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jaa1682-27 · 3 months ago

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galapogos; michael berzatto x f!reader

your therapist deters you into describing how you came to fall in love with mikey. slowly but surely breaking your shell into understanding how you feel in the aftermath by retelling your life with the enigma that was michael berzatto. your mutual shared love for the smashing pumpkins and dad rock brings you closer than you’d like to admit.

warnings: the bar exam is offered during the last tuesday of february in chicago FOR CONTINUITY PURPOSES: it has changed to beginning of february, reader is midwestern (i'll forgive you), im mexican not italian so butchered italian-american terms of endearment, they have sex to radiohead (sorry), protected sex via birth control!!, grief— a whole lot of it. the interchanging of "michael" and "mikey" is very much intentional, posting this at 5 am!! word count: 4.6k notes: listen to galapogos by the smashing pumpkins because this is very much how i would perceive mikey & the reader — even though it’s a breakup song. the metaphorical usage of archipelagos (galapagos islands) as isolation is perfect, but it also is the connection between our familial connections & childhood being conflated to our ways of romance. it’s about evolution and adapting.

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“Let’s start from the beginning” your therapist breathed out, sitting comfortably in their armchair.

“The beginning?” you quirked a brow, “When we met or started dating?”.

“Whichever you prefer. Personally, I celebrate meeting my spouse as an anniversary rather than us starting the relationship, it varies”.

“Well we met Superbowl 2014” you told them, looking into their eyes as you smiled slightly from the extremely distant memory.

“Yo! Richie and I placing bets, y’wanna join in?” you heard an obnoxious voice next to you as you sat nursing an extremely expensive glass of scotch. “You okay sweetheart?” you heard the voice ask, in your peripheral you saw the man’s body shift towards you.

Sammy had a quaint, hole-in-the-wall, pub in southeast Chicago, he was an old friend of your father’s therefore, he protected you fiercely.

“Aye! I don’t want either of you around angioletta, let her be, sweetie just took the Bar” Sammy scolded, pointing at the mystery guy next to you and someone behind him with his dishrag.

“Which is?”.

“You serious? Y/n over here is gonna be a big shot lawyer dumbass, THE BAR!” Sammy emphasized both dumbfounded and proud. “Again neither of you, be damned if she ends up with a fucking Berzatto. Now Carmy is sweet, be more like Carm, Mikey”.

“Carmy is a kid for one” the man joked, making a mockery with his voice, “Two, you her father or something?”.

“No. He’s friends with mine” you interjected, looking towards Sammy to wave him off as he looked at the TV screen, it was the first quarter and the Seahawks were leading 8 to 0. “Who do you think is going to win?”.

“You always speak like that?”.

“Like what?”.

“Like you’re a teacher sweetie” he batted his eyelashes to mock you, “Loosen up you’re not taking ‘the Bar’ now— What’d you even score on that thing anyway?” he shrugged with his beer in hand, taking a swig before you.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged back.

“Whadda’ mean?” he furrowed his brows, missing a tackle shot that led his friend to yelp out in excitement and curse about how someone named Jimmy owes him money.

“Illinois takes around two months to release scores, pretty big test a lot of people wanna be attorneys in Chicago in general” you educated him, “I’m not worried, I maxed out on my LSAT, and my practice exam scores were all— Fuck, I sound like a dickhead” you groaned, proceeding to down the scotch in front of him. The alcohol burned your throat before going down smoothly, this was the most you’ve drank in months; only due to a promise you made to your family as to not cloud your brain before the Bar. “So what’re you betting on with me?”.

“Denver wins 48-27” he spoke up without hesitation, “I’ll put fifty on it”.

“Hm. I raise you, Seahawks win 40-7” you betted, “I’ll put fifty-five”.

“You’re on sweetheart” he winked, his eyes telling the story of being interested in you, “I’ve never seen you around here, y’from Chicago?”.

“Yeah, born and raised” you cleared your throat as you both remained fixated on the TV, “I went to school in California for my undergrad, then UChicago for law school— you?”.

“You’re a smart woman” he stated in awe, “Didn’t go to college, went straight to work”.

“You’re a resourceful man” you quipped, “If my parents didn’t pay for my college I would be severely down in the dumps”.

The night continued on, one dirty martini followed by an espresso martini and then simplified lastly by a Dos Equis beer, Michael got you talking on and on about public policy and Bruno Mars. Pridefully giving you the fifty-five dollars and accepting his fate as a sore loser, he walked you home in the middle of the night— strongly reiterating to Sammy that he’d just make sure you got home safe.

“Y’know, normally, I never let men walk me home— ever, it’s a safety hazard” you spoke up in the cold air, keeping close to Michael and his body warmth.

“If it’s any consolation, my phone has location pinging” he breathed out, easing tension with humor, “I don’t think you’re a dickhead” he told you, the title flying past your head.

“Thanks?”.

“Earlier, when you were talking about your TSAT-“.

“LSAT… sorry” you corrected before feeling like you shot yourself in the foot.

“Anyways, earlier. I’m no defense attorney- law expert- whatever the fuck but it sounds fucking hard” he continued, “I know food, not juris-prejudice”.

“Jurisprudence” you corrected yet again before, a smile crossing over your face as you made it to your apartment, “Wanna go up?”.

He looked you dead in the eye, his glassy irises telling you more than what his lips did, “Nah, another day”.

“Another day?” you bobbed your head, smile growing bigger, “Quite presumptuous Berzatto”.

“You don’t think we’d see each other another day?”.

“Chicago’s a big city” you shrugged.

“Leave it in fate's hands then” he smiled, waving you off as he walked towards the pub, with both a smile and a way with his eyes, it’d be hard to miss him in public.

Then you met again, in April after getting your Bar score, a shining 310. Therefore scotch was needed to celebrate with your dad as the Red and White Sox game 2 played on Sammy’s TV, the pub noticeably more crowded.

“Ay Sammy who’s this fucker in the Red Sox jersey!” your dad seeming insulted, “We’re in Chicago, leave that pansy ass shit in New England”.

“You don’t even like the White Sox’s dad” you rolled your eyes as your dad almost picked a fight.

“They’re from Chicago, anyone from Chicago, is a brother of mine”.

“Who’s winning?” you asked, back to the TV.

“Whites 2-0”.

The night raged on more and more, only for your dad to realize the Red Sox dude was Mister Berzatto’s eldest son, Michael. So when a Cubs fan inserted himself into the mix, tried to square up on Mikey, your dad was quick to defend him.

“It’s just a game boys, leave it” your dad put space in between the two, “You are two of one, you from Chicago and you from Chicago, stop being a dickhead and fight for real reasons”.

“Sweetie, you want water? That’s your fifth glass of Scotch” Sammy spoke up as the Cubs fan and your father began to increasingly argue.

You nodded to Sammy as you heard the argument get even more aggravating behind you, hearing Michael shout a string of curses and a loud smack, the body of your father colliding with your back. The act led you to whip your head around quickly in anger, the Cubs dickrider having clocked your father’s jaw unannounced, only for Michael to immediately fight back and beat him down to the ground.

The man’s whole face was covered in blood as Michael threw punch after punch- blow after blow, only for his friend, whom you’ve come to acknowledge as Richie, to have to pull him off, knuckles bloody and jaw tight with anger.

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you okay?” you cursed out, making sure your father took a seat to balance himself before attending to Michael, the blood that laid on his body was not his, therefore he did not care.

“Sonny, get this asshole outta here” Sammy told the de facto bouncer, setting aside ice for Michael, “Nice one kid but Jesus, we have cameras”.

That is when you fell in love with Michael, bloodied knuckles, prickly stubble and a buzz-cut adjacent set of hair. He wouldn’t fall in love with you until a month later, well, at least acknowledge his feelings for you.

“You listen to The Smashing Pumpkins?” you queried after seeing the band tee Mikey donned, worn and faded— noticeably loved and used.

“Yeah” Mikey quickly answered, watching the Red Sox game that he had to beg Sammy to put on. It was Monday night and Chicago was tiring out, preparing for summer to reach the city. He groaned as a player was struck out, “You?” he asked several minutes later.

“They’re one of my favorites- yeah” you nodded.

You had volunteered to help out with Sammy over the summer break you had specifically forced yourself to take as a way of having some alone time before work. Four years of undergrad, followed by three years of law school and one year for the Bar exam, you needed a break. Luckily the District Attorney’s office does rolling applications and you were confident enough to know it was a guaranteed spot as being an UChicago alumni. So Sammy seemed like the logical choice, free booze and the occasional Mikey and Richie.

“What else do you listen to?” Mikey immediately asked afterward, removing his attention from the TV screen and back to you.

“I'm a huge Radiohead fan, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains—“.

“You had me at Radiohead” he chuckled, “Richie and I plus some of our cousins go to shows every now and then, y’should join one day”.

“Bunch of Italian-American men at a rock concert?” you quirked your brows, “Sounds pretty intrusive but tempting”.

When Michael realized he included you into his familial life, talked your ear off with his relationship with food, loved to brag about Natalie and Carmen, spoke about his father to you, he knew. He knew you were special, not just special but a pivotal structure he yearned for— home was rough, life was rough, seemingly crumbling. You weren’t. You were structure, strength, and integrity, a promise for a better life than what he was afforded.

“We started dating that summer” you smiled from the memory, “I had just gotten back from my cousin’s wedding upstate, he had been waiting on my porch for a couple hours with a bouquet of poinsettias, he knew I loved them when they were in season”.

It was the one day out of the summer where it rained down, the peak of July, yet pouring rain. Despite the near three sideswipes you almost got into, you made it to your apartment safely. Whilst swiftly grabbing your overnight bags and almost ripping your nail completely clean off from the trunk of your car, nearly slipping in a puddle that formed just shy of the gutter and drainage, you spotted Mikey.

You squinted, wondering if you were just imagining things from the lack of sleep, “Hey” you simply spoke up, quite dumbfounded by his presence on the steps leading to your apartment.

“I uh—“ Mikey tried to begin to speak, words catching his tongue as he stuck out the bouquet, “Went to three different farmer’s markets and had to beg a florist to try— they’re fake but-“.

“You got me poinsettias?” you cut off, caught off guard by the intimacy of him trying.

“Fake poinset- yes, I got you poinsettias”.

You bit your lip as a way to try and hide your smile that instinctively grew on your face, “I don’t know Berzatto… I might just think you like me” you joked, taking the bouquet from his hands. “I’m sorry I’ve been dry, it's just the wedding, work, and-“.

“Let me make you dinner,” he proposed, breathing unevenly and shaking simultaneously. You were making Michael Berzattto nervous. The notion made you smile, biting your lip yet again to hide it.

“Gnocchi” you replied, “We could make it together… at my place… Friday night”.

“Friday night?”.

“Friday night”.

“Do you find yourself nostalgic about these memories often? Relying on them or avoiding them?”.

“Avoiding” you nodded, looking down at your feet, “I haven’t been able to talk to people who knew him like I did”.

“Do you know the reason or is it a bodily response?”.

“Carmy has his smile— when he gets extremely excited, lets his teeth show, he has the smile that Mikey got from his dad. I can’t be around Nat and Pete because I miss that. I miss being with him in public and in private, with friends, with family. He is so heavily ingrained in my life”.

“Let’s do an exercise, I do this with most patients who've lost someone they were rather intimate with” they cross their legs and fix their posture, “Where would you see your relationship in 5 to 10 years from now if this never happened?”.

“Married, maybe a kid or two, sober and somewhere on the East Coast because he wanted to move there while taking care of the Beef during the summer” you instantly told them, “Two Boston Terriers and one Pitbull, all girls because Mikey said they’re more protective”.

“Do you think the circumstances you had while in the relationship, that would be achievable?”.

“He tried, he kept trying even when it got ugly, when it got worse” you furrowed your brows, “He never stopped trying”.

“You reiterated Michael had never left drugs at your home and self-medicated, where would he seek solace for his addiction?”.

“The Beef,” you confessed, sighing lightly, “He’d keep them in his desk, he said since they were out of sight it made him stop from using as much”.

“What happened to them?”.

“Richie threw all of it out,” you told her.

“Tell me about the Michael no one else knew, not the addict or someone’s best friend— him as an intimate partner”.

Michael was a pleaser when it came to you. Cooked you dinner without fail, when he was sick, when he was stressed, even the night he passed. Combed through your hair after you showered, would shampoo and condition it when you took showers together. He’d massage your lower abdomen when you were cramping, made soup when you were sick, kissed your forehead before going to sleep no matter the day or time. He was a pleaser, in all forms of the word.

“I just don’t think that changes anything— mom is still going to be mom” it was Christmas, 2019, the Christmas that Donna accepted you as a constant in Mikey’s nonlinear life. “Where’s Y/n?”.

“She got swamped at work, got stuck interviewing” Mikey breathed out to his sister as they stood inside, “Where’s Carm?”.

“He went out to run some errands for mom— last minute Christmas presents probably” Natalie theorized, “Must suck, you’d think lawyers would have the day off”.

“Mikey, is Sarah coming?” Donna asked, red wine attached to her hand.

Michael could only sigh and walk back into the house, “It’s Y/n ma, I haven’t dated Sarah since high school”.

“Beats me, I loved Sarah”.

“Yeah you’ve loved anyone but Y/n”.

“Can you blame her? She makes more money than you” Lee put in his two cents.

“I’m sorry? Was anyone fucking talking to you?” Mikey got annoyed, Lee and Donna were fighting again— already on the verge of their fifth break up.

As if the universe had spoken, you had emerged, knocking on the front door, seemingly freezing from the snow. The knit red sweater dress hugged your body in ways that Mikey could only gulp as his mouth went dry upon seeing you, your coat being held into your arms as your hands carried the box of pastries you had picked up before heading over.

Instinctively, Mikey opened the door, immediately walking out to seek some alone time with you, even with the cold air biting your skin, making your nose slightly leak from the frost.

“Hey— Sorry I’m late, there was way too much traffic downtown” you breathed, smiling from seeing the man in front of you, “You would not believe the day I had, six fucking cocaine charges from teenagers! Why can’t people just do weed like normal people?”.

“Thank god you’re here” Mikey sighed of relief, the worry and stress lines seemingly diminishing from his face, he could breathe again.

“C’mon it couldn’t be that bad” you eased, opening the box of pastries, “A bunch of chocolate puff pastries for my man… chocolate tart for Carmy, eclairs for Nat, a couple of crepes for Lee and your mother”.

“You really know how to make me want to fu—“.

“Carmy, I got you chocolate tarts” you interrupted, looking over at the boy as he parked his mom’s car.

“Lee and mom are fighting by the way, just— let mom deal with it, please? I don’t wanna have to talk to the fucker about respect today”.

“Ight, when’s Richie coming?” Carmy shrugged, grocery bags in hand.

“In two hours probably, why?” Mikey answered, his arm instinctively wrapping your lower waist.

“So you don’t have to tell the fucker about respect” Carmy quipped before going into the house.

Hearing the door shut behind him, Mikey wasted no time to give your lips a kiss laced in fervidity. His hand found a light purchase on your neck, not pressing down, but holding your head in a position to not leave, sending waves of electricity throughout your nerves.

“We have to go inside” you whispered as you pulled your lips painfully from his. Small pecks followed as you both tore yourselves apart from ravaging each other in the front yard. Mikey’s lips found themself on the pulse point of your neck, lightly suckling just before your hand pushed him off smoothly, “It’s Christmas baby, family time”.

“Whatever” he groaned, kissing the base of your forehead before leading the way inside.

“Ah, your escort’s here!” Lee joked, catching the attention of Michelle, Donna’s sisters and their kids she invited over, Carmen and Natalie— the loud Italian home now rang quiet.

Your blood began to boil, just as much as you figured Mikey’s was, his jaw tense and teeth beginning to grind against each other. Lee has made his fair few jokes catered as a dig to Michael, which Michael would undoubtedly have the sense to shrug off, but you? The woman who showed and gave him nothing but respect despite it all, that let him talk more words than the Berzatto’s would allow, the woman that is standing in front of him with pastries in hand on Christmas.

“You motherfucking son of a bi-“ Michael began, his grip on your immediately leaving once the words lingered in the air.

“Lee, can I have a word with you— outside?” you smiled, your head tilting with curiosity as your eyes bore holes into his soul, he was on complete display, “Baby take the desserts to your mom please, I’ll be right back” you handed the box to Mikey who was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of your stare.

Back outside, you met with the likeness— dislikeness— of Lee. “I just saved you from getting your brain caved into your skull, a thank you would be appreciated” you joked, basking in the silence that ensued after. “You know, with being with Michael and all, I know he cares about what his family thinks. Even if they don’t dictate his life, I know Donna’s opinion holds more weight than I could even put money on” you let the cold air and wind occupy space in the silence you let him think in, “I also know Michael’s opinions of you are not great— neither are Carmy’s or Nat’s. But that shit you just pulled? Demeaning me in front of a family that at most tolerates you because Donna cares for you meanwhile you’re just some good-for-nothing prick with a superiority complex? You have balls so far up your ass I can’t even begin to describe how much that must make your ass sore” you joked, humiliating the man. Scoffing before turning on your heels and leaving him in the cold.

“He’s gonna drag you out of his life like he does the rest of them” Lee spoke up, voice stern and stagnant.

You could only scoff again, your breath shaky from the cold, “You think you know him when you don’t. You don’t know jack shit about him, or Carmy- or Nat” you objected, “Merry Christmas, you fucking asshole”.

“I’m telling you this now, your relationship is not gonna end where you’re walking down the aisle in a white dress— hell he might even baby trap you before you make it to engagement” he snarky added, “Tell Donna she can call me tomorrow”.

You made your way inside, beelining straight to the kitchen where Michael stood there tense as Donna cooked, his foot tapping rabidly just before you eased his worried with caressing his flexed arms.

“Where’d Lee go?” Donna exasperated as she wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead.

“Fucking pri-“.

“He said you can call him tomorrow, h’just left” you told her, gripping Mikey’s bicep in order to shut him up.

“Fucking asshole” Donna breathed out, “Y/n you’re drinking with me tonight” she declared, that is when you knew Donna accepted you as part of the family.

Michael was a pleaser, on all accounts.

“Baby, can we please change the song?” you tight lippedly moaned as Mikey found himself holding you down by your thighs as his tongue circled your clit. Your clit vehemently ignored your pleas of changing the song to something more sensual at least.

All I Need by Radiohead was the song that got you through breakups and filled you with dread and oddly, a newfound sense of excitement as the piano riff played, but now you’re on the brink of an orgasm to it.

The strings of curses leaving your mouth upon instinct as Mikey didn’t let up, his arms holding you down as your eyes and head lulled back, your hands clenching and unclenching from the sheer ecstasy the man gave you. Your stomach rolled, Mikey’s fingers finding the way to toyed with the bud as he held you down and controlled your bottom half.

“Baby stop” you regretfully moaned as you almost cummed, to your surprise in the middle of the piano riff of the song. Mikey’s arms loosened and he stood there sitting as your pussy pulsed, red, and throbbing— you stood up as well, sitting tilted up as your nether regions decided to make you a villain as you stopped the pure magic Mikey was performing with his tongue. “I just—“ your voice faltered and hitched, you were crying?

“Hey baby girl?” he soothed his voice, immediately wrapping his arms around you, “What’s wrong?”, he kissed the top of your head.

“Cum in me” you whispered, smacking yourself in your head as you wondered if the pleasure is what was making you emotional, “I wanna feel it”.

“Baby that’s risky” you knew the risks, you also knew you were always on time for your pill every single day and even made a habit to carry with you everywhere you went, “Are you sure?”.

“Please baby?” you pleaded, sniffling lightly.

Michael was a giver, a pleaser, by all accounts, he could never deny you. Need it be your nails digging in his back as he groaned, the way your legs recoiled each thrust- he had his own selfish reasons- but the look you gave him whilst pleasing you, that was the biggest one of all. The twinkle in your eye as they welled with tears from the way the man made sex feel like an art form— the way you knew he was all yours. His cum seeping out of you nevertheless he still picked you up and showered you alongside him, despite the sensitive nature of you, you wanted more, and more.

As the night winded down, Michael stood holding you securely, watching Criminal Minds as it played on the TV, your feet caressing his calves as his hands caressed the curvature of your hips— sensually but not teetering upon the guise of going another round.

“So no sex to Radiohead?” Mikey posed the question, both as a joke and genuine curiosity.

“As much as I loved that— fuck no” you giggled lightly, moving your head to face him and kiss his lips, “R&B is a very popular genre you know” you proposed.

He smiled before kissing your lips once more, “Whatever you want baby”.

“I miss him” you breathed, the inhale rattling in your chest, “I miss him. People keep asking if they can talk about him to me like he’s some taboo subject— I want to remember all I can of him” your chest ached, “One day I’m going to wake up and forget his scent— I read somewhere that you forget specifics first. Then it’s the sayings and-“ your breath hitched as your body began to give up, it felt like jolts of anguish. “Personality and sayings stick”.

“What are you most afraid of forgetting?”.

“His voice” you began to sob, coughing out months of pain and resentment towards him leaving, “There are days that I can’t even— all I have is a fucking voicemail!” you wailed, “Why did he have to go? Why would he just leave huh? To the fucking bridge— I could’ve stopped him!” your voice rang and bounced off the sterile walls, throat hurting and feeling constricted.

“Y/n, you said it yourself— he was sick, he never got help—“.

“I was there!” you broke down, “How could I not know? We shared a bed together, I kissed him every morning and night- every chance I got. I lived and breathed him… how could I let him—“.

“You will not blame yourself over something you lacked control over” a stern voice came through your therapist, “People suffer silent battles internally for years and ages, not everyone can have or be willing to have a second sense to acknowledge it. You were his lover— a near wife of his, not a healthcare provider or therapist,”.

Your bottom lip quivered as a shiver ran down your spine. Whenever you were stressed you swore you could feel him. Feel his fingers tantalizing cascade down your spine, easing your worries. You could imagine him sitting next to you, trying to hold you together and to prevent you from shattering. Your jaw tensed and it felt like your teeth were going to crack against each other.

“Why?”.

Why did he stay true to his promise and not write you a goodbye, an explanation? Did he feel you were not owed one? That you’d be okay? Returning back to the apartment that didn’t have a soul, didn’t have him, you could only drop to your knees against the floorboards. The guttural and wrathful sobs and screams that left your body almost made your neighbors want to call for a welfare check. Mustering up enough strength to grab your phone from your pocket. “Can you come over, please?” you spoke against your phone.

dividers by @cafekitsune

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jaa1682-27 · 3 months ago

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✜ You've been PROMOTED!? From Junior Accountant to Trusty Sidekick ✜

"You'll receive appropriate compensation," he says, guiding you towards the sedan. "Hazard pay, as mentioned. A considerable raise." He opens the passenger door for you, then adds with that same dry almost-humor, "Perhaps even dental."

Maybe being chased after by Russian mobsters is worth it for a stable job in this economy. Well... anything sounds great when it means you get to spend every waking moment with the dark and mysterious Christian Wolff.

Stand by his side and maneuver your way into a FAT paycheck or deep into his HEART? The choice is all yours! ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و

🎮 interactive fanfic The Assistant by Boomtiggaboom

🔗 link to play: https://glimmerfics.com/stories/b6271517-the-assistant

#christian wolff #the accountant 2 #braxton wolff #ben affleck #fanfiction

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jaa1682-27 · 3 months ago

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😍😍

Chapter 7: Care

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: It’s nice to be taken care of. To have your sore feet rubbed, your tired back massaged, and breakfast made for you. You can’t remember the last time you were able to be taken care of by somebody else. Chapter Warnings: domesticity in the apocalypse, pining and yearning, talk of death, mentions of nightmares, pancakes, oh my god can they just tell each other how they feel?!, smut, oral (f & m receiving), 69, face sitting, cum eating Words: 6,500

A/N: Another chapter of me going "do I... do I include this?" and the horny gremlin inside of me telling me "YES."

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

In, out.

Gentle breaths.

You’re asleep, wrapped in his arms, his hand trailing up and down your spine. It amazes him how soft your skin is, how sweet you smell, how perfect you fit next to him.

The vulnerability of wanting someone so completely has scared him for years. And yet, he allows himself to savor you, the peace you bring him, and the feel of the rise and fall of your chest against his.

It feels right.

When you’re with him, he doesn’t have the nightmares, he doesn’t feel the pull of despair, he doesn’t wake up trying to remind himself he’s still alive.

But he still thinks about it. All of the time. The gaps in his memory of New Year’s Day, the pain, and the all-encompassing black void. He knows there’s more. He needs to know.

He lies awake most of the night, the unanswered questions and the overwhelming desire for you flowing through his body with every beat of his heart.

He can feel the changes. The more you’re here in his home, the more it feels like you're never supposed to leave, and now as he holds you tight… he thinks he’d like to spend every morning like this.

—-

It’s only you and Steven running the clinic today, an unexpected surgery has taken Dr. V and Wendy away from seeing patients, while Linda is sick. You’re thankful for the busy day, you hardly have the time to think about last night and waking up in Joel’s arms this morning.

Steven is updating you on the chart of a pregnant woman who’s close to her due date. You're trying to focus, but all you can think of is opening your eyes and seeing Joel’s bare, golden chest first thing this morning.

“If we need to help induce labor, we can try red raspberry leaf tea. I’ll show you how to dry and make it, if you’d like,” Steven offers, but you barely hear him. The sound of Joel moaning your name last night still plays in your head.

Steven calls your name. “Hey, you there? I know today’s been long.”

“S-sorry, yeah. That works,” you say, trying to shake the thoughts of Joel out of your mind.

“What exactly works?” he quirks an eyebrow up with a smirk.

“Oh, uh… the tea.”

Steven chuckles. “You alright? You seem distracted.”

“Just tired,” you answer quickly. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Ah. Need anything for that? We have chamomile and valerian root.”

“No, I’m fine,” you assure. “Just need to get through the day.”

“Well, only a few hours left,” he says, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re doing great.”

—-

By the time Joel made his way down to the kitchen this morning, you were already gone. No chance to ask you how you feel, no chance to look at your beautiful face, no chance to kiss you again. He’d be worried he went too far if it wasn’t for the way you leaned up to kiss him before you nuzzled closer against his chest and fell asleep last night. You’d left his coffee cup near the coffeemaker, two slices of bread in the toaster, and a bowl filled with muesli on the kitchen table. He hasn’t had someone look out for him like this in years. Hell, he hardly ever let Tess care for him in a way that he now thinks he could have learned to appreciate.

He's been restless all day, moving from one room to another. Something, anything to do to distract himself from last night and how much he wants it to happen again.

He’s sitting at the dining room table with his guitar, figuring out the bridge of a song he’s been trying to learn. It keeps his mind busy for a little while, but even then, his thoughts always drift back to you.

He thanks his lucky stars when he hears Tommy’s familiar succession of knocks before he walks in through the front door.

Thank god, another distraction.

“Afternoon,” Tommy greets as he takes a seat on your usual chair across from Joel at the table. “Been a helluva week…”

Tommy drones on and on about the Jackson happenings. The Member House’s roof is finally repaired, patrollers on the Hoback run found a box full of prescription glasses, and there’s an abundance of tomatoes growing in the greenhouse. Joel just nods along, pretending like he’s fully listening as he gently plucks his guitar strings.

“Maria heard a rumor you’ve been out walking.”

“Just a little yesterday,” Joel answers, setting his guitar to the side. “To the end of the road.”

“Well, my house is just a little farther than that. Think you’re up for coming over tomorrow for dinner? Benji would love to see you. Bring your girl.”

“My girl?” he asks, his eyebrow arching.

“Testing, brother,” Tommy chuckles. “You seem distracted.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “A lot on my mind.”

“Yeah?”

"Been having nightmares," he admits. "About what happened. They feel real."

Tommy’s smile falters, and his face loses color. "What do you remember?"

“Too much, but there’s this, feeling I don’t understand. Feel like I’m missing something. It still don't feel right."

"What do you mean?"

"I remember parts. The lodge, the group, the golf club, the gunshot. But then, nothing. Just waking up here, with her."

Tommy shifts uncomfortably. "She said there might be gaps. Trauma does that."

"It's more than gaps," Joel insists. “I want to know what happened. Everything.”

Tommy straightens and swallows. "You sure about that?"

"I am."

"Let's take this outside," Tommy says, standing abruptly. "Think we both could use some fresh air. I’ll get the whiskey."

Joel breathes deeply, steeling himself as he sits in his rocking chair. His heart begins to race when the front door opens and Tommy’s boot steps fall against the porch.

"To health," Tommy offers, taking a seat and raising his glass of whiskey.

Joel grunts, clinking his glass against his brother's before taking a small sip. "Now talk. From the beginning.”

Tommy nods, staring out at the yard. "It was bad, Joel. Worse than you know." He takes another sip. "By the time we got there, you, Dina, and Ellie were down."

Joel's hand tightens around his glass as the shattered memories begin to surface—the freezing cold, Ellie's pleas, pain, and the darkness.

"Ellie was screaming your name. Me ‘n Jesse came in guns blazing. It was chaos. I don’t know how we did it, but we killed every last one of 'em. When I finally got to you..." He pauses, swallowing hard. "Christ, Joel. There was so much blood. Your head, your chest. That leg. I thought for sure..."

He trails off and takes another drink. Joel waits, every muscle in his body tense.

"We got you out, back to Jackson. Ellie was hurt but conscious, Dina wasn’t hurt but barely conscious. You were–" Tommy's voice breaks. "You were gone, Joel. Cold. You were... dead."

Joel feels a chill run through him.

Dead.

Not just injured. Not just close to death.

Dead.

"What the hell are you telling me?" His voice comes out harsher than intended, disbelief edging into anger.

“I’m telling you what you asked me to tell you,” Tommy replies. “No pulse. No breathing. Nothing. All I could think was you'd be back with Sarah. Nothing else, just that finally, you were with her again."

Joel shakes his head. He was so close to being back with his baby girl, he can't believe it. “No,” silently escapes his lips.

"The storm had subsided enough, I was able to radio Maria ahead, she ran ‘n found her. She remembered she was a doctor from when she arrived the day before," Tommy continues. "She wouldn't give up. She just kept working on you. CPR, right in the middle of the street ‘n then when she got you back, we ran you to the clinic ‘n she… she saved your leg. She saved all of you.”

Joel drains his glass, needing the burn of alcohol to ground him. All these months, he thought you were just his doctor, his caretaker. But you're more than that. You're the reason he's still breathing.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

Tommy shrugs. "At first, you were too weak. Then... I don't know. Seemed like something you'd want to hear from her, not us. And she never brought it up, so..."

Joel nods slowly, and he understands. Your constant presence, your dedication to his recovery, the way you look at him sometimes, like you're still checking to make sure he's really there. It all makes sense now.

"She never told me," Joel whispers, more to himself than to Tommy.

"Maybe she didn't want to scare you. Or maybe..." Tommy shrugs. "Maybe she didn't want you feeling like you owed her something."

"I died," he says, testing the words.

"And she brought you back," Tommy confirms. "Some folks in town call it a miracle."

Joel doesn't believe in miracles. He hasn't for a long, long time.

But, then, when he can just make out the shape of you approaching, the rays of the bright, afternoon sun beaming off of you, he knows he believes in you, his own miracle, with your skills, your determination, and your healing ways.

"She's important to all of us," Tommy says quietly as he looks over at Joel, focusing only on you. "Saved one of our own. But..." he pauses. "She's important to me because I know how much she means to you."

Joel doesn’t say anything to deny it. He can’t deny it anymore, not now knowing all that you've done for him. Not when just the mere sight of you approaching makes the heart you brought back to life beat faster in his chest. And then, when you spot him and smile, all he can do is stare, like it’s the first time he’s really seeing you. Someone who refused to let him die. Someone who's spent half a year bringing him back to life.

Tommy stands, taking one last drink before he asks, “Alright?”

Joel nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Well then, brother, I’ll leave you with your girl.”

Joel nods, still reeling from the news. “Yeah, thanks.”

Tommy smirks before he makes his way home, greeting you as he leaves.

Last night, he had you in his bed, touched you, kissed you, and heard you moan his name, and now, today, he finds out you saved his life.

He can’t look away from you as you step onto the porch.

“Hey,” he says, his back straightening at the sight of you.

“Hi,” you answer, your voice a little hoarse.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Quite. My feet are killing me,” you sigh.

He doesn’t want you to feel any type of discomfort; he wants to care for you like you’ve cared for him for all these months. It’s the least he can do for you.

“Let’s head inside, the seats are softer in there,” he suggests, rising and leading you into the house with his hand against your back.

You sink into the cushions of your usual spot on the sofa with a tired sigh and begin unlacing your boots. Joel watches you, wanting to help in any way he can. Instead of sitting in his usual recliner, he joins you on the couch. You don’t question him, you just take your shoes and socks off and start to rub your tired feet.

“You’ve been on your feet all day?” he asks.

“Yeah, they’re killing me,” you sigh. “I’m exhausted.”

He hates watching you like this, knowing how much you sacrifice not only for him, but for everyone else in Jackson. He reaches forward and picks up the jar of salve from the coffee table.

“Gimme your foot,” he says, holding out his broad palm.

"Joel, what—”

“Your foot,” he repeats. “You said it hurts. Let me.”

“There’s no way I’m letting you…”

He shakes his head.

“After everything you’ve done for me? It’s only fair. S’not gonna kill my pride, I promise.”

You hesitate, watching him, then reluctantly turn and place your feet in his lap.

He scoops out a dab of salve, rubs it between his palms to warm it, then begins to knead it into your arch, your heel, and across your toes.

The salve turns slick under his touch. You sink back against the couch, your head tipping back, a long, happy sigh escaping your lips as you close your eyes.

Something sparks in his chest as he watches you relax under his touch.

“You work hard,” he says low. “I see it. You oughta take care of yourself too, not just everyone else.”

“That’s the plan,” you say quietly, your eyes still closed with a smile across your face.

—-

There’s no mention of what happened last night, but there is tension. So much tension. Tension in the way he touched you, massaging your feet, taking care of you in the gentle way you’ve been taking care of him. Tension in the way his eyes watched your every move from the table as you made dinner. Tension in how close he stood as you both washed the dishes.

The tension carries over on the porch as you sit next to Joel, watching the night sky overtake the sunset.

You’ve been yawning nonstop, between last night and the busy day at the clinic, you haven’t been this tired since the beginning of Joel’s recovery.

"Rough day?" he asks.

"Mmm," you nod, trying to stifle another yawn and failing.

Joel looks over at you. The way he's been watching you seems so different today.

“Tommy asked us if we wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night. Figured it might be good practice for me to get out more,” he says.

“I’d like that,” you smile.

You’re savoring this time with Joel, but your eyes are beginning to burn, and your body feels heavy with exhaustion. You just want something soft to rest your head on. Without thinking, you scoot your chair closer to Joel’s and lean over, resting your head on his shoulder.

His body tenses for a moment before he relaxes, his shoulder softening beneath your cheek. After what happened between you last night, something like this should feel so simple, but it still feels like you might be overstepping a line.

"Is this okay?" you ask, too tired to lift your head.

"Course it is," he whispers.

Another invisible line crossed by your need to be closer to him. Joel’s porch might just be your favorite place now. Jackson is quiet as everyone settles into the evening. Your eyes grow heavier as the silence stretches between you and Joel… until he speaks.

"I remember the cherry blossom petals,” he says lowly.

You angle your head up to look at him, confused by his musing. "Hmm?"

"When I... when I woke up, I remember the cherry blossoms blooming, ‘n I remember first seeing you..."

Your heart quickens when his head angles down and his brown eyes meet yours.

You remember those first few weeks, the uncertainty and fear that he wouldn't survive, that everything you were doing would be in vain—that you’d lose the man you didn’t even know.

"Those days were so scary," you admit.

"I know,” he breathes out. “I'll never be able to thank you for what you've done for me, ‘n I'm happy you're now able to help others."

You smile softly. "I'm also happy to help you—" you say, another yawn interrupting your words, “—still.”

Joel's lips twitch in a small smile. "Tired," he observes.

You nod against his shoulder.

"Should head in," he suggests. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s your day off, right?"

"Mmm," you hum an affirmative, but don’t move to get up.

Joel chuckles before he gently shakes his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says as he stands and offers you his hand. You take it, and let him pull you to your feet.

You sway slightly from exhaustion, before you follow him inside and up the steps.

You stop at your bedroom door, turning to face him. Joel stands closer than expected, his brown eyes roaming your face.

"Night," you say softly.

Joel places his hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin.

"Night," he whispers back, but neither of you make a move to leave.

He pulls away and clears his throat. "I suppose it'd be easier if you just...” he says, his hand moving to the back of his neck, “sleep in my bed instead of me waking you up… just in case."

"It would," you reply almost too quickly. "Let me just get changed."

He tries to hide his smile, but a small one slips. "I'll be there," he says.

—-

The revelation Tommy shared with him earlier echoes in his head. He had lost his life, and you gave him a new one. And now, after months of you healing him, you’re still here, about to get into bed next to him.

He struggles to calm the heart that you restarted when he hears your footsteps approach his door. His back straightens against the headboard, and then, you’re there, in his doorway. God, you’re beautiful, in your simple sleep shirt and sleep shorts. Everything about you looks so soft.

"I brought you water," you say, placing a glass of water on the bedside table.

You’re standing in the same spot you were last night, before he reached out and pulled you into his arms, but tonight he resists the temptation. Tonight, he just wants to be near you, to sleep next to you, to wake up, open his eyes, and see you.

"Thanks,” he says lowly.

You nod, your eyes fixed on the copy of Lonesome Dove sitting on his table. "Do you want me to read more tonight? We're getting close to the end."

Joel shakes his head. "No, you're tired enough," he says. "Maybe tomorrow."

“Okay,” you respond, yawning.

It all feels right, watching you pull down the sheets and climb into his bed. You gift him a shy smile before you turn onto your side, facing away from him.

"Goodnight, Joel," you whisper. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

"Night,” he says before he turns the lamp off and lies on his back. He stares at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach, listening to your breathing.

He turns to look at you, watching your back rise and lower. Last night, you'd fallen asleep with your head on his chest. Tonight, all he’d have to do is scoot over and reach for you to bridge the gap between your bodies.

Carefully, he rolls onto his side and faces you. He reaches out, his hand hovers above your back before he gently lowers it and begins rubbing slow, lazy circles. He doesn't know if this is okay or if this crosses an invisible line, but you don't flinch or pull away at his touch.

"Feels nice," you drowsily whisper.

He massages his way across your shoulder blades, down your spine, and back up to your shoulders.

You let out a small moan that heats him from within. He reminds himself that this isn't about wanting you. This is about your comfort and caring for you.

He rubs away the tenseness that sits tight underneath your skin. It’s the least he can do.

Soon, you’re asleep, and he stops, leaving his hand to rest on your hip as he very carefully scoots closer to you.

That night, there are no nightmares that lurk. No fears or regrets that chase him. There's just you beside him, the person who saved his life, in more ways than one.

—-

This should feel strange—waking up again in Joel’s bed, but it’s beginning to feel like this is where you were always meant to be. In Joel's room, in his bed, with all of him surrounding you—it almost feels more like home than your own room across the hall feels.

Joel isn’t in bed, and the robe that’s usually hanging on the hook near his door is absent.

You stretch and yawn. This might just be the first time you’ve slept late into the morning since you arrived in Jackson.

You don’t even bother changing from your pajamas before you head downstairs, lazily shuffling along the hardwood floor into the kitchen.

Joel is standing at the stove with his back to you, holding a spatula.

"You make pancakes?" you ask.

"I do," he says, turning and smiling at you. "Actually think I'm pretty good at making them."

You lean against the counter beside him, looking into the pan. “They look good. Why didn't you wake me?"

"You've been working so much. Figured it'd be nice for you to sleep in. It's your day off.”

"Well, thank you,” you say, giving him a smile before grabbing the placemats. “I’ll set the table.”

With a mug of coffee that Joel insisted you have, you sit at the table, selfishly stealing as many glances of Joel as you can while he finishes cooking breakfast. His gray shirt hugs his broad shoulders, his wavy hair is a bit mussed from sleep, and his golden skin gleams in the soft light filtering in through the curtains. You like how he looks when he walks over to the table and places your plate in front of you with a smile; you could easily get used to this.

Your first bite of fluffy pancakes confirms what Joel told you: he really is good at making pancakes.

"These are so delicious," you tell him between bites.

"Glad you like 'em,” he says.

It’s nice to be taken care of. To have your sore feet rubbed, your tired back massaged, and breakfast made for you. You can’t remember the last time you were able to be taken care of by somebody else.

“Figured we’d head to Tommy’s before sunset,” Joel says.

"Are you sure you’re good to walk? It's quite a distance. Your leg—"

"M’leg's fine," he interrupts.

“I just don't want you pushing yourself too hard."

"I know my limits," Joel says, his eyes meeting yours. "And I know when something's worth the effort."

“Right,” you nod, feeling as if his words have more meaning beyond just a discussion of a walk to Tommy’s house.

"We can also talk to him about your trip outside Jackson," Joel adds, surprising you. “I understand it's important to you. I’ll make sure Tommy will have good people with you."

"Thank you," you say, meaning it. "That means a lot to me, Joel."

“I’d take you if I could,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on the table. “But my leg.”

“I know Joel, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

"I just want you to be happy here. In Jackson."

What he doesn't say, but what you hear anyway: With me.

—-

The walk to Tommy and Maria’s was easier than expected—his leg only mildly hurt toward the end. Now, he’s comfortable, sitting in a wooden rocking chair, with a glass of whiskey, watching you and Benji play on the front lawn. You're beautiful like this—carefree and laughing, a big smile lighting your face as Benji animatedly talks to you.

"She's good with him," Tommy says. "He normally takes forever to warm up to new people."

Joel nods, unable to take his eyes off you.

"People are already talking about how great she is," Tommy says.

There’s a sense of pride in Joel's chest. He's not surprised—he knows all too well how good you are.

"She belongs here," Joel says quietly.

"Yeah, she does,” Tommy says, holding up his glass to cheers Joel. He takes a drink before he turns to his older brother. “How's it been?" he asks. Since I told you?"

"Still processing," he answers.

Tommy nods. "Makes sense. You tell her you know?”

Joel shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Benji races toward the porch with his favorite giraffe stuffed animal clutched in his arms. You follow behind, slower with a soft smile.

"Uncle Grumpy! Look!" Benji exclaims, thrusting his giraffe toward Joel. "We fixed him! Just like how she fixed you!"

“He looks good,” Joel says, smiling at his nephew. Benji’s wide smile, bright brown eyes, and springy curls remind him so much of his Sarah.

"Come on!" Benji says, grabbing your hand. "I want to show you my room. I have more animals that need doctor help."

"Lead the way,” you say. “Uncle Grumpy, huh?" you ask, with a wink as you’re led into the house.

Tommy chuckles as he stands. “I’ll head in… check on the chili and make sure he’s not overwhelming her. She’s been through enough with your ornery ass."

“Shush,” Joel says.

He likes seeing you here with his family, making his nephew smile, and talking to his brother and sister in law like they’re friends. It’s something he never thought he’d have.

Maria joins him on the porch, leaning against the railing with her arms folded.

“Looks like you’re no longer Benji’s favorite,” she says, nodding toward the house.

“Guess she’s good with kids,” he says. “Reckon she’s good with everyone.”

“Seems it. Tommy said he told you," she says without preamble. "About what happened."

Joel nods, still looking at the door. "Yeah."

"You were dead, Joel," Maria says, her voice matter-of-fact. "When they brought you in, I thought—we all thought—but she wouldn't give up.” She takes a deep breath. “Not bad for a refugee, huh?" she adds with a faint smile.

Joel nods.

"I remember when she arrived on that transport the day before. She was exhausted, half-starved, but still offering to help. Said she was a surgeon.”

Joel listens, wanting to hear the details about you that he's never heard.

“She was the first person I thought of when Tommy’s call came in. She wasn’t even here for 24 hours, and she was thrust into an almost impossible situation, but she proved her worth to Jackson—and to you.”

Joel swallows.

“Like I said,” she continues, “you're allowed to want things that make you happy."

The screen door creaks open, and Benji appears, holding your hand, leading you back outside, animatedly chattering away to you. The sight makes his chest ache in a way he thought it never could again.

Maybe Maria is right. Maybe he is allowed to have this happiness.

—-

It’s well after midnight by the time you and Joel get back to his house. Whatever lines that existed between you and him have blurred beyond recognition. From how he rubbed your back until you fell asleep last night, to how he casually draped his arm behind your chair at Tommy and Maria’s, to the way his hand would slightly brush against yours as he walked home beside you.

Now, you’re back in his bedroom, clad in your sleep shirt and shorts. Joel’s already filled a glass of water for himself and you, another small way he’s beginning to care for you.

You run your hand along the cover of Lonesome Dove, tracing the embossing of the cover. “Do you want me to read more tonight?”

“Can I read it to you instead?” he asks.

Your breath catches at his offer. You nod, your heart feels like it’s going to flutter out of your chest when you climb into bed beside him, sitting up with your back against the headboard just like him. He reaches for the book and opens it, picking up where you stopped those few nights ago, when everything changed.

“Newt, the Rainey Boys and Pea Eye got to go into town the next afternoon. The fact that the first group drug back in ones and twos, looking horrible, in no way discouraged them…”

You love seeing Joel like this—soft and unguarded. The lamp backlights him in aureate tones, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Your eyes roam his handsome face from the plush of his lips, to the sharp point of his nose, and up to the soft waves of his hair.

You’ve been trying to resist him for so long, this invisible pull, this slow step to touching him more, to wanting him more, to needing him. You scoot closer, pushing those boundaries again, you’re so close now, your arm touches his.

“As they were talking, a party of some half-dozen soldiers came riding up the street, led by the big scout, Dixon.”

His voice comforts you, deep and slow, his accent drawling as your feelings for him and the ways he’s been caring for you draw you closer to him. It’s beginning to feel almost impossible to stay away from him.

You slink farther down, and before you can even realize what you’re doing, you rest your head on his lap, softly sighing a contented sound.

Joel pauses, looking down at you before he begins reading again, his hand resting on your shoulder, moving back and forth against your skin in a soothing pattern.

“Call walked down the street and picked up his hat, which had fallen off. The soldiers rode slowly past him. Two dismounted and began to try to load Dixon on his horse. Finally all six dismounted—the man was so heavy it took all of them to get him up and draped over his horse. Call watched. At the sight of Dixon, his anger threatened to rise again. If the man moved, Call was ready to go for him again. But Dixon didn’t move. He hung over his horse, blood dripping off his head and face into the dust…”

Joel stops reading… folding the top of the page down to bookmark it before setting the book on the table.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he says. “This damn book hits too close to home sometimes.”

You nod, rising from resting on his lap, settling beside him. “I understand.”

Joel turns the lamp off and lies down. There’s an air of tenseness now, but it’s not the same crackling feeling of desire between you; this one sits heavier and deeper.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes roaming your face, before he answers. “I am, because of you.”

He rolls to his side, pulling you close to his chest. He gazes into your eyes, an almost panicked look in them before he kisses you. He rolls you beneath him, his solid weight lying heavily on top of you. But then, he groans and you can recognize it’s one of pain, not of pleasure.

You pull away. “Joel,” you say breathlessly, “your leg. You need to be careful.”

He rolls off you with a frustrated sigh. “Damnit. Sorry.”

“No,” you say, propping yourself up on an elbow to look at him. “I like it… but your leg is still not okay. I want you but—”

“Fuck it,” he growls, reaching for you again. “I don’t care. Come here.”

He wraps you in his arms, his hands roaming your body, his mouth covering yours before his lips travel down your neck, nuzzling and licking your sensitive skin there.

You let out a moan when the bristle of his beard rasps against your skin. He bunches your sleep shirt up as he kisses his way further down your body, when he reaches your chest, he nuzzles his face between your breasts before he kisses his way over to your nipple, licking and sucking it into his mouth while his large hand cups your other breast.

He groans against your skin, his eyes looking into yours as he kisses his way across your chest, drawing the other nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling around it.

“Joel,” you moan, threading your fingers through the soft waves of his hair.

He pulls back, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “Keep going,” you implore, reaching down to pull your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.

His lips trail further down your body. You’re desperate for him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your heart pounding as you part your legs for him. Joel moves, shifting himself down to settle between your thighs, but as he adjusts, you see the flash of pain that crosses his face. He tries to hide the grimace, but you catch it.

“Joel,” you say. “Your leg. We should stop.” God, the words hurt to say. You want to feel his mouth against you all over your body, but the two of you have worked too hard and cared too much to let tonight undo his months of healing.

He sighs heavily and moves to lie beside you. Frustration radiates from his side of the bed.

You turn to him, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry, you’ve come too far, and the last thing I want to do is have you reinj—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I just… god, I want to taste you.”

Your pussy pulses at his words, your slick soaking your sleep shorts at his confession.

You kiss him again, then pull away to look into his eyes, seeing the desire for you sitting deep inside them. That desire causes you to move your hands to your shorts, pulling them down and off, leaving you naked for him.

“Fuck,” he grits, pushing himself up to yank his shirt up and over his head. He reaches for you, pulling you on top of him. You can feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against you through his pants. You rock against him, his deep groan echoing into the quiet night.

He plants his hands on your back, pushing you forward to fold over on top of him, your chest meeting his, his mouth chasing your lips, desperate to kiss you. Joel’s hand glides down your body, his fingers leaving a trail of heat as he reaches your pussy, wet and pulsing for his touch. You’re moaning into his mouth, your tongue licking against his.

“Christ,” he groans. “You’re so wet f’me,” he marvels.

You whimper in response as he explores you, running a thick finger up and down, painting your slick arousal across your pussy.

“Tell me what feels good,” he whispers. You can feel the rumble of his desire to please you vibrating through your chest.

“That,” you breathe, grinding against his hand. “All of it.”

He dips a finger inside, gently fucking into you while his thumb swipes back and forth against your clit. Your head falls forward, nuzzling into Joel’s neck, your eyes closed as he draws the pleasure out of you.

“Look at me,” Joel commands. “Need to see you.”

You force your head up and your eyes open. His gaze is intense, his lips parted as his hand savors you.

“Joel,” you whisper as you begin to feel your orgasm crest, almost unbelieving you’re moaning his name out again. “I’m close.”

He pulls his hand away.

“Baby, listen to me,” he lowly commands.

Fuck. Baby. You almost feel dizzy at the way his deep voice sounds calling you baby. You pull away, your lips parted, panting for air.

“I want you to sit on my face. Need to taste you proper.”

You nod frantically and lean in, kissing him before you move up his body, turning to face his feet and stretching your legs wide for your knees to bracket his shoulders.

You lean forward, resting your hands on his thick thighs. You can feel his hot breath against your cunt as he takes in the sight of you wet and ready for his mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he growls before he grips your ass, pushing you down against his mouth.

You gasp, almost losing your balance at the first feel of his tongue licking a long path across you. You can feel the scratch of his beard against your thighs as he pushes his face further against your cunt, devouring your pussy like it’s never been ate before. His tongue circles your clit, flicking at the sensitive bud. You feel set alight by him, by his care, by the way his nose presses against your clit when he fucks you with his tongue. You don’t know how long it’s been since Joel has done this, but fuck, he knows how to make you feel good.

His hips buck in the air as he eats you, his cock straining under his pajama pants. You reach your hand over, rubbing your palm against him through the soft fabric. You want to see him, to taste him, to feel the heat of him against your tongue.

His moan reverberates against your pussy when you tug his pants down and his cock springs free. He’s so thick and hard, precum glistening on his tip. You marvel at the sight of him, wide with a prominent vein nestled in a thatch of dark curls. He really is golden-skinned all over. Joel Miller is all man, all rugged, all beautiful.

When you lower your head and get your first taste of him, his hips jerk up, a long “fuck” is grunted against your cunt. He tastes like Joel… earthy, sweet, and salty.

He doesn’t stop groaning as his tongue pumps in and out of you, his grip on your ass matching your grip on his thighs. Your lips stretch around his thickness when you take him deeper into your mouth. His hips begin to pace along with the rhythm of your mouth bobbing up and down on his length. When you take all of him into your mouth he hisses, squeezing your ass hard as his whole body tenses.

It doesn’t take long for him. A low growl of your name is muffled against your cunt when he cums, his cock pulsing between your lips, spilling hot and thick across your tongue. You swallow him down, moaning along his length as you feel your orgasm ripple through you. His tongue flicks rapidly against your clit, his hands pulling you apart so that he can press you farther down against his mouth. You let go of Joel’s cock as you scream his name, your pussy clenching and flooding against his mouth. He drinks you down, groaning with satisfaction just as you collapse against him, your cheek on his leg as you catch your breath.

When you feel like you have the strength, you move off his body and lie down, turning to face him. You can see your wet glistening across his beard when he smiles, his eyes half-lidded.

“Come here,” he says, pulling you close. You tuck your head against his chest as he pulls the blanket over your naked bodies.

“Thank you,” you quietly say.

“Hmm?”

“For taking care of me today and last night.”

He holds you tighter, pressing you closer against him. “It’s the least I can do,” he whispers.

That night, you fall asleep in Joel’s arms, the last thing you hear is Joel softly whispering, “Good night, baby.”

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

#joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller

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jaa1682-27 · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 6: Ground

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: He knows he needs to do something, to say something… anything to you. He needs you to stay, to be his. Because he’s selfish. Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, domesticity in the apocalypse, pining and yearning, very vivid nightmares (death, abby, suicide, suicide attempt, murder), panic attacks, jealousy, yearning, smut, dry humping, cumming in pajama pants Words: 6,500

A/N: It's certainly Gemini season, because I went back and forth so many times about how far I should take this chapter. Also, a tip for my fellow writers: if you put your phone in another room, you can actually like... write without distractions. I know, IT'S INSANE. Anyways, I'm now at the point where most of my outline has been written and that low key terrifies me, so pray for me and that the story will tell me where it should head. Also, be patient with me because now I'm going to be writing (mostly) blind.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

He's back there. New Year's Day. The chalet. The blizzard howling outside.

A woman with hate in her eyes stands over him, golf club raised high. The light catches the metal head as it swings down.

Pain.

White-hot and blinding.

Metal against bone.

The taste of blood on his tongue.

Joel opens his eyes, his mouth wide open, gasping for air. His heart’s hammering so hard it hurts with each rapid beat.

He breathes like you taught him to, trying to gain control of himself and calm his heart. He closes his eyes, trying to think of things that bring him peace and ground him. Your gentle touch, Ellie’s sarcasm, Tommy’s quiet respect, Benji’s hugs, Jackson’s security, Sarah’s smile with her mouth full of eggs.

Slumber takes him again.

Boston. The State House.

Tess.

Her neck exposed. The bite mark angry and red against her skin.

Joel's fingers twitch in his sleep, reaching for someone no longer there.

The scene shifts. Another loss.

Sam, infected.

The boy lunging at Ellie, feral and no longer human.

The gunshot.

The second shot.

Henry's body hitting the floor, the gun still smoking in his hand.

The helplessness.

There's nothing he could have done. Nothing anyone could have done.

More loss.

Eugene.

Pleading to see his love as he looked out across the lake.

“I see her.”

Then, the gunshot.

The look of disappointment on Ellie’s face. You swore.

His fingers now clench and unclench on the sheets, trying to change what can’t be changed.

Then, the worst one.

Texas. The beginning of the end.

Sarah in his arms. The weight of her. So light and yet so heavy.

The blood soaking through her clothes. Her eyes, wide with fear and pain, searching his face for reassurance he can't give her. “I know, I know, I know baby.”

Her final breath. The moment she goes limp in his arms.

The moment everything inside him dies with her.

He’s sinking farther down. His body twitching, the sheets twisting around his body.

The gun in his hand, heavier than Sarah’s dead body. His eyes closing before he puts it to his temple. The overwhelming sound.

And then—nothing. A void. Darkness. No sound. No light. Just blackness pulling and suffocating him. The weight of everything he’s lost pulling him down.

Joel bolts upright. He tries to fill his lungs, desperate for air. He wipes at the sweat pouring down his face with shaking hands.

The nightmares have been getting worse since you started working at the clinic. Since he started spending more time alone with his thoughts. With his ghosts.

The clock reads 3:42 AM.

He questions his survival all those months ago. He remembers fragments—the cold, the pain, the sensation of being carried through the snow. How did he make it back to Jackson? How did you save him when his injuries were so severe?

He remembers your first weeks together, when he was still too weak to move, too delirious to understand what was happening. All he knew was that someone was fighting for him. Someone wasn't giving up.

That someone was you.

—-

You’re grinding dried yarrow flowers with a mortar and pestle. It’s your third week at the clinic, and you truly feel like you're beginning to carve out your own space in Jackson.

"That's perfect," Steven says from behind you, his voice startling you slightly. He peers over your shoulder. "Just a little more until it's a fine powder."

Steven has been your guide for the last few weeks. Younger than Dr. V by at least thirty years, but still with streaks of silver in his dark hair. He’s been teaching you about natural medicine, taking you under his wing, teaching you things you never knew. His friendship and patience have been an asset to your success at the clinic.

"Like this?" you ask, showing him the mortar.

"Exactly like that." He nods with a proud smile. "Yarrow's one of our most valuable plants. Stops bleeding, fights infection, reduces fever—important to have when our stockpiles are running low. We adapt, right?"

"We do," you agree, thinking of how much you've adapted in your own life. From quarantine zone doctor to traveling with a lost group, to caring for Joel, to now this—learning to preserve life in new ways.

Steven pulls down a large book from the shelf, flipping it open on the table beside you. The pages are filled with notes and drawings of plants.

"That's Arnica montana," Steven points out. "Good for aches and pains.”

"I know it well,” you say. “I make a salve out of it with peppermint, I’ve been using it on Joel’s leg.”

“Joel,” he says, lower than usual. “He was lucky to have you.”

You glance up from the book at him, finding his eyes on you.

You almost open your mouth to question was. You’re still looking after Joel. Still living in his house. Still caring for him in so many ways.

You wonder what Steven sees. Does he see Joel’s doctor… or just Joel’s? “I wouldn’t say lucky,” you shrug. “I’m just doing my job.”

He nods, then, turning the page and showing you more plants you recognize and many you don't.

"We’re running low," he says, nodding toward the window that faces the mountain peaks standing tall above Jackson. "Inside the walls, we can grow some basics—chamomile, mint, rosemary. But the forest holds things we can't cultivate. Wild mushrooms, certain barks, and roots. I’m going to need to go back soon."

"You go outside?" you ask, surprised. You’ve barely even thought of the world that’s held beyond the walls of Jackson since your arrival.

"Once a month or so, when it's safe. There's a meadow, maybe two hours north on horseback. In late summer, it's full of echinacea and bee balm."

You try to imagine it—venturing beyond Jackson's walls. The thought sends a thrill through you.

"Actually," Steven continues, closing the book, "I'm planning an expedition next week. Just a day trip, well-trodden routes. Would you like to come along? See what it's like?"

Your face brightens immediately. "Really? I'd love to."

"Great," he smiles. "We'll need to clear it with the council and get assigned a patrol escort. But Dr. V already approved it.”

“The sounds great. I’m exci—”

Wendy pokes her head in. "Laceration in exam room two," she says. "Woodshop accident."

"I've got it," you respond.

"You sure?" Steven asks. "I can take it if you want to finish with the yarrow."

"No, it's fine. I could use the practice."

He nods, a look of approval in his eyes when you leave.

A young man sits in exam room two, clutching a towel soaked in blood around his hand. Apprehensiveness flashes in his eyes when he sees you instead of Dr. V or Steven.

"You're the new doctor," he says uncertainly. "Joel’s doctor."

You're still getting used to this—being known for that one act. "I am," you confirm. "Let's take a look at that hand."

This is your element. This is what you were trained to do. This is who you are beyond Joel's caretaker.

When you finish, the young man flexes his bandaged hand. "Wow, you’re good," he says, impressed. "Thanks, doc."

Doc. The word warms something inside you. An identity separate from Joel.

A purpose.

—-

Joel stands in the living room, useless and tired. The nightmares leave him restless at night, and the emptiness of the day leaves him forlorn.

He only likes the evenings now.

Because that’s when you’re with him.

“Enough,” he grumbles to himself.

He grabs his cane and heads for the door. It’s been over six months since he left this house.

The last time he left, snow was on the ground.

He hesitates before he steps down from the last step of the porch, squinting when the bright sunlight hits his eyes. His leg aches, but it’s bearable. He’s outside.

The last time he left, he almost died.

He tells himself he’s going to make it to the end of the road, just three houses away. During his recovery, it almost seemed impossible to reach.

But now, the sun shining down on him and the light breeze against his face remind him he’s alive.

The last time he left, he didn’t know you.

He thinks about how you must have felt—trapped in his house for months, caring for him day and night. He now understands why you were so eager to work at the clinic, to find your own meaning of life in Jackson.

It’s the same street he’s walked down before, but now, it feels different, almost like each step he takes, he begins to feel a little more like himself.

The last time he left, he was fine with being alone.

He reaches the end, before turning back, he looks towards Main Street, where the clinic is. Where you’re finding a new purpose.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll walk a little farther.

The last time he left, he didn’t have anyone he wanted to make proud.

—-

The walk to Joel’s house from the clinic is familiar now. You recognize people, sometimes saying hi to them in passing. It feels good to be part of something larger than yourself. To feel like you're part of a community. To help others.

Joel isn’t in his usual recliner when you walk into the house. Downstairs is quiet. No whittling, no guitar, no cane taps.

You find him upstairs in his bedroom, sitting in his chair, reading a book with his legs propped up on the ottoman.

“Hey,” you say, leaning against the doorway. “What are you reading?”

“Some book about a cowboy in Texas.”

“Typical,” you tease with a smile. “How was your day?”

“Walked down to the edge of the street and back,” he says, with a bit of pride in his voice.

You step into his room. “Really? Joel, that’s amazing,” you smile. “How’s your leg?”

“It’s protesting a bit.”

You kneel beside the ottoman, gently rolling up the cuff of his sweatpants to inspect his leg.

“Want some salve?” you ask.

“No need,” he grunts when you gently lift his leg to check for swelling. “I put some on earlier.”

“You should have waited for me, I could’ve helped.”

He shrugs. “Spur of the moment. Just wanted to prove to myself I could do it.”

You stay kneeling, looking up at him. “Well, I wish you had waited for me, just in case. But, I’m proud of you.”

A slight smile lifts the edge of his lips. “Just trying to keep moving forward.”

“I understand that, but it’s okay to still lean on me when you need help,” you say, reaching up to rest your hand atop his knee.

He looks down at your hand on his leg, his eyes softening when he nods. Your touch lingers before you pull away.

“I’m going to start dinner,” you say, pushing yourself up from the floor. “You’ve earned a good meal.”

“Need any help?” he asks.

“Nope, I’ve got it covered. Just rest,” you smile over your shoulder as you leave his room.

You’re just plating dinner: chicken, green beans, and corn, when Joel walks into the kitchen, limping more than usual.

You set his plate in front of him at the table before taking a seat across from him. He eagerly digs in, shaking his head at his first taste.

“Wow,” he says, swallowing down a bite. “This is really good.”

You smile, cutting up your green beans. "I added some herbs from the clinic garden," you tell him. “Oregano and turmeric are both anti-inflammatory.”

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Steven—you know, the doctor I've been working with—knows a lot about homeopathic remedies. So much so, he often goes outside the walls to gather more plants. There's a meadow about two hours north that's full of medicinal plants we can't grow here. Echinacea, bee balm, things that could really help at the clinic."

“Good for him,” he responds.

“And, he asked me today if I’d like to go next week,” you say excitedly.

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth, his jaw tightens, a muscle tensing in his cheek.

"You've never been outside the walls.” His voice comes out low and gravelly. “Not since you got here.”

"No, but Steven says it's a well-patrolled area. He goes every month or so."

"Steven," Joel repeats. "And how long has Steven been in Jackson?"

"A couple years, I think. He's very knowledgeable about—"

"You need a patroller out with you," Joel interrupts, his tone firmer now. "It's the first time you're out. Tommy will take you."

The authoritative edge in his voice catches you off guard. "Steven said we'd have patrol escorts. He knows the protocol."

"S’not about protocol. It's about knowing what's out there ‘n what could happen."

“I understand the risks. But think of what I could learn! These plants could help so many people. We're running low on—"

"I understand it's a good thing," Joel cuts you off. "You don't have to keep tellin' me."

And just like that, his angry, low tone takes away your enthusiasm. Finally, you’re gaining more and more purpose; you assumed he’d understand and support your decision to help others beyond the confines of his house, but he doesn’t seem too thrilled about the idea. He eats quicker now, his fork hitting the plate harder. You can sense his eyes occasionally flickering over to you, but you stay focused on your dinner until you can’t take the silence any longer.

"I just think—" you begin.

"I know what you think," Joel says. His voice is softer now. He sighs, running a hand through his wavy hair. "Look, I just... I worry about you."

"I appreciate your concern," you respond quietly. "But I've survived out there before. I made it to Jackson, didn't I?"

Joel nods. "At least let me talk to Tommy about it. Make sure he sends his best people with you."

"That would be fine," you concede.

Joel stands and collects his plate, limping slightly to the sink. "I'll be on the porch," he says, without looking back at you.

Once you're settled on the couch in the living room, you open the book about herbal medicine that Steven lent you to study, trying to ignore the chasm that has now formed between you and Joel. There’s a low and melancholy melody that you don’t recognize floating in from the windows from his guitar. You wonder what he’s thinking about, why he felt like he could respond to you in the way he did.

With a silent shake of your head, trying to dispel the frustration inside you, you focus on the book, trying to memorize the drawings of the native flowers of Wyoming and all the ways they can help Jackson.

The music from the porch stops, and your heart begins to beat faster with each uneven footstep you hear against the worn wood. You really should’ve read in the solitude of your bedroom.

Joel walks into the living room and stands awkwardly, his hand nervously tapping against his leg as he scans the room, looking anywhere but you. "What're you reading?" he asks, his voice tentative.

You’re surprised by his attempt at conversation. "It's a book on homeopathic remedies that Steven lent me,” you answer without looking up.

"Steven," he repeats, the name sounding different from his mouth than it does from yours. Lower and tinged with a bit of anger. "He's... been helpful to you at the clinic?"

"Very," you nod.

His eyes drift to the book you’re holding in your hands, then back to your face.

"Well, I’m going to head to bed,” he says.

“Night,” you say, still not looking up from your book.

He sighs before turning towards the steps.

But then, you stop him. "Joel," you call out. He pauses, then turns around. "I just want to be useful here. To everyone, not just to you."

He nods once, his brown eyes staring into yours. “I'm sorry about earlier. I think it's good that you want to help here so much. Lord knows, you've helped me."

You soften at his words. “That means a lot."

"I just know what it's like out there. Even in safe areas. Still, I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I know you're more than capable."

"I understand why you worry. But this is important to me."

"I know, and it's good that,” he hesitates, “you're finding your place here."

"I still have a place here, too. With you. That hasn't changed."

Joel's eyes widen slightly, his lips part in surprise, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes you believe he might just cross the room and pull you into his arms. But, he doesn’t. He just says good night and heads upstairs.

—-

He’s getting used to this sight. The ceiling above his bed. Sleep eludes him again.

He thinks about your face earlier tonight—how you looked when he apologized, the softness in your eyes, and the way you said "I still have a place here too. With you."

What does that mean to you? What does it mean to him?

Before you, his days had a rhythm he understood. Patrol shifts, guitar practice, wood carving, and the occasional drink with Tommy. Simple. Uncomplicated. He told himself it was enough. Now, the hours when you’re gone seem longer.

Finally, he falls asleep, thinking of you and only you.

If only that’s what he could dream about.

Instead, he's back in the chalet.

The woman with the golf club stands over him. Hate burns in her eyes.

"Joel Miller," she says, his name like poison on her tongue.

The club rises. He tries to move, but he’s stuck; he's helpless.

The club swings down.

The club rises again. Blood drips from the metal head.

He can’t even scream.

“You don't get to rush this."

He jerks awake. His leg throbs with phantom pain. His nightmare was one of his realities.

The clock reads 1:37 AM.

He turns, staring out the window, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. Sleep tugs at him again, dragging him under despite his resistance.

The darkness thickens and becomes viscous around him. It’s hard to breathe.

Blood. So much blood. His blood. Pooling beneath him on the wooden floor.

Then pain. Unimaginable pain as the club connects again. His vision blurs under crimson.

He's going to die here. He knows it.

Ellie's screams echo. He's failed her. Failed everyone. Again.

The golf club rises one final time.

Joel wakes with a strangled, low cry. He’s sweating and shaking violently. His heart races so fast he fears it might give out, his lungs heaving with desperate gasps for air. He tries to focus on his breathing, regulating it.

In. Out. In. Out.

It doesn't work.

He sits up, scooting to the edge of the bed, his feet settling on the floor. His hands won't stop trembling.

He needs... something. Someone.

You.

He needs you.

Pride fights with desperation inside him. He's managed for decades on his own, carrying his burdens in silence. The thought of reaching out, of showing weakness, goes against everything he's trained himself to be.

But the fear is stronger tonight.

"Fuck," he whispers into the darkness.

Then, he calls your name.

—-

A low sound of your name awakens you.

Joel.

He’s calling for you.

You pop out of bed, running across the hall to his room.

You flip the switch on, wincing at the bright light.

"Joel?" you say, slightly breathless.

He’s hunched forward on the bed, staring at the floor. His hair is a mess, his t-shirt clings to him, covered in patches of sweat.

He looks up at you, his eyes widen when he sees you, the fear in them seems to recede.

It’s then that you remember what you're wearing—a thin tank dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, the only thing bearable in the summer heat wave that's settled over Jackson. The fabric clings to your skin.

"I'm,” he struggles to say, "I'm okay. I just... the nightmares."

Without thinking, you reach for the light switch and turn it off; the only light in his room is from the low moonlight filtering through the window.

"The light can make it harder to fall back asleep," you explain softly, moving toward the bed.

He doesn’t ask you to stay. You don’t ask if you can. You just climb on the bed and lie down.

"Move back," you instruct gently. "Lying down helps."

He settles on the bed, turning towards you.

"Have you been sleeping okay?" you ask, his handsome face mere inches from yours.

"No," he admits simply.

"Why didn't you tell me?”

"Didn't want to bother you. You've got your own life now."

The implication—that you're moving beyond him, that he's no longer your first priority—makes your heart drop. "Joel, you can always talk to me."

He nods quietly in the dark of the room, silence settling before he breaks it with his low voice.

"When I can finally fall asleep… the nightmares feel so real.”

Your heart breaks for him as you reach out, placing your hand on his bicep. “I’m here. You're safe with me."

His eyes roam your face, moving back and forth from your eyes to your lips. You fight every urge inside you to lean forward and press your lips to his. Would he welcome it? Would he pull you closer?

"We never finished Lonesome Dove,” he says.

“No,” you whisper. “We haven’t. I could read it to you tomorrow night before bed, if you think it would help you sleep."

“I'd like that."

Silence stretches between you. His eyes slowly grow heavier.

"Goodnight, Joel," you finally whisper.

"Night," he responds.

You turn away from him, onto your other side, knowing you won't leave him alone tonight. His breathing gradually slows behind you, becoming deeper and more regular.

Across the hall, your bed lies empty and cold while you lie in Joel’s bed, so warm.

—-

His eyes open. He slowly wakes, realizing just how peacefully he slept. He looks to his side, and he knows why. You're still asleep, your body now turned toward him, one hand tucked beneath your cheek.

Taking you in this way, your face peaceful, your soft lips slightly parted, the morning light painting your skin feels like something he hasn't earned the right to witness.

When his eyes roam lower, his breath hitches. The sunlight shining in through the windows makes the material of your dress almost translucent, and he can just see the outline of your nipples pressing against the fabric.

He swallows hard at the sight. He hasn’t seen something like this in so long. His body responds immediately, his cock hardening beneath the sheet.

Christ, what is he doing?

You're lying innocently beside him, having stayed to comfort him after a nightmare, and here he is getting hard like a goddamn teenager. He forces his eyes away, staring up at the ceiling, willing his body to calm down.

But his mind doesn’t listen. All he can think of are moments he's collected over the months. The way you bit your lip as you concentrated on shaving his beard. The way your eyes blinked up at him as he hovered over you on the landing. How you looked kneeling before him in the bathroom. The sound of your voice moaning his name.

The insistent and overwhelming need for you pulses through him.

A soft sound draws his attention back to your face. Your eyelashes flutter, and your eyes open. A shy smile curves your lips. "Good morning," you groggily whisper.

"Mornin'," Joel replies tightly. “How'd you sleep?"

"Good," you say, stretching slightly, your body arching beneath the thin dress. "You?"

He tries to look away, but he can’t stop admiring how your body moves. "Yeah, good too.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with concern. "No more nightmares last night?"

"No.”

Something soft passes across your face. "That’s good, Joel."

You sit up fully, stretching your arms above your head. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen. He yearns to touch you, his cock begins twitching at the sight. He bunches the comforter higher over his lap.

"I'll go start breakfast," you say, getting out of bed and heading toward the door.

“Right,” he responds. “I’ll be down soon.”

He tries to memorize the sight of your upper thighs and bare legs as he watches you leave.

This can't continue. These feelings, this want—it's becoming harder to contain with each passing day. Soon, he'll slip. Say something he shouldn't. Touch you in a way that crosses the line. And then what? You could be disgusted, could leave. The thought sends a chill through him.

He stares out the window, trying to think of anything but you—the claws of the owl he’s carving giving him trouble, guitar chords, the leak in Ellie’s roof that needs fixing. Slowly, his body calms.

He heads downstairs, the scent of coffee and eggs in the air, the sound of the soft melody of your humming. It's so domestic, so natural, like you belong here. Like this is your home as much as it is his.

That's exactly what he wants it to be.

—-

The sun’s just beginning to go down, the small clock on the mantle reads 8 PM. Joel’s already on the porch, his guitar in hand.

You join him, settling in the chair beside him, drawing out your needles and the blanket you've been working on.

For a while, it’s just the sound of your knitting needles and his guitar blending with the sound of the breeze through the trees.

"What are you making?" Joel asks eventually, nodding toward your hands.

"Blankets for the clinic," you reply, holding up the partially completed work. "For the recovery rooms. Dr. V mentioned how cold it gets in winter, especially for patients who can't move around much to keep warm."

Joel's playing slows, his eyes studying your blanket. There's something in his eyes you haven't seen before when you talk about your work—a genuine interest, free from the usual tightness he displays at the mention of the clinic.

"How many patients do you see in a day?" he asks.

The question surprises you. Joel has rarely asked about your work. "Anywhere from five to fifteen, depending on the day.”

Joel's questions continue. He asks about procedures, about which herbs you've been learning to use, about how you organize your day. It’s as if he's making up for lost time—for the weeks he avoided talking about your work.

"Dr. V has me handle most of the stitching now. He says my surgeon's hands are steadier than his."

“You’re a good doctor,” he quietly muses.

The simple compliment means so much coming from him. You know Joel Miller doesn't give empty flattery.

"Your work is important," he continues, resuming his gentle strumming. "What you're doing there."

"It is," you say, looking up, and into his eyes. "But so was this."

Joel's expression changes, his eyes softening, a hint of a smile revealing itself. “Yeah, it was.”

Was.

What exists between you and Joel is no longer the simple relationship of doctor and patient.

—-

He watches you read, sitting on the leather chair in the corner of his room, lit by the golden glow of the lamp. You’re already dressed for bed—sleep shorts that ride high on your thighs and a simple, white sleep shirt. Even in your pajamas, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You’re reading, but he doesn’t hear a word. It’s impossible to focus when all he can think about is you.

He wonders how soft your skin would feel against his, how sweet you’d taste. He’s aching for you, and you don’t even realize it.

You look up as you turn the page, catching him staring, he can’t bring himself to look away.

You go back to the book. He tries to focus hard on the words you read aloud.

Now Jake was gone and Clara near. It seemed to him he might be wise not to go see her—just trail on into Montana and let the past be past. No woman had affected his heart in the way she had.

Another passage hits too close to home for him.

These feelings he’s been holding for you, they’re no longer easy to ignore. Hearing you say another man’s name, knowing he’s giving you something he can’t, sits bitterly inside him.

He knows he needs to do something, to say something… anything to you. He needs you to stay, to be his.

Because he’s selfish.

—-

“Lorena didn’t want to talk to him. She hated the way she felt. Better if something happens and kills us both, she thought. At least I wouldn’t have to be alone.”

“Another chapter?” you ask.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Joel responds lowly.

You nod, closing the book before getting up to head towards your room. You wonder if tonight will be a night you’ll end up back here. If selfishly, you’ll get to feel Joel’s heat against you, sleep in the scent of his sheets, listen to the low sounds of his peaceful breaths.

His eyes follow you across his room as you step towards his bedside.

“How many pages left?” his voice rasps.

You pause, opening the book to the final page. “149,” you respond, noticing a stray curl hanging over his forehead.

You’ve thought so many times what it would feel like to brush your fingers against it, to feel the soft spiral of hair spring back in your touch.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a hint of a smile, his eyes darkening when he watches you lean forward. Your fingertips graze against the soft curl as you brush it off his forehead.

His large hand wraps around your wrist, and before you can even think to pull away, he tugs you towards him.

With one simple pull, he’s changed everything.

You lose your balance and fall against him, the weight of your body landing against the heat of Joel Miller. Lonesome Dove falls out of your hand, dropping to the floor with a thud.

Your breathing echoes his, rough and fast. Both of you panting out all of the unspoken desire that’s been simmering just beyond the surface for each other.

“That whole damn time you’ve been reading, I’ve thought of this,” he whispers. You can feel his words, almost taste the desperation in them. His plush lips have never been closer to yours.

And then, he leans forward, sealing his lips against yours. Tentative, seeking, so soft, so needy.

His arms reach around you, large hands settling on your back, pressing you into the solid weight of him. Your body melts into his, surrendering yourself to being captured by him.

You kiss him back. Urgently tasting his tongue, his lips, and the feelings that have been lowly burning for each other after all these months.

You haven’t felt another person’s skin against yours like this in so long. It’s been so cold and lonely, but now, Joel’s heat encompasses and overwhelms you as you lick into his mouth with a soft moan. His hands travel lower, exploring the curves of your ass before he kneads into them, his touch is firm, reverent. The need for him starts to sit heavily between your thighs, gushing out of you when you feel Joel’s need for you pressing against your thigh.

You’ve dreamed about this, wished for it, wanted it so badly. After months upon months of falling for the man you were tasked to care for, of healing, of bringing back from the coldest realm… and now, he’s alive and warm, groaning into your mouth.

His heartbeat is steady and strong against your palm when you settle your hand against his chest. Alive.

You pull your lips away from his, gazing into his wide, brown eyes before you do something you’ve been dreaming about since it was first revealed to you when you shaved him.

Your lips follow a trail across the scruff of his beard to the small patch of missing hair on his jawline. You leave a kiss against the small heart shape, savoring in the scratch of his graying beard. He lets out a trembling breath, his hands moving underneath your shirt, tightening against your bare skin, searing you with his touch.

You kiss your way down to his neck, nestling into the crook of it, your lips pressing against the solid tick of his pulse. Joel Miller lies underneath you, alive and strong, a long, low sigh of your name escaping lips that you now know the taste of.

You stay there, nuzzled against the heat of him, both of you holding each other, staying completely still, your timed, overwhelmed breaths are the only sound in the quiet night. His hand sweeps up and down your back, your shirt bunching up with each movement. You wonder what his chest would feel like against yours.

You sit up, straddling him, feeling his hardness fully press into you when you slowly lift your shirt over your head and toss it aside. His breath catches when he takes in the sight of you, wide, dark eyes filled with awe and reverence roam over your bare chest.

Your fingers clumsily reach down to lift the hem of his shirt, before he finds your hands, helping you lift it over his head with a grunt. You know his chest, you’ve seen it so many times, once battered and bruised, struggling to lift with each breath he’d take. Now, though still scarred, it’s strong and golden, smooth in places, but smattered with a light dusting of hair across it. You lean forward, needing to bridge the gap, needing to feel his skin finally against yours. But he stops you.

“Not yet,” he growls. “I still want to look at you.”

And he does. Hungry and possessive. His hands move from your hips, up your body until they settle just below your chest. You have to remind yourself to breathe when he cups your breasts, your nipples hardening when he dusts his thumbs against them.

“God damn,” he breathes, watching himself touch you like you’re something sacred to him.

“Joel,” you moan. You’ve never wanted somebody so bad before. It’s real, achingly real.

Joel Miller on his back, his strong arms reaching up to touch you, his chest rising and falling underneath your hands, just might be the most beautiful sight on this earth. Your hands mirror his against his chest, feeling the strength held under his warm skin.

No longer able to resist, you lean forward. Your hips shift when you move, just enough for the hardness of his cock beneath his pajama pants to meet the soaked gusset of your sleep shorts. He gasps at the sensation. You can’t help the smile that appears when you begin to gently grind against him.

“Fuck,” he grits. “C’mere.” He pulls you impossibly close against him, his mouth pressing against yours, kissing you deep, his tongue sliding against yours in messy, hot kisses. You writhe against him, the heat pooling inside you making you feel aflame as you rock your soaked cotton against the solid hardness of him sheathed under his navy pajama pants.

Each press of his lips against yours, each low groan, each flex of his hands against your waist makes your heart beat faster and louder for only him inside his bedroom.

You want to feel him, to savor him, to be this close to him forever. Your feelings have only grown stronger with each day spent with him. In the early days of his overwhelming recovery, in the peaceful evenings of his strengthening, in the quiet nights of your cohabiting.

You can feel the press of his cock, the movements of his hips rising into yours.

“Easy,” you whisper between a moan. “Don’t go too hard.”

“Already too late,” he husks. He thrusts up against you, pressing himself against your soaked core. Heat meeting heat. His fingers tighten around your waist, his grunts turning heavier and faster, matching his pace.

You lift your head to watch him, his eyes fluttering open and shut in pleasure, his chest inflating with each desperate breath. The sight of him like this, wrecked all because of you, his head tipping back as he’s lost in pleasure. He’s beautiful.

And then—he groans, long and low, the same noise you heard all those nights ago. His body tenses beneath you, his eyes opening wide to stare into yours. Your cheeks cupped in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your lips. His dark brown eyes cloud over with bliss when he cums in his pajama pants. You can feel the warmth of him spreading between you as you still move on top of him. He’s breathless and dazed, but when you begin to move faster and harder against him, he hisses.

“Lean back, lean back,” he implores.

You obey, moving to rest your hands on either side of his legs to steady yourself, leaning your body back, trying not to put any unnecessary weight on his bad leg before you spread your legs wide.

He reaches out, pausing at the apex of your thighs, looking to you for silent permission. You nod frantically, staring into his eyes.

He touches you. His thick finger running a slow line up the soaked cotton of your shorts. He exhales a long, low breath when he feels just how wet you are for him. His touch feels better than you ever thought it could. He’s slow and deliberate, relishing this moment as desperate noises leave your lips.

His eyes move down to watch his hand touch you, his golden skin against the light blue fabric of your shorts. He presses down firmer, the seam of your shorts pressing against your puffy, needy pussy and clit.

You’re fighting against yourself to close your eyes, you can’t look away from Joel watching himself touch you. You can feel your orgasm cresting, the overwhelming sensation barely held back, until he glances up at you with a look of almost devotion in his eyes.

Your body begins shaking, your cunt pulsing as your orgasm sets you alight. Your eyes squeeze shut and your head tilts back as you gasp out Joel’s name into his bedroom, his hand now cupping against your pussy as you savor the bliss he’s just drawn out of you.

When you can no longer take it, your legs and hands shaking to keep your stunned self upright, you collapse beside Joel.

You can feel every single muscle and nerve in your body as you quake from what just happened. He turns on his side to face you, slightly grimacing when he has to move his leg.

“I told you not to go too hard,” you whisper.

“Already too late,” he responds, pulling you closer to him and kissing you.

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

#queue of hearts #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal

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jaa1682-27 · 3 months ago

Text

Elks

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader Summary: Life in Jackson is quite comfortable and simple for you. You love teaching your students and running your library, you love the comforts of living here, perfectly complacent with the company of your two cats, guitar, tattered CD book, and a few friends. You like comfortable and simple, though the feelings you feel whenever you see Joel Miller are quite the opposite. Once you meet him, it seems like he needs you in his life as much as you need him. Reader Background: Reader is in her 30's and comes from Colorado, and has a bit of a backstory. No physical descriptors besides having long enough hair to put up. Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Warnings: soft jackson joel, joel and ellie do not leave jackson, timeline editing for coping, fix it fic alert!, somewhat of a slowburn but it's a short fuse, eventual smut, friends to lovers, 15 year age gap, early 2000's indie rock. Each chapter will have further individual warnings.

Playlist | Masterlist

Chapter 1 - See The Road You're On

Chapter 2 - No One Here Is Alone

Chapter 3 - The Middle & What's In Between

Chapter 4 - Enigma

Chapter 5 - Stay Awhile & Listen

Chapter 6 - Hear It In The Silence

Chapter 7 - Promised Land

Chapter 8 - I'm Your Man

Painting Credit: Carl Clemens Moritz Rungius, Elk in the High Country, 1936

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller

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jaa1682-27 · 3 months ago

Text

So good!!

The Duke and I - N.K.

Synopsis. Dearest gentle reader, it is with great pride that we introduce this season’s most eligible bachelor, Duke Nanami Kento. However, ladies be warned, rumors swirl that our most gallant gentleman already has his eyes (and hands) set on a particular chambermaid. You.

Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!chambermaid!reader, duke!Nanami, BRIDGERTON AU, duke x chambermaid, slight social clashes, he’s SO in love, courting, face-sítting (fem rec.), squírting, spítting, he’s FÉRAL, fíngering, overstím, breaking furniture, dóggy, “just the típ”, manhandIing, HEADLOCKS, creampíes, tummy buIges, chokíng, dúmbifícation, PÚSSYDRÚNK Nanami, the ton, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 9.0k

A/N. To that one nonnie that made it impossible NOT to think about this…

“And who–pray tell, is that fine gentleman, Shoko?”

“Who?”

“Him.”

It was like watching a parade, of sorts.

Monarchs upon nobles upon countless upper-class elites filtering in and out of the royal palace. Each with a long, satin gown fluttering about, or men with glinting medals that likely cost more than four lifetimes of your wages.

Debutante season had commenced.

And as part of the Queen’s chambermaids, it was your duty to pain-stakingly welcome each special guest deemed worthy of attending her highness’s garden parties.

Which is why - almost on instinct - you’d snapped your head towards the clip-clop! of a carriage steadying to a halt by the hedge-archway entrance. Catching just a flash of sleek blond, who…

Before the footmen swing open the carriage doors, and out steps the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your entire life-

“Oh, him. That’s Duke Nanami Kento.” Shoko drawls underneath her breath, dipping into synchronized curtsy alongside the household staff. “And he’s staring intently right at you.”

Honestly, Shoko might be one of the Queen’s most favored healers- but you really think she’s been neglecting the health of her eyes lately. Daring to elbow her in the side, “Don’t jest!”

She snickers, and you’re sure you detect the nearby daughter of a merchant family haughtily sniff your way—“I do no such thing.” Though, not for too long, fortunately for the two of your necks, because just then Duke Nanami’s stepping into clear view of the party - and you’d never glimpsed so many aristocratic mouths drop.

So many ladies (and some gentlemen) fluster, and so many older heads of families water at the mouth like they’d just spotted the most delectable prey.

Understandable, however.

Because if Nanami was thoroughly agreeable to your eyes in the few peeks you’d stolen at him- then he was almost other-wordly now.

With the most charming, tidy golden hair pushed back, a few curls coiling at the nape of his high collar. A towering stature that made even the most accomplished generals hunch in on themselves, and you nearly audibly gulp at the broad flex of his arms within his navy jacket. Stern. Stoic.

His molten, intense eyes peek over thin-rimmed glasses at the buzzing guests ahead, and you swear that they begin to stray somewhere near you—

“Heavens! Must I repeat myself, you common scullion?”

Ah, at the way Marquess Zenin Naoya was saddled right behind you and spitting hellfire, surely.

You rush to bend into an apologetic bow, so low that the knobs of your spine start to ache- “Please forgive my impudence, My Lord-”

“Have you nothing between your ears but lint?” He’s growling, spindly hands tightening on his empty goblet of wine until you hear the silver material creak. And it’s hitting you right then n’ there that in your haste to ogle Duke Nanami, you must have failed to heed Naoya’s calls for more drink-

He turns his sharp profile to the side and spits on a patch of clean-cut grass, “A servant that knows not her place is no better than dirt. What do you gawk at like so?”

“N-nothing, My Lord.”

And you can only watch, in slow-motion terror, as Naoya flicks his beady gaze behind you- and his sour face tenses at the vision of the tall newcomer that’d easily - and very obviously - ousted his mantle as the most eligible bachelor present. “That ol’ duke? Heh- dreaming that he’d bed a wench, did you?”

“Forgive me, sir, it was not my intent to give offence.” You’re breathing out, first clenching as you feel the withering looks that were starting to prop up around you two. Everybody loved a scandal. Trembling hands reaching out for his cup, “I-if you would allow me to just refill-”

“Don’t touch me!”

CLANG!

It happens all at once.

The heavy goblet clatters to the floor, a warm chest nuzzles your back, and a strong hand was locked right around Naoya’s raised wrist. Right before he could strike.

“It seems her highness’s liquor is exceptionally strong.” Nanami’s deep baritone sounds above your head and makes your skin bead with a blanket of goosebumps.

And it’s slightly husky. So attractive.

Especially when he’s tilting his head down so close, something primal in his eyes that made it feel like he was on the very verge of devouring you whole. Right there in the middle of the bustling garden party. Humming sternly, “Yuji, please escort our impaired marquess somewhere ah…quieter.”

“Y-yes, Nanamin- I mean, Your Grace!”

You’re watching, speechless, as a younger boy with the most vibrant head of pink locks runs up from behind and grabs onto both of Naoya’s shoulders to bodily steer him away from you.

He must have been stronger than he looked, clearly, because the proud heir was being lugged away like a sack of potatoes no matter how much he squirmed and fought - much to the amusement of the party-dwellers. And you.

But you’re quick to bite back your startled laughter once you’re realizing that Nanami Kento was still holding onto you. And not just stood behind- you must have stumbled amidst all the commotion because he had a large hand gripped onto your hip to steady you.

You were in his arms.

Gasping, “O-oh.” You couldn’t have broken off faster from him, knees strangely weak as you’re forcing them into yet another curtsy, “I am so-”

“My deepest apologies, Honorable Miss.” The duke beats you to it, a strange smile playing along his stern lips as he bends into an even deeper bow. “I should have asked prior to touching a lady.”

“A-a lady!” You’re squawking, in what was most definitely an unladylike manner. Hands wringing to gesture him to straighten as much as you could without it being seen as defiance against one of the crème de la crème of nobility. “I assure you I am no such thing, Your Grace.”

Just then he kisses the back of your hand in greeting, “Please, call me ‘Nanami’- or ‘Kento’, should you wish, ma’am.”

“It- it is beneath you to be designated that by me-”

“I insist.”

And if everyone here was watching the upending chaos before, then they simply couldn’t remove their eyes by now.

Whilst Nanami - still bowed - only tilted his head up with a smile, looking at you through his long, pale lashes.

You lift the humble fabrics of your working dress, a thick, dark-colored wool that marked you different from the tittering daughters of the upper-class. “B-but I am only in service to her highness.”

“Is that so?” And you’re breathing a sigh of relief as he stands back to his broad, proud figure- finally, he’s understood and would prance off as all young bachelors did to- “For I only gaze upon the most beautiful lady that has graced the floor this evening, and my blessed gaze.”

What?

“Have a charmed night-” Nanami has a dimple- he has a dimple that winks from the side of his grin as he turns and nods down with the velvety brim of his hat. “-My Lady.”

My Lady.

Utahime’s hands clap down on your rigid shoulders. “Sole heir to the Nanami fortune. Rich, handsome, aware when to cease talking.” Her low whistle rings in the air- tinged with such scandal, “Fiend seize it! I should hasten to practice your new title then, Duchess Nanami.”

“You have a lamentable deficiency in wit-”

Utahime, reputably sensible tutor to the offspring of the royal ladies-in-waiting, and known blockhead around your little trio. “And you have a lamentable deficiency in eyesight.” Sighing, “The look he bestowed upon you, my dear…”

“Or would it be ‘My Lordliness.’” Shoko croons in as well, sipping on a flute of bubbly champagne definitely not meant for her. “Oh-so-beautiful wife of Duke Nanami-”

“Attend to your duties!”

Dearest gentle reader,

It has come to my attention - and certainly to that of all the ladies who frequent the halls of Mayfair - something for which you should do well to brace your hearts. Whispers spread that the most eligible bachelor of the season, gentle Duke Nanami Kento, erupted quite the scandal during her majesty’s garden soirée by fixing his much sought-after attentions upon none other than a humble chambermaid.

Yes, you read that correctly, dear reader. For someone reputed in the upper echelons of society for being as stoic as he is handsome, Duke Nanami shares his first spark of interest as he searches for a bride this season.

So heed this author’s advice; as the famed noble resides in the royal palace for the rest of his stay, keep an eye about. For you may just be lucky to be named Duchess of the House of Nanami.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

“This is preposterous!”

“It is absolute truth-”

“It is a sham is what it is.” You’re nearly crying out as you shove Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal sheet back into Shoko’s arms. “He- the duke never fixed his attentions on me.”

And your best friend didn’t spare you a word, only a long, narrowed stare of her intelligent eyes that made your stomach twist.

Did Nanami fix his- no. While you and Shoko huddled into a hidden alcove within the sprawling walls of the palace to read the latest on-dit gossip, you smacked yourself back into reality.

The nobility often did have nothing much to entertain themselves with outside of fanning scandal. He was powerful. He was attractive. And he has as many prospects as there were knights in this palace, surely!

Because - of course, for the universe did love to laugh at your expense - he’d taken residency in the palace until the season ended, as one of the Queen’s guests.

Days later you could count every look, every smile, every bow- goodness, there was that one time that you’d been placing cutlery along the winding royal dinner table. Only for Nanami’s engulfing fingertips to brush against yours and make your skin scorch with his whisper, “Thank you, my lady.”

You’re almost befogged why that wasn’t splashed across Lady Whistledown’s writing- chambermaid loses her wits, hear ye!

“Wh-whichever way one looks at it.” You’re stammering out, realizing that you’d been quiet for much too long. “His grace is simply raising some kind of mischief.”

“Certainly.” She was not certain.

“Just you wait- by the end of this season, Duke Nanami will be married to a lady of high standing and I shall–”

“Be disengaged?” That wasn’t the monotone, sarcastic voice of your longest friend.

It was something masculine, something amused. And it was emanating right from the open space of the corridor reading up to the alcove.

You don’t have to turn your head to realize who it is - Nanami Kento.

Though, you do turn anyway. And you almost regret it when you’re stuck by the sheer intensity of his stare, of his face leaned down so close. So intimately that you can’t stop yourself from flitting a sharp glance down at his plush, curving pink lips.

Perhaps Lady Whistledown wasn’t all that wrong - especially about him being handsome…

“Apologies for startling you, ma’am.” Nanami cuts your traitorous thoughts short by slowly tilting something flat and cream-colored in one hand. “Permit me to explain- will you hopefully be disengaged to attend the upcoming Royal Diamond Ball? Perhaps?”

You’re bowing, confused. “Y-yes, Your Grace. I shall be of service during her highness’s ball.”

It was only the most anticipated assembly this entire year, the annual gathering right in the Queen’s Great Hall to announce the diamond of the season.

And in only a week, every single servant of the palace was to work themselves to the bone - welcoming, chaperoning, making note of the newly-made unions to titter over much later.

“Ah, allow me to clarify.” Rubbing a free hand behind his neck, the famed Nanami Kento almost looks…sheepish. “What I meant was- might you be disengaged to…” Staring right at you, hypnotic. “-join me?”

“…What?”

“Of course, it would be no trouble at all if you can not spare a moment, I should be happy to merely converse with you.”

It slips out- “Th-that’s madness. All those ladies-in-waiting-”

Then he’s clasping your hands, he’s pressing the invitation in- but, more importantly, he’s holding you. “And yet, I would like nothing more than the pleasure of your company.” Close. Too close. His breath wafts your lips, “I hope this is not too forward of me. But should you let yourself, trust that I will take care of everything, My Lady.”

And just as soon as you think he’ll kiss you - how uncouth (though, you admittedly wouldn’t complain) - he bends at the waist to gently grasp your hand.

“Everything.” Whispering a soft kiss into the back, Nanami lingers his lips - his gaze - for a long while. “I await eagerly for your word.”

He’s gone almost as softly, and sweetly, as he’d appeared.

Taking with him the scent of golden caramel, and the racing beat of your heart. You swear you’d have been stuck within the alcove staring behind his muscular back until nightfall had it not been for Shoko.

“So…” She plasters a wry smile once you’re turning her way, invitation trembling in your grip. And you’re noticing that upon its envelope dazzles swooping calligraphy of your name, almost certainly written by him. “Would you prefer ‘Your Gracefulness’ or ‘Duchess Nanami’?”

Dearest gentle reader,

The ton is abuzz as her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball nears closer. And the sole heir to the house of Nanami is certainly no exception.

This author hears directly from a reputable source within her highness’s Chamberlain Office that Duke Nanami Kento was uncharacteristically fastidious in securing himself an extra invitation. Most claim this as confirmation of his grace’s dedication to finding a bride, most also claim they’d seen the aforementioned, infamous chambermaid being handed it.

Take care of artifice; but such intrigue of a commoner attending the most prestigious ball of the year may be much more than my readers may be able to bear.

So, ladies, grab your finest gowns and shortest shawls to make haste for a chance to snag the eligible bachelor’s heart once and for all this season! And I shall, of course, be in attendance to report on all the scandals that unfold.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

“I look…”

“Enchanting.” Utahime nods.

“I was thinking more toad-eaten.” You have to mentally remind yourself to close your maw and do your very best not to gape at the reflection in the decadent mirror displayed in front of you.

Despite your words, even you couldn’t deny that the deep, sapphire-encrusted gown you were donning made you look every bit the noblewoman that you weren’t. Its Empire waist snugly crowning the flowing muslin, sleeves fashionably puffed, with tasteful gold jewelry that you wouldn’t have so much as dared to look at let alone be dolled-up into.

It was made for you.

Quite literally. Utahime had been the one to write your letter of acceptance to Duke Nanami (after shrieking herself hoarse in excitement first.) And through a week of hushed conversation with his grace, the ball evening had crept up closer and you had an army of modistes and maids knocking at your servants’ quarters.

Scrubbing you raw, painting your face, slipping you into a dress he’d ordered tailored to your exact measurements- how did he even know?

Shoko had to let you use her office, and she was deriving her payment back for it by beaming at the sight of you. “And I was thinking more Duchess of the house of Nanami-”

“Cease!”

“Ah, so you observe? You are noble in all but title already.”

Whilst Shoko and Utahime - the traitors - burst out into peels of laughter, you’re left fiddling with the silken coverings of your gloves. “You…you don’t suppose he’s making a mockery out of me, after all?”

That makes them quieten down, and Utahime hugs your shoulders in a way that thoroughly displeases the attendants and their ruffles. “You shine everyone else down, my dear. He should be lucky to have such a lovely date this evening.”

“Quite so.” Shoko nods, “And should he dare fool around, I have long sought a specimen upon whom to test my latest scalpel-”

“Shoko!”

“Do let me join.”

“U-um, ehem.” The tense, honestly frightened clearing of Itadori, his protégé’s, throat cuts your morbid conversation short. And as he looks at you, the poor boy blushes- whispering something shapes strangely like a little—“Divine.”

Before you know it, you’re being escorted down the high-ceiling corridor just as you’d always watched the sisters and wives of nobility being guided so.

It’s a pathway more than familiar to you, yet seems so foreign once you approach the grand, imposing double doors opened to the ballroom. It was a magnificent thing; one of the Queen’s proudest possessions - with diamond chandeliers that dripped yellow light like a second sun, and a grand polished staircase kissing down from the doorway to a dance floor at the bottom.

Faint orchestra and chatter tainting the sparkling atmosphere, you breathe in nervously and even the flower-scented air seems too expensive for you.

Itadori hands the chief footman your invitation - something that makes the latter’s bushy eyebrows raise as he recognizes your name. And then the boy squeezes your hand before he leaves you off at the edge of the entrance, “His grace will be utterly bewitched, My Lady. He already is.”

Oh- what?

In the blink of an eye, he’s melted back into the crowd of other youngsters networking outside. And with nearly every guest already inside - you could only descend.

Down.

Down, the massive carpeted staircase- and it felt like every pair of eyes were on you. Most stopping mid-dance. Some whispering behind their fans.

And one, Nanami Kento, staring at you breathless and awestruck where he’d been politely conversing with the Queen herself, and a gaggle of entranced admirers. But he only had eyes for you.

Almost frozen. Almost shocked-

Enough so that your satin-covered feet were just a few steps away from reaching down to the marble ballroom floor before you’re thinking of turning right back around and running-

“You.” A hand on your wrist, a soft pair of lips on the back of your hand. Nanami Kento had broken through just about every rule of aristocracy to storm through packs of nobles and catch your wrist before you escaped.

And when he kisses you, it felt like he was finally breathing for the first time after years. “I had- I had not dared to hope that you would truly appear.” Staring at you through thick, golden lashes as he bends deeper into a bow. “You have honored me with the presence of the most beautiful lady to ever grace these floors.”

Languidly, you’re twisting your body back to face him - to face the crowd - and the way that the distracted orchestra has to begin their slow quadrille from the top, several teary debutantes looking between you and Nanami before shoving their faces into their fans, and even Lord Naoya was casting great attention.

Muttering.

‘Might I inquire as to that lady? Does she have prospects-’

‘Do tell- is it true what Lady Whistledown’s paper said- Bollocks! I wanted to bed Duke Nanami.’

‘My, the chambermaid? The scandal! Oh, but they are a most remarkably striking pair…’

You’re gasping when you catch a glimpse of her highness shifting on her throne to peer over curiously. Nanami had authority- but this?

Gulping, “Is this…is this folly really alright?”

“Oh, My Lady.” He fixes you with a lingering look, “For you, nothing would be folly. May I have this dance?”

“M-mmm, Your Grace-”

“What did I tell you, My Lady?” Nanami’s hot, simmering pant tingles your lips as he’s lavishing you with the swirling edge of his tongue. “Call me Kento.”

And you didn’t have any reason not to.

Well, first of all you two were far, far from any of the prying eyes of the ball by now - tucked away inside the empty, luxurious royal office allocated to him by the Queen. And then he had you pushed against the corner of the wide mahogany table in the middle- hands fisted into your gown, mouth searing against yours.

Nanami flicks the slimy edge of his tastebuds between your spit-glossed maw and groans once you’re eagerly sucking. Gasping. Heaving. “O-open your mouth.”

You’d just made the stern, stoic Duke Nanami stutter. And the thought itself is enough for you to knit your brows together and unhinge your jaw even further, “Like this?”

“Wider.”

“Mmm- like-” A glittery ribbon of saliva slicks down the corner of your lips the moment he’s parting his plump, puckered mouth and kissing you in a way you’d never even heard of. “-this?”

So primal. So heated. He’s huffing out a clouded breath through his flared nostrils, and you’re all but melting with each sleazy scour of his tongue.

“Yeah, wider. Lest I be thought ungentlemanly-” With a thumb latching onto the point of your chin, he has one hand angling your face, and the other curving ‘round your waist to support your weakening knees easily. “Suck on my tongue, ma’am.”

Kissing you and kissing you like he’s parched and every drop of sweet, syrupy water was just drooling from your mouth.

Your whirling head barely even realizes when Nanami has you softly falling back onto the frigid surface of the table. Splayed out completely. His beefy forearm eases the impact, mouth decorating with a few strings of spittle when he’s pulling back with a dampened pwah!

Lungs still clouding out in scorching breezes, “If you would allow it, My Lady.” And you’re whimpering when the doughy mountain of his palm comes rovering down your front. Not resting for a split-second until it was right between your poor legs- “I confess, not a morsel crossed my lips throughout the ball- and I find myself quite famished.”

You’re gasping, trying to close your legs- but it’s like his palm was glued to your drivelling core. Hungry. Desperate. “B-but it is beneath your touch to do such a thing-”

“You’re never beneath my touch.” You swear you catch him look down at your clothed cunt and gulp. Fawny irises dark and dilated, “Never.”

And almost as if he’s proving his point, his free, left hand clasps around your own and flies down gingerly to the absolutely massive bulging tenting Nanami’s trousers.

Oh.

He groans.

Oh.

And he’s looking at you through narrowed, predatory eyes- words so gentle even though the way the thick cylindrical curve of his erection was anything but. “See how you make me?” And with a teary nod, your hips find themselves bucking- “Witness how you- ah.”

Rutting.

So carnally, with your gown and chemise falling back, it makes Nanami snap his half-lidded eyes down at you like he’d just stumbled upon a five-course meal. A predator blood-thirsty for prey.

Drooling in a thin, slow trail, he hastily wipes it away like a gentleman. He wasn’t just famished - he was starved.

And by the way his touch shakes ever-so-slightly on your body, it’s a damn miracle that he hasn’t just lost it right now. “We wouldn’t want to waste your talents on just my hand, ma’am.”

Before you can even begin to wonder what his cryptic words meant, Nanami’s making use of the years of his noble training in combat.

Flipping your two positions, laying himself out on the far table, clinging onto your squirming waist to seat you right above his heavily respiring mouth. With your chemise tugged off with one hand, he’s stealing a good look at your naked, geysering pussy and moaning–

“I-I really am quite famished.”

And his voice breaks.

Making you jerk your hips in a slight gyration- unsure where to rest. “Wh-what are you going to- oh.” Whimpering, once he’s planting a firm kiss near the inner parts of your thighs where slick travelled like an adhesive sheen. Only pushing your gown to bunch upwards, “Please!”

“I shall be having my dinner, My Lady.” Lurching you ever-closer, he had your knees straddling each side of his face and it still wasn’t close enough. “Bon appétit.”

All five of his coarse fingerpads digging into the cheeks of your ass, he flicks his wrist and drags you straight into the gaping cavern of his maw. His glistening tongue was propped out just right to spank the surface of your pussylips on his tastebuds.

“A-ah.” Thighs trembling, it feels so strangely and erotically wet with him salivating all over.

He feels a slippery splosh of your juices leak from your slit and straight into his gullet, the creamy taste flooding up his tongue. “O-ohhh–” Savoring. “Has anyone ever made you feel like hah- this?”

“N-not at all, Your Gr-”

“Kento.”

“K-Kento–!” It’s all that you can squeal when the flexible tendril of his muscle crowns your hole and you’re seeing stars. His tongue is just so long n’ girthy that it makes your poor, filthy entrance clench when he’s slipping just an inch inside. “Fuck- n-ngh- fuck–!”

“Charmed you’re enjoying, ma’am.” And he sounds so genuinely elated - breathy, shaken - at the pretty moans falling from your mouth like music.

Though, it’s not enough.

It might never be enough, so the duke can only prop up slightly on one of his strong elbows just to angle his mouth into the perfect French kiss with your cunt. Slapping his tongue right over the puffy folds of your pussy, he’s licking and licking each stray bead of slick bubbling out of you until you’re all tender and glossy.

Only then is he wafting his right thumb vertically down your cute slit, “Though, not to overwork my dear lady- but might you mind lending me a…hand?”

You’re snapping your head down so fast that your chin knocks against your heaving chest, “Wh-what do you need, Your- ah, Kento?”

“Oh, nothing much, my darling. Just…” Tilting his head, Nanami’s rendering you stupidly dizzy each time he twists the callused knob of his thumb in and out of your folds. “Spit in my mouth.”

“Wh-would that be appropriate?” He was filthy.

Feral. “I would love nothing more.”

And he meant it- he truly, completely, and utterly meant it. You’re watching his prominent Adam’s apple bob greedily once the bead of pearly saliva bubbles between your lips and dead-on into his mouth. Only swirlin’ inside for a mere second before spitting right back into your polished cunt. Hard.

Letting the fat wad slip between your lips, and Nanami doesn’t waste a single second before pushing his rugged middle finger inside your hole.

“There we go.” Gazing in pure lecherous wonderment at the way your needy ring of muscle was swallowing him up, every single solid inch right down to his mountainous knuckle. What a tight fit. “There- there, atta girl.”

“It just feels so- ngh- so-” You don’t even know how to control yourself, hips jerking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the globes of your ass strike his chin and make you keen. “Ah!”

“Eeeeeasy does it, ma’am.”

And he’s still grunting your name out with that title- even as he’s pryin’ apart your bloated lips and sticking in yet another digit. The fat ends of his index swiping across, engraving his family signet ring against your very walls-

“This is only a prelude, darling.” You’re flinching at the chilling scrape of the band on his second finger, and he grins. Glueing that very grin against your throbbing clit, he spits again- “Only just getting started.”

“Fuck- fuck!” Going against every policy you’d learned in polite society, you’re throwing your hips back and gyrating out looong sloppy drags of your cunt.

Straight from the treacly base of your pussy to where Nanami was nuzzling your sensitive clit with his nose. Again. And again and again- the duke’s kiss-bitten lips were burning and he’s still craning his neck for more. Panting, “Make a mess of me, My Lady. S’what I’m hah- here for.”

“N-ngh, it feels so gooood, Kento.”

And you don’t even have any inhibitions about that little slip-up of titles anymore, back arching into a perfect curvy ‘S’ shape at the way he’s salivating all over your pussy.

Rovering the ridged edges of his tongue in a cutesy lil’ heart over your clit, pressing down just enough pressure on it like a button. And it’s exactly what he needs to make you gasp, your hole winking- so that he can easily slide-slide-sliiide a third finger in with a resonating squelch!

“So wet. So divine.” He’s groaning at the sight of you suckling in on him and all his inches. Fitted in so deeply that your orifice is struggling to even squeeze, thighs clamping over his sweaty temples. Feeling inside you. Searching. “I must ask that you ruin me, darlin’. Ride me faster.”

Thighs aching, breaths shortening. His metal glasses thump the scorching front of your cunt and you whine.

“Faster.”

“P-pleeease!”

It’s like he’s ravaging your pussy with his thrusts, blond brows furrowing in so tight as he’s leaning in even closer. Tuggin’ apart your folds, he’s discovering every sleek, leaking inch of your cunt like he didn’t have enough time. Never would.

And it’s with only spank after spank of his metallic ring that he’s somehow skidding it right down your saccharine walls and directly into your g-spot. “H-here.”

“There.” Even with the kaleidoscope of tears dazzling your vision, you can make out the completely pussydrunken grin that smears across his face.

Rutting up against the swollen slope of your pussy, he laps up every sodden ounce of slick that escapes you once he hits his slimy target. “With greater fervour now, My Lady.” Your throat clogs up every time he reels his fingerpads down to the curvaceous edges and slams back in. “Harder-”

You grip onto the straight ends of his deltoids, flexing with muscular strength. “I-I’m not sure if that is possible-”

“Do not be gentle with me.” And it almost sounds like a command. Though he’s acting upon it like it’s a complete beg- swerving his palm to sticky clammily onto your left ass cheek and pushing you. “Let yourself hah- go. Give me all of you, I beg.”

You had the most powerful, stoic duke of all the season begging.

And he needed it- he was toying with the lacy circle of your garter and snapping it down onto your flesh with a flick of his fingers.

Only to make you wetter.

So wet with sappy, meady slick that he’s gulping down like his favorite liquor- splashing down between his lips and making him more n’ more inebriated by the second.

Glasses still on. Pumping his hips up into the empty air, all he could do was fuck his fingers into your hotly-glossed walls and pretend he’s doing it all with his aching cock. “Do you think you can handle a fourth, darling?”

Gasping, “P-perhaps-”

“Then…brace yourself…”

You couldn’t brace yourself. You couldn’t even intake a steady breath even if you tried.

Because while you’re perching your dripping pussy near the line of his straight nosebridge, Nanami’s slipping in the coiled edge of his lengthy tongue. Not his fingers. His tongue.

In addition to all he was rummaging your melty insides with, he swabs over the texture of his tastebuds down where you were the most delicate and strokes his tongue inside—

“Sh-shit- shit shit shit-” Your mouth juts out into such an adorable pout that makes the man beneath you thrusts his rugged hips upwards. “I-I think I’m…close, Kento.”

“S’that so? Gonna cum?”

So difficult to even breathe when he’s strobing his fingertips down your bulging g-spot, already battered and bruised with the slamming impacts. With the way he swats the side of your thighs stinging with your garter, “Mhm—hck!”

Probin’ every velvety nook and cranny with his touch, Nanami can’t have you on his weeping cock so he’s twisting all his three- now four fingers, and his tongue inside until his wrist aches. His jaw strained. Tastebuds raw, just as much as your pussy was.

“The orchestra is playing, you can be as loud as your heart desires. Say the words, ma’am- I beg of you to please just hah! say the words.”

It makes your vulnerable lips tremble just to formulate the next few scandalous words, never before having been so fucked-out. “Y-yes. Yes, please. Gonna…cum.”

And you swear that the ever-sensible Nanami Kento is gurgling out a wet giggle right between the space of your puffy pussylips, sending white-hot shockwaves down your bowed spine. “I would be-” He wetly gasps out, before slapping his handsome features right back down.

Addicted. He can’t even move.

“I would- hah- I would be quite-” And his spectacles dig in deep until the metal surface sizzles against your core, pushing and pushing himself back. His tongue’s going wild, stirring around with the wettest slurps. “I would be quite offended if you didn’t, my love.”

He doesn’t just mutter the words - he’s biting them right ‘round the perky knob of your clit. Teething his glinting canines just hard enough while he’s slipping his tongue back out - right on time, right at the very second to tastefully receive the way you throw your head back and squirt.

Hot. Hard.

It feels like your entire body’s caught on fire and no matter how much you’re slobbering your hips to the front n’ back, it only makes the sensation worse.

Your eyes water, mouth hanging open stupidly. “Yes- yes yes yes yes- I’m cumming-” Thighs trembling down upon either side of his eardrums at the friction- tight, and he doesn’t even care. “I-I’m cumming.”

“Squirting, My Lady.” Nanami corrects you, gently. Though, it’s a fucking miracle he even had the patience to considering that he’s gasping and panting for air but only pushin’ himself closer to the oodles of cute slick seeping out from you.

He doesn’t even care.

Doesn’t even need air- not when he can perk his head just right and push against your thighs. Wide maw unfastened gluttonously ajar to let the thick trickles of sap drip into his mouth after each zap! of bliss. Drowning him.

Mouth sagging further open, lungs screaming at him. So many bucketloads of syrupy sweet sap that sprays his features until they’re all glittery. “Squirt- oh. You’re- ngh-”

And something’s breaking at the back of his throat when he’s roaming his dexterous, looong tongue between the plumpness of your pussylips, and you’re taking him in so easily.

Overstimulated till you can let off only whines n’ sobs when he’s lazily dabbing his way inside your quivering hole.

“I’m so ruined, Kento.” Riding and riding. He wanted you to use him and you were- “It feels s-so strange.” The peak of your high was one big wave, and it tingles underneath your skin and makes your eyes roll.

Never - even during all those long, lonely nights with your hand slipped underneath the covers - did it ever feel like this. Never were you leaking your essence this much, with your sappy juices falling all down the sides of his rosy red lips. “Never f-felt this ngh- way before, Ken.”

And that makes him groan.

Slowly, gingerly - almost like it hurt for him to detach his hungry lips with yours, he’s pulling you off with one hand stuck to your hips. Surging backwards with- no, he can’t surge backwards.

The duke’s planting one more firm kiss onto your cunt, open-mouthed. And then jerking back- and forth. Another kiss. Another repeat until about five times later and he’s finally ready to say goodbye to your sweet, overspilling pussy.

But he’s not done with his little show- oh, the moment you’re finally spying a good, long look at him, you think you might cum again from just that.

Because Nanami Kento was ruined - blond hair astray, spectacles drooping down his nose, your pussy juices worn all over from the apples of his blushin’ cheeks down to his jawline like a lewd medal.

Waterfalling between the curves of his pectorals, gleaming wherever his pale skin was flushed. He looked as if there was a part of him that was feverish - barely even registering what he’s doing once he’s tugging off his slick-glazed glasses and sucking those pearly beads off of the frame.

Licking his completely wet glasses clean, Nanami tilts his head with a grin like he’s never been more accomplished. “I only live to please you, ma’am.”

“But that’s not fair.” You huff out a stubborn breath, shuffling down his tall body to try and cup the bulging outline between his legs that almost looked painful. “I, too, wish to-”

“Tonight is not the night, I’m hah- afraid.” He’s cleanly cutting off both your plea and your palm. Instead bringing up your shaky hand to kiss the inside of your wrist. Gloves off, his eyes primal and dead set on you. “I could never ask you to get on your knees. Tonight, I only ask that you let me drive you wild, darling. Let me devour you whole.”

And he meant it.

Oh, within sultry seconds Nanami was moving himself off of the tabletop and standing adjacent. Tall. Strong. Not letting you lift a single finger before he loops two hands underneath your thighs and draaaags you to the very edge.

Moistened thighs pasting to his obliques, “Pray, allow me to see to it. To everything.”

And you just wanted to rip the gossamer fabric of your dress off, but Nanami was oh-so-delicate with his hands all over you. Even though he’s fitting himself animalistically between your lewd legs and rutting-

“Why-” His breath catches once your petticoat and stocking are peeled off, both thumbs spreading your swollen pussylips like a lotus. Completely exposed now. “-hello, my love.”

Your mouth parts when you’re realizing that he’s not just talking to you- he’s talking to your cunt. Maw stretched into a smile so utterly lovin’, Nanami keeps that same dopey grin on as he’s leering his face down to spit.

Again.

“Please, Kento.” You’re bucking your hips up impatiently, still shaky with the aftershocks of your high but you wanted more more more. Needed it. “P-put it in.”

He groans- oh, was it him that taught your sweet mouth to say those words. Corrupting you with every second he’s drawing soppy circles on your wet outer pussy, the duke can only tear down his dress coat and his trousers. Careful with yours but he was ripping his own clothes off. “As you wish, my darling.”

It’s just then that he’s finishing tugging down his sensually tight breeches—and you’re drinking in all of him. And fuck- was it a sight only for your most light-skirted dreams.

Because Nanami Kento was naturally chiseled, to the point where you could count each of his eight washboard abs. Every dip and muscular curve of his hardened front just tensed when the cool air hit him, leading a path of gold along his middle.

A light happy trail down, down, down to where his red n’ aching cock sat heavily, so hard that his bulging tip looked just about ready to burst. Eight maybe even nine inches long, and so girthy that it made your mouth drop as if you wanted him fitted inside already.

You’re watching as his pre-glazed tip only coats an even more glistening layer of sap at your sinful attention. Trickling all the way down to his tightening balls, “You’re staring—”

“C-can you blame me?”

“I suppose not.” And the warmth of his towering proximity hits your body like a furnace, making you squirm restlessly when Nanami’s leaning over the edge of the table to tap-tap-tap his thick cockhead down between your legs. Rock-hard. “Brace yourself, ma’am, mhm?”

Then he’s splitting you apart-

And then he’s arching his sculpted shoulders to cage you underneath him and swearing–“Fuck.”

The first time ever that you’re hearing him spew profanities, just barely slipping the pointed globe of his shaft past the texture of your tight, hot cunt was ruining him.

“I-I apologize, My Lady.” It was making him gasp, “I apologize, how uncouth of my character. I didn’t mean to-” It was making him urgently snap his head down in panic and watch with primal awe as he ruts- deeper. “F-fuck!”

“Oh my god-” You’re throwing your head back at the pressure, only to be grappled back in by Nanami just so that he can sliiide his lips across yours. Open-mouthed. “H-how are you going in so deep-”

“I cannot help myself.” Grunting, Nanami doesn’t even feel the stinging pain when he’s slamming his capped knee down on the plane of the desk. Angling his slender hips to shove the slimy crown of his tip into your gooey entrance, “It’s simply- it’s just-”

And Nanami Kento, so articulate and calm, doesn’t have the damn words anymore.

Stuttering, falling over his panic to thrust in and in between your trembling legs. He feels the cute rimming circle of your cunt tighten ‘round his fattened girth, and snaps his head down in panic. Spitting. “I-I must have it fit inside, darling. Please, allow me just the tip, at least.”

“Will- ngh! will it even-”

“Of course.” And he’ll apologize for interrupting your sentence later - much, much later.

But for right now, the only thing that sparks in his fuzzy mind was to raise his toned left forearm up to your drivelling maw. Where you start gnawing wetly down on his skin, he spits-

“Bite down. Harder.” Hips sloppy, knee hiking up even further to maze his flared cock inside. You feel your elastic hole stretch a wider diameter as he’s slipping yet another solid inch in. “Come now, harder. You can ngh- take it.”

“It’s going in.” And you don’t know whether you wanted to slam your hips forwards or jerk vulnerably at the sheer weight of his body leaning down.

He breathes, “Yes- yes.” The breeze of his pants fanning your face, making your entire body erupt in flames by the time he’s squeezing past the tender slit carved onto his shaft. Cementing the bulging edge of his cocktip to the roof of your pussy with a raw sluuurp. “I have you. shall not let you fall- bite.”

And it’s all that you can do.

Because Nanami’s fucking you into office table like he wanted you to splinter straight through.

The half-lidded peripherals of his eyes latching onto where you were speared open like he was watching his personal show, “I hope you know…I’m no- hah- easily satiated man, my love.”

“Wh-what do you- fuck!”

Just on cue, he’s slamming the lines of his hardened hipbones against your inner thighs and making you recoil back near the edge of the table. Dangerously. Barely even giving you a second to pick yourself back up before he reaches over to lace both his rugged palms on top of your clammy scalp. Intertwining. Holding you there.

‘Just the tip’ he said. And yet here he was, pinning you down just to bully his vein-covered length between your snugly stubborn lips.

“Do not think to run from me-”

“Could never- ngh- could never-” You’re babbling easily at this point, because the curvy trails that his veins left along your walls were only driving you mad. “Just want more, Kento.”

“…Pardon?”

You blink your teary eyes up at him in a way that makes his throbbing girth fatten up, every ounce of blood in the duke’s head rushing to the ballooned-up knob of his tip. “M-more, I say-”

“More.” He’s echoing out, more to himself. Higher-pitched. Almost tasting the pure need in that one word, and the very repetition makes him half-thrust straight into the goopy depths of your pussy. “More…more.”

Nanami pants out a husky giggle—“More.” Oh, he’s just so in love with the way your cunt was struggling to swallow him whole n’ yet squeezing as you try. He leans back down and spits once more, thoroughly ungentleman-like. “Forgive my haste. You just m-make- me-”

And you swear you hear the tail end of that particular sentence break off into a whine once he’s finally, finally bottoming out.

So sensitive that all it takes is one, two, three lucious swabs of his drivelling orifice to get you to cum. Throat torn with hoarse moans, head throwing back- “I’m- once more…?”

“F-fuck. You are.” Easing in the girth of his cockhead to be spanked against your cervix and make you see stars. Nanami’s already flooding your pussy with a pour of his scalding hot precum. “What a wonder this enchanting body is for me.”

Again. He has you orgasming all over him again.

He’s feeling just a twinge of disappointment in himself for not making you squirt yet another time- but the night was still young. And your sappy cunt was already so wet, with beads of sparkly juices smearing down his happy trail every time he’s whipping his hips forwards.

Slam after slam.

Your entire body twitches with startles of euphoria, mewling. “Th-there’s so much- so- ah.”

Ah, how he would love to reach his hands over and wipe away the glistening tears streaming down your pretty face.

But no, right now he had them locked on top of your head and was using the leverage to pound you stupid. Harder. Spiking the peaks of your high with each thorough probe of his stout, mushroom tip. “I know. I know I know I-”

CRACK!

Oh.

The desk.

It takes a split-second for both your hazed minds to realize that the ancient mahogany table was sagging on one end, Nanami’s raw natural strength too much for it to handle. And then not even that for him to pull out his cock with a wet plop!

Manhandling you down onto the hardwood floors like a doll, on all fours. It’s such a sinfully new angle to have him looming behind you, tense core plastered against your back once his lengthy cock siiiinks in-

Orgasm still dwindling, entire body shaking. “Fuck- nghhh- fuck, Kento–!”

“You are doing so well, darling.” One hand glues onto the side of your left ass cheek and tugs you back down with his grip. The other carefully rovers just underneath your tummy, “M-makes it so easy to wish to hah- give away to my inclinations.”

A primal sob wrenches from your throat when you’re feeling the slimy drag of his globular, pointed tip. Drawin’ out a zig-zag down and down where you were most delicate, until he reaches the target of your cervix, spank! “Th-then proceed- I beg of you.”

You didn’t know what those guttural words would mean. You didn’t even know if you would make it out alive- but right now you’re starting to doubt it once Nanami gasps.

Once he’s slamming one of his flattened feets by the side of your thigh, deeper. The raw, sensual feeling so much that he can’t control himself. Rutting and rutting away as if he’s gone feral—

“Is this to- to your liking then, ma’am?” The duke’s gurgling out through a translucent froth of spittle, splat-splattering right down the middle of your arched spine. “H-how about now?”

He shutters his eyes furiously and rams the remaining few inches of his cock. Bottomed out and still trying to probe even deeper inside, so all he can do is plant his sock-covered foot over the top of your head and press. Bending. “N-now?”

“I adore it—” You’re keenly whining, “Love it- ngh- please.”

Proudly, Nanami dares to snicker as his left thumb brushes down the plump, roaming tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushin’ down just on the curvy tip of where you could feel his split-ended cockhead thrashing your poor insides. “And I should love to hah! make this gorgeous cunt mine- make you mine.”

And he was a man of action.

It was high time you realized that, because within exactly three repeated swats of his plummy, rose-colored shaft- he’s discovering your g-spot. He’s kissing that bullseye with a looong, soppy glide.

“Though…that is what I am doing, that should be no hngh- sham.”

Feeling all the crimson rush to your head, he presses down just as his aching hot cock presses in. “It’s- it’s just- fuck.”

Faster. Harder. So sloppy that the planks of the floorboards start to sing out in singing creaks of protest, soiling with a trickle of syrupy precum and slick being poured from straight between your legs. Constantly.

Rubbing himself swollen n’ redly raw on the cavern of your tight pussy, Nanami doesn’t even want to blink to break his staring contest with your bulging pussylips.

Milking himself.

The sweetest smooch for your sweetest spot, Nanami coos as you shake- struggling to keep your weakened arms straight as you hold yourself up in this lecherous position. “Come now.” Your overstimulated vision spots with pure white as he darts the hand at your stomach to loop around your throat like a necklace - a headlock. Springing you upright—“I have you, My Lady.”

Spittle waterfalls in embarrassing bucketloads from your mouth and stains the front of his beefy forearm, squeezing your airway. Dilated pupils swirlin’ stupidly every time his strawberry divot circles the entrance to your womb. Squealing, “Y-you…ngh!…mm–”

“Hmmm—?”

“You- hck! please, Ken-”

His warm, ravaging cock was so big that the constant stretch of your walls finally had you stupid. Your brain nothing but a pulp of melted mush every time he snaps his clammy hips to your ass with a stinging pap! of skin-on-skin.

“Me…I’m-” And it’s like each time the puffy veins decorating each side of his overworked shaft gets squeezed, Nanami finds himself seeing stars. Sweaty, bulging biceps tightening on your throat even harder- you scream. “I have you, My Lady- I’m yours.”

Your hole gaping, thighs wet. Just taking everything he’s giving as he finally cums—and you do, too.

Though, you’re not registering it at first.

Not when that leaky hole at the very end of his cherry-red shaft pipes out a creamy icing of cum, layering thickly across every inch and cranny of your rummaged insides. Pump after pump- each one has your pathetic pussy overspilling with so many knotted wads of seed, and yet he always had so much more more more-

“O-oh.” He’s grunting out, feeling a particularly big splash of sap at the base of his cock- and it’s only then that you’re both realizing that you’d just squirted. All over again.

It’s traveling down like a flood between your thighs, painting a glistening ring on the tawny curls at his hilt. Soaking him utterly n’ completely that Nanami finds each thrust to let off the most primal sluuuurp!

“You- you really are the most beautiful hck! lady that has graced this Earth, my love.” Your gaze, your smile, that soul. It was your soul he found most beautiful, the instant he laid his eyes upon you.

He simply knew.

“Y-yet, I’m a chambermaid-”

“I care not.”

“You’re just-” It’s a damn wonder that you even could still speak by now, because every rubbin’ massage of his fat cock only left your mind blank. “-saying- mmm- saying that, Kento.”

“I fear you are mistaken.”

His veins indent your walls with lightning bolts, his cum cobwebbed across your spongy cervix and was splashing after each jackhammer.

Nanami drills into you low and slow now just to help your dripping wet cunt suck him dry. Loving the cute, velvety way you were clamping around his rovering shaft tiredly, “Only allow me to prove my ngh- heart.”

You’re so fucked-out that you’re barely even flinching when he’s finally freeing you of his sinful headlock. Taking mere nanoseconds to pluck that infamous House of Nanami signet ring off of his finger- and pushing it straight down the ring finger on your left.

An engagement. A promise.

“I shall get you another ring- one that is proper, one you deserve, when- if you shall have me, My Lady.” The smoky tone of Nanami Kento’s bass tickles the side of your stinging throat, almost a purr. “I swear it upon my word-” He guides that very same boneless hand of yours to cup his plush, thumping left pectoral. “-and my heart, to forever keep you the most beautiful lady upon this Earth. You shall never want, for I pledge to you my body, my soul for your happiness.”

You whimper, thighs still shaking with your high. Tears slipping down your face that he kisses away, “I-if you’ll have me, Your Grace.”

“Kento.”

And by the time the last of his wadded ounces of cum had finished spraying out, Nanami pulls his hips back with a bellowing squelch that makes your body heat flare. Such a creamy mess of ivory glossing your pussylips that he’s taking one glimpse at and gasping-

You mewl, “K-Ken, what are you-”

“It seems…” He drawls, manhandling you spread-out onto your back with his sculptured hands. Snaking his face down to mouth a hot puff over your swollen folds that stick together. Tasting. Drooling like he’d just happened across his favorite dessert. “-that the ball is far from finished, my wife.”

Dearest gentle reader,

It seems we have a rather special (and scandalously romantic!) special announcement. Yes, whilst your lips were whispering at her majesty the Queen’s Royal Diamond Ball the previous night, those of his grace, Duke Nanami Kento, have certainly been up to worse.

The ton reached new heights of hysteria over Duke Nanami’s attendance of the ball with his lovely chambermaid acquaintance. This author personally confirms that her highness’s royal orchestra was barely audible over the sound of shattering hearts!

However, if this was where the story ended, dear readers, we would still possess our wits. Not only had her highness titled this unnamed belle of the ball as the Diamond of the season; aforementioned diamond was not in audience of her naming!

Where was she, you might ask? Why, nowhere else but bedding a certain handsome duke—or so palace patrol whisper amongst the halls.

An impatient dalliance or stirring the pot? You tell me, dear reader, though it certainly doesn’t help that said new diamond was spotted near the end of the evening with both a real diamond and the Nanami signet ring upon one’s betrothal finger!

It’s said that the House of Nanami - and particularly a once-stoic Duke Nanami Kento - has been exceptionally lively in preparation for the blessed union and his new bride.

On the other hand, this author shall have to purchase new robes for a summer wedding.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.

A/N. Tell me why it was SAUR difficult to write in regency speak I feel like I don’t even know this language anymore pls-

Plagiarism not authorized.

#nanami x reader #nanami smut

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jaa1682-27 · 4 months ago

Text

The Weight of It All

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You’ve been hiding your sickness—and the truth—from Joel for weeks. But when a pregnancy test confirms your fears, the weight of it becomes too much to bear. Telling him risks reopening old wounds… but keeping it secret might break you both.

WC: 3.8K

tags: Age gap (60s Joel x 30s reader), pregnancy reveal, anxiety, crying, panic, mentions of past child loss (Sarah), emotional vulnerability, soft Joel, comfort, domestic tenderness, happy ending

My Masterlist

You’ve been sick for days. Maybe longer.

It started as something small—dull headaches, a little nausea in the mornings, that tight ache behind your ribs when you stood too fast. Nothing worth bringing up. Not with Joel. Not when he already worries too much.

You’d blamed it on stress. On the cold. On whatever dried meat Maria had handed you from the trade post. But it hasn’t gone away. It’s gotten worse.

Today, it hits harder than usual. Your stomach twists before your eyes even open. You lie in bed, curled on your side, one hand pressed to your mouth, breathing shallowly through your nose.

Joel’s already up. You hear him in the kitchen—footsteps creaking across the floorboards, the soft clink of silverware, the low grumble of the stove catching. You try to move, but the moment you sit up, your body rebels.

You make it to the bathroom just in time.

You vomit hard, clutching the edge of the sink like it might keep you tethered. Cold sweat beads on your neck, your spine prickling with heat and nausea and panic.

It’s not the first time this week.

And still, you haven’t told him.

By the time you pull yourself together, Joel’s voice is already calling down the hallway.

“Breakfast’s ready. You up?”

You splash water on your face and don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, your lips chapped. You stare at yourself a moment too long.

Then you step into the hallway like nothing’s wrong.

He doesn’t question you.

He never does at first.

Joel’s at the stove, dividing up the food onto two plates. It’s not much—just scrambled eggs and a toasted slice of bread—but he’s humming under his breath like he’s proud of it. You try to sit down without making a face. The smell turns your stomach.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” he says, voice low and easy. “Sleep okay?”

You nod. Lie.

He sets the plate in front of you. You force yourself to eat a few bites, chewing carefully, swallowing around the nausea.

“You sure you’re not gettin’ sick?” he asks after a while, studying you. “You’ve been lookin’ a little… off.”

You shake your head too quickly. “No, just tired. Stomach’s been weird. Probably a bug or something.”

He doesn’t push. Just narrows his eyes, then reaches over to squeeze your thigh under the table. A quiet gesture. Comforting. You wish it didn’t make your chest ache.

You don’t talk much after that. Joel launches into something about a new gate they’re reinforcing on the east wall, and you nod along, trying not to gag every time you lift your fork. You excuse yourself early and claim a headache. He offers to make tea. You say no.

By the time you crawl back into bed, you’re already crying.

The test isn’t something you went looking for. Not really.

It’s tucked in the back of your dresser, hidden beneath a pair of old gloves and a cracked mirror you meant to throw away. You remember Maria handing it to you months ago, half-joking—“Just in case.” You’d laughed then. Said something sarcastic. Stuffed it in the drawer and forgot.

But you find it now.

Hands shaking.

Heart pounding.

You stare at the little plastic thing like it’s a weapon.

You haven’t had your period in… shit. You count on your fingers. At least two months. Maybe more. You try to remember when the last time was and come up blank. Just nausea and headaches and crying over stupid things like burnt toast and Joel leaving his damn flannel on the floor again.

You sit on the edge of the bed and peel the wrapper back slowly.

The directions are smeared but readable. You follow them. You take the test.

You wait.

Two minutes feels like an hour.

You pace the room, bare feet cold against the floor, every breath too shallow, too loud. You’re not ready for this. You can’t be. You’ve been careful. Joel’s older. You thought…

You glance at the stick.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day.

No denying it. No maybes. No confusion.

You’re pregnant.

You sink to the floor and cry so hard your throat burns.

It’s not that you don’t want a baby.

It’s that you don’t know how to have one. Not here. Not in this world. And not with Joel, not after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s lost.

You think about Sarah. The photo he keeps in his coat pocket. The way he still gets quiet when kids are nearby. The way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s waiting for you to vanish, too.

He hasn’t said her name in months.

But you see it in his eyes.

You press your hands to your stomach. Try to imagine what’s inside. Try to make it feel real.

And it does.

Terrifyingly real.

But you don’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the week after.

You keep pretending.

Keep hiding.

Keep waking up sick and saying it’s nothing.

Because you love him too much to ruin this.

And you’re afraid—so afraid—that this will be the thing that finally breaks him.

You don’t remember when it stopped being something you could ignore.

Maybe it was when your nausea turned into full-blown vomiting every other morning. Maybe it was the way your body started to ache differently—heavier, tender in places it hadn’t been before. Or maybe it was the way Joel kept watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You try to keep up the act. Try to smile when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Try to laugh when he mutters something sarcastic about Jackson politics or how damn cold it still is. You sit with him by the fire at night, listening to the quiet crackle of the wood, letting him rest his hand on your thigh like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

You’ve got a secret growing inside you. One you didn’t ask for. One you still don’t know how to feel about.

And it’s eating you alive.

You start waking up before Joel does, slipping quietly out of bed to vomit or dry heave into the toilet, chewing your lip to keep from crying out. You brush your teeth in silence. Splash cold water on your face. Sit on the edge of the tub until the spinning stops.

By the time he’s awake, you’re already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page on in three days.

“You sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?” Joel asks again that morning, a mug of tea in his hand instead of coffee. “You’ve been… quiet.”

“I’m just tired.”

He gives you a look.

You try to change the subject. “What time you heading out with Tommy today?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just hands you the mug. It’s chamomile. Your favorite. He’s trying. It makes your heart ache.

“I could stay,” he says slowly, sitting down beside you. “Ain’t nothin’ urgent. We were just gonna check the perimeter out past the ridge.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I’m fine. Go.”

His jaw tightens a little. Not in frustration—more like… uncertainty. Like he doesn’t quite believe you but doesn’t know how to press without making things worse.

He kisses your forehead before he leaves.

You cry as soon as the door shuts.

You wander out later, needing air, even though the snow’s still packed in frozen ridges along the path outside the cabin. The sky is overcast, the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You wrap Joel’s flannel tighter around you—he left it behind again this morning—and follow the half-trodden trail into the woods behind the cabin.

No one follows.

No one knows.

You find the edge of the treeline, the big flat rock you sometimes sit on in warmer months. You stand there now, breath puffing out in clouds, staring down at your gloved hands like they might hold an answer.

You fish the test out of your coat pocket.

You’ve been carrying it with you. You don’t know why.

Two pink lines, clear as ever.

You could throw it into the snow. You think about it—feel the urge in your fingers, the burst of anger that’s starting to rise like bile. You want to throw it, scream, crush it beneath your boot, pretend this isn’t happening.

But you don’t.

You sit.

And you hold it.

And you cry again.

That night, Joel makes soup. He tries not to burn it this time. You sit at the table and pretend to eat, smiling when he cracks a joke about the carrots being too soft. You’re exhausted, not just physically but from the weight of pretending.

“Was Maria askin’ about you today?” Joel says casually, handing you a piece of crusty bread. “Said she hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Just been tired.”

“She said you should stop by.”

“I will.”

You won’t.

Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. “You know you can tell me if somethin’s wrong, right?”

You freeze.

He says it so gently, it almost breaks you. No suspicion in his voice, just quiet concern. The kind he only shows when he thinks you’re about to run—or when he is.

You want to tell him. You do.

But fear clamps down hard on your throat.

What if he looks at you and sees a mistake?

What if he looks at you and sees Sarah?

What if this is the thing that makes him leave?

You force a smile. “I know.”

Joel looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

He just reaches for your hand across the table and holds it in his calloused palm.

And you grip it like it’s the only solid thing keeping you from unraveling.

The nightmares come next.

You dream of blood. Of silence. Of holding something small and helpless and watching it disappear. You wake up gasping, clutching your stomach. Joel stirs beside you but doesn’t wake, and you’re glad. You don’t want him to see you like this.

You start wearing looser clothes. You start avoiding the mirror. You start skipping dinner.

Joel notices. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asks one night, voice quiet against your shoulder.

You’re in bed, turned away from him, pretending to be asleep. His fingers brush your arm.

“You’ve been distant.”

You say nothing. Your throat tightens.

“I ain’t mad,” he adds. “Just worried.”

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I love you, y’know,” Joel murmurs. “Even when you shut down like this.”

That’s the moment your heart breaks.

Because you realize what you’re doing isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. Not to the tiny life you’re carrying inside you.

But you’re still not ready.

Not yet.

You nod into the pillow, blinking tears onto the fabric.

“Love you too.”

A week passes.

Maybe more.

You lose track of time, counting your life in nausea and guilt and half-eaten meals. Joel never says it out loud, but you can see it in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

You think about telling him every night.

You rehearse the words. I’m pregnant. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared.

But when you open your mouth, nothing comes.

Until finally… it does.

You don’t plan to tell him that night.

It’s the same as every other evening lately. Joel gets back late from patrol, shedding his coat and boots at the door with a tired grunt. You’re already in the kitchen, stirring soup that smells better than it tastes. You’re still too nauseous to eat more than a few bites, but you pretend for his sake.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just waiting.

The table is quiet as you both eat. Joel hums under his breath between spoonfuls, something familiar—an old Johnny Cash tune, maybe. He thanks you like always. Tells you it’s good even though it’s barely seasoned.

After dinner, he offers to wash up, and you let him. Your hands won’t stop shaking anyway.

You find him in bed later, shirtless and reading something he borrowed from Tommy—a survival manual someone dug up from the library. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just shifts a little to make room for you under the quilt, reaching out to rest a warm hand on your hip when you slide in beside him.

You lie there stiffly.

Heart pounding.

Stomach twisting.

“You’re awful quiet,” he murmurs after a while, voice rough from sleep already creeping in.

You swallow. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” He turns slightly, fingers idly stroking the hem of your shirt. “You been sayin’ that a lot lately.”

You tense.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “Yeah.”

Joel doesn’t push. Not right away. He just keeps tracing slow circles on your skin, quiet and patient, like he’s waiting for something you’re not sure you know how to give.

And then—

“Been thinkin’…” he says slowly. “Maybe you oughta see that doctor Maria keeps fussin’ about. Just in case.”

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

Joel rolls onto his side to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His brow furrows, and the concern there nearly guts you.

“You’ve been sick almost every damn day,” he says gently. “You ain’t eatin’. You’re pale. You cry at soup commercials.”

You bark a laugh that dissolves into a sob before you can stop it.

Joel’s expression shifts. Alarmed now. He sits up fully, cupping your face in both hands. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, curling into yourself. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What—? Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

And finally—finally—you say it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not shocked. Not gasped or cursed.

Just… silence.

You feel him go still, like every muscle has locked up at once. His hands fall from your face.

You don’t look at him.

“I found the test a couple weeks ago,” you say, words tumbling now, rushed and raw. “I thought it was a stomach bug, or something I ate, but then it didn’t stop. And I remembered Maria gave me that test a while back and I just—fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, Joel. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”

“To me?”

Your breath catches.

Joel’s voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You finally glance at him.

He looks shell-shocked. Not angry. Not even upset. Just… wrecked. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “After everything. After Sarah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the blanket bunched around his waist, like it might offer an explanation he can’t find in your words.

“I thought you’d leave,” you admit softly. “Or worse—I thought you’d stay, but you’d hate me for it.”

Joel blinks slowly. “You really think that little of me?”

“No.” You wipe your eyes. “No, I just—I know what this means for you. I know what it could bring back.”

Joel’s breath hitches. He leans back against the headboard, one hand dragging over his face. The silence stretches between you like a rope pulled taut.

“I ain’t mad,” he says finally.

You flinch.

“I ain’t,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just… I need a second.”

You nod. Curl your knees to your chest. You try not to cry again, but your chest won’t stop heaving, your hands won’t stop trembling.

Joel stays where he is for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching you.

But he doesn’t leave.

And somehow, that’s what breaks you the most.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty.

Then Joel shifts.

He reaches for you slowly, hesitantly, and when you don’t pull away, he pulls you into his arms.

You bury your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart.

He holds you through all of it. Lets you sob until your voice goes hoarse, rubbing your back and whispering nothing-words you barely register.

When you finally quiet, he kisses the top of your head.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, not angry. Just aching.

“I was scared.”

“I know.” He sighs against your temple. “So was I.”

You blink. “You?”

Joel nods, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red.

“I knew somethin’ was off. Knew it wasn’t just the weather or the food. I kept thinkin’ about what it could be, and I… I think I knew. I just didn’t wanna be the one to say it.”

“Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because if I said it, it’d be real. And if it’s real, it can be lost.”

Your breath catches.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“But I’m not walkin’ away,” he says, voice rough but certain. “Not from you. Not from this.”

You close your eyes.

“Joel—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, whisper soft. “But I want to try. If you want this… I want it too.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I do. I really do.”

He pulls you into his chest again and kisses your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time, you believe him.

You wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

It’s still dark, the kind of blue-black quiet that only settles in just before dawn. Joel’s arm is wrapped around your middle, his chest pressed warm and steady to your back, one hand splayed low over your stomach like he already knows what’s growing there.

Maybe he does.

He hasn’t moved all night.

You lie still for a while, not quite ready to break the spell. The room is quiet, the fire low in the hearth, the storm outside soft but persistent. You can hear his breathing behind you—slow, even, calmer than you’ve heard it in days.

It’s the first time you’ve really slept in weeks. The first time you haven’t woken up sick with dread curling through your spine. There’s fear, still. Of course there is. But it’s quieter now. Outweighed by something else.

Something that feels a little like hope.

Joel stirs not long after, mumbling sleep-drunk nonsense against your neck.

You hum softly, shifting to face him. His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep. You expect him to look tense. Uncertain. But he doesn’t.

He looks soft.

His thumb brushes your hip. “Mornin’.”

“Hi,” you whisper.

His gaze drifts to your stomach, then back to your face. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Better.”

He studies you a beat longer. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. Still tired. A little queasy. But… it’s different now.”

Joel’s fingers flex against your side. “Yeah. It is.”

There’s a quiet pause. Neither of you says it, but it’s there in the air between you. Real. Alive.

“I kept thinkin’ about what I’d say,” you admit quietly. “When I finally told you.”

Joel smiles faintly. “What’d you come up with?”

You shrug. “I didn’t think I’d get that far.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“You were right to be scared,” he says. “I was scared, too.”

You nod.

“But I want this,” he adds. “I want you. I want this baby.”

You blink fast. “You sure?”

“Sweetheart.” His hand moves back to your belly, resting there like it belongs. “I ain’t been sure about much in my life, but this?” He leans in, voice low and raspy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Your eyes sting again.

He kisses you softly—slow, lingering, like he’s not in a rush anymore. And for once, neither are you.

Later, when the sky lightens and the rain slows, Joel gets up and pads to the fire to stoke it back to life. You sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his flannels, watching him move around the cabin like he’s already settled into this new chapter.

He talks as he works.

“Might need to reinforce that back door soon. Wind keeps slippin’ through the cracks.”

“Mmhm.”

“And we’ll need more blankets. If you’re gonna get cold easier, can’t have you freezin’ all night.”

You smile, resting a hand on your stomach.

“Could build a new shelf for the pantry,” he adds, glancing at you. “Start settin’ aside things for winter. For… y’know.”

He gestures vaguely at your stomach, the faintest blush creeping into his cheeks.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“What?”

“You’re nesting.”

He frowns. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Joel mutters under his breath, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

He crosses the room a moment later and crouches in front of you, palms resting on your knees.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever we need. You just gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, alright?”

You nod.

“No more secrets,” you whisper.

“No more secrets,” he echoes.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your thigh, then rests his forehead there for a long moment. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy.

“You ever think about names?”

Your heart lurches.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well,” he says softly, “maybe we should.”

You stare at him.

“I know it’s early,” he continues. “But I keep thinkin’ about it. The kind of name we’d give. What kind of person they’ll be.”

You reach for his hand. “You really want this?”

“I already do,” he says.

You smile, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “What if it’s a girl?”

Joel swallows hard. “Then I guess I’ll have two reasons to keep this world safe.”

You press your forehead to his.

And you both sit there in the early morning quiet, breathing together, dreaming of something you never thought you’d have again.

A future.

That evening, Joel pulls you into his lap while the fire crackles, his hand absentminded on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles over the curve that isn’t there yet but will be.

He talks to the baby like he’s already met them.

Tells them how much he’s looking forward to teaching them to fish, to play guitar, to run without looking back. He jokes about how stubborn they’re probably gonna be, how it’s definitely your fault, and how he’s not gonna let them out of his sight until they’re at least twenty-five.

You laugh, and cry, and laugh again.

And when you fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in weeks that your dreams aren’t full of fear.

They’re full of names.

And tiny hands.

And sunlight.

tags: @lowrisemiller @pedrito-is-punk7 here ya go from a post a couple weeks ago

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou

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