, he finally speaks.

“Picked it up in the Marines.”

“What did he say to you?”

Joel’s skin is stretched taut over his knuckles. “Somethin’ stupid.”

You hum, letting him linger in silence for the remainder of the trip. Scenery, green and grey sky and the drizzle of rain, swoops by the window, and you're going home. It isn't much different from what you found in Vancouver, but it's familiar. It’s the smell of the air after the rain and the way your shared home comes into view the same way it always has.

It isn’t a modest home. You and Joel had it built before the wedding, both eager to get away from the city and exist in relative peace when your job allowed it. It sits low and broad, geometric pillars framing the front porch, sleek modern lines in black and white. Your compromise: he assumed responsibility for the exterior, and you took everything within. Joel pulls into the garage, next to your beige SUV, and helps you and your hot-pink luggage out of the car.

The walls are littered with canvases. Mostly, there are paintings of Joel. The first time you brought him to your studio, a few weeks into the relationship, he’d sat stone-still for hours. You don't recall even a twitch of a finger. He’s in shades of blue, red, green, grey. He’s sitting, standing, lounging, sleeping. His lashes lie in repose over his cheeks, eyes closed, sometimes open, often averted. You’ve captured him in bed, by the pool, in the kitchen, in your studio. Like a spider, you’ve ensnared his shyness, his care, his devotion, weaving it into a tapestry of oil, watercolour, pastel.

You’ve never sold a single one. This Joel—whose eyes are sometimes closed, sometimes open, often averted—is for your eyes only.

The curls at the nape of his neck are creeping under the collar of his jacket. Winding your finger around a rich brown lock, you give him a tug. “You haven't been taking good care of yourself.”

Joel brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the rings on your finger that bind you to him. “You told me you liked it long.”

“You told me it itches.” You shrug his jacket off his shoulders and trail your hands up his muscled arms. “It's not about me, honey.”

Joel hums, cradling the crown of your head in his palm and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “When will you learn”—another hand around your hip, tugging you forward by the small of your back—“that everything is about you?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That's a good answer, Mr. Miller.”

He grins crookedly, backing you against the kitchen counter. “Yeah?”

You scratch his scalp and feel his mouth descend on your jaw. “Mhm. You’ve been practising.”

“Didn't have much else to do,” he grumbles, fisting the fabric of your blouse and untucking it from the waistband of the old jeans sitting low on your hips. “My wife was gone.”

“You're getting whiny,” you chide, smacking his hand away from your fly.

“Is it working?”

“You really wanna make your wife happy?”

“Yeah, baby. Yeah.” He looks down at you like he's close to pleading.

“Then you'll let me cut your hair,” you purr.

His pout lasts as long as it takes for you to get his hair soapy and your fingers in his curls, massaging slow and sweet. You take your time ridding him of the excess length, chopping carefully, your hands assured of their strength. You tell him to tilt up and look down and to the side, honey, and he obeys because it's your hands, and your voice, and he's pliable as molten glass.

You get lost in the musical shhhick of the scissors cutting through hair, humming a tune that does not match, and he's reminded of ballet. Watching you in the mirror is like seeing the dance through a glass he cannot permeate. You may be touching him, but most times he's struggling to grasp you in your entirety.

He sees an angel in his sleep, reaching out with a hand made of gold to guide him up from hell.

You tell him more about the gallery. You tell him about whale-watching and being too seasick to take photos for him like he'd requested. Joel wants to shake his head but he stays still and tells you it’s okay, baby, all I wanted was to know you were happy.

And you tell him I was happy. But it would've been better with you.

And he's joking, telling you I’d be throwin' up on the other side of the boat, but his body feels cold when you set down the scissors and leave his side.

“How’s Tommy?” you ask, rubbing gel between your palms. This, he knows, is your favourite part: styling him up all pretty like your personal doll.

It’s his favourite part, too. He holds you around the waist while you work. “He’s panicking.”

“Oh, come on,” you laugh. “He's read every book on the shelves. And your brother doesn't read.”

“Books can't prepare you for the real thing,” says Joel. “‘Least, that's what Maria told him.”

“Maria’s probably right.” You thread your fingers through his locks and watch with a smile as he closes his eyes, his forehead dropping to your belly. “But that doesn't take away from the fact that Tommy will make a great dad.”

Joel hums, pressing a kiss to your belly. “He’s been askin’ after you to paint their nursery. Want me to tell him to fuck off?”

You're beaming, curling one lock of hair around your finger and dangling it teasingly over his forehead. “Tell Tommy I'd be delighted. Maria shouldn't be doing any of that, pregnant as she is. You should smack some sense into your brother.”

“I tried every day when we were little. Didn't take.”

You give his styled hair a finalistic tug and brush it back from his ears. “Such a good model for me,” you coo, dropping into his lap, “just like always.”

“And what do I get?” he says, watching his own hand cup your breast, thumb ghosting over the soft swell, obscured by layers of fabric.

Your wicked eyes feel heavy on his skin. “What you always get.”

You take his hand in yours and lead him to the bedroom. You’ve done this a thousand times, it seems, this methodical undressing, made new with every hour spent apart. The dance replenishes in the sunlight, coming alive as spring blossoms, never stale, never withered. There is something new to discover each time.

Joel kisses you, staggering backward until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. You climb onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your arms winding around his neck as he tucks you into him. His cock is a hard, heavy weight between your thighs, accustomed to the touch of his hand alone in the month you've been apart.

The revitalising warmth of skin-on-skin strikes him true, blooming like blood from his heart. He clutches you so close that your heartbeat skitters from your chest to his, your mouths exchanging breaths, your bodies sharing heat. He knows nothing but the shape, smell, sound of you.

He trails his knuckles up and down your spine and wonders if he can make certain that he will die like this. He doesn't want to know an afterlife. It will spoil the memory of his very last moment, when he brings you in close and kisses your soft cheek and lets the darkness gently pull him down.

The sisters at the orphanage would tell him things. You will never know peace until you know Him. You cannot know a person’s love until you know His. You will never understand, child, what it is to breathe, until every breath you take is in His name. Joel drags his open mouth up the column of your sternum, its golden pillar, his tongue dipping to taste the nectar that pools in the hollow of your throat. He tastes you instead, and he feels he has not cheated God.

You gasp his name as he licks molten salt from your skin, and he feels the golden hand curl around his heart. His lids grow heavy with every taste. Intoxicated, he seeks more, putting his mouth to the crook of your neck. Your back arches, your chest flush with his own, melting and moulding together. Every second of time spent apart withers and dies.

You have taken Joel to bed and felt him angry, happy, morose, insatiable—but the Joel you’re feeling now is tired. A drowning man finally cresting the surface, he touches you like he never will again. Your skin bunches and folds under his too-eager hands, rubbing you raw. Your muscles pull taut as you try to accommodate his frantic mouth. He bites you and your lips part in a silent scream. He pulls your hair and you gush, your chest hot, prickling with friction and sweat and heat.

There is anguish in the way he holds you. It feels deep as a wound, old enough to still ache when it rains, old enough that you were never around to know him when it was cut into his body. You want to rescue him from the wordless pain, the agony that has no name.

You want to know what has made him this way. Because there are times when you see your husband and it strikes you suddenly that a different person exists in the black of his eyes. Because there are parts he keeps hidden, for your sake or his. Because there is a little boy in his chest who's been hurt and you do not know how to save that sliver of him.

Leftover hairs from his trim sting as your bodies slide together. Your scalp prickles at the desperate way he holds you at the crown of your head. You whisper his name and he looks up at you in the darkness, and there is water brimming beneath his irises.

“Tell me what you need,” you say.

He brings his hand between your thighs and touches the wet, warm place he seeks. You nod, letting him roll you onto your back, his mouth trailing kisses down your navel. When you squirm, he pins you by your belly, his palm flat to your skin. When you mewl his name, your chest heaving, he nods his head in reply, dipping his head and sliding his hot tongue through your slit.

Joel is the prayer you chant. He kneels at the edge of the bed, bringing your thighs around his ears, closing his lips around your clit. You cry out, your hand flying to his hair, tugging him closer, eliciting a groan from his chest. It rumbles through you, his face buried in your pussy, his hands fastened around your thighs. He places searing kisses between your legs, lighting you ablaze, leaving scorch marks wherever his lips touch you.

“Tell me you're mine,” he says, and the fractured sound of his voice cuts into your skin. He's watching you, his pupils puffy and seeking, hands squeezing, desperate. “Please.”

You whimper at the sight of the kiss he places on your clit. “I’m yours,” you tell him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. “I’m your wife, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours and I love you.”

He lowers his head, an apostate seeking redemption, and his tongue slides heavily over your clit. At the suction of his mouth around the slick pearl, you gasp, “Oh, God,” your head thrown back, your spine arching into his palm. The cut of the diamond on your finger is sharp against his skin.

Joel relishes the cool bite of the gem as he licks through your folds and his saliva mingles with your wetness. He kneels with fervour, presses his mouth to you as if whispering his confessions through the lattice, and makes you his.

The flat of his tongue is scalding, his palm a brand. He licks and sucks until you’re quivering, suffocating his hand in yours, and he wants to bare the imprint of your sigh forever. He should be the one submitting to you, and here you are, lending him your body to please, if only for another moment. Joel flicks his tongue over your clit, takes it into his mouth, and makes you sob his name.

I’m yours.

Yours.

And it sounds so permanent that, for a second, he believes it himself.

You come with your back curving and your hips grinding and your nails in his skin. Joel doesn’t stop until you’re begging him to, until you push yourself onto your elbows and tell him to come here.

You swing your leg over him and bring your mouth down to his. Joel squeezes his eyes shut and kisses you so deeply that it bruises him somewhere he cannot reach. His hands cupping your face. His cock heavy between your bodies. The sun lowering, casting you in bronze. He loses his grip on the world.

“Now,” you whisper in the growing dark, “it’s your turn to tell me.”

You lift yourself onto his cock and bring yourself down, and Joel’s fist opens against your back. “I’ve been yours since the restaurant,” he rasps.

You beam at him, and dusk ends.

There is a thumping beyond your bedroom door.

Joel hears it before you. In a flash, he hooks his leg under your knee and rolls you over, pinning you under his body. He reaches for the nightstand on his side, throws open the drawer, and pulls a gun.

You grasp his shoulders, nails digging into flesh. Eyes meet in the slippery darkness. Wide, careful. Words wordlessly exchanged.

Your fluttering heartbeat begins to pound in your ears. The noise migrates down the hall.

Footsteps.

In the kitchen, glass shatters, and your stomach swoops, down and back up, lodging in your throat.

“Joel,” you whisper, your own voice trembling out of you. He shakes his head, his finger coming to his lips. Your body begins to tremble. The chill digs a pick into each knob of your spine as it climbs up to your brain stem.

Your home begins to pound with its very own heartbeat. You can hear its tightly-wound tension in the walls. Nobody breathes except for your husband, slow and steady, hovering over you with a gun in his hand.

You hadn’t known he owned a gun.

His hips ground you against the bed and his fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand to his chest. His heart pounds strongly into your palm, his eyes narrowed, fixed to you. But you know his focus is split down the middle, divided between keeping you safe and listening.

Your breathing peters out until it’s silent as the breeze outside the window. A man’s voice carries from the kitchen, and another answers. Joel shifts slowly off the bed and brings you with him, handing you his T-shirt and boxers. He tucks himself into his jeans and pulls another shirt over his head while you silently dress. The fabric slips from your hand as your trembling fingers struggle for a purchase. Once you’re dressed, Joel pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Under the bed,” he whispers.

Oh, fuck that.

“You want to go out there and confront them by yourself? Are you fucking crazy?”

He shuts you up by lowering his mouth to yours in a scorching kiss. “Do not fuckin’ argue with me,” he rasps, his teeth scraping against yours. You open your mouth to do exactly that, but another glass shatters, and you flinch away.

“Under. The. Bed.”

And he’s gone, leaving you alone, helpless, the predatory prowl of his gait something unfamiliar to you. It’s learned, utterly silent, the curve of his elbow guiding your gaze to the gun held behind his back. His head juts out before him, peeking around corners.

There are dust bunnies underneath the bed. You’re a better cleaner than Joel, but he makes an effort. He gets lost in it sometimes, sweeping his way through the house as if there’s a grid on the floor, precise in his methods. He doesn’t attend to the details, like the corners of the trim or the grooves in the floorboards. And yet, your floors are polished. Your plants are watered. He cares for you in quiet ways, when words fail.

Your heart thuds against the hardwood through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. It smells of rain and him. There are no more noises coming from the kitchen.

You drop your head into your folded arms and will yourself to breathe. The claustrophobic space between the bed frame and the floor edges in on you. The only light disrupting the vignette is the small lamp. You’re alone.

When you lift your head again, a pair of heavy black boots stares you right in the face.

You bite down on your scream as your heart swoops down into your stomach, pressed hard against the cold floor. Though you do not breathe, the thrum of your heart echoes in your throat as the sputtering of an engine in the dead of winter. The boots leave scuff marks on your floors, the boards groaning under the weight. The owner is heavyset, likely male from the size of his feet. And he's calling for you.

“Here, pretty kitty.” He pitches his octave high as he taunts you. “Come on out, sweet girl. Don't make me mad.”

You watch the path of his boots across the floor as he approaches the nightstand, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through your belongings.

Objects roll under the bed with you as he periodically drops them, careless in his vandalism. Your journal lands next to your head with a thunk, and you hear the low buzz of your vibrator in his hand. “Hmm, kitty likes to play.” And it lands on the floor, rolling to a cool stop in the groove between two boards.

Petrified, you can only watch him stalk across the room, his heavy footfalls thundering in your ears. He whistles a tune you don't recognise, and you wonder what's taking your husband so fucking long.

Joel, cries your heart as the man halts in his tracks, lowering himself to the ground, taking a knee. JoelJoelJoelplease—

And there's a spark of recognition when your eyes meet in the dark, like you've been acquainted with their black depths, before you're scrambling out from under the bed and kicking him square in the face with the heel of your foot.

He grunts, holding his nose, free hand grasping for you like wisps of smoke. You crawl to your feet and begin to run, only for him to wrap one cold hand around your ankle and pull.

You crumple back down to the floor with him, barely saving your own skull from cracking on the hardwood as you throw your hands in front of your eyes. The impact to your elbows radiates up to your neck, and you scream your throat raw, kicking out at your assailant, your blood roaring, weeping.

With a firm kick to his throat, you force him to let go, his hand flying instinctively to his windpipe. He wheezes something crude, probably, but you’re running—limping, mostly, slamming the bedroom door behind you with a shattering thud that quakes the frame.

“Joel!” you cry, turning the corner in the hall, feeling the walls as you go as if your own home has become foreign to you. What if he’s dead? What if you’re about to stumble over his body in the dark—the only body you’ve ever been able to know as something more than a vessel for art, for a painstaking study? That body, the body you could trace in the black with fingertips, not brushes, does not make itself known.

“JOEL—!”

A hand comes to rest on your cheek. It is not Joel’s hand. It is no hand at all, but the edge of a blade, a cool stinging thing that nicks the tender skin beneath your eye.

Blood from his nose drips down his mouth, staining his teeth red. You feel a small thrill of victory.

Joel is on the kitchen floor in a heap, vaguely stirring from the impact of a baseball bat to his ribs. The bat which a second intruder now uses to smash the framed pictures on your wall. Glass rains down on him. Shards have cut Joel’s soft belly, shredded the fabric of his shirt. Your captor holds you by the hair.

A third man smokes a cigarette, sitting on your countertop, swinging his feet back and forth, and it strikes you that he’s really only a kid. Twenty-five at most. You know young hands, young eyes. Your pencils and paper know them better.

“Nice of you to join us,” says the man from the gas station, making shapes of the cigarette smoke. You watch the way it curls around the low-hanging light.

“Joel,” you whisper, the salt of your tears stinging in the wound on your face. “Baby, please… get up…”

“He’s fine, chiquita,” says the kid. “Don’t waste your energy.”

Joel’s eyes peel open, his hands blindly grasping for something he does not have. He’s curled in on himself to protect himself from the inevitable next swing of the bat. You wonder if he’s been struck in the head, and you can feel pieces of your heart slowly wilting as petals untended.

His gun, you realise, your eyes dropping to the belt of the man who holds you hostage. It’s tucked into his waistband, but you cannot reach it with your arms trapped in front of you. His arm is a heavy band around your chest, glueing you to him, helpless. You’re fucking helpless and you cannot get to him and he will die.

Your Joel will die and he will know pain in the way you want him to know love.

“Let him go, please. You hurt him.”

The kid sniffs, tossing his cigarette to the floor beside Joel and jumping down from the counter to stomp it out with an expensive sneaker. “He disrespected me,” says the kid, leering down at your half-conscious husband like a speck of dirt on a polished glass. “But he doesn’t matter.”

You choke on your sobs, writhing in your captor’s grasp in a futile effort to feel not-so-suffocated, not-so-stuck. “You can have anything you want. Please, take anything. We have money, we have cars, we have paintings. They’re worth something, I promise you. Just—just look up my name. They’re worth a lot, please, just take them and leave us alone, please—”

The anger explodes through the gash in his face where he’d put the cigarette, that yawning maw eager to swallow blood and pain. “I don’t want your fucking paintings!” he screams, stalking toward you and yanking you free of the other man’s grasp.

Your stomach swoops as he shoves you, hard, to the floor. This time, your arms do not take the blow. It is your temple that absorbs the impact, striking hard on a floor already flecked with blood. Black seeps through paper. Your eyes darken. A man—you do not know which—is speaking.

“Go on, Emil, have some fun with the bitch,” he says. “We can put her up in the kennel when we’re done with them both.”

You hear the rustling of a belt as the man above you flicks open his fly, laughing all the while.

You're still blinking hard to clear the fog when you hear a growl rumble in your husband’s chest, the faraway noise of a fist meeting flesh, the scuffle of feet across your freshly-washed floors, the first gunshot.

Your cheek meets cool hardwood as you succumb, the shape of your Joel’s rage etched into your eyelids.

There’s a painting on the wall depicting two bodies in orgasm. Curved spines, feverish hands, dimples where fingers meet flesh. There is a hole in the canvas where the woman’s heart should be. A splatter of blood taints the image where the man drags his open palm down her back.

His face is obscured, but his mouth is on her throat, exposing the cut of his jaw. The scruff of his beard. Careful strokes of oil paint join their bodies in harmony. It’s knocked askew on the wall.

He’s rusty.

He can feel it in the taut pull of his shoulder as he brings his arm back for the death blow. The blade comes up against the rough skin beneath the man’s chin, slicing him open just beneath the scruff of his beard. Blood bruises the hardwood floors, and although the man is already dead, Joel grasps him by the hair at the crown of his head and brings him down against the wall.

His shoulder aches. His finger joints crackle. His knuckles are already bruised, his abdomen sore. He spits out pinkish saliva and turns his attention to his next job.

His gun now back in his hand and its thief dead, Joel puts a bullet between the eyes of the third man, and another in his chest. The baseball bat clatters to the floor.

He thinks of the first time he wanted to kill for you and couldn’t.

A man at the bar had groped you while you were out with friends. A little tipsy, you told Joel as he tucked you gently into the passenger’s seat, wrapped in a pretty black dress, and fell promptly asleep. He remembers the cool flutter of your hair from the air vent. He remembers the way your lashes spread like spider legs on your cheeks at every red light, the way the street lamps turned you golden.

He remembers the man’s name. His face. His address. Some of the little wrinkles in his brain still hold echoes of information he'll never need again. But he keeps it tucked up there anyway. Maybe it reminds him of what he could never do, now that he had you.

It seems the rules have been bent.

Glass crunches underfoot behind him. Joel turns just in time to see the retreating figure, the fucking coward, sprinting for the door. He fires a shot that chips a piece of drywall and goes nowhere significant. Cursing himself, Joel hears the roar of his Mustang come to life as the kid leaves with his fucking car.

Everything has a price, he'd said, blowing smoke in your face. Including your bitch.

Joel curls his hand around the hilt of the knife. Blood begins to crust along the edge. Some of the blood, he realises, has been stolen from your sacred body. There is a cut on your cheek.

And does your bitch have a price? Joel had replied, glancing behind the kid at the lackey he'd brought along. He seems to like you.

You teeter on your way to standing, and Joel rushes to catch you before you can hit the floor. He flicks on the safety and sets his gun aside, cupping your face in his bloodied hands.

Your eyes, blurred with tears, struggle to meet his. They're fixed to the man in a heap over Joel’s shoulder—the man who'd cut you.

“Baby,” he says.

Trancelike, you shake your head.

“Baby, I gotta see you're still with me. Don't look at him; he ain't important right now. You’re important. Hear me?”

His voice is gentle, guiding, his thumbs hooked just behind your ears, hard eyes flickering between each of yours.

“You killed them.”

“Yeah,” says Joel as the pad of his thumb traces the soft skin beneath the cut on your cheek. Your fingers curl around his wrists as if you’re trying to strangle him, temper him.

“You’re hurt.” Your soft cry inverts his ribs, sits heavy and wrong in his chest. When your glassy eyes slide to meet his at last, Joel remembers the second time he wanted to kill someone and couldn’t.

A man from your past had visited your apartment and told you he wanted to try again. You'd politely escorted him out and laughed it off. Terrible in bed, you’d joked.

Joel remembers kneeling in the cathedral, surrounded by the lick of a thousand votives coaxing sweat from his glands, as he tried and tried to find faith and only felt the agonising scrape of the floor against his kneecaps.

He remembers the first time devotion meant something to him. In the name of your second gallery showing. Paintings lined the walls depicting couples in embrace. “Which one is us?” he asked.

“I don't sell those,” you’d replied.

“Why not?”

“Because you're only for me,” you told him. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

He’d ached to hear it. Even leaned in, a co-conspirator.

“There isn't any devotion in these paintings. They're all hired models.”

“Then why bother at all?” he'd asked. “Why call it that?”

“Because I like showing people that there’s love in the world. And because devotion means something to me now.” You’d looked up at him and tucked your hand in his and he knew what all those nights spent kneeling meant.

Faith, he thinks now, glaring at the shallow cut on your cheek, is knowing your purpose.

The wound is his purpose.

“I’m not hurt, baby girl. We need to pack a bag, okay? I have somewhere for us to stay.”

“Are they—are they coming back?” you ask, your bottom lip wobbling.

Joel swallows bile and a bit of blood. “No. No, they won't be comin’ back. But we need a safe place while I take care of things.”

“Take care of things.”

Your echo is ominous in his ears, and when your eyes leave him again to watch the way the blood trickles into the grooves between the floorboards, Joel knows what you will say next.

“Who are you?”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #john wick au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fic

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violetpixiedust · 8 months

Text

based on this sinful gif set of joe keery ౨ৎ

making out with older!businessman!steve in his study, straddling his lap as he sits atop his herman miller chair, the mahogany door to the cozy room is locked shut. his facial hair is slightly grown out, longer than usual. dusting across the mature angles of his jaw and upper lip like flecks of bronze and gold, illuminated by the amber light of the emerald desk lamp. you giggle softly as the coarse hairs tickle you when he nuzzles the angled bridge of his sun-kissed nose against the perfume scented crook of your neck, large hands splayed behind your back as he pushes you closer to him. the gritty scent of tobacco and aged whisky envelopes you as he sighs hungrily, intoxicated, before his pearly teeth sink into the silky skin of your racing pulse point. he had been imaging the delicious jump of your heartbeat between his canines all throughout the charity gala he had hosted earlier that night- before he came home to you. all throughout his speeches, various introductions, countless firm hand shakes, one too many toasting’s of champagne. a soprano gasp tears through your bared throat, manicured fingers running up the rogue buttons of his patterned dress shirt, before meeting the smattering of curly chest hair from where it peaks out between his wide open collar, decorated with a gold chain that glints with every breath he takes. steve’s raspy grunt echoes between you two as your acrylic nails rake between the long, glossy strands of his chestnut / silver hair, scratching his scalp idly before playfully tugging on the thick roots at the nape of his neck. his large, calloused hands reach below your pleated skirt, squeezing the petal soft skin of your behind that escapes from the lacy panties you were gifted last week, relishing in your responsive squirm. steve had bought them for you while he was away on business, along with another twenty pieces just like it. baby pink and handmade in italy. you moan melodically, and steve swears it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. beating the endless symphonies he’s had to sit through in his fourty-five years around the sun by a landslide. his muscled forearms are on display, sleeves rolled up below wrinkled elbows. the bracelet he had gifted you for your most recent birthday, a delicate 14k gold piece encrusted with your birthstone, meets the genuine leather strap of his classic cartier watch as he lifts your hand in his, placing a firm kiss to the pulse of your wrist. a searing gentleness. a trembling moan escapes your strawberry chapstick coated lips as one of his long pointer fingers outlines the expensive panty hem that showcases the delightful curve of your bum, tracing the line all the way down to where it hugs just outside of your trembling mound. his slightly chapped lips pull up into a wicked smirk, before they smother your sweet sounds in a bruising kiss. the elder man unconsciously rolls his starchy dress pant covered crotch against your ever slicking heat, almond toned eyes practically rolling back into his skull at the delicious friction. your tongues meet. the tangy taste of lavender honey that emits from your mouth prompts him to sigh longingly, his wedding ring cold against your cheek as his left hand cups your angelic face. you languidly pull away from his dominating lips, a trail of saliva connecting you two as steve moans breathily at the sultry sight, attempting to torturously roll his hips up into yours once more. your plush pout forms a perfect ‘o’ shape much to his carnal longing, letting the soft wetness of your tongue brush the underside of his ring finger, before you enclose your mouth around the thick digit skillfully. you watch with glazed doe eyes as the almond ring of steve’s iris’s disappear within the blown ink of his pupils at your sinful actions. with a sharp ‘pop’ the gold band comes loose, sliding up his finger with the tight force of your warm little mouth, dizzying him with desire as you carelessly drop the offending piece of jewellery atop the imported carpet below you two. forgotten for now. you were only the babysitter after all… :)

#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader fluff #steve harrington x innocent!reader #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington blurb #older!steve #older!steve harrington #old money!steve #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #joe keery #pixie’s works * ੈ✩‧₊˚

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dev1lm4n · 1 year

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polaroid

pairings: joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel made sure the eight shots he took from his polaroid 600 were the best.

word count: 4.4k (istg this is not as long as you'd expect)

warnings: explicit (18+), p in v, no protection, kinda manipulative, joel's old age is emphasized hehe ;)

notes: this is super foul i had to take a break writing it lol. anyways, send me a req or chat me up pls i swear i'm friendly.

10:30 PM

Every ticking noise that damned clock made managed to hammer itself into your subconscious mind. It’s taunting you endlessly, reminding you of the fact that Joel Miller once again broke his promise. You’re aware that it’s a cycle, but you couldn’t help relent the last time around. He was begging on his knees, telling you how much you meant to him, and that it was an honest mistake. He then made another promise. One that you had faith in. Turns out he’s still too mouthy for his own good.

His lies were not good for you. It was dreadful.

Every sense of yours was heightened. You felt the significant need to move without end; if your limbs were moving then perhaps you could continue to burrow that crawling sensation in your stomach, or at least you could ignore it a while. First, it was chewing on the plush skin around your finger tips. It helped satiate your crowded head for a second or two. But then the questions came around without warning.

Had he been in an accident? Was he hurt somewhere, unable to call for help?

The thought of him lying somewhere injured and alone made you feel sick to the stomach. Pictures of terror flooded your head; all the carcasses and tangy blood. All the rot and rats. You were spiraling in a downward motion. It was only in moments like these that you knew it was still there, the fear, coursing through your veins as if it hitched a ride on your hemoglobin. You needed an immediate distraction. A way to rid yourself of the tumultuous mess in your head, which might just be the small nook of Joel’s things.

You took a leap out of bed, flinching as you’re instantly greeted by the bitterly cold floor boards. It took all of your emotional strength to reach that particular corner and all of your physical strength to pick up the one item that reminded you of Joel; his polaroid 600. The black object gave a light sheen as you cradled it between your gentle fingers.

“I’m home.”

His gruff voice put you at ease. The sigh that escaped your dry lips was slow, as if your brain needed that time to process what had happened, to recollect the marbles you’ve dropped all over the floor. You needed to reset your emotions or else it’ll come faltering down like a broken dam. It’s pathetic how you’re already on the brink of weeping; tears pricked the edge of your vision, that sweet part of your lips tucked under your blunt canines.

You were soft when it came to him. He was your sole purpose - the only reason you’re still breathing in new air.

Joel’s footsteps sounded familiar. You remembered the rhythm and the weight to it, the click-clack against the wooden floor. But tonight it sounded a little hesitant - a slight drag to the way he moved - which was probably caused by your failure to respond. Here in Jackson people strived to return to a certain degree of normalcy, but everyone knew deep inside that the fear lingers. Neither you nor Joel could ever get rid of the constant fear of carnage, of arriving home to nothing but a corpse.

A defined thud resonated around the room. You looked over your shoulder in response, meeting Joel’s large build crowding the bedroom’s entrance. He looked just as you expected. Revolver in hand, crow’s feet emphasized in worry, tired eyes trained on you; you’d have considered the gesture a little grand if you didn’t know Joel and what he’s been through. But you knew him. Through and through. So you settled on a tight-lipped smile.

“Sweetheart.. you didn’t answer.”

Joel let out a hoarse sigh as he lowered his weapon in haste. You weren’t afraid of his little machinery, but he always hated having it in his hands when you’re around. He told you it made him remember all the blood he’s spoiled and he wouldn’t want that kind of thought being associated with his pretty angel. Joel was corny, that’s for sure.

His shoulders sagged dramatically. He muttered something to himself, perhaps thanking whatever entity out there for keeping you safe while he’s away.

“You’re late. Again.”

Joel was a liar every now and then, but he wasn’t a bastard. He wasn’t planning on making up a fucked-up rationale on why it’s permissible for him to break promises with you, nor was he planning to make you feel like you’re over-reacting and hysterical. He was wrong and that’s that. You weren’t looking his way, but he knew for a fact that you were upset. It’s almost a little too obvious from the way your shoulders heave up and down, as if trying to contain your heavy heart.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have-”

“You’re doing this way too often, Joel. I don’t think I can-”

His boots drummed boisterously as he approached you with much caution. Your ominous tone was making him nervous.

“No.. don’t do this to me, sweetheart. Please. Just hear me out.”

He knew you’d hear him out everytime, even when half of his truths were undeniably stupid at times.

“I brought you the films. For the polaroid. Remember?”

“You did?”

You turned on your heel at the bribe he’s thrown. Lo and behold, he’s holding what appears to be a thick case of something. You threw out any trace of manners your parents had taught you and reached instantly for the packaging, practically ripping it off his fingers. Joel didn’t complain one bit. It’s as if he’s planned this all out to happen; your anticipation and ultimately, his forgiveness.

It was the size of your palm. A faded sky blue rocked the front covers, while a streak of rainbow decorated the sides. It looked nothing like you’ve seen before and you’re simply elated to hold such a gem between your hands. You ran your fingers down the softened cardboard front, reading along what was written in thick black letters. POLAROID. A perfect match to the tool you’ve been cradling ever since Joel managed to once again miss his curfew. Your lips inevitably curved into a sweet smile. The fatty part of your cheeks lifted in excitement, causing your eyes to turn into pretty crescents Joel adored a whole lot. You’re so easily satiated - it’s embarrassing at times.

“How do you use it. Joel?”

“Oh, sweetheart, let me show you.”

He shuffled towards your left side. His expression straightened back to how it usually is - a little mean and grouchy - as he received the ancient camera back from you. It must’ve been a fresh stock from back in the day considering how untouched the plastic shell seemed to be. Joel remembered that his polaroid back in the day was anything but pretty. Scratched on all sides, a glittery rainbow sticker stuck to the very front (a little reminder of his sweet daughter Sarah), with a flash button that barely worked. He smiled faintly at the memory.

You watched with great concentration as he tore open the cardboard ruthlessly. He’s not one for patience, that’s a fact you learned just now. His thick thumb made its way past the silver packet, then a small grunt slipped past his lips as a sign of victory. Joel popped the film inside the crevice. A whizzing noise surprised you off your feet, which was rewarded by a light chuckle from your side.

This contraption of his - the polaroid as he called it - threw up a square-shaped plastic along with its almost alien-like whirring noise.

“What’s that?”

“That’s just the protective casing, no need to worry.”

You hummed in response. Curiosity punctured your bubble of worries.

“I’ll show you how to take a picture, yeah?”

As Joel motioned for you to take a step back, he had this.. look on his face. You would’ve guessed that he was actually gazing at you lovingly if it weren’t for the tinge of fear laced across his features. It was the most obvious in his eyes. Deep inside those brown irises was the brutality he’s endured. Down there was where his black dog resided, pushed into a corner but always looming at every given moment. His eyes never sparkled. Not even with you.

You were deep in thought, perched over the edge of his bed. Joel didn’t warn you when he clicked over the shutters. Either he’s too worn out from his ventures out in the wilderness or he’s just too entranced by the sight you’ve proposed to him. It didn’t matter though. What mattered was the fact that you’ve unfortunately closed your eyes at the bright, flaming flash. What mattered was that you just wasted a very valuable film.

“Shit. I think I closed my eyes there.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But-”

“You look pretty even with your eyes closed, girl.”

Joel picked up the picture and flicked it over to you. You caught it just in time. But you were utterly puzzled by the fact that there wasn’t anything on the square-shaped paper.

“There’s nothing there, Joel.”

Your eyebrows furrowed unsurely. A million thoughts reeling in as you took the picture between your fingers, looking over it under the moonlight filtering through.

“You need ta wait and be patient, pretty.”

You muttered out a foul word, looking all petulant and bratty at his request. Was he fooling you with all his mystical objects? You stared at the picture expectantly. Cautiously as well, as if it’d turn into something otherworldly. It was then that you saw it. How the colors and shapes slowly emerged from the white paper. And there you were, frozen in time, captured forever in that single moment.

An exaggerated gasp escaped your lips.

“See. It works.”

“Yeah, but my eyes are closed. You need to count to three, y’know. That’s the gentlemanly way.”

Joel grumbled, but agreed begrudgingly. He stretched his back like the old man that he was before he settled beside you. The bed creaked an embarrassing noise beneath his weight - you wondered how the two of you hadn’t received a single noise complaint from your neighbors. You could see him clearly now, where the moonlight shone brighter, even when a part of his face was covered by the blunt-edges of the polaroid.

“One.”

His accent was such a playful tune, as if he were the star of his own movie. You could have sat there all day just to listen.

“Two.”

The map of wrinkles on his face told of the most incredible journey. His crow’s feet told of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. But mostly they were so deeply ingrained they told of a man who’s been through hell and back. To reduce his glory to a sign of age and incompetence would be disrespectful.

“Three.”

A flash of white blinded you for a second, but this time you made sure to smile with such poise.

Joel flicked the picture in his hand. He looked.. star-struck. As if he’d caught a glimpse of what Aphrodite looked like herself, of what all the good in this world could manifest into, of how unworthy he was to have you sitting here in his bedroom. You were heavenly - the kind that was unheard of after shit hits the fan - and it was good to be reminded once again. He fell into silence.

“Was it not good?”

He shook his head as he placed the polaroid down by his side.

“Why are you-”

His power was overwhelming when he purposefully pushed you back onto the stiff mattress; it seemed that all his rough jobs chopping up woods and tackling infected had done him a huge favor. Even when he’s grazing the silver birthday mark, he’s still as ravenous as ever. You landed along a gentle thud, his large hand managed to cup over the back of your head to keep you safe. Joel always treats you like a frail porcelain piece, even when you’re begging for him to treat you like a rag doll.

Joel’s large arms caged you in on either side. You feel small underneath him and it felt good. It felt like you didn't have to worry about a single thing in his presence. Your nimble fingers grazed over his worn-out flannel that perfectly fits around his large fore-arms. A squeeze here and there to reassure him that you’re okay with this, with him taking charge. You knew just how defenseless he felt these days and you’d like to ease his burden just for a little.

For a moment, all you could hear was his ragged breathing and all you could see was his darkened gaze.

“You’re so perfect.”

He purred lovingly as he leaned in close. His pointed nose brushed against the lobe of your ears, while his stubble tickled that sensitive spot below your jaw. You’ve always loved the beard-burn from his scarce stubble; it always felt personal, the one thing nobody else could do except for Joel. One touch and it was over. It was always that way with you and him.

His open-mouthed kisses drew a sloppy wet trail down the left side of your neck. He took his time to worship you, granting you those claim marks you’ve always fussed about. A bloom of discoloration here and there. You’ve always told him that it was rather childish, but he didn’t care. You were his art work and this was his creativity taking reins.

There’s something about him that lit you up from the inside and there’s something about you that crushed him. Touching you was like being handed the holy grail, like committing a sacrilegious sin from how faultless you were.

“Stay still.”

He ordered you and you were to comply.

Joel pulled away ever so slightly to reach for the polaroid that’s abandoned by your side. He gave you a cheeky smile, one that you didn’t think was possible to be sported so confidently by a fifty-something years old. He then lifted the camera to his eye and adjusted the settings, making sure that the exposure and focus were just right. He wanted this picture to be perfect, to capture the essence of those marks he’s crafted like a true artisan.

A flash disrupted your trance once more. Another one of those whirring noises occurred.

You looked at him in disbelief as he put away the polaroid and its creation, giving you his undivided attention once more. Was Joel about to document this entire night like a ballsy teenage boy? You couldn’t help but giggle at the thought. Joel always managed to make things feel juvenile every single time, as if this was your first night tangled up and not the nth time.

“Are you trying to create a sex tape or something?”

“Nah.”

He answered shortly, too busy pawing your tank top off to even give you a proper answer. Joel tugged the thin fabric upwards, giving you a slight tilt of his head to urge you to lift your head and let the tank top slide off. He’s tried the ‘ripping-off’ technique to maintain efficiency before, but he knew he’d be greeted with an earful after you’ve come down from the inebriated daze he’s initiated. Clothes were expensive, that’s what you always say.

If he were to name one part of your body he’s obsessed with, he knew exactly what to say, no matter how shallow it must’ve sounded. They’re just way too pretty. Joel leaned back down, attaching his wet lips to your plush mounds. Throughout the years he’s spent with you, he’s learned your favorites. He’s learned how you’d mewl whenever he’d run your sensitive buds under his calloused fingers. Twisting it cruelly or flicking at it teasingly, he’d marvel at its hardened form every time. Then he’d reattach his lips right on target, suckling on it while listening to your verbal cues. He’d receive a desperate ngh if he wasn’t going the way you wanted him to and a pleased moan of his name if he’s doing fantastic.

“Joel!”

Your squeaked exclamation had him working overtime. His soaked tongue doing laps around your nipples, getting each one all worked-up before he moved on to the sweeter part of this deal. He looked starved doing this and it made your hole twitch.

Once again, Joel leaned back to reach for the damn polaroid, pulling you away from your whimpering frenzy.

“Push your tits together and smile, sweetheart.”

He ordered and you did just that. This time your eyes looked hazy, like you’ve been high on something, but your breasts looked as amazing as always. Nipples perked upwards as a result of his persistent endeavors. Joel looked pleased at the developed picture, scrutinizing every detail as if he’s some acclaimed photographer. He sat back down evenly on the bed. You were left there, smiling loopily and awaiting his next order,

“You want me to take a good shot of you, hm?”

You nodded.

“Sit down, sweetheart, and take off your shorts.”

You pulled yourself up eagerly. Your movements were a little clumsy as you pulled your shorts off, kicking them off once they reached your knee.

“Show me where you need me.”

A taste of doubt pooled in your stomach. He lowered the polaroid slightly, knowing that his encouraging look would ignite back the confidence in your chest. It worked wonders on you everytime and you’re back on track again. You slowly pushed your thighs apart, one at a time to rile him up just the right amount. Your floral patterned panties were still in place as Joel hadn’t quite ordered you to remove them just yet and in this space, you work by his orders. Still, the wet patch was embarrassingly obvious, running down your slit and growing particularly wide atop of your entrance.

He cocked his head to the side. A motion you could only deduct as a heartening push for you to go a step further. You pulled the soft cotton to the side, growing breathless under his cruel stare. The cold night air grazed your clit in a manner that made you writhe; you were sensitive all over and all you wanted to do was beg for him to fill you up already. To have his large hands pin you down and strike your airway, leaving you breathless and asking for forgiveness. But that’s not what good girls do and you know that only good girls deserve to be rewarded.

Apparently exposing yourself to this extent wasn’t enough for Joel as he hasn’t snapped a picture yet. Desperate to please him, you placed your fingers on either side of your outer labia. Lips tucked deep beneath your teeth as you pulled them apart. Only to reveal your throbbing clit and your sweet cunt that’s been twitching at every look he gave you. It’s all sticky too. A webbed substance coating every part vulgarly. Joel chuckled at the sight, making fun of your submission towards him.

The whirring sound occurred again and you were relieved.

“You want to touch yourself?”

“I want you, Joel, please.”

“That’s not in the question.”

You shivered at his authoritative tone.

“Yes, please.”

Joel nodded permissively. You nodded, doing your best to keep calm under pressure. Pretending he wasn’t there staring you down would be an awfully hard task, but you’re forced to prevail. Your little hole spasmed as you pressed your soft fingers onto your needy clit. You settled on a circular motion, bringing it around your clit then down to gather some natural lubrication from your profusely leaking hole. This motion alone had you chanting his name like a kind of magical mantra.

Your eyes scrunched close, lost in deep pleasure while drowning in embarrassment. It wasn’t enough - that’s for certain - but it was good enough to satisfy the aching pain.

“Put a finger in.”

He recommended and you abide without a saying. Your fingers felt dramatically different than his, they’re a lot stubbier so they wouldn’t be able to reach the good parts, but they’ve become your trusty friend after years of being a lady. Your left hand stayed focused on your clit, while your other hand ventured closer towards your leaking hole. A sharp inhale was what you took before you pushed one finger pass. It went in too easily and just the feeling of being halfway full made you feel euphoric, a hoard of pathetic moans teasing your tongue.

“What a good girl.”

His compliment was accompanied by the now familiar snap of the polaroid, whirring in as per usual to form an image of your vulgar body. Once again, Joel abandoned his treasured property to the side to admire you. Admire his good girl that’s gone by the rules because you know how amazing he’ll treat you when you’re being sweet. Joel was erratic as he unbuckled his belt, doing it with such haste he’s fumbling to pop the buttons open. It made him let out a frustrated grunt that’s easily met with your joyful set of laughter.

“You ain’t gonna get a good fuckin’ if you kept that on.”

His Texas twang shut you up easily. You grinned at him brattily, still stuffing your pussy nice and good as if you can’t stand another minute without something inside of you. He shook his head at the sight. Joel joined in on your playful games when he finally managed to relieve his cock of the fabric prison it’s been kept in. His cock had always been pretty - a pinkish tip with a peachy shaft, always leaking with pearly stickiness up top - yet it seems you’ve forgotten what it looked like up close. After all, it’s been awhile since he took good care of you.

Joel fisted his cock with a tempo you’ve grown familiar with. You’ve witnessed this sight multiple times, yet you’re still bewitched by it everytime. Once he’s satisfied with how sleek he’s turned out to be, he shuffled closer to you. Eyes boring deep within yours with every kind of emotion available to mankind. All mixed up and served as an intoxicating cocktail. He’s trying to tell you something, you knew that, but you’ve never actually figured out what he’s been dying to say. Those thoughts soon turned warp as he fitted himself on your entrance. He ran his shaft up and down over your slit, teasing a reaction out of you.

“Fill me. Put it in- Joel- Joel, please.”

You thrusted your hip upwards with need and that was enough to give him the reassurance he needed. He eased in carefully, knowing that fitting his fat tip was a hard task you never got used to, while his pointer finger rubbed perfect circles on your sensitive nub. A subtle burn caught your throat when he finally bottomed out entirely. He was so girthy it’s hard to situate yourself around him. It even managed to prick a tear out the corner of your eyes.

“Beggin’ me to fuck you good. Teasin’ me like a brat. You’re really somethin’, ain’t ya?”

He rasped in your ear as he inched even closer. His hips snapped just at the right moment and with the perfect altitude to get you trembling. You reached out to hold onto the collar of his flannel. It became your only lifeline as he implored even further, pulling out then immediately filling you up like you’re some sort of pastry. An avalanche tumbling down within your lower abdomen. The pleasure was from another kind of heaven. The kind that could only be brought out by a man who’s dangling in weighty sins.

“Gonna be the end of me.”

To be filled to the very brim made you lose your head. Everything was starting to melt off, your common sense and your previous anger of his audacious lies. It all disappeared at every thrust, every time his lengthy cock disappeared inside your pretty cunt, everything seemed to feel alright. Everything was bright and pristine. He was a good man and so was you. Your eyes flickered, rotating between the sheen appearing on his wrinkled forehead and where his shaft was swallowed by you.

“I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

You knew this was coming. He’s always asking for forgiveness whenever he’s seven inches buried within you. Perhaps that’s exactly what made him an asshole.

“Joel- Just-”

All the words you’ve assigned were scrambled once more when it reached the tip of your tongue.

“I’m sorry for lyin’.”

He whispered out faintly. Was that his version of ‘I love you’? Your hazed mind couldn’t know for certain, but all you knew was that it was sincere from the depth of his heart. You could always tell when he’s being vulnerable and when he’s patching up those brick walls again. He was here right now, in the moment, and entirely euphoric at the way your cunt pulsed around him.

“More, Joel. More!”

“More what?”

“More of your c- cock.”

Joel filled you up so good. It was torture the way he always kept you at bay, but right now all you could think of was how no one could fill you up this way. Even when he’s cruel and distant, even when he occasionally declines your request to remove his clothes and let you see him whole, even when he lies, you are always going to be there. No one could ever fuck you the way he would.

“Where do ya want me, darling?”

He prompted as if you still have the right mind to answer. You were pulsing without end, rocking through the orgasm that’s just edging to come by.

“Inside. Inside, please, please, please.”

You chanted without end. All throughout your eventful high, thighs jittering and rocking into his every movement as a particularly loud moan echoed around the room. He granted your wishes kindly; injecting you with what he’s been withholding all week, white painting your insides like it was some sort of high-end abstract art. You heaved at the feeling, extremely pleased.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

He greeted your freshly drugged out mind sweetly. It was then that you hear the last two whirring noises consecutively. One of a close-up shot of your fucked up hole oozing his own dose of cum, and another a pretty shot of your dazed expression. Joel quietly thought that it’d be the perfect accessory for his damn wallet.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #tlou #joel miller #joel miller tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us imagine

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herelieskrisy · 4 months

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We need more tlou3 ellie x reader

There are two tropes I’m an absolute bitch, whore, and slut for. Ellie x reader as mothers and ellie x reader after the events of the last of us part two!

My bored and lonely brain was thinking as usual and I realized we don’t have enough ellie x reader post-epilogue. Which is like… why? The amount of angst and eventual fluff that could be added is insane. Watching Ellie grapple with the gut-wrenching aftermath of grief and slowly finding her new purpose. Becoming her old self again and healing with a new lover along the way.

I started thinking of story ideas and settled on this one being my favorite. It might be crap or it might be genius, I dunno.

(just imagine how desperate and passionate the smut would be)

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!!!THIS IS JUST A SUMMARY NOT AN ACTUAL FIC!!!

౨ৎ Ellie’s spent months in Jackson trying to make amends with Dina and JJ. There are hard consequences she has to face, being that betrayal isn’t easily forgotten, and every single street corner and creaky saloon reminds her of Joel Miller. This town used to be a safe haven, a sanctuary where she was met with warm people and even warmer memories. Memories turn to bittersweet shackles that tug her back from being full, leaving an empty shell of what once was. She thought her new purpose was getting her family back, but that wasn’t enough. There’s no fairness to her finding comfort in the arms of a former lover she hurt so bad, left to rot just like all the other lives sacrificed in the name of her living. Talks of fireflies banding together to build communities and restore humanity leave Ellie curious as she’s reminded of the cross-country journey that brought her to this position in the first place. Jerry Anderson is dead thanks to her, so there’s no hope for a vaccine, but there might be a sliver of light for a second chance. Ellie yearns to be apart of something greater. A journey that could once again fill the void that is her soul. She’s taken enough from this barren Earth already, why not give back? Setting off for the fireflies, she’s met with a familiar face from her past, the murderer of Joel Miller.

Abby Anderson and Ellie Williams share two things in common. They have the same goals of building a larger group of survivors, and they’ve taken a liking to you.

You who became close friends with Abby soon after she found the fireflies on Catalina Island with a scrawny scar-faced boy accompanying her. She might be the most genuine person you’ve ever met, which makes it shameful when you start giggling a little too hard at a certain auburn-haired girl’s jokes. The same auburn-haired girl who’s constantly mentioned in Abby’s tales of the crazy immune chic who used to be set on killing her.

Ellie wasn’t looking to make friends on this mission. She wanted to seek the fireflies and support them in whatever greater goal they had in store. However, she feels this sweet tangy guilt when she finds herself admiring the way you laugh at her jokes. The way your lips quirk up in a grin that’s all too amused to be friendly. With Dina and JJ still hot on her mind, she insists that you’re nothing but a friend crush. But it’s been months and Dina still hasn’t taken her back, understandably so… Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for Ellie to seek comfort in another’s touch. Maybe the fear of not being good enough for her former family can be set aside. Just for now, while she’s knuckles deep in your cunt. She swears to herself it’s a fling and you’re nothing more than a placeholder. A placeholder who Ellie happens to hold very, very dear to her heart. We change people like seasons change color, and as seasons pass the old is replaced with something new. A fresh start might be what this crazy immune chic needs.

Stolen campfire kisses, deep late night conversations, and talks of the stars reignite a spark in the pits of Ellie’s core. If you light a match in front of a moth, it’ll chase it. And baby you’re a whole wildfire.

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I wouldn’t plan on this being an ellie x reader x abby love triangle, but after writing that summary out I’m realizing it has potential to be one. Love triangles are just a bit cliche to my liking and I’d want this to be super Ellie focused. Like from her pov and everything. It’s about her emotional rollercoaster and learning to love/be loved again.

Exploring Ellie’s dynamics with different people is so yummy and I feel like this wouldn’t just be a romance for Ellie x reader, but also an enemies to friends for Ellie x Abby.

Once again, I’m not a writer so I’ll probably never turn this into a series. If there ARE any writers out there who are interested in this idea and would wanna work together I’d be so down.

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bellofthemeadow · 10 months

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The Road Ahead - Epilogue | Frankie Morales x female reader

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

For most of your married life, you dedicated yourself to waiting for Frankie. After each deployment, you patiently awaited his return, longing for the moment when he would be by your side again. During those nights when nightmares consumed his thoughts, you yearned for him to open up to you, hoping that he would find solace in sharing his pain. And as his addiction spiraled out of control, you held onto the hope that he would recognize his problem and seek help. However, despite your countless protests and pleas, you now find yourself waiting for him once more as he ventures off to Colombia, engaged in God knows what.

But this time is different. Determined, you make a solemn promise to yourself: You will never wait for Frankie again.

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 4K

Warning: Applicable for the entire fic / PTSD, drug use and addiction, postpartum depression, abusive familial relationships, self-hatred, unhealthy coping mechanism, explicit sexual content, violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts, super angsty

Chapter Summary: This isn't the end, rather it is just the beginning of the rest of your life.

Notes: All right everyone, this is it. I can't believe this story is over, I am so happy I took the plunge and started to post online. This experience has been wonderful and you all have been amazing. Thank you to everyone who commented, liked or reblogged this story you guys helped me so much when I thought about giving up. If ever anyone wants more content from this universe I'd be more than happy to answer any prompts or asks. Now I am unto my Joel Miller x reader fic, I know a bunch of you want to be tagged and I am working on figuring out how :D

Hope you all enjoy this last chapter and in the meantime, take care of yourselves and I love you all very much xoxox

Family

"Here you go, a large sparkling water with three slices of lemon. You know I would've made a lemonade if you wanted; it would probably taste better than that stuff. Smells sour as hell." Will puts the large glass on the small table next to the pool lounge chair. You smile over your sunglasses.

"Thanks, Will. I really appreciate it," you express with gratitude. "Lemonade is just too sweet, these days only something that packs a good sour punch can even begin to curb my cravings. I think that if I send Frankie on another midnight hunt for Warheads, he might just end up moving back in with Alma," you add playfully, a mischievous glint in your eyes. As you speak, you pluck one of the large lemon slices off the glass and eagerly sink your teeth into the tangy, bitter flesh, savouring the burst of sour flavour hitting your tongue.

Will scrunches his nose. "Fish told me he saw you put a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids in your vanilla milkshake last week. Anything else we gotta be worried about, except for major heartburns and fried taste buds?" Will teases. You playfully put one of your hands on your taut round stomach. "Gotta keep the little one happy, and he insists that a milkshake with Sour Patch Kids is the breakfast of champions." Will smiles, trying to hide his amusement. "Hope you're still getting all of your food groups, though." You roll your eyes in jest. "My goodness, you're worse than Frankie. Don't worry, this isn't my first rodeo. I know what I'm doing." Will raises his hands in surrender. "My apologies didn't mean to offend. I know you know what you're doing. I just want to make sure you're all right.” A pause, as pregnant as you are, emerges “Are you alright?"

A giddy smile makes its way to your face. "Better than ever. Honestly, you have nothing to worry about, Will. I am thriving," you exclaim as you shimmy your shoulders in a little up-and-down dance. Will softens at your little display. "I am glad, then. You know I am always there if you need anything, right?" "I know, Will. And thank you." You hum in response before a comfortable silence opens between you two as Will looks over to where his brother is trying his best to not burn the burgers under Pope’s disapproving glare.

You gasp as you feel your baby start kicking you as if there's a goddamn karate class going on near your ribcage. You hold your breath for a second, feeling the rhythmic movements, before the kicking recedes. You lovingly place your hand on your stomach, feeling the gentle flutter within. "Are you okay? Is anything hurting? Do I need to get Fish?" Will's voice is filled with genuine concern.

You let out a joyful laugh. "No, no, don't worry, it's all right. Don't bother Frankie; he seems very focused on his task at hand." With a playful gesture, you wave your hand in Frankie's direction, where he's holding a not-so-little Ella just above the water, teaching her the proper way to kick her small pudgy legs to stay afloat. Despite being just over 3 years old, Ella is more interested in gleefully splashing her papa with water kicks than learning any of the supposed swimming techniques. Frankie, however, looks absolutely delighted, and after a particularly vigorous splash to his face, he playfully plunges Ella with him underwater. When they resurface, Ella is screeching with excitement, her tiny fists reaching out to grab her father.

Both you and Will can't help but laugh at the adorable display, shaking your heads with fondness. You return your attention to your growing bump and softly caress it. "When I was pregnant with Ella, she was the calmest little baby around. It all changed when she was born; then she turned into a little tornado," you reminisce, a hint of amusement in your voice. "I hope that since this little one enjoys using my bladder as his personal trampoline and keeps me up until the early hours of the morning, it means he'll be a little ray of sunshine after he is born."

You feel another kick, causing you to huff in response. Your eyes shift to Will, who looks amazed by your side, and you can't help but smile. "You want to feel it?" you ask, noticing Will's uncertainty and the hesitation in his eyes. "Come on, I'm sure he's excited to meet his uncle." Seeing him struggle a bit more, you take matters into your own hands, guiding one of Will's hands decisively to your round, 6-month bump.

You both wait with bated breath, but it's not long before your little karate champion makes himself known. "Woah, that's insane! Does it hurt a lot?" "It's uncomfortable, but nothing that I can't handle." Honestly, you love how rambunctious your little baby boy is. Since you started feeling him, some of your best memories were you sitting on the couch with Frankie's hand sprawled over your taut stomach and Ella sitting in your lap, talking to her soon-to-be baby brother.

"It's been great, magical really. Couldn't ask for anything better." You gulp the last of your sparkling water and suck another lemon slice into your mouth while Will shakes his head affectionately. "I am glad to hear it. We were all a bit worried when you two announced this new baby. I guess we were a bit scared Frankie was going to fall back into... old destructive habits. But I guess we were worried for nothing." Will gulps from his beer, while you munch on your slice of sour heaven.

"I was worried too, don't get me wrong," you admit, a hint of vulnerability in your voice. "Those first few weeks, I was so afraid Will. Couldn’t keep my eyes from Frankie, I hovered like one of his helicopters, like I already condemned him you know. God, I could barely sleep. But now, looking back, I realize that we were all worried for nothing."

You pause for a moment, a sense of pride evident in your words. "It's going to be three years in two months, you know. Three years of sobriety." A spark of excitement lights up your eyes as you share your plans. "I'm planning a pretty big party to celebrate, so you and Ben better clear your schedules for late May," you say playfully, wagging your finger in front of Will's face, reminiscent of a mom giving orders to her child. Will responds with a smile, placing his hand over his heart in a salute stance. "Roger that," he affirms seriously.

You smile, relishing in the tranquillity of the moment, before feeling a pair of wet arms envelop you from behind. An equally wet torso presses against your back, and you can't help but let out a playful screech as you try to wiggle your way out of the tight embrace. Your legs flail in the air as Frankie's nose nuzzles against your neck, eliciting a tickling sensation, and his hands dance across your side. You laugh so hard that tears fall down your eyes, while Will is laughing even harder at your predicament.

"Stop it, Frankie! You're getting me all wet!" You can feel Frankie's smile turn devious against your neck as he hikes up toward your ears and whispers low enough so that Will wouldn't hear. "That's not what you were saying last night when I was getting you wet. You were a bit louder, screaming my name for 'More, more, Frankie!'" He finishes his sentence in a shrill tone, a poor imitation of your voice. You swat him, feeling heat rushing to your body.

Will looks at both of you with a knowing smile before teasing you more. "You look overheated. Maybe you should lie down for a bit." "Shut up, Miller," you grumble. "I can't believe you two are ganging up on me!" you exclaim dramatically.

"Sorry, mi cielo," Frankie begins, attempting to untangle his arms from your side, but you swiftly grab hold of him, keeping his arms right where they were. "Don't you dare, Morales," you assert, a hint of playfulness in your voice. Frankie responds with an affectionate eye roll, nudging your side in response. "Let me tell you, Will, pregnancy makes them hard to follow," he remarks, attempting to defend himself. You let out a displeased huff, not fully convinced. "Don't talk as if all women are a monolith," you retort.

"Sorry, you are right, mi cielo," Frankie says reverently, acknowledging your point. However, a mischievous glimmer dances in his eyes as he turns to face Will. "Pregnancy makes this one hard to follow," he playfully adds, eliciting laughter from all three of you. You let your head fall back onto Frankie's firm torso, playfully nipping at his jaw. "You shouldn't be mean to me. You know it's your baby who's been using me as his private target practice," you retort with a hint of mock indignation.

Frankie's expression softens as he leans in to kiss the top of your head. "You are right. Will my beautiful pregnant wife forgive me?" You respond with an exaggerated haughty tone, pretending to consider his plea. "Maybe, what do I get if I grant you leniency?"

"We could stop by Sonic after the BBQ, grab..." "Milkshake and Sour Patch Kids?!" You screech. "Forgiven, completely forgiven!" You exclaim excitedly. You hear Will laugh in front of you. "You two are a sight to see, making me believe in love and all that jazz." "What can I say? You won’t find a woman like my beautiful wife on every street corner. I gotta make sure that she is as happy as possible. Can't lose her, so if that means that everything in the house tastes like lemon or acid mouthwash, then so be it."

"Where is our little tornado?" you crane your neck trying to check your surrounding as you realize that Frankie came to see you alone. Frankie points back to the pool where she is getting thrown around by an overexcited Benny. It was a hard process to get Benny and Frankie's relationship back to what it used to be. Both men bruised, Frankie believing that Benny wanted to replace him in your and Ella's life, and Benny angry that Frankie would think so low of him.

It was only after you and Will had conspired to lock them in the Miller's basement for an entire day that things had begun to repair themselves. When you had come back with Will and opened the door, you had seen the two men sitting down, their backs against the hard concrete walls, and a bunch of beers littering the unfinished floor. You had scrunched up your nose, put your hands on your hips, and spoke in the same tone you used when Ella was misbehaving. "Are you two ready to get along, or do we need to lock you in overnight?" Will had stood behind you like a bouncer, ready to throw hands if necessary.

But in the end, both men had simply laughed and, clearly drunk, had held onto each other as they scrambled to their feet. The sight would have been rather pathetic if it wasn't for the laughter the two men were sharing. They assured you that they were the best of friends again before launching into a long-winded explanation, cutting each other off with "You know I would die for you, Ben" and "Nothing compares to you, Fish. You are the best man ever." All in all, it was a good result, one that you and Will were satisfied with. You had let the two men leave after getting them to promise that they would start getting along again, which led to another rant on promises, brotherhood, and love. So yeah, satisfied.

Now it was as if all those awkward months between the two men had never existed, and their bond was stronger than ever. Frankie didn't feel insecure that Benny was Ella's favourite uncle (although that changed every day and highly depended on who brought the biggest gift or the sweetest treat—today it was Benny with the new rendition of "Mermaid Barbie"). And Benny was just happy to be a part of your extended family of six.

Frankie tenderly strokes your belly, his touch filled with love and gratitude, before locking eyes with you. In that silent exchange, you offer him an encouraging nudge with your shoulder, urging him to speak his mind. Frankie coughs, trying to mask his nervousness, before finally gathering his words. "Actually, Will, there's something we wanted to ask you," he begins. Will nods, signalling for Frankie to continue. "You know how challenging these past couple of years have been, overcoming my struggles with drugs and everything. But through it all, you've been there for me. You've helped me immensely with the court case, my sobriety, and supporting the girls. I feel incredibly fortunate to have you as my brother, Will."

Touched by Frankie's words, Will's expression softens, genuine gratitude shining in his eyes. "Fish, we're family. I'd move mountains to help you, and your work at the VA has been remarkable. The conferences you lead on addiction and recovery for veterans are making a real difference. I should be thanking you.” A tinge of embarrassment colours Frankie's cheeks, his friend's compliment catching him off guard. Ever since Frankie achieved sobriety and regained his piloting license, Will arranged for him to lead weekly conferences at the VA. Frankie would meet with a group and talk about his experience, the importance of speaking up and opening up, the importance of seeking help, and how it wasn't a failure to help yourself and be there for those you love. Frankie had flourished in this role, finding purpose and fulfillment.

"But really," Frankie continues, breaking through his momentary bashfulness, "I wouldn't be where I am today if you hadn't paved the way for me at the VA. For that, and for everything else, we want you to play a significant role in little Javi's life.”

Will frowns in incomprehension. "Well, I intended to be a part of Javi's life. You don't have to ask so formally." Will teases, while Frankie shakes his head. You come to the rescue, placing a comforting hand atop your husband's, resting on your growing belly.

“What Frankie is trying to ask, Will, is if you would consider becoming Javi's godfather." Will's eyes widen in surprise as if the notion is beyond his wildest expectations. "Me?! Godfather?! Shouldn't you be asking the Pope for something like that!?”

Frankie shakes his head, rejecting the suggestion with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Don't be stupid, ironhead," he retorts. "Pope’s head is big enough as it is being Ella's godfather. And I don't want to inflate his ego any further. Besides, there's no one I'd rather have as my boy's godfather than you."

You see Will soften as tears well up in his eyes. "Thank you, Fish. That means... It means the world to hear that," he says, his voice filled with emotion. "I promise I'll do everything in my power to live up to what you expect of me." You can't help but let out a playful snort, knowing all too well that his formal tone is a feeble attempt to conceal the depth of his feelings. Behind that stoic facade, Will is a big softie, and right now he is on the verge of dissolving into a puddle of tears.

Will clears his throat once again, and you notice tears glistening in the tall blond man's eyes. "I... Thank you, Fish... I... I have to tell Ben!" Will scrambles to his feet and exclaims loudly, "Ben, guess who's going to be the godfather!!!" The response is a shocked "WHAT?!" as you spot Ella attempting to use Benny's head as a trampoline. A snort escapes you as you relax against your husband's chest, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you. With your husband's strong presence behind you, your daughter happily playing with her uncles, and your baby boy safe and snug in your belly, you softly whisper, "I don't think it can get any better than this."

Frankie's gentle humming resonates behind you, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your growing belly. You turn your head, a quizzical expression lighting up your features as you meet his gaze. A warm smile graces Frankie's lips before he leans in to plant a soft, tender kiss on yours.

"I wouldn't know," he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress. "Every day I spend with you is more wonderful than the last, mi cielo. I can only imagine how tomorrow will surpass even today." His words send a rush of heat through you, a deep feeling of being cherished and adored. One you only feel with Frankie.

You shift your body, the weight of your burgeoning belly making it a slight challenge, until you face Frankie, perched securely on his strong, muscular thighs. He holds you close, ensuring you won't slip, his touch providing both comfort and desire. You love how Frankie can make you feel safe and excited at the same time in an overpowering cocktail of desire and want. You press your lips against his, murmuring against his plump ones, "You have such a way with words, Mr. Morales, and I love you deeply." Frankie's smile blooms against your mouth, his affectionate gaze locked on yours.

"I also know how insatiable you've been lately, Mrs. Morales," he playfully remarks, allowing one hand to wander downwards, firmly grasping a handful of your soft, supple ass. He kneads and squeezes the plushness, igniting a delicious tingling sensation throughout your body. You tease him in response, slowly grinding against him, making sure that no one is looking at the pair of you.

"Ah, but I don't think I'm the only insatiable one here, my love," you whisper mischievously as you feel a bulge growing in Frankie’s swimming trunk. Frankie's breath catches in his throat. "Of course, how could I be anything but insatiable when my wife is out here looking like a goddamn dream." You roll your eyes. "Please, my belly is the size of a basketball, and I'm pretty sure my ankles have disappeared with how swollen they are." Frankie starts kissing your face all over, punctuating each kiss with an endearing word: "Beautiful. My. Beautiful. Girl. Never want anyone else." You feel yourself melt against him.

"OI!" Both you and Frankie turn your heads where Benny stands in the shallow end of the pool, Ella perched on his shoulder, her little hands covering her eyes. Benny's exasperated tone fills the air. "Can you save that for the bedroom, you animals? There are children around!”

"Pendejo," Frankie whispers under his breath, while you try to wiggle out of his grip and gather yourself in a more presentable position. But Frankie holds you where you are. "It's high time you find yourself a girlfriend if you need to get your rocks off looking at my wife and me!" Frankie screams back.

Benny gets all red and huffy, and you can hear some expletives being thrown your way. "Goddamn idiots... acting like high school kids... no shame... A girlfriend?! Idiots." In response, Ella swats him hard on the head where she is still resting and screeches, "LANGUAGE! Mama, 'cle BenBen said a no-no vord!" You smile. "Indeed he did, Estrelita. Looks like Uncle BenBen needs a little punishment!" Ella erupts into laughter, thoroughly amused by the prospect, while Benny's expression betrays a mix of fear and unsureness as Ella proceeds to sway back and forth on his shoulder screaming loudly about the bad language.

"You think we should rescue him?" Frankie asks. You consider the situation before responding with a noncommittal tone, "Nah, he's a big boy, he'll be fine.”

Frankie looks pensive for a second "Do you ever regret it?" he asks, his tone laced with vulnerability.

"Regret what?" you reply, genuinely puzzled by his inquiry.

Frankie's frown deepens, and he searches for the right words to convey his thoughts. "Taking me back. Starting again. No one would have blamed you if you had chosen to leave,” Frankie, for all the work he has been doing for the past three years, for all the individual and couple therapy he has attended, still sometimes feels like a scared little boy, yearning to be good enough for those he loves.

A soft smile graces your face as you gently stroke his cheek, your touch filled with reassurance. You guide his hands to rest on your taut stomach, emphasizing the life growing within. "There is no one I would rather be with than you, my love," you say tenderly. "Nowhere I would rather be than in your arms. You are everything to me—always have been and always will be.”

As Frankie's tears flow freely, his emotions cascading over him, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours, seeking your warm solace and quiet reassurance that he is enough, that he is loved. Frankie’s voice quivers as he whispers, "I love you so much, Mi Cielo. Thank you for everything you have given me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” A tender silence wraps around you both, allowing space for the weight of his words to settle between you. Frankie's murmurs against your collarbone provide comfort, his soft words acting as a balm to your souls. After a minute, Frankie's voice gently resurfaces. "The road ahead looks rather bright," he begins, his tone soft yet resolute, "and I can't wait to keep walking it with you."

Your smile widens, illuminating your face with pure joy as you savour the sweetness of Frankie's words. The road ahead does shine brightly, you think, as you tenderly place a kiss on Frankie's lips. And no matter how stormy it may become, as storms are inevitable on any journey, you are certain that you wouldn't walk it with anyone else by your side but your beloved Frankie. Like the sun and the sky, you are forever intertwined, destined to navigate the highs and lows together, casting light on each other's path.

Loving each other until the end—that's the life you've always wanted for yourself and Frankie and as you feel another kick from your baby boy and feel Frankie screeches excitedly and he start talking to baby Javi (well to your belly) in quick Spanish, praising the to be born baby. And as you spot baby Ella trying her best to run after Will and Benny while Pope eggs her on you thnk back to when she could barely crawl around. Your hands join Frankie and you feel your heart swell with love and happiness, yes this is all that you’ve ever wanted.

Loving each other until the end—that's the life you've always wanted for yourself and Frankie. As you feel another kick from your baby boy and hear Frankie's excited cheer, expressing his love and admiration, you can't help but smile. He speaks to baby Javi in Spanish, filled with warmth and anticipation, knowing that your family will soon be complete.

Across the yard, you spot Ella as she playfully chases after Uncle Will and Benny. Surrounded by the warmth of your found family, you feel a deep sense of contentment. This is everything you've ever wanted—the love between you and Frankie, the growth and happiness of your children both here and yet to be born, the bonds of friendship that only strengthen over time. Holding Frankie's hand, you know that together you will continue to build a life filled with love, support, and countless moments of joy. This is the life you've always dreamed of, and it fills your heart to the brim with love. The road ahead is bright indeed.

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