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pascalssbabyy · 2 days

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Em! (my wife) 💕

Thank you for the love on this cheeky drabble, i’m forever grateful for you!🤍

‘i think this is my favourite version of mr g.’ umm, excuse me while I cry at this comment, your words mean so much to me!🥹😭

Birthday Interruptions

Pairing: Javi Gutiarrez x F!Reader

Rating: 18+ Explicit

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: You’re Javi’s assistant and organise a party to celebrate his birthday. However, amongst all the music and entertainment, Javi’s too focused on unwrapping his birthday present early, which of course, happens to be you.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, mdni, no use of y/n, no age mentioned, brief description of reader (she has hair that can be pulled and she also wears makeup), alcohol consumption, soft!Javi, but also slight dom!Javi, fingering, f!oral, P in V, unprotected sex, mirror sex, creampie, soft ending 🥹

I’m so excited to finally be sharing this with all of you! Javi Gutierrez has the warmest place in my heart and I had to write about him. Please let me know your thoughts and I hope you all enjoy this very smutty little drabble!

The biggest shoutout to @schnarfer for her continuous support and helping me with this! Forever grateful 💕

Javi’s been watching you all night.

And it wasn’t quick looks in your direction or subtle glances.

You’re standing in the corner of the room and the party’s already in full swing. Your eyes focus on the busy crowd, nervous palms smoothing out the creases in your dress and clutching onto your champagne flute. You slowly lift the glass up to your lips and take a sip, the mixture of fruity flavours and acidic bubbles bursting all over your tastebuds.

The sound of music and voices fills the open space. There’s a round of applause and laughter as it decorates the night sky, the clinking of bottles and the tapping of heels echoes in your ear drums, the scattering of fairy lights shining and displaying the beauty of Javi’s home.

You stay back and observe him while he weaves through the busy crowd. You breathe in heavily, smiling at the broadness of his back, his shoulders flexing and covered in a dark, forest green blazer, with his shirt unbuttoned underneath, revealing a glimpse of his sun-kissed chest. His hair was partially slicked back with gel, his beard neatly trimmed and soft curls resting on the nape of his neck.

You’re weak at the knees, unconsciously clenching your thighs together.

Lucas is standing next to you as you both delve into simple conversation. You’re trying so hard to concentrate, eyes reading and mapping out the movements of his lips to help understand the words that leave them, but you can’t. You need Javi. You have to have him, right now.

A warmth travels up your spine and the hairs on your arms stand up, the scent of vetiver and amber opening up your nostrils and filling your lungs. A large hand suddenly caresses your lower back, and you shiver.

Lucas’s eyes widen, raising his glass up in celebration. “Javi!” He says, his smile full and joyful. “Nice to finally see you, happy birthday my friend.”

“Thank you, Lucas,” Javi answers, also lifting his glass towards Lucas as they both take an honourable sip of their champagne. “Glad you could make it.”

“What, and miss this?” Lucas continues, moving his gaze over Javi’s shoulder and checking the crowd. “Place is looking great cousin, you’ve done a real good job.”

Javi chuckles, giving your hip a firm squeeze. “I wish I could say that I helped in making all of this happen but…then I’d be lying. It’s this one you should be complimenting.” Javi pulls you closer, his whole hand now wrapped around your waist and giving you a nudge, “Done all the planning and organising herself.”

Lucas raises his eyebrows and smirks at you. “She’s too good for you Javi.” He sneers, winking at you.

“She’s done an incredible job,” Javi applauds, “always working hard for me.”

Javi was never one for missing an opportunity to congratulate you on your efforts and hard work. He adored you; he knew how much of your life you put into him and his profession, and he loved showing you his appreciation.

This appreciation of course, would come in many different forms.

“You better have a birthday speech tucked away in that blazer Javi,” Lucas says, pulling you out of your daydream. “You know we’re all expecting one.”

Javi pauses, his hold on your waist dropping to the curve of your backside. “It’s funny you say that…” he says, his eyes darkening, “that’s the reason I came over here.”

He gives your ass a small squeeze.

“I do have a speech planned out, however…” He looks directly at you. “There are just parts of it I’m not too happy with. Thought I could run through my ideas with you.”

You nod with hidden urgency. “Of course Javi, that’s what I’m here for.”

A few moments later you’re both saying goodbye to Lucas and making your way towards the house, his hand gently ushering you through the crowd of people.

He stops in his tracks, lips ghosting over your ear.

“Go upstairs mi amor. I’ll be there in 5.”

🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎

Javi pushes the door open with a firm shove, his mouth attacking yours in a fervour and fingers threading through your hair as his strong frame leads you further into his bathroom, the back of your thighs hitting the marbled corner of his sink.

You gasp at the coldness on your fiery skin, lips parting and breaking away from his mouth. Javi is relentless, moving his kisses to your blushed cheeks and lower to your jaw and neck, sucking lightly on your skin that pulses rapidly against his lips and tongue.

Gripping onto his shoulders you throw your head back, giving him more access to you as you moan out his name and claw at his back. Your eyes flutter closed from his marking, his lips continuing to suck and teeth biting at your sweet spot.

You wish this could last the rest of the night, but Javi has people waiting for him, and soon, his guests will be wondering where he’d gone to. His absence away will lead to suspicion, and suspicion could lead with you both getting caught. It hurts, but this has to be quick, so with palms flat on his chest you force him away, fumbling with his belt buckle and frantic fingers yanking at his belt loops, his blown-out pupils watching you intensely.

“Javi.” You warn, “baby we have to be—”

“Quick,” He softly interrupts, “I know cariño, I know.”

Freeing his belt you pull down his zipper, your hand palming his growing cock over his boxers, feeling the hardening shape of him in your small hold.

“See what you do to me.” Javi murmurs, his lips skimming across your shoulder, “Can you feel how hard you make me. Bebé, you have no idea how badly I want you.”

Javi wraps his arms around your back, pressing his erection into your stomach and groaning at the relief it gives him. He’s so close, your body trapped between his grasp and the sink behind you.

“You’re so beautiful…” Javi says, his eyes raking over the top of your dress, the material tight against your breasts, hips and waist. “You look stunning in this dress querida.”

“It’s for you Javi. I wore it tonight, for you.”

He likes that. “Is that right?” He drags his eyes over your dress again and up to your lips. “You wore this dress for me? Is this my little birthday treat?”

Your heart quickens, and all you can do is stand there, motionless, staring at his mouth, licking your own in anticipation.

Javi smirks at you, cocking his eyebrows, his index finger follows the strap of your dress.

“Mmm, as much as I love this on you…” He murmurs, sliding the strap off your shoulder, the top of your breasts peeking out of the sweetheart neckline.

“I think it’ll be much prettier if I wasn’t on you at all. Don’t you think?”

You shudder.

He stares at you in wonder, his touch showing more of your bare and delicate skin. “You gonna be good and let me unwrap my birthday present?”

Yes. Fuck, please take it off.

Javi’s hands move to your half-covered breasts, squeezing them, swiping and pinching his digits over your nipples as they harden under his touch. He tugs at the thin strap that still rests on your shoulder, staring at your collarbone.

The material brushes lightly over your breasts and waist until it pools around your feet, kicking the fabric to the side with your heel.

“Fuck, look at you,” he gazes, taking all of you in, “and no bra too. You’re just begging for it, aren’t you hermosa.”

You’re already throbbing, body now completely bare except for the black thong that covers your sex. There’s a rush twisting in the pit of your core from the way you’re standing so exposed like this, so naked in front of him when he’s still fully clothed.

It excites you.

Reaching up to his blazer you remove it quickly, hungry eyes gaping at the spread of his chest and arms. You rub your thighs together, arousal seeping over your underwear and through the material, the fabric wrecked and sticking to your puffy folds and swollen clit.

You want him. You need him, now.

Javi’s hand follows the curve of your hips and inches closer to your anticipating sensitivity. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your thong, wetting the tip of his digits with your juices.

You clutch onto his shirt, eyes widening and squealing at the sensation, moans leaving your mouth in erratic sobs of pleasure. Javi opens you up with two fingers and slips one past your entrance. Fuck you’re completely soaked for him, the squelching sound of your arousal filling the room as he curls his finger upwards and adds a second finger, moving them in a slow and almost painful rhythm.

“Always so wet bebé. I’ll never get enough of how messy this pussy gets for me.”

“Please, Javi.”

His eyes close, getting lost in the warmth and slickness of your walls hugging his fingers. “Cariño, I know I said we were gonna be quick but I need to savour this. I have to taste you.”

Javi’s on his knees before you can acknowledge his words, his fingers moving your thong to the side and mouth delving into your folds, his tongue and lips sucking on your clit.

He grunts into your pussy and inhales your scent, the tip of his tongue flicking against your bundle of nerves as he keeps your legs spread apart, your hands knotting and messing his hair as you rub your cunt on his face.

“You have the prettiest pussy,” You hear him say, his words muffled, “so sensitive bebé.”

He licks at your arousal that seeps out of you, collecting it all on his tongue, the tip of his fingers fucking you and stroking your g-spot.

“Fuck, Javi.” You whimper, eyes moving towards the bathroom door. “I don’t wanna wait—I need more. W-want you to fuck me. Give me your cock, please.”

He removes his lips from you with a final suck on your clit, rising back onto his feet and lowering his trousers and boxers in a fast and hasty motion. His cock bounces up to his stomach, his length throbbing, his head red and responsive and his slit weeping.

“Tasted so good cariño,” He breathes, his lips and moustache wet and glossy with your arousal. “You want me to fuck you now? You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes please.” You whimper, turning your body around and bracing your hands on the counter, opening your legs wider and bending your back, moving your ass closer to his cock. Your eyes watch his every move in the mirror.

He drags your panties down your legs before the tip of his cock notches at your entrance, rubbing his whole length along your pussy and covering himself with your sweetness.

“You know I love hearing those noises you make for me.” He coos, eyeing you in the reflection, “But I need you to be good and stay quiet. Think you can do that? Think you can behave when I fuck you like the good girl you are?”

“Y-yes Javi.” You choke out. “Please. Give it to me, I can be quiet, I’ll be so good—”

Your voice cuts off as Javi fills you in one deep thrust, his groin making contact with the curve of your ass. You gasp out in shock and surprise, eyes rolling back at the burning sting trickling down your skin.

“That’s it.” He praises, swirling his hips as his tip reaches deeper, “Feel me. Feel how much my cock fills this small cunt.”

Your breathing is quick, your walls pulsing around his length as you try to adjust to his large size.

“Fuck you’re tight,” Javi grits, fingers digging into your hips. “How am I supposed to last when you feel like this. You’re choking me baby.”

“Relax for me.”

He slowly pulls his length out when he feels your walls loosen around him, starting at a hurried pace and driving back into you hard.

It’s overwhelming. Your weight falls onto your elbows, the power of Javi’s movements causing tears to prick on your lash line, that coil in your stomach building up and spewing over.

“Taking me so well querida,” He purrs, “doing so good for me.”

Skin slaps against skin, hands gripping onto the marble counter as you lose yourself in him, your mind completely fogged and vision blurred by bliss.

Javi hauls you up and presses his chest against your back, holding onto your jaw with a firm grasp, directing your gaze so you’re watching yourself in the mirror.

“Look—“ Javi grunts. “Open your eyes and watch yourself hermosa. This cock fucks you good, don’t it. Can’t even speak she’s so fucked out. Shit—tell me how good I’m making you feel.“

“S-so good Javi. Feels so good.”

You fix your stare on the reflection in the mirror, your cheeks crimson and make-up smudged, your skin hot and hair knotty, Javi’s body continuing to move quickly and steady behind you.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful. Keep your eyes on me and watch how I fuck you. Wanna watch you come apart on my cock.”

Javi focuses on where you’re connected, his mouths agape as he groans out, watching his cock plunge into your spent cunt, his dick saturated and glistening, your juices running down his thighs and wetting the coarse hairs.

“Christ it just keeps coming bebé,” He chuckles breathlessly, “Shit you’re so wet, fucking perfecta.”

Javi lifts up your leg and rests your knee on the edge of the counter, his cock delving even further inside your walls.

“Fuck—Javi!” You shout, hand outstretched and holding onto the back of his neck.

He bites your earlobe and you can feel his smile on your skin. “So much for being quiet mi amor. You gonna let everyone know who’s fucking you this good? You gonna scream it out of everyone to hear?”

You suck on your bottom lip, mumbling your whines and moans as they threaten to pour over.

He touches you everywhere. His hands kneading and circling your hard nipples, his tongue licking your salty skin, fingers threading through your hair and yanking it into a makeshift ponytail.

“That’s it princesa,” Javi praises. “I can feel you’re close, sucking me so tight. You gonna come for me?“

“Yes…,” You cry out, “M’so close Javi. P-please don’t stop.”

“Never bebé. Never going another day without seeing you like this. Go on, show me how beautiful you are when you fall apart for me.”

Javi’s holds you steady when he knows your body’s about to shake and fall, his strong arms wrapping around and fingers lowering to toy with your clit and glide his digits through your slick folds.

“Oh fuck…Javi—”

Your climax hits you without any warning, body trembling and legs weak. Javi’s voice is warm and soft, coaxing you through your orgasm. You watch him in the reflection as you release more of yourself all over his length, coming with a silent cry and gushing on him with more of your juices.

“What did I do to deserve you,” Javi murmurs. “Shit, you feel heavenly.”

Javi’s temples drip with sweat, his curls falling onto the dampened skin of his forehead. His eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles in concentration, his thrusts becoming sloppy, your walls pulling him closer to his own release.

“Buena niña. Fuck, I’m gonna come.“

“Inside,” You whisper, “Come inside me Javi.”

With one last shove of his cock, Javi’s hips still as he spills himself inside you, his thighs quivering and painting your walls with his hot come.

He chants your name, his body going limp and collapsing on you, his voice wavering and fanning across the back of your neck.

Javi stays nestled inside you, lips kissing your shoulder blade, his hot breath fanning across your skin and hands rubbing up and down your arms.

He winces when he pulls himself out of you, his come leaking out and dripping down your thighs.

He licks the inside of your mouth when you turn around to face him, gasping out at the feel of his fingers inching between your legs, collecting his come on his fingers and pushing it back inside you.

“Come on,” He sighs, “let’s clean ourselves up.”

You both freshen up and get redressed, fixing your make-up and the mascara that’s smudged under your eyes. The clanking of a belt buckle is heard behind you as you thread your fingers through your hair, removing the tangles from Javi’s tenacious grip.

You haven’t looked at Javi, and when your head perks up towards him, he’s already staring at you, his eyes wide and smile gentle.

“Fuck you’re gonna be trouble for me hermosa. You expect me to go back down after that?”

You roll your eyes, ignoring his words, but you can’t help the smile that appears on your face. “Did you really have a speech planned? Or was that an excuse to get us away from everyone?”

“I do have a speech planned,” he laughs, moving towards you and placing a kiss on the side of your cheek, staring back at you in the mirror. “I just really needed to have you to myself, just for a little while.”

You hum. “Well it definitely worked.”

“I knew it would,” he teases, flashing you the most joyful smile. “You just can’t get enough of me, can you.”

Slicking back the curls at the front of his face you kiss his lips one last time.

“Never. Happy Birthday Javi.”

#pascalssbabyy comment reblog #comment reblog

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pascalssbabyy · 5 days

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Oh my this series is absolutely perfect!

Mya, your writing is just so beautiful. Your Joel just screams safety and security, and the care he already feels for the reader, currently sobbing 😭

The tearing of her favourite books 😭 my heart hurts for her so much; her dad makes me so angry…I’m going to start having to use these hands 👊🏼

daddy next door | j. miller (three)

❝ trust fall ❞

chapter summary: you’re 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 don’t hate me. sorry it took so long pls don’t hate me. as always, thank you to @kiwisbell for beta’ing 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.

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss, consume.

— Romeo & Juliet, Act II Scene VI

Three days pass before you summon the courage to leave the house.

Not for lack of wanting or trying, but out of fear. Fear outside, fear within. It follows you, an unwelcome shadow.

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, it’s as though the Earth has tipped off its axis.

Unstable. Lost without the guidance of gravity.

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. You’d expected to meet a great wrath, look it in its eyes, and accept whatever suffering followed.

But it never came. He never came.

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.

In the days that follow, you lose any sense of self; you’re 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. You’re glaringly aware of your father's movements, panic seizing you if he’d look too long or speak too often. The skin around your fingernails grows raw from chewing on them.

You can hardly eat.

Can’t sleep.

Not when you have this secret, too hazardous to enjoy despite the fleeting, marvelous thrill it gave you.

You haven’t allowed yourself the time to dwell on it.

To dwell on him.

His name, his eyes, his lips—you 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 don’t devote yourself to him and, oddly enough, you feel guilty.

You’re 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 isn’t too far-fetched, given your circumstance, but all you’re able to conjure up when you close your eyes is the bewildered look on Joel’s face when you left him standing there in the yard.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

On the third morning, your father acknowledges you only to order the necessary ingredients for a proper dinner to be fetched while he’s away at work. He’d be home at an acceptable time and expects it to be ready on the table when he returns.

You’ve 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.

Still, you sit awaiting some anticipated doom—perhaps he’s festering it, waiting for the right moment to attack—but it never comes. And all that’s left once he’s gone is the formidable silence, your erratic thoughts, and a list.

Lasagne. Easy enough.

The challenge?

Getting to the grocery store.

You’re 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.

He can’t see you. You can’t see him. Seeing him makes it real. Seeing him means facing demons you’re unable to admit even exist.

It doesn’t matter that your chest aches at the thought of him.

It doesn’t matter that the smothered thing inside of you has been scratching at your insides for three days, pleading for a moment of reprieve.

What matters is completing the task at hand, the impossibility of juggling each fear simultaneously growing burdensome.

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 it’ll take between leaving the safety of the window and opening the garage door.

Speed is your only companion, and so you’re 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 bike’s 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, you’re 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.

You’re 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 there’s 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.

But the daze is a farce, and it has you weak, vulnerable. You’re 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.

The sudden sound of your name being called from across the lawn startles you off balance.

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.

“Shit. Shit,” you heave under your breath, hands scrambling every which way to collect the strewn items.

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.

“Here, let me help you.” The rich timbre of his drawl is a salve over your self-inflicted wounds. Don’t look, don’t look, but hands are reaching out for assistance.

“No! No, I got it. I got it,” you’re quick to combat, attempting to gather every item before he has a chance to get his hands on them.

But it’s useless. Your shaking fingers can’t 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.

“But you’re—”

“I need to get everything inside; some of it’ll spoil.”

And someone could see you. Someone could see both of you, floundering about, too close for comfort.

“Darlin’, please just—”

“It’s fine, okay? I’ve got it!” you snap, and you don’t mean to sound as harsh as you do.

He’s 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.

“Hey,” 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, “Hey,” he tries again, and this time, it’s got an edge. Enough to startle you out of your misery-filled stupor. “Look at me.”

And fuck, you’re so weak.

He’s 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.

You find clarity in the sight of him.

“You’re hurt. Let me help you,” Joel says calmly, matter of fact. A wounded animal, and he’s guiding you back to safety.

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.

He helps you to your feet, and when he’s sure you’re 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.

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, c’mon, I’ve got ya.

You would think you just fell from fifty feet with the way he coddles you, but you don’t 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.

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 weren’t blurring your eyes, and your body wasn’t in a state of panic, so you could properly take in your surroundings.

You notice a few moving boxes still pushed up in the corners of his living room; other than that, the space is pristine. There’s a wooden, rustic theme that carries across his décor, 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.

He’s leading you into the kitchen, and you're torn from the daze as soon as his hands are on your hips.

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.

“Stay put,” he instructs, giving you a stern look before he vanishes around the corner.

You can’t 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, you’re grounded. A firm, clear presence of stability that removes all weight, all sense of falling.

You feel, perhaps for the first time in your life, that someone would catch you.

He drags one of the bar stools over, settling himself in front of you. He still doesn’t 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.

Suddenly, the pain of your fall seems minuscule in comparison to the way his proximity sets your body alight. You’re 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.

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.

“Hold still.” 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.

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. You’re 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.

It’s hard to grasp that the same man, worried and attentive to your well-being, sits before you now.

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.

“Stings?” he asks, and he’s so gentle. His voice, his touch, his being.

You shrug, feeling bashful under his gaze. “A little, yeah.”

He purses his lips and nods solemnly, as if your discomfort causes him a great deal of pain, too. “M’almost done,” he promises, returning to his diligent work.

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 you’re certain the bruises will heal in a week’s time. He retrieves two bandages from the kit, one purple and one blue, and drapes them delicately over the scuff of each knee.

“Hands,” 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. “Don’t look too bad; may just be sore for a little while.”

You’re 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.

He catches you staring, and surely now, he’ll send you on your way. Now that he’s done his due diligence, he’ll make up some polite excuse to get you out of his space. He’ll choose avoidance, just as you had, and you’ll be forced to endure the misery of the unknown, to be complicit with a life of no risk and missed opportunities.

But he surprises you, a frequent trend, when he leans forward and presses two, soft kisses to each battered palm.

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 don’t even try to mask the emotion that creeps back into your eyes.

“Better?” he whispers, the brush of his breath on your skin raising goosebumps up your exposed arms.

Untrusting of your voice, you breathe a wavering mmhm, the urge to melt into him overwhelming by the way he looks at you. It’s a familiar look. One you’ve 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.

“Joel…” you whisper, and it’s 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.

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, he’s got his hands on his hips, and he’s 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.

“Listen,” he finally breathes, and it’s painful, “we needa talk about what happened.”

And there it is. The unavoidable.

“O-okay.” 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. “I’m… I'm sorry, Joel. Really, I am—”

He rapidly shakes his head. “Stop. Stop. I’m not askin’ you to apologize, alright? I’m the—” he stops cold, and you stiffen. You can’t read his mind, but you know his eyes, and they speak words you’d rather not hear.

I’m the grown-up here.

I’m the older one.

I’m the responsible one.

You cringe at the plausible fill-in-the-blanks, conscious of their validity, and you think he does too.

He expels a heavy, tired sort of sigh. “I’m the one that shoulda put a stop to it,” he settles on.

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.

Regret.

“And I understand if you want me to leave ya alone from now on,” he continues, and you can’t 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. “But I couldn’t do that without talkin’ to ya first. Settin’ things right.”

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.” You jump on top of his words, and Joel’s brows shoot up on his forehead. He stops pacing.

You curse your eagerness, eyes falling to your hands in your lap where you aimlessly pick at the skin around your nails. “I mean… I’m not–I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you for what happened, I just”—you look back to him, uncertain—“want things to go back to normal.”

As if there is such a thing. As if one taste of him hadn’t changed the world as you know it. As if there is any version of you, then and now, that wouldn’t want him.

You know nothing as familiar as wanting him.

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 eyes—eyes 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.

He’s nibbling on his bottom lip, tapping his foot, and his hands fall from his hips to fold his arms across his chest. “Well, then I think we oughta just… go on s’if nothin’ happened. Put it behind us.”

And still, a dagger in the heart would have been less painful.

You wait, staring at him for a long while with the false hope that he would go back on his words. That he didn’t 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.

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.

“Alright.” His mind has already been made up; arguing would make you a desperate fool. Still, you find yourself adding: “If that’s what you think is best.”

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. There’s 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 she’s succeeded in breaking down the final choice of savior.

“Yeah,” Joel mutters, and the light goes out. “Yeah, I think it is.”

Rejection.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You try your hardest to feign acceptance.

“Okay. Well”—you’re sliding off the counter, blood rushing to your head when you land on your feet—“thank you for um, for taking care of me.”

You think he knows you well enough by now to hear the familiar warbling in your voice, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything. You keep your eyes fixed on your feet so he doesn’t see the way they gloss over.

You wonder if life's circumstances had always been the root of your downfall, or if it really is hope herself.

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 won’t follow, but alas, he’s walking you to it, stepping around you to reach for the handle himself.

“You’re sure you don’t, uh… you don’t need anythin’ else?” he asks again, hand steady on the door but making no effort to open it, arching his brow over his shoulder at you.

Please, don’t make this harder than it already is.

You give him a trained, tight-lipped smile. Polite. The same one you give everyone in town, lackluster. “No.” And it’s a lie. You need everything from him. “No, thank you. I’ll be alright.”

If he’s unconvinced, he doesn’t say so, and there’s another pang of hurt in your belly.

When he finally turns the handle, Joel peeks out the door first before allowing you to pass. Good, you think. At least he’s just as aware of the risk of you being here. A minor thing to cling to, but you take what you can get.

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, you’re stalling. Attempting to let the past hour marinate so you can form some sort of cohesive thought, say something of substance, something true.

When you look back, he’s 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.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you snap your eyes back to his. His lips part, and there’s 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.

You don’t look at him after that.

“I’ll see you around, Mr. Miller,” is the last thing you say to him before hoisting your bike off the porch stairs and carefully rolling it down the driveway.

On the walk back over to your house—damn near a sprint despite the searing in your knees—you think the duality of your relationship with Joel Miller may finally drive you to insanity.

On the one hand, your agreed-upon boundaries are nothing short of practical. Safe, sustainable with minor difficulty, and realistic.

On the other, you’re unable to count the number of times you’ve experienced the urge to break every rule, practical or otherwise. And worse, how easy it’s become to convince yourself he feels it, too. There shouldn’t be such an assuredness in it, but it lives. Feeding and festering and waiting for one of you to bend.

Only this time, you’re certain you would break.

Once inside, you mindlessly shove the groceries into their respective spaces and drag yourself up the stairs. You’re tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally, every ounce of you drained. And it’s welcomed, the exhaustion. It’s the first time in three days you feel unburdened enough to even entertain the idea of settling. And you’d like to chalk it up to handling your own bullshit, but you know it’s because of him.

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.

He doesn’t hate you.

He isn’t shutting you out.

He’s still there if you need him.

You’re nearly certain of it.

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 it’s not long before your eyes feel the same heaviness.

You let yourself drift off, clinging to all that is nearly certain.

The window is already dark when you wake, and you're roused by the sound of banging and grunting. Despite the commotion, your eyes don’t open at first—your body’s 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.

“What are you…?” The terror doesn’t register, not until the sound of ripped paper and cracked bindings become loud, thunderous, in your ears.

“No, stop. Stop!” Pleadingly, you cry out to him, twisting the sheets off of you and darting across the wooden panes. You hadn’t meant to sleep this long. “Stop, please! Please!” you screech, foolishly grasping for his shoulders as you trip over the growing pile of tarnished literature.

He shrugs you off, a mere nuisance in his pursuit of destruction. “If you’re gonna be so damn distracted you can’t get somethin’ as simple as dinner done, I’m gonna get rid of the distractions,” he seethes, a vow he intends to keep, and you’re tugging on the back of his shirt, grabbing at his hands and trying desperately to pull them away from the shelves.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear it! Please just–ugh!”

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.

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 there’s 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.

You know he wouldn’t be so forgiving.

“Don’t you ever put your hands on me like that again, girl, you hear me?” he barks, slamming his unoccupied hand against the wall beside your head. “Do you hear me?!”

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.

“Yes,” you croak, and the sound of your own voice startles you. “Y-yes, sir!”

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.

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.

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.

It is, was, your only copy of the play.

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.

And much like her, it’s gone in an instant.

“Clean this up,” is the last thing he slurs before your bedroom door slams shut.

You sit there, unmoving, for what seems like an eternity. You’re hollow, and yet, the space you inhabit isn’t 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.

It’s 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.

A matter of circumstance. Something disposable. And with that realization, you feel the impending need to get out.

You wait until you’re certain he’s asleep before you plot your escape. You won’t get far, but luckily, you don’t have to.

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 wouldn’t provoke him, nor give him the satisfaction of hearing your defeat.

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.

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 you’ll be welcomed. The only place you seek.

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 he’s blinking away the fatigue.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he demands, pushing the whole of himself through the doorway until he’s standing toe-to-toe with you on the porch.

You peer up at him, trembling, the picture of desperation. “Can I stay here tonight?” you beg, and there’s little care for how feeble you look. “Please, can I stay?”

Joel shakes his head, disbelief, looking you over with such uneasiness as if you would shatter before his very eyes.

“Christ,” he sighs, and maybe you are breaking. Maybe you’re finally falling apart piece by piece, and he is to be the sole witness. “C’mere.”

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.

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.

“‘Course you can stay. You can always stay.”

There are no questions or explanations necessary. No price to pay for the gift of solace. You take it at face value—much like the last time you cried to him, three days prior, when he told you to never be sorry for feeling the way you felt—and allow him to pull you back into the house.

You cross the threshold, still sacred, still uncharted, yet wildly more freeing.

A great weight leaves your shoulders as soon as he shuts the door.

His face is in your hair when he whispers, and you think the scent of him alone could heal you.

“Always.”

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Ao3 | Kofi

#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic

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