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spacecaravan · 8 months

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MAYBE WE’LL MEET AGAIN — CARMEN BERZATTO (part 1)

summary You come back to Chicago for the first time since Christmas five years ago. Seeing Carmen might just split you wide open.

length 5.4k

contents angst, childhood friends to not friends not lovers but a secret third thing, very deeply requited love and everyone knows it except them, family troubles/fighting (giving y’all the Berzatto special), takes place the year of Mikey’s passing + post s2 so everything is still fresh n rly painful, reader has the nickname ‘Birdie’, idk if the fluff even counts…but trust that the romance is there...it’s just real painful n gritty, happy endings are overrated we die like men

note this was originally going to be 1 part but seeing as the doc is reaching 13k words…here’s just the beginning :) warnings above apply to the full length version. also i’m posting this from my PHONEEE so pls be nice if formatting is off - it’ll be fixed by sunday. love u all and thank you for reading <3

Wind comes from the pale gray sky and bites at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. Fingers go stiff, a chill runs from the nape of your neck down your spine. Maybe you should’ve worn more than just your jacket; Chicago’s always been a little colder than New York, anyway. You tend to forget the little things.

The windows of the Berzatto house glow yellow with company, and you can hear the bustle just by standing at the door, frosted glass animated by guests. You can picture it like it was yesterday: white yellow lights around every corner, the table set in full with porcelain and silver, hollow presents under the tree, too much talking to hear yourself think. You can still go home to at least save yourself the trouble. Can’t lose if you don’t try, right?

For once, it’s Richie who greets you—not like Mikey’s around to do it anymore, to pull you into a bear hug and tell you how much you’ve grown up, to ease you into the chaos he struggles to navigate himself. Struggled, you have to remind yourself. Past tense.

“Birdie!” he calls out to you, opening the door wide before you can knock, half-expecting you to walk yourself in before meeting you on the porch instead with a big smile.

You look up at him as he plants his warm hands on your shoulders. He’s taller than you remember, but five years time leaves a lot in the ruins. “Hey, Richie.” You lean into the hug and into his chest to at least try to catch your breath, to try and slow down your heart’s racing.

He rubs your back ever so slightly. “It’s good t’see you, kid. ‘S been a while, I missed you ‘n that smile ‘f yours.” He gives you two pats and pulls back to hold you by your arms as he gives you a good look. His brows twitch, subtle enough to nearly miss it, with a sympathetic curve to his mouth. “You doin’ alright?”

Since Mikey died is what he means to add to the end of the question. Maybe it’s Since you up an’ left us. Or Now that you’re finally free.

You stick with the first one and just nod. “I’m okay.” Your eyes flit back to his face before landing on the front door, unease pooling in your gut. “A little nervous to be back in so long.” You let your voice go quiet, and you look at your hands and with wet eyes while your fingers fidget like a tall child. “And I…I miss him, y’know?…I should’ve—” you’re getting choked up now, throat growing tight— “I should’ve been here, or—”

His brows really furrow this time, head tilting to the side before he looks to the sky to bite back any real sadness that could come through in his voice, to keep you from seeing it. Bringing you into a hug again, he mutters, “Shhh, don’t beat yourself up about it, sweetheart. I know you miss him, I know.” A gentle kiss to the top of your head. “We all do.”

Growing up across the street from the Berzattos led them to be a second family to you—and, by extension, Richie, for how inseparable he and Mikey were. Much of your memories as a kid were the two older boys, already teens by the time you came into the picture: Mikey and Richie taking you out to ice cream, Mikey and Richie pushing you on the swings down at the playground, Mikey and Richie teaching you to ride a bike. They might as well have been your older brothers by blood. They always cherished and doted on you, and while it changed in manner as you grew older—from piggy back rides to intimidating prom dates—it was always there. They always cared. Richie still does. Maybe double as much to make up for what’s been lost.

You don’t cry so much into his chest. A few tears fall, sure, but you use the time to just breathe, to close your eyes, to stall. Sniffling, you pull away, wipe your eyes, and straighten your clothes, smoothing creases. “Okay,” you huff. “I’m okay. I’m ready.”

A knowing look. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah, I’m good.” Another sniffle. “Promise.”

Richie turns to face the house with you, opening the door while the other hand stays hovering by your shoulder. With the smallest shift in the hinges, noise spills out the door. Small talk in the living room, clinking of glass against tabletops, boisterous laughter, timers ringing in the kitchen, Donna’s voice rolling in. It’s more than you remember. Heavier. Hotter. Richie motions to take your coat and you happily oblige, left to pick at the hems of your sleeves rather than buttons and pockets.

“So,” Richie starts, and with the way he says it you’d think you look like you’re about to pass out, “How’s New York treatin’ ya lately? You a hot-shot lawyer yet?”

You laugh softly, partly to be nice and partly to stave off the awkwardness you feel, like you’re being watched by the rest of the family. “I just passed the bar this year, Richie, I’m barely an associate—”

“Right, right, right—all that stuff goes over my head. Whatever, you’re a genius in my book.”

You smile sheepishly. “Yeah, well the people I work with are just—they’re incredible, how smart they are. I’m a baby compared to them.”

He waves it off as if to say Fuck ‘em. “How’s the livin’ situation, then? You affordin’ it okay, eatin’ good, all that?” He looks a little more stern, more brotherly when he asks it.

“I’m fine.” You look up at him and smile to let him know you’re honest, that you aren’t just saying it to get him off your back. “I really like it out there. I made decent enough money as a paralegal, and I have a roommate with a cushy job in finance. We’re pretty close, but we don’t see each other often with our hours ‘n stuff. Not the best,” you shrug, “But I’m doing pretty well, all things considered.”

He pauses, looks you over to see you’re genuine. “Alright,” he sighs, pulling you into his side and squeezing you tight because he knows you hate it. “I believe ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, fuck you.” You’re laughing a little harder for the first time since arriving in Chicago, and it reminds you that it can be close to normal, coming home. “Where’s Nat? I haven’t talked to her since I got off the plane.”

“She’s upstairs resting.” He lets go and starts drifting to the kitchen absentmindedly—why, you’re not sure. “The baby’s got her in a mood, kickin’ ‘n all that, the little fucker—but Pete ‘n Carm ‘r down here somewhere—”

Your heart stops, and for a moment you can’t hear anything but your own thoughts, fragments of his voice and his laughter from memory. Your chest goes tight, your throat runs dry. You knew from Nat and Richie that he’d come back to Chicago a while ago, after Mikey’s funeral, but never in a million years did you think he’d come to Christmas dinner. Richie doesn’t seem as shocked as you think he should be. “Carmen? He’s here?” You nearly whisper it, afraid to be heard if he’s nearby.

He stops walking. “In the kitchen, yeah, why? You talk to ‘im in a while? Figured he’d’ah told ya, me ‘n Nat had to convince ‘im. A real jagoff about it, by the way.” His tone doesn’t say anything more than his words do. Maybe he’s forgotten about everything, or he’s trying to spare you. Maybe he never knew all that much to begin with.

“No,” you answer, quiet with an ache in your chest you haven’t felt in years. “We don’t…we haven’t really talked since the last time I was here…” And I don’t want to change that at the moment is what you don’t say, bile in your throat at the thought of peeling back scabbed wounds.

Before Richie can comment, a loud voice comes to you from the front room: “Is that my little Birdie?”

Cicero. You missed him, honestly.

He huffs himself out of his seat in the living room and welcomes you in the foyer, bringing your attention away from Richie like you’d been hoping to. “Oh, I missed you,” he says, giving a brief kiss to your cheek.

You hug him in return, but really you’re just hoping to get away from the kitchen. “Missed you too.”

Resting his hands on your shoulders, he smiles and looks at your face. “You’ve only gotten more beautiful since the last time I saw you. Like an angel.” He doesn’t let you protest, he only peeks behind you to look at Richie, who leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Ain’t she beautiful, Richie?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, unamused. “A real treat she is.”

Cicero looks back to you and speaks lowly. “Ignore that son ‘f a bitch. He’s just jealous ‘cause you’re my favorite.” He winks, gestures to the living room, and takes a few steps while he brings his voice back to a normal volume. “C’mon, tell this ol’ geezer about New York—can’t even remember the last time I was there, musta been ‘83—”

If the rest of the night is like this, you think, Carmen might not be so much of an issue. He could be nothing at all, like he always wanted to be.

He promises himself that he’ll say something by the end of the night. He has to, he thinks, and if not to avoid being an asshole, then to avoid getting reamed by Richie. Carmen realizes he has the upper hand, too, whether he likes it or not: he at least expected you to be here. That doesn’t make it any less terrifying to hear your name.

The first time is when he’s cutting onions as Richie opens the door, and he gets lucky enough to hear nothing else but the door shutting afterward. An afterthought, a mirage maybe.

In between that and the second, his name slips by your lips. You whisper it, of course, because you hate him—you hate him for the way he treated you, and for the way he didn’t, and for the fact that he wasn’t man enough to ever speak to you about any of it, or speak to you at all. And despite the fact you try to hide it when you say it, he hears you; he doesn’t think anything could keep him from doing that much. Especially not when it sounds just like you did years ago on those half-broken steps to the back porch, after everything went to shit and there was a hole in the fucking house and you couldn’t stop crying if you tried. He was there for you like he always was: letting you lean your head on his shoulder as you wept, one arm holding you tight to keep you grounded while the other hand nursed a cigarette to keep himself sane. And his name sounded just like it does tonight when you turned to look at him with bleary eyes so many years ago, whispering Carmen? so sweet he wanted to taste the lip gloss that flavored it. That night he did, for a fleeting moment. Before he ruined it.

So of course, he hears you say his name, and he knows it’s you. He doesn’t think anything could keep him from knowing you.

The second time he hears your name it’s like a confirmation. A confirmation that it’s real, you’re real, and you’re here, and it isn’t his mind playing tricks on him like it does when it’s late at night and he’s walking the streets and thinks he sees a girl that looks like you. The rest of the dialogue after the fact goes blurry, the timers going off turn into a monotone buzz, all he hears is chopchopchop against the cutting board until Uncle Jimmy calls you beautiful. He’s sure you are, but he doesn’t want to see it and believe it even more. Your heels click against the hardwood a few times, and he’s not sure where Ma went, but Richie’s standing behind him saying something he can’t decipher and he wants to tell him to Fuck off but he can’t, not now, not tonight.

“Cousin!” Richie snaps, pushing his shoulder. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

He sighs and looks over his shoulder but stays gripping the knife. “No, sorry, say it again—‘m listenin’.”

“Right. So when’s the last time you talked t’her?”

His hand squeezes a little harder, the knife suffers for it. “Talk t’who?”

A quick bang of a hand to the counter top leaves the onions rattled. “Don’t play stupid with me right now, Cousin—” a harsh finger points in Carmen’s face— “or I swear t’God I will fuck you up once this dinner’s over.”

He pauses. He looks past Richie into the foyer where you once stood but quickly goes back to work. Chop. “Look, I dunno, it—it’s just been a while, I dunno the exact fuckin’ date, alright?” Oh, but how vividly he does.

“Yeah? How’s five years to the fuckin’ day sound? Pretty damn accurate, or what?”

No response. Chop.

“You’re a real piece’ah fuckin’ work, y’know that, right?” Richie sounds about as angry as he’s ever been, but it’s different this time: it’s quiet, it’s controlled, it crawls up Carmen’s spine.

“It’s not—it’s not like I meant to, to, uh—”

“ ‘To, to, uh’ what?” he mocks. “To pull the shit you did then go fuckin’ AWOL on ‘er?”

Another beat of silence. Laughter trails in from the living room, and he starts to wonder if it’s you who made it ring. He shakes his head, scrunches his nose. “H—…” Rethinking whether he wants the answer to his question, he puts the knife down and leans into his hands before looking over Richie’s shoulder again. “How, uh…how is she?” It’s muttered, ashamed, the way he asks it, brows furrowed with regret and slithers of hope. “ ‘S she doin’ alright?” He heard bits and pieces of the conversation from just a minute ago, but part of him needs this: to hear it crystal clear, to have it branded beneath his 773 tattoo you traced with an anxious finger, to have the pain be inadmissible such that he can’t forget it.

Without needing to look him in the eye Richie knows to soften his approach. Carmen’s eyes are wet, he’s got that solemn air to him that he gets when he’s thinking about something that forms lumps in his throat, he swipes his hand by his mouth like the words were bitter to say out loud.

He turns over his shoulder like he’ll get caught and looks down at the chef. “She’s good, Carm,” he sighs, nodding his head slowly and with raised brows. “Real good…Like Cicero said, she—she’s beautiful, ‘n she’s gotta career lined up for ‘er. But—” he hesitates when Carmen looks up— “The look on ‘er face, man, it—it changed when she found out you’re here.”

Something indescribable flows through his veins. “Wh—what d’ya mean?” He shakes his head in denial. “Like, like, it—what’d she look like?” He waits expectantly, and part of him hopes something hard and fast’ll put him out of his misery.

Richie swallows. He smooths a hand over his hair, lets it fall to the nape of his neck while his eyes dance elsewhere. “Listen, she…she just looked like—” He kisses his teeth, unsure of how to phrase it, weary of the first thing to come to mind and whether the subject was worth mentioning at all. He should lay it to rest.

But Carmen is ever the stubborn boy at heart. “Cousin.” Fingers drum against granite. “Looked like what?”

“...Like I’d just stabbed ‘er in the gut.”

The rest of the family is enthralled by you, though whether it’s because they haven’t seen you in five years and miss you, or because it finally gives them an excuse to make Lee let someone else talk, you’re not sure. But by the time they let you get a breath in it feels like three hours have gone by, though when you peek at your watch, it’s barely been thirty minutes. You’d forgotten how exhausting the family is when they’re all together. Your head hurts. It’s too hot. You could use a nap.

Cicero looks at you a little softer from his chair. “Would you like a drink, hon? I should've asked ya before we sat you down for an interrogation.”

“Oh, well,” you start, pausing to let it seem like you aren’t dying for that opportunity, “I’ll have one. Is there wine?”

“Of course there is. I’ll grab a glass for ya—” he begins rising from his chair, but you stop him.

“It’s alright,” you insist. “I don’t mind getting it—in the kitchen?”

He nods, and you’re on your way. You pass by Richie and the Faks in the foyer and try to hide the deep breaths you’re focusing on, eyes shut and shoulders shrugging as Richie eyes the kitchen before you enter like you’ll be walking into a war zone.

It’s exactly what you’d expect: Donna with a glass in hand, Carmen assisting, an ashtray full nearby. Natalie has joined them, so you must have missed her on her way downstairs, and Pete hovers beside her as she speaks to him with a worried look on her face, disjointed from the other two Berzattos.

You’ve nearly psyched yourself up enough to interrupt when Donna notices you, almost instantly placing her glass on the counter. “Oh, Birdie, I—” She looks happy, you think, but with her it’s never been easy to tell. “C’mere, honey.” She opens her arms to you and gifts you a hug, patting your back as she says, “It’s been so long, my beautiful Bird—” she pulls away to get a better look at you and plants a kiss to your cheek, just like Cicero— “Oh gosh, you’re so beautiful, all grown up.” She smells thickly of tobacco.

“Thank you,” you laugh, dazed by so much affection from her, “Cicero said the same, it’s just been a while.”

“Well—” she picks up her glass promptly after her hands leave you— “It’s true, you’re practically glowing. He knows what he’s talking about.” She takes a hefty sip like she can’t get enough, and quickly looks to her son. “Isn’t that right, Carmen?”

From where he stands nudged into the corner, focused on the countertop with nothing to do but wring his hands, his attention perks up to his mother. “What was that, Ma?”

You can’t ignore the fact that she hasn’t acknowledged Natalie nor Pete since you arrived; you’re stuck, looped in with Donna and Carmen and somehow obligated to stay there until you’ve been dismissed. You know how she is. Carmen won’t look at you, either.

“Look at Birdie,” Donna coos, and she gestures to present you to him. Your stomach turns. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” She smiles coolly, looks to Natalie only for a brief moment to rub salt in the wound.

Carmen, reluctantly, looks at you. His golden brown curls are disheveled as always, made messier by anxious runs of his fingers every few minutes. His mouth seems caught in a persistent pout that he won’t let up, and if it were years ago, you’d stay by his side until he broke you just to keep someone in his corner. Beneath his eyes rest dark circles, and he wears a forest green sweater you’ve never seen before. There’s a split second of eye contact that has your breath caught in your throat. You haven’t been able to look at him in what feels like a lifetime, let alone hear his voice—not even over the phone. It’s different than you remember, a little huskier, more fatigued. You wish you couldn’t care.

He gives a shallow nod and a shrug to Donna’s question. “Yeah.” His eyes meet yours accidentally again before looking back to his mother, apathy bordering on distaste. “She looks nice.”

You look nice. You don’t know what you thought he would say. Part of you wished he would’ve said exactly as Donna did, or that he’d use the word beautiful, or stunning, or pretty, even. But he’s never been one for words—his consolation offerings were limited to a shared cigarette and sitting beside you, and you’ve always resented that part of him since your last Christmas together. If he’d been better with words, it would’ve been just that; there wouldn’t have been the hand on your back turning into an arm wrapped around your shoulder, he never would’ve pressed his lips to your temple for the first time since you were in kindergarten, you would’ve never been close enough to smell tobacco on his breath. You never would’ve known what American Spirits taste like off of anxious lips or what it feels like to be worth everything and then nothing at all.

Donna kisses her teeth and gives you a sympathetic look as she cups her hand to your neck. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t listen to him. He’s just in a mood today.” She sips her wine again, which quickly turns into the rest of the glass.

That’s not a mood, you think. That’s just Carmen.

By the Berzatto standards, dinner preparation blows over without a hitch. The house smells divine, nothing is broken, no one has stormed out. Ma sits down with only five glasses of wine in her system. No one mentions the gaping hole in the seating arrangement at one head of the table—not even Lee.

Carmen feels the weight of it on his shoulders, and he thinks you feel it too. You sit for a few minutes as everyone settles with your head in your hands, eyes closed as you breathe. Every time you open your eyes they shoot to Mikey’s seat, only for your hands to cover them again with a sniffle. Richie keeps a good eye on you, even though they’re getting glassy from watching you, and he rests a soothing hand on your back before leaning down and whispering something Carmen doesn’t catch. You shake your head, perking back up again as you dab at your eyes with your sleeves, looking to Richie and mouthing the words I’m okay with a smile plastered on. Carmen’s skeptical.

Uncle Jimmy insists on saying grace as a way to honor both you and Carmen being in Chicago for the holiday, and instinctively he looks to you, looking for something to hold onto to let things feel normal with you, but you keep your eyes closed. Since you walked into the kitchen nearly an hour ago he hasn’t been able to get his mind off of the sweetheart neckline of your dress, or the locket pendant hanging close to your chest. Mikey gifted it to you, he remembers, when you earned your undergraduate degree—presented in a black velvet box when you saw him after the ceremony, you cried. Carmen wasn’t there; he was in Copenhagen, doing other things. He can’t quite remember what.

Grace gives way to a more quiet bustle of the dinner, where talking is more or less limited to passing plates and taking first bites, making sure everyone has said hello to everyone. He sits almost silent, taking a measly bite every few moments to avoid an excuse to talk. He notices you don’t navigate this dinner like you have the countless ones before: you’re engaged tonight, laughing with Richie beside you and looping Sugar and Pete into your banter; you’re no longer the teen you once were, who would sit at the end of the table with him to stay quiet and barely munch on dinner, the two youngest with Mikey to your sides, pestering the both of you to Eat, ‘fore Ma tells you to. And it’s not a bad thing, either. You always had that way about you like Mikey did, where you could make conversation with anyone, make them fall in love with you, make them think you’re their best friend. He’s always thought you were his, anyway. You look happier than he’s ever seen you. Ever since he could remember, he had a feeling you’d outshine him.

It’s like Ma said—you’re glowing.

It’s nearing fifteen minutes since the food being served when Sugar nudges him on his right. “You alright, Bear?” She keeps it quiet, under the radar. “You haven’t eaten much.”

He nods and takes a bite to cover his tracks. “Yeah, yeah—just not that hungry, ‘s all.” He hasn’t eaten today. It’s the nerves, really, of seeing everyone—of seeing Ma, seeing you. Brings him back to New York, where his morning ritual included huddling over the toilet and rinsing his mouth until he couldn’t taste stomach acid anymore. He’s hoping that with being in the kitchen all day, she doesn’t pry. “Thanks, Sug.”

She furrows her brows but drops the subject with a bit of a pout. “…Okay.”

“So,” Stevie starts, at the opposite corner of the table, leaning over his plate to smile at you from down the table. “Birdie—can I call you Birdie? Is that okay?”

You smile that smile you always do when you’re caught off-guard before shrugging lightheartedly and taking a bite. “Uh, sure. I mean, everyone here does.”

Richie makes eyes at you, weirded out, and Carmen tries to follow, but you only link with the older of the two. He’s shut out.

“Great. I’ve been wondering—why does everyone call you that? I mean, I know Sugar here’s got an origin story, so what’s yours?”

“Oh, this is such a sweet one,” Ma chimes in, hands over her heart. “They was so adorable, her ‘n Carmen.” The words have warmth blossoming in his chest and rising to his neck.

“Yeah,” you laugh, “I’m probably not the best person to tell you; I was really little.” You try to stifle a smile at the thought, and Carmen knows it’s the same thought as his: Mikey loved that story. “Richie’s probably man for the job.” You look up to the man on your left and pat him on the back to startle him. “Aren’t ya, Rich?”

“Uh, yeah, fuck that.” He nods to Carmen. “He can tell ya, Stevie, he was the one dancin’ with ‘er like an idiot, not me.” He shoves three bites’ worth of food into his mouth so he won’t have to talk anymore.

Sugar cuts in, “He was also five, he had nothin’ to do with picking that name.”

“Yeah?” he taunts, mouth still full because he can’t help but put up a fight, “Then you were eleven, missy, so you can tell it. You remember.”

The room starts spinning, there’s back and forth between Sugar and Richie, and Neil’s roped into it, and then Michelle’s convincing them to calm down, but Richie’s still going at it, starting to tell the story, but Ma says it’s not right, and Sugar cuts in again, and the room is still spinning and his head won’t stop pounding and there isn’t enough water in the world to clear his throat.

“Alright, alright!” It’s Uncle Jimmy now, almost shouting, waving his hands to simmer the room. Carmen would thank him if he could speak. “I’ll tell the damn story, you all settle down, eh?” He clears his throat, sips on his drink. “Our Birdie here, when she was real young, now she was a singer. All the time, some tune. Didn’t even have t’be a real song, she’d be hummin’ it anyway.”

You’re sheepish as Uncle Jimmy praises you, grinning to yourself and rolling your eyes at the embarrassment. Cute, Carmen thinks. He smiles and takes a bite of his food.

“An’ remember,” Uncle Jimmy continues, “This was late ‘90s, we didn’t have none’ah that YouTube, Spotify music bullshit, whatever’s popular with you people now—so anyway. We had this boombox for the longest time—”

“Yeah,” Richie interrupts, “Was a real piece a shit, that’s for damn sure.”

Cicero points to Richie while looking at Steve. “Correct. So one Christmas, many, many years ago—”

“Don’t make it sound so cryptic,” you giggle, and Carmen has a tiny fire lit in his chest, eyes trapped on your smile. He remembers that night—not so vividly, but enough.

“Right, right. I apologize, sweetheart.” Uncle Jimmy turns back to Stevie. “One Christmas the weather was especially bad—snow storm, crazy winds, Christmas lights flyin’ everywhere—and the power goes out. An’ our boombox ain’t workin’, got jammed or somethin’.” He shrugs, makes a face that’s unassuming. “So whatta ya do for the music, then? Everyone knows you need holiday music, eh?”

With you, Carmen laughs for the first time tonight. He likes it that way, uninterrupted by the noise of the other guests, who are all listening fondly and eating their meals. It’s like that special Christmas all over again. You’re so pretty when you’re laughing, part of him is a little jealous that anyone else gets to see you like this.

“So Mikey comes up with a great idea. We already got a singer, right? So we just need ‘er to do the holiday songs. So we get ‘er, ‘n we ask her to sing for us all—me, Donna, Mikey, Richie, Sugar, ‘n Carmen, that was it ‘cause ‘ah the storm—but she won’t do it.”

“They were tryin’ to force me, Stevie!” You smile up the table and back at Uncle Jimmy. Carmen beams back at you even though you’re not looking. Richie is.

“An’ she’s cryin’,” Uncle Jimmy continues, “An’ she’s all nervous, she can’t do it, whatever. Then our little Carmy Bear over there—” he shoots him a look with a smug and pointing finger, and Carmen flushes, grinning at his plate to hide from you— “Now he’s her knight in shinin’ armor.”

Everyone smiles at that—you, Richie, Sug, Ma, and Carmen, and everyone else—because that’s the truth. At least it was, for a while. You and Carmen keep your smiles downcast, hidden from the other, and Richie and Sugar make eyes at one another, looking between the two of you.

“He gets ‘er outta her hidin’ spot behind the couch where she was cryin’ an’ he brings ‘er a wooden spoon for a microphone, and he whispers somethin’ to ‘er—to this day I dunno what, coulda been anythin’ for all I care—and all of a sudden she wants to sing again. She sings Rudolph, Jingle Bells, Frosty the Snowman, all the stuff the kids knew, an’ she does it all with this wooden spoon, with our little Bear holdin’ ‘er hand the whole time.”

“An’ he didn’t even do anythin’!” Richie points out. “Just stood there, swingin’ ‘er arm like a jagoff—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Uncle Jimmy waves off, “But he did it for ‘er. And so,” he says, a finality in his tone, looking back at Stevie across the table, “Birdie is born. Our little Christmas song bird protected by the Big Bear. An’ the rest is history.”

Stevie smiles and nods his head. “That was sweet. Really, really sweet.”

“Oh,” Ma laments, “I just love that story. They were such babies then, so cute. It was always Birdie ‘n Carmy doin’ this, Carmy ‘n Birdie doin’ that. Always on their little adventures together. He took her everywhere.”

Carmen smiles to himself, head down as he eats his food. He doesn’t think of his childhood often, more so the teenage years if anything, when he was failing school. Hearing back such a memory brings up a sense of nostalgia—not necessarily for being a kid again, or doing those stupid things, but for how easy it was.

Ma is right: it was you and him together for the ride, up until it wasn’t. He never cared as much after reaching high school. You were in different buildings, and he saw you around but didn’t spend as much time with you anymore. He outgrew you, it seemed. Even in his early twenties when that fire rekindled, he devoted himself to his work. You were still close, closer than you were with anyone else in the family, and nothing would ever change that. But life ran its course.

And it ran pretty damn fast.

#fic rec

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spacecaravan · 8 months

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Everything was beautiful and nothing bad ever happened to Sarah and Joel. The End. 😌

Birthday Candles

pairing: pre-outbreak joel miller x reader word count: 5.5k 🎂🎈

The sounds of little girls' laughter, music over the stereo and the telltale slashing of a Slip ‘N Slide were all you could hear from inside the Miller’s kitchen.

July in Austin was brutal but, when Sarah asked if she could have friends over for a birthday party Joel couldn’t say no.

How do you say no to a little girl about to turn 11? The answer is, you don’t.

The inability to say no, specifically to Joel Miller, is how you ended up meticulously placing 11 birthday candles on a cake you’d made the day before. A simple two-tiered confection frosted a pretty lilac color that took you too long to get perfect, not that you would ever admit that out loud.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,”

Joel wasn’t looking at you when he said it, he was too busy eyeing the cake on the counter. He didn't believe you when you told him you’d made it yourself, and stared at you with his jaw practically on the floor when you walked through his front door with it. When he called you to help with Sarah’s party, he’d assumed you'd pick up a simple sheet cake from the grocery store, he never expected you to bring something like this.

“Joel,” you said mixed with a laugh, “for the hundredth time, I really don’t mind,”

You turned to see Joel, his hair a bit damp from helping the girls with the Slip ‘N Slide, white t-shirt the slightest bit translucent thanks to the mischief only young girls can get away with on their birthdays.

“How’s it going out there?” You inquired while peeking around Joel to catch a quick glimpse at the party unfolding in the backyard.

“Good,” he quipped, “thanks to you. I don’t know what I would have done if-“

“Joel, please. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now,” You interrupted him midsentence, already highly aware of what’s coming next. It’s like Joel had been playing on a loop since he initially called to ask you to help with Sarah's birthday party.

The phone call you received three weeks ago was laced with the panic of a man who was acutely aware that he wouldn’t know what to do with twelve 6th-grade girls running around his home. His anxiety was palpable as he babbled on and on about cakes, balloons and birthday outfits.

“She said she wants a special birthday outfit? What does that even mean? Can it be something she already has or does it mean she wants something new?”

You couldn’t help but laugh over the receiver at his plight, this is what would take down Joel Miller, his sweet daughter asking for her first birthday party with friends. On that call you assured him everything would be okay, telling him firmly, “I was born for this task, Miller”

Joel and you had met years prior, a chance run-in at the grocery store where he and Sarah happened to be pushing a cart along in the same aisle as you.

“I really like your hair,” Sarah boldly said to you in the middle of the aisle. Sarah was young then, the type of young that made it possible to complement complete strangers in the grocery store.

You couldn’t help but admire her curly head of hair and sweet demeanor — you also couldn’t help but notice her father, Joel Miller. Whether he knew it or not, he always possessed the ability to take your breath away, even under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the canned goods aisle.

“Thank you,” you responded with a smile, “I really like yours too.” You took a moment to glance over at Joel with a smile gracing your features. “You too, Dad. Nice do.”

The first time you spoke to Joel it was with a wink and a smile that he swore made his heart drop somewhere between the canned soup and the black beans. Clean up on aisle four.

“Could you teach me to do mine like yours?” Sarah continued, running her small hands over her loose locks as she gazed up at your braided hair.

“Sarah, we don’t-“ Joel had started to interject, a bright red flush already beginning to work its way up his neck and onto his cheeks.

“Sure,” you started, “but only if it’s okay with your dad,” You took your eyes off Sarah for a moment to glance over at Joel, silently letting him know you were genuinely okay with this.

Your agreeing to Sarah’s request took him by surprise. “Uh,” he mumbled while reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.

The hesitancy was warranted, regardless of how pretty Joel thought you were, you were still a stranger in the grocery store.

“Here’s an idea,” you began while reaching into the bag you had resting in your cart, fishing around in the opening for something before pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper.

“Here’s my name and number,” you said while you scribbled down the series of letters and numbers, “Sarah,” you parroted the name you heard her Dad speak before, “you take this, and if you still want to learn how to braid, ask your Daddy here to give me a ring, okay?”

Daddy. Joel would be lying if he said he didn’t like the sound of it rolling off your tongue.

“That okay with you, Dad?”

“It’s Joel,” the response was terse, almost choked out because he was still focused on the way you calling him daddy made his skin tingle and his mouth water.

“Alright,” you said as the corners of your lips lifted into a grin, “how does that sound, Joel?”

Sarah stared up at her father expectantly, eyes shining up at him in a way you could tell was practiced, this girl knew how to get what she wanted. “Alright, I’ll call—Sarah’ll call you,”

And that’s how it all started years ago, a chance encounter, a little girl wanting to learn how to braid her hair and her handsome Daddy agreeing to it all.

Before Joel had a chance to respond, Sarah burst through the back door. Her face flushed from the summer heat, with her now-soaked hair secured in two French braids that you had done up for her earlier in the day.

She looked over at the cake behind you with a beaming smile. “Is it time for cake yet?”

“Almost, honey,” you replied. “You havin’ fun?”

She nodded with vigor, little droplets of water splashing down on the floor underneath her as she addressed you. “Uh-huh! Thank you for bringing the Slip ‘N Slide,”

She was too damn sweet.

Making your way over to her you saw one of her braids coming a bit loose at the end. “Only for you, sweet girl.” you began. “You want me to fix this braid for you before you go back out?”

She nodded again before turning her back to you to let you begin your work on her hair.

Joel watched you do this in complete silence, his heart lodged directly in his windpipe as you doted on his girl. It had been like this ever since the first time Sarah called you on the phone. You were immediately sweet on her and Joel couldn’t deny that having a woman on call to help Sarah do things like, braid and buy birthday outfits was more than welcome.

And in return, you got closer to him too, closer than any woman had gotten in years. There was a hole in Joel's heart that you slotted into perfectly.

“Are you ever gonna ask her out? Or are you gonna wait for some other guy ‘round town to do it?”

Tommy asked Joel that months ago, actually, for almost a year now Tommy had been pestering Joel about you. Tommy didn’t understand why in gods name a pretty thing like you was hanging around Joel and his daughter. But he mostly didn’t understand why his hard-headed older brother couldn’t pluck up the courage to tell you how he felt.

How Joel felt was, complicated. You're good for Sarah in a way that he didn’t want to mess up by getting into a relationship. It would break her heart if something were to happen that would keep you away from her. So that’s why Joel kept a tight lip and his feelings locked away to the best of his abilities.

But you made it hard, making it nearly impossible not to kiss you when you would sit around his kitchen table chattering away with Sarah after school. Made it hard as hell not to confess every feeling he had for you when you would sit her in front of you on his couch and style her hair on Sunday nights.

Even now, watching you run your fingers gently through her damp hair to re-assemble the style she had requested specifically for her special party made him weak in the knees.

"All good birthday girl," you chirped, playfully tugging at the end of the fresh braid.

Sarah gave you a quick and enthusiastic thank you before running back out the door, a chorus of giggles erupted the moment she rejoined her friends. It was precious, and it was everything a little girl like Sarah Miller deserved.

"Thank you," Joel said softly, his mind caught up in the vision you presented to him right now, skin and hair bathed in perfect afternoon sunlight in his mess of a kitchen. "You keep sayin' it's nothin' but, it means a lot to—" Joel paused briefly, some sentiment trying to crawl its way out. "It means a lot to me. More than you know."

You know a little. Know that Sarah's mom left and that Joel works tirelessly to provide for them and his younger brother. You're aware of the privilege it is to be a part of Sarah and Joel's life, to be let into their little corner of the world.

You smiled softly at him. If only he knew you would do anything for the two of them—would move mountains if Joel and Sarah asked you to. A kid's birthday party, making a cake and bringing your old Slip ‘N Slide was nothing in comparison to that, and you would do it over and over again, all they needed to do was ask.

"Of course, Joel," you replied, sincerity lacing your tone as you gazed at him in the empty kitchen. "Like I've said before, I'd truly do anything for her. For you too, Joel, you know that."

Joel huffed in response, bringing his hand up to run his fingers through his still-damp hair. You could see some spark of a thought running through his mind, those expressive brown eyes were a dead giveaway every time.

Before Joel got the chance to speak further, the pair of you turned your heads after hearing the front door fly open and promptly slam shut. The door closing was followed by the sound of heavy work boots stomping through the empty house.

"Hey sweetheart," Tommy greets you first with a quick kiss to your cheek as he makes his way through the kitchen. "How's the birthday party, bro? Have the 11 years olds taken over yet?"

Joel grunts something unintelligible in response as he watches Tommy slide up to you easily, there was no hesitation in the younger Miller's actions as he reached towards the cake on the counter only to have his hand slapped away by you.

"Tommy!" you yelled. He just shrugged with a smile as he backed away with his hands held up in mock defense. "You were not just about to put your dirty fingers on this birthday cake were you?"

Joel had watched numerous scenes like this play out over the years. Tommy and you were close in age, only a year apart with you being the elder of the pair. Your rapport was easy, it was playful and fun in a way that made Joel's inside twinge with jealousy. He knew Tommy meant no harm by it, but it didn't stop his ears from ringing anytime Tommy would touch you in the ways he wish he had the courage to. Sometimes he wanted to ask his younger brother what your skin felt like on his lips, or what it was like to make you laugh in a way only Tommy could.

"Come on," Tommy started, "can you blame me? Look at that thing, it's a masterpiece. Ain't it Joel?"

Joel's nostrils flared slightly at his younger brother goading, this was another thing Joel was used to. Tommy doing everything in his power — including incessant teasing — to push him to confess his feelings for you.

Joel took the bait happily this time. "It is darlin'. It's perfect."

Your spine prickled at the pet name, nothing set your nervous system on fire like having Joel Miller call you sweet names like darlin'.

"Alright, fellas," you said with a smile, a hand planted firmly on your hip as you stared down the Miller brothers. "I'm gonna go wrangle up the girls and get them ready for cake. Joel, can you please make sure your heathen of a brother doesn't try any funny business in here?"

"Yes ma'am," Joel replied, his eyes following your every move as you walked out the back door and into the belly of the beast.

"You're a moron," Tommy deadpanned.

Joel whipped around to stare at Tommy, jaw slack and eyes ablaze. "Come again?"

Tommy cleared his throat comically before repeating himself. "You're a fucking moron," he said with a smirk. "Just tell her already, Joel."

"Tommy, I swear to god not this again," Joel sighed.

"Yes, this again," Tommy said smugly. "Do you know what it's like to watch the two of you dance around each other like a couple of high schoolers?"

Joel opened his mouth to counter, but Tommy beat him to it. "She likes you, Joel, it's clear as damn day that she likes you."

"She's doin' all this for Sarah, not me," Joel mumbled half-heartedly, the words had no conviction behind them.

"You don't believe that and you know it." Tommy was quick to reply. "She does this for you, for both of you, and you owe it to her to tell her how you feel."

"It doesn't fuckin' matter, Tommy," Joel said to his brother in a biting tone. "Sarah needs her. Sarah needs her in a way that I can't risk messing up because of what, a crush?"

Joel felt like he was choking on the words coming out of his mouth. It didn't feel right to say out loud, it seemed wrong to call whatever he felt for you a crush. But he hoped and prayed that the longer he kept you at a distance the easier it would get.

This had been Joel's plan of action for a long time, keep you at arm's length to protect Sarah, to protect himself, to keep his girl happy. And for a while, it worked. For a few months, it was enough for him just to see how happy you made Sarah — to watch her learn from you.

It worked until it didn't. It worked until Joel would come home and see you curled up on the couch with Sarah, and all he wanted to do was kiss you awake. The plan was solid until he caught the two of you standing in front of the bathroom mirror one day, her hands mirroring your own as you weaved pieces of your hair together. Joel could read Sarah like a book, she loved you, admired you even, and Joel wouldn't risk taking that away from her.

"Joel," Tommy said with a frown. "Please, you deserve this. You and Sarah deserve her. Let yourself have this. Let that beautiful woman outside who loves you and your daughter so damn much have this."

You could tell there was a strange tension in the air when you poked your head back into the kitchen. "Hey boys," you said hesitantly, glancing back and forth between the two of them. "Joel, you mind lightin' those candles? I got them all settled out there and if they don't get cake ASAP I can't be held responsible for what they do."

"Course," Joel sent one final look towards Tommy before he made his way over to the cake, a scowl planted firmly on his features as he mouthed drop it at his brother.

Tommy did nothing but smile slyly in Joel's direction. He had settled with his tailbone pressed against the counter, leaning casually next to Joel as his older brother rummaged around in the drawers for a lighter.

Tommy couldn’t help but stir the pot, making Joel a little uncomfortable was his brotherly duty and he wouldn't dare slack off.

"What have you been up to lately besides helpin' my brother plan birthday parties, sweetheart?" Tommy inquired.

It was an innocent query, one that could have led to any number of answers from you. What Joel didn't expect to hear as he was lighting candle number four was what came from your lips.

"Well," you started sheepishly, "I did go on a date the other weekend. It was horrible though, like, considering celibacy levels of horrible."

You didn't date often. Finding a man worth your time in Austin had never proven to be an easy task, sure, there were plenty of dateable, attractive men available. But none of them lit you up quite like Joel Miller, so you found it easier to turn most down politely. Occasionally a charming enough guy could spark your interest, and that's exactly what happened two weeks ago.

"Oh really?"

Even though Joel wasn't facing Tommy he knew the idiot was grinning ear to ear.

"Yeah," you were laughing now, "the man's ego was bigger than the whole damn state of Texas. I've never in my life heard a man talk about himself so much."

Tommy couldn't help but push the conversation further, making his older brother squirm was hardwired into the man's brain. "Okay, so he was a talker — what happened after?"

If you hadn't been the one to make the cake Joel was currently standing over, he would have smashed the confection square into Tommy's smug little face.

"After?" you could hear your tone go the slightest bit shrill at the mere thought of taking your failed date home."There was no after, Tommy. We had drinks, he talked my ear off and I went home. After, was me cleaning the dirty dishes in my sink once I got home."

Tommy just tutted, sucking his teeth at his failed attempt to crack Joel. What Tommy didn't know is, that Joel didn't like hearing the story no matter the outcome of your date. Did it make it better knowing that you had no connection with the guy? Yes. Did the thought of you going out on dates with men that weren't him make Joel's stomach turn? Also yes.

You glanced over at Joel as he worked to light candle number 11, his strong hands working delicately to ensure that no excess wax from the candles dripped onto the frosting. You could watch him do mundane things for hours, and you had. Countless summer afternoons with you and Sarah on the porch, watching Joel mow the lawn while you taught his daughter how to weave together friendship bracelets. Lazy Saturday evenings filled with laughter, takeout pizza and movie rentals. Joel, you can't not like The Princess Bride, it's a classic. A classic that he now had to rent from the video store almost weekly since you first showed the movie to Sarah in his living room.

Watching Joel be a Father was your favorite though — to see him do something as simple as light 11 perfectly placed candles on his daughter's birthday cake was enough to make your heart speed up.

"Looks like we're all ready. You boys ready to do some singin'?"

»»————-¤————-««

It was a few hours later: the cake was long gone, presents had been opened and the backyard returned to its normal state of affairs. Sarah had gone to spend the night at a friend's house after begging Joel to let her. Again, how do you say no to a little girl on her 11th birthday?

"You wanna drink?" Joel swallowed back the nerves rising in his throat as he asked you to stay longer. "Think you deserve one after all of that."

"I'll take one," you replied, finally settling down into Joel's worn couch, your bare feet instantly kicking out in front of you to rest on his coffee table. "Just give me whatever you're having."

Moments later, Joel entered the dimly lit living room with two lowball glasses half full of amber liquid, one with and one without ice. Joel was still in the same outfit as earlier, a grass-stained white shirt and tight-fitting denim. You wondered if he could smell the scent of summer on you as strongly as you could from him. Joel was all wet concrete, warm skin and humid air.

Joel settled down next to you, clearing his throat as he handed you your glass and held his own up to you.

"Cheers," he said quietly, lightly clinking his glass against yours before you both took tandem sips of your whiskeys. "You were really somethin' today, you know that? There's no way I'm gonna be able to top that birthday party."

"Was I?" you teased, "Was it the Slip ‘N Slide that pushed it over the edge? Or was it the expert little girl wrangling?"

Honesty pushed past Joel's lips before he could will himself to hold it back, "It was just you, darlin', always is. You're good with Sarah, have been since the day you met her."

That earnest reply made your heart jump straight into your throat, it sent a thrilling tingle from the top of your head to the very tips of your bare toes.

"She's easy to be good for, Joel. You know that better than anyone."

You saw Joel getting ready to respond to your statement, some self-deprecating comment on the tip of his tongue, so you cut him off before he even got the chance. "You're easy to be good for too, Joel. I don't do any of this just for Sarah. I do it for you too."

You were echoing Tommy's words from earlier and it made Joel's head spin. Hearing it from his younger brother was one thing, hearing it directly from you made him feel like he'd already drained his entire glass of whiskey.

"Why?"

You released a small sigh, removing your feet from the coffee table to tuck your knees close to your chest, angling your body in Joel's direction. You could still feel the tingling sensation from earlier but now it was paired with the feeling of honesty bubbling up to the surface.

"Because I like to, Joel," you said simply, moving to place your glass on the coffee table. "Because I like doing things for you, I like being around you."

Joel’s heart was beating impossibly loud at that moment, the sound of it in his ears enough to deafen him and have him worried that you could somehow hear his artery working overtime.

“Joel,” you started, taking a deep breath in through your nose to quell the feeling of anxiety brewing in your stomach. “you have to know how much I care about you, right?”

You weren’t even touching him, yet he could feel you all over, your confession planted itself directly into his brain — deep into the parts he kept locked away. The parts where he kept thoughts of you and him together, thoughts he only indulged in when he was fast asleep and dreaming of you looking at him the way you were at that very moment.

“Sugar,“ the endearment slipped past his lips before he could even process it. “I don’t want Sarah to get hurt.”

Another confession, this time the one Joel had been terrified to admit to you. So afraid that he thought he’d be okay admiring you from afar for the rest of his life if he had to.

“She won't get hurt,” you whispered to him, gently placing your hand on his denim-covered knee as you leaned in closer to him.

Joel swallowed hard, and his lips subconsciously parted as he stared at the earnest expression painted all over your face.

“How do you know?”

You didn’t hesitate to answer.

“Because I know you wouldn’t let that happen. Not to her, and not to me. You couldn’t hurt us if you tried, Joel.”

Joel gripped your hand resting on his knee, pressing his warm palm into yours as he pulled you in closer. The pair of you were sharing the same breath now, the sharp notes of whiskey mixed with sugary sweet frosting lingered in the space between your mouths.

“Mm,” Joel hummed as he brought his other hand up to rest his thumb on the highest part of your cheek. The same cheek Tommy had kissed earlier that day, the exact cheek he had imagined himself kissing so many times before as he stared on in envy.

“Can I kiss you, sugar?”

So many things happened in your body at once, but the immediate flooding in your panties and the butterflies in your lower belly trumped them all.

“Please, Joel.”

The moment Joel pressed his lips to yours a moan rose from the deepest parts of his chest. An unconscious release as he indulged in an action he thought was only a foolish daydream until a moment ago.

Kissing you was bliss. At that moment you both knew exactly where Nirvana was, it was locked away, hidden in the kisses you and Joel shared.

Tongues explored mouths, teeth playfully nipped at spit-soaked bottom lips and Joel couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He was quickly wrapping you up in his arms and pulling you onto his welcoming lap.

You were just as swift to act. Adjusting your positioning so you were straddling Joel’s thick thighs, reveling in the feeling of the heat from his body soaking into the bare skin of your legs.

You wasted no time sinking your full weight onto Joel’s lap. The desperation in you was mounting, and the need to relieve the pressure building in your core had goosebumps rising all over your skin.

Joel released another groan as he felt your core press into his growing erection—and the sweet moan you let out as he bucked his hips upward had his head spinning.

“Will you let me make you feel good, Joel?” you murmured as you stared directly into his deep brown eyes.

Joel tipped his head back as he soaked in your words. That was just like you, a nurturer to the core. And he couldn’t deny you what you wanted.

“Course, sweetheart.”

With that, you were pulling your shirt over your head to reveal the simple bra underneath. Your nipples had been hard since the moment he asked if he could kiss you, and Joel was drawn to them like a moth to flame.

Before you could even make your move Joel was latching his warm mouth to your covered breasts. His teeth immediately began teasing, biting and pulling, doing whatever he could to elicit a chorus of moans from you.

“Joel, I said-“

“I know what you said, sugar.”

Joel had heard you. But you were making him feel good. The feel of you grinding yourself on top of him as he played with your tits had him rock hard already. If you could make him feel like this from a heavy make-out session he could only imagine that everything else would be damn near euphoric.

“Can you take these off, baby?” Joel asked as he tugged at the hem of your shorts.

You nodded wordlessly and stood to your full height in front of him. Using the small space between his knees and the coffee table to slip your shorts down your legs and leave them forgotten on the rug beneath you.

“Those pretty panties too, sugar. Let me see you.”

This was a Joel you had never seen before. A man starved. A man who wanted nothing more than to leave you dreaming of him after he was done.

“Why don’t you take ‘em off for me, cowboy?”

All you saw was a smirk ghosting over Joel’s lips before he gripped your hips and turned you to face away from him. One large palm came to rest on your lower back, pressing on the area in a silent command for you to bend forward for him.

And of course, you did. You presented your ass fully to him as he worked to slowly slip your underwear over the swell of your bottom and down your legs.

Joel’s other hand was preoccupied as he opened up the fly on his jeans and freed his cock from the confines of the rigid denim. Before turning you back to face him, Joel reached up to deftly unclasp your bra, leaving you bare and buzzing with adrenaline before him as you both took in one another fully.

“Aren’t you just the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen?”

“You’re not too bad yourself, Miller.”

You both smiled at that. Smiled because, beneath all of the sexually charged energy in the room, it was you and him. It was everything.

“Come and take a ride, sugar.”

You knew you were more than wet enough, and the anticipation of sinking onto his hard length had salvia pooling underneath your tongue as you straddled Joel for the second time this evening.

The feeling of Joel’s smooth head prodding against your entrance made you gasp. If Joel’s hand weren’t gripping your hips and keeping you hovered over his length you would have sunk down immediately.

Before you could fill yourself, Joel let his thumb wander toward your swollen clit. His own desire clouded his thoughts as he rubbed the sensitive area in small circles and sent waves of pleasure through your entire nervous system.

“Joel, please, no teasing. Not tonight, I need to feel you inside me.”

Always the giver, he obliged. Joel relaxed the grip on your hips and finally allowed you to feel him completely.

A long, drawn-out moan escaped you as you felt Joel filling you up for the first time. Your position on his lap made it feel like he was deeper inside your pussy than anyone had ever been before. And your body responded immediately, your hips began moving almost on their own as you began to chase your pleasure.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck Joel.” You whined.

“Take what you need, sweet thing.” Joel gritted out.

Joel inhaled sharply through his nose as he basked in the feeling of your warm pussy gripping him tight.

Joel let you have the reins for a bit, letting you rock yourself up and down on his cock while he pinched at your bouncing nipples and playfully teased your clit. He only let his eyes close for a moment or two, wanting to commit the sight of you like this to memory. Something sweet to call up when he was alone in his bed and his mind was wandering.

But then enough was enough, Joel felt his own orgasm building swiftly and wanted more than anything to feel you soak his cock before he came.

His hands were back on your hips, palms wide and touch firm as he planted his feet and began to thrust up into you. Before long you were bent over Joel's body, resting your full weight on him as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

"Can you touch yourself, baby?" Joel practically begged. "Play with your clit for me, sugar."

Ever since you met Joel you'd never been able to say no to him. Not when it came to little girl's birthday parties, and especially not when it came to the orgasm you could feel building up through your entire body. So you did, you reached down between your bodies to sloppily rub at your clit as Joel chased his orgasm alongside yours.

You came undone quicker than you anticipated. A thick, guttural moan escaped you as pleasure raced through your veins. Joel, still attentive, still watching you, was coming closer to his own end. His senses were filled with the sight, sound and feel of you coming undone on top of him.

Joel's breathing was shallow and heavy as he came deep inside you, his sensitive cock aching for more, more, more as he pumped in and out of you, finally coming to a slow stop as he allowed both of you to catch your breath.

For a while, neither of you said a word, the only movement came from Joel softly running the tips of his fingers up and down your spine. In the rush of it all, you'd barely noticed that Joel had not removed a single article of clothing—the two of you were beautifully juxtaposed against the other as you settled into the afterglow and what this meant for the two of you moving forward.

Joel pressed a gentle kiss into your hair, pulling you close to him. "I need you, Sugar."

"You've had me since the day you met me, Joel."

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spacecaravan · 9 months

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Patti Smith by Frank Stefanko (1973)

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