dustydaddyyy - Tumblr blog

dustydaddyyy · 1 month

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once again, i am on my knees.

jesus christ. this was insanely hot.

the fact that they hate each other? mwah 🤌

the champagne bottle? mildly concerned, but still mwah 🤌 (also him drinking from it was so sick and twisted. now do it again.

the perfume on her ankles?!?! fucking mwah (!!!)

no, seriously tho, I ain't even a lucien flores gal yet but you are single handedly making me into one and AHHHHH.

also just some real time. . .um. . . reactions. . . under the cut. . . yeah.

sorry but he gagged her

this moment right here had me in the biggest of choke holds because when I apply perfume to my goddamn ankles THIS is why. now when is it MY TURN, HUH?!

in conclusion:

my brain is broken and my legs are open.

thanks for coming to TED talk everybody.

Mutual | Lucien Flores x f!Reader

summary: you and lucien have both been invited to this dinner with explicit instructions: play nice. but it's kind of hard when you can't stand each other. even harder when the meaning begins to blur with his hands on you.

pairing: lucien flores x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. smoking, drinking. idk, hate fucking essentially. misuse of a champagne bottle, edging?, sexual tension, f!masturbation, unprotected p in v (you know what to do, and it's not this), oral (f!receiving). reader wears a dress and is implied to be shorter than lucien, but is otherwise undescribed.

wc: 4.8k

an: i succumbed.

The only thing you and Lucien Flores have in common is the need for a cigarette after dinner.

Nothing else.

You stand on opposite sides of the patio outside the open glass doors which lead back into Anna and Alex’s house, and you know that Anna, at the very least, will be watching you. Making sure you play nice.

Something you’d vowed to do when she’d called to invite you to this dinner party. Lucien will be there, she’d said, it’d be great for me, for us, if you two just tried to get along.

So far, you’ve succeeded. You’d listened politely to his stories at the table, hadn't even rolled your eyes when he laughed and joked and flirted with your fellow guests. You’d drunk your wine and stayed quiet through it all, offering your own contributions to the equal delight of the friends who'd gathered. You’d been surprised when Lucien had smiled along with them, even going so far as to chuckle at your story about the dog next door.

And now, outside, the rule still stands. You eye each other as you smoke, finding yourself amazed again by the way he doesn’t speak. Not a snide thing to say, no quip to make, just him watching you. Eyes flitting from your legs, to your hips, to your chest, to your face. And you’d tell him to quit it if you weren’t doing the same thing. If you weren’t enjoying the way his silk shirt hangs off his broad shoulders, the way his curls flop over his forehead, the way his chains catch the light, the way his stupid, pretty eyes glitter across from you. You hate yourself for it, want to crack some nasty sentiment across the stone, but you don’t.

You’re on your best behaviour, after all.

Something which Lucien has clearly forgotten as he pushes himself off from the wall he’s leaned against, stepping closer, closer to you by the bush with the red flowers. You brace yourself for whatever it is he’s about to say, for whatever smoke he’s about to blow in your face, gearing up for the taunt you’ll throw back.

He stops before you, barely an arms length away. You tense, waiting.

He holds out the bottle of champagne he’d swiped from the table on his way out. You blink at him.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m playing nice.’

You stare at him, sceptical. This is not Lucien. This is not something you’re used to.

But maybe he’s trying, too.

You take the bottle from him, and he lets it go easily. You watch him as you bring it to your lips, tipping it up until the bright fizz of the bubbles meets your tongue. He watches your mouth, pink slip of his tongue flicking out over his bottom lip as he drops the butt of his finished cigarette to the floor, not looking where it lands. You swallow, take another gulp for good measure, and hand it back to him. His fingers graze yours as you do.

You freeze at the jolt of electricity his touch brings, hand remaining outstretched as he brings the bottle back to his side. You watch, aloof, as he plucks your cigarette from your fingers and flicks it into the darkness before slotting your hands together, mind swirling as he pulls you closer.

‘Come on. Want to show you something.’

Maybe it’s the wine, but you can’t find the words to protest as he tugs you away to a deeper part of the garden.

Lucien turns you to face him at the furthest wall he can find, and you finally find your words as your back hits the concrete.

‘What did you want to show me?’

You glance around behind him at the flowers that burst from the ground, bright even in the darkening half light. The water feature Alex had installed last year trickles musically somewhere to your left, though you can't see it.

His answering grin is dirty, something fluttering in your tummy as you grind your teeth, nostrils flaring. You do not have the patience for this man, or the butterflies churning in your stomach.

‘Lucien.’

His hands find your waist and the curve of your ass in a flurry of movement, his grip strong, the bottle cold through the material of your dress. The air leaves your lungs. He hums as he draws himself close to your lips.

‘How beautiful you look tonight.’

You snort at him, disbelieving. He can’t be fucking serious.

‘Lucien, what the fuck -’

He cuts you off quickly, dipping to fit his mouth to yours in a searing kiss, hand moving from your ass to your jaw as he licks into your mouth. Your blood roars in your ears as your own hands scrabble to find purchase on his chest, slipping against the silk. You mean to push him away, but somehow you pull him closer, your body doing the opposite of what it’s told as you open your mouth further to him, groaning softly. He tastes like champagne and cigarettes, and you grip his neck to bring him further in, your other hand smoothing over his bunched shoulder, his strong bicep, down to his waist, fisting his shirt. He chuckles against your lips, and sharp anger surges in your gut. Shit. This is Lucien.

You use the hand at his middle to push him roughly away from you.

‘Get the fuck off me.’

He smirks, one hand still on your hip as he takes a swig from the bottle of champagne. You watch him, breathing heavily, stare as his lips close around the mouth of the bottle, and you're betrayed by what you’ve only pictured in your most secret moments. Your eyelids flutter, fingers twitch for him, cunt clenches around something that isn't there. He comes towards you again, and this time you close the gap, leaning forward to crash your mouth against his. You lick at the seam of his lips but he keeps them obstinately shut, and with irritation flashing through you, you drag your nails hard down his forearm in retaliation. He grips the nape of your neck, pulling your head back, and taking advantage of your open lips, spills the champagne off his tongue and onto yours. It's warm, still sparkling. Tastes like him. You swallow it down greedily, reminding yourself that you should be disgusted, certainly shouldn’t be pulling him in to kiss him again, shouldn’t moan so loud when he grinds his hips against yours as he rumbles how you drive him fucking insane against your neck. Shouldn’t be so wet, pinned up against this wall by a man you have long held such disdain for, shouldn’t grind back against him, shouldn’t be panting into his mouth like some kind of dog, shouldn't be forgetting where you are, who you’re with -

This time, you’re more forceful. Lucien stumbles back with hooded eyes and shining, swollen lips, his own breathing coming fast and deep. You stare back at him, still stunned, and without meaning to, your eyes drop down to his crotch, finding the fabric there tight with his arousal. He’s big, must be with the way his zipper is straining. Your mouth runs dry, your stomach swoops. Fuck.

You watch with as much disgust as you can manage as he palms himself roughly to relieve some of the ache, your own hands itching to do the same.

‘So pretty, baby,’ he teases, stepping forwards, head falling towards yours again. Why won’t he stay away? ‘So pretty, wanting me like this -’

‘Stop,’ you hiss. It’s unconvincing even to your ears, and he smirks like he knows. He knows. ‘I don’t - I don’t want you like this -’

He presses his forehead to yours, not touching you this time, instead letting his nose trace your cheekbone, your jaw, down to your neck.

‘You don’t want me like this?’ He purrs. You manage to shake your head. You can feel his smile as he laves a hungry, open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, and you whimper, hot all over, so wet, so needy for him. He chuckles again. ‘No,’ he confirms. ‘Then maybe… like this.’

He sinks to his knees in front of you, curls mussed, lips parted, eyes blown. He stares up at you, reverent, taunting, as he skates his broad palms over the tops of your thighs, stroking the skin, murmuring how soft you are. Oh, and you are so fucking angry. So fucking angry as he grips and soothes your flesh, as he squeezes and kneads your ass, as you hold onto his strong shoulders and breathe his name. Even more pissed when he doesn’t have some kind of asshole comment to make, furious as he leans into you and presses kisses to where his hands have been, mouthing at your skin, leaving it wet with his spit, with champagne, so fucking mad as he sips from the bottle again and spills the liquid from his mouth onto your thighs, as he kneels back to watch it trickle over your knees, down your shins, to your feet, to drip onto the floor. You are on fire.

‘See? Beautiful.’ He murmurs. And oh, what you’d do. What you’d do to him. You’d pull at his hair and scratch at his chest and bite into his neck and you’d make him suffer, make him ache, make him feel the same heat you’re feeling. You just can’t seem to move.

Can’t seem to move as he brings his mouth closer to your cunt, splitting the folds of your wrap dress further, pushing his hands up to your hips, holding you still as he takes in your lace panties, the only thing covering you from him. He looks up to you again, burning with desire. Your cunt pulses painfully, and you hiss his name.

He smiles, cruelly.

‘Relax, sweetheart,’ he murmurs, ‘We’re playing nice, remember?’

Your retort dies in your throat as he presses his face to your clothed cunt and breathes in deeply. He moans loudly, and you whimper in response, hands flying to his hair at the feeling of his hot breath on you, tugging as he mouths at your pussy through the material. You feel his tongue, warm and strong, drag over the lace covering your clit and you groan, going slack against the wall. He nudges the swollen nub with his nose, his free hand coming between your legs to touch you.

‘So wet,’ he breathes, ‘That what I’m doing to you?’

You shake your head no even though he can’t see you, still playing with your pussy through your underwear. A plea bubbles up your throat, and you swallow it down. You will not beg Lucien Flores to touch you. You don’t even know how you got here in the first place.

But that’s forgotten as he moves again, kissing your clit through the fabric as he brings his other hand, still holding the bottle, between your legs. You hiss as he presses the lip of it to your hole, all protests forgotten as he grinds it against you, the pressure easing a small amount of the ache you feel.

You forget that it’s wrong as he uses it to push your panties to the side. Forget as he runs the cold glass through your wetness, almost do beg him to touch you, to lick you, to do something before he settles it against your slit, right where you think you might need it most.

‘Still don’t want me?’ he breathes against your skin.

A shallow breath escapes you.

‘Fuck you.’ You whisper, no conviction behind your words. He rests his forehead against your hip, and begins to press, begins to relieve some of that ache, that want -

‘Luce?’ Anna calls out from the direction of the house. You freeze, fist tightening around his curls, but Lucien is unphased, working the mouth of the bottle past the tight opening of your pussy. You gasp brokenly at the cool feel of it, fingers constricting even further. Lucien moans beneath you, moving to nose at the crease between your thigh and your cunt, pushing the neck of the bottle further in. You moan loudly, knees giving a little, and he clutches your hip tighter to keep you from falling.

‘Luce?’ Anna calls again, a little closer this time. You groan his name in response, torn between wanting more and wanting this to end before disaster.

The next Lucien? comes even closer, and you use your grip on his hair to pull his face away from you, tipping his head back so that he meets your eye.

‘Stop.’ You bite out. He grins and gives one more pump of the neck of the bottle. You whimper, head falling back to the concrete behind you as he removes it completely, rising to his feet with a groan. You watch, bleary eyed, leaking, chest heaving, as he dusts off his pants and adjusts himself, his eyes never leaving yours. He steps back and away, eyes raking over your body as he raises the bottle to his mouth, licking around the neck before taking a deep drink and disappearing back up the path.

He’s sick. You hate him.

You return to the house on shaky legs through the backdoor, hoping to make it to the bathroom, only to be intercepted by Alex. He’s scraping leftover food into the bin, and smiles as you enter before double taking at your appearance. You must look wrecked.

‘Are you alright?’ He asks, brow creasing with concern.

You hum, clearing your throat before answering.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

Alex raises an eyebrow at you.

‘Did he say something to you?’ he asks.

‘Did he - what?’

‘Lucien. Did he upset you?’

You blink at him. Right. Play nice.

‘I - no. He didn’t. He was actually quite pleasant.’

Alex stares at you.

‘Pleasant?’

‘Yeah.’

You hold his gaze for a little longer, feel a guilty little heat crawl its way through your belly.

You’re warm, so unbearably warm.

‘Is it alright if I go and lay down upstairs for a bit?’ You ask. ‘I feel kind of funny.’

Alex frowns, placing the plate he was holding on the counter.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘Do you need anything?’

You smile weakly, shaking your head.

‘No,’ you reassure him, ‘That’s okay, thank you. I just need a moment.’

The guest room on the top floor is cool, and the curtains are open. Warm, orange light floods in from the street outside, and you settle yourself on the middle of the bed, ready to get this over with. There’s no way you can go back downstairs with this need, this coil wound so tight in your belly. You swoop your palms over your body, nipples tightening beneath your dress, feeling the swirl, the drip of yourself between your legs. You grind the heel of your palm against your mound and moan softly, rucking your dress up to your hips so you can slip your fingers beneath the lace.

Fuck, you are so wet. So goddamn turned on by that stupid man that you may as well throw your underwear away. You sweep a finger over your clit, hips twitching at the contact, eyes falling shut as you dip the digit to your entrance to collect your arousal, working the nub in tight circles.

Your legs fall slack as you build yourself up, moans falling from your mouth in quick succession as you imagine what it would have been like to have him take you there, against the wall. What it would have been like to be fucked with the bottle, to have his tongue really on you, mimicking your movements now, to fall apart against his mouth, see him pull away with your slick covering his face. You rock your hips against your hand, quickening your movements, fingers dipping in and out of your slit between working your clit as the coil tightens and tightens, as the hot, heavy feeling grows and grows, as sweat beads at your temples and the valley between your breasts, as you try not to moan his name -

Like you’ve summoned him, Lucien clears his throat in the doorway.

You snap your legs shut, heart hammering in your chest, heat blooming through your cheeks.

‘You fucking - asshole -’ you seethe, and he laughs, eyes roving over your sweaty body. ‘Get out.’

‘Wanted to check you were alright.’

You gape at him.

‘Fucking bullshit, Lucien,’ you grit, snatching your hand out of your soaked cunt. You bundle it in the silk of your dress as you try to cover yourself, but his eyes follow, tracing the glint of your slick in the dim light.

‘Seems like you’re okay, though,’ he continues, slouching against the doorframe. ‘Just look like you could do with some help.’

You choke on a laugh, frozen, glaring at him from the bed. He bites his lip.

‘You’re fucking insane.’

‘Insane enough to fuck you.’

You inhale sharply, trying to ignore the flash of arousal that shoots through you, clenching your jaw.

‘You are not going to fuck me.’

Lucien steps away from the doorframe, moving into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. Without looking, he reaches out with one hand and twists the lock with a click.

He comes towards you slowly, eyes hungry. Your heart is in your mouth as you watch him, adrenaline kicking in so hard even you’re not sure what you want. Aren’t sure whether you can admit what you want.

He reaches the end of the bed before dropping a knee onto the mattress, reaching out to grab an ankle, pulling your leg flat. You burn at the feel of him holding you, preventing you from moving, from hiding.

‘Then stop me.’

You don’t. You can’t as he crawls his way up your body, as he touches every inch of skin he can so gently, so delicately. Fresh slick pools out of you at the feeling, at the sight -

His stupid puppy dog eyes and floppy curls and broad shoulders beneath his silk shirt, silk shirt that looks like sin as it drapes over him, moves with him like water, and his chains, his chains, how they’d look swinging over you as he buries himself inside you, raw and hungry and -

You can’t stop the moan that slips from your lips as his hand cups your cunt, as his mouth finds your neck. Body quickly liquid, molten beneath his touch, legs falling open.

‘Please -’ it slips from your mouth before you can stop it, but it feels good, finally, to have him give you what you need.

‘Good girl,’ he says, ‘Playing so nice.’

He slips his hand beneath the lace of your panties, trailing two fingers through your arousal, mirroring your moan as he does. He circles your clit, dragging you back to where you were, drinking down your noises with his mouth close enough to swallow your breath, but not close enough to kiss. You stare up at him, eyes wide, mouth open, a line forming between your brows. You gasp, so pretty, and he hums, slowing his movements to an agonising pace before slipping them from your heat entirely. You whine at the loss, huffing against the mattress, pouting at him pathetically as he smiles down at you.

‘Let’s get these off.’

He kneels back to pull your underwear away from you, and you wriggle at the cool air that comes into contact with your cunt. You watch, breathless, as he bundles them up and slips them into his back pocket, irritated, but not irritated enough to demand them back. They were expensive.

He drinks in the sight of your bare pussy with ravenous eyes, resting his cheek against the flesh of your thigh. The scruff of his beard tickles and scratches, the feel of it so Lucien, but you can't find it within yourself to care. He brings a single finger up to trace through your folds, and you whine desperately, embarrassingly at the sensation.

‘Pretty enough to make a grown man cry, baby,’ he hums, nuzzling your thigh as he blinks up at you with burning eyes. ‘You ever made a man cry before?’

‘Yeah,’ you breathe, ‘Wanna see if I can make you cry, too?’

He grins, a dirty little thing, before closing his teeth over the soft skin at your hip. You moan again, and he leans in closer, licking a long, hot, wet stripe from your hole to your clit. You shudder, a broken sound escaping your mouth. God, what is wrong with you?

‘So sweet,’ he murmurs, ‘You always this wet when someone teases you?’

You arch your back against him, head turning in the sheets.

‘No,’ you groan, ‘Get this wet when I’m about to make myself come.’

He huffs a laugh against you before driving his tongue against your clit, sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth. He is hot and wet against you, so strong and soft like velvet as he tastes you, holds your thighs apart with his strong hands, fingers pressing in so hard you’re sure they’ll bruise. You writhe beneath him, hands flying to his hair, grinding up into his face. He licks and licks, devouring you, moving his head from side to side, gripping your hips to keep you moving against him as he quickly builds you again back to your high, sliding two fingers inside easily, curling them up into the spot deep inside you.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him, the strong curves of his body, the sweat on his forehead, the way his eyelids flutter at your noises, those deep brown eyes watching you with something carnal, something possessive in them.

You whine and moan above him, keening as he reaches his other hand up to swipe a thumb over your nipple, pinching it as you plead for more, as you tighten around his fingers, as you flood his mouth, as the toil tightens again, as you teeter on the edge -

Lucien pulls his mouth from you with a wet sound, withdrawing his fingers at the same time.

You cry out.

‘No,’ you whimper, ‘No, Lucien, please -’

‘Atta girl,’ he says, ‘I knew you could ask nicely. Knew you’d beg.’

Your back flies off the mattress as you reach to claw at him, ready to rip him to shreds, but he’s too quick, kneeling back again to undo his belt, unzip his fly, pull himself out, and oh -

Oh. Fuck. He’s big. The heavy weight of him held in his fist as he pumps himself slowly over you turns your clawing into gentler hands, and he moves so you can wrap yourself around his cock. He feels like silk, so close to his shirt, rock-hard and twitching as you move your hand languidly up and down his length, squeezing, swiping your thumb over his tip as it drips precum. It's hard not to admire him like this, hard to remember why you hate him so much. The ache between your legs borders on unbearable.

He groans loudly, rocking his hips before wrapping his hand around yours, untangling your fingers to hold himself again, guiding his cock towards your entrance. He runs his length back and forth between your folds, covering himself in your slick, feeling your clit twitch beneath him until you beg again - ‘Please, Lucien, please - fuck me -’ before he’s sliding home in one long stroke.

The air is knocked from you at the feeling, at how full you are. He hinges to cage you with his arms, and you clutch at his shirt as he begins to move, slow, so slow. He licks his lips as he watches your face, your mouth in a little ‘o’, neck straining against the pillow, and you move a hand to the back of his neck, wanting to kiss him, wanting to taste him, taste him taste of you. You want to take his plush bottom lip between your teeth and hold it there, hold it there until you taste blood. Bu he picks up the pace, thrusting harder and faster, and you lose your grip, back arching as the delicious burn returns yet again.

‘Fuck -’ you gasp, ‘Holy fuck, Lucien, oh my god -’

‘I know, baby,’ he whispers, fucked out and broken as you already. ‘I know.’

He groans from somewhere deep in his throat, head thrown back to expose his neck, and you want to kiss him again, swallow him down, consume him whole.

You close your teeth over the chain that’s swinging in your face so he can't pull away, and he moans, forehead knocking against yours. You bite down harder, wanting it to break, wanting to shatter it, shatter him. As if he can feel it, he grinds deeper, harder inside of you. You feel yourself clench, feel it begin to spiral. You spit the jewellery out to whimper, scratch down the length of his back over his shirt. He feels so good. Feels so fucking good, and it’s infuriating.

‘I hate you,’ you whine breathlessly. He moans into your neck, breath hot and damp against your skin.

‘Yeah,’ he gasps, ‘Feeling’s mutual, baby.’

He marks the sentiment with a particularly dirty kiss to your throat, and with that, you see stars. You clench and break and stutter around him, splintering and bursting around his cock, crying out so loudly that he secures his large palm over your mouth.

‘Yeah, good girl,’ he pants, ‘Good fucking girl.’

You moan again, and he can feel your body twitch with the aftershocks, contracting and leaking around him. He takes both your legs in his hands and places them on his shoulders, folding you into yourself, fucking into you deeper, harder than before, hitting another angle even more intense than the last. You cry desperately into the pillow, wincing as you tighten again, impossibly fast, too intense, too far away to warn him. But he knows. He can feel it. Tries to hold himself back a little longer to fuck you through it, reaching down to thumb your clit, swiping through the mess you’ve made, he’s made, entranced by the sounds you’re making, the slick sound of him moving in and out of your cunt, the lightheaded feeling he’s got, the desperation, the urge, the need -

He breathes in the scent of your skin as his thrusts get sloppier, inhaling deeply through his nose. He wishes he could kiss you again. Wants to feel the press of your mouth against his, the breaths you take, your tongue against his.

But if he does, it’ll be over. The game will be up, because he won’t be able to hold back the real want he feels, where all this anger stems from. He’s so nasty, so mean because he wants you so bad. So bad, from the moment you met. From the moment you looked him up and down and listened to his arrogant introduction with a little sneer. He wants that attitude - wants to fuck it right out of you.

Your ankle smells sweet against his cheek, and he turns his head to kiss and bite the bone there, feeling you tense and pulse around him at the scrape of his teeth. You twist in the sheets, breathing ragged, eyes scrunched shut, fists clenching the cotton as you moan his name, as you try and bite back the gasps and cries of your second orgasm.

‘Again,’ he grits out, ‘Again.’

‘Lucien -' you cry, reaching for him, ‘Lucien, fuck -'

He comes at the first flutter as you clamp down around him. Buries himself right down to the hilt as he spills inside you, coming with a pained moan and a murmur of your name, eyes fluttering shut as he rocks in and out of your pulsing cunt, fucking his spend deep. He lets your legs fall from his shoulders as he catches his breath, steadying himself with a palm on the mattress as he watches you come down, staring at the rise and fall of your chest beneath your dress, nipples still straining against the fabric. He wants to take them in his mouth, wants to work you up to take you again, but he slips out instead, brushes his hair back from his forehead, watches his cum begin to dribble out of your puffy cunt. You catch him and reach down to run your fingers through the mess of you both, and Lucien looses a strangled groan as you feed it to yourself, tongue working over your digits. You remove them with a pop, sliding your legs closed and settling yourself on your elbows.

He kneels back on the bed, tucking himself back into his pants, trying to focus on something that’s not you for just a moment as you rearrange your dress and swing your legs off the bed. He feels like he should say something, something to cut across what you've just done. Something appropriately callous, but he can't bring himself to. Can't find it within him.

He hasn’t even finished buttoning his pants before you swan out of the room, dress as perfect as it was before, clinging to your curves, moving with your steps. You don’t look back at him as you leave, don’t utter a word.

That familiar flare of anger rises in his chest again. A muscle ticks in his cheek, and he sits down heavily on the bed, clasping his hands together over his knees. He takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. He soothes himself with the thought of your cunt leaking his cum all over your seat downstairs, thinks about how it’ll ruin your pretty little dress. Tries not to think about how he won’t be tearing you out of it later, won’t be able to taste himself mixing with you like he wants to.

Tries not to think about the perfume you had applied to your ankles.

Tries not to think about how maybe, just maybe, you’ve thought about this, too.

#once again #you have outdone yourself babes #handing out orgasms left right and center like fucking oprah #lucien flores #k's fic recs #pedro pascal

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dustydaddyyy · 2 months

Text

am I extremely late to this party? yes

did this story destroy me, mind, body and soul? also yes

did it proceed to put me back together and allow me to believe in love? yes, yes, yes

I honestly don't really have that much to say because I'm still recovering because this was so. fucking. good.

the balance between the angst surrounding the nature of their relationship but also the distance they're forced to take from each other, the banter and the dynamic they have and the positively steamy sex was struck so beautifully. It takes a particular amount of talent to make people feel all of those things in the span of the same story/chapter, and my god do you have it, because I was sobbing, laughing and turned on all at same time, if that's even fucking possible.

thank you for writing this beautiful story, and for sharing it with us <3

in my hometown, part iii | joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | series playlist

pairing: neighbour!dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!actor(ish)!reader (+ platonic!tommy and platonic!sarah)

rating: 18+ minors dni

word count: 10.7k

summary: pre-outbreak/tlou. joel finally accepts his fate and comes to see you in LA but he’s not prepared for what he finds (or doesn’t find) when he gets there.

*takes place after the events of come back, be here (no avoiding it, folks, you’re going to need the context - and all the foreshadowing)

warnings etc: set in 2002. smut, angst, fluff - aka PURE ROMANCE, alcohol use, drug use, unwanted sexual advance (not by joel), hurt/comfort, unprotected p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, 10 year age gap (joel is 35, reader is 25), OC!adam (he deserves a warning), food, smoking mention, me making things up about hollywood. NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: well! here we are! i don’t know what to say other than thank you to every single reader who made this series what it is. i hope you feel this is a fitting end for joel and superstar, my favourite babies. dedicated to ziggy @johnwatsn who came into my life because of this fic, katy @midnightswithdearkatytspb for supporting this series from the start, and cat @joelscruff, without whom i'm not sure anyone would care about this story at all

You

I resolve to make new friends I liked my old ones But I fucked up so I'll start again What's the worst that could happen?

Is there anyone here you know?

You look around the room from your place against the off-grey wall. Adam's posh apartment in West Hollywood is filled to the brim with a sea of strangers, a collection of wannabe C-listers, supposedly there to celebrate you, haphazardly assembled by somebody else. Whatever, you let it go.

You have to start making new friends eventually. And you have to admit that your agent's assistant has some fairly notable connections. Around here, that's all that matters.

You clutch the drink Adam had made you (something far too bitter and heavy on the bourbon, not your thing at all). The darkened space overlooks a wall of windows and a sprawling balcony, forty-eight floors above the city below. Bright lights and freeways pierce the black, starless sky.

Los Angeles. Home. Or something like it.

All the while, the memory of your earlier conversation with Joel hangs over you like a rare California raincloud, ominous and debilitating.

"Okay - um, shit - it's asking me for more quarters, I'm all out. Can I call you tomorrow?"

"You can call me any time you want, darlin'."

"Bye, Joel."

"Bye - "

But he'd been cut off all too soon, dial tone ringing out through the speaker of the heavily vandalized payphone.

You'd rejoined the agency brunch party, dazed and depressed.

You'd thought Joel would have been happy for you, now that you'd finally accomplished something worthwhile. He's only heard you crying your eyes out over the phone for the past six months - although admittedly you've been calling less lately - so you’d assumed he'd have more to say than an offhand, "That's amazing sweetheart."

Sure, you'd caught him at work but that didn't justify the worst part of all; Joel had been, of all things, petty.

"Seems like Adam already knew."

Cold, unflinching jealousy, palpable even through the phone, hundreds of miles away. It had left a bitter taste in your mouth, unsure at first how to respond. What the hell did Joel have to be jealous of?

Maybe you have been calling less recently, but you've had good reason. You've actually been trying to accomplish what you came here for, auditioning constantly and working non-stop at a smoothie bar in the meantime just to pay your damn bills. You'd been on the verge of giving up entirely until the TV offer had come, the opportunity finally breathing some hope back into your miserable day-to-day life.

Other than that, it's been nothing but boring, repetitive, exhausting.

You hadn't wanted to burden Joel with that.

Somehow, after filtering through all of that, you'd landed on feeling hurt - hurt because you'd upset him, hurt because you'd made him think for even one second that you wouldn't rather be back home with him than at some meaningless agency party being showered with mimosas by a too-drunk-for-noon Adam.

But that was hours ago. Now Adam's brought you here, to what he'd affectionately referred to as a "real party," not unlike all the other ones he's been dragging you to the last couple of months. Overcrowded, late-night gatherings at his pristine apartment, unrecognizable music blaring, drugs and alcohol abound. It's always the same.

You can’t say you like the guy all too much. He's constantly overdressed to an obnoxious extent, lanky and tan with brown curls that would remind you of Joel's if they weren't constantly loaded with greasy product.

He's older than you, but not so old that he should be as cocky and confident as he is, as though he's somehow wiser to the world than you are. He's just a guy - a guy with good connections and an easy high-paying job. You've met countless people like him since you came here, talentless drifters who cling to the rich and famous, desperate for a shred of their success.

Problem is, you've also seen how much it helps to have people like that in your corner. Knowing people here is everything.

And you know for a fact there are people here tonight that are worth meeting, higher-ups and producers that you should really be shaking hands and making nice with. Instead, you pull your cell phone out of your pocket and flip it open, scrolling absently through the list of recent calls - every one of them incoming from Joel. You sigh.

"You good, Texas?" Adam's voice is saying then, catching you gloomily musing away on the fringes of the crowd.

"I'm fine," you assure him, but your voice wavers, giving you away. Stupid.

Adam smirks knowingly, eyes flitting down to the phone in your hands before you snap it shut. He slyly loops an arm over your shoulders and guides you into the throng of bodies.

"Come on and join the party, what are you hiding for?"

He leads you through the crowd to the plush, ivory couch in the centre of the open room. It's situated around a massive glass-top coffee-table, barren of any notable décor. The couch is large enough to fit you and him snugly between the bodies of four other partygoers. Booming electronic music blares from his sound system so he's forced to lean in close when he asks,

"Who's Joel?"

Fuck. How did he...?

Adam sees the question in your eyes, nodding his head towards the cell phone still clutched in your hand, presumably having caught a glimpse or your caller list. You hastily shove it in your pocket.

"He calls a lot," Adam observes. "Was that him on the pay phone earlier?"

"Uh, yeah," you finally admit.

"So...who is he?"

You freeze again. The question should be simple enough to answer, but you find yourself stumped – who is Joel? Who is Joel to you?

"He's, um...my neighbour."

Adam bursts out laughing, appropriately so, you think. It sounds ridiculous to your ears, too.

"Who calls their neighbour from a fucking pay phone?" he demands. "Who calls anyone from a pay phone, honestly? You're living in the past, Texas."

Yeah, that's probably accurate.

"Well, he's a - a family friend."

It's somewhat more accurate, but Adam's not satisfied.

"Nu-uh, it's more than that."

Your brows furrow, annoyed. You sip your disgusting drink to buy you some time while you decide if you really want to get into this with him. You don't know Adam that well, only brought together by your agent in the last couple of months or so. He's seemed far more interested in you than you have in him, often visiting you at the smoothie bar or parading you around parties just like this.

You've also noticed a sharp increase in his interest since you'd got a callback for the TV job.

So yeah, not really the first person you want to be talking to about Joel but he's kind of got you on the spot so -

"Fine, I mean, we hooked up," you concede at last. "A couple times."

"And?" Adam says, staring you down expectantly, eyebrows raised. You'd hoped your answer would have sufficed. Maybe back home, but not here apparently. You sigh.

"And now it's complicated, I guess."

"Ah, complicated," Adam nods. "You guys, like boyfriend-girlfriend now? You caught feelings? That why it always seems like you're only ever half here?"

How can one man be so fucking patronizing?

"No, we're not boyfriend-girlfriend," you roll your eyes, frustrated. "And I'm not half here. I'm here. All in."

Adam blissfully, doesn't know you well enough to catch you in the lie. Joel would have caught it.

You watch then as Adam reaches into the pocket of his shiny grey blazer to retrieve a small plastic bag filled with white powder. You pointedly avert your eyes; it's not the first time you've seen coke at a party since you got here - and certainly not the first time you've seen Adam do it - but you've still yet to indulge. Frankly, the sight of the stuff still puts you on edge.

You silently sip at your drink while Adam leans over the tabletop and empties the bag's contents directly onto the glass. No one around the table even bats an eye; this is standard for a party at Adam's. He pulls an Amex card from his wallet and crushes the minute clumps into fine dust, lining up two thick, precise lines before inhaling the first into his nose with a hundred dollar bill.

Eye-roll.

The size of the bill you snort coke with is like a dick-measure here, you've noticed. The richest, coolest, hottest men breathe in their poison with the most expensive paper, then they expect you to be impressed when they hand the rolled up bill to you, as if they're offering you the greatest gift in the world.

You shake your head when Adam does just that, leaving him to breathe in the other line himself.

"Sorry, forgot you're not into it," he grins but you don't think he sounds sorry at all.

He leans back into the couch again and swipes at his nose, leaving the bill on the table along with the remaining pile of coke.

"So, what's this guy's deal?" he asks you, pupils now shot as he stares you down with exaggerated interest.

"Joel? What do you - "

But Adam cuts you off, louder and brasher than you at the best of times, but especially so now.

"You said it's complicated, but he's not your boyfriend," he pries. "So...what's the issue?"

"I don’t know, we left things kind of…open I guess. "

"Open's fun. What's the real issue?"

You sigh again, struggling to think of the real answer to his question. Because he's right, there are a million more reasons why it's actually complicated. The hard part is trying to remember why any of them matter.

"Um...well, he's also a bit older - " you start but Adam cuts you off again with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Non-issue," he says decidedly, before he thinks of something that makes his features contort into a frown. "Unless he's like, fifty. He's not fifty, is he?"

You shake your head - though you have to admit that even if Joel was fifty, you'd probably still feel the same way about him.

"He's got a kid," you admit.

Adam grimaces - a nasty, ugly expression that sparks a sudden wave of protectiveness in your gut.

"That's a problem," he gripes.

"No," you push back. "No, I love Sarah."

Adam laughs disbelievingly, condescending.

"Who you tryna convince here, babe?"

Tragically, it's a good fucking question. You cross your arms over your chest and sit back into the couch, glaring at the table before you.

"Why don't you just tell them to come out here?" Adam suggests simply. Like it’s that fucking easy.

You shake your head again. "I couldn't ask them to do that."

He shrugs then with another patronizing laugh that makes your skin crawl.

"Then go home," he says bluntly. "Forget about the show. Follow your heart."

He places a dramatic hand over his chest, pulling a put-on sentimental face.

It's your turn to laugh now, one bitter exhale that in no way indicates humour. It's clear he doesn't see the complexity of your situation, could never understand the turmoil you've been living under for the past year, how your heart can be in two places at the same time.

"You're making fun of me," you say and he just grins triumphantly, throwing an arm over the back of the couch behind you and leaning in close to your face. You can smell liquor and the distinct scent of something chemical on his breath.

"No, but you see how crazy it sounds?"

You have to chew your lip to keep from biting his head off. You burn in your seat, shifting uncomfortably, utterly cornered between him and the back of the stranger sitting beside you.

He's right, you realize, it does sound ridiculous.

"You should be stoked you got this gig," he says, oblivious to your quiet fuming. "Do you even realize how lucky you are? You'd give it up to go play stepmom for your - fucking - neighbour?"

You hate the way his snarky voice envelops the last word so cruelly. You wish you'd never described Joel that way, reduced him to something so benign.

"I didn't say that," you argue. "I do want it. I feel lucky. It's just been...a whirlwind is all."

It's all mostly true.

Adam grins. "That's how it happens, baby. It's exciting." He places a hand on your knee and shakes your leg, cocking his eyebrows at you till you reluctantly smile back at him.

Maybe he's right. It's not that you don't want the opportunity - of course you do - it's just that you can't let go of all the ways things could be better. Namely, if Joel was here. Or maybe if all of Hollywood was in Austin.

"And I mean, three episodes..." Adam goes on, suddenly sitting up straight and talking with his hands erratically. "That's enough time to establish a fan base. This part's memorable as fuck, it's a popular show; you'll be getting calls, trust me. We'll get you a publicist, send you out to some red carpets. They're gonna eat you up, baby."

He shoots you a wink and you find yourself smirking again; he does make it sound pretty intoxicating. And it is why you came here after all. Still, it's definitely not lost on you that Adam seems far more concerned with your potential notoriety than your actual craft.

Such is the way here.

"Well," you nod, trying to absorb some of his enthusiasm. "Tomorrow I sign the contract officially so maybe it'll feel more real then. But I am...I'm excited."

It could be a trick of the light - it's gone so suddenly - but you think you catch something pass over his features then, a glint behind his eyes and the subtle twitch of his lips upwards.

"You haven't signed the contract yet?"

You shake your head, eyes narrowing at the strange edge his voice seems to take on. You can't decipher what it means.

You should have left a long time ago.

The only people still hanging around the apartment are the ones fiending around the remaining drugs, most of the notable guests having left at a reasonable hour, only Adam's closest entourage still hanging around; about six other men just like him, neatly dressed and high off their minds.

You've stayed fixed to your place on the couch beside Adam all night, watching and listening to his boisterous, meandering conversations, shrinking uneasily each time he places an arm over your shoulder or absently touches your leg.

He's been getting more and more blatant with it, his side firmly pressed into yours for the last hour or so, even though there's only the two of you on the couch now, more than enough room for him to move away. You're too nervous about how he may react if you try to move yourself.

You were never a nervous person till you came to LA.

You wish there was somewhere else you could go, someone else you could cling to. Or maybe that you were brave enough to not have to cling to someone at all.

It's past 2 a.m. when you finally consider calling it a night. But then, as if he can sense your imminent departure, Adam turns to you with wide, beseeching eyes.

"Have you checked out the view yet?" he asks.

You look over your shoulder at the wall of windows.

"I mean - I can see it."

Adam grins.

"Come see it for real," he suggests, standing and holding out a hand out to you. You reluctantly take it and rise to follow him to the balcony.

Goddamnit. It's what you've been avoiding all night, having to be alone with him. You steel yourself as you subtly slide your hand out of his, letting him lead you out through the sliding glass door into the warm, night air. He leans over the ledge while you stand several feet back, cautious.

"Nice, right?" He glances back at you, cocking his head and imploring you to move closer.

You nod, inching forward enough to rest your fingertips on the balcony's edge.

A few seconds of awkward silence pass and then -

"So, be honest," Adam starts. "Like deadly, seriously honest."

"Okay."

Adam turns to face you, leaning coolly with one arm against the ledge.

"Do you actually want this part?"

Your brows furrow, indignance painting your features.

"I have the part," you protest.

Adam shrugs. "Well, I mean, if it's not in writing..."

The fuck?

"What are you saying?" you demand as annoyance begins to prickle hot under your skin. Adam, on the other hand, appears cool as a cucumber.

"I'm just saying, if you wanted to back out, it's not too late. You could still go make your little Joel the happiest man in the world."

You guess it's what you get for confiding in him.

"I'm not backing out," you argue. "I want it, okay? Joel...Joel's not important."

It's a big, stupid fucking lie but it has to be true. You have to let him go eventually, that much is clear.

Adam's shrewd grin widens as he reaches a hand out to move your hair behind your ear. Warning signs shoot you through you at his touch, but it's his next words that truly send you into fight or flight mode.

"No?" he hums, moving in closer. "So he wouldn't mind if I kissed you right now?"

Oh. Fuck.

"What?" Your voice is flat - too flat. Weak with shock even though you could have seen this coming.

"Joel's not important?" he presses, his lips making contact with your neck. Your stomach turns.

"Adam..."

His fingers trail over your collarbone - featherlight and threatening all at once.

"How bad do you want that part, sweetheart?" His breath fans out over the skin of your neck and -

Oh, fuck this.

You push against his chest with all the force you can muster.

"Stop," you tell him, voice finally gaining some power as anger takes over. Anger at the fucking...predictability of it all. The only thing men like Adam crave more than fame is the chance to get their stupid fucking dicks wet. "I'm not doing this with you."

He shakes his head, that same cocky expression glued to his face, however tainted by the film of outrage at your rejection.

"You really don't wanna say that, sweetheart."

"Yeah, actually, I really fucking do," you rage in return. "I'm leaving."

You turn on your heel and escape through the glass door, leaving it open behind you. Adam yells something after you that you barely catch as you storm through the dwindling party and out the door, descending from the forty-eighth floor into your own personal hell.

How bad do you want that part, sweetheart?

His words echo in your mind as you fight for sleep that night, waves of tears and nausea, nausea and tears keeping you awake until the sun rises. You consider calling Joel but what could Joel do? He can't protect you now, he couldn't save you then.

You have to let him go. One way or another, you have to let go of Joel Miller.

And besides, surely what Adam had said hadn't been a genuine threat. Surely he doesn't have that kind of sway.

No. You have the part. You’re fine. You're okay.

And they tell you that you're lucky, but you're so confused 'Cause you don't feel pretty, you just feel used And all the young things line up to take your place

Joel

I bet she told a million people that she’d stay in touch, But all the little promises that don’t mean much, When there’s memories to be made

You only ever sent Joel one postcard. He'd always hoped more would come, but they never did. Just the one, some time in March. He'd been working late, hadn't remembered to check the mail. Sarah hadn't forgotten, though, of course not. He'd come home after ten o' clock to find the glossy image of a California beachside sitting on his kitchen table.

He'd curiously read your little message before folding the postcard in on itself two distinct times and slotting it into his wallet with a sigh and a faint smile.

It's stayed there ever since, though, he can't say he's looked at it again.

At least until today.

Now he examines it carefully in the driveway, glancing over the return address in the corner, burning the information into his brain and committing it to memory.

"You good to go?" Tommy says, finding Joel with one hand on the door of his pick-up.

"No," Joel tells him truthfully, cracking the driver's side door and tossing the postcard onto the passenger seat, right next to his map.

"S'alright, I'll hold down the fort," Tommy assures him with what he probably thinks is a comforting hand on Joel's shoulder. "Get Sarah to soccer camp on time and all that shit."

Joel just gives him a skeptical stare. Like Tommy has any idea what "and all that shit" entails. If Sarah wasn't so self-sufficient, Joel would never feel so comfortable leaving. He barely feels comfortable as it is.

"I mean it, you don't gotta worry," the younger Miller continues, pulling out a smoke from his pocket nonchalantly. "Just go do what y'gotta do."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Rule number one," Joel grumbles, snatching the cancer stick out of his hand before Tommy can light it. "None o'this shit in front of her."

Tommy holds up two hands innocently. "Alright, shit."

"Don’t see her around right now, but okay…" Tommy mumbles under his breath. Joel pretends he doesn't hear it.

"To be honest, Tommy, I kinda got no fuckin' idea what it is I'm doin'."

Joel leans into the side of the truck, running a tired, nervous hand over his face. He'd barely slept last night, too keyed up after his 2 a.m. epiphany and a decision set in stone after his call to Tommy.

"Well, you got about twenty hours to figure it out, brother," Tommy quips, holding his palm out for the cigarette. Joel deposits it there reluctantly.

"I'm actually askin' for your advice, for once," Joel admits, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at his shoes.

Now he knows he's really hit rock bottom.

"You think I fuckin' know?" Tommy laughs, echoing Joel's thoughts. "I'm worse at this shit than you are."

That's...true, Joel realizes. Still.

"Just...I don't know, tell me if I'm punchin' above my weight here," he shrugs. "M'I wastin' my time? Just forcin' something that can't - or - that - that isn't - ”

He sighs frustratedly, losing his words. He can't even get it right now, here, in front of Tommy. What the fuck is he going to do when he gets to California?

Tommy seems to sense his brother's mounting dismay, his firm hand once again coming down on Joel's forearm.

"I saw the two of ya at Christmas, Joel," Tommy says, finally sounding some semblance of sincere. "Looked pretty damn natural to me. Just go say your piece and if it works out, it works out. If it don't, then, you know...you tried."

The two Millers lock eyes before Joel nods stiffly. It's not much (and it’s hardly the most soothing sentiment) but it's all Joel needs to finally get behind the wheel, to slam the truck door behind him and pull out of the confounded cul-de-sac.

Sweeping desert passes him by as he guns it west on the two-ninety. He barely had time to construct a plan beyond drive, the reality of his decision now setting in with each click of the odometer.

The memory of his pep talk with Tommy fades quickly. He's been grumbling since Fredericksburg, miserable musings that range from, "What the fuck are you doing?" to, "Turn the damn car around, idiot." Of course he doesn't, stubborn to a fault, repelling the urge to back out now that he's committed to whatever the fuck it is he's committed to.

'Course, he makes it as far as the state line before he really begins to question his choices.

He should have called. He should have asked first. He should have waited.

He's tired of waiting.

Eventually (inevitably), his emotions catch up with him. Joel's not ignorant to the way his breath has started to come in heaving gasps, hard as he tries to pretend it's not happening, even as his chest pangs painfully with each ragged inhale, intrusive thoughts moving in faster now.

Would you even still want him? When he shows up on your doorstep, will you even care? Or is he already out of time?

Fuck.

Joel's powerless to stop the tears that well in his eyes then, hot liquid salt streaming out over his cheeks and into his lap, blurring his vision.

"Shit," he curses, voice thick as he wipes the wetness out of his eyes. But the tears don’t stop; he's forced to succumb. He pulls over, hazards flashing as he parks on the shoulder.

Safely off the road, he buries his head in his hands, leaning into the steering wheel as sobs flow freely from deep in his chest. A continuous refrain of, stupid stupid stupid rings out in his mind -

This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever fucking done.

Or maybe, he pushes back on the thought, maybe the stupidest thing he'd ever done was letting you leave in the first place.

He chases the setting sun as far as Phoenix before he finally decides to call it a day. He sleeps in the cheapest motel he can find, in the driest heat he's ever felt, cloying anxiety cloaking his dreams on what he hopes is last night without you.

Dear Joel,

This is NOT the view from my apartment…but you get the idea. Maybe you’ll see it for real one day. I hope so. I miss you.

The postcard sits in the passenger seat, that little return address his only compass as he crosses into The Golden State. There are still miles of desert before he reaches LA, but the hours pass faster now the closer he gets. He's gridlocked the second he enters the city, naturally. The clogged motorways and smoggy skies of Los Angeles only further fog his troubled mind, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he navigates his way through the dense traffic.

He follows the postcard like a North Star, exiting far outside the city centre, in a neighbourhood he'd likely never venture to otherwise. You'd been telling the truth, it's nowhere near any balmy beach. He's not judging, of course (Joel'd never judge someone for having less than someone else, as someone who's barely got much to begin with) but he can't deny the tinge of protectiveness that bubbles in his guts at the sight of the pot-holed roads and condemned apartment buildings that lead to your place; surely this isn't the safest place for you to be living.

Finally, he finds your address - a small one-storey home with a lawn unattended and only two cars parked in the driveway.

He notices, uneasily, that yours isn't one of them.

He checks the postcard for the hundredth time - it's definitely the right place. He takes a deep breath and parks uncertainly across the road, folding up the postcard and stuffing it back into his pocket before taking those final, crucial steps to your front door.

He's imagined every possible scenario - from the most painful to the most perfect. Maybe you'll swing open the door and pull him right into your arms, maybe you'll tell him to fuck off, maybe you'll cry or scream or smile or all of the above.

Turns out, he needn't've worried about any of that, because instead, he's greeted by a face that's not yours and three words he certainly had not prepared for when he asks for you by name:

"She's not here."

He deflates in the doorway, his mind going temporarily blank. He scrambles dumbly to understand.

"'She's not here,' like…she's out for the day - or...?"

The girl stares back at him with confusion.

"No, as in, she's gone,” she says very slowly. "She left. She went home."

"What? When?"

"I don't know, last night?" she muses offhandedly, uncaring. "She got home late and just packed a bunch of shit and left."

Joel's blood begins to boil as she speaks, concern melding with rage at the girl's indifference while his brain tries to catch up with the reality that you aren't fucking here and he is.

"And none of you tried to stop her?" he demands, his voice rising with obvious frustration. "In the middle of the fuckin' night?"

The girl just shrugs. Another girl appears behind her then, blonde and piqued, looking on with dubious concern and a hand on the other girl's shoulder. Joel runs a palm over his face exasperatedly and tries to reign himself in before one of your roommates calls the cops on him for making a scene on their front porch.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me..." he mutters to himself.

That's when the other girl pipes up, voice high-pitched and cutting, an undeniable fry coating her words.

"Wait - you're not Joel, are you?" she asks.

He sighs, "Yeah, why?"

The two girls exchange a knowing look that makes Joel's skin prickle.

"Well, I see why she can't shut up about you," the blonde one says and the two girls snicker. Joel sighs again, he really doesn't have time for this.

"Have you tried to call her at all?" he presses.

"Why would we do that?" the blonde one ponders cruelly.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, to check on her?" he growls. "You got a phone?"

A moment of hesitation as they consider letting him in - a moment that ultimately ends when the two share a cursory nod and step aside to let Joel through.

It's a pretty small place, three bedroom doors siphoning off from a shared living area and open kitchen, mismatched furniture and a clunky TV set. Tattered movie posters and a big calendar marking the dates of various upcoming auditions line the walls above beige carpeted floors, stained from the current tenants or past ones, Joel's not sure. There's no sign of you here, no mark that tells him you once dwelled within these walls. Like you'd barely ever settled there at all.

That is, except for the room to his immediate left with the door swaying ajar, giving him a view of the space he now recognizes as undeniably yours. An all-too-familiar purple bedspread lines a twin bed that's not unlike the one you have at home. The cheap IKEA dresser that stands against the other wall though is totally alien, nothing like the one he'd built you, the one that still sits in your childhood bedroom with his initials carved into the top drawer. Discarded t-shirts and a pair of forgotten tennis shoes litter the floor.

He can almost picture you, hurriedly buzzing around the shoe-box-sized room, packing a suitcase and leaving the door swinging behind you. He'd been so close...if he'd have just gotten here that much faster maybe he could have caught you.

Most concerningly though, Joel wonders what it is exactly that could have caused you to leave in such a rush.

He swallows back a sudden lump in his throat, pulled from his reverie by the grating voice of your roommate.

"Over there," the blonde one tells him, nodding her head towards the holster on the wall in the kitchen. The two girls hover for a moment as Joel punches in the number for your cell phone, till he shoots them a disapproving glare and they - finally - scatter.

Well, he sees why you hate them so much.

He holds the receiver to his ear and listens as the line rings once, twice, a third time - fuck. Dread sets in; what if you'd let the damn thing die again?

A click, then -

"Hello?"

Thank fuck.

"Hey!" he exclaims, relief washing over him momentarily. Not for long though. "Jesus, are you alright? Where the fuck are you?"

"Joel?" you ask timidly. He thinks your voice sounds a little tight, like you've been crying. He's heard the sound through the wire enough times to recognize pain in your tone.

"Yeah, it's me, just - where are you?"

"I don't know - I don't know, somewhere in Arizona," you stammer. "I - wait, where are you?"

"I'm in LA."

"What?"

Your voice rises several octaves, piercing Joel's eardrum. He winces at the sting but works to stay focused. You're not far. He can still catch you. He can still get to you.

"Do you see anythin' around you? Anywhere you can pull in?"

"I don't - no, there's nothing, it's just desert I - what do you mean you're in LA?"

"Fuck - "

Depending on where you are, he could get to you in five hours or less...but he can't track you down in the middle of the fucking desert. He presses his hands into fists, prodding his knuckles into the kitchen wall as he wracks his brain for a solution, a way to find you before you got too far - again.

"Wait," you say then and Joel's chest hammers with a brief flash of hope. "There's a - a truck stop and - motels and stuff. Coming up, um, Benson? Does that sound right?"

As you speak, Joel pulls your postcard from his pocket while he feverishly hunts for something to write with, pulling open drawer after drawer in the kitchen, leaving a tornado's worth of disaster in his wake till he finally finds a dull golf pencil buried under a stack of audition sides.

"Just tell me the exit number," he says. "You're on the I-10, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, the I-10...um..." your voice trails as you assumedly scan for the answer. "Three-oh-two, exit three-oh-two."

Joel jots it down on the postcard, a messy scribble beside your original note.

"Get off there," he commands.

"Joel - "

"Get off there and wait, okay? I'm on my way."

There’s been no way for me to say That I felt a certain way in stages, oh I think the story needs more pages, 'cause...

You

I’m coming home from that hardest year, I’m making plans not to make plans while I’m here And this life has been no holiday, a complicated situation I’m fine all my memories, still I could use vacation

It's not romantic. It's not beautiful. It's nothing like the movies.

It's sitting on a bench at a truck stop somewhere in the middle of the desert. It's leering eyes and curious stares from onlooking men and passersby. It's cold gas station coffee, your third since you pulled in.

It's waiting. Waiting for Joel. Hours and hours and years and years of waiting, waiting, waiting for Joel Miller.

Your eyelids are drooping by the time the sun starts to fade behind the vast horizon. You've lost count of how many cars have passed you on the interstate. The cell phone hasn't buzzed since Joel'd called earlier.

You hadn't thought any part of it through last night, just packed all you could as fast as you could and driven out of town. You hadn't even consciously decided you were going home until you'd found yourself driving east on the interstate, crossing into Arizona long after midnight. You'd crashed in the first major city you hit, when the wetness in your eyes had made it hard to see in the dark and the weight of your anguish had grown too heavy to ignore.

You'd slept in too late this morning, only on the road for two hours before that call from Joel had come. You've been here ever since.

"You get stood up, gorgeous?" a brave trucker sneers, demanding your attention, his buddies looking on with vile judgment, mocking you.

"Fuck off," you shoot back, not for the first time today. Not for the first time in your life. Fending off men and the things they judge you for, the things they try to take from you, the life and joy they suck from you so carelessly.

You'd never stood a fucking chance.

Maybe that's why you'd always loved Joel, you muse to yourself as a fresh wave of tears spill from your eyes. Joel takes nothing from you, Joel wants you to live. Joel let you go even though all you'd ever wanted was for him to ask you to stay.

It's dusk now, you notice offhandedly, the air cooling as a canopy of thick, milky stars begin to coat the sky above, the neon signs and headlights dulling their shine from where you sit.

You consider walking out into the open desert, till you're far enough away from Benson that you could clearly see the Big Dipper. Better yet, you could walk north until you see the Aurora Borealis or hit the open ocean and just disappear forever into the frozen water. It would probably feel better than how you feel right now.

But no. You can't. Joel could never find you there. And Joel has to be able to find you.

As if on cue, a familiar truck comes into view, cracking open your reverie and blasting down the interstate at a dangerous velocity. You practically jump to your feet as Joel's truck comes to a grinding halt, sandy dust clouding the air around you as he parks across two spots before you.

You watch, heart in your throat, as he leaps out of the front seat. You're not sure what you're expecting - a longing embrace maybe? A cinematic kiss perhaps. A heroic Joel scooping you into his arms and carrying you home, a vision you'd dreamt about dozens of times since Christmas.

It’s none of the above. Because as quickly as Joel gets out of the truck, you notice the look on his face; jaw clenched and brows furrowed, lips melded into a hard line -

Joel is livid.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell were you thinkin'?" he demands, approaching you fiercely before stopping suddenly, still several feet away, not close enough to touch, as though he's not sure if he's allowed. But he's there - Joel is right there.

The last of the ogling men disperse cautiously, Joel's rage apparently far more frightening than yours.

"What?" you shout back at him, matching his energy instinctively. Exhausted and heartbroken, anger comes easily.

"Drivin' through the night like that? Are you insane?"

You scoff. You're a good driver, more than capable of driving at night. Plus -

"I had a reason." You hate how cracked your voice sounds from crying and lack of sleep. "And I didn't drive all night, okay? I stayed the night in Phoenix."

"Are you fuckin'..." Joel shakes his head in disbelief.

"What?" you press him.

"I was in Phoenix last night," he huffs exasperatedly. "We went right passed each other."

Fuck. It would be funny if it wasn't so goddamn heartbreaking. Joel had been in the same city as you and you hadn't even known. You could have stayed in the same motel. Could have gotten breakfast at the same drive-thru before leaving in opposite directions.

You're at a rare loss for words. Joel sighs and presses a tired fist to his forehead.

"You should've called m - someone," he says finally. "You should've called someone."

You catch the slip-up, of course you do. And you can't even argue because you know he's right. You feel your face crumple, feel that familiar slump of defeat in your shoulders. Meanwhile, Joel is right fucking there, the closest he's been to you in months and for some reason you're still not touching him.

"I'm sorry..." you croak. "I'm sorry, Joel."

Joel's ire dissipates in an instant, his features softening as he finally closes the space between you and pulls you into his arms in a bone-crushing hug. The second he wraps you in his embrace, the sobs you've been containing break free, shaking against his chest as your tears meet his t-shirt.

"Oh, babygirl, it's okay," he murmurs gruffly into your hair, pulling you in tighter. You can hear the strain in his voice, his ragged breath on your bare skin. Joel is just as overcome as you. Sensing it only makes you cry harder.

"What happened?" he asks.

Where do you even begin?

It's too late to get back on the road, Joel decides.

"We'll just stay here tonight, okay?" he suggests. "You shouldn't be drivin' like this."

You don't disagree. He books you a room in the adjacent motel. You park your vehicles side by side out front. You sit with him on the springy mattress while Joel holds you till your tears subside. Several minutes pass like that, Joel lightly rocking you in his big, comforting embrace.

It’s the safest you’ve felt in a long time.

"You ready to tell me about it, sweetheart?" he asks softly, pulling back to wipe the last of your tears from your cheeks before clutching your hands between your bodies.

You nod. He waits.

"Don't get upset, okay?" you begin. His lips instantly turn down in a frown - so much for that.

"Okay," he says anyway, voice hard and flat.

You take a deep breath. "So you know Adam?"

You feel him stiffen, catch the way disdain flashes in his eyes at just the mention of the other man's name. If Joel's jealousy had been palpable through the phone, it burns like a wildfire in person.

"I guess."

"He - kind of tried it with me. That day I called you."

You watch Joel's face carefully. A terrifying muscle clenches in his jaw and he swallows harshly. His grip on your wrists tightens as he nods stiffly but says nothing.

You can probably imagine what it is he's holding back.

"Nothing happened," you go on. "Like, really, nothing. I turned him down and I thought that was the end of it."

Joel listens intently, waves of quiet rage rolling off him while your hands burn in his grasp.

"But then yesterday..." you continue, taking a steadying breath as emotion pools in your stomach again. "When I went to sign the contract for that job - you know the one I told you about?"

Joel nods once.

"They told me I didn't have it anymore."

Joel's brows furrow. "But I thought you already had it?"

"No...I guess...it was never in writing," you shake your head. "Adam - um - he went behind my back. He told my agent I'd backed out before I could sign anything."

"Why would he do that?" Joel asks through his teeth, sounding very much like he already knows the answer.

You don't respond, just stare at your conjoined hands, confirming his unspoken assumption.

"I'll kill that fucker," Joel gnarls then and you think it sounds like a genuine threat.

You snicker coldly. "Not if I kill him first."

He clears his throat, shakes his head and - rather pointedly - changes the subject.

"But there'll be other jobs." He squeezes your hands, this time with more soothing intent. "You didn't need to leave."

You sniff lightly and shake your head, glancing up at him from under your tear-soaked lashes.

"Well, no, actually," you press, gearing up for the pièce de résistance. "My agent dropped me. Said it didn't reflect well on them if I've got 'one foot out the door.'"

"Fuck," Joel breathes.

"Yeah. And, anyway, is that why you came to see me, Joel? To tell me to keep at it? Just keep goin'?" It's a weak impression of his low, gravelly drawl but it makes him fleetingly smile in spite of it all.

But then his eyebrows furrow again and as quickly as it had come, his smile fades.

"No," he shakes his head but doesn't elaborate, his eyes fixed on the flowery bedspread.

It's quiet for a long moment then. You take a deep breath and fill the sudden silence with the truth.

"I'm giving up, Joel," you confess, hysterics rising to the surface once again. "I can't do it anymore. I thought I could do it, but I can't. I can't do it when - "

He looks up at you, fervidly attentive while he waits for you to go on, like he knows what you want to say.

You fill your lungs with cigarette-stained air and finally let slip what's in your heart - "I can't do it because you're back home and I'm not."

You can't look at him when you say it but the weight of your words hangs thick like fog around you both. He doesn't speak so you go on.

"I know it's - I know it's not right," you cry. "I should want it more, I should be - I don't know, like, fighting for myself or working harder or - or - "

You take a steadying breath and bury your face in your hands, too ashamed to admit the rest to his face.

"But I just - don't want any of it without you. I don’t care if that's or stupid or naïve or whatever. Or if you even want me like that, I just - I would choose a life with you over this any day. I'll always choose that, Joel - and I'm sorry."

It's quiet again while your confession seeps into walls around you, drowned out by the hum of the AC and the static buzz of fluorescent lighting above you. You wet your palms with tears while Joel breathes shallowly before you.

Finally, after far too long, his hands find your wrists again, this time to pry your fingers away from your face. Joel sighs, placing two big palms on either side of your face, his gaze unavoidable now.

"Sweetheart, what'd I tell you at Christmas? I never wanted you to go. Baby, I want you more'n anythin'. You know that."

You shake your head. You don't know that. You've never known that.

"Darlin' - fuck - " Joel's palms burn your cheeks as your tears collect on his fingers. His sincere, brown eyes look back at you, wet with his own overflowing emotion. "I want you to come home. So much - god, I want that so much. But you - you can't...you can't quit 'cause of me. M'not...worth it."

You want to argue that it's not just because of him - that every time you'd made any sort of headway in Hollywood something had come along to fuck it up again. That the universe obviously just doesn't want this for you. It's not not true, but it's also not nearly as important.

Because of course it's about Joel. It's always been about Joel.

You swallow back a wave of tears and grip his forearms.

"Joel you're..."

How do you even put it into words? Of course he's worth it - he's worth everything, to you. You decide to show him instead.

"Just tell me," you instruct him with conviction.

He frowns, confused, as he works to catch up with your line of thinking. "What?"

"Tell me you want me to come back. Joel - please."

Now his tears spill over, features tightening as he, not for the first time, visibly wars with himself. Always, always warring with what he really wants and what he thinks he should want.

"I can't do that, sweetheart," he whispers, his voice shattered because you can see how much he wants to.

"Then why'd you come here? Huh?" you demand, voice rising as your desperation grows. Joel flinches at your words. "This isn't the life I want. And I'm not just saying that because of what happened. Joel - there's only one life I've ever wanted."

Your gaze locks with his and you watch him scan your face for any trace of a lie. You know he won't find one.

"Tell me, Joel," you beg weakly. "Tell me to come back and I will."

Joel waits a beat, squaring his shoulders with a steadying breath and a cracked sniffle.

"Come back, superstar," he pleads then. "Come home to me."

A soft gasp and you nod fervently, breathy, "I will, Joel, I will," lost, as he steals the words from your waiting mouth with a bruising kiss.

It's like every other time you’ve kissed him, feverish and heady, always running out of time. His mouth moves against yours with intent, tongue slipping between your cracked, wet lips as his hands tangle in your hair, locking you in place. You're no less impatient, palms wandering the vast expanse of his broad chest, his shoulders, his arms, pressing closer to him with each shared breath that passes between your lips.

"Fuck," Joel groans when you climb into his lap, straddling him and wrapping your arms around his neck. His palms find the small of your back, pressing your hips closer into his, the burgeoning bulge in his jeans prodding into your thigh; materiality at last. Joel is here.

"Is this real?" you find yourself asking anyway, as your fingers coil in his curls and his lips explore your neck hungrily.

"I hope so," he murmurs gruffly into your collarbone, the faintest of chuckles coating his words. He can laugh all he wants but it's a valid enough question - Joel's been nothing but a memory for the past six months, a disembodied voice through the wire, not someone to hold and kiss and love.

He lays you back then but stays comfortably situated between your legs, his pelvis grinding into yours, another stabilizing reminder of his presence.

He's still not wasting time, helping lift your shirt over your head and unhooking your bra clumsily while you fumble with your jeans zipper. He palms your breasts roughly the second they're free, calloused fingers dragging over the soft skin of your stomach before sliding your jeans and underwear off completely.

He's burying his face into your aching heat without warning then, moaning the second his tongue swipes through your folds, already wet with need. It catches you off guard, the sudden contact on your long-neglected cunt. Your fingers scratch at his shoulders but it only seems to encourage him - he braces his hands on your thighs as his eyes flutter closed, savouring your flavour when his lips close around your clit.

"Missed this pussy so fuckin' much," he hums distantly against you. "Almost forgot how good you taste. You miss my mouth, sweetheart?"

He sounds almost needy for the assurance.

"Shit - yes," you promise him. "Thought about it all the time, Joel."

"S'right."

Amid the obscene sounds of his lips on your soaking folds, you're reminded of his needy voice through a cell phone speaker, all those months ago now -

"...Wanna get my mouth on you so bad. Wanna taste you again."

It had sounded true then. It feels true now.

He doesn't need to ask this time; you know he wants to hear you, know how much likes it. And it's hardly a stretch to give him that, the way his tongue is circling your clit has you crying out a symphony over him, quiet curses and repeated refrains of his name tumbling from your lips unabashedly. You find yourself squirming under his touch, grinding your hips upward for more, more, more.

Joel seems to get the hint.

"Let me see you, baby," he implores you brusquely, pulling back to tap your sides, gently coercing you to turn on your tummy. But then he's yanking you back by the hips so your ass is up and your chest is pressing hard into the mattress, his tongue once again invading your entrance, slipping inside with no resistance from you. Your spine arches and you push back into his mouth, his big hands fanning out over your ass and spreading you open so you're fully on display for him.

He hums a pleased little noise into your heat, vibrations rattling your bones and making you dizzy with him, before he's pulling off you with a final languid lick only to replace his tongue with one thick finger. He drags his slick-coated moustache over your skin to nip at the plush skin of your ass while he slowly fucks his finger in and out of you.

"Christ, look at you," he marvels quietly, again, like he's saying it just to himself. "My perfect girl."

"M'yours, Joel..." you vow, drunk on the way it sounds, how it feels to be his. It's all you've ever wanted. Joel, for his part, groans openly at your hushed assertion.

"Say that again, sweetheart," he supplicates raggedly. You peer over your shoulder to see him palming himself through his jeans, index finger of his other hand still slotted securely in your centre.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"I'm yours," you tell him again, breathless and truthful. "Joel - make me yours."

He grunts softly, hearing the request in your words as he quickly strips down, the clinking sound of his belt buckle sending sparks flying to your core in anticipation.

He's back over you in an instant, leaning his naked body on yours so you feel his cock, hard and leaking, against the bare skin of your thighs. You rock into him and the friction seems to effect the both of you, Joel's hands combing harshly up and down your sides, over your perked nipples and down your spine.

"You know how many times I dreamt about this, babygirl?" he breathes, planting fevered kisses down your back, one of his hands once again creeping between your thighs to sink two fingers into your heat, stretching you in preparation for him. "To have you like this again, all wet and open for me. To - fuck - to be inside you."

"Joel…" you whimper, impatience setting in as you drip over his knuckles. "Please."

It's the most you can muster and it's all you need; Joel doesn't seem to be interested in teasing you any longer. He pulls you into his chest and buries his cock into you at last, cursing hotly in your ear as his strong arms engulf you, palms grabbing at your breasts till one finds your face, tilting your chin towards him to lock his mouth with yours.

He swallows each breathless moan from your parted lips as he fucks you deeply, not slow but not rushed either, sloppy with his efforts when he reaches around you to finger your clit, desperate to make sure you enjoy it too - so very Joel.

"I wanna feel you come around me, sweetheart, can you gimme that?" he growls into the hollow of your ear and you nod -

Yes yes a million times yes.

"Good girl."

You moan out his name, his words sparking a reminder of your very first night together, how dark and commanding he'd sounded in the dim light of your bedroom, how similar he sounds now and yet so completely different.

A pool of heat begins to build in your belly, Joel's thrusts never slowing, his fingers on your clit demanding. He's all around you, everywhere, finally.

You try to warn him but it's too late, the heat erupts in your core and you quiver against him, laboured, "I'm coming - Joel," escaping your lips in the form of a high pitched groan. Joel groans too, the feeling of your walls tightening around him turning his movements messier still, his big hand on your chest locking just under your neck as he rides it out with you. He's close too, right on the edge, if the quickening of his panted grunts in your ear are anything to go by.

In the haze of your orgasm, limp in his arms, you recall again his words on the phone all those moons ago now:

"Let me hear those pretty sounds you make."

Your head falls back on his shoulder and you answer his prayers.

"Joel, baby…" you croon, velvet soft and dripping adoration. "Come inside me, please. Missed it so much..."

You feel his hips stutter as he whimpers at your words, his fingers unwittingly tightening at the base of your neck.

"Fuuuck, keep talkin'," he pleads lowly.

"You feel so fucking good, Joel," you go on. "Wanted your cock for so long - shit - wanted to - feel you fill this pussy up. Only you, Joel. Only you make me feel this good."

"Fuck me, baby, I'm gonna come," he groans, an enticing promise. "You want it inside?"

"Pleasepleaseplease."

Two more piercing pumps and then he's crushing you into him, coming with his cock deep inside you, his muffled moans getting caught in your hair and tickling your ear. It seems to last forever, Joel filling you completely with his seed, refusing to pull out until the last of the aftershocks pass through him and you've both properly caught your breath.

Then he sits back on his haunches, keeping you trapped in his embrace so you're sitting in his lap with his arms wrapped around your middle.

It's quiet for a long while as Joel plants tender kisses over your shoulders and cheeks, the back of your neck. Your eyes slip closed at some point, and you think you might fall asleep like that, safe in Joel's arms, finally back where you belong.

But Joel shifts above you to check the time on his watch before you can, stirring you back to life.

"What time is it?" you whisper.

"Midnight."

A smile pulls at your lips then when you realize the date.

"Joel. It’s July twenty-fifth."

You look up to see him staring down at you with bemused confusion. "So?"

"It's Christmas in July," you tell him, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. A full six months since you were last together.

"Shit," Joel smirks, squeezing you a little tighter into him to whisper in your ear, "Happy...birthday in July, Jesus?"

You burst out laughing, your first real laugh in months; it’s probably the funniest fucking thing you've ever heard Joel Miller say.

"I don't think that's how that works," you say.

"Yeah, that was fuckin' stupid, m'sorry. Was funnier when you said it."

But he's laughing too as he finally unwinds himself from you, only to lie back with his head on the superfluous motel pillows, reaching a hand out to you to join him. You curl into his side and he wraps a thick arm around you, both of you sighing when you settle into place.

You close your eyes again but you don’t sleep. You think.

You think about how maybe this could be life with Joel. Mind-blowing sex and stupid jokes and warm embraces. But that wouldn’t be all of it, you know that. Maybe it'll be hard; maybe he'll get distant or angry or busy or scared.

Maybe you'll be all those things too. Maybe you'll wish you'd tried harder in Hollywood or come to regret all that you'd given up. Maybe you'll get bitter or sad or stressed-out or stubborn.

Maybe, though, maybe it's okay.

Because you want all of it. The complications and the dreary Mondays. You could still work, follow your passion in a smaller way - teach snotty, suburban teenagers the Brechtian method or go back to school yourself. You could do it.

You could do it with the man you came home for, the only soul who can tell which smiles you're faking. The warmest bed you've ever known.

It's clearer now, so much clearer than before, your future and all it could be.

You're pulled from your reverie when Joel begins to snore softly beside you, his thick chest rising and falling in peaceful swells.

He's so beautiful. He's yours.

One way or another, he's finally yours.

Sun streams through the crack in the motel's mint green curtains and Joel is already awake.

"Hey," he's saying in a hushed murmur as he gently shakes you to life. You blink in the morning light until he comes into focus over you, standing beside the bed, sleepy-eyed and haggard-looking, but undeniably up.

"We should hit the road," he insists softly. "Long day."

"Mmm," you nod as you peel yourself off the mattress. You're sore, in a lot of places, hours of driving and fucking and crying leaving you achy and weak. You stretch your arms and wiggle your toes. Joel smiles down at you.

"Do we have time for breakfast?" you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You really hope you have time for breakfast.

Joel's grin widens. "Not really."

"I know you want a coffee," you press him. He sighs, you've got him there.

"Come on, we're on the interstate, I want a Grand Slam," you say with finality, holding out your hand and letting Joel help you out of bed. "When in Benson, you know?"

Joel rolls his eyes. Yeah, you've got him. Welcome to the rest of your life, Miller.

Twelve-hour drive be damned, you savour your eggs and bacon at the neighbouring Denny's, tucked into Joel's side in the yellow booth in a manner most inconducive to eating. You don't care. Neither does he as far as you can tell.

Joel sips on his coffee and swipes your sausages ("It's like that, huh?" "M'not hungry, just want a bite."), placing the occasional kiss to the top of your head and stealing glances at the news flashing on the TV overhead for traffic alerts.

There’s nothing to fear. It’s all clear on the I-10, as far as Van Horn.

Eventually you have to part ways, relegated to your own vehicles for the long journey ahead. You hate it, hate that you have to be apart from him again after just getting him back. Joel seems uneasy about it too, clinging to you with an arm over your shoulder right up until he's depositing you by your car.

"You'll follow me?" he asks.

"I'll follow you."

He nods, slowly leaning in to kiss your cheek, chaste and sweet. "Drive safe."

Your eyes slip shut when his lips brush your skin; you lean into it, however fleeting it is.

"You too."

Joel takes a deep breath, looking for a moment as though he's ready to walk away, before he's crushing you into his chest for one last embrace. Just a hug - a strong, solid, lasting, fervent hug.

There's something lurking under Joel's grasp, something uncertain. You feel it in the way his arms constrict around you, the tautness of the muscles there, the way he clings to you a little too long to feel comforting anymore.

Is Joel...afraid? You'd been afraid too, in your dreams last night, that the spell would break once you'd left this place. The reality of what going home actually means has been creeping up on you since your exchange of confessions in the motel room. There's going home, then there's going home with Joel.

You still don't know what that looks like.

You hug him back fiercely, nuzzling into his chest and infusing all the love you can muster into your embrace. Whatever it is you're going back to, you're ready for it.

You hope it's enough. Because now you really have to go if you hope to beat the dark. It's already not looking good. At this rate it'll be well past dusk by the time you hit Texas.

Sure enough, the sun is long set behind you when you cross into your home state. Traffic has you losing sight of Joel's truck somewhere near Sonora and although you're not thrilled at the loss, you don't panic. You know your way from here.

It's muscle memory by the time you get to Austin, the way to that old familiar cul-de-sac etched in your mind like hieroglyphics.

You're not surprised to find Joel's beaten you home, standing in his driveway in the glow of a streetlight.

Muscle memory tells you to turn left into your dad's driveway. That’s what you'd normally do, that's what you've always done. Turning right into Joel's driveway isn't something you've ever even considered. Until now, of course.

You're taking too long to decide, awkwardly frozen in the middle of the road. You catch Joel eyeing you expectantly before he averts his gaze, never one to pressure you. Since day one that's been true; Joel's never pushed you, Joel's always waited for you to make the first move.

It hits you then - how it's not a hard decision at all. It's the easiest goddamn move of your life. There's Joel, perfect and patient and kind and caring and waiting - waiting for you. You don't have to think, you don't have to question it -

You turn right, home.

THE END.

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#brb #going to go sob into my pillow cause i didn't want it to end #han you are so unbelievably talented #i felt it ALL #joel miller fic recs

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