Blood Ties Chapter 27
Series Masterlist
Warnings: Poorly written smut; lots and lots of pregnancy stuff (kinda gross toward the last)
A/N: We are now exiting my area of expertise with pregnancy. Google will be my friend. If I made mistakes, please just pretend I didnât. lol
gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams
Opening your eyes, you had to immediately squint against the morning sun. It couldnât be later than eight oâclock, give or take a few minutes. You were still in the same room Hershel had put you in two days ago, only allowed up to walk around, use the bathroom, and join for meals if you would like. Hershel had said you could still do light chores with no bending or reaching above your head, but Daryl had forbidden it without even saying a word. So, you mostly rested and focused on taking in enough water. Carl or Beth would bring each personâs bag so you could go through and inventory the contents, ensuring all the supplies were making it from each escape and taking note of any new supplies added.Â
Stretching your legs, you winced at the ache in your pelvis. âChrist, Thumps. Why do you have to sit right on my bladder first thing in the morning?â
âSâprolly like a pillow.âÂ
You already wore a smirk when your head rolled toward the door, finding Daryl in the chair working on his crossbow. Did it really take that much upkeep? Or was he just that meticulous? Cradling your belly, you eased onto your side to face him, propping yourself on your elbow with your cheek on your palm.Â
âMost women would find it creepy to wake up with a man watching them while tinkering with a weapon.âÂ
His hands kept moving but he looked up with a smirk of his own, a dark brow arched. âBut not you?â
You shook your head against your hand, smiling gently. âNot me.â He laughed with a breath through his nose and refocused on what he was doing. You had to push yourself up on your arm and shimmy around a bit to get into an actual seated position. Your belly was warm and heavy against your upper thighs, a hand or foot pressing out next to your navel. You poked it and chuckled when it disappeared and popped right back out. âGood morning, baby.âÂ
In your peripheral, you could see Daryl had stilled, felt his eyes on you. He was watching the interaction in silence, as he usually did. Just as you watched his interactions without a word. You started to invite him over, but the baby shifted, the weight on your full bladder doubling and the discomfort growing tenfold.Â
âOkay, time to pee. Likeâyesterday.â
Your partner was already getting to his feet and standing next to the bed before you even maneuvered your way to the edge of the mattress. Daryl leaned forward for you to grab his biceps while his hands found purchase beneath your arms and pulled you the remainder of the way with what appeared to be little to no effort. Using the hold he still had on you, he lifted you straight up and let you find your footing. Your protruding stomach was pressed against him, immediately squashing any hope you had of stealing a kiss.
You looked up at him with a silly pout that instantly disappeared in the face of the tiny one-sided lift of his lips. Heâd smiled at you before; hell, heâd even laughed at and with you. But this? This was the most peaceful, truest smile you had ever seen him wear.Â
And then it was gone, replaced with a scowl that was half hearted at best. âWhatâs with the face?âÂ
âNothing.â You brushed your fingers over his left temple at the same time that you felt his hands on either side of your belly. âAs sweet as this moment is and as much as I love you, if we donât get me somewhere to empty my bladder within the next two point three secondsâwell, remember when I vomited on your boots?âÂ
âGross.â Darylâs lip curled. He knew where you were taking that implication and urged you toward the door with a hand on the small of your back. âJust walk. Orâwaddle.â When you snapped your head around to gape at him, he was utterly stoic.
âI swear Iâm gonna strap a watermelon to your stomach and weâll see how sexy you can strut.â
The archer snorted, following you out the door.
You were impressed that you could still move as fast as you were, dodging and ducking, with Carolâs hand tight in one of yours. Your bag was on your shoulder, bouncing against your back, and your other hand braced the swell of your belly. The other woman was watchful, taking out anything that she knew you couldnât get around. Daryl was at your heels, stabbing walkers that stumbled out from the sides.
âGet âer outta here, Carol!â He roared from behind you, sounding further away than you were entirely comfortable with, but he always said run, donât look back. You had promised to listen to him. Itâs how you kept the peace when you were just as stubborn as him. Each of you gave a little.
âIâm trying!â Carol hissed out through gritted teeth, letting go of your hand to push back a walker while she stabbed another. Your knife sheath was unsecured, the weapon easily accessible, but you had promised to only use it when absolutely necessary. The walker that Carol had shoved turned in a stagger that led it straight toward you. In your book, that qualified as necessary. You took it down with ease, unable to admit how good it felt to protect yourself because another took its place. And another. And another. âGo! Get to the truck!âÂ
You had the keys. Daryl always made sure you carried them now. You were perfectly capable of hot-wiring a vehicle but he didnât want you wasting time. The two of you never discussed what would happen if he made it to the truck and you never did. He would never entertain the thought. Not for a moment.Â
You gave Carol a look, one that said you knew you had to listen to her, to Daryl but that it was definitely not what you wanted to do. And then you ran, stabbing if needed, dodging when you could. There were so fucking many. You could hear the yells of the others making their way to the van, sending up a silent prayer that they all made it. Your lungs were on fire by the time you saw the truck. It should have been a straight shot but someoneâwho had yet to come clean because you were all running for your livesâhad left the gate open and allowed the dead to fill the driveway.
You caught yourself against the cold metal passenger door, fumbling for the handle before jerking it open. You had lifted one foot into the cab when the door was forced inward, slamming it against the side of your head. With a shout, you pushed back, scrambling to get inside the truck while your ears rang and your vision blurred. How many head injuries were you going to rack up within a year? Hands were grabbing at you, pulling at your bag, your clothes, your hair. Finally, you were on the seat, holding the door tight while two arms and several hands kept you from closing it.
âFuck!â
Their snarls and moans were so loud that you couldnât hear anything beyond them and the steady knell in your ears. Hands hit the driverâs side window. More walkers. Daryl wasnât there. Carol wasnât there. Youâd never be able to get across the seat to start the truck before at least one was in the cab with you, maybe more.Â
But goddamnit, you had to try. Â
It was the only option left. You had to save Thumper and that meant saving yourself. It was what Daryl made you promise.
Holding the door with one hand, you leaned and fumbled with the key against the ignition. âCome on!â After a few more tries, a few more agonizing seconds, the key slid home. âYes!â You let the bag slide from your shoulder and to the floorboard. Turning yourself to put your feet against the door while still holding the handle was some seriously uncomfortable gymnastics shit but you didnât hold the position long. Pushing against the door with your feet, you both propelled yourself toward the steering wheel and knocked back the walkers that had been blocking you.Â
The seat was left between where it needed to be for you or Daryl to be able to drive. You could fix it later but you could fit well enough to get the fuck out of there. Turning the key, the engine barely started before you were throwing the shifter into drive. There were thumps that indicated a few had climbed into the bed but you could deal with that later.Â
Mowing down walker after walker, you nearly sobbed when you saw the taillights of the van. The others had made it. Had everyone made it? Maybe Daryl and Carol were with them. It took only a few moments to get far enough away to stop. You pulled off the road, just behind the van, your passenger door hanging open. The truck rocked, reminding you that there were still the walkers in the bed, but as people filed out of the van, there was no Carol. No Daryl.Â
And your world came to a screeching halt. âNo.â You whispered against the hand you pressed to your mouth. Your other hand gripped the fabric of your coat over your stomach. Rick would never let the walkers get into the truck so you placed your head against the steering wheel and let the tears fall. How would you do this without Daryl? How could you live without him? The man you loved was gone and you knew in your heart of hearts that you needed to go back, face the herd, find himâalong with Carolâand put them down. You wouldnât leave them to walk. You couldnât. You needed closure. A grave to visit if possible.
When the driverâs side door opened, you sobbed even harder, knowing Rick could never know how to comfort you. Your arms wrapped around your belly, your apologies to little Thumper for never being able to meet their father were choked down by each jerk of your shoulders, each wet breath. Distantly, inwardly, you hoped for a boy that you knew you would name DJ. You hoped he would be the spitting image of Daryl.Â
âChrist, ya drive like a maniac. Ya hurt? Baby okay?â
You straightened so quickly that your belly bumped the steering wheel and you felt a twinge of pain in your back. Darylâa little worse for wearâwas standing at the door, staring at you like nothing had happened.
âDarâhowââ You sobbed.
âJumped in the back âfore ya could peel outta there. Carol too.â He tilted his head and studied you, his eyes raking over you before stopping on the right side of your head. âYa alright?â You didnât even register his arm lifting, but then his calloused fingertips were touching a tender spot just behind your right temple. You hissed but that pain meant nothing. âHey, talk to me.â
As quickly as you could manage with your rounded middle, you launched yourself at him, falling into his chest with his arms instantly encircling you beneath your own. He walked forward and pushed you back onto the seat for support and held you tight, his cheek against the top of your head.
âI thought you were dead, you absolute fucking asshole!â
A hand pressed against the back of your head, pulling you to rest against his collarbone. âMâright here. Mâfine. Carolâs fine.â When he tried to push you back, you held on, digging your fingers into his back, taking fistfuls of his vest. âWant Hershel to look ya over, butcha gotta let go first.â
âNo.â You stated bluntly.
He didnât say anything for the longest time, simply letting you cling to him until your sobs had quieted to whimpers and hiccups, his large hands rubbing your back and cradling your head. âAlright. Least scoot over so I can drive. Anâ ya gotta let âim take a look atcha when we get to wherever the fuck weâre going.â
With a sniff, you conceded, nodding against his chest. When you moved back across the seat, you kept a hand fisted in the front of his shirt until he climbed in after you. He was talking with Rick but you didnât hear a word of it. Your forehead was pressed against the round of his shoulder, thigh against his, hands gripping the hem of his vest below the arm he had outstretched to the wheel. Your body rocked with his as he closed the door. He went still for a moment, likely examining how he was going to drive with you clinging to him like a fungus but not a word was said. You had never killed the engine, so he just shifted the gear and drove while you held onto him like a lifeline.
âSsh. Gotta be quiâfuckinâ christ.â
You had purposefully clenched your walls around him while continuing the steady rocking of your hips. âSsh,â you pressed a finger to your lips, âgotta be quiet, Daryl.â The scowl he gave you was impressive for a man teetering right on the edge of orgasm. You traced a line through the sheen of sweat on his chest, only stopping when you reached where your belly loomed over him. His fingers were digging into your thighs, moving up to your thickened waist to both guide and urge you. âIâm so close.â
Daryl only grunted, running a hand over your prominent belly and up to your breast, squeezing gently. You were still so sensitiveâand soreâbut with one flick of his thumb over your wet nipple, you crested, your palm swiftly covering your mouth to muffle your shout. He quickly let go of the soft mound of your chest to grab a thigh, digging blunt nails into your flesh as he followed you up, up, up with a series of heightened breaths, desperately keeping himself quiet as well.
Still panting, Daryl caught you by your bicep and rolled with you to lay you onto your side, slipping out of you in the process. You must have looked as dazed as you felt because he was brushing your sweaty mess of hair out of your face and narrowing his eyes. âYa okay?â
âMhm.â With a content sigh, you caught his hand and kissed his palm, smiling when he gave you that look as if he had no idea what to do next. âI love you.â His mouth twitched into a tiny smile, a hum vibrating behind his lips. He turned his hand to hold yours, placing them on the bed between you. He didnât say it back but he didnât need to; you knew. You knew about his dissent with emotions but he had said he loved you and you believed him. And that was that. âLetâs get cleaned up and go face the people we probably kept awake.â You chuckled.
He scoffed, throwing the blankets back from the bedroll as he sat up. The room was cold. There were even goosebumps on his skin where the air touched it, and that man was always hot. The house was more of a shack, one large room with the kitchen and a family area, one bedroom, and a bathroom. It was the third temporary safehouse in a week and a half.Â
Daryl kept the truck close to the door now, as close as he could possibly get it. With you at around 38 weeks, he was taking no chances. Seriously. No chances. You had to pee? He was with you. He had to pee? You were with him. He was practically attached to your hip, but you were finding you didnât feel crowded at all. You just couldnât since the night you thought youâd lost him.Â
The archer stood, pulling up his pants and underwear together, staring at the window as he buckled his belt. God, he was beautiful. The moonlight was bathing him just right. He didnât look real. Licking your lips, you thought about asking him to get right back under the blankets but that train of thought derailed with the tightening of your abdomen. You made a noise of discomfort, even though this contraction didnât hurt. It still wasnât the best feeling in the world.
âWhat?â Daryl sniffed, looking down at you.
âStupid fake contractions.â You grimaced, holding out a hand for something with which to clean yourself up. He was already on it, digging through the bag for the bra pads for you anyway. He tossed you one of his shirts, huffing a laugh when you regarded him with bewilderment. âAre we really going to have Carol washing jizz off one of your shirts? Oh my god, or Beth?! No! Give me something else!â
âAinât much else to use, Sunshine.â He tossed the bra pads at you but continued rifling through the bag. A box landed next to your hip which you recognized as squares of gauze. If it weren't for the fact that you not only needed to clean up the mess between your legs but the bedroll and blankets as well, you would have just thrown on your underwear and left it.
Daryl was buttoning his shirt and not really paying attention when you wiped through the sticky mess at your core, ready to open another square but then your hand was brought to a sudden halt. Along with your heart.Â
âDaryl.â You knew there was fear in your voice, you couldnât have hidden it if you tried. When you looked to him for reassurance, you found your expression mirrored.
âHey, doc, get the fuck in here!â He bellowed, staring at the thick glob of red, white, and yellow on the white material. Everyone was asleep or had at least bedded down, so it would likely take a moment for anyone to appear in the doorway. Still, he moved fast, pulling the tank top he had tossed to you over your head. It had to be stretched over your belly and a portion of your breasts could be seen from the side but at least you were mostly covered since it was untelling how many would respond to his exclamation.Â
âDaryl, itâs blood. Iâm bleeding. Is this normal? Is something wrong?â You rambled, the hand holding the gauze shaking so fiercely that he was forced to take hold of your wrist to steady it.
âI dunno. Hershel canâheâll look. Sâgonna be okay.â On his knees beside you, he pulled you against him with his free arm, holding you so tightly that you just knew it was so you didnât shatter. âHershel!â
âWhatâs wrong?â Carol was the first in, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her, but Hershel was just behind her, wiping at his eyes.
âWhat on earth, son?â
âSheâs bleedinâ, she ainât sâposed to bleed is she?â Now, you could feel Daryl shaking, even with his voice as steady as it was.
The others were filing into the room but Carol was on top of things, ushering them all right back out while the old man rolled up his sleeves.
âCarol, could you bring a couple more candles, please?â He asked, his tone so light that even you wanted to kick him. It was likely Daryl wanted to throw him out the window. âLetâs see what we have here.â Hershel picked up the one candle you and Daryl had lit and knelt down next to the bedroll, his knees cracking and popping. When he held his palm flat, you curled your lip, wishing gloves were something any of you had thought of on the runs. Daryl guided your hand with his hold on your wrist, keeping the gauze from flipping or spilling onto the manâs palm. âHmm. Can you tell me what happened before this?â
You and Daryl turned beet red. There was obviously cum on the gauze as well.
ââSides the obvious?â The archer murmured.
âOkay, so sex.â Hershel nodded. Daryl blanched. âAnything else?â
You were suddenly blank, the fear gripping your heart so tightly that it was cutting off the circulation to your brain. How could he seem so calm about this?
âShe had oneâa them fake contractions.â Daryl supplied. If you werenât a trembling wreck, you would have kissed him.Â
Carol trotted back into the room with a candle in each hand, kneeling down next to the veterinarian. âIs thatâ?â
âI think so.â
You were looking back and forth between the two, still unable to find your voice. Once again, Daryl spoke for you. âGonna make us guess?!â He snapped.
âEasy, Daryl.â Carol admonished, reaching a hand toward him but not touching.
âDonât fuckinâ easy me! What the fuck isââ
âCalm down.â Hershel demanded in a no nonsense tone. You felt Darylâs hold around your shoulders tighten. âI believe this is what is called the bloody show. Sometimes it just comes out on its own, but it can be triggered by intercourse. Now I have no way of knowing if the mucus plug has already passed and sadly, our woodland toilet would make it difficult to know anyway. It could actually be present in this. Regardless, that hardly matters.â
âMâgonna need some English anâ real fuckinâ quick, doc.â
âSheâs fine, Daryl.â Carol soothed. âYou know we wouldnât say that if she werenât.â The archer looked back and forth between the two again while you looked up at him. It took a long moment of uncomfortable silence but you felt the tension pressed against you loosen ever so slight. âLet him finish.â
Daryl gave a curt nod.
âThis usually means the cervix is thinning and dilating; that the baby is nearly ready to be born. Now the contraction,â he continued while twisting to place the gauze somewhere behind him, âcould have been Braxton Hicks, yes. It could have also been the real thing. Was it painful?â
You shook your head.
âThey arenât always in the beginning. According to my reading, some women are lucky enough to have very mild contractions all throughout labor and delivery.â He smiled, trying so hard to settle the unease eating its way through your sternum. âIâd like to examine you. Would you allow that?â
You nodded, feeling Daryl turn his head to see your permission with his own eyes.
âOkay, lie back please. Carol, Iâll need some water and soap please.â The woman was up and out the door before you could blink. âThis will be just like the last one. Some mild discomfort but it shouldnât be anything beyond that. Have you had any contractions since the last one?â
âNo.â You sounded so small, even to your own ears.
âOkay, thatâs good. We wonât rule anything out yet. Your water hasnât broken, but I must warn you that it is possible I may accidentally cause that during the exam. If that happens, thereâs no reason to be alarmed.âÂ
You were nodding, you felt yourself doing it but it didnât feel like you were really there at all. The fear had won and you were falling victim to the panic stirring up within you, its tendrils snaking around your lungs, making it impossible to breathe.Â
Then Daryl released your wrist and slipped his hand into yours.
He was listening carefully to Hershel, watching Carol return, but he was still attentive to what you needed at that moment as well. You felt the pressure in your chest recede, your lungs easily filling while your heartrate slowed. You were still scared. You still trembled, but so did he.
The vet had moved onto the bedroll but before he could do anything, Daryl was reaching down with a quick I got it and moving the blanket. His free hand was warm on your thigh, not removing it until you bent your knees and placed your feet flat. You watched the old man for a moment, suddenly self conscious when he stared impassively before his eyes flitted over to Daryl.
âOh, uhâsorry for theâyeah.â The archer cleared his throat, his head ducking.
âCarol.â Hershel sighed. âIf there are any runs to be made soon, please make sure gloves are mentioned as a necessity.â The other woman giggled behind her hand but quickly wiped it away and nodded. âOkay, here we go.â
It felt exactly as it had the first time, deeply uncomfortable and borderline painful at certain points, though this time you were able to remain still and silent. You chose to watch your partner as he eyed Hershel like a hawk, eyes squinted and focused. You squeezed his hand. Instantly, his attention was on you. His thumb swept back and forth over your knuckles, a grounding movement on which you could center yourself.
âWell.â Hershel had pulled his hand away and was washing up with the soap and water Carol had brought in for him. âYouâre about 3cm, my dear. Now itâs anyoneâs guess when your water will break or if it will at all. If not, I will likely need to intervene to speed things up but thatâs down the road. Take it easy but walk around if you can. Drink lots of water, any extra that we can ration off for you. Iâm sure others would be willing, myself included. Let me know of any contractions, even if they arenât painful. We will need to start timing them. I can get Glenn to loan you the watch I gave to him, Daryl, but please donât smash it.â
âWait. Thatâs it?â You struggled to sit up until Daryl assisted you.
âThatâs it. Itâs a waiting game now.â Carol picked up what she could and promised to return for the rest, smiling at you before she left the room, likely to fill in the others. âBut from the looks of things, your little Thumper will be making his or her debut in the veryâand I mean veryânear future.â
Both you and Daryl stared at the doorway long after it was empty. When you squeezed his hand, he squeezed back. And in unison, you both took a deep breath and uttered two words.
âHoly shit.â
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That's all ladies and gentlemen âđ»
Play Stupid Games
Summary - Who woulda thought you could make Joel come by playing with his nipples? NOT ME!! (3.6k words)
Tags - implied age gap as Joel calls reader kiddo, Joel Miller Nipple Worship, almost sub!joel, for like 8 seconds max, sub to softdom!joel, unprotected Piv, nipple orgasm, premature ejaculation, come eating, thigh riding, fingering, Joel talks you through it.
A/N - this ended up being something between a drabble and a fic. I donât know what this is. God spoke to me and I listened.
Thank you thank you thank you @noxturnalpascal for cleaning this mess up, thank you @beefrobeefcal @tightjeansjavi and @joelsgreys for the encouragement I needed to finish this!
Joelâs sheets are scratchy yet soft, his walls are illuminated by the flickering light of his burning candles. Joelâs naked under his blankets, your naked body tangled up with his. Your head rests on his chest and you draw lazy patterns with your fingers on his soft, pillowy tummy as Joel reads Stephen Kingâs The Shining to you, turning the pages when he asks you to. This is your evening routine with him, and youâll never tire of it. Sex first, then a shared shower, where Joel washes your hair and you wash his. He dries you off, then you go back to bed to snuggle and read a book together. You giggle at the way he always wears his glasses too far down his nose, and he lightly drags his nails along your scalp. His clean and masculine scent takes over your senses and that low, gravelly tone of his voice as he reads aloud to you usually puts you to sleep in no more than twenty minutes.Â
âTurn the page for me, hon,â Joel asks.
Youâre not so tired tonight. Youâre watching Joelâs chest rise and fall, lost in your own world and not really paying attention to his reading. Instead, youâre watching his skin erupt in goosebumps as you trace his chest, toying with his sparse chest hair, lightly teasing his nipples, theyâre a dark sort of mauve-brown color. Joelâs breath hitches as they pebble beneath your touch.Â
He bounces his book lightly on the crown of your head. âYou with me?â
âMhm,â you hum, âOf course.â
âMm,â Joel mumbles, not convinced. And heâs right to not believe you. Youâre grinding against his thigh subtly, but not subtle enough for Joel to not notice. He smirks as you reach between his thighs, first cupping his balls and then playing with his cock, feeling him begin to thicken in your palm. âOhh,â Joel grins, âThatâs why youâre not listening.â
âIâm listening,â you reply, stroking his cock. Itâs always such a satisfying feeling, running your thumb along the thickness of his head, feeling him twitch and grow harder.Â
âAre ya? Whatâs happening right now?â
âWendyâŠâ
âWrong,â he interrupts, âTry again.â
âJackââ
âDanny,â Joel corrects, âWhatâs Danny doinâ?â You donât know the answer to that question, of course you donât. Because youâre too distracted by whatâs happening in your hand. âExactly,â Joel says. He sets his book down on his stomach, the pages split to mark his place. He reaches under the covers and wraps his hand around your wrist, halting your movements. âYou wore me out tonight, kiddo. I donât have it in me to go again.â
Itâs true, you did wear Joel out. It had been a few days since youâd last had him, and you were missing him dearly. Joel was gone all day, and youâd watched all three Indiana Jones movies, which didnât help your case in the least. Fuck it, you might even be ovulating. Youâre not exactly keeping track. Whoops.
You practically tackled him when he walked through the door. Dinner was made and the table set, but it remained untouched as you let Joel know just how much you missed him. Scrambling to unbuckle his belt, you walked him backwards until the backs of his legs hit the couch and he sat down. You wasted no time shimmying off your pants and pulling his own halfway down his thighs. He guided you to straddle his lap, his already rock-hard cock held loosely between his fingers.
Usually heâll tease you a bit, make you beg and ache and cry for it as he drags his tip through your folds, toy with your clit for a moment before notching himself at your entrance. Today, upon realizing the severity of your need for him, he pulled your hips down on his cock, burying himself in you entirely. He let you adjust to him, feel the stretch and the ache of him inside you. No fingers to warm you up, no tongue, he simply gave all of himself to you.Â
Once adjusted, he began to roll his hips, grunting in your ear as you moaned sweetly in his own. That patch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit, how his thick cock hit all of your sweetest spots with each of his deep, sloppy, and quick thrusts. He was relentless, just how you needed him. As he fucked you, he slid his hands up the softness of your tummy and your rib cage, then cupped your breasts, flicking and twisting your nipples with his fingertips.Â
Per your wishes, Joel had brought you to the edge and pushed you over it multiple times by the time it was all said and done. You came on his cock once and begged him to let you come once more, and then one more time after that before he finally let himself go. By the time youâd finished, the sun had gone down and dinner had gottencold. It couldâve been hours, and Joel was spent. He could hardly keep his eyes open in the shower, swaying back and forth as he flirted with the idea of falling asleep under the warm water running down his shoulders.Â
-
âIâll do all the work, Joel,â you offer as you squeeze his cock. âI just need you for a second.âÂ
âCharming. You lied to me twice just now,â Joel smirks, turning his head to look down at where your head rests on his shoulder. âDidnât you?â
âNo, of course not.â
âOh, sure. You just need me for a second, huh? Can I time it?â You bite your cheek to hide your sheepish smile. You see his point, but you werenât lying, just slightly misrepresenting the truth. âYeah, and you know what else is a load of bullshit? Iâll do all the work, Joel,â he mocks, putting on his best girl voice and batting his eyelashes.Â
Youâre definitely not lying about that, though. âItâs true,â you argue, âIâllââ
âYeah, right. You ainât done a lick of hard work in your life. You got me in the palm of your hand and you donât gotta lift a damn finger to get what you want. Do you?â
Youâre not answering that. Instead, holding up your pinkie finger, you swear to Joel, âI promise, Iâll do it all.â
Joel eyes you suspiciously before holding up his pinkie finger as well. You link fingers, kiss your thumb as he kisses his own, then smush them together. âSâa deal now, my darlinâ.â
Joel first takes off his glasses, then dog-ears the page of his book to mark his place in the story before he sets both down on his nightstand. He raises his hands in the air as if heâs surrendering to you. You pull down the blankets and straddle him, your already wet pussy grinding against his now fully-hardened cock. You smile mischievously, biting your bottom lip as you pin his wrists to the bed on either side of his head. âGoddamn,â he drawls, âAm I nothinâ but a piece of meat to ya?â
âMhm,â you reply, kissing his cheek and then his lips.
Joel smiles against your lips, âAlright, sweet girl. Show me what you got,â he mumbles. You pull back and Joel waits patiently, his wrists still pinned under your palm as you decide what youâre gonna do to him. You start first by grinding yourself against his member, garnering an amused smile from him as his tip catches against your clit and you moan. âVery nice,â he praises, âGimme some more.â
Still grinding on his cock, you kiss his lips again, then down his jaw, down his neck, biting and sucking as you do so. âNo marks,â he warns, squeezing your ass.Â
âI know, Joel,â you whisper, continuing your trail of kisses down his chest, down his tummy and back up again. You line yourself up with his cock and sink down on him, experimentally licking a nipple at the same time. Joel shivers. You do it again, this time gently teasing his other nipple with your fingers.Â
âWhat are you doinâ, kiddo,â Joel murmurs quietly.Â
âNothing, Joel.â
âI think youâre lyinâ again. Think youâre causinâ trouble.â
âIâm taking care of you.â
âI donât, fuck, I donât knowââ you hum against him, sending vibrations through his skin. Youâre grinding on him as you do so, rubbing your clit against that patch of hair at the base of his cock, taking in all of him - the feeling of him inside you, how youâre pulsing around him. His smell, his warm and thick body underneath yours. Heâs breathing heavily, little whimpers escaping his mouth as he squeezes your ass and your sides, his fingertips digging into your skin so hard it hurts. He seems almost desperate.Â
âDonât know what, Joel?â
âI donât - fuck, ohh god, please, pleaseââ Holy fuck, heâs begging, and you didnât even know he could do that. Youâre not sure what heâs begging for - more, less, go, stop. âWhyâre you teasinâ me like this, sweetheart, whyâreââ
âIâm not doing anything, Joel,â you smile against his skin. Youâre trying it all out now, with one of his nipples youâre using your fingers to twist and tease him, feeling him jolt and tremble with your touch. With your mouth, youâre using your tongue - tracing the outline of his areola, swirling your tongue in a spiral to reach his sensitive bud. And then you switch, using your tongue on the nipple previously occupied by your teasing fingertips.Â
âBullshit. Youâreâfuuuuuck,â Joel lets out a long groan, his cock twitching inside of you as he squirms underneath you. âI can feel you smirkinâ.Youâre testinâ my patience. You need, I need, Christâyouâre startinâ something youâre not gonna like finishing.â
Heâs warning you that this might be a mistake, but this only fuels your fire. Itâs always you whoâs squirming and crying and whimpering, begging for god knows what as Joel grins above you, torturing your clit and promising you that itâll all be okay, that youâre not gonna break.Â
Youâve got him reduced to a mess, heâs moaning and whimpering, breathing heavily with his eyes squeezed shut, his brows knit together. You can feel in his touch that heâs conflicted, squeezing you tighter yet itching to push you away. His skin is tingling, his balls tightening as you clench around him, still grinding yourself ever so slightly on his pelvis. Youâre making a sloppy mess of his chest with your mouth, all spit covered as you circle his nipples with the tip of your tongue, rolling the bud gently and carefully between your teeth. Itâs torturously pleasurable when you begin to suck and nip at his nipples and Joel thinks heâs gonnaâ
âFuck, Christ, oh my god, oh my god, mmm-ohhhh.â
Heâs spilling into you, surprising both you and himself. He comes loudly and desperately, all needy whimpers and cries as he pulses inside you, painting your insides with his warm, sticky spend. Grabbing you and holding you tight, his grip easing as his breaths begin to even and he eventually goes still. You rest on his chest, feeling him leak out of you. When you finally sit up to admire your work, Joelâs got his eyes closed, his cheeks are rosy. A few tears running down his face and when you wipe them away, he opens his eyes.Â
âYou look proud of yourself,â he tells you. His tone is pointed yet quiet, like heâs bashful. âLearned a new trick, huh.âÂ
âI did,â you smile. Heâs gone soft inside of you and you get up off of him, but Joel pulls you back down. âNuh-uh. Where do you think youâre going?â
âJust to theââ
âSit back down. I ainât finished with you,â Here it comes. You anticipated Joel getting revenge in some way or another, but youâre not sure how he plans to. Maybe heâll lay you on your back, lick you until you cry the way you did to him. He might bring you to the edge over and over and over again, yet never push you past it. Or heâll make you come until your legs twitch and shake uncontrollably, and youâre a sweaty, sobbing mess of overstimulation. Heâs done it all before and you know heâs not opposed to doing it again. âYouâre gonna hold up your end of the bargain. Do some hard work for once in your life.â
You begin to protest, âI already did.âÂ
âThat donât count. You cheated and found a loophole. You wanted me, so youâre gonna have me,â Youâre not sure what he means or what he wants from you. You thought you did already have him. âGet on your knees, kiddo,â Joel says, slapping his bare thigh. When you pause, Joel nudges you and guides you to straddle his thigh. âLike this,â he says.Â
âWhat am I supposed to do?â
âIâm sure youâll figure that out,â Joel drawls, âI gave you a hint already.â
Heâs placed you on his thigh. He says you wanted him, so youâre gonna have him. But youâve made him come already, so that meansâ
âI canât do that.â
âYou started this, youâre cominâ one way or another,â he says. âYouâre not getting up until you do it. Youâd best get to it.â
His tone is serious, but youâre sure this has to be some sort of game. He watches you, how you furrow your brows in confusion. Joel sits up and adjusts a few pillows behind himself, spreads his legs further apart and holds your ass cheeks in his big, strong hands. âRock your hips fâme.â
Slowly, you rock your hips on his thigh. You canât feel much except for the mess youâre making on his leg, your arousal and his spend. Itâs all awkward - the clunky and graceless rolling of your hips, the quietness in the room as Joel watches you intently. You shift your thighs, holding on to one of Joelâs hips and one of his shoulders as you rock your hips, trying to feel anything at all. You do - just for a second, maybe. âKeep goinâ,â he tells you while drawing lazy patterns on your thigh, but youâre not sure that you can keep going. The expectant look on Joelâs face has you feeling uncomfortable. Not the bad kind of we need to stop this now uncomfortable, but just sort of puzzled. Joel could have tortured you with his teasing and he probably would have gotten a better result. He seems to know this, so he begins to guide your hips again. Youâre not sure how he does it, but he finds the perfect angle and he knows this when you moan for him, squeezing his shoulders tight. âLike that,â he instructs.Â
You do your best to mimic the action, but itâs just not happening. He mustâve been flexing his thigh, or the way he moved your hips is a way that you canât replicate without help for some reason. Frustrated, you slump down onto his chest. âI canât do it.â
âYouâre gonna have to,â Joel coos.Â
You shake your head, âNo, no. I wantâjust fuck me. I want you inside me, I canât come without you inside me.â
âYeah, I know you want me inside ya. Canât do nothinâ about that on account of what you did to me, now can I?â
You whine and groan in irritation. âThen I need you to do the wââ you press your lips in a thin line. Oops.Â
âWork,â Joel adds for you, finishing your sentence. âSâthat what Iâm hearinâ? You need me to do the work?â You nod your head, itâs worth a shot. Maybe. âNot gonna happen, hon. We shook on it.â You pout, whining and groaning again. Joel strokes the skin of your back, âOh, I know, I know,â he coos, feigning sympathy. âLet this be a lesson to ya then, kiddo. You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes.â
âJoel,â you protest.
âJoel,â he mocks. âCome on, get up. Get to work.â Joel pushes you back, forcing you to sit back up on his thigh. Generously, he helps you find that movement once more. Where your hips tilt at just the right angle and you can feel the pressure of his thick thigh against your clit. âRight there,â you gasp, holding his hand on your hip. âNuh-uh,â Joel shakes his head and pulls his arms back, crossing them on his tummy.Â
Itâs okay. Youâre gonna figure this out. You brace yourself on Joelâs shoulders as you search for that sweet spot on your own. Within a couple of minutes, you think you find it. Youâre alternating between feeling good, better, worse, then to worse, good, and better. At moments itâs great, and then it justâŠdisappears. And at this point, youâre exhausted. Itâs been god knows how long since you even found yourself on Joelâs lap in the first place. You groan, resigning yourself to defeat. Youâre about to get off of Joelâs thigh when he grabs your bicep. âAw, come on kiddo. You givinâ up that easy?â
âYeah,â you tell him, your tone saying all that youâre feeling. Dejection, frustration, disappointment.Â
Joel shakes his head, âMânot lettinâ ya.â
âJoelââ
âDeep breath in and out for me,â he instructs, and you roll your eyes. He repeats himself, âDeep breath. In. And. Out. Do it now.â And so, not wanting to make this any worse for yourself and just wanting to get it over and done with, you close your eyes. You breathe in deeply, letting your tummy expand with his instruction, then exhale your breath fully. âYou need to settle down,â he says as you continue your breaths. âSâit. Nice anâ slow.âÂ
âIâm sorry,â you mumble, âItâs just hard.â
âKnow itâs hard. Whatâd we talk about though, hm? Hard work, right?â you nod your head, âYeah,â Joel says, âI know. Youâre gonna work for it, sweet girl. Iâve been spoilinâ ya.â A few more deep breaths, and Joel speaks again, âMânot gonna do it for you, but Iâll walk you through it if youâd like.â
âYes,â you beg, your eyes flying open. âPlease. Help me.â
âLeast youâve still got your manners,â Joel smiles. He reaches for your knees then, spreading them wide. âTilt your hips forward, sweetheart, and rock âem on me,â he tells you. âWhat feels good? Back and forth, left and right?â
âBack and forth.âÂ
âThen do it.â
 And so you do it, just like youâve been doing this whole goddamn time. Joel watches in your face that youâre not quite there yet, but he encourages you anyway. âThatâs it, youâre gettinâ it. Tilt down a bit.â
Youâre rocking your hips on his thigh, grinding against him, and with his advice it finally, finally feels good. âFuck,â you moan.Â
âAgain,â he instructs, âKeep goinâ.â
You grind on him, this time with more intent. Faster and harder, having found that sweet feeling thatâs beginning to build in the pit of your stomach, you savor it.
âGood girl,â Joel praises. And then as if to reward you for your hard work, Joel reaches between your thighs and finds your clit with his middle and ring fingers, giving you something extra to enjoy. Heâs circling your clit as you move your hips, and when that feeling in your stomach begins to build, you ride him more intensely, chasing after that high you so desperately need, that youâve worked so hard for.Â
âNeed itâneed you, Joel, donât stop, donâtââ
âIâm not goinâ anywhere. Take your time, kiddo, Iâm right here.âÂ
âYouâre here,â you nod, your brows furrowed together and youâre almost unable to speak, too focused on the prospect of release.Â
Your velvety folds soaked in Joelâs come and your own arousal. âIâmâ fuck, Joel, Iâm close,â you moan.
âI know you are, keep goinâ,â Joel coos, âYouâre right there, just let it happen. Gimme a good one, sweetheart,â You feel your orgasm building to a new edge when you hear him say, âCome for me.â
All it takes is that one command, laced with Joelâs encouragement, and youâre sent tumbling over the edge. Your long-awaited orgasm begins at your core and travels through you, washing over you with pulsing waves of pleasure. âJoel,â you moan breathless and needy, writhing on top of him. You feel it everywhere, in your spine and down your thighs. Your clit twitching, your walls pulsing around nothing as you ride him.
âThatâs it, kiddo, there it is. Good girl,â Joel coos. âDid so good.âÂ
With a soft moan, you fall limp next to Joel, steadying your breath. Â
A moment passes. âFinish the job,â he whispers.
âWhat are you talking about?â
 âYou made your mess on me, so youâre gonna clean it up. Part of the deal, sweetheart,â Joel gestures to your combined arousal on his thigh, then swipes his middle two fingers through the mess and pushes it between your lips, âYou know what to do. Lick it up,â he instructs.Â
Itâs not lost on him, the hypocrisy of having you clean up a mess that he had you make. But like he asked, you do it. Youâll do it every time he asks. He holds your hair back as you lick the mess from his thigh, savoring that slightly salty, masculine flavor he knows you love. âSuch a good girl. You ready to go to sleep?â
âNo,â you yawn, and Joel puts on his glasses again, opens the book back up and reads you the story. Youâre sleeping on his chest in minutes.Â
If you enjoyed, please please please reblog, leave me a comment, or send me an ask. Your words go a long way and keep me motivated to write đ©·
Forgot to add cat pics!!! I add these at the end of my fics now
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I'm literally in a puddle of tears đđđ
sweet child o' mine | masterlist
neighbor!joel x f!reader | ao3 | playlist
joel miller has lived next door - since forever. you've been a pain in his ass - since forever. one drunken night changes everything - forever.
please check out individual chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content and themes which may be triggering.
series warnings: age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), unplanned pregnancy, discussion of a car accident & dead parents, emotional cheating & some minor/one major instance of physical cheating, smut, angst, fluff.
main series
pt. i
pt. ii
pt. iii
pt. iv
bonus
â” replaying the wedding night
features
â” sweet child o' mine moodboard by @sawymredfox
â” joel and duckie by @knopes-waffles
â” duckie vs. tomato by @dundienominee
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I'M GONNA CRY đđđ
That was so intense â€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž
I can't wait to see baby mama and Dieter happy together!
A Little Sun part 6 Dieter!Bravo x f!Reader
rating: 18+
words: 8.4k
pairings: Dieter x f!Reader
tags: pregnancy, details of body changing with pregnancy, insecurity, mention of family death, mutual pining, idiots in love, soft dieter, fluff, lurve, angst, miscommunication trope, female masturbation, male masturbation, dirty talk (thoughts).
summary: You move in with Dieter after the fight with your mom and things get... complicated.
a/n: Y'all this thing has turned into such a fuckin' beast. Remember when I wanted it to be a one shot? Anyway, we're nearing the end with these two idiots in love but I think this one ends pretty damn sweet.
Also I think I'm in love with Dieter Bravo?
SERIES MASTERLIST
REBLOGS, COMMENTS, ENGAGEMENT ARE WHAT KEEP US FIC WRITERS GOING. PLEASE REMEMBER THAT IF YOU ENJOYED THIS.
Dieter doesn't even let you step fully into his home before he's got you in his arms, wrapping you in his warm embrace. Your suitcases clatter to the floor as you cling to him, burying your face in his neck and fighting back tears.Â
"You can stay as long as you want," Dieter promises you as one hand cups the back of your head. "Stay forever."
You give a watery chuckle into his shoulder, not quite ready to let go of him. You only break apart when the smell of European cigarettes wafts into the room.Â
You swipe at your damp eyes while Dieter turns to greet the tiny woman with a shock of white curls. She wears an oversized green t-shirt and loose khaki pants. She shuffles from place to place in her oversized moccasins.Â
"You remember Magda, right?"
"I think we've met a few times," you say extending your hand. The old woman gives you a look before shuffling over and placing her hand on your belly. You're in too much shock to pull back.Â
"A healthy boy," she tells you through a thick Eastern European accent. You and Dieter exchange looks of surprise.Â
"Uh yeah," you peer down at her shriveled frame, "How did you know that it was a boy?"
"I can tell."
She says it with a sage nod and then with that revelation she shuffles off to the kitchen, the feather duster still firmly lodged under her bony arm.Â
"She's the best," Dieter says says fondly before turning back to you with a look of expectancy. "Lemme show you where you're staying."
He takes both of your suitcase handles and jerks head to the left indicating you should follow.Â
You follow him out into his garden beside the pool. A place that you've never really visited much before. Most of your business has been conducted inside in his kitchen or in his office. You've heard about his guest house, how he had so many decorators come in over the years.Â
When you enter into it now, you're surprised at just how normal it seems. You were waiting for whips and chains and other strange memorabilia to line the walls. But instead it looks like something out of a Martha Stewart magazine. Crisp White's and Blue wainscotting. Overstuffed chairs and couches surround the coffee table from the photo he sent you. It's strangely tasteful.Â
It doesn't suit him at all.Â
Dieter must notice your surprise because he smirks before he rolls your suitcases towards the kitchen bar. Â
"Remember that Danish woman I dated for a couple months right after you started working for me?"
"Yeah, Lyda something.'
"Right. She wanted to start a career as an interior designer. I let her run the show in this place. Not really my taste."
"Not really mine either," You admit looking around the space. "It is beautifully done but I prefer the place we stayed in Ireland, like, that aesthetic. Old wood and big windows."
"I like that too," Dieter agrees. He sees you yawn and immediately feels guilty for keeping You up after such an emotional day.
"I'm going to have Petra whip you up something for dinner."
Petra is Dieter's chef who stocks his fridge with high endÂ
"Dieter you don't-"
"You gotta take care of you and little Bravo remember?"Â
Dieter feels something in his chest bloom when instead of rolling your eyes you smile at him, nodding.Â
"Thanks Dieter."
You wake up the next morning in the plush duvet with your arms stretched above your head before rolling an absent hand down your swollen belly.Â
"Morning little boy," you whisper to the tiny being there beneath your fingertips. You give a groan as you gently roll yourself off the bed sliding into your slippers and pulling on your robe. Despite your devastation of what happened with your mother, waking up in this beautiful space on this gorgeously sunny day has you feeling hopeful.
This feeling is dampened slightly when you glance at your phone, looking to the calendar and seeing a date in the coming week starred. A date you have been dreading for months. Your birthday. The first one of yours since your father passed. Without your mom around this seems especially painful to consider. You close your phone, not wanting to think about it.
You spot a tall figure out the window and feel your cheeks flush. Something has shifted since Ireland. Something that terrifies you. The whisper of feelings that you're having a hard time repressing when you think of how he supports you.Â
But you push it from your mind. Your worlds don't match up. Â Youâre serious, you take life seriously, you want to dedicate yourself to science. Dieter wants to fuck and party and grab life by the balls.
Plus he's with Mia and she makes him happy.Â
Dieter saunters across the backyard, narrowly missing the pool as he heads to the guest house. He's wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants under tattered robe, his eyes hidden behind his sunshades. He's carrying a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a smoothie in the other. Â
"Dieter itâs ten in the morning," you say as you open the sliding door to greet him.Â
"I'm still on Ireland time," he says giving you a waggle of his brows before setting the pale
pink smoothie down on the kitchen counter. "Breakfast when you're ready for it."Â
He sees you eyeing the smoothie warily and gives a deep rumbling chuckle.Â
"Petra made this one so you're safe. You like strawberries right?"
You take a tentative sip, before giving a soft moan of approval and drinking down the rest.Â
He rocks back on his heels a moment and despite the dark of his glasses, you can feel his gaze lingering on you.Â
"So... What're you up to today, Bravo?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"I'm officially no longer part of team Bravo remember?" You remind him with a sad chuckle as you place the empty glass back on the counter. "Diane cut my access to work emails and calendars."Â
"Shit that's right, I forgot." He looks at you with such a guilty expression. "I'm sorry."
"S'okay. I'm looking at this like a real non working vacation," you tell him honestly pointing out the window. "I figure you have a pool, there's a chef, a housekeeper, I brought books, what more could I ask for?"
"Plus you have a recreation staff," Dieter grins, taking you by the hand and twirling you gently towards him. "Dance lessons by the pool, movie nights, anything the customer wants."
"Hmmm an end to global warming?"
"Sorry that's only with the premium package."
You let out a loud laugh as Dieter joins you, spinning you into a hug. His mouth is only inches from yours and when the two of you realize this your mutual laughter ebbs.Â
Dieter wants nothing more than to press his mouth to yours, to taste you, to fuck you here in his home. But he knows it's not what you want. You don't want that from Dieter. You want somewhere safe to stay and he'll provide that to you.
Besides there is someone who does want his affection, his touch: Mia.Â
You swallow, your body poised and mouth slowly tilting towards Dieter before he seems to realize himself. He slowly extricates his arms from around you before reaching into his robe pocket, clearing his throat.Â
"Here's the key," Dieter tells you, holding it out to you. You take it, looking at the tiny Jameson keychain on it. The one that matches the one Dieter got you in Ireland that you wear on your own keychain. You smile at the sight of it before looking puzzled.
"A key?"
"For the guest house."
"I don't need to lock it," you chide even as you take it from him and toss it into your purse. "It's just you and me here right?"
"Yeah," Dieter hides the broad of his grin behind his whiskey glass. "Just you and me."
For the next several days Dieter tries to give you as much space as possible. He brings you a smoothie every morning citing that Magda is too busy. In the evenings he texts you to invite you over to the big house for dinner. Sometimes you join him, sometimes youâre just too tired.
You always go back to the guest house feeling a little bit down. You didnât realize you missed sleeping in the same house, how Ireland made it almost feel like living together. Dieterâs place is so large itâs like youâre in separate neighborhoods.
Dinners are starting to be hard as well. Knowing youâll be leaving to go back to the empty guest room. Itâs a luxury, thatâs for certain with its tall ceilings and plush bed. But it feels quiet without Dieterâs music or loud laughter.
And so you can admit to yourself that every morning he comes by with the pink smoothie and a big grin, your heart leaps a little bit. Like now, seeing him rushing over more frenzied than usual. He smiles, pushing the drink into your hand hurriedly. Â
âHere. Drink fast, I finished the nursery and want you to come look.â
âWhen did you have time to do the nursery?â You ask amazed as you follow him to the main house, smoothie almost drained by the time you reach his place.Â
âIâve been in touch with this guy Diora from Albania over email since Ireland. Heâs all the rage, super hard to get but he was really excited about trying his hand at a nursery. He just finished Criss Angelâs man cave and James Francoâs bedroom.â
Dieter sweeps a hand to the middle of your back, guiding you down the hall. When he opens the door with a flourish it takes everything in you not to gasp in horror. Your hand still rises to your mouth, though when you step into the room.
It looks like a sex dungeon.
Black and white striped walls, a beautifully ornate crib painted a ghastly red.Â
"Contrasting colors are good for babyâs retinas," Dieter says confidently. "I read it somewhere."
It takes you a few moments of staring at everything before you can speak.
"You have whips hung on the walls."
"Those are vintage skipping ropes," Dieter tells you aghast at your misunderstanding. You turn slowly, taking everything in. Finally you shake your head slowly. Â
"Dieter, this is totally inappropriate for a nursery," you say. "What baby would be happy here?"Â
Dieter takes a moment to glance around the space, his previous elation dimming with every word from you.Â
"This is what Diora suggested. He's the hottest designer right now."
"Of millionaire bachelor pads," you say as you look at a particularly ugly piece of metal hanging from the ceiling. "Not for a babyâs room."
"I'm not gonna have some tacky nursery with stuffed bears and shit,â Dieter defends. âI can't do it. Anyone who comes over and sees that'll think I've lost my edge."
The thought of being a father is immensely appealing to Dieter. The thought of being a loser Dad is not.
âMia said it was cool,â Dieter shoots out. âI sent her photos.â
Mia is also in her early twenties, you want to snap. But you hold your tongue, trying to see the upsides to this nursery. Unfortunately you can see none. Everything is a safety hazard.
Dieter paces around the room, suddenly sour at the whole thing. He thought youâd be excited to see where the baby will be. Instead youâve come in with your judgments and frowning face.
"Please let me... Dieter let me help you with this," you almost beg. "I just.... I know he's not mine but I can't stand the thought of him being in this... Baby prison."
I know he's not mine.Â
This hurts Dieter to hear it. He knows that you face no interest in being in this baby's life or his the week after you've given birth. But he can admit he's fooled himself with you being here.
But this? This is a project the two of you can work on. A potential to have more reason to have you in the house, not in that fucking guest house. He can only think of so many reasons to knock on your door apart from smoothies.Â
"Okay, sure."
âOkay,â you say looking relieved. âHow about a pale blue or green? Then we can get a nice crib and some rugs and gauzy curtains.â
âThatâs so boring.â
âAnd safe,â you emphasize. âYou have to think of his safety, Dieter.â
Dieter pouts slightly in thought, trying to see the nursery through your eyes. He has to concede that perhaps this is a bit much for a newborn.
"Actually, you know what would look really beautiful on this far wall here?" You muse, looking at the space. "That painting you bought me for my birthday."
You think of the artwork hanging in your bedroom. The one of the woman looking out over the ocean, her hair whipping in the sea air. Itâs the one thing you didnât bring from home that you regret. There was something about that painting that made you feel relaxed.
"I didn't buy you that," Dieter says with a furrowed brow.Â
Your stomach sinks at this admission from Dieter and you wish you could take back everything. The intimacy of the moment, the vulnerability. He never even fucking bought the thing himself. Diane probably did and here you are pouring your heart out about it.Â
"Oh, uh-Or Diane or whoever-"
"I painted it for you."
All the animosity that had been brewing behind your sternum drains from you. A smile blooms immediately, your body tingling as you roll onto your side to fully face him.Â
"You did?"
"Yeah," Dieter is smirking at you from the shadows. "I love painting. You think I'd buy you a fucking painting?"
âI think I just assumed that you got Diane or whoever to ship it to me."Â
"Maybe if you were someone else," Dieter muses, his gaze wandering around the nursery. "Someone who doesn't do everything for me." He falls silent a moment. "You really thought I bought it?"
"Yeah."
"Didn't you think it was weird that the girl in the painting was you?"
Now you're stunned and it must show on your face because Dieter is chuckling softly now.Â
"You've had it hanging up your room for how long? Did you even look at it?"
"Of course I did, I do," you say in a rush, feeling embarrassed. You look at it every night youâre in your bedroom. "I just ... I never thought..."
"What?"
"I never thought you saw me."
Dieter blinks back at you, his dark eyes searching your face.Â
"I just mean you never even said thank you before this whole baby thing," you explain. "I've worked for you for a while and you kinda just expected I'd be at your beck and call all hours of the day and night, even on my days off."
"I'm sorry," Dieter whispers. "That was shitty of me."
"Why do you do it?Â
âI went through so many assistants I just assumed you wouldnât be sticking around long.â Dieter looks ashamed as he says it out loud. âBut then the longer you stayed the more I depended on you. I think⊠After a while I think it just felt weird to not message you.â
You both lapse into a thoughtful silence.
âYouâll manage just fine without me when I leave,â you tell him, needing him to know. âAnd if youâre ever feeling really lost and like you just need to talk to someone, you can always call me. Not as an employee, but as a friend.â
âReally? Weâre friends?â
âYeah,â you nod, heart hammering. âFriends.â
Dieter wakes up hard every morning for the next two weeks. He doesn't try to; he actively tries to think of other things before he goes to sleep. He watches documentaries, he reads art books, he meditates. He tries to push you from his thoughts so he can wake up normal.Â
But he always wakes up aching with the head of his cock weeping, flickering remnants of his dreams still floating around his subconscious. And those dreams are always of you.
Today he wakes up with the memory of his dream still lingering. You on your knees, his cock in your mouth and your eyes heavy lidded. As he shifts in bed Dieter realizes his boxers are sticky with previous release. A fucking nocturnal emission? How old is he?
And what's worse is that he's still fucking hard. Throbbing, actually He groans low in his throat and tries to ignore it.
You're here at his home. You're practically living with him. You're only a few steps from his back door. You're so close and yet so frustratingly far from him. He misses being in the same home as you, like the rental in Ireland. He misses the feeling of coming home after a long day on set and seeing your sweet face on the couch.
He wants that again.Â
Dieter rolls onto his belly to try and squash his current erection against the mattress. But that doesn't help, it just gives a delicious friction. He shifts again experimentally, groaning at the shiver that travels from the base of his spine to the tip. In his sleepy arousal he imagines that it's not the mattress but you that he's fucking.Â
"You like that?" Dieter murmurs, eyes closed as he rocks against his bed. "Like feeling me like that, baby?"
He pushes his hips into the bed, starting to rut when the pleasure increases.
You're so big, Dieter.Â
And suddenly he's thrusting against it, picturing your body writhing under him.Â
Need it, Dieter. Fuck me harder.Â
"Yes," Dieter groans into his pillow, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. He thrusts furiously into the soft fabric of the bed, hips bouncing up and down on the mattress.Â
Need your big cock, daddy, your dream self moans. Need it deep.Â
"Fuck yes, baby. Take Daddy's cock. Take it and-"
His phone chirrups loudly on the table next to him, breaking him from the immersive fantasy.Â
A name and photo flash up on the screen.Â
Mia.Â
Immediately he feels guilty. Here he is humping his mattress to thoughts of you as his gorgeous, talented, funny, sexy girlfriend is calling.Â
He breathes rapidly through his nose, slowing his grinding movements. He rolls over in the bed, reaching for the phone.Â
"Hey babe," Dieter says, panting as he answers. He flips onto his back, willing his cock to go down.Â
"You okay? You sound like you've been exercising and I know that can't be true."
Dieter barks a laugh at that. He's about to reply when he hears a splash outside his window. Mia starts chatting in his ear but he's completely taken with the view outside his window.Â
You're in a bikini, gliding through the clear water of his pool. Dieter feels his mouth run dry at the sight, especially when you roll over onto your back, your belly protruding from the water like a beacon. Your hair dances around your head, your eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun. You have the sweetest little smile on your face.Â
You're so fucking beautiful.Â
"Dee? You there?"
"Huh? Yeah, sorry babe what?"
"I wanted to know how you're getting on? I've been staying off socials for the last little bit of the shoot trying to stay focused. I finally saw the photos from the airport. How is the poor thing holding up?"
"Stressed, but better."
"She must be happy to be at home away from all that madness."
Dieter feels his stomach clench. He knows he has to be honest with Mia, she's his girlfriend, she deserves to know. And yet he hesitates because he knows how it sounds.Â
"She's staying in my guest house, actually," Dieter offers in what he hopes is a nonchalant voice.Â
The warmth from Mia's voice is immediately gone.Â
"Pardon me?"Â
"She's, uh, in my guest house for the time being," Dieter adds, closing his eyes and bracing himself.Â
Mia shuffles on the other end before her voice reaches out to him confused.Â
"I thought you wanted a relationship with me, Dieter. Otherwise why did your agent go to so much trouble to confirm it? To do a splashy roll-out?"
"I do want it."
"But you have the employee you got pregnant living with you?"
"Not with me. In the guest house."Â
"This is weird, Dee."Â
He hears the concern in her voice and he feels his stomach drop. He doesn't want to lose Mia.Â
"Her mom kicked her out," Dieter explains quickly. "What was I supposed to do?"
"Pay for a hotel?"
The answer is so clear, so obvious. Why didn't he offer a hotel? He has the money. Why had it been so important for him to have you here?Â
Because then he could see you every day.
The answer is immediate but he won't admit it. Not now.Â
"The paps have been relentless," Dieter says finally. "They'll camp out outside of wherever I put her up. Not like here where I know she's safe away from the public eye."
"But-"
"She's not like us, Mia," Dieter insists. "She doesn't want fame and all that shit. She's just a regular person who's pregnant and alone. Her mom kicked her out, she's got no one else."
He can almost hear Mia softening over the phone.Â
"It's just hard, Dee," she says finally. "Especially when I haven't seen you in weeks."
Dieter feels a flutter of panic at how sad she sounds. He wants to make it up to her and has a great idea of how.Â
"Prague!"Â
Dieter bursts out with this, wincing when he hears how loud he is.Â
"Sorry, what?"Â
"What do you think about Prague?" Dieter corrects himself, rubbing nervously at his beard. "You're flying to LA next week for our magazine spread, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you've always wanted to go to Prague, right?"
"Yes."
"So let's do it. After the shoot let's get away from everyone and everything for a few weeks just us two."
"You'd really want to do that?"
"Of course."Â
He hears Mia weighing the choice on the other end of the line. He holds his breath until he can almost hear her smile. Â
"Okay Dee, let's do it."
âAmazing,â Dieter says grinning. âIâll get Diane to send you the details. See you next week.â
He hangs up quickly, undressing and pulling on his swim trunks.
Youâre floating on your back, sunglasses on your face, your body most submerged in the cool water. You hear the sound of a door opening and crack one eye open to see Dieter approaching.
Dieter never uses his pool. He got the house on a whim and didnât even notice it had a pool until he officially moved in. But right now seeing your tits overflowing out of your bikini cups has him so utterly thankful to his former self.
He shrugs off his robe, sliding into the chilly water with an exaggerated brrrr. He swims over to you, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.
âLooked so refreshing I had to join.â
âItâs so nice,â you sigh, your arms and legs out as you soak up the sun and enjoy the lack of strain on your lower back. âI never want to get out.â
Dieter paddles near you for a moment, wanting to remember this moment before he recalls his conversation with Mia.
âWell youâll have the place to yourself the next couple of weeks.â
âOh?â
âYeah, Mia and I are going to Prague like you suggested.â
âThatâs so great,"Â you say with a tightness in your voice. âWhen do you leave?â
âNext Thursday.â
Next Thursday.
Dieter stars to drone on about how Mia has all these restaurants and museums she wants to go to but all you can think of is that youâll be alone on your birthday. The first one since your father passed. No mother to turn to. Nothing. Youâll be completely alone.
A sudden flutter begins in your abdomen and you give an absent smile, hand slowly sliding over your stomach.
Well, not completely alone.
From where you stand in your guest house kitchen you can see into the main house. Specifically into the dining room. At night when the landscape is dark and the lights are on inside you can see it very clearly.
Like tonight.
You can see him pacing inside the house, his tall frame gesticulating wildly. He's obviously going over some lines. He asked you to have dinner and run through them but youâd texted back some feeble excuse.
The truth is you need to separate yourself as much as possible from Dieter because youâre convinced that what youâre starting to feel canât be explained away by hormones. This desire to be with him.
But heâs leaving with Mia in a few short days on some whirlwind romantic escape. You even showed him the best way to pack his fucking suitcase! The sight of a box of condoms at the bottom of it hidden by the toiletries bag made your throat tighten.
Despite this your eyes sail over to Dieterâs house again, watching him make a note on his script before running through the lines. He looks so sexy when he does it, totally lost in the moment. It reminds you of the character he played in Ireland.
Fuck, that insatiable need is coursing through your body again. The hormones kicking into overdrive as you feel your thighs press together at the memory of Dieter and that regency costume. He looked so good in it. You can almost hear his husky voice in your ear.Â
It's okay if you want it, baby. Lemme give it to you.Â
You throw yourself into your plush bed, your hands sliding down under your panties and working frantically against your straining clit.Â
Uh huh. Just like that. Gotta come on my fingers before you get this cock.Â
You throw your head back, thighs squeezing as you rut against your fingers. This phantom Dieter plays in your mind, his husky voice full of dark, delicious promise.Â
Gonna fuck such pretty sounds out of you.Â
"Dieter," you groan, unable to help yourself. It's pathetic how quickly and easily your orgasm overtakes you. It leaves you shuddering and whimpering, rutting into your fingers and then finally collapsing back as you stare at the ceiling.
What the fuck are you doing?
Despite everything Dieter is still your boss in some ways. Heâs still the man paying you to have a child. Yes, heâs sort of a friend, but at the end of the day he still holds some authority over you.Â
You wish that last thought didnât turn you on so much.
Youâre still groaning when you hear the light tap of knuckles on glass and you jerk up in your bed, face flushed.
You wipe your damp hand on the sheets before slowly stumbling out of the bedroom. Dieter is standing there at the glass door, giving you a stiff wave. You move quickly, tugging the door open. The sound of cicadas and LA night traffic punctuate the formerly peaceful space.
âIs everything okay?â
âIâm really sorry to come over here so late but Magda just told me when she was cleaning this place this afternoon she saw a roach.â
âWhat?â
Immediately youâre moving towards him, glancing behind you in disgust. Your eyes sweep the floor and counters for any trace. Strange, you havenât noticed anything and this place is kept perfectly clean.
âYeah,â Dieter nods, looking tense. âSo I gotta get this place fumigated ASAP.â
âOf course.â
âBut the fumes are bad for the baby so youâll have to move your stuff into the main house until itâs finished.â
âFor how long do you think?â
âDunno,â Dieter shrugs, motioning to the room airily. âI was gonna call a guy in the morning to get some quotes. Might be a couple weeks before they can get someone out here.â
A couple weeks? Dieter has enough money to have the place fumigated tonight if he really wanted to. You gaze up at Dieter about to say as such when you see the searching nature of his eyes and suddenly the shoe drops.
Thereâs no roach.
You note the tense way he rubs his fingers together, the way his brows rise and eyes go owlish the longer you stare at him.
âIâm terrified of roaches,â you finally tell him as you start to throw your stuff into your suitcases. âCan I move my stuff in tonight?â
âWould be the safest,â Dieter nods exaggeratedly helping you to pack. It takes no time at all before heâs helping you carry the suitcases across the yard and into his home.
The guest room is just as nice as the guest house with tall ceilings but slightly less homey. Dieter prefers marble floors and gold accents. Things he was taught as a child meant rich. The bed is lovely, but minimalist. You are however very impressed with the large bathtub and even bigger rain forest shower. You put your suitcases to the side, feeling Dieter watch you from the doorway.
âItâs still early you wanna watch a doc or something?â
You bite back the delighted smile that threatens to bleed over your features before you turn to face him.
âSure.â
âOkay, you got your passport, the tickets are on your phone, your bags are packed,â the young manâs reedy voice lists off things from his checklist as the three of you stand in the kitchen the following week. Dieter is sitting on one of the stools dressed nicely and looking nervously from the paper to you, completely ignoring Rupert.
âMaybe I shouldnât go.â
âDieter.â
âWhat if you go into labor?â
âAlmost three months early?â you force a laugh from where you stand by the fridge. âThen we have bigger issues than you not being here. Now câmon. Miaâll be here any second.â
Today is the photo spread for the movie Mia and Dieter starred in. Itâll run late so the lovebirds have decided on spending the night in a fancy hotel before shuttling off to Prague the next day. Dieter is always nervous about trips away but he realizes this is especially daunting since heâll have no PA with him.
Diane has sent him someone new over during the week. A young man with bloodshot eyes and a nervous countenance named Robert or Roger. Dieter canât remember. All he knows is that the kid does his job decently but he isnât you.
But he promised himself that he would plan this trip for he and Mia. He researched the restaurants and hotels with her and booked it all. He got them the best seats in the plane and the nicest suite in the hotel.
But all he can think is that heâs going to be away from you for two weeks. Away from his son nestled safely in your body. Â
âI made a new tape for him,â Dieter says, suddenly snapping. He reaches into his pocket and slides the tape towards you. âMake sure he listens.â
âYes, yes,â you say rolling your eyes.
The doorbell rings and Rupert immediately goes to answer it leaving you and Dieter alone. He watches you peering into the fridge trying to find something to satisfy your current craving of salty vanilla pudding.
âI donât want to leave you.â
His voice is a quiet hum. Your mouth tries to form the words but all you can think of is Dieters warm eyes, his hands caressing your belly, the sweet timbre of his voice when he reads to you when you canât sleep.Â
âIâm going to be okay,â you promise him softly as you glance over to him. âNow go say hello to your girlfriend.â
Dieter nods resolutely before bolting around the corner to see Mia. You hear his excited greeting and you try not to feel upset. Instead you dig around in the cupboard for something salty. You hear your name being called and you turn to see Dieter and Mia entering the room.
Miaâs eyes go round with shock at seeing you waddle towards her. You give a bright smile, despite the pang that goes through you at the sight of them hand-in-hand.
"Oh wow," Mia says when you waddle into the room holding a bag of chips.Â
"Weird right?"
"A little," she laughs. You join in, knowing how strange this entire scenario is. You feel like a baby hippo meanwhile Mia looks like she just stepped off the runway.
âSo nice to see you,â she says, giving you an awkward hug as she avoids the bump. âI brought a little something for the baby,â she hands a wrapped gift to Dieter, âand one for you.â
Dieter unwraps the package, bringing out a first edition copy of Winnie the Pooh. Your eyes widen at the sight. That must have cost her a fortune.
âThanks babe,â Dieter says warmly, kissing her. You look away, unwilling to watch and unwrap your gift from Mia which turns out to be a delicate crystal flower vase. Arguably one of the most useless things on the planet since you hate flowers. Dieter knows this and you think you catch a curl of amusement in his face.
âYou didnât have to do this,â you falter.
âI know,â she says sweetly. âI just saw it and thought of you.â
âItâs beautiful,â you say, careful not to exchange amused looks with Dieter across the room. You shoot a soft smile at Mia. âThank you so much. Iâll go pop it in my room so it doesnât get broken. Magda tends to be a little chaotic when she cleans.â
You turn, about to go down the hallway to the bedroom when you feel something like tension in the room. You don't know why you pause but you do.
"I thought you were staying in the guest house?" She asks you but her eyes are scanning Dieterâs face. Â
âShe was,â Dieter explains, hoping his cheeks arenât red. âBut there were roaches.â
Miaâs face scrunches. âRoaches?â
âYeah,â you finally fumble, rubbing absently at your stomach. "The guest house needed to be fumigated and thatâs not safe for the baby. Thatâs the only reason Iâm in the guest room. Iâll be out in the guest house as soon as the fumigation is over."
Mia nods, but you don't miss the lingering look there in her light eyes.
With Dieter in Prague for the next few weeks you have a lot of free time to yourself. The only problem is you have no one to spend it with. You can't be seen in public now without a bodyguard save for your short walks through Dieter's Calabasas neighborhood. Phone calls with your mom are no longer an option. So you spend most of your time scrolling through social media, watching movies and swimming.
Dieter has always been annoying but he's the kind of annoying that brings you comfort now. Without his loud presence in the house you start to feel lonely. A strange feeling you've never really experienced due to your busy lifestyle.Â
It makes you long for the sound of Dieter's record player in the art room. Makes you long for his brash laughter during a funny commercial. Makes you long for the way your voices worked against one another when practicing lines, the sound of him muttering to himself when he reads something that interests him in the paper, the way he rasps your name when heâs just woken up. Â
All the sounds of Dieter that you realize have come to be their own comforting symphony to you.Â
But heâs with Mia and that's how it should be. They're on the same level. And you know that these feelings are from your hormones. This warmth will fade the second this child is taken from you and is likely contributing to this lonely feeling that arises with you each empty morning.
Heâs only been gone four days but those days seem to stretch into eternity. Your mind is usually so full and your schedule packed. But youâre almost annoyingly free right now. Dieter has made only one request of you and that is to update the app every day at least once. He says it makes him feel less guilty about leaving, even though you're the one who encouraged it.
So you do.
29 weeks
Cravings
SALT
Vanilla
pie filling
chips
peanuts
Missing
the ability to see my feet
Baby is size of butternut squash
The only thing that tethers you to Dieter are the sporadic text messages he sends you. Where you once found his constant need to stay in touch annoying, now you crave his random messages, re-reading them with a smile.
[1:44pm] D: I hate not speaking Czech. I feel like everyone is making fun of me and I have no proof.
[1:44pm]: You're being paranoid.Â
[1:44pm] D: I'm not!!!
[1:46pm] D: Okay maybe a little. Mia and I did an edible.Â
[1:46pm]: Dieter!
[1:46pm] D: Diane said no hard drugs! Edibles are natural.Â
You roll your eyes.Â
[1:47pm]: Whatever. Hope you're having fun.Â
You wish you could see his face when you recall Mia's instagram. You forgot you follow her. The second you click on her story you wish you hadn't. It's her and Dieter in a gorgeous spot in Prague chatting with the caption: Czech us Out! @BravoitsDieter
Your loneliness hits you on the fifth day quite acutely. And instead of turning to television or swimming you lay on your back in bed and stare up into the ceiling before your fingers fumble for your phone and you type hurriedly.
[6:08am]: I think he has your hair.
[6:12am] D: Huh? What?? Why?
[6:12am]: They say if the mother has lots of heartburn then the kid will have lots of hair. Right now I feel like my heart has been dropped in acid.Â
[6:13am] D: No way. I thought babies were always bald.
[6:13am]: Not always. I wasn't. Were you?
[6:13am] D: Dunno. Never saw baby photos of myself.Â
[6:14am]: Why not?
[6:14am] D: My mom cared about stuff like that. When she died my dad just put everything in the attic and tried to forget.Â
You didn't know that about Dieter. You've heard snatches of information from other staff that Dieters dad is a low life, but to not save photos of your kid? That seems cruel.Â
[6:14am]: I'm sorry.
[6:15am] D: NP.
[6:15am] D: Mia is taking me to a museum so I gtg ttyl
You frown at the phone.
"What a bitch," you murmur before stopping yourself. You think about how your baby can probably hear sounds outside the womb now and you feel guilty.
"No, actually, she's not a bitch. She's really lovely and she's so good for your dad."
Your hands drift over your belly slowly, subconsciously as you speak and soon your eyes follow suit.Â
"Strange to think you're just in there all snuggly," you tell your belly with amusement. You gasp when you think you can feel a slight flutter within you abdomen.Â
"Is that you?" You wonder aloud. "Can you hear me?"Â
The fluttering continues and you feel something in you shift. Your heart squeezes pleasantly. He rarely moves around for just you. It seems he's most active when Dieter is nearby.
"You're really in there," you laugh to yourself. "And you can hear me."
The lonely feelings begin to dissipate. You're not alone - you have your son to keep you company. You talk to him through the day. You make jokes about bubble having Dieters hair. You talk to Bubble about the book you read on the porch. When you watch a documentary you narrate for the baby.Â
You update the app with a cheerful photo of you making a heart over the bellybutton with your fingers. You think Dieter will get a kick out of it.Â
When you go to bed you put the headphones over your belly and hit play on the walkman.
"This is a new one from your Dad," you tell your belly wryly as you position the foam on either side of your bump. "So I apologize now if it's fucking annoying."
With a serene smile you go to sleep with his muffled voice against your skin. And when you wake up on the sixth day you feel good. It's not until you look at the calendar that you're reminded of Friday's date.
Your birthday.Â
The first one without your father. It makes your stomach drop.Â
As if all of California has gotten the memo the day is grey and drizzly. You spend most of the day napping and eating whatever Petra has put together. But by mid afternoon youâre feeling restless. You try walking around the block, but the weather drives you back inside. You try to distract yourself but nothing seems to work.
Petra and Magda have gone home for the day. Itâs just you and bubble and right now it feels like itâs just you. You decide to order a pizza for dinner, and as you wait for your Hawaiian Delight to arrive you canât help but reach out to the one person you wish was here.
[5:48pm]: How is Prague?
[5:50pm] D: Boring.
[5:50pm]: Only you would say Prague is boring, Dieter.
[5:51pm] D: In the airport now. Gonna go to Germany for a couple days. Mia really wants to see Cologne Cathedral and apparently theyâre doing some once-in-a-decade tour event thing. I dunno. Howâs the bubble?
[5:51pm]: Still here.
You donât know why youâre both still calling him Bubble. The tabloids have made it impossible not to be aware that youâre pregnant after all. But thereâs something sweet about referring to him as your little Bubble.
[5:52pm] D: airport is so fucking noisy and I'm so tired. found coffee though.
[5:52pm]: Make sure not to drink too much. You wonât sleep on the plane.
[5:52pm] D: U didnât update the app today.
[5:53pm]: Sorry, been distracted.
[5:53pm] D:???
[5:53pm] D: How come?
You have no desire to get into this over text. Besides itâs not Dieters problem, itâs yours. And itâs not a problem itâs just. . . life.
[5:55pm]: Doesnât matter. Here, this will have to do.
You attach a picture of your hand over your swollen bump and send it over.
Youâre surprised when you see Dieter calling.
âHello?â
âWhy are you distracted?â
âDieter donât you have better things to do than call me about this?â You say rolling your eyes, but still delighted to be hearing his raspy voice. âArenât you in the airport?â
âYeah.â
âIsnât Mia with you?â
âShe went to get another magazine for the flight. You gonna tell me whatâs going on? Is it the Bubble?â
âNo,â you say grunting as you lean back against the sofa. Â
âThen what is it?â
âItâs nothing. Iâm fine!â
âCmon,â Dieter cajoles. âYou know Iâm just gonna keep calling and texting until you tell me.â
âIts pregnancy brain,â you throw out, hoping this will satiate him.
âLiar. Your voice always does that clipped thing when you lie.â
You canât help but feel a small smile cross your features. You hear the distant boarding call for his flight and you decide you might as well tell him. Itâs not like he doesnât already know that your dead is dead.
âItâs just⊠Itâs my birthday. The first one since my dad died and ...."
You trail off. You hear silence on the other end of the phone and then a soft fuck.
âDieter?â
âI thought it was next month,â Dieter is murmuring and you can hear him tapping on the phone. âFucking calendar. Fuck. I thought it was next month same day. Thatâs what I have it as. Fuck. This is why I donât program my own fucking electronics. Fuck.â
âNope. Today,â you clarify, amused at how frazzled he sounds. âBut itâs not your problem. Itâs just this is my first birthday without my Dad and, my Mom isnât talking to me and I realized Iâve worked so hard so long I have no real friends andâŠ. Itâs justâŠâ
You break off when you feel tears starting.
âAnyway, not your problem,â you say forcing your voice up an octave. âIâm only telling you because you asked. I hope you and Mia enjoy your trip! I canât wait to see photos.â
âHey, wait-â
âI gotta go,â you say, brushing the stray tears that have escaped. âPizza guy is here. Bye!â
You hang up the phone and then place it on silent. You donât want to talk with him anymore. You donât want to talk with anyone. You just spoke to Dieter but that doesn't stop you from missing him. It gets to the point where you pull up old interview footage with him on YouTube just so you can hear his voice and see his smile.Â
When the pizza arrives you pay the guy delivering it, but then you just shove the box in the fridge. You take a shower, letting the tears mingle with the steamy droplets before pulling on a new nightdress. You grab the walkman and headphones, about to put them on when you pad t the kitchen for a glass of water.
You walk back, about to retire to your guest room, walking past Dieterâs bedroom. Youâve rarely ever been inside it and never when he isnât at home. But something about today compels you into it, something make you push open the door and walk to his bed.
The room is recently cleaned by Petra, the bed freshly made, the floors sparkling, his clothing put away. The fireplace is off but you switch it on, noticing his tattered green robe freshly washed and hanging on the back of the bedroom door. You donât even think about it, you just pull it on over your sleep dress and stumble into his bed.
Dieterâs bed is so comfy, even better than the one in his guest house and room. You curl under the sheets, burying your face in his pillow. It smells like his expensive shampoo and the cologne he sometimes wears. It brings tears to your eyes.Â
You wish he was here.Â
You turn onto your back, tummy swollen and resting heavily. It makes you long for Dieter in all aspects. Not just to fuck, but to spend time with. He's so different from anyone you know. He doesn't follow rules or social norms. But when you're with him you feel calm and not judged. It makes you feel like you can let go.Â
"Your daddy really is wonderful," you murmur to your belly, stroking it. "You might hear bad stuff but you need to know what a good heart he has. He's so generous and funny and he loves so deeply. You're not even here yet and he's so in love with you."Â
You look at the walkman resting beside you, and instead of putting it around your abdomen something inspires you to put the headphones on yourself. Youâve never listened to the message before but tonight you do.
You slip the cheap foam over your ears, rewinding the tape and smiling when his voice sounds out over the tape.
âHey little Bravo, this is your dad speaking. I just found out youâre gonna be a boy. Woah. My son. Uh, I need you to know that you are so special and that when youâre born weâre gonna have so much fun. Iâve already made a list of places weâre gonna go. And-â
It goes on like this for several minutes with Dieter excitedly detailing all his future plans for he and his son. You hang onto every word, enraptured with the life he has in store for his son. You imagine a future with Dieter holding a baby with his same wild hair. And in this future you see him reach for a woman, but she isnât you. Itâs Mia, and she looks so happy with them. The perfect family.
Dieterâs voice draws you back in.
âYou need to know that your Mom loves you just as much as me. I watch her patting you and whispering to you all the time. She told me last week that you were the size of a head of cauliflower. Then she started humming a song about her cauliflower son.â
You laugh out loud at the memory of you swimming a few weeks ago humming a tune about a cauliflower son. You didnât even realize Dieter was paying attention. Â You turn your attention back to the recording.
âI just want you to know how much I love you. I love you so so much. Iâm so excited to meet you.â
You stop the tape, rewinding it.
âI just want you to know how much I love you. I love you so much.â
You sniffle, rewinding the tape again.
âI just want you to know how much I love you. I love you so much.â
Again.
âI love you so much.â
Again and again you rewind to hear that section. And as you finally drift off into sleep itâs to the gentle sound of the man you desire whispering how much he loves you.
Dieter arrives at home late, toeing off his sneakers as he yawns, scratching his belly before heading for his bedroom. The suitcase is left at the front door, tomorrowâs problem. Heâs exhausted from the flight and he needs to get some sleep before he talks to you tomorrow morning.
He opens the door to his room, preparing to throw himself into bed when he notices the fireplace is on. He pauses, seeing you in your bed lying on your side sleepily soundly. A small smile curls onto his lips when he sees the bright yellow walkman in your hand, fingers loosely around it. What strikes him is that you're wearing the headphones; you don't have them around your belly.Â
Dieter is quiet, looking down at your peaceful sleeping face illuminated by your bedside table. One of your hands is splayed over your belly protectively and this makes him smile. He gently pulls the earphones from off your head, sliding the walkman from your grip and placing both on his nightstand.Â
He figures heâll sleep in the guest room tonight, musing that youâre playing musical beds tonight.
You murmur something sleepily, something be doesn't catch. He takes a minute longer to look at you and then his face hovers over yours. He kisses you softly, an innocent press of his lips to yours.Â
"G'night baby mama."
You shift partly awake, arms reaching out to wrap around his neck. He grins, allowing himself to get pulled into the bed next to you. Youâre so warm. You don't say anything; you just snuggle up against him, face nuzzling against his neck.Â
"Go back to sleep, baby," Dieter tells your sleepy frame. "Just turning the light off."
He presses a ginger kiss to your temple before his free hand clicks the light next to the bed. Â
"Okay, love you, g'night," you murmur, still mostly dozing.Â
Dieter is silent, unmoving as your words rattle around in his head. He waits until you're snoring before he finally replies.Â
"I love you too."
TAGLIST: @getitoutofmymindwrites @manuymesut @whirlwindrider29 @mostardentlypascal @lu62 @missladym1981 @heareball @sptbear @drewharrisonwriter @lizzie-cakes @daddy-dins-girl @moel-jiller @tammythr @guelyury @lilyevanstan1325 @lu62 @sptbear @staywildflowahchild @whirlwindrider29 @pedropascalsbbg @cherrycosmos392
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âđ» THAT âđ»
991 i hav emerjenci
Wow, what an absolute dumpster fire, right? *gestures broadly* âBelow the cutâ are some specific things as a reader/mutual/friend/etc you can do that will make things a little better.
You come across someone posting/using someone else's work without express permission to do so:
INFORM THE ORIGINAL CREATOR/POSTER (OP) DIRECTLY
ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⧠Let OP know BEFORE you attempt to engage with the person on their behalf.
⧠OP will probably want to lay eyes on the situation, and, if the person stealing their work is tipped off, they might proactively block OP and/or remove posts before they can be verified as stolen.
⧠Do not harass the person who stole the work. It might be coming from a place of wanting to stick up for OP, but it ultimately doesn't help the situation.
OP is experiencing a hate brigade, nasty anons, or trolling over their fic:
PRIORITIZE ACTIONS AND BEHAVIORS THAT KEEP THE FOCUS ON SUPPORT FOR OP
ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⧠Reblog the fic in question with a glowing recommendation or just leave a comment under it expressing your appreciation for it. Both actions will boost the work in question as well as show direct support for OP.
⧠Reach out privately through DMs if you have that sort of relationship, or send a supportive message through asks. Keep it simple and short as they are probably overwhelmed with the shitstorm at certain points.
⧠Speaking up with a supportive comment or post for OP isn't necessarily a bad thing, but arguing back and forth with the trolls/hate brigade/etc. - even if you are doing it with intention to support OP - only fuels the fire, and some of them are doing it for the attention anyway.
OP seems down / isn't motivated to write / is expressing considerations of leaving fic writing altogether because of the current climate on this hellsite:
GIVE THEM THE SPACE OR TIME THEY NEED, BUT ALSO LET THEM KNOW THAT THEY ARE VALUED
ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⧠For the love of god please don't bombard them with asks about when xyz is going to be posted. This is a hobby for them, and they have jobs, families, and other life responsibilities that come first. Many would love nothing more than to sit and write all day, but that just isn't the reality for 99% of fic writers.
⧠Show their older works love, too. Many fic writers take the time to curate an organized masterlist of their works, and many have been writing for a while. There is a trove of wonderful content that can be read or re-read while you patiently wait for your fave to update.
⧠If you're waiting for an update on a specific fic, go back through the older chapters/updates and leave a comment saying you love it so much that you're coming back to visit older chapters while you wait to see what happens next in the story. I guarantee it will give them a boost of motivation for that story in particular.
⧠REBLOG AND COMMENT. Yes, do both of those things. I want you open up a fic you love and scroll down to the bottom where you can see likes, comments, and reblogs. I want you to look at the disparity between likes and comments/reblogs. Clicking a heart button is pretty much zero effort, and it comes across as such to many writers. It's not how Tumblr operates. This is a REBLOG site. That is how things make their way around. That is how posts get engagement. That is how other people can discover the fic writers you enjoy. Look, I even made a meme to show you what it feels like when after hours and hours of writing and editing you finally post a fic and then somebody only hearts it:
Even a simple "I loved this so much and can't wait to read more!" does wonders. A quick reblog that mentions your favorite part in the story is like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow for writers.
You come across people trashing a writer you like:
CONSIDER IF IT'S HELPFUL OR NOT TO ADDRESS IT
ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⧠People are allowed to have negative/differing opinions about things. If they are expressing their dislike, even in a nasty way, they are allowed to do so.
⧠If it is a genuinely harmful/disparaging conversation, look to see what sort of traction the conversation has. Sometimes it's better to just let something die down before it can even take off. Examples of genuinely harmful/disparaging conversation include but aren't limited to: accusing OP of something egregious without any evidence to support it, framing rumors/gossip they've seen about OP as factual, deeming them criminally or morally corrupt based off a personal opinion they have of OP/their works.
⧠Remember that while serious concerns (like the above point) might be good to share with OP, not every instance of negativity or hate needs to be brought to their attention. If it's just some random jerk on a different platform talking about how much OP's writing is amateur hour, you should probably just leave it be. OP is a person at the end of the day, and sometimes things can be more hurtful than helpful for them to see.
OP isn't acting / responding in a way that you like:
REMIND YOURSELF THAT THEY ARE JUST ANOTHER PERSON IN THE FANDOM AND ARE NOT AN INFLUENCER
ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⧠OP isn't in this fandom to be put on a pedestal (of course there are always exceptions, but I'm not talking about those people) and treated like an influencer.
⧠OP creates works in the fandom because that is how they choose to engage with the fandom. It is one of many ways that people can come together in a community and celebrate an actor/movie/series/etc.
⧠OP is not a content farm. They are writing and sharing because they genuinely enjoy it. They are not being compensated. They are not being endorsed by anybody or any company. They are a normal person trying to take part in a fandom they enjoy.
⧠OP is not obligated to address or comment on a situation, an interaction, discourse, etc. They are not an influencer and aren't equivalent to the parasocial relationships that influencers (aka people who make a living off the internet) have with their followers. OP is not required to "use their platform" for something. It's not a platform. It is OP's personal account where they engage and post in fandom. That is why it exists. OP is not some mega entity that has to speak on something because you demand or expect it.
OP blocked me:
THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE
ââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
⧠Listen, I know it can be hurtful/confusing if you are blocked, especially if it is a writer you really like. I guarantee you that it was not done out of spite and for no reason.
⧠Take a look at the circles you run in, the posts you like, the sort of comments you leave, etc. Many writers are quick to block these days because the climate of this hellsite is very charged and exhausting. If OP sees your username cropping up again and again in fandom drama or you liked a discourse post with a shitty take or your chummy mutual is going off the rails with some bullshit, you might just get caught up in the Block Party.
⧠Don't go through another channel/account to ask why you've been blocked. No, you aren't entitled to a reason. OP is allowed to protect their mental health and peace, and they don't owe anyone an explanation of why and how they choose to curate their experience on this hellsite.
⧠If you believe you were blocked by mistake (which, again, is very unlikely), just take the L, homie. I know that's not what you want to hear, but that's just how it is.
If you took the time to read this, share it, or just in general intend to apply it to your interactions, âšthank youâš!
Here is a Pedro gif tax for your time and attention. đ
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MASTERPIECE đ
spring breaks loose | joel miller x f!reader
a your summer dream one shot
your summer dream masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates
It's spring, you're young, you're lovely, you have a right to be happy. Come back into the world.
âShirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle
prev | next
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
rating: 18+
word count: 11.2k
series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), angst, smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, alcohol, food, secret relationship until it's not.
chapter summary: building bridges and starting fresh. it's springtime in austin.
chapter warnings: smut, lots of fluff, a sprinkling of angst, consensual somnophilia, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, vaginal fingering, oral (m receiving), alcohol + intoxication, reader is so very eepy, food, discussions of infidelity, a whole lot of dialogue and tying up loose ends, heather comes with her own warning, in this house we hate chris, time hop, pov swapping. no use of y/n.
a/n: we have reached the penultimate chapter of ysd (for real this time). thank you to everyone who has stuck around this long. thank you to @frannyzooey for helping me work out a few things in this chapter, @joelscruff for beta'ing, and @5oh5, who offered me plant guidance many moons ago now.
i also wanted to just boost the fact that i do have a kofi account, and while there is never any pressure to tip, life is hard rn and i always always appreciate the help. love ya'll sm.
*lastly: be sure to see the very end of this post for a special SNEAK PEEK of the upcoming final chapter of your summer dream.
january
-
"I'm really happy," you insist, and in spite of it all, Joel's lips twitch up at the corners. You've told him how happy you are about a thousand times, but watching you confidently profess it to your father is something else entirely.Â
"I'm really happy, okay?" you repeat, firm as you stare down the man across from him. Your father's face remains unchanged, stoic and blank as he nods. Joel swallows tightly as you nod back, and then you're gone.
Neither of the men utter a word until the back door swings shut behind you. Joel can feel your father's eyes on him, but he can't bring himself to meet them. He should say something. He clears his throat but thenâ  Â
"Joel...since Costa Rica?" your father asks. He doesn't sound angry, Joel notes. No, he soundsâŠhurt.Â
At last, Joel looks up from the table, and your father stares back at him with obvious confusion in his eyes. Confusion andâas Joel had imaginedâhurt.Â
Joel sighs.Â
"Yeah," he nods solemnly, shifting in his seat. "Yes."
Your dad just shakes his head, and Joel can practically see the cogs turning in his mind, playing back those days at the resort, piecing it all together in real time.Â
"That whole time we were there, youâ?"
"Noâ" Joel cuts him off. "NotâŠnot the whole time."
Like that makes it better. Your father doesn't look at him, still lost in thought, still shaking his head defiantly.Â
"I wasâŠwe were right across the hall. Youâall that sneaking aroundâweâyouâ"
His rambling dissolves into incoherent sputtering until Joel finally chimes in again.
"I'm sorry," he says, and then he's shaking his head too, like he's just as much in disbelief about the whole thing as his best friend is. And he is, really. Couldn't believe it then, can hardly believe it now. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Goddamnit, Joel," your father suddenly exclaims, a palm coming down hard on the tabletop. His anger seems to catch up with him, as though Joel's quiet apology had somehow been the final nail in the coffin. "She's Sarah's age! I mean, thatâthat's my daughter!"
Joel swallows and sniffs back a heated flow of emotion. He knows he deserves it, deserves every bit of your father's ire. But that doesn't mean it doesn't sting, that feeling of being scolded by his oldest friend in the world. He shrinks a bit and crosses his arms over his chest defensively.
But he doesn't actually defend himself at all. For some reason, he digs the hole deeper. Maybe he's tired of lying.Â
"Younger," he grumbles, staring down at his hands.Â
"What?"
Joel clears his throat, cautiously daring to meet your father's accusatory glare.Â
"She's younger than Sarah."
There's a long and painful beat of silence as your father sits back in his chair with a heavy, exasperated sigh.Â
"What the hell is this, Joel?" he demands. Still biting, still cold, though not quite as infuriated.Â
Joel seizes the opportunity. He leans forward, elbows on the table, pleading. Where to begin? He thinks about what he'd want to hear if the roles were reversedâand starts there.
"Everythin' was mutual, right from the startâI swear," Joel begins. "And I...I mean, I couldn't even remember the last time I seen her before that day at the airport. I ain't never even thought about her like that before. Then we wereâspendin' all this time together, which you wanted us to doâ"
"Uh-uh, don't you go puttin' this on me," your dad cuts in. "You know damn well this ain't what I had in mind."
Joel nods.Â
"I know, I know," he agrees. "I didn't meanâsorry."
Your father doesn't respond. Joel sighs.
"Listen, she was hurtin', manâyou don't know the half of what that boy did to her," Joel attempts to reason. "We got to talkin' about it all and I...I just wanted to be there for her, you know? And, sure, there was attraction there, she's a beautiful girlâ"
"Alright, alright, alright," your father interrupts again, grimacing. "I don't need to hear about all that."
Joel nods again, swallowing back the words he'd been about to sayâthat the attraction had, miraculously, flown both ways. That you'd wanted him just as much as he'd wanted you. That he never would have sought you out if he hadn't known that was true.Â
He contemplates his next words carefully.Â
"Look, it wasn't right to keep it from you," Joel concedes eventually. "Weâor, Iâgot caught up in it. You think I expected this? I mean she justâ," Joel shakes his head, lost for words again as his cheeks warm and his lips curl into this fond little smile when he thinks of how completely and quickly you'd made a home for yourself in his heart, "She took me by surprise, man. But you know what it's like when you got a good thing goin'. You don't wanna risk losin' it."
Your dad just frowns, his mouth seemingly fused into a hard, unforgiving line.Â
"Costa Rica was months ago, Joel."
Joel sighs.Â
"I know. I know, okay? I wanted to tell you sooner. But she wasn't ready for that and I wasn't gonna go against her wishes."
Your father's jaw ticks as he chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking. Coldly assessing the man across from him like he's seeing him for the very first time. Joel crumbles under that stare, hates how it feels coming from someone he's known so long.Â
"You know me, man," Joel pleads, wide eyes boring desperately into your father's. "You know me. When have I ever gone for someone younger? When have I ever even wanted that?"
Your father's face doesn't change but he also doesn't argue, so Joel goes on.
"All I wanna doâall I have ever wanted to do for that girlâis take care of her. And I-I know maybe it'sâŠuncomfortableâ"
Your father scoffs at the understatement of the century, and Joel can't help the way his own lips twitch upwards too. It's a moment of genuine camaraderie, of two fathers well aware of the absurdity of their situation. Their matching grins quickly fade, but nevertheless, Joel feels somewhat more at ease when he next speaks.Â
"âbut it's real," Joel concludes, "What we got. S'hard as it is to understandâand believe me, I ain't even sure I understand it, butâŠ"
His voice trails off into a pensive sigh, mirrored by your father. There's another stretch of silence, but the air feels less tense now, a little less thick with disdain. Again, Joel ponders what he'd want to hear if he was in your father's shoes. What would give him the peace of mind to know this was okay?
"I'mâŠ" he starts to say, but he's shocked to find the words get caught in his throat, obstructed by a sudden lump of emotion. He grunts past it, straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders while your father looks on with furrowed brows.Â
"I'm in love with her," Joel finally manages, voice low and laced with devotion.Â
It's infinitesimal, but Joel could swear he sees your father's eyes soften.Â
"I ain't told her that yet," he continues. "But I think she knows. I think she's a smart girl, and I think she knows this is real, too. Hell, I don't think she'd'a stuck around this long if she didn't think I was serious about her. And so, IâŠI think you gotta trust her on this one. Even if you don't wanna trust me."
Your father crosses his arms over his chest and takes another long, weighty sigh.Â
"Jesus Christ, Joel," he mutters, shaking his head down at the table. But it doesn't sound angry or even hurt anymore. It almost sounds teasing, and Joel almost laughs.Â
"I know," he smirks. "Trust me, I know."
"S'pose I got no business tryna forbid it, do I?" your father says.
"She wouldn't let you even if you tried," Joel replies, grinning wider when he thinks of how you'd respond to that. You, so independent and sure of yourself. Yeah fucking right.
Your dad huffs out a single laugh. "Ain't that the truth."
Tentatively, both men sip at their drinks, falling back into something of a routine. It still feelsâŠawkward. But the worst seems to have passed.
Meanwhile, Joel's heart is pounding in his chest as the reality of his admission catches up with him. He loves you. He's in love with you. He's never said it out loud before. His entire body suddenly aches with the need to see you, just so he can say it again and again and again.Â
Joel polishes off his drink, pursing his lips around the burn of whiskey on his tongue. The two men lock eyes, and Joel thinks maybeâmaybeâhe can see the early signs of forgiveness there.Â
"I get it f'you need some time," Joel says. "Guess I justâŠwanna make sure me n' you are gonna be alright."
Joel's best friend sighs, before nodding slowly and sympathetically.Â
"Yeah," he grunts. "Yeah, we'll be alright. C'monâ"
He cocks his head to the side as he rises up out of his chair and Joel hastily follows suit. Your father pulls him into an affable, if somewhat unsure, embrace, firmly patting his palms over Joel's upper back. Joel returns the hug instinctively.
"Don't fuck this up, Miller," your father grumbles over Joel's shoulder.
Joel chuckles, honestly grateful for the familiar ribbing. "Won't. Promise."
That's about the time you come charging back through the door.
-
four months later
-
A blanket of grey coats the early-April sky above, a telltale sign of rain to come. It's appropriately ominous, you think, considering what you're about to do.
Joel herds you toward his truck in the driveway with a hand on your lower back, but something in your periphery gives you pause. A glimpse of colour that hadn't been there before, stopping you in your tracks about halfway down his front steps.Â
"Those are new."
Joel stops too, following your eye line as he casually throws an arm across your shoulders. He smiles when he sees what you see, letting you guide him a little closer to what had once been an unassuming, mostly barren patch of dirt on his front lawn. Now, poking out from the otherwise lifeless bushes are a handful of tulips, vivid green stems giving way to pink and yellow petals, tentatively blooming in spite of the day's limited sunlight.Â
"OhâŠyeah," Joel shrugs. "Sarah and I planted 'em. Years ago. Grow back every year around this time."
You're not sure why that stirs something in you. But it does.Â
Joel Miller has tulips in his garden.
Curiously, you inch towards them, crouching to delicately curl your fingers around the unfurling petals.
"They're beautiful," you muse. You turn to face him and find he's watching you with equal curiosity. "Pink and yellow?"
"She picked the pink."
"Adds up," you nod. "What made you go with yellow?"
He stares at your fingers fiddling with the stems, and shrugs. You think he seems a little shy.Â
"Can't remember," he says. "They're sunny, I guess. Bright."
A tightness knots in your throat as he reaches out beside you to touch his own fingers to the petals, softly running his thumbs against them, seemingly deep in thought. You think of a younger Joel Miller, picking out yellow tulip seeds to plant with his daughter because they reminded him of the sun. A younger Joel Miller digging holes in the Earth to lay down his roots, burying a memory only to watch it grow back, year after year. A sure thing, a constant. Always there even if you can't see them.
Of course Joel Miller has tulips in his garden.Â
"What?" he probes after a moment of prolonged silence. You clear your throat.Â
"Nothing," you smile, craning to kiss his cheek and feeling the low rumble of his responding chuckle against your lips. "I love you."
He cups a hand over your face before you can get too far, pressing his mouth to yours in a deeper, far less chaste kiss.Â
"I love you too," he murmurs as he pulls away.Â
You're still thinking about the tulips as Joel backs out of the driveway, and the first of the day's raindrops begin to hit his windshield. You make your way out of the safety of the cul-de-sac, and with the low hum of the radio playing in the background, you count the houses on the street outside your window in an attempt to calm your nervous mind.Â
Joel doesn't interrupt your silence. But as you merge onto the freeway, your heart begins to poundâand you decide you need a distraction.Â
"It's nice they grow back every year," you say absently out the window.Â
"Hm?" Joel's brows furrow as he glances over at you, sitting with your chin atop your fist and staring out at the steadily increasing rainfall. He quickly catches up with your train of thought. "Oh, the tulips. Yeah, it is nice. 'Specially after Sarah left. They always reminded me of her."
You nod and make some noncommittal humming sound. Talking was a stupid idea actually.Â
As ever, Joel notes your demeanour.Â
"You alright?" he asks, taking your hand across the centre console and squeezing three distinct times.Â
You sigh.
"Just nervous."
"You'll be fine," he insists lightly, not for the first time. "I reckon she's a lot more nervous'n you are."
You can't argue with that. Heather is the one who fucked your ex-boyfriend. Heather is the one working to make amends. Heather is the one who threw away your friendship and is now asking for it back.Â
"Yeah, that's probably true," you agree quietly.Â
Joel sighs. He lifts your conjoined hands to his mouth to lay a kiss against your knuckles, keeping his eyes on the road as he does.Â
"JustâŠremember, you're not goin' there to forgive her or toâŠpretend like nothin' happened," he says. "But I think you'll feel better once y'get this all hashed out."
"I know you're right," you nod, allowing the truth of his words to wash over you as you take another steadying breath and lean your head back into the seat behind you. "I just feel like I-I've been carrying the weight of this for too fucking long. I have to let it go. I'm doing the right thing."
It's a mantra you have to keep reminding yourself ofâyou're doing the right thing. Not just from a being the bigger person standpoint, but for you. You need to do this so you can close this chapter of your life for good.Â
"You're takin' the time to hear her out after all the shit she put you through," Joel goes on. "Makes you a better person than most people I know."
The pride and adoration in his voice makes warmth bloom in your tummy, but you roll your eyes all the sameâout of habit more than anything else.Â
"I don't know about that."
"I do."
His gaze darts in your direction again, and there is no trace of a lie in that look. So you choose not to fight him, just smile tightly and accept his reassurance, falling back into comfortable quiet for the rest of your drive.Â
By the time he pulls up in front of the cafe you'd agreed to meet Heather at, your nerves have returned tenfold. Is she already inside? You're ten minutes early so maybe not. Is it better if you're here first or would that make her feel weird? Why are you worried about making her feel weird? Â
God, it never used to feel this terrifying to see your best friend. You have half a mind to ask Joel to wait with you but ultimately decide against it. You need to be a big girl about this.Â
"I can do this," you tell yourself instead.Â
"You can," Joel agrees, taking you in his arms and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Call me if it goes south and I'll come pick y'up, alright?"
You nod resolutely as you unravel yourself from his hold.Â
"'Kay. Thank you."
"Good luck, baby girl."
With one last parting kiss, Joel lets you go, watching you from the driver's seat until you disappear behind the door of the cafe.
-
Heather is not there yet, as it turns out, and you can't tell if that makes this better or worse.Â
Now you're faced with new dilemmas. Should you order her a coffee? You haven't seen her in eight months; what if she takes it differently now?Â
She fucked your boyfriendâwhy would you buy her a coffee? the pettier part of you wonders.
And that'sâŠtrue, you suppose.
So you buy yourself a latte and get it in a to-go cup, find a seat at a two-person table in the back of the dining room and wait. But not for long.
Barely five minutes later and Heather is coming through the door. She spots you and there's a moment of awkward uncertainty as you half-rise from your chair, the both of you waving at each other before Heather gestures to the line at the till. You nod and retake your seat.
You resist the urge to text Joel. You can do this. You can do this on your own.
Heather settles up, cautiously setting her coffee cup on the table beside yours and you're not sure whyâinstinct or somethingâbut you stand when she gets there, and let her pull you into a hug.Â
"Hi, babe." Her voice is thick and her arms are tight around you. And, goddamnit, for everything she put you through, there is a familiarity in that embrace, something long-forgotten in the warmth of her voice.Â
"Hey," you murmur, letting her squeeze you in tighter before you both pull away. "Hey."
She assesses you with wide, wet eyes, hands still resting on your shoulders.
"You look amazing," she says.
"Thanks."
"I don't even know where to start," she shakes her head. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Of course." Like you hadn't stewed over it for literal weeks.
"Why don't I justâI mean, I have toâ"
You can see her struggling, and you can't help but sympathize. She was always the more confident of the two of you, always more direct and braveâbut in that warm kind of way that used to always put you at ease. Now, she seems completely lost, awkwardly taking a seat and waiting for you to do the same. She clutches her hands around her coffee cup and you don't think you've ever seen her look so small.Â
"I amâŠso fucking sorry," she finally says. She doesn't shy away from you when she says it, and you have to respect her courage for that. She looks you dead in the eyes and doesn't avert her stare even once.Â
You swallow tightly. "I know."
"Can IâŠwould you let me explain?"
"Actually, Heather," you say, straightening in your seat a bit to steel yourself. Heather's face falls, until you go on, "Can I go first? I just need to say my piece and then, yes, you can explain."
She's nodding furiously before you even get the words out.
"Of course, yes, oh my god, please."
She sits back, probably gearing up for the lashing of a lifetime. It's not quite what you have planned butâ
"You really hurt me. You and Chris. Whatever the story is, whatever went down, it doesn't change the fact that what you two did just... completely fucked me up. My entire life changed overnight because of you. I spent so many days crying, screaming, trying to just...figure out what I'd done to deserve that. Why wasn't I enough? Why wasn't I good enough for Chris? Why wasn't I a good enough friend to you? Like, if I was a better friend to you maybe you wouldn't have done that to me, you know?"
Fat tears slowly well in Heather's eyes as you speak, finally spilling over as you near the end of your monologue. But she doesn't interrupt or argue, and for that, you're grateful.
"I wondered about all of that for a really long time," you continue. "In those first few days when it was hardest...and for so many months after. But...I'm okay now. I think actually it all kind of worked out in the end, as crazy as that sounds."
At least it had all brought you to Joel.
"But I just needed you to know what it did to me. I think it's important that you know."
Heather hastily swipes at her tears, blinking them away and nodding her agreement.
"And that's it, that's all I have to say," you conclude. The weight on your shoulders feels lighter already. "You don't have to say anything back but...I do want to hear you out. You can...you can tell me what happened now."
That was the point of all this after all, you guess.Â
Heather takes a deep, shaky breath. You sip your coffee.Â
"Okay. Well, fuck. Okay. I had feelings for Chris," she begins. "But I neverâI never dreamed of acting on them while you two were together, you have to know that. It wasn't premeditated or-or-or something I actively thought aboutâ"
"I never thought that."
It's true. Heather's a lot of things, but she's not conniving.Â
"Okay," she nods, seeming genuinely relieved. "Good. I mean, it still doesn't make it right, I know that. But heâ"
She cuts herself off, a nervous shiver passing over her. Her courage wanes, and she looks down at the table as she dives into the part of her story that neither of you wants you to relive.Â
"That night at your birthday party, he started telling me things. HeâŠ"
Her voice trails off again, and you can understand her fears, but you need to know this. Whatever it is.
"Heather, it's okay, you can tell me."
She glances up at you. You make your resolve as clear as possible on your face until you see her nod.Â
"What happened wasâŠI was drunk and I-I told him how I felt," she continues. "I shouldn't have done that, I know that. But that's when he started saying all this stuff about how he wasn't happy and how he was planning to break up with you. He-he said he'd always wanted to be with me instead."
She stops, peeking up at you, but the only response you can offer her is a curt little,
"Oh."
Interesting. He'd made no indication of his unhappiness to you.Â
"In that moment, I justâŠI believed him. I should have just come straight to you but I let my stupid feelings get in the way and Iâ"
"He can definitely be very convincing," you say bitingly. Heather almost laughs, but quickly reins herself in.Â
"It's no excuse, and I know that," she says. "I just really thought he meant it. That he was going to end it with you and choose me instead. Not that that would have been okay either, but. God, in hindsight, I just was not thinking clearly at all."
Heather buries her face in her hands but it's getting hard to focus. You're flitting back through memories, trying to piece things together. Had there been signs? Since meeting Joel, you're acutely aware that you hadn't been as happy as you could have been with Chris, but you can't ever recall letting that on at the time. And you certainly can't recall Chris ever letting on his unhappiness. It doesn't add up.Â
"Then he did end it with you and you went to Costa Rica and I felt like, 'Okay, this is what he'd promised,' butâŠI could tell right away he was having second thoughts. All of a sudden, he's changing his tune, saying he wants to get back together with you and basically telling me I could just be like a-like a side piece or something."
At that, you scoff mirthlessly. Of course.
That's why he hadn't let anything on. He'd been trying to have his cake and eat it too. Motherfucker.Â
"Yeah," Heather goes on. "So I said, 'Fuck you' and I walked. I was already feeling terrible about what I'd done to you and that just settled it for me."
"Fuck," you sigh, pinching at a pressure point between your eyes.
"And I haven't talked to him once since then," Heather insists. She reaches across the table and wraps a hand around your wrist, and you let her. "I promise."
You place your own hand over hersâagain operating on some kind of deep-seated instinct.Â
"Thank you," you tell her. "ForâI don't know, for being honest."
"I would've told you everything sooner if you'd have let meâ"
"I know."
"But I knowâI know you needed your time. You didn't have to hear me out at all, and I would have deserved that. I take full responsibility, I do, but, my god, babeâ," Heather's lips pull up in a smirk and you share a knowing glance, "âthat guy fucking sucks."
You could try to fight the way your own face contorts into a grin, but you don't.Â
"Yeah," you agree. "He really fucking does."
There's a short beat of silence, filled with the sounds of your uncertain, quiet laughter.
"Are we okay?" Heather finally asks tentatively, letting your arm go. "Orâshit. Sorry. You don't have to answer that."
"NoâitâŠI don't know yet," you say truthfully. "But, you know, I don't think you deserve what he did to you, either. And I'm sorry."
"I'm okay now. All I really care about is you."
You smile at each other tightlyâuncertainlyâand sip quietly at your coffees. She doesn't demand forgiveness or push the subject further. You think the air feels just a little clearer now, a little more like before.
"So what's new with you?" she chimes in after a moment. "How've you been? You never post on Instagram anymore."
Your smile turns a little shy as you debate telling her about Joel. But her gaze is so earnest and curious, it makes you want that normalcy, to be able to gush to your best friend about the man you've fallen in love with.Â
"Well," you shrug, sitting up a little straighter in your chair. "I'm seeing someone."
Heather's jaw drops in genuine delight, her eyes going wide with wonder.
"No way! Tell me everything."
And you do. You tell her all about Joel and Costa Rica, and every perfect moment since. Heather gasps and squeals at all the appropriate times and you find yourself remembering why it feels so good to have someone to talk about these things with. It's so validating to watch someone be as excited about your love life as you feel about it.Â
"Wait," she interrupts, early on in your retelling, "If he's your dad's friendâhow old is he?"
You bite your lip, hardly bashful about it these days, but after the disaster that was telling your parents, you never know how someone could react anymore.
"He's in his fifties," you confess.
Heather's hands come up over her mouth, but her eyes are swimming with barely-contained glee.
"Shut up, oh my god," she exclaims. Her initial shock fades into awe, and when her hands fall from her face, you think she looks kind of impressed, "Damn, girl. That's hot. Is he hot?"
You smile. "He's so fucking hot."
When you're home later, you'll have to remember to tell Joel how good it had felt to brag about him. You're sure he'll act coy, but you know it'll make his ego bloom, just a little bit.
It goes on like that as the minutes pass, you catching Heather up on the whirlwind that the last eight months or so have been. She looks kind of proud, and that feels good too. You're so proud of Joel, proud of the life you've built together, the way he's taught you so much about yourself and helped you grow into this new, happier person. It's nice to have someone else see that.
"So, your mom still doesn't approve?" she asks once you've got her fully up to speed.
You shrug. "Not as far as I know. I haven't spoken to her since that night we told them."
"Oh, babe."
You just shrug again, pushing back on her sympathetic gaze.Â
"Maybe she just needs some time," Heather posits, "I mean, you seem so happy. She'll see that eventually."
"Maybe, yeah."
Heather offers you her own scoop after that, telling you all about how she's been busy working on herself, taking courses to get her yoga-teaching license and enjoying being single for the time beingâthough she does work in a few stories of some particularly exciting hook-ups. She seems well, and in spite of everything, you're happy for her.Â
What's more, you kind of don't want your time with her to end. She seems to sense it too.
"Hey, do you want to maybe grab a drink? Like, a real drink?" she offers once your take-out cups are empty and the cafe's traffic has slowed to an early-evening lull.Â
"Yeah, okay, fuck it," you agree with a shrug. Heather smiles excitedly before excusing herself to the bathroom, leaving you to check your phone for the first time in hours.
Everything good? reads a text from Joel.Â
all good, you reply, i'll be a little later than i thought.Â
Take yr time. Love you.
love you too.
-
A cocktail deep, pop music blaring, and a plate of nachos between you; this is true familiarity with Heather. Â
You're finally starting to feel some semblance of comfortable, and it feels fucking good. To laugh with an old friend, even if there's still that faint undercurrent of distrust there. You imagine it won't ever fully go away. The minutes tick by, and while that distant uncertainty never fades, it gets easier. It gets fun.
"So, be honest," Heather says, diving headfirst into her second blended margarita. Her eyes sparkle with a devious little glint and you already have a feeling what she's going to ask. "This guyâŠhe's in his fifties, right?"
"Right," you grin.Â
"So likeâŠwhat's the sex like?"
Your grin widens as a warmth floods your cheeks. You think about Joel, his patience and his generosity, his big cock and his skillful hands. His curiosity and his devotion, every new experience he's offered you and how genuinely thrilled he seems to do so. You try not to think about it for long, though, because your tummy is already fluttering in a way it really shouldn't be in public.
"Honestly," you say, sipping at your drink coyly. "I don't think it could possibly be any better."
Heather makes a delighted little noise, practically bouncing her chair.Â
"Oh my god, okayâŠbut what about like, his stamina?"
"Um," you laugh. "Hasn't been an issue yet."
"I love this for you so much, babe," she smiles and it sounds like she really means it. "Can I see what he looks like?"
You have no qualms saying no to that. You may be stupidly in love, but you don't think it's biased of you to find Joel Miller beautiful. It's simply an objective truth. And it feels good to show him off.
You pull your phone out of your purse and flash Heather your lockscreenâa picture of Joel on the beach in Costa Rica, salt-and-pepper curls tousled in the breeze, soft belly poking out over his swim trunks, smiling at you over his broad shoulders.
"Oh my god," Heather repeats, yanking your phone right out of your hand for a better look. She taps the screen to keep it alive as she stares between the picture and you, smiling triumphantly across from her. "Whoa."
"Mhm," you smirk, your chest swelling with pride.Â
âThat's a man, baby," she commends you, handing back your phone. You sneak a parting glance down at the image of Joel on your screen before locking it. Heather sits back against the booth behind her, shaking her head in wonder. "And he sounds like he's so good to you."
You nod, sighing dreamily. "Yeah...he's the best."
"Good. You deserve that."
It's honestly a touching sentiment, one that makes you warm and soft. You didn't know how nice it would feel to have just one person in your life accept your relationship with Joel without any convincing at all. You share a smile and clink your glasses.Â
"I need an older man," Heather jokes, the sincerity of the moment quickly dissipating. "I'm so sick of boys."
"Joel certainly puts Chris to shame, that's for sure," you admit candidly.Â
Heather huffs. "Yeah, well, that's not saying much, is it?"
You almost squirt your drink out through your nose.Â
"Sorry, oh my god," Heather laughs, but it's too late. And it's probably wrong, but you don't care. You both descend into a fit of giggles at your ex's expense, and something about it feels weirdly cathartic.
-
It's like old times after that. Easier to forget the drama when you're three drinks deep and laughing so much. You're comfortably drunk in a way you haven't been in a while, falling quickly back into your usual repartee with Heather. You feel lighterâfreerâas you and Heather find your way to the dance floor and pick up basically where you'd left off nearly a year ago.
You also miss Joel.
He's being respectful, clearly trying to give you space, texting you to be safe when you'd let him know you'd be staying out a little longer. And that's nice and all, but you've talked about him so much tonight, and for all the fun you're having, you just want his arms around you and his lips on yours again.Â
"Didn't we go to high school with that guy?" Heather leans in close as you dance, effectively distracting you.
You follow her stare across the bar, averting your gaze the second you lock eyes with a handsome stranger leaning against the far wall. He's with a friend, and the two of them eye you and Heather with unabashed interest.
"Which one?" you giggle.Â
"The one on the left!"
You peek over at the men again, honing in on the one on the left. He does kind of look familiar. He's also still watching the two of you curiously.
"UhâŠ" you wrack your brain, trying to recall. It feels like a lifetime ago.
"Tom!" Heather exclaims. You shake your head.Â
"That doesn't sound right."
"No, it is! Tom from the basketball team, remember?"Â
You look over again, but it's still not clicking. Maybe you're drunker than you'd thought.
"He's kinda cute," Heather murmurs slyly in your ear. You grin.Â
The man is tall and lean, light-haired and certainly good-looking enough. A little older than both of you, but younger than the broader, burlier man beside him. You think maybe they could be brothers.Â
"Do you want to say hi?" you ask her.Â
Heather shakes her head.
"I have a better idea," she winks.
She grabs your hand and guides you to the bar, leaning against it and lengthening her body ever so. It doesn't take long before the men are coming up beside you like clockwork.Â
You could always count on Heather to find a way to get free drinks.
"What are you drinking, ladies?" the younger one implores confidently, placing an elbow on the bar top beside Heather. "Oh shit, do I know you?"
"I want a shot," Heather says, ignoring his question. "You guys want a shot?"
"Fuck, yeahâwhiskey alright?"
"Tequila," Heather smirks definitively.
-
Despite being out of practice, you haven't lost the ability to recognize good vibes from bad. And the guys give off good vibes. Especially once you all collectively figure out that you did indeed go to high school together.Â
You shoot a pointed look at Heather when the younger one tells you his name is, in fact, Tim.Â
"From the basketball team, though, right?" Heather asks. Tim frowns.
"Actually, it was water polo," he says.
"Water polo!" Heather repeats, looking at you with open arms and winking. You try to conceal your giggling. "Of course, I remember now."
Tim grins bashfully, even though you are sure Heather most certainly does not remember.Â
You cheers to the Ravens and down your shots and then Tim ushers Heather back to the dance floor. You happily let her go. Tim seems kind of goofy, consistently making Heather throw her head back in laughter and it honestly feels nice to watch her look so content. You think about how Joel had made you feel those first few days in Costa Rica, when you'd still been reeling with all that heart ache.Â
You think about how much resentment you'd harboured for Heather back then, and while it's not totally gone, there's a sense of kinship there now too. Chris had hurt you both, and you know all too well how healing it had been to find someone willing to stitch up the wounds he'd left. You want that for Heather.Â
Goddamnit, you miss Joel.Â
You imagine showing him off to all your old high school friends like he was some kind of trophy husband at a class reunion. You'd walk into the gymnasium, hanging confidently off his arm and everyone there would turn and stare. They'd all whisper about his age, you bet. Call you mean names behind the bleachers and gossip about whether or not he was your sugar daddy. Thinking like that used to make you anxious, now it makes you grin.Â
"You want another drink?"
The other guy, Mike, is still sitting with you at the bar. He is Tim's brother, though you don't recognize him at all. Two years older and visiting from Philly, he's pretty clearly into you. But the conversation has been easy and he hasn't tried anything weird, so you don't think too much of it. You regale him about all your favourite local taquerias and what you studied in college, conscious of the way he seems just a little bit too interested in all of it.Â
But you definitely don't need another drink, bordering on the better side of too drunk, and as nice as he is, you think it's probably best not to lead him on any longer.Â
"Actually, I think I might head out soon."
"That's cool," Mike shrugs, polishing off the beer in his hand. "Wanna go grab a bite? Keep hangin' out?"
He sounds casual enough, but there's also an air of hopefulness in his voice.Â
"Oh, that's okay." You clear your throat, suddenly nervous at the thought of quashing that hope. "I'm, um, I'm actually spoken for."
Unconsciously, your fingers fly to the shell around your neck, fiddling idly with the chain. Mike's eyes follow the motion.
Much to your relief, Mike smiles, seemingly unbothered.Â
"Makes sense," he nods. His eyes trail up and down your body in a way that makes your cheeks burn. It also really makes you miss Joel. He's the only one you want looking at you like that.Â
"Well, he's a lucky guy, whoever he is," Mike says with a wink.Â
"Yeah," you agree fondly. "He is."
-
It's a quarter past eleven when Joel finally hears a car pull up outside. Two minutes later and your key is turning in the door, Henry bounding off the bed beside him to greet you downstairs.Â
"Hi, baby boy!"
Your voice, high-pitched and much too loud, cuts through the quiet of his home. He smiles to himself as he listens to you kick your shoes off, murmuring unintelligible nonsense to Henry as you both make your way back up to the bedroom. Joel sets his book on the nightstand and tilts his glasses down his nose, sitting up straighter until you emerge in the doorway with Henry in your arms and a crooked smile plastered across your face.Â
"Hey, sweetheart," he smirks.
You visibly soften at the sight of him, Henry spilling out of your grip.
"Hi," you whine.
Joel can't quite get a read on your energy, watching you curiously strip off your jeans and crawl up the mattress till you're splayed out on top of him.   Â
"Mmmm, Joel," you sigh dreamily as you make yourself at home across his chest.Â
"I take it that went alright?" he asks, wrapping an arm around your neck to stroke the back of your head. You practically purr into his sternum and the sound makes his insides turn.
"Yes," you nod, before pressing both hands into his shoulders to push yourself up so you're straddling him, "But, JoelâŠ"
Now face to face, you appear a bit dazed as you blink down at him, an adorable little pout painting your features. Joel smirks, raising his eyebrows expectantly as he waits for you to finish your thought.
"I missed you so much," you conclude, catching him off guard when you fist the front of his t-shirt and dive forward to slant your mouth over his.
You plunge your tongue between his lips and Joel can taste tequila there, can feel it too in the way you're kissing him; sloppy, hungry, eager.Â
"Only been gone a few hours, sweetheart," he chuckles against your lips.
"I know, butâŠafter the cafe, we went drinking andâ"
"No shit."
With what appears to be considerable effort, you push yourself off his chest and point an accusatory finger in his face. Your eyes narrow and Joel thinks you look a little too adorable for your own good.Â
"Watch it, Miller."
Joel grins.Â
"Mmmm, or what?" he hums, tracing his palms up and over your sides, which seems to distract you for a moment, your eyelids fluttering as a minute shiver visibly courses through you. You quickly pull yourself together.
Your blissful features quickly dissolve back into an overdone pout and Joel watches with amusement as you pry his fingers off your body. He could resist, but he doesn't, honestly just curiousâand maybe a little turned onâas you collect his wrists in your hands and pin his arms down on the mattress beside his head.
Seemingly content with your work, you hold him there with eyebrows raisedâand Joel decides to let you have the win.Â
"Can I finish my story, please?"
"Yes, ma'am," he smirks. You bristle at that but otherwise manage to stay on track.
"We went drinking, and it was really, really fun," you go on. You shift your weight slightly, and Joel smirks when he catches the moment you lose your train of thought at the feeling of his hardening cock beneath you.Â
"And?" he presses.
"I-I think I'm still mad at herâŠbut it wasâŠnice."
"That's good, baby," Joel murmurs, experimentally rolling his hips upwards just to watch your eyelids flutter. "I'm real proud of ya."
You exhale, making a sound that's almost a sob as you abandon your grip around his wrists to fold yourself over his chest again. You greedily kiss his neck and his ears and his face, and Joel lets you. Your drunken desperation is making him harder than he'd like to admit, and it's pretty fucking endearing to watch you suck your little marks into his skin with no inhibitions whatsoever.
"I talked about you a lot," you smile, clumsily resituating yourself so you're lying against his side, folding yourself in half so you're speaking the words against his belly.Â
"Yeah?" He rests his hand on the back of your skull, chuckling at the way you keen into his touch. "Talked about me how?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," you sneer just as you curl your fingers under the waistband of his boxers.
"What're you doin' there, baby girl?"
You peer up at him with a devastating puppy-dog stare, all wide-eyed and needy. "I missed your cock. I just wanna suck on it a little."
"Jesus," Joel breathes. He's powerless to fight you then as you tug his boxers down his thighs to reveal his semi-hard cock. He really shouldn't let you in this state but you're already wrapping your fingers around him and tonguing at his slit and it's too fucking late now. He stiffens fully in your grasp and promptly loses any will to stop you.
Then you close your lips around his length and take him as deep as you can, moaning like he's just given you the sweetest gift in the world.Â
"Fuck, yeah, you missed it," he grunts as you begin to bob, downright eager with it, if not lacking some of your usual finesse. You coat his cock with sloppy strings of saliva and move on him in an uneven rhythm but Joel's not gonna argue with a hot, wet mouth. Joel is more than happy to watch you take what you want from him.Â
"Messy girl," he remarks affectionately, stroking a palm down your spine to your ass, firmly cupping your cheek in his hand. "This all you wanted? Just to come home and let me stuff that pretty little mouth?"
"Mhm," you hum blissfully around him, spluttering a bit as you swallow him down again.
"Fuck, that's a good girl," he groans.
At that, you whimper, your cheek falling into his belly with your mouth still closed around his cock. You keep up the motions of your mouth for a moment, humming and moaning around him as you draw precum from his tip and suck it down greedily until he feels your jaw slowly begin to slacken.
He pets your hair and your body goes loose, heavy where it lays across his middle.
Joel can sense a shift in you then, your eagerness fading even as you continue to lap at his tip. Your fingers feel a little weaker around his shaft but you don't let up, lazily jerking him until he feels your hand go still, your lips barely grazing him anymore. You offer him a few wet, open-mouthed kisses to the head of his cock and then you go limp.
Joel waits a moment to be sure, peeking down at you questioningly.
Sure enough, you're asleep.Â
"Oh, baby," Joel sighs fondly. He squeezes your ass but you don't stir. Your slow, steady breathing lets him know you're really out, his hard cock forgotten in your grasp. You'll probably be embarrassed in the morning, but Joel's just stupidly endeared, hoisting you up into his arms and ignoring your half-conscious sounds of protest.Â
"C'mere, sweetheart, there you go."
He nestles up behind you, cradling you into his chest with his cock pressed against your ass. You shimmy back into him and Joel tries to ignore the ache, tells himself it'll feel better to fuck you in the morning when you've sobered up anyway. He reaches back to turn off the lamp on the nightstand and you whine at the loss of his body against yours.Â
"Joel," you whisper as he retakes his place behind you. "Did you come?"
He fights for his life not to burst out laughing. You're so goddamn cute.
"No, baby," he murmurs, kissing his favourite spot behind your ear. "Made me feel real fuckin' good, though. You can make me come tomorrow, alright?"
You hum contentedly, already drifting back to sleep. Joel pulls you in tighter, whispers that he loves you even though he doesn't think you can hear him, and it's not long before he's following behind you.
-
His alarm wakes him just as a beam of sunlight passes through his window, but it doesn't have the same effect on you.
You snooze peacefully with your back adhered to his chest, the gentle curve of your ass still flush against his cock. Your panties are gone; had you gotten up in the night? He can't remember now. It doesn't matter anyway, not when he can feel the heat of your body this close, bare flesh all soft and warm against him as the memory of the night before floods his senses. He'd fallen asleep with his dick still hardâachingâand within seconds of being awake, he's right back where you'd left him last night.Â
Not that it's uncommon for Joel to wake up horny when he sleeps next to you, but it's worse like this, worse that he's already felt your lips on his cock just a few hours prior, without getting the chance to come down your throat.
"Hey," he murmurs into your hair, but you don't wake up. You just move your hips backwards unconsciously, the hard length of his cock pressing warm between your cheeks. Driving him fucking crazy and you don't even know it.
Joel growls, a low, carnal sound he barely recognizes as he trails a hand down the side of your body. He cups your ass in his palm and spreads your cheeks apart, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing your hole. You shiver and Joel smirks. Sound asleep and you still respond to having your ass played with. Something about knowing you so well makes him that much harder.Â
Pliant and gone, you let him play with you, hands traversing every inch of your skin, up and over your belly to cup your breasts. His breath ragged in your ear, he gently twists your nipples just to feel them come alive under his touch. You squirm for him and Joel responds in turn, unable to help himself as he begins to slowly rut his hips against you.Â
"Sweet thing," he husks, feeling his touch grow rougher on your hipbone, your ass flush against his bulge as he grinds into you like a fucking teenager. "You don't even fuckin' know. Got no idea what youâre doin' to me, do you?"
He knows you can't hear him. Right now, he doesn't care.Â
He's wanted you like this since Costa Rica, too nervous to ask until you'd given him the okay all those months ago now. He's had you so many ways, and still you say you want more. He's not sure what he ever did to deserve you, but if one thing's been true from the start, it's that Joel Miller is not strong enough to deny you anything.Â
Something about this, though, feels decidedly selfish. His hand on your thigh, positioning your pliant muscles to his liking, bending your leg at the knee just so he can spread you open wider, slip his fingers between your ass cheeks and scrape them over your bare pussy; that's for him.Â
The sticky wetness he feels thereâthat's his.Â
Your spine arching in your sleep when he sinks two fingers into your warm, dripping holeâthat's because of him.Â
"Still want it, baby?" he hums as he pumps his fingers in and out. "Still want this cock?"
He doesn't wait for you to answer. For once, he just takes.Â
You put up no resistance as he replaces his fingers with his cock, pulling your body back into him until his hips meet your ass.
"Fuck," he hisses as he bottoms out.
You're so warm, so tight and inviting and perfect around him.
You're so wet, slick pools of arousal coating the hairs on his lower belly, sticking to your skin where it touches his.
And you're so soft, all gooey and loose in his arms as he slowly rocks into you, as close as he can possibly get and somehow never close enough.Â
"S'my good girl," he breathes, "Take it just like that for me. Finish what you started, huh?"
He moves without haste, content just to feel you like this, close and confined under the covers. Experimentally, he reaches around you to touch his fingers to your clit, sighing in amazement when your pussy clenches on his cock, a wave of slick gathering at the place you're connected.
"Yeah? That feel good?" he says to no one as he gently circles your pearl. He's rewarded with a breathy little moan, the prettiest fucking sound he's ever heard. His hips snap against yours with more force now, jostling you with you every thrust. He can feel his control waning, and he's gonna wake you up soon if he's not careful.Â
Maybe he's done being careful.Â
Cock still buried inside you, he rolls you both so he's lying above you, your body prone to the mattress beneath him. Your fingers curl into little fists and then you gasp, eyelids fluttering against the light of morning. Something dark and animalistic twists in him when he watches the awareness creep across your face, the way your features contort and you strain to look back over your shoulder, piecing it all together.Â
"Oh my god," you whine when it clicks. "Joel, fuck, fuckâohmygodJoelâ"
"Shh, I know, baby, I knowâŠI got you, you're okay," he babbles, folding over you to nip hungrily at your shoulders. You throw your head back and expose the column of your neck to him and Joel bites down there too just because he can. "Just had to feel you like this. You were so wet."
"Oh, fuck," you cry, voice still hoarse with sleep as Joel pounds into you harder. No reason to hold back now. "Fuck yes, Joel, take it."
"Yeah?"
"Please."
That's all he needs to hear.
With his arms wrapped firmly around your middle, Joel sits back onto his knees, taking you with him as he drapes you over his thighs and pulls you down onto his length. Your body still feels weak with sleep, almost passive in his grasp in a way he's not sure he should enjoy so much. He doesn't overthink it.Â
What he does is find your clit again, massaging his fingers over the bundle of nerves while he thrusts his cock up into you. A wanton moan pours from your throat and Joel catches it in a messy, open-mouthed kiss.Â
"There you go, there you go," Joel rambles when he feels you start to quiver, your pussy constricting around him as you spill listless, needy sounds of pleasure onto his lips. "Feels so good, don't it? Wakin' up with a cock inside you. This is what you wanted. Yeah? You gonna come?"
"Yesyes, fuck, yes Joel, I'm comingâ"
"I know," he grins, "I know, baby."
He knows because he feels it. He feels you pulse around his length, feels your muscles seize and loosen, feels your little clit twitch beneath his fingers as he coaxes you through your high. He also feels something new, something wet and warm and sinful.Â
"Oh, good girl," he groans. "Fuckâlook at that."
You're gushing for him, liquid pouring out over his fingers and his cock and his balls, staining the sheets beneath you. You writhe in his arms but Joel just keeps fucking you, fucks you until he's drawn every last drop from you. Fucks you until he's coming too, clutching you against him as his cock spasms between your walls and paints your insides with spend. Hot cum leaks out around his length, drips down your inner thighs, and makes a mess of your already messy pussy.Â
He comes and comes and then it ends, strangled moans fading into ragged breaths and heady grunts of release.Â
"Jesus," Joel pants into the hollow of your ear as he slowly comes down. "You alright?"
"Yes," you sigh. "Holy shit, thank you, Joel. Thank you."
He's got no fucking idea what for.Â
He pulls you off his cock and turns you in his lap to face him. Your arms coil around his neck and you cling to him like a koala, your face buried in his chest. He holds you there, because he thinks you might need thatâand also because he wants to.Â
"How'd I get so lucky, huh?" he ponders as he gently strokes your hair.
"I'm lucky," you protest softly. "I was trying to tell you that last night."
"I thought you were tryin' to suck my cock."
You laugh breathlessly, unravelling yourself from him just enough to let him see your face. You curl your fingers into his hair in a possessive sort of way that would probably make him hard if he hadn't just come so thoroughly.Â
"That was supposed to be an act of gratitude."
"For what? I didn't do nothin'."
He tries to keep his tone as light as yours, but his insecurities always bleed through no matter how hard he tries. You sense the earnestness in his voice, and match it head on.Â
"That's not true. You've made everything better," you whisper, touching your forehead to his. "I'm so fucking happy you're in my life."
He's gonna have to ask you exactly what all went down with Heather. He figures for now it can wait.Â
You kiss him and he kisses you back, his furrowed brows softening as your lips move against his in a now-familiar dance. The sun rises over Austin and though he's not sure he'll ever have the words to tell you, Joel thinks he's pretty damn happy you're in his life too.
-
"So I was thinking," you say around a mouthful of eggs the following Saturday.
"Uh-oh," Joel grins.Â
You fix him with a look and his grin only widens.Â
"Anyway," you continue pointedly, shovelling another forkful of eggs into your mouth. "I was thinkingâI'm kind of on a roll here. You know, in terms of, like, building bridges or whatever."
"Sure," Joel nods.
"And I'm thinking thatâŠmaybe I'm ready to talk to my mom."
Joel's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, likeâŠ" you shrug, focusing on your breakfast as you talk out what's been on your mind since you'd seen Heather last weekend. Being with her and hearing her side of the story had given you some foundation with which to forgive her. It's been gnawing at you that you haven't really given your own mother that chance. Perhaps if she could just see how happy you are, she'd eventually come around.Â
You explain all this to Joel, who nods along and hums his agreement.Â
"I just feel like I'veâŠclosed myself off to her and it's not really fair for me to just expect her to magically see the light, you know? I mean, look at dad. He's been coming around more, he's been seeing us together. And he's basically okay with it all now. Maybe it's just me, you know? Maybe I need to let her in."
Joel shakes his head, smiling at you affectionately. "You're too good for your own good, you know that?"
You scoff and wave him off.Â
"Whatever. But don't you agree?"
He appears to mull it over, sipping his coffee for a long moment before eventually sighing.Â
"I do," he nods slowly. "But I also thinkâŠyou got a right to protect your peace. Lettin' her in means exposin' yourself to all the shit that might come with that."
You bite your lip and nod. You know that. You know he's right. You know it might blow up in your face to try to repair that relationship. But some little voice in the back of your head keeps telling you to do it anyway. A cloying, aching need to justâŠput things back in place.
"I guess I'm just tired of feeling so angry all the time," you confess. "I'm justâŠwalking around with all this unresolved bullshit hanging over me and it'sâŠI mean, it's exhausting. I didn't realize how exhausted I was until I saw Heather, you know? If I potentially have the power to do something about that, then I thinkâŠI think I should."
Joel smiles, his sweet brown eyes crinkling at the edges.Â
"Then I'm with you, baby," he says, reaching across the table to cover one of your hands with his own. "Whatever you gotta do."
You nod resolutely, spurred on, as ever, by his unwavering support.
-
On Sunday, it rains.
Heavy showers pelt against Joel's windshield, his truck parked in the driveway of your parents' home. A quick text to your mom the day before had confirmed she'd be home around this time and that she'd be more than okay with you stopping by for an afternoon coffee. Unlike when you'd sat outside the cafe in this same truck a week ago, you don't feel nervous to see your mother. Instead, you feel a strange sense of duty and an unflappable air of confidence. All you have to do is show off how happy Joel makes you for a couple of hours. What could possibly be easier than that?Â
Plus, you're not really worried about your mother coming at you with any kind of outward disdain. She can be oddly cordial when she thinks someone is mad at her.
"I'll stay close by," Joel tells you. "Take you home when you're done."
You frown. "What? You don't have to wait for me, that's silly."
Joel just shrugs. "Ain't no thing. Don't want you takin' the bus in this weather."
And Joel thinks you're too good.Â
"I wish you could just come in with me."
It had been the only stipulation your mother had outlined, or at least that's how you'd interpreted her text asking, It's just you coming, right?
You'd burned with rage at that, typed out an entire message in Joel's defense, but he had insisted it was fine. One thing at a time. He could sit this one out.Â
"Next time," he murmurs, leaning across the centre console to kiss your cheek.Â
"Yeah," you nod.Â
He wishes you good luck, offering you a goodbye kiss before you're pulling your hood up over your head and bounding through the downpour to the front door. Your mother is pulling it open before you've even stepped onto the welcome mat.Â
"Quick, quick, come on," she hastens you with a hand around your shoulders, guiding you inside and out of the pouring rain. You catch her look back at Joel pulling out of the driveway before she's closing the door behind you both.Â
"Oh, shoot, look at you," she tuts, prodding at the wet fabric of your hoodie. "Let me get you something else to wearâ"
"It's fine, mom," you insist before she can go pulling you something hideous from her closet. You pull your damp sweater up over your head so you're in just your t-shirt, noting that hardly any of the rainwater had managed to leak through. "This is fine, see?"
"Alright," she smiles, sort of shyly. You've been apart so long, and it normally doesn't feel so weird falling back into that mother-daughter routine. Extenuating circumstances, you suppose. She glances down at the hoodie in your arms.
"Do you want to hang it up in the bathroom and let it dry? I'll get some coffee going."
You return her smile as best you can. It certainly sounds like she's trying. It certainly sounds like something a mother would say.Â
"Yeah, sure," you nod, already skirting around her to your way down the front hall. "Thanks."
You vaguely hear her hum something in response as she makes her way to the kitchen.Â
The main-floor bathroom is just down the hall, a renovation project that's been half-in-the-works for years, basically abandoned now that your parents almost exclusively use their en suite. Maybe they'd have finished it by now if you still lived here.
You flip the light on to find it looks much the same as it did the last time you were here; tiles partially laid, sink without a hot water knob. You carefully drape your hoodie up on the shower curtain rod still noticeably lacking a shower curtain.
You're flattening out the sleeves when you hear the doorbell chime.Â
Having grown up here, you respond instinctively to the familiar melody, poking your head out of the bathroom just in time to see your mother beat you to the door. She swings it open, and there on the front porch, soaked from his head to his shoulders, is Joel.Â
Your heart just about stops.
"Oh," your mother greets him, uncertainly looking back over her shoulder to where you're standing wide-eyed in the hallway.Â
"'Lo, ma'am,â Joel says. From here, you can barely hear him over the rain outside. "I don't mean to intrude. Just wanted to leave this."
You frown as he holds something out to your mother, something you can't see from this angle. Â
"Oh," she says again, sounding theatrically surprised. You roll your eyes.Â
"She left it in the truck. Just thought she might need it. That's all. I'll get outta your hair now."
He catches your eye over her shoulder then, quickly shooting you a sweet, heart-breaking smirk that makes your chest swell.Â
"Thank you, Joel," your mother says. "I'll, uh, make sure she gets it."
He smiles at her politely and offers her a parting wave, taking off at the same time she begins to close the door after him.
"What is it? What was that?" you ask, hurriedly emerging from the hallway to meet her in the entryway.Â
"Your umbrella," she tells you, hanging it up on a coat hook. "That was nice of him."
She says it absentmindedly as she makes her back to the kitchen, this time with you in tow.Â
Huh.
"Well, he's a really nice man," you say simply, leaning your elbows on the island while she tends to the coffee pot.Â
"Hm," she nods.
She busies herself, deep in thought in a way that makes you uneasy.Â
"What?" you press her.
She pours you a mug of coffee, preparing it just how you like with cream and sugarâthe same way you've taken it for years. She hands it to you over the countertop, brows still furrowed together in apparent confusion.Â
"He drove you here?"
You frown. "Yes?"
"Kind of a far drive in the rain."
"So?"
She ignores you.
"What's he doing while you're here?"
You're struggling to follow her train of thought. But you think maybe you know what she's getting at. Why she can't understand Joel doing something so selfless, why she probably can't seem to understand you and Joel at all.
The thing about your mother is that there always needs to be something in it for her. Every favour, every helping hand; it can never be truly inconvenient for her, and it must always somehow benefit her in return. You know of people out there with mothers who are truly selfless, mothers who are there for them, mothers who would drop everything at a moment's notice if their children so much as asked.
But that is not your mother. That has never been your mother.
You'd forgiven her for that long ago, convinced yourself it had just made you that much more independent, that much more self-reliant. And it did, but at a cost. That cost being someone in your life you could always safely count on, someone you could always trust to be there when you needed them.
Someone who would drive you in the pouring rain to a house he could not enter, just so he could wait for you outside and bring you home when you were ready.Â
"I don't know," you tell her honestly. "He just said he'd stay close by and that he'd pick me up when we're done."
She's still frowning, seemingly perplexed at the notion. "He's just waiting out there in his truck?"
You shrug. "I told you, mom. He's a really nice man."
"Hm," she says again, staring down at her coffee and taking a long, contemplative sip. "I guess he is."
You grin. It's not much. It's hardly anything at all, really. But it's a start. A seed you're more than willing to water in the hopes that eventually, maybe, she'll come around.
-
A/N CONT'D: thank you for reading! and now...a special sneak peek of the upcoming summer season. continue reading for the first 500 words of the next and final chapter of your summer dream. i love you all.
chapter vibes:
Sometimes life really feels like a dream.Â
Even in the monotony, even in the mundane. The morning commutes and the tins of cat food, the Sunday afternoons spent cleaning and the Tuesday nights spent falling asleep on the couch. And it's funny, how just like a dream, you move through the days as though time means nothing at all, everything blurring together until all at once, a year has passed.Â
Summer blooms, softens and warms you from the inside out. The fan beside the bed blows cool air against your clammy skin, but is no match for the heat between your legs, the overwhelming sensation of Joel's mouth fused wetly over your cunt.Â
He drinks you down like you're his morning coffee, ravenous and greedy as he hooks your legs over his shoulders and snakes his arms around your thighs. But he is in no rush, languid in the way he makes out with your pussy, whimpering and groaning at every soft, needy moan he manages to draw from you.Â
But then you claw at his scalp, tug on those gorgeous greying curls and whine. Joel smirks.
"Impatient," he mutters.Â
He's been lapping lazily at your cunt for the better part of twenty minutes now. You are not impatient. Luckily, as you've come to discover, Joel will never tell you no unless you ask him to.Â
"S'alright," he whispers, barely letting his lips leave you as he sinks two thick fingers into your core. You keen at the welcome stretch, and Joel purrs between your thighs. "Yeah, there she is. There's my fuckin' girl. You want me to make this little pussy come? Never can just wait, can ya?"
"Waitedâlong enough," you groan weakly as he nudges at that perfect spot inside you. "Please. I've been good."
You feel him smile again before he's pressing a chaste little kiss to your clit, his moustache tickling your skin.
"Yeah, you have," he breathes, and then he gets to work.Â
His tongue moves in tandem with his fingers, expertly finding a familiar rhythm he knows like the back of his hand by now. In no time at all, warmth pools down your spine and settles in your tummy, courses rapidly through your veins and tenses all your muscles. You come with dazzling force, grinding your clit onto his willing tongue with that insistent fist still tangled in this hair. Joel loves that.Â
In these moments, the dream comes alive. The mundanity of every-day life splits open and you realize, there is in fact nothing monotonous about this life at all. How could there be? Joel is hereâJoel is still here. A year since you first shook his hand in an airport parking lot, a year in which it feels as though everything changed; through it all, Joel remains. Like a tulip in soil, perennial.
"Wanna take you away somewhere," he rasps as he climbs up your body to kiss and nip at the side of your face. "What do you think? Wanna come away with me?"
You're not sure if he means forever or a day.
"Yes, please," you tell him either way.Â
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daddy next door | j. miller (three)
â trust fall â
chapter summary: youâre forced to face joel following the events of the fair.
tags/warnings: MDNI. age gap (20s/50s). angst. depictions of anxiety. reader is a sensitive gal. foul language. blood in the form of scrapes/cuts (accidental). tending to wounds. joel lifts reader once. insufferably poor communication of feelings. pet names. yearning!!! fluff. sexual tension. impure thoughts. violence. alcohol abuse. VERBAL & BRIEF PHYSICAL ABUSE occurs in the latter half of the chapter and may not be suitable for all readers. you are responsible for the content you consume. reader wears a sundress & rides a bike. reader implied to be shorter than joel, but no other physical descriptions.
word count: 5.6k
a/n: smut very soon i promise pls donât hate me. sorry it took so long pls donât hate me. as always, thank you to @kiwisbell for betaâing and being my other hand. and the other side of my brain. and my whole heart.
two | series masterlist | four | playlist | read it on ao3!
These violent delights have violent ends.Â
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss, consume.Â
â Romeo & Juliet, Act II Scene VI
Three days pass before you summon the courage to leave the house.Â
Not for lack of wanting or trying, but out of fear. Fear outside, fear within. It follows you, an unwelcome shadow.Â
You start to believe it may be branded into your being; a mutation of DNA, carried, inescapable, and unwanted. And in those three long and lonely days, you experience a range of emotions so vast, itâs as though the Earth has tipped off its axis.Â
Unstable. Lost without the guidance of gravity.Â
The flicker of light you deemed a threat three nights prior never came to hunt you. You remained cautious, even after the laborious task of sneaking into your own home succeeded. Youâd expected to meet a great wrath, look it in its eyes, and accept whatever suffering followed.Â
But it never came. He never came.Â
And on that following morning, there were no signs of your father or the destruction he carried. He left for the station long before you woke, and returned after you settled in bed.Â
In the days that follow, you lose any sense of self; youâre bound by the fear that follows you, and it feasts on rationale. You seem to notice everything around you, like the way the floorboards creak and how they startle you in a way they never had before. Youâre glaringly aware of your father's movements, panic seizing you if heâd look too long or speak too often. The skin around your fingernails grows raw from chewing on them.Â
You can hardly eat.Â
Canât sleep.Â
Not when you have this secret, too hazardous to enjoy despite the fleeting, marvelous thrill it gave you.Â
You havenât allowed yourself the time to dwell on it.Â
To dwell on him.Â
His name, his eyes, his lipsâyou put more effort into wiping them from your memory, your fantasies, than you do clinging to the comfort of them. It's the first time in weeks you donât devote yourself to him and, oddly enough, you feel guilty.Â
Youâre the one who kissed him. And yet here you are, avoiding the repercussions of your own actions like a child fearful of a scolding. You suppose the rationale isnât too far-fetched, given your circumstance, but all youâre able to conjure up when you close your eyes is the bewildered look on Joelâs face when you left him standing there in the yard.Â
Guilty, guilty, guilty.Â
On the third morning, your father acknowledges you only to order the necessary ingredients for a proper dinner to be fetched while heâs away at work. Heâd be home at an acceptable time and expects it to be ready on the table when he returns.Â
Youâve heard the spiel a dozen times, but still only nod and grab the notepad to prepare your list while he rattles off adequate options. With longer nights at the station, your household expectations often lessen in the summer. A luxury you do not take for granted nor particularly like to push the limits of. Especially now.Â
Still, you sit awaiting some anticipated doomâperhaps heâs festering it, waiting for the right moment to attackâbut it never comes. And all thatâs left once heâs gone is the formidable silence, your erratic thoughts, and a list.Â
Lasagne. Easy enough.Â
The challenge?Â
Getting to the grocery store.Â
Youâre aware of the inevitable. You have been aware of it for three days now. At some point, one way or another, whether you like it or not, you have to leave the house. Up until now, the risk had substantially outweighed the reward.Â
He canât see you. You canât see him. Seeing him makes it real. Seeing him means facing demons youâre unable to admit even exist.Â
It doesnât matter that your chest aches at the thought of him.Â
It doesnât matter that the smothered thing inside of you has been scratching at your insides for three days, pleading for a moment of reprieve.Â
What matters is completing the task at hand, the impossibility of juggling each fear simultaneously growing burdensome.Â
You look out the front window first. Once before tying your sneakers and once after. Your bike is propped up in the garage, and you worry about the time itâll take between leaving the safety of the window and opening the garage door.Â
Speed is your only companion, and so youâre quick, diligent. Darting across the house and towards the laundry room door, making haste in clicking the garage open, and shoving your wallet and the list into the bikeâs basket before mounting it. You know you have to ride past his house to get to the market, so you reach for the keypad outside the garage before you can even push the kickstand off. You take another swivel of your head in the direction of his house, no sign of any life, before you skate down the driveway, holding your breath.
The journey is considerably more climactic in your head, and when you make it down the block with not so much as a whiff of being seen, youâre relieved. Perhaps for the first time in days, your shoulders relax, your mind silences, and you find yourself enjoying the mindless task of rummaging through the market aisles. A beauty in simplicity after days of dilemma.Â
Youâre less inclined to trepidation on the way home, silently unaware, even enjoying the breeze while you ride and the way it kisses your skin, a bit cooler today, the sun toasty, and the sights and sounds of summer in all their beauty surrounding you. A blank slate, a thoughtless mind. Numb. And thereâs a comfort in it, regaining parts of yourself in tiny fragments. Believing that, just for a moment, you are allowed to resign yourself to absolution.Â
But the daze is a farce, and it has you weak, vulnerable. Youâre nearing your house, caution loose and tenuous, to the point where you foolishly miss the glare of a front door opening and the body that emerges from it.Â
The sudden sound of your name being called from across the lawn startles you off balance.Â
You land on your hands and knees when the bike finally tips. Groceries topple out of the basket, the impact of the concrete radiating a sharp pain through your joints and stinging your eyes with tears.Â
âShit. Shit,â you heave under your breath, hands scrambling every which way to collect the strewn items.Â
You make out the shape of a body moving towards you in your periphery, but your mind cautions you to stay focused, to get away as quickly as possible. You can hardly see in front of you, eyes blurred with emerging sobs, when the shape kneels before you.
âHere, let me help you.â The rich timbre of his drawl is a salve over your self-inflicted wounds. Donât look, donât look, but hands are reaching out for assistance.Â
âNo! No, I got it. I got it,â youâre quick to combat, attempting to gather every item before he has a chance to get his hands on them.
But itâs useless. Your shaking fingers canât find a good grasp, and the pain in your palms and knees increases by the moment, too engorged in your panic to notice the blood staining the concrete and your groceries.Â
âBut youâreââ
âI need to get everything inside; some of itâll spoil.âÂ
And someone could see you. Someone could see both of you, floundering about, too close for comfort.Â
âDarlinâ, please justââ
âItâs fine, okay? Iâve got it!â you snap, and you donât mean to sound as harsh as you do.Â
Heâs silent then, still. Only for a moment. Long enough to notice the way your chin starts to tremble and how tears spill down your cheeks against your better attempts to conceal them.Â
âHey,â he beckons, and you notice the way he tries to tilt his head further into your line of sight. You do your best to avoid him, but, âHey,â he tries again, and this time, itâs got an edge. Enough to startle you out of your misery-filled stupor. âLook at me.âÂ
And fuck, youâre so weak.Â
Heâs a sight for sore eyes. Tousled curls, an old white t-shirt, and his flannel pajama pants are all indications that his morning has just begun. The newspaper he must have been coming out for is abandoned in the grass a few yards back, his attention solely on you.Â
You find clarity in the sight of him.Â
âYouâre hurt. Let me help you,â Joel says calmly, matter of fact. A wounded animal, and heâs guiding you back to safety.Â
And you need it more than you care to admit, the guidance. Allowing yourself the pleasure of looking into his wide, worried eyes smothers the anxieties. Silences the panic. Dulls the pain in your chest from days of denying yourself of the remedy you needed most, so when he presents you with an outstretched hand, you take it hastily.Â
He helps you to your feet, and when heâs sure youâre stable, stands your bike upright, gathers what he can of the mess of groceries, and tucks them back into the basket. He places one hand on the handlebars, the other steadily finding its way to the small of your back, and your body comes to life.Â
You welcome his stability, leaning your weight into the crook of his arm. He guides you and your scuffed bicycle up the lawn, leaning it against the banister of the front porch. You let him lead you up the steps, overbearing and doting in the way he holds you steady at the ribcage, muttering under his breath, câmon, Iâve got ya.Â
You would think you just fell from fifty feet with the way he coddles you, but you donât care. How could you? Not when your hands and knees sting, your nerves fray weak and exhausted, and your heart and soul and body crave so little outside of the warmth that is Joel.Â
Crossing the threshold of his door is sacred. An uncharted, forbidden territory that, up until three nights ago, you had no reason to assume you would ever explore. You wish you were more coherent, that tears werenât blurring your eyes, and your body wasnât in a state of panic, so you could properly take in your surroundings.Â
You notice a few moving boxes still pushed up in the corners of his living room; other than that, the space is pristine. Thereâs a wooden, rustic theme that carries across his dĂ©cor, and he leaves all his blinds open for ample natural light. Bright, warm, inviting. A drastic change of pace from the stale air that always seems to occupy your home.Â
Heâs leading you into the kitchen, and you're torn from the daze as soon as his hands are on your hips.Â
You yelp softly as he hoists you onto the countertop, wide, wet eyes finally mustering the courage to meet his gaze. It drops almost immediately to the state of your bloody knees, and he shakes his head, a gruff sort of displeased sound expelling from his chest.Â
âStay put,â he instructs, giving you a stern look before he vanishes around the corner.Â
You canât quite process the world in front of you. Simultaneously heavy and weightless, the internal conflict, the lack of sleep, catching up to you. But when Joel returns a moment later, first aid kit and damp washcloth in hand, youâre grounded. A firm, clear presence of stability that removes all weight, all sense of falling.Â
You feel, perhaps for the first time in your life, that someone would catch you.Â
He drags one of the bar stools over, settling himself in front of you. He still doesnât meet your eyes, fiddling open the kit and scouring for materials. You can feel his breath on your thighs, eliciting a warmth in the pit of your stomach.Â
Suddenly, the pain of your fall seems minuscule in comparison to the way his proximity sets your body alight. Youâre thankful for the shorts below your sundress; intended to give you some decency on your ride to the store, now a barrier between his counter, his watchful eyes, and a part of you that always seems to ache at the sight of him.Â
You dig your fingers into the edge of the wood so as to not waver, sniffling back the ceasing tears and clearing your throat. You blink the haze out of your eyes, the ringing in your ears stops, and like magic, his effect makes the world seem clearer.Â
âHold still.â He starts with the washcloth, tenderly cleaning off the dirt and drying blood from your skin, and you shiver when one of his hands lightly dances at the crux of your knee.Â
You watch him intently; focused brows, and careful fingers. Your perched position gives you a glorious view of his shoulders, firm and broad, muscles flexing below the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Youâre reminded then of the day he moved in and your voyeuristic tendencies, how the sheer breadth of him had enticed you, left you lost to your fantasies long before you even knew him.Â
Itâs hard to grasp that the same man, worried and attentive to your well-being, sits before you now.Â
The sudden cold, sharp sensation of an antiseptic wipe against your skin makes you hiss through your teeth, snapping you back into focus. Finally, he peers up at you through furrowed brows, a sympathetic downturn on his lips.Â
âStings?â he asks, and heâs so gentle. His voice, his touch, his being.Â
You shrug, feeling bashful under his gaze. âA little, yeah.âÂ
He purses his lips and nods solemnly, as if your discomfort causes him a great deal of pain, too. âMâalmost done,â he promises, returning to his diligent work.Â
The two of you sit in silence while he finishes cleaning your wound, sufficiently less daunting with all the blood removed. The scrapes are hardly deep and youâre certain the bruises will heal in a weekâs time. He retrieves two bandages from the kit, one purple and one blue, and drapes them delicately over the scuff of each knee.Â
âHands,â he requests, and you present them to him palms up. He takes each wrist between his fingers, lifting them to his chest in examination. No blood, just the burn of the concrete on the heels of them where you clumsily caught yourself. âDonât look too bad; may just be sore for a little while.âÂ
Youâre nodding even though you hardly hear the words that come out of his mouth, too enamored with the way his fingers warm rings around your wrists. Â
He catches you staring, and surely now, heâll send you on your way. Now that heâs done his due diligence, heâll make up some polite excuse to get you out of his space. Heâll choose avoidance, just as you had, and youâll be forced to endure the misery of the unknown, to be complicit with a life of no risk and missed opportunities.Â
But he surprises you, a frequent trend, when he leans forward and presses two, soft kisses to each battered palm.Â
Your breath catches audibly in your throat, and he shoots his eyes back up to you, lips still dangerously close to your skin. His own inner turmoil is so plain, so clear, in the way he studies you that you donât even try to mask the emotion that creeps back into your eyes.Â
âBetter?â he whispers, the brush of his breath on your skin raising goosebumps up your exposed arms.Â
Untrusting of your voice, you breathe a wavering mmhm, the urge to melt into him overwhelming by the way he looks at you. Itâs a familiar look. One youâve seen before, only once. Three days ago. Dire and conflicted, and god, you want to kiss him again. You think he must lean forward, or maybe it's you, because his breath is on your face now too, and you can see every line of worry that plagues him.Â
âJoelâŠâ you whisper, and itâs a question, a plea, a warning all at once. You see his eyes flicker, if only for a moment, your lips and back again, a frown creasing at the edges of them.Â
He sighs a despondent sound, abruptly standing, jarring you, losing your hands in the process as he drags the barstool back to its designated spot. Suddenly, heâs got his hands on his hips, and heâs pacing the modest kitchen space, eyes and thoughts amiss. It may be the first time you see him as anything other than the picture of composure, save for the fateful moment three nights prior where the same eyes and thoughts screamed retribution for Trevor rather than strife for you.Â
âListen,â he finally breathes, and itâs painful, âwe needa talk about what happened.âÂ
And there it is. The unavoidable.Â
âO-okay.â Your voice wavers and your stomach drops, and you suddenly feel like a child under scrutiny. The first words that come to mind tumble out in an attempt to lessen the tension. âIâm⊠I'm sorry, Joel. Really, I amââ
He rapidly shakes his head. âStop. Stop. Iâm not askinâ you to apologize, alright? Iâm theââ he stops cold, and you stiffen. You canât read his mind, but you know his eyes, and they speak words youâd rather not hear.Â
Iâm the grown-up here.Â
Iâm the older one.Â
Iâm the responsible one.Â
You cringe at the plausible fill-in-the-blanks, conscious of their validity, and you think he does too.Â
He expels a heavy, tired sort of sigh. âIâm the one that shoulda put a stop to it,â he settles on.Â
You consider what he says for a long while, unsure of whether to scream, or laugh, or cry, or all three at once; unsure if his confession soothes you or crushes you from the inside out. You know you should be grateful for the apology, thankful that he willingly takes the burden of fault off of you. But in seeking forgiveness, he makes another notion, a far more painful one, abundantly clear.Â
Regret.Â
âAnd I understand if you want me to leave ya alone from now on,â he continues, and you canât help but feel like the spiel is rehearsed. As if he spent hours talking to himself in the mirror, debating the right things to say. Questioning, now that the line has been thoroughly crossed, what is even right or wrong. âBut I couldnât do that without talkinâ to ya first. Settinâ things right.â
âI donât want you to leave me alone.â You jump on top of his words, and Joelâs brows shoot up on his forehead. He stops pacing.Â
You curse your eagerness, eyes falling to your hands in your lap where you aimlessly pick at the skin around your nails. âI mean⊠Iâm notâIâm not mad. Iâm not mad at you for what happened, I justââyou look back to him, uncertainââwant things to go back to normal.âÂ
As if there is such a thing. As if one taste of him hadnât changed the world as you know it. As if there is any version of you, then and now, that wouldnât want him.Â
You know nothing as familiar as wanting him.Â
The silence that follows is torturous. He takes you in, unreadable, for what seems like eternity. You see a boundless bounty of emotion in his eyesâeyes that have become familiar, comforting in the way that the thought of losing them seems too grand to endure, even if you never have them in the capacity you long for.Â
Heâs nibbling on his bottom lip, tapping his foot, and his hands fall from his hips to fold his arms across his chest. âWell, then I think we oughta just⊠go on sâif nothinâ happened. Put it behind us.â
And still, a dagger in the heart would have been less painful.Â
You wait, staring at him for a long while with the false hope that he would go back on his words. That he didnât want to forget, and you search for it desperately. The truth behind his eyes and his words, that you assume he imagines will protect you, protect the both of you.Â
Sensing no form of retraction, you take a deep breath hoping the excess oxygen will calm your racing heart, and straighten yourself up on the counter.Â
âAlright.â His mind has already been made up; arguing would make you a desperate fool. Still, you find yourself adding: âIf thatâs what you think is best.âÂ
Surprise flashes across his face, and you watch the way his mouth falls open only to shut rapidly. He presses his lips into a thin line and his nostrils flare. Thereâs a beat of adrenaline, challenge. And the caged thing inside of you, something you have recognized as the sliver of hope you still carry for your life, comes to life. A bright sensation, wondering if sheâs succeeded in breaking down the final choice of savior.Â
âYeah,â Joel mutters, and the light goes out. âYeah, I think it is.âÂ
Rejection.Â
Donât cry, donât cry.Â
You try your hardest to feign acceptance.Â
âOkay. Wellââyouâre sliding off the counter, blood rushing to your head when you land on your feetââthank you for um, for taking care of me.âÂ
You think he knows you well enough by now to hear the familiar warbling in your voice, but if he does, he doesnât say anything. You keep your eyes fixed on your feet so he doesnât see the way they gloss over.Â
You wonder if life's circumstances had always been the root of your downfall, or if it really is hope herself.Â
He offers you the option to stay a while longer, give yourself a chance to regroup, but you politely decline. The air in his home is suddenly suffocating. You mumble something about needing to get the groceries inside as you shuffle towards his door, hoping he wonât follow, but alas, heâs walking you to it, stepping around you to reach for the handle himself.Â
âYouâre sure you donât, uh⊠you donât need anythinâ else?â he asks again, hand steady on the door but making no effort to open it, arching his brow over his shoulder at you.Â
Please, donât make this harder than it already is.Â
You give him a trained, tight-lipped smile. Polite. The same one you give everyone in town, lackluster. âNo.â And itâs a lie. You need everything from him. âNo, thank you. Iâll be alright.âÂ
If heâs unconvinced, he doesnât say so, and thereâs another pang of hurt in your belly.Â
When he finally turns the handle, Joel peeks out the door first before allowing you to pass. Good, you think. At least heâs just as aware of the risk of you being here. A minor thing to cling to, but you take what you can get.Â
You shuffle past him silently, reaching for the handles of your bicycle still tucked safely beside the door. You do a quick scan to make sure you have everything, but really, youâre stalling. Attempting to let the past hour marinate so you can form some sort of cohesive thought, say something of substance, something true.Â
When you look back, heâs still in the doorway. You give him a once over, taking your missed opportunity to admire him. Comfortable, poised, a little disheveled from the morning in the best of ways.Â
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you snap your eyes back to his. His lips part, and thereâs a rush of it again, that hope deep inside of you. But again, he clenches them shut without a word, and disappointment regains its leverage.Â
You donât look at him after that.Â
âIâll see you around, Mr. Miller,â is the last thing you say to him before hoisting your bike off the porch stairs and carefully rolling it down the driveway.Â
On the walk back over to your houseâdamn near a sprint despite the searing in your kneesâyou think the duality of your relationship with Joel Miller may finally drive you to insanity.Â
On the one hand, your agreed-upon boundaries are nothing short of practical. Safe, sustainable with minor difficulty, and realistic.Â
On the other, youâre unable to count the number of times youâve experienced the urge to break every rule, practical or otherwise. And worse, how easy itâs become to convince yourself he feels it, too. There shouldnât be such an assuredness in it, but it lives. Feeding and festering and waiting for one of you to bend.Â
Only this time, youâre certain you would break.Â
Once inside, you mindlessly shove the groceries into their respective spaces and drag yourself up the stairs. Youâre tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally, every ounce of you drained. And itâs welcomed, the exhaustion. Itâs the first time in three days you feel unburdened enough to even entertain the idea of settling. And youâd like to chalk it up to handling your own bullshit, but you know itâs because of him.Â
Even if the outcome would leave you solemn for days to come, seeing him, feeling him, it eased you. There is a lingering feeling of closure. It would take time to accept, but is far better than the alternative of sitting with your unanswered thoughts.Â
He doesnât hate you.Â
He isnât shutting you out.Â
Heâs still there if you need him.Â
Youâre nearly certain of it.Â
You flop your body onto the center of your bed, nestling your head into the pillows. Your limbs feel like weights melting into the mattress, and itâs not long before your eyes feel the same heaviness.Â
You let yourself drift off, clinging to all that is nearly certain.Â
The window is already dark when you wake, and you're roused by the sound of banging and grunting. Despite the commotion, your eyes donât open at firstâyour bodyâs subconscious attempt at protection from the horrors in front of you. But as you gradually blink awake, the sight before you leaves you scrambling up in your sheets.
Pages coat your bedroom floor, toppling from the bookshelf in the corner of the room. Your father stands before it, clumsily tearing out row by row of your most prized possessions.Â
âWhat are youâŠ?â The terror doesnât register, not until the sound of ripped paper and crackedÂ
bindings become loud, thunderous, in your ears.Â
âNo, stop. Stop!â Pleadingly, you cry out to him, twisting the sheets off of you and darting across the wooden panes. You hadnât meant to sleep this long. âStop, please! Please!â you screech, foolishly grasping for his shoulders as you trip over the growing pile of tarnished literature.Â
He shrugs you off, a mere nuisance in his pursuit of destruction. âIf youâre gonna be so damn distracted you canât get somethinâ as simple as dinner done, Iâm gonna get rid of the distractions,â he seethes, a vow he intends to keep, and youâre tugging on the back of his shirt, grabbing at his hands and trying desperately to pull them away from the shelves.Â
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry! It wonât happen again, I swear it! Please justâugh!âÂ
The wind escapes your lungs when he whips around and a firm hand presses to your throat, your back making sharp contact with the wall adjacent to the bookshelf.Â
Liquor and tobacco, his breath is hot against your face. His eyes are void of all feeling, and you struggle for air against the stronghold on your neck. Your sinuses burn, your eyes fill with tears, and thereâs a moment, brief, where you wonder how long it would take your heart to stop. How much oxygen would need to be deprived to slip into blissful mindlessness.Â
You know he wouldnât be so forgiving.Â
âDonât you ever put your hands on me like that again, girl, you hear me?â he barks, slamming his unoccupied hand against the wall beside your head. âDo you hear me?!âÂ
Your mouth gapes open, and you try to speak but nothing comes. The salty taste of tears coats your lips, and in an act of desperation, you dare to claw at his wrists, mustering up the strength to nod as well as you can. When he still does not release you, the fight or flight kicks in, and the blur that washes over your vision and the dizziness in your head fills you with fear. Genuine and unadulterated, how easy it would be for him to make nothing out of you.Â
âYes,â you croak, and the sound of your own voice startles you. âY-yes, sir!âÂ
He lets you go, and your knees give out. You slide your back down the wall, heaping over on yourself. You hug your knees close to your chest, gasping breaths and wet, watchful eyes as he prowls across the room.Â
The final blow is the most devastating, and you think you may actually be sick to your stomach. As he steps over the debris towards the door, he picks up what you assume to him is only a random book. But you catch the title, fine calligraphy sprawled, Romeo & Juliet, just before he mercilessly tears the spine in half, letting the pages fall amongst the wreckage.Â
No sound comes out of your open mouth. No feeling reaches your fingers or toes, and you wonder if your state of shock has allowed you to finally leave your own body. Teleport somewhere else, somewhere far away, to not endure another moment of a pain you cannot decipher what you ever did to deserve.Â
It is, was, your only copy of the play.Â
And it belongs, belonged, to your mother. One of the few things you pulled out of the sparse pile of her tucked away deep in the attic. One of the only pieces of your life that confirmed she was ever even real, that your memories were real.Â
And much like her, itâs gone in an instant.Â
âClean this up,â is the last thing he slurs before your bedroom door slams shut.Â
You sit there, unmoving, for what seems like an eternity. Youâre hollow, and yet, the space you inhabit isnât yours to fill anymore. Succumbing to the numbness has always been easier, but there is an overwhelming bough of raw anguish that lingers in you now.Â
Itâs moments like these, disappointing in their frequency, where you wonder what you truly are to the man called kin. Burdensome. A lingering reminder of all that he once had and lost.Â
 A matter of circumstance. Something disposable. And with that realization, you feel the impending need to get out.Â
You wait until youâre certain heâs asleep before you plot your escape. You wonât get far, but luckily, you donât have to.Â
You move on autopilot, numb to anything other than putting as much distance between you and this house. This room, once a sanctuary, now tainted. The tears fall steadily, but no sounds escape you. You wouldnât provoke him, nor give him the satisfaction of hearing your defeat.Â
Echoes of thunder rumble in the distance, a summer storm upon a somber evening. And when the sun sets and the world sleeps, bolts of lightning illuminate your path to refuge.Â
You find an old zip-up sweater left out of winter storage, pulling it over the clothes you had no energy to change, and shielding your damp face with the hood. You take the back door; there would be less suspicion in leaving it unlocked. Scattered drops fall from the darkened sky, and the grass tickles your bare feet as they carry you to the only place you know youâll be welcomed. The only place you seek.Â
When he first opens the door, Joel looks confused. The street lights reflect off the panes of his glasses, and you wish you had more time to appreciate the gentle reminisce of sleep in his eyes. But when the sob finally tears through your throat, confusion makes way for concern, and heâs blinking away the fatigue.Â
âWhatâs wrong? What happened?â he demands, pushing the whole of himself through the doorway until heâs standing toe-to-toe with you on the porch.Â
You peer up at him, trembling, the picture of desperation. âCan I stay here tonight?â you beg, and thereâs little care for how feeble you look. âPlease, can I stay?âÂ
Joel shakes his head, disbelief, looking you over with such uneasiness as if you would shatter before his very eyes.Â
âChrist,â he sighs, and maybe you are breaking. Maybe youâre finally falling apart piece by piece, and he is to be the sole witness. âCâmere.âÂ
But the part of you inside, shriveled and forlorn, still seeks reprieve, and she knows where to find it. His voice is a beacon, a promise.Â
The anchor of his arms when you rear forward is the only thing that keeps your body from sinking to the ground. You bury your face into his chest, hands clinging to his shirt, while tears stain his skin. He shushes you, raking his palms up your spine in soothing sweeps, keeping you snug against him.Â
ââCourse you can stay. You can always stay.â
There are no questions or explanations necessary. No price to pay for the gift of solace. You take it at face valueâmuch like the last time you cried to him, three days prior, when he told you to never be sorry for feeling the way you feltâand allow him to pull you back into the house.Â
You cross the threshold, still sacred, still uncharted, yet wildly more freeing.Â
A great weight leaves your shoulders as soon as he shuts the door.Â
His face is in your hair when he whispers, and you think the scent of him alone could heal you.Â
âAlways.â
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Ao3 | Kofi
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Simply beautiful â€ïž
arepas
javier peña x f!reader
summary: when youâre single, itâs complicated. messy. he canât think straight. Not as straight as he needs to be to keep his wits about him.
an: dedicated to the wonderful, the amazing @halfmoth-halfman - i told you that i'd write you something, and here it is. I hope it makes you smile as much as you make me smile.
word count: 9.3k (sorry, not sorry)
warnings: developing feelings, slow burn -> colleagues to friends to lovers. usual jo angst, but with lots of banter. fingering, p in v, angst, sweet ending, spoilers for narcos season two.
friend noun /frÉnd/ a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations. "she's a friend of mine."
It starts in BogotĂĄ.Â
His eyes rake over youâthe new pretty secretary who won't meet his eyes as though youâd heard all about him.Â
It's why he waits. Biding his time before gracing your desk. A file in hand, leaning downâforcing your eyes to meet his. Javi's smirk almost eclipses his face, only doing so when you lift your chin and he finds your lips have slid so far up one side as you stare at his hand.
Agent Peâ
I know who you are, Peña. Your reputation precedes you.
Good things, I hope?Â
Depends on who you ask.Â
You call him Peña all the time. Even as days slip into weeks, even if he insists you call him Javier or Javi. The tension building, thickeningâjust like a dish left on a hob.Â
Heâs used to the whispers, but heâs not used to the ignorance. The way you donât look at him like the others, instead always trying to find out what he needs from you, rather than what he wants.Â
It allows him the chance to study, to watch. Noticing the way you work, the way you converse easily with others and how you walk around the office like you barely notice him.Â
It wasnât through a lack of trying why he hadnât worsened his reputation. It wasnât fear of fucking you, of muddying his place of work furtherâhis focus, mission, objective wasnât to keep the piece inside crumbling Colombian walls. It was more that the fact his usual tactics werenât working even when his intention was there, clear as the sky on a sunny morning.Â
You seemed stressed.
Arenât we all, Peña?
I know how to get around thatâŠ
Iâve heard.Â
Itâs not that your tongue is quick or icyâitâs that you do it all without looking at him. You bite back without lifting your eyes or turning to him when he stands beside you. An indifference he had usually woven under in the time youâve been here, but finding troublesome with you.Â
So, he tries smiling when smoke swirls around the ceiling fan, and you drop a file off; he drops his voice when he bumps into you by the water machine, holding your sightâcommanding it. Which is why he notices the irritation simmering in yours. Growing, and grating more so by his mere breath, never mind his words.Â
You donât like me much.Â
I donât know you.Â
You could. Know me.Â
What would be the point, Peña? You donât listen, you interrupt everyone, you fuck everything with a pulseâ
Tell me how you really feel, hermosa.Â
Iâm trying, but once again, youâre only half listening.Â
Determinedâthatâs how he was often described.Â
It was, for this reason, that he has poured so many of his years into catching Escobar. Why heâd looked for whores to get information, not banking on caring and emotions. Itâs why he hadnât looked for anything outside of a quick fuck, a friend, or a sense of belongingâhe didnât have another ounce left in him. It was all spent on the reason he was here: narcos.Â
There had been others, naturally. Not all bent to his charm, even if the majority did. He should add you to the list, to the small pile that had amassed through the building and beyond.Â
Javi doesnât.Â
And it doesnât get better, easier. You decline his invites for drinks, even if you do begin to aid him. You refuse grabbing food for lunch with him, even if you have started taking paperwork off him to type up. Youâve even begun making comments, funny ones about his typing abilities, even shooting him a smile as you travel back to your desk. Yet, you donât even let him drive you home when your car isnât working.Â
Purposefully, youâre a bag of mixed messages. Not because you decline him but because he cannot find a rational reason as to why. Youâve begun moving his paperwork up, but you flirt back. Flimsy, thin excuses find your tongue quicker when he invites you to drinks, not even just with him. Â
Youâre confusing. A brand of difficult he hadnât had the opportunity to circle before, something which bothers the shit out of him.Â
Which is why heâs coating his throat in whiskeyâgetting through his pack of Marlboroâs quicker than he usually would be in a bar like this.Â
Because, while he doesnât get you, he hates work functions more. Despising with each growing minute that heâs at one.Â
He prefers to choose his companyâpaid or unpaid. And the sole reason heâd even gone in the first place was to get you to stop calling him Peñaâand to keep the CIA away from you.Â
He ends up being successful at one of those things. Itâs not that he wasnât sure how to befriend women, just that he usually chooses not to. He ruins any possibility of it by turning on the charm, having their blouse in his fingers and his hand stuffed in their lace. Even for all his charm, it is hard to get them back on his side when he doesnât call them, or mistakenly calls out the wrong name or avoids them.Â
Itâs why he knows his name is dirt amongst several secretaries. Heâs aware of how gossip spreads like wildfire amongst the secretaries, receptionists, file room assistants, watching it happen as their eyes glisten when he walks past, their whispers dropping an octave when he is within ears reach.Â
You donât partake in it. Digging your pretty eyes into him rather than fluttering your eyelashes. You can put those puppy-dog eyes away, Peña. Iâm immune to putas. You can wait like everyone else. Chin lifting at the last second, smothering him in stifled stress and a please-don't-push-me-look. Itâs how he learnt you were going for drinks with the CIA, how he discovered the bar and time.Â
Why he went in the first place.Â
It crossed his mind this could be the night. He could keep you company, find a way in when your wall was down because of the liquor on your tongue. The moment fizzled when he chose to be a gentlemanâhelping you into his car, guiding you into your place. Even holding your hair back as you vomited the contents of your stomach out. Maybe he should have warned you about doing shots with Jacoby in the first place, but then, he wouldnât be alone with you.Â
See the way you put your weapons down and looked at him pitifully when you couldnât get the key in your door.
Iâve got you, Bonita.Â
Bet you sayâhiccupâthat to all the whores.Â
Youâre not a whore.Â
No. No, Iâm not.
Heâd expected you to push him, fight him once inside your place, but you were silent. Occasionally frowning with glossed-over eyes as he continued to help you. You even allow him to help you to bedâwithout so much as removing his clothes. Heâd been almost out of your bedroom door when he heard it:
Still gonna call you Peña, Peña.
I know, bonita. Thereâs a glass of water on your table.Â
It played on his mind.Â
It wasnât that he couldnât be chivalrous, just that it was rare. Stuffed down into his tight jeans and under layers of Colombian grief. While he cares about the people in his life, even the ones at arms reachâthe ones he pays and the ones he takes home from a hard dayâhe doesnât show it. Keeping it tightly wrapped and away, not willing to let simple and futile emotions blur the lines of why he was here.Â
So it surprises him when you leave him a thank you.Â
A small note on his desk attached to a bottle containing amber and a large packet of Marlboros.
Still think youâre an asshole, Peña.Â
It was the worst thank you note heâs ever had, yet it made him smile. Unthreads annoyances of his day, sewing in a piece of niceness in a tapestry of shit.Â
What he did know is that the window of sleeping with you was growing smaller, only fully shutting on him when he uncapped the bottle and poured you a glass when you knocked on his door for his signature. The small office he resided inâall dark, simmering with disappointment and failure after another dead end. Not that you commented on itâeven if your eyes narrowed and your lips spread thin.Â
You were polite like that. Didnât call into question or hold a mirror up to him. Just let him be. Tapping your glass against his, his eyes watching as you take a sipânot hissing, not flinching as the taste slides down your throat. Not even when it collects somewhere in your stomach. If anything, you smile.Â
Running his hand along his chin, letting his eyes roam as you take in the wallsâthe files. Your glass teetering on your bottom lip, painted in a shade he wanted staining on various parts of his bodyâ
âSurprised youâre having a drink with me, Peña,â you say, all airy and lightâglancing over your shoulder, shining him in mischievous twinkles. âEspecially when you could be⊠paying for better company.âÂ
He snorts at that, lets a laugh escapeâpuncture the air. âYou know, you bring it up so often, bonita. Iâm beginning to think youâre jealous.â Â
âNot in the slightestâI donât do one-night stands.âÂ
âTwo night stands?â He muses.Â
And you smirk. Gloriously. Wide and large, the closest heâs gotten you to smile. âIf itâs good enough to go back again, why stop at twice?âÂ
He struggles for a retort, the acidic nature of it being swallowed by whiskey as he raises his glass to his lips.Â
Then it shifts the conversation. Returns to normal, safer topics, finding he snorts a few more times as the drinks flow. Even finding you pull a rich laugh from himâone that erases some of the tension, unknots his shoulders from his ears.Â
It isnât until he hears the sweetness of your laugh that he finds that a quarter of the bottle has gone. The paper youâd come in to have signed, still at the top of a forgotten pile.Â
You weren't looking, having already turned your back to him, eyes fixed on the wallâthe little pins and photos. Allowing him to run his eyes along your back, to your clothe-covered hips and the curves that had been front and centre of his thoughts when he fucked his fist. Your name has been simmering on his tongue for weeks, since youâd been introduced. Â
Something stopping him from acting on his thoughts, from standing up and coming up behind you. That very thing being the foundation of what heâd been after from the start.Â
âAm I still an asshole, bonita?â He asks when he finally signs the sheet.Â
You take the paper, offering a softer smile with a head tilt. âWe should drink in your office again. Youâre less of one in here, Javi.âÂ
âItâs cheaper.â
âCheaper?â
You groan, and he slides his hand over his face to hide his smile.Â
âFine, Peñaââ
âJavi. Come on, bonita. We made progress.âÂ
Glaring, you straighten your spine. âJavi, I wanna eat greasy food in a baggy t-shirt and watch shit TV that I can only partially keep up with. Do you want to do that with me?âÂ
How could he say no? âDo I have to eat greasy food?â
âYes. Itâs the law.âÂ
Snorting, he picks up the file, tapping the end of your desk. âIâll be there around nine.âÂ
Youâre everywhere.Â
He begins finding you at his favourite food stand, conversing with the owner, grin so large it hits your eyes. Another time, youâre at the shop on the corner near his place, brown bag in hand, a knowing nod sent his way when you pass.Â
It throws him off, continuing to do so until it changes, and he comes to expect you. Doesnât brace or freeze, but welcomes you. Leaning into it that youâre there, everywhere he doesnât expect you to be. Slowly, bleeding across his life, planting yourself in the soil he hadnât known surrounded him.Â
Your name falls from his lips with simplicity, you call him Javi as though itâs all youâve ever called him.Â
Things shifting, changing just like the temperature in BogotĂĄ. He chooses to sit beside you when he spots you at the bar, and not close to the table who were giggling and whispering at his arrival. He opts to ask you for help, over the secretary who has been giving him heart-shaped eyes since she heard something or another.Â
Javi is smart, and isn't an idiot. He knows it has shifted. Changed.Â
For the better, he isnât entirely sure.Â
He finds comfort in you in a way he doesnât usually pay for. The desire to fuck you because you were attractive lessening, and rather because, on some level, he suspected he actually liked you. Especially when you invited him for drinks at yours, instead of a bar.Â
It was easier not to question it. To not change. To not ask and ruin it. He went round to yours, or you to his. A gap forming, welcomed and strong. Javi fucked who he wanted to fuck, and sought companionship (fully clothed, a glass of liquor variation in hand) from you. The contents of it shifted depending entirely on the situation. Sometimes, it was accompanied by home-cooked food, and sometimes he brought warm trays in a bag that you groaned in appreciation upon arrival.Â
Javi told himself you reminded him of Laredo. Of high-school friends and easy laughter. You reminded him of girls who never became more than friends, the ones heâd grown apart from when they settled and married, and he ran as far away as possible.Â
That and he just liked your company. You made it easy. You were his⊠Friend.Â
You were something different than what he had with Carillo. Something other than the partnership he was now bedding in with Murphy.Â
You had embedded yourself as much in work as you were out of it. As time ticked on, his brain slowly filled with useless information about likes and dislikes in a drawer in his mind, he marked just for you. They werenât things he usually didnât care to know about anyone. Not since heâd been in Colombia. Not since heâd been in Laredo, where heâd never been short of a friend to two.Â
Being your friend became a thing he suddenly wanted to cling to. Not wanting to lose itâlose you, not wanting to fuck it up.Â
So, he didnât.Â
Even if you looked at him with pretty eyes, dragging your tongue across your bottom lip. Even if sometimes the silenced humming with something different, something less friendly.Â
He cared.Â
Really cared. He found himself annoyed if you seemed a little off, and found himself wanting to make you smile. The two of you spread past the line into an area out of his usual wheelhouse. Friendship. A relationship that had him around your place so many nights a week, tucking into spirits and beer youâd begun keeping just for him. It was normal. Nice.Â
Or it was, until you curled into one side of the sofa, him on the other. Your foot isnât close to his thigh, no leg draped over hisâyour behaviour not like normal.Â
Heâd put it down to another shit date. One heâd been tortured with hearing aboutâthe only downside to the arrangement, the friendship.Â
But, as you wrap your fingers around your calf, he realises it isnât the date, the bad food or the day.Â
âBeing your friend is kinda hard.â
Frowning, he sits up a little more. âWhy?â
You shrug. He doesnât like it when you do. You have answers, usually quick ones. A shrug meaning you donât or youâre afraid of speaking themâletting them ball and fester in your throat.Â
ââCause you do thoughtful shit, and it makes me think things.â
He bites his smirk, and savours it. Knowing and understanding more than he can acknowledge as he folds his arms. âNot a smart move, thinking about me, hermosa.âÂ
âDonât I know it.âÂ
"Bonita...."
"Why'd you call me that?"
You don't ask it rudely, more questionably. Brows knitting together in confusion as you watch him.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not in the slightest."
He smirks, letting out a sharp laugh. "Go get another drink, bonita."
âSo, the two of you havenât⊠you know?â
Leaning in the chair, he stares at him. âNo. We havenât.â
âI donât believe you?â
Smirking, he shifts his hips. âGo ask her. Sheâll say the same.â
He snorts. âYouâre telling me you go round her place, have fun, laugh, and leaveâI donât believe it.âÂ
âBelieve it, Murphy.âÂ
Itâs hard not to call back to the words spoken that night.Â
Let them loop around and around, wrap themselves around other phrasesâmicro-expressions and bothersome avoidance.Â
Your eyes were dark, chin resting on your knee, looking at him as though you wanted to burn everything to the ground. Heâd swallowed, and hesitatedâtwo things he never did.Â
But with you, he wasnât exactly himself.Â
You had found a way to unlock a part of him he kept away from everyone else. He was still an asshole, still selfish and cocky. But he also bit back more around you and found ways to annoy you playfully, rather than to piss you off.Â
âHere.â
âYou bought me a book?âÂ
He smirks, gripping his arms as he watches you turn it over, âYou like reading.â
Smirking, you scan the blurb, your brain trying to translate it quickly. âWhat gave you that impression?âÂ
Shrugging, he trails a finger across his bottom lip. The signature smirk started growing, spreading, eclipsing whatever was there previously.Â
âDonât get ahead of yourself, hermosa. I see you reading on your lunch.â He looks you up and down. âThought you could do with some fresh material.âÂ
âSo you bought me a romance book.â
Dropping his arms, he rolls his lips. âEveryone needs a little romance in their life, donât they?âÂ
âWell, youâre the expert. I hear youâve been getting some âromanceâ nightly,â you smirk, placing the book down.
He had.Â
Almost determined to do so. Needing to bury himself to the hilt in others to distract him from you. Secretly thinking of you, trying to imagine the way your skin would feel under his calloused palms.Â
âJealous, bonita?â
Smiling, you tilt your head. âWhy? Iâve got a romance book.â
He tries to tell himself heâs not affected by you.Â
That itâs protectiveness why he sits at the bar in the restaurant youâre in. Why he chooses a seat where he can see the reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, able to see you without watching you.Â
He tells himself itâs to ensure youâre okay. Nothing else. The convincing goes well until your finger taps him on the shoulder, practically dragging him outside by his elbow.Â
The cooler temperature bites his skin, but your eyes full of fire keep him warm. Digging into him, inflicting flames that lick at muscle and bone.
âWhy are you here, Peña?â
He masks a shudder. âDonât⊠donât call me, Peñaââ
ââyou fucked all the whores?âÂ
âI was drinking.âÂ
Raising your brow, you fold your arms. âYouâre ruining my date.âÂ
He lets his eyes drop. Knowing he is. He knew he would when he scrunched the piece of paper in his hand as he overheard you talking about some black dress and little heels for it.Â
The same ones youâre standing in front of him in, looking nothing short of radiantâthe slightest shiver misting over you.
âYou deserve better.â
Folding your arms, you sigh. âWhat, like you?âÂ
He runs a hand over his chin, leaning against the wall. âNo, bonita. Better than me.â
You bite the inside of your lip, the shiver more obvious. So much so, he removes his jacket, considering draping it over you, but instead hands it to you.Â
âLook, I know I ruined your date, but heâs an asshole.â
Swallowing, you let out a heavy breath. âIâm mad at you, but⊠he really is awful.â
He smothers his relief. Ensures his tone is normal as he murmurs, âYeah?âÂ
Nodding, you bite your lip. âCan you⊠could yââ
âGo get your bag, hermosa.â
Itâs quiet, the car ride.Â
Your knee nervously bounces, the fabric of your dress rising up your thigh as you do.Â
Heâs being tested. Heâs sure of it. Adamantly so when he pulls up outside yours, and you invite him in. Itâs confirmed when you tell him to help himself while you change, stepping into your room.Â
A version of him wanting to follow. To place his hand on the back of your neck, the other tilting your chin up, kissing the name of your date tonight. Pulling your body close, making it forget it ever shivered from anything less than pleasure.Â
He thinks about it as he fills his glass, and keeps yours empty. Javi thinks it as his jeans become tight and his pulse quickens, wondering if you sprayed your perfume anywhere other than your neck and wristâwhether youâd taste as sweetly as you say his name. Whether youâd dig your nails in when he stuffed you full of himâ
âNot pouring me one?âÂ
Blinking, youâre in his T-shirt and some leggings.Â
The former is something youâd borrowed when youâd spilt food on your blouse. A band tee, one from a concert when he was younger and happier, and less confused what the fuck all of this meant.Â
He hadnât realised how much he had been holding himself back until you sank onto your sofa, looking seriousâbrows and forehead creasing.Â
It made him want to nurse it out of you, find a solution to stop you from worrying or overthinking.Â
âYouâve never tried to sleep with me.âÂ
He scoffs, loud and undignified. The sentence catches and cuts through the air. All the letters of it punctuated by a thin silence, lightly choppedânot allowing interjection or regret.Â
You're waiting.Â
Nervously. Plucking your bottom lip between your white teeth like youâre picking guitar strings.Â
He considers telling you the truth. That fucking you had been the sole and only intention for a long time. Seeing if you could bend in two, what noises you would makeâsee if he could get you to chant his name.Â
That had been his goal⊠until it wasnât.Â
Javi drains his glass, knowing youâre astute. That you work with agents of all kindsâyou hold your fucking own around all sorts of them. So you know (of course you know) when someone is lyingâso he offers something else entirely.Â
A slither of truth, an offering of itâif that.Â
âDidnât wanna fuck this up, bonita.â
You take a sip of your own, not smiling, not smirking. Silence thumps between the two of you as you likely process the information, both in word form and in heavy silence. Then you land your eyes on him, something blossoming in them, spreading and taking over as they seemingly darken like the sky before a storm.Â
âThat because you donât think you could make me come, Peña?âÂ
He spreads his palm against his jeans, resting the glass against his other as he drags his eyes to the floor. Biting the inside of his cheek. Wondering to himself why heâd stopped trying so quickly, knowing he was usually much more persistent. His perseverance was why he was still here, hunting Escobar. Yet, heâd folded like a piece of fucking paper when it came to you.Â
âFine,â you commented, placing your glass down. âIf we⊠donât want to fuck this up. I think we need a codeword. An unsexy one. One that sorta tells the other to stop doing whatever theyâre fucking doingâŠ.â
âBecauseâŠ?âÂ
You give him a look, a sharp one with soft edges. âBecause weâre friends, right?â
He nods.Â
âSo, as friends, I need a word to shout at you when youâre⊠Peñaring.â Frowning, he watches you smirk. âJavi, youâre handsome. And I spend⊠I spend more time with you than anyone else. The whole time I was on that date, I was thinking of youâand then there you fucking were. Being my friend.âÂ
No. He thinks.Â
Knowing inside of him he wasnât there to be your friend, but something he canât quite acknowledge. A thing which vibrates inside of him, that gallops when youâre around and worsens when youâre not.Â
A thing he cannot give into. Not with what he does.Â
Not with what happened to HelenaâŠÂ
The remembrance, the horrid wake-up call that continues to paralyse him. The larger need to keep you safe.Â
âYou like whores and quick-fucks. I like fucking one person who will only fuck me while theyâre fucking me. And, I need the wordâa wordâbecause we spend a lot of time together, and you look like you do.âÂ
His lip twitches, his moustache moving as he drags his eyes back to you. Unsure how you havenât thrown it out there that you looking the way you do is also a problem.
As though youâre ignoring how fucking sinful you always lookâespecially in his fucking clothes.Â
He doesnât because, if anything, he doesnât hate the idea. Not immediately. Somewhat struggling to hide the way you make his cock twitch when you flirt, when you lean on his desk, the top two buttons undone on your blouse. That he sometimes fucks and wishes it was you and not the woman heâs chosen.Â
The two of you toeing the line of being friends to the point it sometimes makes his head hurt and his cock throb.Â
âWhat you got in mind?âÂ
âApuñalarme?â
He shouldnât be surprised youâd thought of a word. Always methodical, always thinking ahead.Â
âThinkinâ that one could be taken the wrong way.â
Frowning, you reach forward for some of the leftovers. âHow?âÂ
He stares, and then he swallows. âWell, I could stab you with my coââ
âOKAY. Fine. Who knew it would be so hard to pick a word to keep our friendship intact? What about⊠arepa?âÂ
Taking a sip of his drink, his brow slowly arched.
âWell, itâs foodââ
âFood can be sexy, bonita.â
âYes, but if I said arepas, I donât think: fuck me, PeñaâI think fuck I could really eat some stuffed arepas with my friend Peña. Plus, we can then use it around people, âcause theyâll just think Iâm after food.â
He plays with the glass, staring at your coffee table as he takes it in. Considering it. Finding it plausibleâa good enough excuse. A thing to say other than âI donât wanna hear about you going on a date, bonitaââprobably around the same as you donât wanna hear about his conquests.Â
Youâre nervous, teeth picking at your skin.Â
Something blooming in his chest, smothering warmth across his heart and skin. You want to be his friendâyou want him in your life.Â
âAlright, bonita, letâs give it a go.â
You pout, sighing. âYou driving me home?â
âArepas.âÂ
âFunny, Peña. So funny.â
âYou made the rule, bonita.âÂ
Rolling your lips, he watches as you fold your arms under your dress. The fabric flows, blowing around your legs. âI can make this hard for you.âÂ
âThat so?â
He should have guessed it from the smirk alone.Â
âIâm not wearing any underwear,â you say, pulling on his door handle and stepping in before slamming it.Â
Leaving him processing, eyes staring at where youâd just been standing.
It became complicated in MedellĂn.Â
The routine, the linesâthe friendship.Â
Everyone is forced all under one roof. The closer proximity means he has to listen to how the others talk to you, how you smile, and how you laugh with every single person. He canât avoid your laughâespecially the ones you force from bad jokes. Javi has to listen to how others talk about you and how they describe the way they look at you.Â
He also has to deal with how your perfume simmers in the air here, how it lingers and clings, even if he does his best to drown it out with smoke.Â
In truth, he knows he is just annoyed that youâre even there, to begin with. And, not in BogotĂĄâwhere you would have been safer.Â
And, as annoying as he finds it, Javi supposes you must suffer through your fair share. His eyes catch yours when someone has called for him, his voice low, a smirk halfway up his face until he sees you ducking your head.Â
At the end of the first few days, he realises he misses his evenings with you back in BogotĂĄ. Now, he has to share you in the open office space or hope youâre both free to go to one of the shitty bare rooms youâd both been given.Â
Yours at least was more private, Messina having fought for you to have your own as soon as you were relocated to her.Â
âJealous, Peña?â
âYes, hermosa. You donât have to share with Murphy.â
It worsens when he learns youâre single again.Â
You populate his thoughts all over again, having previously stifled them when he knew you were taken. Now that the few month-long situation-ship with someone from the president's building had ended, he found you half a bottle of wine down in your room with several sad Spanish songs.Â
When youâre single, itâs complicated. Messy.Â
He canât think straight. Not as straight as he needs to be to keep his wits about him. Before, he could convince himself that flirting is just how the two of you talk. He could comment slyly how he could give you a reason to be silent or him unable to tear his eyes off you when you bend down to get him something from the bottom shelf.Â
Even if youâre taken, he thinks arepas repeatedly as you look up at him with wide eyes and gloss-covered lips. But, itâs harmless when youâre unavailableâa foundation of who the two of you were. Now it was confusing again.Â
Especially when you begin wearing tight jeans. And you wait until Murphy leaves to pull his chair across and place a bottle on his desk.Â
âI need to get drunk.â
Blowing into a spare mug, Javi slams it down next to the bottle. âWe canât leave the base.â
âNo, we cannot.â
âAny reason as to why you wanna get drunk?â
You uncap the bottle, glaring at him as you clamp your lips together. The sound of alcohol sloshing into the mug before you begin pouring him one.Â
âHermosaâŠâÂ
You take a mouthful from the mug, flicking your eyes to him as he leans back, whispering your name.
âIâm frustrated.â
âMessina busting yourââ
âNot like that, Javi.â
It takes him a second.Â
A second too long for him, and then he almost chokes on his drink. âArepas.â
Rolling your eyes, you lean back in Murphyâs chair. âYou asked.âÂ
His thoughts run ahead of him. The idea of pressing you against the desk, hooking a finger in a belt loop as he tugs your tight jeans to your thighs. The way youâd moan his nameânot Javier, Javi. Your hands splayed across his desk, taking everything heâ
ââso I need to get drunk because otherwise, Iâm going to jump someone, because this job is stressful, and I miss my place, my⊠privacy, and I also miss food truck nights.âÂ
Swallowing, he places his mug down.Â
âI need to have sexââ
ââArepasââ
âBut by someone who wonât lord it over me.âÂ
You stare at your mug, swirling itâbiting the bottom of your lip as you do.Â
And heâs all set to tell you that you drive him crazy, that heâd make you feel goodâyou just have to ask. His hand slides across the desk, all set to tug your hand closer as he mumbles it.Â
Then fucking Murphy arrives.Â
Him slamming a mug down next to the bottle, muttering about crashing the party as he massages his temple and slides back into his chair.Â
It consumes him. The thoughts which he has let run free in the brief moment with you. How heâd fill you and make you hiss his name and make you come undone until you had no thoughts left.Â
If he thinks heâs alone, you show your cards when heâs helping you move your bed.Â
Your eyes are on him as he leans against the metal frame, staring off as he processes how he will have to move it. He doesnât notice that the edge of his tan shirt has risen until he feels your eyes on him.Â
âArepas!âÂ
He flinches, ripped from his thoughts as he blinks, turning to look at you, watching you shift on the spot, a slow realisation coming to him as to why you shouted it. A smirk so large spreading, not even trying to hide it.Â
âI havenât⊠I havenât even fuckinâ done anything.â
You fold your arms, trying to ignore the heat in your cheeks, the pulse in your ears. âYes, well⊠Iâll move the bed myself.â
âBonita?â
ââI gotta goââ
âThis is your room.âÂ
But youâre already heading to the door, flustered. He calls your name, but youâre goneâleaving him with only your scent and the last trailing sound of your voice.Â
For a second, staring at the empty doorway, not hating it for one minute, all of it evidenced by the growing smirk on his face.Â
The one not easily rid, even by the end of the day. Â
âYour room isâŠ. nice?â
He sniggers, grabbing his jacket as you stand awkwardly. âYâalright, bonita?âÂ
Swallowing, you narrow your eyes when they land on him. Not cutting, but assessing. âWhy have I heard from two separate people that theyâve been warned from me?âÂ
Shrugging his shoulders, he slides his arms into his jacket, frowningâpainting it on thickly, maybe even by too much.Â
âJavi.â
âWhat?âÂ
You look at him, challenging him. Looking every bit like the secretary he met in BogotĂĄ and less like the friend heâs come to know you as.Â
âDid you warn people from asking me out?âÂ
Adjusting his jacket, he sighs. âYeah. I did.âÂ
Javi knows many things about you.Â
Some he has learnt against his will, others heâs learnt from watching you. One thing he knows, more than anything else, is that youâre never late. Not even if the world was on fire.Â
Itâs why it coils inside him when heâs standing at the stairwell waiting for you. It chills him, prickles something inside. And then, it knots as his watch ticks on ripples out as more seconds become minutes.Â
He must shift, stress rolling off of him as he finds Steveâs brow raised, flicking his eyes up at him before shaking his head.Â
âGo on. Iâll let Messina know youâre both on your way.â
He doesnât thank him, even if he makes a note to do so later. His feet taking the steps two at a time. Palm brushes over people as he moves them so he can get to your door quicker.Â
Itâs his sole thing, a crystallising focus that glimmers like a goal, a light around your door as he makes a beeline for it. For you. Not slowing or stopping until heâs outside of it, his knuckles hammering into it.
He tries not to smirk at the expletives he hears, the mix of English and Spanish coming from the other side. The beautiful blend heâs heard so often when youâve dropped food, wine or burnt yourself.Â
âOne minuteââ
âItâs me, bonita.â
He expects to hear a noise. Javi doesnât expect a pause. A lengthy one.
âOh.â
Oh? He thinks.Â
âUm, Javi, just gimmeâŠ.â
It bubbles.Â
It fucking roars. It produces steam and fireâall of it feeling a lot like jealousy. Because: do you have someone in there with you? His jaw tightens at the idea, almost snapping into pieces, hammering against his feet. He hears a loud crash to the floor, shattering. His mind conjures images of two pairs of feet (at best), two awkward souls trying to move around one another littered by a sea of expletives and hisses.
âBonita⊠open the fâdoor.âÂ
He doesnât mean to use a tone. Unable to cage it, the fury which doubles and triples inside of him. Only just about managed to stifle the word fucking from being in the sentence.
Javi regrets it when you rip open your door, standing with more skin on show than heâs ever seen. Your privacy is covered by the thinnest pieces of black lace possibleâlace that would be easy to snap, to rip from you as he drags his eyes up and down.
Unable to think; unable to processâ
âI overslept.â
ââŠBonitaâŠâ
âI am running late.â
âI can see that.âÂ
You jab him, light, making your body twist as you do. Something he canât tear his eyes from, least of all when you turn, his feet following. Itâs autopilot as he shuts your door behind him, not hearing another personâthe anger and jealousy simmering at knowing youâre alone.Â
Youâre just⊠in your underwear.Â
Around him.Â
âArepas.â
âWhat?â you call out, bending down, grabbing clothes as he averts his eyes.Â
His brain forces his feet to come to a stop, his hand adjusting himself as he tries to swallow. Because whatever heâd imagined youâd look like, has just been beatenâyouâre⊠fucking gorgeous.Â
âNothing,â he manages, staring around your place. Finding a bottle of half-drunk wine on the deskâsat beside one glass. âYou had a fun night without me?âÂ
You laugh, turning to face you, finding you with trousers on. âI⊠Iâm struggling to sleep⊠here.âÂ
He can relate.Â
âHow was Gabby?âÂ
He pulls a face, wiping a hand over his face. âYeahâsheâs fine.âÂ
You fasten your blouse, moving towards him, closer and closer, until youâre in front of him, and his mind is fucking blank.Â
âYouâre standing over my shoes, Javi.âÂ
It shouldnât stick to himâyour words. But they do. How theyâre sickly sweet, how they clag and cling to the edges of his mind as he tries to concentrate. Heâs typing, and then heâll replay it, fingers pausing on the heavy keys of the typewriter.Â
Fuck.Â
Not able to tear his fucking eyes off of you. Not that you have noticed. You barely look his way with the mountain of shit Messinaâs given you to do in one day. Hammering down on you, reminding them all they canât make mistakesâmore so since the toilet debacle. The heaviness of how close theyâd been weighed on them. All of them. Â
So close.Â
He watches you stand up, calling after someone as you do a little run in your heels until thereâs none of you left to watch. Staring at where youâd been, somehow still flickering between seeing you the way he saw you this morning and the well-put-together version just in here.Â
âWhatâs up with you?
âNothing.â
Steve snorts, leaning against the wall. âYâsure?â
âYeah.â
ââcause you look likeââ
âShe answered the door in her fuckinâ underwear.â
Steve widens his eyes, pulling out his cigarettes. âAnd thatâs something youâve not seen before?â
He glares. Chewing a retort as he furiously stubs out his cigarette.Â
âAlright, so, now what?â
âI have no fucking idea.âÂ
âYour word come in use?âÂ
He shoots another glare, watching his partner hold his hands up.Â
âNot fucking helping, Murphy.âÂ
âThe fuck you mean she was sent to take some papers?â
Him storming out of the building, hearing Murphy close behind.
Not thinking. Thumb brushes over his fingers as something surges through him. Thumping. Building. Pushing past people, moving out of the way from the ones he comes into contact with, stepping out into the warm air as he sees hell.
Men bleeding, carried by other men. His heart in his throat, furiously pounding, unsure where to start, where to goâ
Then he sees you.Â
Time slows, people coming to a halt as he watches you and his feet begin to move. His hands guide him past people, walking and walking until he pulls you closeânot caring for the blood on his shirt from your head, or the way you whimper when you crash into him.Â
He meets your eyes, staring into them, finding his throat dry as he brushes your cheek with his thumb. âArepas.â
âArepasâŠâ you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.Â
When it rains, it pours.Â
Itâs what he thinks as he sinks another glass, elbowing digging into the desk, all set to shout at Messina to leave him alone, suspecting she had returned.Â
But then, heâd seen you.Â
Face lit up by the yellowing light, a softness to your features and a shyness to your frame.Â
Javi isnât sure what heâs expecting. Whether the guilt would shift at the sight of you, whether the sadness would stop laying on thickly.Â
For a second, nothing happens.Â
He doesnât move. You donât move.Â
And then heâs standing, and youâre crossing the room, pulling him close, hands around him as you keep him close. Itâs friendly, he thinksâsuspects. A simple hug. Something the two of you have done only a handful of times, but twice so recently.Â
In the fog of regret and alcohol, he can barely convince himself, his grip on it lost when youâre in his lap. His face in your neck, bathed in youâthe distinct scent which clings to some of his clothes, the warmth he feels when he knows he shouldnât.Â
Itâs easy, simpleâand also everything.Â
Shards of himself held in place by your grip on him, his own hand placing the glass down so he can clutch you that much tighter.Â
It isnât him. A thing heâs acutely aware of, yet he buries his face into your neck. Breath dancing along your neck, feeling you still, wondering if youâre thinking the word as he is when you pull back, eyes meeting his.Â
âOh, JaviâŠâ
He chews his tongue, lessening his hold on you. Allowing you to moveâgiving you free rein to leave.Â
âMessina send you?âÂ
You stand, tilting the bottle beside the glass, staring at the label. Your silence fills the gaps, finding the cracks of regret and guilt, layering itself thickly in it.Â
Answer me, he thinks. Almost wanting to command it.Â
âBoniââ
âNo,â you say, curt, sharp.Â
Your eyes dig in, taking a step back, running the back of your hand over your forehead.Â
âDidnât⊠I havenât even seen her.âÂ
He could speak, but it would be useless. No words can conjure that would make any of it okayâheaviness adding in bulk to his shoulders as he stands. Making his legs feel like jelly and his spine wanting to bend.Â
And then, heâs walking towards you, your back meeting a wall as he presses you against the wall, keeping you close. Just like you were minutes ago.Â
He traces the tip of his nose against your cheek, catching the scent of your perfume. Your eyes are on him, watching his movements as he places his hand on your hip.Â
âArepasâŠâ
He snorts, pressing his forehead softly against yours. âYou want me to stop, bonita?âÂ
Your lips twitch, eyes flicking.Â
A thousand thoughts dashing and darting in the shades he has memorised. Then youâre moving closer, mouth delicately pressing against hisâtesting, teasing. Saying no wordlessly.
Itâs easy to return it, to give inâto kiss you like he has thought about since your name fell from your lips. AÂ thousand missed moments and building will-they-wonât-they slamming into the both of you.Â
Itâs why it shifts, his mouth not being gentle, his grip more desperate. His tongue sliding past your teeth, your hips flush against his as you curl your fingers into his hair.Â
Heâs on fire. Scorched. Changed.Â
Flashes of you standing in the doorway in your underwear blending with the feel of you right now, how your lips move against his like the two are you well-versed in kissing one another.Â
âDreamt about you, bonita.âÂ
You murmur at his words, whimpering at his teeth, latching on the space under your lobe and neck.Â
âThought of the sounds Iâd make you makeâŠ.â
âFuck, Javi...âÂ
Your nails dig into his neck, pulling and twisting him so you can marry your lips back to his. You kiss him like you want to conquer him, and own him. Something youâve done since the moment you metâsomething he responds with how he licks into your mouth. Just pausing at your moan, tasting itâcapturing it.
Your lips part as you clutch his cheek, breath ghosting as he lets dark brown wash over you. âIâm here. Iâm here, Javi.âÂ
He knows what you mean, what youâre implying: Iâm here, you need someone, Iâm yours.Â
The sound of him swallowing sounds louder, sharperâeven against his ears as he flicks his sight over you. Youâre better than it, better than him. Youâre too good, too perfectâsomething he doesnât want to break, snap or ruin.Â
Sometimes, youâre the only thing that feels untouched, unblemished. You were the one who saw him after heâd gotten back from the brothel. When CarilloâŠ
He blinks, finding your fingers still on his cheek, eyes still on himâbut heâs unsure if heâs misheard you. Misunderstood.Â
You donât do quick fucks.
But youâre clever. Youâre always fucking clever. Kissing him, hooking a finger in a belt loop, pulling him flush. As you show him that you mean it.Â
âNeed you, Javi. Just you.âÂ
He growls, moving you to push you down on the awkward, creaking bed. He watches dumbfounded as your fingers begin to aid the removal of your clothes. Exposing skin, inch by inch, to himâlooking every bit inviting as you have done since the first day he fucking met you.Â
Throwing your trousers to some distant corner, he parts your knees with his waist, pushing the damp green lace to the side, as he coats his finger in your want.Â
âJaviâŠâÂ
âYou suit green, bonita.âÂ
He eases a finger in, watching your mouth part as he does.Â
âBut, I canât stop picturing that black set.â
âLike it, did you?âÂ
Itâs breathy, desperate. Your lips ghost over his as he stiffens, pausing his ministrations, needing to look you in the eyes.
âItâs all Iâve thought about since, bonita.âÂ
Leaning over, he captures your moan, sliding in another finger as his name vibrates against his lips. Your eyes are so full of adoration, lust and wantâit almost shatters himâbut itâs the desperation that coils around him. The neediness which is falling from your lips makes him want more.Â
Heâs thorough, listening to your whines, finding each place inside you that makes you twitch and moan. Heâs learning you, studying every inch, so he can please you from the get-goâif he ever gets the chance again.Â
Itâs his knuckle that undoes you the first time, rolling quick circles around the bundle of nerves which has fingers in his hair and your breath against his cheek.Â
Javi, fuckâyou, Javi, you.Â
His breathing is shallow when you come down, feeling your handsâshaky but determinedâtugging him to join you in being naked, his hand grabbing the one thing he needs outside of you.Â
âWanna taste you, but need to fuck you, bonita. Can I? Can I fuck your pretty pussy?âÂ
You groan, kissing his jaw and his neck. A chorus of yes and pleases bless his skin as his teeth rip the wrapper, fingers expertly sliding it over his length to not waste time.Â
And then, your fingers leave bruises as you tug on his chin, pulling his eyes to you. A thought rolls, building; Tell me Iâve not ruined this. That Iâve not fucked up another thing.Â
âYours, Javi. Iâm yours.â
His hand clutches your cheek, fingers pressing against your ear and hairline as you nod. His mouth smothers yours, stealing a moan, air and whatever thoughts were trying to populate. He does so as he lines himself up with you, when you wrap him in warm bliss.Â
Your fingers on his shoulders, digging in, please move, Javi. And then, his hips move with yours, something swelling inside of him, a thing which makes it hard to stop kissing you, to ever want to stop being between your thighsâ
He doesnât usually fuck like this.Â
It starts that way, but never ends that wayâand yet here he is. Never with them on their backs, eye to eye, lip to lip. But then, youâve never been them. Youâre nothing like them.Â
And he wonât move, canât. He slides his tongue past your teeth and grips your hip that bit tighter as he feels your walls grip him desperately.Â
âFeel so good, Javiâyâfuck me so good.âÂ
He knows.Â
Knows because youâre fucking heavenlyâperfection sent just for him. Something he whispers into your lips, lets you taste it as he feels you getting closer and closer.Â
Then he just hears you. And the sound is prettier than his mind could ever conjure.
Just feels you. And it's better than he ever thought it could feel.
Then, there's nothing else, until he feels pleasureâuntil itâs white light and your name spluttering from his lips. Your hands in his hair, hips slowing with his as his lips sloppily find yours.
âWe should talk.â You frown, looking over your desk as he leans both palms down. âBonita⊠we had sex.âÂ
âA few times, if I recall.âÂ
âYou⊠you seem rather calm about this?âÂ
You smirk, lifting your mug to your lips. âShould I not be?âÂ
Heâs silent, uncharacteristically so. Never short of words, not with you.
âJavi, I almost fucking died⊠then Carrillo⊠I-I needed⊠I just needed you.âÂ
âBonitaâŠâ
âI donât need pity. Do not worry. Iâm not expecting anything, I know you, Iâm not complicating this, and Iâm not asking to change you. I like you as you are, and I know for you, last night for you was just a one-night thingââÂ
He whispers your name, wrapped in confusion and surpriseâ
Your hand pats his chest, ââand Iâm off to the funeral. Please try not to drown yourself in whiskey while Iâm gone.âÂ
âYou know Iâm not going...â
Smiling, you let your fingers linger on his shirt button, twisting it. âYou donât do funeralsâit was one of the first things you told me.âÂ
Letting your hand drop before you walk away, leaving him with his thoughts.Â
It unravels.Â
Looking every bit like the day heâd been running around the ranch, knocking into the table beside his mommaâs armchair, watching in horror as spools of cotton spread out. They ran uncontrollably away, undoing in a fit of rainbow shades and mess. It had taken him an age to fix, fingers raw from cotton against his fingers.Â
Thatâs what it was like nowâexcept he wasnât sure he could fix it. Â
If anything, he knows he can't.
He realises it when he tells you. A wave of disappointment ascended and crashed in your eyes until you looked at him with an expression painted in worry. It makes him want to kiss it from you, but your hand brushes his cheekâkeeping him where he was, close but not too close.Â
DonâtâŠ
What? Worry about you?
Yeah, I donât⊠I donât deserve it.Â
Tough, Javi. Iâve worried about you since the moment you bought me food truck food and told me I had sauce on my chin.Â
Why's that?
You just seemed like someone who I needed to worry about.
He wanted to kiss you differently then. Softlyâgently. Almost greedily. Show you the words he wishes he could say easily. Let you feel how much he adores you, how much he cares, that he even wants toâŠÂ Â
Javi doesnât.Â
His brain too quick to remind him that you deserve solid truths, not hopeful lies. Tells himself that heâs anything with him will end in ruin, evidenced by the way things keep crumbling, the grip on helping having become closer to hurting.Â
He tries to build walls to keep you out, ones you chip out with more force than he bargained for. Your nails pulling at bricks, eyes burning through gaps: Do not keep me out, Peña.Â
So he stops. The energy wasted, even if he wants nothing but to protect you. Doing poorly at itâso much so he doesnât realise youâre even swept up in it. Not in the moments where he comes find you for a moment of reprieve in the swirling hurricane he created.
You look like shit.
Tell me how you really feel, bonita.
Javi...
I'm fine.
You're not.
No, I'm not.
He could kick himself when he realises it.
Only seeing it when he returns to the base, stopping short of your desk and finds it bare. No mug. No papers. No little notes you write yourself so you never forget a thing.
Bare. Empty.
There's no scent of your perfume and the air is absent of your laugh.
You had always found him, whether in his room, in a cupboard, at his desk. But, he hadn't thought to look for you today. Just put it aside, suspecting he'd find you later.
"Shit."
Sweat pools at the base of his back as he heads to Messina's. Hating himself, wondering if you'd been questioned. He'd never even tried to make sure you were okay with the knowledge of what he had done, what he continued to do in an effort to fix it.Â
Iâm here, Javi. I'm yours, Javi.Â
He knows you are a part of the fallout when he sees Stechner behind Messina's desk.
It confirming it. Almost wanting to cut him off from saying your nameânot wanting to hear it from his lips. Stechner says it anyway, as though knowing. Purposefully adding more poison to it and accompanying it with a cold smirk. One which almost makes him grip the man by the arm and land his fist in his teeth.Â
You should have stayed in your laneâŠ
Everything tightened inside of him. While everything around him crumbled, slowly crashing down: the walls, the ceilingâthe pretence.
It makes his blood run cold, his heart crack right in the centre. Â
Ambassador wants to see you. Get your passport.Â
Tightening his jaw, he hammers his feet up the stairs, taking them two by two. Needing his room, needing a moment.
His hand rubbing over his face, mind populated with memoriesâones both good and bad. Your voice swirling around them. Your smile, your laugh, all appearing before they burst, showering him in a mess of confetti heâll never be able to clean. One he doesnât want to, if they all he has left of you.Â
He tries to think of his passport. Where it could be. The location of it in the mess of his roomâtrying not to wonder, worry or think about where you are. What his mess has done to you.Â
Opening the door, he comes to a halt when he finds both standing in the centre of the room.Â
Time comes to a stop. His heart pausing mid-slam into his ribs, the pain rippling out, as he takes you in. Watching your fingers and hand slowly rise, holding not one, but two passports, letting out a sigh of relief.Â
âHi.âÂ
He lets the door shut behind him, suddenly able to breathe. The weight, the one crushing him for ages, finally stepping up from him, allowing air to fill his lungs, allowing his chest to rise and fall as you softly smile.Â
âBonita⊠what⊠how?âÂ
âI handed my notice in⊠Messina, she knew aboutâshe advised me, said it would buy me more time. It didâhas. StechnerââÂ
It takes three stridesâthreeâand even those felt long before his lips crashed into yours, silencing you, not wanting your pretty lips to ever mouth his name. Feeling your hand, the one clutching the passports, against his shoulder and the other on his hip. Pulling him in, wanting himâeven still.Â
He feels like heâs dreaming, until you bite his lip. Smirking against his lips as the two of you part. The feel of it bringing him back to earth, trying not to overthink it and let the moment ruin.
Javi just holds youâlike he should have done earlier this morning when he'd seen you, and from the very beginning.
Pulling you close as he humanly can, for as long as heâs able to. Doing so selfishly until both of you are just staring at one another, the gap so thin between you, youâre not all in focus.
âAsk me.â
His knuckles slide along your cheek, knowing what youâre implying. Something coiling at what youâre suggestingâsomething heâd thought about days ago. Regretted not asking minutes agoâŠÂ
âJavi.â Your fingers wrapping around his chin. âAsk me or let me goâŠ.âÂ
Clearing his throat and licking his lipsâsighing.Â
Wanting to. Nothing compelled him more. But the wounded part, the one which is sore and raw, tells him not to. To put distance, space, timeâand fucking everything elseâbetween you both.Â
To protect you. To love you from afar.Â
âBe with me.â
Smiling, you whisper, âPlease?âÂ
âPlease,â he adds, a light smirk threatening to spill.Â
You let your fingers slide over it, the little crease at the end of the hair on his upper lip. âIâm yours, Javi. All yours.âÂ
âYou have to know what that means, boââ
âI already know,â you cut him off, fingers dancing along his cheek. "I don't care."
an: thank you for reading, feel i should apologise for the length ha!
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Oh my god đ
Blood Ties Chapter 26
Series Masterlist
Warnings: Mainly just pregnancy stuff
A/N: I hope I pulled this off while keeping our archer in character. Be gentle.
gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams
You knew it was bothering him, it was evident in the way he moved. The jerking slices of the knife as he made bolts while he sat cross legged on the old railing across from you. You were perched on the porch swingâhe had all but jumped up and down on it to make sure it would hold you safelyâjust watching him, guilt flaring to singe the inside of your chest. He wanted to go on the run, get the things that you and the baby needed, but you were scared. Hershel had said the baby could come any day. It was at your insistence that Daryl wasnât going. You didnât have to try hard, mind you. He was worried about leaving you as well.
Still, it wasnât sitting right with him for the others to be risking their necks for his baby.
âMaybe you should go.â You finally said, picking at your thumbnail. You saw his movements come to an abrupt halt before continuing.
âNah. Ya need me here.â He sniffed, starting up on another piece of wood. He had legitimate bolts with his crossbow, so you could only assume he was just trying to keep his hands busy. He was so undeniably torn and it was showing.
âI think you should. You know what I need. Youâve read the books. Maggie will be there to help with the medical side of things, the list Hershel made.â You sat up straighter, attempting to massage the little foot away from your ribs. Of course, Daryl noticed.
âSâwrong?â He was climbing off the rail and made it over to you in one long stride, giving you a once over before he sat down. He didnât ask before taking over for you, lightly rubbing over the little form of toes with the smallest, gentlest of smiles. Youâd almost consent to constant discomfort if it meant youâd see more of that expression.
âThumper has a personal vendetta against my ribcage.â Your head found your partnerâs shoulder, watching that same laser focus that had moments ago been on the wood he was carving now honed in on you. For a moment, you were just a couple expecting a baby. For a moment, the world hadnât ended. For a moment, you had managed to find perfect. âI love you.â
Darylâs hand froze but for a mere heartbeat before his fingertips continued chasing little toes as if he were playing a game with the baby, when in reality he was simply trying to divert the tiny digits away from your ribs. âSo ya keep sayinâ.â
âSo you keep saying. Is that all youâre ever gonna say?â You werenât angry, not even frustrated. There was merely a soft curiosity that sat in the back of your mind; along with the little voice that assured you Daryl was yours and you were his, even if he could never say the words.
âDunno.â It always unsettled you when he spoke so quietly, small and fragile as if he feared his words would end in some sort of pain. God, you wanted to bury his father in a gopher hole, maybe even his mother and brother. It was normal for a person to be unsure of feelings, to question and explore before accepting what they were, good or bad. Daryl didnât have that capability. He questioned. He explored. And then he feared, good or bad. He didnât think he deserved good and he was so attuned with bad that itâs what came naturally in his own reactions. Perhaps he thought you were trying to fix him, when that couldnât be further from the truth. You didnât see anything broken. You saw someone who had never been shown what love was supposed to feel like. He wasnât broken, he just needed to learn, and Daryl was good at learning.Â
Still you persevered, your fingers finding their way into his hair, delicately tracing the scar from Andreaâs bullet. âDo you love me, Daryl?â Maybe narrowing it down to a simple yes or no would make it easier for him. Maybe you were pushing him. You would need time if the answer was no but you would be okay. He cared enough to be with you, to raise Thumper as a family. In the end, that was all you needed.
But then his hand stilled on the center of your swollen belly and he lifted his head to seek out your gaze. Even with all the emotion stirring in those stormy pools of blue, you could easily see the fear, but there was something else. You continued to run your fingers through his hair, the color darkening somewhat as it grew. Even with that comforting gesture, you held his gaze, heard his breath stutter, watched his lips move so, so nimbly without a sound. His free hand came up to brush back your own hair, tenderly tucking it behind your ear. As he leaned toward you, the corners of your mouth lifted into a welcoming smile.
âY/N, Iââ
âWeâre heading out!â Glenn called from the doorway before stepping onto the porch. Daryl pulled away fast, his hands on his knees, eyes downcast.Â
You were going to absolutely torture Glenn before you murdered him.
âYou sure you donât wanna go, Daryl?â Rick had joined Glenn and was checking his weapons before he finally looked up.
Daryl, though, only had eyes for you; his bowed head angled to see you, questioning.Â
You sighed with a smile, giving him a nudge with your elbow. âGo. Try to find those bra pad things. Cloths suck and they hurt my nipples.â There was no deeper shade of red that could color his skin. You laughed, loud and true. âGo. Weâll be fine.â Licking his lips nervously, Daryl nodded and left the swing.
T-Dog held out the archerâs bag and crossbow. âThought you might change your mind. Went ahead and grabbed these.â He only received a nod.Â
The group began to descend the steps, but Daryl paused at the end, looking back to you. He closed the distance in seconds, a finger hooking under your chin to lift your face higher, even though you were already looking at him. âBe back âfore dark. Promise.â
That earned him one of your sweetest smiles. âWeâll be waiting.â You patted your belly. The rough hand at your chin, moved to your jaw, his thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. âI love you, Daryl. Be safe.â He hesitated, long enough for something to stir in your chest. Hope? Excitement? Then he merely nodded and was gone.
You and Lori were given the least strenuous tasks. She was not far behind you. A few weeks, her belly almost as prominent as your own. Luckily, you found it helped for folding clothing before stuffing them in the correct bag. Your bare feet were propped up in a chair across from you, your ankles swollen, squeezed by the socks that you had to wear to keep them warm. Your body just ached all over. Thumper Dixon was playing field hockey with your internal organs and the nausea you had definitely not missed was threatening to make a comeback. You just felt awful.
âThe last month is the worst.â Lori commented while packing away some of Carlâs clothing. âAnd itâll take a while after the baby comes to feel human again.â
âGrowing a human fucking sucks.â You groused, one of Darylâs few shirts lying spread over your torso. âAnd goddamnit, I have to pee. I always have to pee.â
âMeans youâre hydrated at least. Silver linings.â Lori tittered. If anyone had been watching the two of you battling to your feet, it would have been worthy of more than a few chuckles.
âThanks for going with me. Daryl would have a kitten if I went alone.â When you straightened, there was an immediate feeling of change in your body that had you looking to Lori, eyes wide. âHoly shit, I can breathe but I feel like Iâm gonna piss my pants and my hips hurt.â
She smiled and placed her hands over her own round bump. âThe baby dropped. You're carrying differently now. I wish we had a mirror.âÂ
âCarrying differently? What do youâoh.â You immediately noticed when you began to massage the taut skin that the swell sat lower. You suddenly couldnât remember a word the old man had said. Were you about to go into labor? How would Daryl know? You couldnât do it without him.
âEasy, Y/N.â At some point, the other woman had crossed the small space and put her hands on your shoulders, your stomachs brushing against one another. âIt just means the babyâs getting ready. Though, I think after this run, Daryl should probably consider staying behind on any others.â You nodded, trying to get your breathing under control. In through the nose, out through the mouth. âLetâs go take care of business and then let Hershel do his daily thing, okay?â
You nodded again, a jerky motion while you trembled. âYeah. Yeah, okay.â You followed behind her, trying to keep your mind on the fact that if you didnât empty your bladder within the next couple of minutes, you would still be incredibly anxious but you would be so with wet pants. âMaybe the little gremlin canât reach my ribs now.â
You felt like crap. All day, you felt heavy and sluggish, swollen and nauseous. By late afternoon, you just couldnât stand it anymore.Â
âCarol.â You spoke her name quietly, leaning onto the dusty countertop to pillow your head on your folded arms. You saw the concern on her face when she turned from canned foods with which she was planning small meals. You couldnât even wave away her worry. âDo you need my help right now? I think Iâd really like to lie down.âÂ
âY/N, whatâs wrong?â She came to place a hand on your back, rubbing softly. It only succeeded in making your yearn for Daryl to be there, easing your fears in his own Daryl way. He would probably already have an aneurysm when someone told him that youâd done work, light as it was. And then you needed to tell him that the baby had indeed dropped. God, even if you didnât tell him, heâd notice with that keen eye of his. Your stomach had shifted, still round but lower. There was so much pressure on your pelvis that you thought the bones might separate at any moment. Lori had promised that what you were feeling was normal, that it was simply new and you would take a day or two to adjust unless the baby decided to make its debut before you could.
âI just donât feel well.â You stood straighter, nodding that she could remove her hand and you were fine. âIâd rather have Daryl come back to me feeling like shit and resting than to me feeling like shit and trying to help get things done.â
âI canât argue with that.â She laughed.Â
Carol was about the only other person in the group that Daryl dropped any of his walls around. With Rick, it was all business. There was respect there, but not yet friendship. You could see it though, the subtle changes in your hunter. He was getting comfortable around these people. It was a snailâs pace but if they were anything like you hoped they were, he would be granted their patience. God knew, he had earned it.Â
âCome on.â Carol urged. âLetâs get you settled.âÂ
With each step, you whined, feeling less and less like the woman you had been only months before, like she had been left behind somewhere, starved or trampled by a herd. âI hate this. Is it wrong to hate this?â You grimaced at Carol who only chuckled breathily, her hand resting on your cheek.
âItâs not wrong. This is a lot. Our bodies do a lot.â A couple of soft pats and then she bent down to straighten the bedroll and arrange the blankets.Â
You were watching, actually finding yourself excited to be off your feet and deciding that a nap wouldnât be so horrible when there was a strange feeling low in your belly. It started as a gradual tightening but soon turned into an unyielding cramp, your stomach hard beneath your hands as you grabbed for your sweater. You gasped Carolâs name, could hear her clearly calling for Hershel but you couldnât seem to respond, swallowed up by every fear that had been looming like a dark shadow for the past few weeks. The pain wasnât even horrible, not like you had imagined at all. But it was terrifying. The only thing you could think of to do was hold the area that housed your little Thumper and whimper out Darylâs name.
A bed had been cleared, dusted, and made for you in the downstairs room. As you laid there, resting, and stared at the half empty cup of water on the bedside table, you overheard Beth and Carl animatedly re-telling how two walkers had shuffled by the driveway gate. The children had hid and remained quiet, reporting that no others were seen once those two had moved on. You werenât naive enough to hope that it didnât mean more were coming. The group would need to pack up and head out likely within the next day or so.Â
âBraxton Hicks.â Hershel had stated matter-of-factly. He had expressed that he was actually surprised you hadnât experienced them before then, added that maybe you had but they were so mild that you just didnât notice. You had two more instances over the course of three hours but nothing since then, though your body seemed to be in a constant state of dread, waiting for another to happen; for it to be more than what Hershel had said. You were waiting for something to be wrong.
Beyond the dusty, tattered green curtains, you could see the light fading. Daryl would be back soon. Would he blame you for bringing this on by doing a little work? Would he be angry? Heâd be beside himself with worry, that much was a given. Hershel had said you could do small chores, that it was good for you to be moving, but what if Daryl didnât see it that way? The morning had started so perfectly. The conversation had been left unfinished but it didnât seem to have been heading anywhere bleak.Â
âUgh.â You didnât know what was more exhausting, your body or your brain. Each time you closed your eyes, your mind ran rampant with each and every wildly negative scenario it could possibly conjure. You groaned and rolled to your other side despite the effort and apprehensiveness of even moving. Letting your eyes close yet again, you fought against the intrusive thoughts, forcing images of what Thumper might look like instead. A little girl with Darylâs eyes and your smile. A little boy with unruly light hair like Darylâs had been, a constant scowl. You laughed softly, wetly, shedding a few tears around your smile. No matter the sex of the baby, you hoped for Darylâs eyes. They were the one thing to always gave him away, no matter what expression he wore. With a baby that couldnât communicate needs and wants, you would at least have that in your corner.
At some point, you must have dozed off, opening your eyes to the sound of the old truck Daryl was driving. Looking to the window, you could see the faint light of dusk giving way to the moon. Heâd kept his promise, albeit barely. You didnât care as long as he was back. Shifting and struggling, you finally made it upright just as you heard Glennâs all too cheerful voice, though you couldnât make out the words. Rickâs few words trailed right after. Then there was Daryl. He spoke but then there was nothing more than hushed tones. Hershel offering the day's events, most likely. A thud was followed by echoing stomps of boots pounding against the hardwood floors.
âWhere is she?â Daryl roared, closer to the door.
âSheâs fine, son. Sheâs resting. This is normal. It just caused a bit of a fright. She justââ
âWhere. Is. She?!â
The old man must have nodded or pointed because the next thing you knew, the door was swinging open with Darylâs silhouette backdropped by the soft candlelight in the other room. His shoulders were heaving in what sounded so close to sobs that you squinted your eyes for a chance to catch his expression before he moved, startling you with how quickly he had one knee on the bed and was leaning in to check you over himself. He was filthy, mostly dirt and grime, but spots of walker blood and a cut across his cheek that was no longer bleeding.Â
âWhat happened?â You asked, reaching for his face but letting your hand hover in fear of hurting him.
âDonât matter. Ya alright? Baby okay?â He was breathless, either from his haste to get to you or maybe just with worry. He was touching you without hesitance, his hands in a mad rush to feel your face, neck, your belly. You watched his eyes go wide and knew exactly what it meant. âWhyâs it look diffârent?âÂ
âThumper dropped.â His eyes were dancing back and forth as he flipped through his mental catalog of reading material and Hershelâs words. Relief was evident in his posture when he recalled what he had been searching for, but he was still tense.
âHershel said ya was crampinâ. The fake shit. Does it hurt now?â You shook your head and watched him finally sink onto his hip beside you, scrubbing a hand over his face. âShouldnâa gone. Ya didnât need to be alone through that.âÂ
âHey.â You leaned as far as you could, to guide his hand away with one hand while the other used his chin to turn his face toward you. âI wasnât alone and weâre okay. Itâs just my body getting ready.â Darylâs head tilted, his expression displaying his gratitude for your attempts at consolation but also heavy laden with guilt for leaving you there. âDaryl, you had to go.â
âDidnât hafta do nothinâ. Couldâa stayed right here where ya need me to be.âÂ
He hadnât asked what you had been doing. Maybe it wasnât that important to him after all. He seemed to be more concerned with what happened and how you currently felt than anything. You truly needed to start trusting him as you wanted so badly for him to trust you. Your palm left his face and wrapped around the back of his neck, not needing much pressure to pull him to you for your lips to press against his. It was gentle and chaste, his hand leaving your belly to cup your jaw.
âWeâre okay and youâre here now.â You soothed, kissing the corner of his mouth. âJustâno more runs until Thumperâs here, okay?â
âNo more runs.â He agreed, his eyes closed, forehead against yours. âAinât leavinâ ya again.â His hand lowered back to your belly, rubbing back and forth. It was always the most tender thing youâd ever seen from him. You didnât think him the type but he actually seemed to be calmed by the action. âDâya need anythinâ?â
âJust you.â You let him help you lie back, but he didnât follow.Â
âNeed to clean up. Iâll be quick.â He made to stand up but you grabbed his forearm and pulled yourself up again, not stopping once you got there. He gave in to your incessant tugging and wrapped his arms around you. âYouâre gonna need to change too now.â You sniffled, trying hard not to cry, but you were just so overwhelmed with relief that he was back in one piece, that nothing bad had truly happened, that he was going to stay. âDonât cry, woman. Mâhere.â
âI know. Iâm justâIâm happy. I have you and Thumper. AndâI donât deserve you, Daryl Dixon.â
Daryl scoffed, rubbing his cheek against the crown of your head. âYa deserve way better than me, Sunshine.â He took a deep breath that actually shifted you against his chest and then he was tightening his embrace. âBut I love ya. Anâ mâhere unless ya tell me to get lost.â He pulled away before you could say anything, heading quickly for the door with one last look before he walked out. You were stunned frozen, silent.Â
He said it.
He said it and you could feel that he meant it. His actions had always conveyed it, but hearing it from his mouth was everything.Â
Thumper rolled and kicked before going still, reacting to all the emotions you were feeding to them through your bond. When you laid down again, it wasnât hard to fall asleep. No wicked images formed behind your eyes. Just those words replaying in your head, a babyâs tiny hand gripping a large finger. A childâs giggle. And then his voice again.
Your eyes didnât want to obey when you bid them to open, the mattress dipping beside you, the sheets moving. A warm arm pulled you against an even warmer body, enveloping you in a veil of safety.
Everything would be okay.
Because you loved Daryl.
And Daryl loved you.
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Yep!
That's me đł
@celtic-crossbow @deansapplepie
When I read a fanfic I like, the author becomes a mini celebrity to me. So when an author with a work I like kudosâ or comments on my own fanfic I just-
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9. breath of fresh air
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nine of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.3k
chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n.
an: this one is called jo kicked her feet mid-writing and editing.
prev chapter | series masterlist
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
Baby, where are you?
Iâm coming now just needed to get some plants.
If youâre the forest on wheels coming towards me line up somewhere else.
Wow, that's mean, Morales.
I am. But also, thatâs a fuck load of plants.
It is and weâre going to have so much fun naming them.
Surrounded by unopened boxes, and paint tins that are due to be put on the wall, you both sit cross-legged on the floor of your soon-to-be office floor.
It's hard to stop it, the smile which spreads across your lips. The scent of fast food flows from your ripped-open bag and his neatly opened one, as you watch him turn his cap backwards and dig a hand into the paper bag as he pulls out a sauce pot.
Of course, he still finds a second to glare at the plant behind you.
âItâs up for debate, but french fries might be the way to my soul.â
Dipping his own into the sauce, he smirks. âWhatâs the other contender?â
You, you think.
It's there, threaded inside of you. Sewn in now. Stitched so deep into you that heâll be remembered forever, no matter what.
Meeting his eyes mid-chew, the word you reverbing around your skull. Echoing. Practically marking itself against any surface space it can in there.
âYour mouth.â
Choking, his hand is quick to cover his mouth, eyes alarmed, quickly filling with tears as he continues to hack. Sliding his drink towards him, across the floor of the project that brought him here today.
âYou canâtâŠâ he begins, taking another mouthful, âDo that to me.â
Smirking, you grab another handful of fries. âFrom the gleam in your eyes, I say you like it.â
âI am not gleaming.â
âNo? Damn, Iâm disappointed.â
Rolling his eyes, he nudges you with his footâyour eyes glancing at the dinosaur-covered socks for the twelfth time since heâs been here.
âLuca has good taste in socks.â
âYouâre telling me,â he replies, âI also have Batman ones, some cartoon ones and ones with flowers on.â
Smiling, you continue to chew. âWhich ones are your favourite.â
Scrunching up the paper your food came in, you throw it into the bag. Watching him take a final bite of his own as you smirk.
âItâs the flower ones, isnât it?â
âDefinitely the flower ones.â
Laughing, tongue peeking between your teeth, you lean back on your hands, legs outstretched. âSaving them for a special occasion?â
Nodding, he takes another slurp of his drink, feeling his eyes drag up and down your legs. âThought I could wear them for when I woo you later on this week.â
âYeah? You want to model your socks for me, Morales.â
âDinner and a show I heard is the perfect date night.â
Wiping his hands on his napkin, he stares at youâclean hand on your ankle, massaging it.
âYou keep doing that, and we wonât be building furniture.â
Groaning, he sighs. All deep, layered with conflictionâuntil he whispers it: after. Itâs low, practically dragged through the gravel of his voice by the time it reaches your ear. Heat spreading through your stomach, not able to tear your eyes from him, just thankful that he does when he goes to stand.
A moment of reprieve, a chance to collect yourself.
That is, until he stretches out his hand, sliding yours into it as he pulls you up to stand. For a moment, just pausedâstaring at him, a tuft of curls poking through under the rim of his hat.
âI told you how handsome you are,â you say, arms sliding around his neck, leaning closeâjust enough, to press your mouth to his. âCause you are.â
Biting the edge of his lip, he smirks. âIâve got a utility knife in my pocket.â
âOh?â
Brows lifting, grinning, Frankie pulls you closer. âYou into that?â
âOn you? Fuck yeah.â
Your lips glide over his, tasting the salt from his fries and the onion from his burger. Not caring, not as you hold him close, keeping him flush, deepening it until he clutches your jaw, walking you both back, kicking a box.
âFuck.â
Almost laughing, you smirk. âWe shouldâŠâ
Tongue swiping over his lip, Frankie nods. Gaze unmoving even as you step back, bending to tidy the wrappers and bags as you glance back periodically.
âWhat?â
Shaking his head, he shrugs one shoulder, eyes widening as he smiles. âNothing. Jusâ⊠hurry back.â
It leaves your lips breathlessly, the word sure. It flows through the air to him, before you leave the room, before giddiness swallows and smothers you up. A grin not easily wiped by your knee connecting with the cabinet as you skid into the kitchen. Dousing your hands in cold water, hoping the temperature will touch your cheeks and cool them.
Thinking of him waiting near the checkoutâbroad shoulders stretching the fabric of his worn
You do. Almost skidding in your kitchen when you throw the trash away, pausing at the sink to wash your hands, before youâre casually walking back. Doing so, just in time to see him slide that knife along the flat-pack furniture, unboxing the drawersâstaring at them all crouched wearing a furrowed expression with an IKEA pencil behind his ear.
And youâre glad he doesnât look up at the doorway, because it gives you a minute, to lean, head resting as your heart skips a step, feeling all large and full and full of happiness. A feeling, one surging up inside of youâfull of lightness and truthâswirling around your breath and trying to form into words.
But, then he looks at you. Lifts his chin, the biggest brown eyes smoothing out to look at youâand youâre sure the words are going to rip out of your throat. Forced to greet the air, and burn themselves into it.
I really like you, Frankie.
I really, really do.
Each letter swallowed back, sight dropping to the knife he holds backâan act youâre apparently quite into from the way you feel the heat in your stomach, a little ripple of want starting to stir as you slowly edge your way into the room. Listening, hanging onto his words as he offers suggestions of how the two of you can do this.
Itâs why it makes sense, at first, when he asks if youâd begin building the drawers while he begins the carcass. His toolbox heâd brought in with him opening, pulling various tools youâre not sure were listed on the instructions.
It continues to make sense until you realise you began constructing the drawer, incorrectly. A disappointed voice ebbing, beginning to nip. It breeds in doubt as you study the paper again, and again. Mouth opening and promptly shutting as you try to make heads or tails of what should be a very easy thing.
But that means confessing youâre about as hopeless at building as you are at the rest of the DIY project.
Peering at the instructions again, you try not to sigh. Try not to let a heavier exhale escape through your nostrils, and possibly showcase your growing anxiety-brewed annoyance.
Because you hope heâs not having you build drawers because itâs easier. Because he views you as this hopeless thing that canât be taught. Even if, in some ways, that assumption would be correct. You just hope that it isnât pity or any other negative connotation that has begun popping into your mind and bursting behind your eyes in sorrowful falling dark-hued confetti.
An increasing need to prove yourself rising, flooding you as though it wishes to drown you. Making it hard to swallow, never mind breatheâeyes glancing down as they begin to burn with worry, with annoyance and a lot of other emotions youâre struggling to handleâ
âHey,â he says, soothingâhand cupping your cheek as you're tilted up from diagrams to his eyes.
The ones that soothe, that calmâthat feel like a safe place.
âHi.â
Slowly smiling, he strokes your skin. A thing youâre not sure youâll ever tire from. Not ever. Not as long as his eyes remain as kind and full of warmth.
âI was calling out for you.â
âIâm soââ
âWondered,â he continues, interrupting, burying your apology before it meets land and plants itself, âIf you wanted a go at helping me build this bit.â
Swallowing, both the emotions that remain fizzing and the worries, you smile. âYou sure? Iâm not⊠this isnât something Iâm good at.â
âThatâs why Iâm helping. To teach you, right?â
Nodding, you grin when his lips find your forehead, helping you up before grabbing something from his toolbox. If newer, shinier than the one youâd seen him usingâa colour as close to the one youâd said was your favourite.
âDid you buy me a tool, Butterscotch?â
Scratching the back of his head, he tries not to blush. A thing you can tell from the way he averts his eyes, and pink creeps up his neck. âYeah, it was nothing. Just thought it be easier for you to have your own.â
âMy own⊠prodding device?â
Shaking his head, his eyes land on you. âItâs an electric screwdriver.â
âOf course it is, I was testing you.â
Snorting, he grabs a piece of wood, bringing it between the two of you. âI almost believe you.â
You think Harry would hire me even if I know absolutely nothing about hardware or tools?
To annoy me, most probably.
You doing okay?
Not really.
They want more tweaks?
Yeah. I donât mind making the changes, but wish theyâd been more clear from the beginning. So I donât feel like a failure.
You want me to call in half an hour? Can try and make you smile.
You make me smile effortlessly. But no, itâs okay. Iâm going to enjoy a shower and have an early night. Sleep off my bad mood and rest my muscles from building all that furniture the other day.
You goof.
A goof who has your toolbox and her own electric tightener.
That will sound so wrong to anyone else.
Especially if I tell them it goes with my bedside power tools.
Are they what I think they are?
Maybe.
Fuck.
Put thoughts in my head now.
Do I look hot?
Always.
Will you message me in the morning?
Of course, baby. Try not to dream of me.
Impossible, baby.
Just got out of the movies, was able to eat half the popcorn tub before a jump scare made it mysteriously land on the floor.
Do butter-caked fingers have anything to do with it?
No. I believe the leading cause was a mean friend picking a movie that they knew would scare me. The jury is still out on whether I could have saved the popcorn if properly notified of the jump scares.
You both have fun though?
Yes, a lot. Even if I wonât sleep for a week.
Iâm excited to see you tomorrow. Iâve missed you.
Youâve missed me?
Try not to grin too much, Morales.
Too late for that, Rainy. I've missed you too.
I've missed butter-SCOTCH fingers.
Can tell me how much later, if you want?
Do you want to phone sex with me, Morales?
I think I'd rather make you wait till tomorrow when I see you.
Now who's mean.
Itâs hard to avoid the smile on your face, even in the fogged-up mirror. Water dripping down your neck, collecting in the towel wrapped around your chest as Frankie presses his lips to your hairline.
âYou feelin' clean, baby?â
âI don't think what we just did in your shower could constitute as cleaning, Butterscotch.â
Smirking, skin radiating heat, Frankie tips your chin up, mouth sliding back over yours like he had done when the two of you had stepped under the shower. The intention innocent, until hungry eyes raked over bare skin.
"Robe's on the back of my bedroom door, baby," he whispers, leaving you to finish drying in his bathroom.
As though itâs normal, routine.
Your toothbrush beside hisâthe products youâd packed in your overnight bag on the side of the counter.
It's a thing that makes your teeth bite down on your lip and your fingers retraced the path he drew against the suds on your skin. Thinking about how the water fell down along his jaw, ran down between your bodies as he hiked your leg upâ
You jump when a clatter pulls you to the present. Heart fluttering, body resting against the side of the basin as your breath dances with the steam. Even if he's rooms away, you hear him singing.
It travelling, calling to you.
A soundtrack to you re-dressing as you hang the used towel on the hook, sliding some clean clothes on, before padding out to wrap the robe around you and grab his t-shirt from the bed.
With each step to the kitchen, you're aware of how your body smells of his body wash. A scent you wish your skin only ever smells like now, if it canât be his aftershave. Just so you could have a piece of him, a thing to go with the texts, phone calls and video chats when the two of you find moments in between the busy.
There's no need for that tonight, not as heâs cooking for you.
Shoulder resting against the door, you find yourself not wanting to announce your arrival. Just take in his frame, how his back is to you, allowing you to watch how his muscles flex along his bare back as he grabs a knife from a drawer.
âYou know, if you posted this kind of video on your Instagram, I think you'd beat that one where you're showing people how to paint wood."
Glancing over his shoulder, you hold the top up. His face shifts into gratitude as he drops what's in his hand and takes it from you. Simple, a very nothing thing that his face seems to show the opposite of.
He fidgets uncomfortably, the shyest smile trying to appear. âShut up.âÂ
âWhile you were very informative about preparing the wood before beginning in that video, I think I know how you got one hundred thousand views in a weekend.âÂ
Smirking, he folds his arms. âBecause you watched it on repeat while you missed me?â
âNo,â you grin, watching him run his tongue over his teeth to stop himself from smirking. âYou like to do a little thot-shot.â
âA what-what?âÂ
Licking your lips, leaning against the wall, watching his fingers run up and down his bicep, arms still folded. âYou wipe your face with the bottom of your t-shirt, Morales. Showing off your⊠physique.âÂ
âMierda.âÂ
âYou look very good. Had to watch it myself a few times, to be sure.â
His eyes dart away, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
âI mean it,â you add. âYou look really good, Frankie.âÂ
Stepping forward, you kiss his cheek. The heat from it warms your lips as you try to hide your grin. Instead, pulling out a stool from under his island and sliding onto it, elbow on the worktop, you rest your chin. Watching him turn, facing back to the ingredients and pans.
That's when you spot it. The loose curl that has fallen over his forehead as he leans forward. It just hanging there. Slowly beginning to sway as he resumes chopping and slicing.
âWhat're you making me?â
âSpecial asado tacos.â
Itâs hard to suppress the whimper in the back of your throat as your stomach rumbles, his chin liftingâbrow raising as you try to clear your throat.
âSounds delicious⊠what makes them special? Is it the chef?â
Smirking, he shakes his head. âItâs a family recipe. So, I hope I donât fuck it up.â
âI doubt you could, right? Itâs in your bones.â
Shrugging, he stares down at some paperâhis pinky flattening it, before he brushes the chopped peppers into a pan and grabs something else.
âI donât make it often.â
âHow many times have you?â
Pausing, he doesnât look up. Just stops his knife over the skin of the vegetable.
âFrankie. Is this the first time youâve made it?â
âNo,â he answers. Quickly, red rising up his neck. âItâs just⊠the first time Iâve made it for someone.â
Licking your lips, you smileâfingers outstretching over his counter, it cool under your touch. âOh, you like me, like me.â
Smirking, he continues to chop and dice, shooting glances at you. âMaybe.â
âI think you do.â
The precision he cuts with makes you almost forget your teasingâyour own name, even. The quickness of it, the perfect way theyâre all cut. Itâs enough to make your thighs press, a new competency unlocked it seemedâas though you were both collecting and becoming aware of them all at once.
Distantly, you hear your name. Briefly aware as you flick your gaze up, of the concern etched thereâthe sudden silence damning.
âHm?â
Grinning, shaking his head as he slides the chopped food away. âI said, what makes you say that?â
Sighing, all deepâalmost soothing, you smile. âWell, you named all my new plants with you.â
âI did do that.â
Nodding, you roll your lips as he uses his little finger to trace down the recipe in front of him.
âAnd you didnât judge me for the fact they all needed a name.â
Casting a glance your way, he both frowns and smiles simultaneously. âBaby⊠Iâd⊠Iâd never.â
âI know,â you say, encased in confidence, sitting up straighter, âBecause you like me.â
Shrugging, he begins moving around, collecting ingredientsâthe back of his hand brushing over his forehead. âMaybe youâre on to something.â
Humming, you shift on your stoolâwatching. Finding it hard not to keep your eyes on him, not as he moves around confidently, capably, sprinkling things in and adding pinches of others.
It isnât until he seems more content, that things are doing what theyâre supposed to, do you slip from the stool. Moving towards him, sliding between him and the worktop as your fingers brush over his cheekâan act so similar to the shower, before his hand slid between your thighs and made you struggle to stand.
âI like you too,â you whisper.
His eyebrows raise at the suggestion, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. âIs that so?â he asks. âWell, guess if we both like one another, that means I am allowed to ask somethingâŠâ
Sucking in air through your teeth, you scrunch your nose. âI don't know, do you think you're allowed?â
Pinching your side softly, he smiles. âI wanted to ask... what we are, what are we?â
Narrowing your eyes, you roll your lips, fingers continuing to twist his curls around your nails. âWhat do you want me to be?â
Shrugging, he smilesâeyes slowly crinkling, all slow in the way they eventually narrow, mouth parting, basking you in human-made sunshine.
âYou want me to be yours?â
He groans, it vibrating through you, hips rolling against his as he presses you to the counter. Body somehow humming, even after earlier.
âWant to be mine, Francisco?â
His hand grasps your hip more intently. âMore than anything.â
âOkay.â
âOkay?â
Nodding, you tug him closer too, bodies flush, little space between the two of you. âAll yours.â
His nose slides against your cheek, before his forehead rests on yours. His eyes almost blend into one large brown oasisâalmost.
âNow Iâm your girlfriend, do I get extra privileges?â
Frowning, he steps to the side, stirring the cooking foodâone hand on your hip, as though not wanting you to move.
âYou know, show me how to use your power tools?â
Snorting, he rolls his eyes. âYou say mine like others are different.â
Smirking, looking at him with the most innocent eyes you can fake, taking his hand in yours. âTheyâre different from mine.â Frowning, he stares for a second, seemingly baffled. âMine arenât used to build things, rather⊠make legs shake and make me cry out your name.â
You hear his swallow, as well as see it.
âWhat?â
âNothing,â he lies, stirring again. âJus... Yâjust incredible.â
Picking up a piece of pepper, you smileâall wicked. âOh, I know. And arenât you lucky Iâm yours?â
THEY'RE BACK, GOD I'VE MISSED THEM. next week, we enter a spicy chapter (muhaha) and a nice little announcement about them too.
NEXT CHAPTER ->
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đđșIf you get this, answer w/ three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs. anon or not, doesnât matter, letâs get to know the person behind the blogđșđ
I love this kind of attack đ
So...
1) My favourite colours are red and black!
2) I swear a little too much đ
3) My celebrity crushes are Tom Hiddleston, Chris Evans, Sebastian Stan, Andrew Lincoln, Pedro Pascal, Norman Reedus and Wentworth Miller â€ïž
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if you get this, answer w/ three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs. anon or not, doesnât matter, letâs get to know the person behind the blog !
Iâm just gonna send this right on back because I donât have many people I talk to đ
That's ok, don't worry!
I don't know many people here either and I'm happy to answer again just for you â€ïž
Let's see...
First fact: I haven't spoken to my father for almost 4 years.And I'm so fucking happy.He's an alcoholic narcissist and destroyed my mom's life and mine.
Second fact: I never feel enough.Beautiful enough, smart enough, ambitious enough...I feel like I'm always inferior.
Third fact: I love my daughters more than my own life but I often feel suffocated and this only fuels my feelings of guilt.
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WOAH đł
Do I look like I wanna laugh?
Summary: In years of marriage you had never worn a sexy lingerie to your husband. What happens when you do?
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader
Warnings: detailed description of lingerie on your body (no body description), talks about sex, smut, Dom! Daryl or a terrible tentative of, dirty talk, knife play if you squint, fingering, mirror sex, swearing, pet names, use of the word slut very affectionately, p in v, unprotected sex (use protection kids), creampie. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+.
A/N: FINALLY FINISHED IT AFTER ALMOST A MONTH WRITING! Thereâs a warning for knife play, but it actually isnât, the knife is just used to cut something and itâs not reader.
You had gone on a run with Rosita and Maggie, try to find some supplies, hopefully some new clothes and thatâs how you ended up with the girls looking for some lingerie. You had never had this kind of underwear, you normally wore the comfortable ones, the more practical⊠when you were younger youâd not have them because you were afraid if tour parents saw them they would think you were having sex. Your father would probably freak out and your mother would tease you for the rest of your life. When you left home⊠well then you preferred your comfort, and nothing is more comfortable than some sports bra and cotton panties.
You had a cute set on your hands, a baby blue all lacy and full of bows. It was cute and the color reminded you of his eyes. âI donât know Rosi, Iâm not used to wearing this. And itâs not practical when we are always running from walkers.â You said, Rosita and Maggie were trying to convince you to get some sets for you. They dragged you from the section you were before and were practically throwing the cute, revealing and sensual sets on you.
âYouâre not supposed to use them to fight walkers. Although⊠I think Daryl would find it sexy if you did.â Maggie grinned, she knew how you could get all flushed and shy when the talk was about sex or any sensual thing.
âMaggie!â You reprehended your friend. âI donât think he likes those kind of things, I mean⊠he never said anything or complained.â
âWe know he prefer you wearing nothing. Girl, we know youâre enthusiasts, we have ears, you know?â You blushed instantly while Rosita spoke, yes, you knew they often could listen to your and The archerâs activities. Daryl made it very difficult to not be noisy. âBut believe me, heâll like it. Heâs kind of a rustic man, but heâs a man after all. They like those things.â
âOk, Iâm going to take this one.â You surrendered, but Rosita wasnât over.
âOh not this one, itâs all sweet and cute. Daryl already know this side of you very well. Letâs get you something more sexy.â She said looking at the hangers.
âIâm no femme fatale Rosi, Iâm just me⊠I think Iâm sweet after all.â
âYou can keep this one, and any other you want, but weâll choose some for you. Daryl will be wrapped around your fingers.â Maggie said.
âWeâre married in case you didnât notice.â You observed and showed your hand as if they had never seen the ring on your finger.
They choose three for you a black one, a red one and a coral one, they said the colors would outstand more your features. You choose the baby blue one that reminded you of his eyes, a pink one as cute as the blue and a white one.
Later that day after killing 5 walkers and going back home you pondered if youâd wear one of them. What would he think? Would he like it? He liked your common underwear, would those âsexyâ ones be appreciated by him?
You had chosen the black one, if anything could go wrong you obviously would go with the boldest one. The black lingerie was very different from all you had seen before. On the breasts it made a triangle around each breast and had only a strap from one side to the other covering your nipples, it had many straps embracing your body and forming geometric shapes with it. In the middle of each strap there was a little bow. The lower part was lacy and had one particularity, it was open in the middle, in the lowest part, letting your cunt uncovered.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, on one hand you thought it was beautiful how it fit in your body embracing all the perfections and all the flaws, but on the other hand you felt silly. You never wore something like this before and you never presented yourself like this to Daryl before. That was it, you were going to take it off and wear your usual underwear and your sleeping clothes. When you were about to take it out, the door to your shared room opened, you jumped startled and closed your robe faster than the Flash.
âWhatâs that love? Why are ya all jumpy?â Daryl, your husband, asked entering the room and walking in your direction. You didnât turn to look at him, years of marriage and being caught in this situation still made you blush and be embarrassed.
âNothingâŠâ you tried. You knew he knew that when you said nothing, it indeed was something.
âIt doesnât seem like nothing to me. Youâre all blushy and you were startled when I entered the room.â He wrapped his arms around you and looked at you through the mirror. âWere ya doing something wrong? Something ya shouldnât be doing?â
âN-noâŠâ you knew what he meant and no, you werenât doing anything âwrongâ.
âHmmâŠâ he inhaled your scent in your neck nuzzling his nose on it and on your ears. âNot touching yerself without me or without me saying so?â
âNo!â You exclaimed, and you quickly thought saying it like this would make you more suspect. âItâs another thing.â
You closed your eyes out of embarrassment, now you couldnât escape this situation.
âThen, what is it?â He asked again, kissing your neck, his stubble sending chills through your body.
âDo you promise youâll not laugh about it even if itâs the most ridiculous thing?â You asked looking for his eyes in the mirror.
âI promise it, babe. Iâll not do that.â He rested his chin on your shoulder, observing you. âNow tell meâŠâ
You took a breath and then opened your robe, you slowly opened it until you revealed the piece you were wearing under the robe. When you opened it, you quickly closed your eyes, you were afraid of what you would see in his eyes. There was a moment of silence, and you thought you had screwed everything, until you listened to his voice. âOpen your eyes.â He commanded.
You slowly opened your eyes, afraid youâd see something you didnât want on his face. But as soon as you opened them, you saw his blue eyes, black in lust and desire, the blue just a thin line on the borders. âDo I look like I wanna laugh?â He asked.
âNoâŠâ you replied weakly, gods the way his eyes were raking your reflection⊠that was making your legs weak.
âHmmâŠâ he took his arms that were wrapped around you and slipped his hands on your arms. âWhere did you get it?â
âIn the run. With the girls.â You replied. âThey said youâd like it⊠but I wasnât sure.â
âWhyâs it babe?â He asked his hands running up your arms again just to end on your shoulders, his fingers grabbing your robe there.
âI never used any of it, and you never said anything.â It was difficult to keep your eyes open and looking at him through the mirror, when he looked you like that it always felt so overwhelming looking right into his eyes.
âIâd find ya sexy even if ya were wearing a sack of potatoes.â He said sliding the sleeves of the robe down your arms. âIâd rather have ya naked, but this⊠damn! It got me hard the moment I saw it.â
You shivered from excitement, expectation and a small breeze that you could feel now that you were completely exposed. He pulled your body against his and you could feel his hard on. âFuck.â It let your lips spontaneously.
âYeah⊠fuckâŠâ he repeated and drank you in. âDo ya mind if I do some alterations on it?â
You shook your head, but you knew he wasnât getting only that. âI need words babeâŠâ
âI donât mind, you can do anything you want.â You said almost breathless and he had done nothing he barely had touched you yet. That was what Daryl Dixon made you feel.
His hand went to his waistband and he took the knife he had there. He took it carefully to your front and then to the side of the set you were wearing. He cut one side of the strap that was covering your nipples, then he cut the other side and threw the strap to a corner of the room with the knife. Now you had your nipples completely exposed and he was practically eating you alive just with his eyes. âNow, itâs perfect.â
He embraced your body once again with his big strong arms while his mouth went straightly to your neck giving you the most sinful open mouthed kiss, immediately making you sigh. Then he stopped. âI think I shoulda go clean myself, I worked all dayâŠâ
âDonât you dare.â He was playing games with you, you knew it. He had no intention of stopping. He just wanted to tease you, but he had already made you despaired for him. âYou just fixed some cars⊠I-I need you!â
âLook at my sweet girlâŠâ he embraced you tightly one of his hands cupping one of tour breasts and the other sneaking down your stomach. â⊠ainât her a little slut?â
He massaged tour breast, teasing it, pinching your erected nipple. His other hand cupped your semi nude crotch. âYoursâŠâ You breathless said.
âMine?â He repeated on your ear, his fingers running through your impossibly wet folds. âSo wet fer me⊠so ready fer my cockâŠâ
âIâmâŠâ He pressed your clit eliciting a moan from your lips. âUgh⊠your slut.â
He inserted one finger on your pussy, you gasped a moan escaping your lips. He nibbled and sucked on your neck and shoulders. âEven being my little slut, yer still so sweet.â He pumped his finger on you ando looked mesmerized at your reflection on the mirror, how you face contorted in pleasure, your parted plump lips and how your lids covered your eyes so perfectly and sinfully. âOpen yer eyes sweetheart, wanna you to see how beautiful yer when I fuck you so good.â
It took you a lot to open your eyes and look at your and his reflection on the mirror. âThatâs it loveâŠâ his deep voice sent chills all over your body making you clench around his finger. He inserted one more pumping in and out of you, his thumb making circles on your clit. âSuch a good little slut fer meâŠâ
You bucked your hips on his hands waiting for your sweet release and aching to have his thick delicious cock inside of you. You clenched around him repeatedly, you had become a moaning mess and it was difficult to keep your eyes open, but he wanted that so you tried. For him. Everything for him. You focused on his pretty eyes, his clean eyes that were so dark right now, the intensity on them overwhelming but grounding you in the moment. âCum fer me baby⊠let it goâŠâ
You rose your arm to the back, your hand going to the back of his neck enlacing your fingers on his hair. As youâre sent to the edge you pull on his hair making him groan as you have your release on his fingers. âSo, so, so sweet! So good fer meâŠâ he said while he drove you through your high fingers still pumping on you.
âDarylâŠâ you weekly said, your head resting on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath.
He looked down at you, his lips brushing yours. âWhatâs it baby?â You didnât answer you took his lips on yours, hungrily damn you hadnât kissed yet since he arrived, you needed this, you loved so much his kisses and the taste of his mouth.
You both broke the kiss, breathless you looked him in his eyes. âWas that what you needed babe?â
âThat tooâŠâ you answered, the tip of your fingers massaging his scalp. âBut actually⊠I need you, inside of me.â
He tightened his embrace on you, ready to move to bed, but you stopped him with your words. âHere.â
He stopped on his tracks, looking you in the eyes. You had already made sex in many different places, but he knew you both preferred it in bed. Your words startled him and woke something in him. âDo ya think ya can stand for a little time?â
âYeah, Iâm holding on you babeâŠâ you said tugging a little on his hair, he released you, but was ready to catch you if needed. He unbuckled his belt and opened his jeans, taking his cock out of his boxers and pumping it a little before getting a hold on you again. He needed you, and he was glad you suggested he took you right there at that moment.
He held you on his arms once again, his hands traveling on your body. One hand ended up on your neck, just getting a hold in there while the other went back to your breasts, caring them, stimulating them⊠giving them the attention that they deserved.
You rocked your but on his hard on. Both of you looked at your reflections, you never thought it would excite you this much. He teased your entrance with his dick making you whimper and squirm. âOh, please⊠pleaseâŠâ you begged, the wait making you ache and burn for him.
Who was him to deny you something when you asked so sweetly? Without any warning he trusted deeply into you, you moaned almost screaming, your fingers tugging his hair a little harsher than usual. âFuck. I. Love. Ya. So. Fucking. Much.â For each word a trust, deep, certain, at the right spot.
You wasnât able to say anything, lost in bliss and desire the only thing that left your mouth were moans and whimpers. With your free hand you got a handful of his but pressing him deeply into you if that was even possible. You looked at both of you in the mirror, Daryl trusting his hips on you, your bodies trembling out of pleasure and glistening with sweat. You never saw anything hotter.
His hand stopped taking care of your tits going down your body just to tease your clit, stimulate it and build your pleasure. Heâs main mission was to pleasure you and if he could heâd do it every single day and minute of his life.
A turmoil building on your lower stomach, his name leaving your lips. Your walls clenching around him, indicating you were close to your high, his cock twitching in a way telling you he was close too. He turned your head to the side taking your lips on his in a passionate kiss, and as he hit that spongy spot inside of you sending you to your edge, he found his shooting his seed in you as you squeezed around him. âI love you!â You said while descending from your high, finally being able to speak.
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BEST FRANKIE'S FANFICTION EVER!!!!
Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 14
Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.
Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but heâs not alone on the island, and soon heâs running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.
And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude
Chapter word count: 7k
SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
âđ»See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. đđ»
Chapter notes: In the aftermath of the tsunami, Frankie and Jude are haunted by dreams, and struggle to determine what is real and what isn't. Very, very brief mentions of suicidal thoughts, and mentions of drug taking.
Song sung in the chapter is:
Enjoy! đ€
Chapter 13
As Frankie slowly regains consciousness, he finds himself enveloped in a disorienting haze - a fog of confusion that clouds his mind and dulls his senses.
The sterile scent of antiseptic assaults his nostrils, and the rhythmic beeping fills the air; a cacophony of sound that seems to echo in his ears, its rhythm erratic and unsettling.
His head throbs with a relentless ache, every pulse sending a sharp stab of pain shooting through his skull. His mouth feels dry and parched, as if he hasn't had a sip of water in days, and a bitter taste lingers on his tongue - a reminder of the poison heâs willingly ingested.
Every movement is an effort, every breath a struggle against the weight of exhaustion that presses down upon him. His body feels heavy and sluggish, as if itâs weighed down by invisible chains, tethering him to the hospital bed with a cruel inevitability.
And then thereâs the sensation of the IV line - a thin, plastic tube that snakes its way into his arm, delivering a steady stream of vital fluids and medication into his bloodstream. The sensation is strange and disconcerting, a constant reminder of his own frailty, his own mortality.
He can feel the cool touch of the saline solution as it courses through his veins, a lifeline tethering him to the world of the living, anchoring him to the present moment.
With a groan, Frankie attempts to sit up, only to be met with a wave of dizziness that sends him reeling back onto the hospital bed. Blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, he struggles to piece together the events that have led him to this place - a place of sterile white walls and solemn faces and plastic name tags who speak in foreign medical terms; a place that feels worlds away from the place he once called home.
And then, like a bolt of lightning striking through the fog of his memories, it all comes flooding back - the overpowering rush of euphoria, the reckless abandon of his actions, the acetous taste of regret that lingers on his swollen tongue.
Heâd overdosed on the coke, lost in a haze of self-destructive impulses and desperate cravings, until the world had faded to black and heâd slipped into unconsciousness.
His eyes adjust to the dim light of the hospital room, and he surveys his surroundings with a growing sense of unease. The other bed beside him lays empty and untouched, the sheets neatly folded back as if waiting for someone whoâll never come.
The silence that fills the room is deafening, a hollow echo of the emptiness that gnaws at Frankie's insides.Â
Something doesnât feel right. He shouldnât be here.Â
For a moment, he lays there in stunned silence, grappling with the enormity of his solitude. His mind replaying the moments leading up to this candid awakening - moments filled with reckless abandon, self-destructive choices, and a blind refusal to acknowledge the consequences.
Heâd driven them all away with his addiction, with his lies, with his inability to see beyond his own needs. And now, when he needed them the most, he found himself abandoned, left to face the consequences of his actions alone.Â
To wake up, alone.Â
Frankie feels the sting of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, a silent testament to the pain that grips his soul tightly in gnarled claws. Heâs pushed everyone away, burned bridges with those who had once stood by his side, and now heâs paying the price for his folly.
As the reality of his situation sinks in, Frankie feels a cold knot of fear tighten in the pit of his stomach - a sinking realisation of the depths to which heâs fallen, the consequences of his actions laid bare before him in stark relief.
Heâs come so close to losing everything - his life, his sanity, his chances at redemption - and yet, somehow, heâs been given a second chance as he feels that familiar shake in his fingers tingling.
The heavy silence of the hospital room is suddenly pierced by the sound of the door swinging open. His heart skips a beat as he turns his gaze towards the entrance, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
And there, standing in the doorway, is Benny - the steadfast friend who has never quite given up on him, even when Frankie's given up on himself.
A small smile tugs at the corners of Frankie's lips as Benny strides into the room, a personality as big as his boots, holding steaming coffee cups in his hands.
"Hey, Fish," Benny greets him, his voice warm and familiar. "Figured you could use some of this to chase away the cobwebs."
Frankie nods gratefully as Benny places a cup on the bedside table, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. He watches as Benny winks with a knowing smile.
And then, as if on cue, the door opens once more, and Frankie's heart skips another beat as Will and Carla enter the room.
Thereâs a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of uncertainty in their eyes, before they approach Frankie's bedside with tentative smiles.
"Hey, buddy," Will greets, his voice tinged with concern. "How you holding up?"
Frankie meets Will's frosty gaze with a mixture of gratitude and relief.
"I'm... I'm okay," Frankie replies, his voice hoarse with emotion.
As Carla steps into view, her gaze immediately falls upon Frankie, but she can't bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead, she keeps her focus fixed on the floor, her hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, the tinkling of her bracelets like familiar music in his head.
Frankie can sense Carla's discomfort, the tension radiating off her in waves. He wants to reach out to her, to offer her some measure of comfort, but he hesitates, unsure of how to break through the barrier that seems to have sprung up between them.Â
Itâs clear from the tightness in her expression that sheâs anything but okay with him right now. Sheâs struggling - struggling to come to terms with everything thatâs happened, struggling to face the reality of Frankie's addiction, struggling to find the words to express the turmoil raging inside her.
The anger. The love. The hatred. The helplessness.Â
Frankie watches as Carla takes a hesitant step closer to his bedside, her eyes still fixed on the floor. He can see the conflict etched in her features - the desire to reach out, to offer support, warring with the fear of saying the wrong thing, of making things worse somehow.
And yet, despite this comforting picture, something feels off. Somethingâs askew, not quite right. A weird sense of DĂ©jĂ -vu almost. Itâs like trying to grasp at smoke - elusive and ephemeral, slipping through his fingers just when he thinks he has it within his grasp.
The disquiet within him grows stronger, a nagging voice at the back of his mind urging him to question, to probe deeper into the recesses of his memory. Prickles on his skin making him shudder.
But try as he might, Frankie can't quite put his finger on whatâs wrong - only that something is amiss with this scene.
âFrankie?â Benny asks. âYou alright, man?â
Frankie swallows and looks up at his friend, and thatâs when he sees it. Seeâs odd movement in the IV bag out the corner of his eye.
There are fishes in the bag, swimming around.Â
âW-what-â Frankie stammers.
His attention is pulled by the sudden screeching, and he turns his head to see a monkey sitting casually on Carlaâs shoulder as she speaks with Will. A tiny monkey with big, yellow eyes staring back at him.Â
âWhatâs h-happening?â Frankie queries, feeling dizzy. Like heâs being tossed about on an unsteady bed that feels like itâs floating. âÂżQuĂ© estĂĄ pasando?â (Whatâs happening?)
Water is trickling down the walls, steady tracks that grow in width and speed.Â
Frankie's voice echoes through the building furore, but his friends seem oblivious to the rising floodwaters around them. They continue to move about the room with casual nonchalance, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.
That their feet aren't sloshing around circling waves of water flooding in from under the door and through the windows now.Â
âFuck!â Frankie hollers as he scrambles out of the bed.
As the water continues to rise, inch by inch, Frankie feels a sense of desperation clawing at his chest. He knows he has to get out, has to escape before itâs too late and he drowns.
But as he struggles to find solid ground amidst the swirling currents, a sense of futility washes over him - a sinking feeling that heâs trapped, that thereâs no way out. He looks down at the deflated lifejacket now around his torso, his fingers frantically pulling on the useless cords.Â
âNo, no, noâŠâ
The walls seem to blur and warp around him, and a strange sensation sweeps through his body, like the ground shifting beneath his feet. Panic surges through Frankie's veins as he looks around frantically, searching for some semblance of solidity in the shifting, swirling chaos.
The water rises steadily higher with each passing moment, until it reaches his knees, then his waist.
âBenny!" Frankie calls out, his voice swallowed up by the roar of the water. âWill! Carla!âÂ
But his friends are nowhere to be found, lost amidst the churning currents that threaten to engulf him.
As the water rises higher and higher, panic gives way to a sense of resignation - a grim acceptance of his fate. He knows heâs dreaming, knows that none of this is real, but that knowledge offers little comfort in the face of the impending deluge.
Heâs not waking up.Â
And then, just as Frankie feels himself on the brink of being swallowed whole by the raging waters, a voice cuts through - a voice that is familiar and comforting, like a beacon of light in the darkness.
A voice that he knows only too well rushing into his ears around the water as he sinks beneath the surface.Â
âFRANKIE!â
A tsunami can last anything from a few minutes to several hours.Â
The energy of a tsunami runs through the entire depth of the ocean. It only becomes deadly when the ocean floor becomes shallow enough, and all that energy compresses into a smaller amount of water.
The deeper the water, the faster the tsunami, travelling up to speeds of five hundred miles per hour, and taking mere minutes to reach land.Â
Once it reaches the land, the raw energy of thousands of tons of water destroys everyone and everything in its path in mere seconds. Itâs a myth that you can outrun a tsunami of that magnitude - you simply canât. It will engulf you before you even comprehend the thought in your mind of running.
The survival rates of a tsunami can vary depending on several factors such as the magnitude of the tsunami, the distance from the coastline, the elevation of the land, and individual preparedness and response. Generally, survival rates are quite low in areas directly impacted by a large and powerful tsunami, particularly if people are caught off guard and unable to evacuate to higher ground in time. And even if you can, your chances are still dubious.
You just gotta hope that luck is on your side.Â
Judeâs tumbling through the water, swallowing more of it as the deadly moments wear on; the lifejacket seemingly useless as she keeps being pulled under as sheâs swept along with the ferocious current.
She surfaces momentarily to yell out for Frankie, before sheâs dragged under again.Â
âFrankie!â She screams, more water pouring down her throat making her choke and gag.
She kicks her legs, her lungs on fire as she surfaces again, blinded by the inflation of the life jacket as she tumbles like sheâs in a spin cycle in a washing machine.Â
She glances at her wrist as she surfaces again; part of the ripped shirt is still wrapped around it, but Frankie isnât on the end of it anymore.Â
âFRANKIE! FRANKIE!!â She screams out in the water, the waves continuing to crush her head on a relentless repeat.
She splashes around frantically searching for any sign of him in the choppy current as it pulls her along.Â
âFRANKIE! WHERE ARE YOU?!â She cries out again, a choked sob overcoming her but refusing to admit defeat - he has to be here, he has to have survived this just like sheâs doing.
They survive together, thatâs the deal.Â
âFRANKIE!â
But then his lifejacket didnât inflate. What if heâd been knocked out as his head had smashed into a rock under the water? What if heâs already dead?
âNO!â Jude cries out, swimming as hard as she can as the waves try to pull her under again.
âNO! NO! FRANKIE!â She screams again until her throat is raw. âFRANKIE! FRANKIE!â
With each passing moment, the waves seem to grow taller, more relentless in their assault, threatening to engulf her completely. She fights against the current with all her strength, but itâs like trying to hold back a tidal wave with her bare hands.
As she struggles to stay afloat, her mind races with a thousand fears and uncertainties. What if he can't hear her over the deafening roar of the waves? What if heâs hurt, trapped somewhere beneath the surface? What if...
She can hear choking and yelling, and turns in the water to see Frankie swimming towards her.
He disappears under a wave as it rolls on top of him and she takes a deep breath as the wave crushes her head only seconds after. She resurfaces just as Frankie reaches her and she clings onto him as he splutters and chokes.Â
âThank God! Fuck!â Jude exclaims, thrashing amidst the frothy chaos, her body battered by the relentless force of the sea.
Without hesitation, Frankie reaches out, his strong arms encircling her trembling form as they ride the waves together. For a fleeting moment, time seems to stand still as they cling to each other amidst the fury of the ocean.
The water crashes around them, the salty spray stinging their eyes and coating them with a thin film of mist.
âHold on to me!â He makes a weird gurgling noise as he tries to speak and coughs. âHoly fuckinâ shit!â Frankie cries out in disbelief as he paws at her and her hands grab a tight hold of his t-shirt.
He looks like a drowned rat, his hair and beard covering him and sticking to his skin with the saturation. Thereâs no sign of his trusty, familiar cap.Â
Frankie coughs again as water splashes over his face as they ride the waves of the tsunami, desperately clinging onto one another as they tumble and swirl with the oceanâs aftershocks.Â
Jude grips so hard onto him that her hands will ache for days afterwards, but sheâs determined not to let him go this time.Â
Itâs hard to tell how exactly long theyâre in the water for.
The sun has moved across the other side of the sky as they bob there on the waves as the remnants of the tsunami begins to fade out on the ocean.
Thankfully, the tsunami wasnât all powerful or engulfing enough that itâd taken their lives, but it was still incredibly damaging.Â
Exhausted, Frankie rests his head against the front of Judeâs inflated lifejacket with his eyes closed. But heâs still holding tightly around her waist as they float in the water, aching all over from their battered bodies.Â
âLook, over there!â She says to him, rousing him, and he lifts his head when they spot the island in the distance.Â
âCan you swim that far?â Frankie asks her.
âYeah. We did it before, we can do it again, right?â
He nods. âTake it slow. Donât burn out.â
They swim together against the current slowly; their limbs searing and getting pushed back with the waves every now and again as they continue to surge.
It seems like they arenât making much in the way of progress, stopping occasionally to catch their breath and check the other is okay to carry on, but the island seems to grow closer, until eventually they can stand on the ocean floor again and stagger up the shore to the sandbank.Â
They both collapse on the sand; Frankie falling onto his back gasping for air like heâs having an asthma attack. Jude falls onto her knees, battling to get the life jacket off and dry heaving as she coughs up copious amounts of sea water until she eventually pukes it all out.Â
âAre... you... okay?â Frankie gasps in between each word as he hears her upchuck relentlessly.
She looks up at the beach, front wiping her mouth when sheâs done spitting out, and is dismayed at what she sees.Â
âOh God...â Judeâs voice breaks.
In the aftermath of the tsunami, the once eerily quiet island lay battered and broken, a landscape transformed by the merciless force of nature.
Trees lay uprooted and strewn about like discarded matchsticks, their branches stripped bare and twisted into grotesque shapes by the ferocious waves. Debris littered the sandy shore, a grim testament to the havoc that had been wrought upon the island in a matter of moments.Â
A scene of utter devastation that seems to stretch out as far as the eye can see. The once pristine, rocky beach is now marred by the impacting detritus.
Itâs gone - all of it. The shack, the fire pit, the solar stills, just... gone. Nothing but a sparsely flooded and barren landscape greeting them, and not much else.
Jude staggers up the soggy sandbank wandering aimlessly in shock and disbelief. Face blank and eyes wide in disbelief. Body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline as it confuses her nerves.
Frankie calls after her, rolling over onto his front and taking in the overpowering sight of destruction presented before him.
âFuck.â
He drags himself to his unsteady feet and follows behind her in a stunned silence as he casts his weary eyes about the place. Their movements are slow and unsteady, as if they're moving through a fog, each step weighed down by the crushing weight of the destruction around them.
Every sound - the crash of waves, the creak of splintered wood - amplified, assaulting their senses with a relentless barrage of stimuli.
Jude stops when she spots something near the cave mouth as they begin to pass it.Â
âOh no,â she whimpers, and drops to her knees when she reaches it. âNo, please no-â
She picks it up and cradles it to her chest, her hands trembling as she strokes his cold, sodden fur. Frankie approaches, and she looks up at him with silent tears streaming down her face.
âEgon...â Jude blubs through choked wails, as she holds the little, lifeless monkey inside of her arms; his once wide, yellow eyes closed forever in a drowned sleep.Â
Frankie drops to his knees beside her and despite his will, he canât help but shed some tears for the little critter who, as Jude had said before, he actually loved more than he let on.Â
People of faith will often be heard saying âGod is testing me,â when things ultimately get tough in their lives.
Like a bearded man, wearing Birkenstocks, relaxing on a cloud and sipping from a G&T, is observing your plight and revelling in it, chuckling haughtily like watching an episode of a trashy talk show.Â
God is clearly a sadist after everything heâs put them through, and as she watches Frankie scooping the pile of sand back into the hole heâd dug with his shovel-like hands for Egonâs grave, Jude canât help but feel a deep sense of harbouring resentment for her maker right now.Â
Frankie rubs his hands against the thigh of his damp shorts and looks up at her as she stares down at the sandy grave.
âDo you think we should say something?â He asked her, scratching at the back of his head and squinting.
âThere isnât anything left to say.â Jude mutters and strides off, sitting on the sandy shore and staring out at the ocean.Â
Itâs calmed considerably; the oncoming dusk making the horizon glow pink in the distance.Â
Frankie plonks himself beside her after a few minutes of staring at the monkeyâs resting place; returned to the earth in the cycle of life, a festering ouroboros of gut-wrenching despair swilling inside of him, alongside copious amounts of sea water.
Hugging his knees and holding onto his wrists as he looks out at the horizon too. He breathes out a deep weary sigh and sniffs in deep.
âIâm sorry,â Jude says to him after a few moments.
âYouâve got nothing to be sorry for, hermosa,â Frankie turns to her.
âYes I do. Iâm sorry for berating you so much about having hope all those times. You were right not to. There is no hope for us. Weâre going to die, just like Egon.â She speaks like a robot, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, and it rattles his bones to see her talk like this, to see that sheâs just done.
âStop it,â he warns, pulling her towards him, but she resists, pulling her arms back away, but he grips onto them, grappling with her.
âNo-â
âHey, stop it!â Frankie yells, and pulls her in close as she wanes and falls against him without any more fight left in her.
âWeâre going to die!â Jude wails into him and sobs as he holds her tight, almost like heâs a boa and is constricting the life out of her.
She writhes and her shoulders heave as she cries for what feels like eternity. Her sobs louder and more haunting and all Frankie can do is hold her in his arms and never let her go.Â
But his arms feel weak, no longer the strong barriers they once were to protect her anymore.Â
He doesnât say anything to her; offers her no reassuring lies of comfort because thereâs no point. Sheâs finally accepted it now like he had; they were going to die.
 And it kills him all over again.
Thereâs nothing to pick through or scavenge.Â
Itâs almost as if theyâre just going through the motions to stay busy and not to actually drown themselves willingly in the water to end all the pain and suffering theyâve endured.Â
How much suffering can two people withstand before it finally breaks them? When is that breaking point, the crux of no return? When do you take that step and what is it that will finally give you that unwavering courage to turn your back and fall off the ledge?
Beaten, crushed... starving; on the brink of death and looking into its inviting, comforting jaws as it reaches out to you and convinces you in a soothing lullaby that everything will be okay, and you start to believe it for a while. That life on the other side will be better than this - anything will be better than this. The allure calls to you like a Siren song and it gets harder not to become bewitched by it and resist.Â
They donât speak much, in fact at all. Jude simply watches Frankie get up from the sand where theyâve slept all night from their exhaustion, and observe as he starts hunting for things - anything that he can find and strike gold on.
Knowing itâs pointless, she stands up anyway, robotically copying his every move, searching for any stray bottles or clothes and not really understanding why sheâs doing it. Searching for anything at all that can prolong their survival, even just for the tiniest bit.
But of course itâs fruitless - the tsunami has washed it all away.Â
Frankie reaches the tree line, surveying the damage of the wooded area that's halved in size, and he can no longer see the fuselage anymore that was previously stuffed into the bank on this side of the bay. Thereâs a singular piece of wood from the shack, split and broken as it floats in a muddy pool by some snapped tree trunks.
He glances up at the ridge and thereâs no trace of the branch igloo and he sighs, deflated and beginning to hear that deathly Siren song tinkling inside his ears.Â
Jude wanders around aimlessly; frying under the heat and constantly pulling up her jeans that are falling down when she takes a few steps forward. Her legs have that dark shadow of hair growth and she hates the fact that she hasnât been able to shave them for some time now.
She hates the fact that her stomach seems on a constant, never ending rumble. She hates that she canât just lie down face first in the water and just go. She hates that she canât do it because of him.
She hates that Frankie wonât simply let her die.Â
As she wanders along the shoreline, her eyes scanning the debris scattered by the waves, she spots a familiar sight - a baseball cap, swirling amidst the calming foam and froth of the ocean.
With a quickening of her heart, she wades into the shallows, the cool water lapping at her ankles as she reaches out to retrieve the cap, trembling with disbelief, she can't help but feel a surge of astonishment.
As her fingers close around the familiar fabric, fingers gliding over the sewn-on patch of the Standard Heating Oil logo, she chuckles out in disbelief. This simple piece of fabric, battered and worn by the elements, had made it back to him somehow. And sheâs glad to see it - Frankie isnât quite Frankie without his cap.Â
They meet back on the beach a little while later and slump themselves in the sand defeated with heavy thuds, hungry and tired and irritable beyond all reason. That kind of heaviness that swamps your head and crushes it until your brain splurges out of your ears.Â
Jude hands him the cap and heâs just as astonished, if not relieved to see it, as she is. But she doesnât say anything to Frankie as she watches him put it back on his head under a scraggly mess of overgrown curls. And Frankie doesnât say anything to Jude after offering her a limp smile.
She lays back and rolls over on the sand, facing away from him; willing the sand and rocks to turn into quicksand and just swallow her into the suffocating dark.Â
They stand on the ridge, the sun on high and the breeze blowing through her braid.
Heâs always so fascinated with those stray wisps of hair that will escape it, no matter how tightly he ties it for her. Theyâll flock to her face and cling to her cheek, pelting her with never-ending kisses affectionately.
Frankieâs sitting amongst the half constructed branch igloo; sticks scattered all around him that heâs whittling with the switchblade, and Judeâs looking over the ledge of the ridge and humming a faint tune thatâs barely audible, wandering back and forth as she stretches her legs.Â
His hands are tight and raw, blister with the effort exhumed, but he continues on with the job nonetheless, numbing out to the aches and splinters. As Frankie stretches, cracking his back, he hears her hum out again.Â
âSing it for me.â Frankie prompts her, and Jude turns to catch his smirk with glowy cheeks. âGo on, hermosa.â
Jude takes a breath with a grin and sings.
âIn the end. As my soul's laid to rest, what is left of my body? Or am I just a shell?âÂ
She starts moving her head, swaying it side to side as her shoulders begin to follow. She can hear the music inside her head as though they have her playlist right here blasting out on the rocks beside them; the beat of the drums counting her in and the strum of the guitars plucking through the riffs and melodies.
Frankie stops whittling, resting the stick in his lap squinting up at her with a smirk stretching his pink, dry lips.Â
âAnd I have fought. And with flesh and blood, I commanded an army. Through it all, I have given my heart for a moment of glory...â
He laughs as she rocks her hips with vigour and then punches her fist up in the air.Â
âIn the end. As you fade into the night-â
âWoah-oh-oh-oh!â Frankie yells out singing along to the tune.
âOh fuck, you know it?â Jude exclaims, smiling in happy delight at him.Â
Frankie nods. âKeep singing,â he encourages.Â
âWho will tell the story of your life? And who will remember your last goodbye?â
âWoah-oh-oh-ohhhh!â Frankie hollers again as he stands up, taking her hand and twirling her around whilst she laughs again, her eyes crinkling and throwing her head back.
âCause it's the end and I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid to die.â Jude sings.
âCAUSE ITâS THE END, AND IâM NOT AFRAID - IâM NOT AFRAID TO DIE!â
They both fist punch the air over the ledge as they sing the final words out loud together, echoing all down the ridge across the island.
Itâs a memory that splinters him. That was the happiest heâd seen her since theyâd landed upon this dreadful island. Carefree and joyous, a wild jackal roaming unrestrained and free.Â
It was in that moment right there, as theyâd both looked at one another with their fists in the air and turned them into the finger; giving the middle finger to the island that had bullied them for so long, through breathy smiles and wondrous awe, that Frankie realised he loved her. He fucking loved her.
I fuckinâ love you!
Heâd suspected it for a while leading up to it, those sickly butterflies whenever she was near becoming more apparent. The thrumming of his heartbeat when she touched and kissed him; those early premonitions when you just know and feel giddiness from the high of meeting someone whoâs so in tune to your frequency.
But that was the moment right there when it registered deep inside of the layers of his heart and winded him. Terrified, elated; utterly sound in the knowledge of the sincere truth as it flowed through his blood and over his bones.
Convinced he wouldnât possibly feel this way again about someone, fearful that it could turn into that awful situation again where he could be selfish and push her away. But Frankie was so desperate to learn from his past mistakes, to not repeat them and be better - be better for her.Â
Thatâs love, right? Wanting to be the best you can be for someone?
Frankie-
I fuckinâ love you!
No. No-no-no!
BRAAACE!
I fuckinâ love you!
Frankie glances over at Jude lying in the sand away from him, her back to him and slipping further and further out of his reach.Â
âCause itâs the end and Iâm not afraid, Iâm not afraid to die!
Frankie turns towards the sea, and after heâs had enough of that horrific view staring back at him, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the tears from slipping out of them again.Â
The droning noise wakes her, along with the muffled sounds of shouting. Like her head is under the water and hearing it pummel her eardrums as someone is yelling above the surface.Â
She sits up in the sand squinting and can see Frankie at the shoreline, waving frantically. Her eyes soon look past him to the small speedboat hurtling towards the shore.Â
Jude flies up on her legs, any sense of sleep rolling right off of her as she watches Frankieâs animated face astonished, and looking back at her, as his hands continue to signal to the boat.Â
The little boat with the inexorable humming noise like a swarm of hornets approaches the shore closer. Out in the distance she can see a larger boat, a little like a liner. Its grey shadow is stark on the blue horizon - a cancerous smear on a perfectly undisturbed cobalt backdrop.Â
Itâs all lies... wake up, youâre dreaming.
Frankie begins to swim out towards the boat and Jude pads towards the shore in complete disbelief, her heartbeat kicking it up a gear as Frankie gets closer and closer to it.
The boat skids to a halt on the surface and she watches as the person inside heaves Frankie into the boat with his arm, and Frankie points back towards the shore with flailing fingers.Â
Wake up! Itâs a dream!
Panic overcomes her, Jude can see Frankie waving to her, and she freezes, watching as the boat turns in the waves and holds her breath.Â
No, come back!Â
Circling, the boat speeds towards the shore again and the spray hits her in the face as she wanders out to it, her feet sloshing through the water, stunned and hyperventilating a little.Â
Oh God! Wake up! Please, wake up!
Frankie hops out of the boat alongside the person, who turns out to be two separate people, in blue and white lifejackets. Frankie reaches out to Jude, saying words that she canât hear or understand, almost as if heâs jabbering away in excited, fast Spanish and she canât decipher or recognise any of the sounds as they flow from his labrose lips.
She feels him pulling her into the boat and a foiled blanket is wrapped over her shoulders, a bottle of water placed into her numb hands.Â
âWake upâŠâ Jude mutters from trembling lips. "Wake up, wake up..."
More incomprehensible gibberish is exchanged between Frankie and the men, and she glances over her shoulder at the sight of the island suddenly shrinking away forever in the distance, reaching a gnarly hand out to her that canât quite keep up.
Come back, Jude. Don't leave me.
Itâs like an out of body experience; sheâs floating and watching it happen. She pinches her arm and feels the pain ebb into her skin.
Wake up!
Frankie turns her chin towards him and presses his forehead against hers, breathing out as he pulls the blanket over her wet shoulders further.Â
âWe made it, hermosa.â
She remembers hearing him say it to her, but the words donât sink in; slowly being squeezed one at a time into her ear canal making the slow journey towards her brain thatâs a messy pan of sloppy scrambled eggs.
âYou guys, alright?â Comes a loud voice over the sound of the engine. âYou get stranded after the tsunami, your boat capsize?âÂ
Frankie and Jude look up simultaneously at the speaker holding onto the side of the boat whilst the other one steers it.Â
Frankie shakes his head. âNo, weâve been out here f-for over a year.â He speaks up through a deep hoarse voice thatâs scarred from the sea water heâs swallowed in his desperate swim towards the speedboat.
âWhat do you mean out here?â The man asks.
âOur plane crashed, and we-â
âFuck, you guys were on flight eight-sixteen?â The man questions taking off his sunglasses; the concern and astonishment palpable on his face. He has frosty blue eyes that instantly remind Frankie of Willâs.
âY-you know about that?â Frankie asks with a widening mouth.
The man nods. âSure, the whole damn world knows about it. They didnât find any survivors. Looked everywhere.â
âYou didnât look hard enough!â Jude suddenly shouts at him over the sound of the engine, her voice tight from being throat punched back into reality.
This isnât a dream. She doesnât need to wake up. She can feel the vibrations of the boat on the waves as it bounces over them. She can see the island shrinking, feel the wind in her hair.Â
Frankie clutches onto her as the man dips his head in sympathy, unable to meet her stunned gaze.Â
âWe were always here...â She trails off, looking back out at the island in wonderment.Â
Come back, Jude. Don't leave me. Come back.
âYou guys are gonna be alright. Youâre safe and weâll get you home.â The man confirms putting his sunglasses back on. He reaches for the boatâs radio and speaks into the receiver, his voice swallowed up by the humming of the boat.Â
Jude clings onto Frankie and looks up at him, with eyes as watery as the ocean.
âIs this really happening?â She asks him, searching his eyes for the moment sheâll wake up from this terrible, reoccurring dream sheâs doomed to live through on repeat forever.Â
Weâre never going to get off this island. It can't be this easy.
Frankie nods with a bewildered smile through his bushy whiskers, the wind from the speed of the boat rippling through the curls behind his ears as he holds onto the cap, a giant palm flat on his head. Â
Jude clutches onto his wet t-shirt and rests her head against his chest hearing his heart beating as loud and as fast as hers is, even over the sound of the speedboat.Â
The larger ship in the distance is a US Navy vessel; called out in the wake of the tsunami to look for survivors, and to scout the ocean for capsized boats or people who had gotten into deep water.Â
Once on the shipâs main dock, a plethora of uniformed personnel busy themselves as Frankie and Jude are ushered towards the main control room.
She clocks a helicopter on the landing pad and shudders, recalling the countless times her mind had convinced her in her sleep that Frankie was leaving her on one, shrinking in the sky.
The captain of the ship greets them both with a caramel tan stark against a crisp white shirt, regarding them with some kind of disbelief when the rescue officers explain they originate from the doomed flight that had disappeared well over a year ago.Â
âAre you American?â The captain asks them both and Frankie nods.Â
âWeâll call the consulate. Get you some representation to help you back home.â
âWhere are we, captain?â Frankie asks, and he looks back at him with a bemused expression.Â
âThe SS Pendrinhas; US Navy.â
âNo, I mean, where are we in the ocean? The island?â Frankie clarifies.
âYouâre approximately one thousand and forty-three miles off the coast of The Prince Edward Islands. Weâre in the Indian Ocean, sir.â The captain explains.Â
âWe are?â Frankie asks him, turning white as a ghost.Â
âYes,â the captain nods. âThe island you were on is one of many scattered islands that are vastly unpopulated, surrounding the main Prince Edward Islands. You couldnât see other peninsula points?â
Frankie shakes his head. âThere was a-a ridge, but we couldnât see any other land from that.â
âDamn. So near, yet so far,â the captain concludes with a frown, but it doesnât offer any comfort at all. âWeâll take you down to the med bay, get you some dry clothes. Itâll be a couple hours before we reach the mainland. You look like you could do with a coffee.â The captain claps Frankie on the side of the shoulder and he winces. âMaybe something a bit stronger, huh?â
Theyâre both escorted down into the shipâs hull towards the med bay, passing officers stop to glance at their dishevelled appearance occasionally like theyâre a rare exhibit in a museum.
Once inside the bay, another officer gathers some papers on a clipboard and proceeds to run through a list of questions, firing them off like ammo.Â
âCan you... Can you leave us for a few minutes?â Frankie says to the officer, noting the painfully vacant expression on Judeâs face. A thousand yard stare he recognises only too well.Â
The officer nods, looking somewhat relieved. âSure. Take as long as you need.â
âWhat day is it?â Jude asks the officer, who stops and looks at her with a strained smile.Â
âItâs the nineteenth of July, maâam.â
âAnd the time?â Frankie follows up.Â
The officer pulls back his sleeve and checks his watch. âTwenty-seven past six in the evening, sir.â
Once the grunt leaves, Frankie approaches Jude and puts his hands on her shoulders.Â
âLook at me,â Frankie persuades âIâm right here, find my eyesâŠâ and her eyes slowly find him. âWe made it, weâre off the island. Weâre alive, hermosa.â
It takes a few moments, a couple of beats for the words to really sink in. We made it, weâre alive.Â
Weâre alive.
Jude slumps forward into his arms, like sheâs lost all her air and she sobs in abject relief. She feels him emit a small chuckle as he breathes out at his own realisation; his hands massaging her back up and down in deep circles soothing her, but theyâre shaking.Â
âWe really got off the island?â She asks him, absolutely astonished and wiping at her eyes that are so dry and sore.Â
Frankie pulls back looking down at her with a relieved smile; he smooths away the tear tracks from her face with his thumbs and kisses her gently on the forehead.Â
âWe did. I love you,â he whispers to her.Â
Jude looks into his intense brown eyes, and remembers him shouting at her that he loved her right before the tsunami swallowed them up. She realises she hasnât said it back.
But the look in his eyes right now assure her that saying the words out loud doesn't matter - he knows that she loves him back unconditionally.
When you spend that amount of time with someone - in that kind of situation - fighting for your life on a continuous basis, not only do you learn about your own resilience, but that of the person with you. You begin to depend on one another, work as a team; look out for each otherâs well being, because understandably, if you can prolong their survival, you undoubtedly prolong your own.Â
But not only that, you become company for that other person, a means of distraction and escape from your plight, even if itâs just temporary. Lost in the sounds of her melodic laugh, or the way in which his muddy eyes regard you as you speak.
You begin to care for that person, worry for them and soon enough, you become attached in so many ways. An intense bond that no-one else can ever understand, and it can never be severed, even if you were to part ways - forever bonded in your strife and survival.
And eventually, you grow to love them; to depend on them to the point that you canât function through a single moment without them, and it kills you to be apart from them for even the briefest of moments. You fall in love with them.
Jude pushes her forehead against his, breathing out, and Frankie feels her breath warm his face and insides in equal measure.Â
âI love you so, so much, Frankie.â Jude hiccups, holding onto him tightly. âTe quiero, te quiero.â
To be continued...
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maybe Joel Miller doesn't know where Jakarta is, but he would sure as hell know where to find my clit
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my three favorite words in the whole world:
Starring Pedro Pascal
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