Pedro Pascal - Blog Posts

your camera roll dating Pedro Pascal

dirty work

You just bought a new house that needed a lot of work. Luckily, your grumpy old neighbor was more than happy to fix everything—not because he was generous, but because it gave him an excuse to be close. To look. To stare. And you? Love the attention.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, hotgirl!reader, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), nipple play (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, filthy dirty talk, desperate!Joel, pervy!Joel, pathetic!Joel, age gap, Joel being down bad, obsessive staring, possessiveness, mild power play, teasing, so much cum (like he literally can’t stop), Joel not having sex in decades and it shows, Hot girl reader knowing she's hot, Joel being completely ruined by your pussy, and you loving every second of it

11k. Enjoy!

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

The house needed work. And probably a priest.

It wasn’t falling apart, but it also wasn’t move-in ready.

The kitchen faucet screamed whenever you turned it on, wailing like it had unfinished business in this world. The porch stairs were one strong gust away from sending someone straight to the ER- or the grave. 

The back gate swung open on its own, which was either a poltergeist or just bad hinges, but either way, it sent an unsettling creak through the yard at odd hours of the night.

The lights flickered sometimes. The water pressure was unpredictable. The floors creaked loud enough to make you think twice before sneaking around in the dark.

But it was cheap. And it had potential.

And you?

You weren’t a DIY girlie, but you could figure shit out. Probably…. Maybe. 

You did have a certain level of misplaced confidence that made you think you could tackle anything with enough trial and error.

The problem was—so far, it had been mostly errors.

Your first attempt at fixing the faucet resulted in a flood that had you sprinting to turn the water off before your kitchen turned into a slip-and-slide.

Trying to replace a light fixture nearly ended with you electrocuting yourself into another dimension. 

And the less said about the unfortunate caulking incident of last Thursday, the better.

Still, you were determined. A little clueless? Sure. But determined.

You wiped sweat from your brow, standing in front of your latest challenge: the front door. It didn’t latch properly. It wasn’t quite crooked, but something was off. The hinges, maybe? You had no idea. 

You just knew that a strong wind could blow the damn thing off, which wasn’t ideal for your safety or your sanity.

So there you were, kneeling on the porch, staring at a pile of tools you weren’t entirely sure how to use, the manual open beside you like it was about to offer some divine intervention.

You twisted the screwdriver in your hand, frowning at the misaligned screws. “Alright, bitch,” you muttered to the door, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

And that was when a shadow fell over you.

A heavy presence.

You turned, blinking up at the broad figure standing at the foot of your porch.

Joel Miller.

Your neighbor. Big, built, silent as the grave. Old as fuck.

You’d seen him around—on his porch, smoking, reading the newspaper, doing old people things and watching. Always watching.

Never introduced himself. Never waved. Never made an effort. Just sat there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes unreadable, watching the world pass him by.

Watching you.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. A trick of the heat, the way his dark eyes always seemed to linger just a little too long before darting away. But then, as the weeks passed, you realized it wasn’t just some coincidence.

Joel Miller was looking. A lot.

From behind the safety of his porch, through his truck window when he pulled into the driveway, stealing glances while pretending to tinker with something outside—he was always looking.

He wasn’t the type to catcall or whistle or let his jaw drop like some dumb, desperate idiot. No, but he did openly watch, with that brooding, set-jaw expression, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting the urge to jump.

A man seeing something he wanted—something he knew he couldn’t have.

And, honestly? It was kinda hot.

You love a pathetic man.

Pathetic in the way only a man like him could be- big and strong and old enough to know better, yet still sitting on his porch like some clueless teenager, hopelessly caught in your orbit.

Joel had spent his entire life working.

Calloused hands. Aching back. A routine as grey and dull as the pavement he walked on. He wasn’t a talk-to-women kind of guy. He was a build-shit-and-keep-his-mouth-shut kind of guy.

He had probably spent years without even thinking about sex. Not because he didn’t want it—fuck, of course, he did—but because who the hell would even let him?

The man was a relic.

Pushing sixty. Grumpy. Built like a man who had done nothing but work his whole life—because that’s exactly what he had done.

No wife. No girlfriend. Nothing.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t go out. Didn’t fucking bother.

Just work, fix, sleep. Get off when he needed to—always alone, always quick, no one to fucking hear him.

That was life.

And then you moved in next door.

And Joel broke.

Because Jesus Christ.

You.

Soft and sweet and fucking perfect—so young, so pretty, so effortlessly sexy.

You weren’t just beautiful. You were something else entirely.

Something cruel.

With your tiny little skirts and tight little tops, walking around like it wasn’t a goddamn crime to be that fucking perfect.

Joel shouldn’t have been looking.

Knew he shouldn’t memorize the way your tits bounced when you jogged past his house.

Shouldn’t have let himself watch the way you stretched on the porch, or walked in those obscene little shorts, or sunbathed out back with your top straps pulled down—looking so fucking soft, like you were made to be touched.

Made to be ruined.

It was sick.

And he didn’t care.

Because at night, when his house was quiet and the only thing in his bed was his own hand, Joel let himself imagine what it would be like to pull you onto his lap or spread you open, bury his face between your thighs and never fucking leave.

To get his mouth on you.

God, he was so hungry for it.

And the worst part?

He was pretty sure you knew.

It was pathetic.

And he fucking knew it.

But he couldn’t stop.

And right now, his gaze was locked on you.

Or, more accurately—your thighs.

You were still kneeling, skin glistening in the summer heat, your tiny skirt barely covering anything. Joel looked like a man who had just seen God.

His throat bobbed.

His fingers flexed.

Then, abruptly—his eyes snapped up.

“Need a hand?” His voice was rough, all gravel and rust.

You tilted your head, dragging your gaze over him.

You smirked.

“I got it,” you said simply.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

“…No, you don’t.”

And before you could argue, he was stepping forward.

Taking the screwdriver right out of your hand.

And just fucking fixing it.

Like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t even there.

· · ──𖥸

From that day on, Joel… kinda never left.

Not literally. Not in a way that you could call him out on.

But he was always there.

At first, it was little things. Fixing what you couldn’t. Offering a hand when you were clearly struggling. Showing up at the exact right time, tools in hand, that furrow between his brows like you’d personally offended him by even attempting to fix something yourself.

Then, it escalated.

Because you didn’t even have to ask anymore.

He was just there.

On your porch. In your yard. Pretending to check something in his truck but really just looking at you while you stretched in the morning, your tight little tank clinging to every inch of you.

The excuses started getting thinner, too.

At first, it was, “Saw the porch light flickerin’. Just figured I’d fix it before it got worse.”

Then, it became, “Just keepin’ busy.”

Then, no excuse at all.

Just Joel, lingering around your property, finding any reason to be near you, any reason to work himself into a sweat just for the chance to look at you up close.

Because that was his payment.

His reward.

Every little smile, every little laugh. The way your tits moved when you pointed at something needed fixing. The way you stretched just right, your little skirts and shorts riding up, flashing soft, smooth skin that made Joel’s head spin.

He didn’t even need you to talk to him.

Didn’t need you to flirt.

Just existing was enough.

So he worked.

For free.

Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?

You made him feel like some pathetic old pervert.

Standing around like a useless extra in the movie that was your perfect fucking life.

A washed-up, near-sixty-year-old loser with a bad back, a lonely house, and a dick that hadn’t worked properly in years.

And now?

Now, he nearly was hard all the time.

No blue pills. No coaxing. No thinking about some old porn magazine he had tucked away for emergencies.

Just your voice, your body, the way you smelled, the way you looked at him when you handed him a lemonade like he was doing something special—when all he was doing was fixing your fucking sink.

And the worst part?

He was leaking.

Like a damn teenager.

Hadn’t been this sensitive in decades.

And yet, here he was—barely keeping it together, feeling the way his cock throbbed and ached, fucking dripped inside his jeans while you leaned in, smiling, teasing—

“Thank you, Joel!”

Fuck.

That voice.

All sweet and grateful and warm, and it was fucking nothing. Just three little words.

And yet, his whole body reacted like you had just whispered something filthy in his ear.

Like you had just gotten on your knees, licked your lips, and told him

Sit back, Joel. Let me take care of you.

God, he was fucked.

So he mowed your lawn.

Fixed your AC unit.

Made sure the fence was latched, the gate was locked, the pipes weren’t leakin’.

And when he wasn’t fixing shit inside?

He was finding things to do outside.

Hammering shit that didn’t need hammering.

Cleaning tools that weren’t even his.

Anything. Anything.

Just to be there.

· · ──𖥸

Joel looked wrecked.

Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, his broad shoulders sagging as he finally took a seat at the kitchen table he had just fixed for you.

His hands were rough and calloused, veins prominent, fingers flexing against the cool surface as he exhaled, deep and slow. He looked exhausted, the kind of exhaustion that clung to a man who had spent the whole day pushing his body to the limit.

And yet, even now, after hours of working himself to the bone, he was still staring.

Not at the food you’d set down in front of him, not at the cold glass of iced tea dripping condensation onto the table, not even at his own aching hands that had spent all damn day making sure every little thing in your house was perfect.

He was staring at your tits.

You noticed it immediately, of course. How could you not? Joel wasn’t exactly subtle.

His dark, hungry gaze stayed fixed on your chest, drinking in the way your tank top clung to you, damp with heat, the fabric just a little too thin, a little too low. His hands twitched every so often, like he had to physically stop himself from reaching out.

He barely responded when you spoke, offering little more than a grunt here and there, a slow nod, an occasional hum of acknowledgment. Not because he wasn’t listening, but because he was completely fucking gone.

And you?

You smirked.

Because this wasn’t new.

Joel Miller had been looking at you like this for weeks now, like a starving man watching a meal just out of reach, a man standing in the desert watching water slip through his fingers.

And he thought he was hiding it.

He wasn’t.

You leaned forward slightly, trailing a finger through the condensation on your glass, watching his Adam’s apple bob when his eyes immediately flicked down again, drawn like a magnet.

You waited. Let it stew. Let the tension stretch thick and heavy between you until you could practically hear the way he was grinding his teeth together, working his jaw, trying to think of something—anything—other than the way your tits were right there.

Then, casually, you spoke.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

Joel didn’t move at first.

Didn’t even seem to register your words right away.

Just blinked, slow and dazed, before finally dragging his gaze back up to your face, blinking again, like he had just been pulled out of something deep.

“…Huh?”

His voice was thick, rough like gravel, his fingers flexing again before clenching into loose fists.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flick down to your own chest, then back up to him, pointedly.

“You like ’em?”

For a moment, Joel just sat there.

Silent.

Completely fucking still.

Then, finally, he exhaled. A slow, measured breath, dragging a hand down his face like he was collecting himself, trying to piece together a response that didn’t immediately give him away.

And then, voice lower, rougher, wrecked—

“…What’s there not to like?”

Oh?

That shouldn’t have affected you the way it did.

But it did.

The way he said it, low and warm and dripping with something dark, something dangerous. The way he looked at you when he said it, like he was memorizing every inch of you, like he needed to burn the sight into his brain.

A slow heat unfurled low in your belly, sinking between your thighs, pooling thick and molten as you shifted in your seat, pressing your legs together, suddenly very aware of how wet you were getting.

And Joel knew it.

Because his eyes flicked down for a split second, watching the way you shifted, the way your breath caught ever so slightly, and his fingers clenched tighter against the table.

And then, voice slow, teasing, stretching out the moment—

“Hmmm.”

You tapped a finger against your chin, watching the way his dark eyes tracked your movements, like he couldn’t help it, like he had no control over the way his body responded to you.

And then, soft and syrupy—

“You know, Joel… I feel kinda bad.”

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

You watched the slow, deliberate way he swallowed, the way his whole body seemed to tense under the weight of those words, the muscles in his arms flexing as his fingers curled against the table.

“…Bad?”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“For letting you do all this work without paying you back.”

There was a beat of silence.

Joel’s fingers flexed. His breath stuttered, sharp and uneven. You could see the battle happening in his head—his morals, his age, the voice in his head screaming this is wrong, you’re too old, don’t do this—

And yet.

When he spoke, it was wrecked.

“…Can I just—”

Joel swallowed hard.

His voice dropped lower, raspier, barely even a sound.

“Can I just see you? Look at you?”

The words sent a jolt of something electric through you, made your skin heat, your pulse quicken, made that molten heat in your belly throb.

You smiled. Slow. Sweet.

Cruel.

"You wanna see me, Joel?"

His breath hitched.

His fingers twitched.

He nodded, almost absently, his mouth falling open, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.

You dragged your nails lightly up your stomach, over your ribs, the movement subtle, slow, making him watch.

Your hands went to the hem of your tank top, your fingers curling around the fabric, slowly dragging it up.

Joel’s pupils blew wide.

His lips parted.

His breath hitched.

And when you pulled it over your head, letting it drop to the floor, you saw it.

The way his fingers clenched so hard around the edge of the table that his knuckles went white, like he needed to physically hold himself back.

You sat there in just your bra, running your hands up your stomach, over your ribs, tilting your head slightly as you murmured—

“Like this?”

Joel made a noise that was almost a groan, almost a curse, a low, strangled thing that caught in his throat as his eyes devoured you.

He swallowed again, hard, blinking like he was trying to process what was happening.

Then—rough, hoarse, desperate—

“…Please. Everything.”

So you did.

You reached behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with a slow, deliberate flick of your fingers, letting the straps slip down your arms before shrugging it off completely.

And Joel lost the last shred of restraint he had.

His breath hitched—a sharp, audible inhale, like he had just been punched in the gut.

His eyes dropped from your eyes instantly, dragged down like they had no choice, like the second your tits were bare, he was physically incapable of looking anywhere else.

And fuck.

The sound that tore from his throat was something low, deep, filthy— not even a real word, just a groan, guttural and needy, his lips parting, his tongue darting out, his whole fucking body reacting like he was a man who had been starving his whole goddamn life, and now?

Now he was looking at the best fucking meal he’d ever seen.

Because Jesus Christ.

Your tits?

They were perfect.

So fucking full and soft, high and round, plump little handfuls of heaven that he’d been imagining for weeks, and now? Now they were right there.

And your nipples—fuck.

They were already hard, tight little peaks sitting pretty, puckered and aching, begging for something—a touch, a mouth, something wet and warm.

They looked so fucking sweet, like they’d feel so soft, like they’d taste so good on his tongue.

Joel groaned.

A rough, heavy sound, his jaw clenching so fucking hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack, his entire body tensing like it physically hurt him to just sit there and look and not touch.

And then, voice wrecked, strained, barely even a whisper—

“Best goddamn tits I’ve ever seen.”

You smirked, slow and teasing, shifting slightly, making them bounce just a little, the movement so subtle, but his whole body jerked.

“Yeah?”

Joel grunted, a deep, broken noise, his breath stuttering, his fingers flexing.

“Yeah.”

His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

His hips shifted.

And you noticed.

The way his jeans were tight.

The way a wet patch darkened the denim.

The way his entire body looked like it was straining under the weight of his own need.

And then, voice breaking, groaning—

“Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

Because that?

That sounded filthy.

Low, wrecked, grateful.

Like just seeing you was some kind of mercy.

His thighs tensed. His hands twitched. His eyes stayed locked on you, burning, devouring, drowning.

You dragged your hands up your own stomach, slow and lazy, brushing your fingers over the soft curves of your breasts, rolling your thumbs over your hardened nipples, smirking when you heard his breath hitch.

“You wanna touch ‘em, Joel?” you murmured, soft and syrupy, voice dipped in honey.

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, like the question alone was enough to wreck him.

“Fuck yeah.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t fucking think.

His hands were on you before the words even fully left his mouth—grabbing, groping, squeezing like he was starving for it, like he’d been fantasizing about this for so long that the second he finally had them in his palms, he lost every ounce of restraint.

And Jesus fuck, his hands were big.

Rough.

Strong.

Decades of hard labor carved into every thick callus, every flex of his fingers, every hungry, greedy, desperate grab.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he muttered, voice wrecked, almost dazed as he kneaded your tits, rolling them in his palms, squeezing like he needed to memorize the way they felt—like he’d never get this chance again.

He groaned, deep and filthy, fingers digging in, rough fingertips brushing over your stiff nipples, making you suck in a sharp breath as heat licked through your veins.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he rasped, thumbing over the tight little peaks, watching the way your body reacted to him, your back arching, breath hitching.

Joel felt that.

“Feel good, baby?” he rasped, voice a low, guttural thing, dragging his calloused fingers over your nipples again, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, watching your reaction like a starving man watching a meal.

You swallowed hard, a shiver running through you, your thighs pressing together. Fuck.

Your nipples were so sensitive, tingling with every swipe, every flick, every dirty little touch of his rough fingers.

“Yeah,” you breathed, biting your lip, arching into his touch, letting him take what he wanted.

Joel groaned again, deep and needy, gripping your tits harder, pushing them together, squeezing, kneading, fucking obsessed.

His thumbs twisted your nipples, slow and deliberate, watching the way they hardened even further, standing up all soft and pink, looking so fucking suckable.

“Jesus,” he muttered again, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Look at these pretty tits.”

His fingers pinched, tugged, twisted just right—just enough to make you gasp, a soft little sound that sent a lightning bolt of pure fucking need straight to his cock.

He grinned.

A dark, hungry thing.

And then, voice gritted, thick with lust—

“Bet they taste even better.”

“Can I-”

Before he could even finish asking, you were already shushing him, already threading your fingers into his graying hair and pulling his face down, guiding him straight to where he belonged.

Joel went willingly.

Mouth first.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Joel yanked you into his lap, gripping you like you might disappear, like this was a dream he’d wake up from if he let go for even a second.

His knees ached against the floor, his back twinged in warning, but he didn’t give a fuck. Not when you were straddling him, warm and soft, tits in his face like some fucking gift from God.

His mouth sealed over your nipple, pulling at it with an obscene, wet suckle, tongue flattening before flicking, rolling, teasing the sensitive bud until it was aching, stiff, raw.

Just a wrecked, filthy groan, muffled against your soft, warm skin as he was sucking deep, sucking hard, sucking wet.

“Fuck yes,” he moaned into your skin, voice ragged, his breath hot and heavy against your breast.

He was loud.

Not in words—because words didn’t matter anymore.

But in the way he suckled, the way his lips sealed tight, how he groaned and slurped and moaned, every single sound of his mouth on you wet and obscene, filling the space around you.

His tongue swiped up, then down, then circled—slow at first, then faster, flicking against the stiff bud before pulling it into his mouth again, sealing his lips tight, sucking deep.

He couldn’t stop.

Didn’t even try.

His hands moved next, big, calloused fingers gripping your waist, dragging you closer, then sliding up to cup both tits in his palms, rough and desperate. 

“Oh—fuck, Joel—” your breath hitched, the sharp pull of his mouth sending a jolt straight between your thighs.

He groaned—deep, guttural, filthy.

“Goddamn, baby—”

Then, harder.

His fingers squeezed tighter, thumbs brushing over your nipples, pinching the one he wasn’t sucking on, rolling it between his fingertips, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

You felt his breath stutter—like he was about to lose it completely—before he pulled off with a wet, sucking pop, spit connecting his lips to your nipple, slick and shining.

He stared.

Breathing ragged. Eyes dark, starving.

And then he dived right back in.

Latching onto the other like a man possessed, groaning into it like he was trying to drink from you, ruin you, consume you.

His hands never stopped.

He hugged you closer, pulling you right into him, pressing your tits together, mashing them up against his face, smothering himself in them.

“So fuckin’ soft, baby—” he rasped, licking, suckling, tongue dragging slow circles around your nipple before he sealed his lips and sucked deep again.

“So fuckin’ sweet—”

He switched between them like he couldn’t pick a favorite, couldn’t decide, couldn’t stop.

His tongue flicked, his lips sucked, his teeth grazed, sending shocks of pleasure straight between your legs.

Your breath hitched.

Your back arched.

Because he wasn’t just playing around.

This wasn’t just teasing.

This wasn’t some guy mouthing at your tits before moving on.

No.

Joel was staying here.

Lingering.

Drowning in it.

Like he could suckle your tits for hours.

And then, voice low, gravelly, wrecked—

“Baby…”

You hummed, already smirking.

He swallowed thickly, his fingers tracing absent circles against your ribs, his voice barely above a whisper—

“Lemme see you.”

Your smirk widened.

“See what, Joel?”

He groaned, head dropping against your shoulder for half a second like he physically needed to collect himself. His nose brushed along your jaw, leaving small kisses, hot breath fanning against your skin, and then—

“Sweetheart, please,” he rasped. “Lemme see that pretty little pussy.”

Your stomach tightened, heat flaring low, but you didn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, you stretched, slow and indulgent, arching just slightly, your tits pushing up against his chest. “Hmmm,” you mused, tapping a manicured nail against your lip like you were actually considering it. “You worked so hard for me, didn't you, Joel?”

His jaw flexed. His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, squeezing.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasped. “Don’t tease me like this.”

You tilted your head, tapping your chin, dragging it out just a little longer—watching the way his fingers twitched, watching the way his pupils were blown black with hunger, watching the way his hips barely resisted the urge to rut up against you like he needed something, anything.

Then, finally, you sighed.

“Alright, old man,” you murmured, shifting in his lap, the movement making him groan. “Take me to the couch.”

Joel nearly fucking growled.

His arms came around you instantly, strong, needy, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you. Not struggling, not even hesitating—because fuck if you thought he was too old for this, fuck if you thought he wouldn’t show you exactly what he could do.

He laid you down like you were something delicate, something precious, his hands sliding over your body, down your sides, gripping your thighs, spreading you open just enough.

And then—his fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt.

Not pulling it down.

Just flipping it up.

Joel wasn’t breathing.

At least, it felt that way.

He couldn’t. Not with the way you were spread out in front of him, thighs parted, panties soaked, looking like the filthiest, prettiest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life.

And the worst part?

You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

The way you stretched lazily, arching just a little, making your tits push forward. The way your lips curled in that slow, knowing smirk when you caught him staring, like you were indulging him, letting him look, letting him take in every fucking inch of you.

And Joel—Joel was gone.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow, reverent, rough fingertips dragging against soft skin, feeling the heat radiating off you.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, dark, almost reverent.

Joel dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, gaze locked on the damp spot between your legs, so fucking dark, so fucking pretty.

His thumbs traced along the edges of your panties, brushing just barely over the damp patch at the center, groaning when he felt the way it stuck to you.

“So goddamn wet,” he murmured, almost to himself, shaking his head, his fingers flexing against your skin. “Been like this all night, little girl?”

You moaned, shifting slightly, watching the way his jaw clenched at the movement.

“Maybe,” you teased. “Not my fault you’ve been looking at me like that all day.”

Joel exhaled sharply, a low, ragged sound, his grip tightening.

Poor old man.

He was completely fucking gone.

“See something you like?” you teased, voice sweet, syrupy, making his jaw clench.

Joel exhaled through his nose, hands tightening where they rested on your thighs, fingers pressing in deep, like he needed to hold onto something, ground himself before he completely lost control.

“Baby,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice low and rough, thick with something desperate. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”

You laughed, slow and taunting, your nails dragging up the couch, watching the way his entire body tensed, like he was on the verge of snapping, like he was barely holding himself together.

“Am I?” you mused, tilting your head, watching him watch you.

Joel groaned, deep and guttural, his grip bruising now, his breath shuddering, his hips twitching like just the words alone were enough to ruin him.

And then—

He leaned in.

Pressed his face against your covered cunt, breathing deep, dragging his nose over the soaked fabric, his entire body shuddering, shaking, gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.

And fuck.

He moaned.

You smirked. Moaned.

Because you knew.

Knew exactly what kind of power you had over him. Knew that Joel Miller—this gruff, brooding old man who barely spoke to anyone, who’d spent his life working, fixing, existing—was utterly wrecked over you.

And right now, he was on his knees, rubbing his face against your soaked panties, inhaling like the scent of your cunt was the only thing keeping him alive.

You loved it.

“Mm, you really like it down there, huh?” You moaned dragging your nails through his hair, watching the way his whole body twitched, the way he groaned against you, his nose pressing harder into the damp fabric covering your pussy.

Joel barely lifted his head, just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they were nearly black, lips slick with his own spit. His fingers flexed against your thighs like he was fighting himself—like he wanted to tear those panties off and bury himself in you, but he was holding back.

Barely.

“Like?” he rasped, voice wrecked. His tongue darted out, swiping over his bottom lip, like he was tasting the scent of you in the air.

He groaned.

“Pretty girl, I’m fuckin’ obsessed.”

You moaned. Tilting your hips just slightly, pressing up into his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered, the way his breath stuttered like just feeling your heat against his lips was too much.

“Oh yeah?” Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging. “Then show me.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He just acted.

His hands shot up, gripping the waistband of your panties, and for a second, you thought he was going to rip them off you. But no—Joel was feeling something nastier.

Instead, he grabbed the soaked fabric, pulled it tight against your cunt, wedging it between your slick folds, pressing the thin material right into your aching clit.

You gasped.

“Ohhh, fuck—”

Joel groaned, a deep, filthy sound from the pit of his chest as he rubbed the fabric against you, slow at first, then harder, pressing it between your lips, letting the damp, sticky material drag over your throbbing clit.

His nose dragged over the outline of your swollen pussy, mouth parted, tongue slipping out to taste the wet spot directly over your entrance, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever fucking put in his mouth.

“Jesus fuck,” he growled. “S’soaked, girl. Look at this fuckin’ mess. You see this?” He rubbed the fabric in deeper, groaning at the way it stuck to your folds, the way your slick smeared against it, making it wetter, stickier.

You moaned, hips rolling, pushing against his mouth, chasing the friction.

“Joel—”

He growled again, gripping your thighs tight, keeping you spread as he bit down gently on the covered part of your clit, tugging with his teeth, rolling it between them through the fabric.

You gasped.

Your back arched, hands flying to the couch, gripping the cushions for some kind of grounding because—holy fuck.

Joel chuckled. Chuckled. A deep, perverse sound.

“Ohh, you like that, hm?”

He pressed his tongue flat against your clit through your panties, sucking at the damp fabric, like he was trying to drink you through it, humming like he could taste you, even with the barrier in the way.

Then—

His teeth latched onto the thin cotton, gripping the wet spot over your entrance, and he pulled.

A sharp, precise tug.

Dragging the panties against your cunt, making them slide against your soaked folds, pressing them deeper, wedging them between your swollen lips, rubbing everything.

You fucking whimpered.

Joel moaned against you, rutting his hips against the couch, pressing his nose right against your slit, inhaling, sucking, rubbing his face all over your cunt like a man starved.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, nuzzling you, his voice dripping with filth. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ warm, baby. So fuckin’ messy. Leakin’ all over these little panties—bet they’re ruined, huh?”

Your thighs shook. Your breath stuttered.

Your fingers curled tight in his hair, tugging, and he moaned again, loud, tongue slipping out to drag slow, wet strokes over the damp fabric, gathering everything before pressing it back against your cunt, making you feel how fucking messy you were.

His hands—those big, rough, work-worn hands—slid up your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open, thumbs pressing into your soft skin as he finally, finally hooked his fingers into your panties and peeled them off.

He groaned when they stuck.

When your slick clung to the fabric.

When he had to drag them down your legs because they were soaked.

And then—

You were bare.

Wet.

Dripping.

All for him.

Joel sat back on his heels, staring.

His fingers flexed, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice deep and wrecked.

Then, dark eyes flicking up to yours, a slow, filthy grin stretching across his face—

“Oh, baby…” He groaned.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

His voice was a wreck, almost a whisper, full of awe, full of filth, full of something desperate and hungry.

Because you were fucking perfect.

Your pussy was obscene.

Pink and swollen and glistening, folds spread, sticky and slick, so wet you were practically dripping onto the couch. 

Your clit—puffy, throbbing—begging for attention, twitching every time Joel’s hot breath ghosted over you. 

The dim light caught on the shine of your arousal, making everything look impossibly wet, messy, fucking ruined.

And Joel?

Joel was losing his goddamn mind.

His breath hitched, a low, wrecked groan ripping from his chest, his fingers flexing hard against your thighs, like he was physically restraining himself from lunging forward and devouring you whole.

“Fuck me.” His voice came out rough, strangled, barely even a whisper. “Look at that messy little pussy. S’so fuckin’ wet for me, baby.”

You hummed, stretching out against the couch like you had all the time in the world, arching just slightly making your tits look so good, making yourself even softer, even easier, even more of a temptation.

“Yeah?” Your voice was all gasped, all teasing, your hips rolling up just a little, just enough to make the slick between your thighs glisten in the low light. “You like her, Joel?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring, eyes blown dark and wide, locked on your cunt like it was hypnotizing him, pulling him under.

He let out a rough, humorless laugh, shaking his head, squeezing your thighs just a little tighter. “Baby, I’ll never let go of her.”

That smirk stretched slow across your lips, your thighs parting just a little more, an open invitation, a silent dare.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural, painful.

And then he snapped.

His big, rough hands grabbed you, dragging you down the couch with no warning, tugging you toward him until your ass was hanging off the edge, his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs, his face—his mouth—right where he wanted it.

And then—

A long, wet, messy lick.

Tongue flat, broad, dragging over your slit, catching every drop of slick, lapping it up, his nose bumping against your mound, his groan muffled as he tasted you.

And Jesus fuck—he growled.

“Goddamn, baby… this sloppy little pussy.” His voice was hot against your skin, his tongue flicking out to catch another drop of arousal, swallowing it down, his thumbs spreading you open even wider. “Fuckin’ drippin’ all over my face.”

You whined, hips bucking, but Joel’s grip slammed you back down.

“Uh-uh,” he rasped, dragging his tongue up again, circling your clit, teasing, groaning loud like he was tasting something sinful, something addictive, something he was never gonna get enough of.

His lips wrapped around the swollen bud, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, his tongue flicking, his nose buried against your mound, his face pressed so deep in your pussy he was fucking drowning.

And he loved it.

You were soaked.

Dripping.

And Joel wanted it.

Wanted every drop.

His tongue licked into you, fucking inside, groaning loud when he felt your walls clench, sucking your juices from his own tongue like he was drinking you, like you were feeding him.

And fuck—

His hips rutted against the couch, grinding, his cock straining against his jeans, so fucking wet, his pre-cum soaking through, his whole body wound tight like he could come just like this, just from eating you, from tasting you, from hearing the little broken whimpers spilling from your lips.

His fingers dug in deeper, pressing into the softness of your thighs, spreading you wider, pulling you closer, burying his tongue so deep inside you it made your eyes roll back.

And then—

A rough, growled, wrecked—

“Goddamn, baby. Gonna fuckin’ stay down here.”

Joel was gone.

Buried between your thighs, tongue fucking into you like a starving man, like this was what he was made to do.

And fuck, maybe he was.

Because he was too good at it.

You moaned, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling, loving the way he groaned, the way his hips rutted harder against the couch, the way he needed this.

“Fuck, Joel,” you panted, voice thick with pleasure.

Joel growled.

He actually fucking growled, pulling you closer, spreading you wider, licking into you deeper, his tongue flicking, curling, sucking, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding himself back from humping the fucking couch like some desperate, pathetic thing.

And then—

Joel spat on it.

A wet, messy, lewd spit, right over your swollen clit.

And then?

He rubbed his face into it.

Like some depraved old pervert, moaning as he smothered himself with your slick, nuzzling into it, smearing his own spit and your arousal all over his lips, his chin, his nose .. damn nearly up to his forehead. 

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, breath hot, words slurred against your swollen folds. “Smell so fuckin’ good, baby. Taste even fuckin’ better.”

His tongue swiped over your clit, broad and firm, lapping at it like he was fucking thirsty, groaning when he felt you pulse, when he felt your thighs tremble.

He spat on it again.

And smeared it in.

Dragged his tongue through the mess, licking his own spit off your cunt like he was cleaning you up.

And fuck.

It sent a shock of pleasure straight through your body, a sharp, hot jolt that made your back arch, your mouth dropping open in a broken moan.

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “I—I’m gonna—”

Joel knew.

Knew you were close, knew he had you teetering, knew you were about to fucking snap.

So he latched onto your clit, sucking, moaning, filthy and loud, his fingers bruising into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you still, forcing you to take it.

And when you came—

Oh, fuck, when you came.

Your body jerked, legs trembling, the orgasm hitting you so hard it stole the breath from your lungs, your vision going white, your whole body clenching around the pleasure, drowning in it.

And Joel?

Joel groaned.

Like he felt it.

Like your orgasm belonged to him.

Like he had just come from tasting you, from making you come, from hearing you cry out his name.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t fucking stop.

Kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking devouring, his tongue flicking over your oversensitive clit, dragging out every last aftershock, keeping you on the edge, keeping you throbbing.

And you—

You were shaking.

Body weak, legs useless, cunt aching for something more.

“Joel,” you gasped, breathless, still trembling. “I—I want your cock.”

And Joel?

He didn’t hear you.

Didn’t process it.

Because he was lost.

Lost in your pussy, lost in the taste, lost in the way you fucking shook for him.

His tongue dragged through the mess, lapping up every drop, swallowing you down like you were something precious, something he couldn’t afford to waste.

So you tried again.

“Joel,” you panted, tugging at his hair, trying to get his attention. “I want your—”

And he still didn’t listen.

Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept moaning against your cunt like he was starved.

So you had to rip his face away.

Fisting your hands in his hair, pulling him back, making him look up at you—

And fuck.

His face.

Wet. Slick. Lips swollen, chin shining, pupils blown.

And his mouth—

His mouth was fucking open, his tongue still flicking like he was trying to find you, like he was looking for your pussy, like he was about to dive right back in.

He was panting, breath heavy, wrecked, like he had just fucked you, like he was the one who had just come.

And then—

A low, desperate, ruined—

“Baby, please.”

Like he needed it.

Like he needed to go back.

Like he wasn’t done yet.

The smell of you. The taste of you. The way you squirmed and moaned, your fingers sinking into his hair, giving the softest little tugs that made his cock throb.

You hummed, dragging your nails lightly against his scalp. “You gonna stay down there all night, handsome?”

Joel groaned against your thigh, his fingers tightening where they gripped your hips.

“Would if you’d let me,” he muttered, voice rough and muffled.

You laughed, breathy and teasing. “Well…” You tugged gently at his hair, tilting his head back slightly, forcing him to look up at you. “Maybe I want something else tonight.”

Joel’s head spun.

His stomach clenched, heat coiling low, thick and heavy in his gut.

Because you couldn’t possibly mean—

“Maybe,” you mused, trailing your fingers down his face, smirking. “You should fuck me instead.”

Joel went completely fucking still.

A full-body freeze.

Because, holy shit.

He hadn’t even considered it.

He hadn’t dared to.

Had been so caught up in this—this ritual, this worship, this sick fucking devotion of getting to lose himself between your thighs, mouth greedy and desperate, tongue messy and unrelenting—he hadn’t let himself imagine it going further.

Hadn’t even let himself hope for it.

But now?

Now, you were looking at him with those big, bright eyes, your lips curled in something teasing and wicked, your fingers trailing down his chest, and fuck.

It hit him.

Like a fucking freight train.

He was gonna fuck you.

Joel groaned, his head falling forward against your stomach, breath heavy, body shaking as his hands gripped your thighs, squeezing so tight it bordered on bruising.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “Fuck. Baby.”

You grinned, delighted. “Yeah?”

Joel swallowed, lifting his head, his gaze burning as he looked up at you.

“Yeah.”

His voice was rough, wrecked.

“Then get up here, old man,” you purred, tugging at his shoulders. “Come fuck me.”

And, fuck, he was gonna.

Somehow, he managed to kneel between your legs, looming over you, broad and heavy and burning with something filthy and desperate.

Somehow, he managed to unbuckle his belt, yank his zipper down, pull himself free—

You hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected him to be this thick.

Because, fuck me.

Joel Miller was fucking big.

The way his cock twitched the second the cool air hit it, sending a slow, heavy bead of precome dripping down—hot and sticky, landing right on your stomach.

God.

Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching where they were still spread open for him, aching.

And Joel?

He was just watching.

Watching that glistening drop smear against your skin, dragging his fist slow along his length, squeezing at the base, like he was trying to calm himself down.

Not that it was working.

Because he was dripping.

Leaking all over you, precum slick and thick, dribbling down the fat head of his cock, smearing over the tip as he worked himself, his jaw clenched tight, breathing heavy.

His cock was—fuck.

Thick. So fucking thick.

Broad, heavy in his palm, his shaft veined and throbbing, dark with need, his swollen head gleaming wet under the dim light.

A thick trail of silver and black hair led down from his stomach, curling around the base—graying just like the rest of him, salt-and-pepper in a way that made your stomach tighten.

And his balls.

Heavy and full, hanging low, tight and aching with neglect, pulled up just slightly, like his body was already fighting to hold off the inevitable.

And Joel—Joel was losing his fucking mind.

Because fuck.

Your soft, pretty body sprawled out beneath him, tits still sticky from his mouth, your stomach slick with the mess he was dripping all over you, your thighs spread open, that sweet, soaked pussy waiting for him—his cock.

He groaned, low and ruined, watching another thick bead of precum slip from the head, drooling down his shaft, slicking up his fingers.

He couldn’t stop leaking.

Couldn’t stop fucking twitching, pulsing in his own grip, so hard it was almost painful.

His body was betraying him.

Decades of needing, decades of nothing, and now?

Now he was about to lose it over just this.

Just you, looking up at him like that.

Smiling sweetly like you fucking knew.

Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Joel groaned, watching your expression shift, watching your eyes flick down to where he was gripping himself, your lips parting just slightly, breath hitching.

And fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

He smirked. Just a little.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Ain’t gettin’ shy on me now, are ya?”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, grinning lazily, voice smooth and teasing. “Nah, just thinking.”

Joel raised a brow, cocking his head. “Yeah? ’Bout what?”

Your lips curled.

“How the hell this thing’s gonna fit inside me.”

Joel growled.

A deep, guttural, feral fucking sound, his grip tightening around his cock, his other hand gripping your thigh, yanking you closer.

You giggled, delighted, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, his body pressing heavy against yours, his cock resting hot and thick against your belly, pulsing.

He was panting.

You could feel it, the heat of his breath against your cheek, the slight tremble in his arms, the pure need radiating off him.

“You’ll take it,” he murmured, voice rough and low, dangerous in a way that made your stomach clench. “You’ll take all of it, baby. Ain’t no way I’m not givin’ you every goddamn inch.”

Fuck.

You whimpered.

And Joel—he fucking felt it.

Felt the way you clenched around nothing, the way your thighs trembled, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.

Felt the way your body was begging for it.

“Joel…” Your voice was thinner now, breathless.

He smirked.

“What, baby?” He pressed against your entrance, just barely, the thick head of his cock stretching you the tiniest bit before he pulled away again, teasing, watching the way your body tensed, the way your breath hitched. “You were talkin’ so much before. What happened?”

You whined.

Louder this time.

And Joel groaned, dropping his forehead against yours, shaking his head.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re so fuckin’ spoiled, baby.”

Then—

Joel pressed forward.

Slow.

Heavy.

Thick.

The swollen head of his cock pushed against your slick entrance, parting your folds, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. Your body clenched around him instinctively, the burn sweet and deep, making you gasp, your fingers digging harder into his shoulders.

“Fuck—” Joel groaned, long and drawn out, his forehead dropping against yours as he fought to hold himself back, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you knew there’d be bruises come morning. “Goddamn, baby… s’fuckin’ tight—”

You moaned at the stretch, the way your cunt swallowed him up, the way he felt inside you—thick and throbbing, pulsing against your walls, filling you more than you ever thought possible.

And fuck, he wasn’t even all the way in yet.

Joel was shaking.

Every muscle in his body drawn tight, his cock twitching as he struggled to keep himself together, to not just slam in all at once and lose himself in the hot, wet grip of you.

He was too old for this shit.

Too fucking old to be trembling like some desperate goddamn virgin, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, his breath coming in ragged pants as he forced himself to go slow.

But Jesus Christ—

You were so small.

So fucking tiny compared to him, your cunt squeezing around his cock like it was trying to keep him out, like you weren’t built to take something this fucking big.

But you would.

You had to.

Joel wasn’t stopping.

“Take it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked, low and strained. “You’ll fuckin’ take all of it, little girl. Gonna stretch you out real nice, make you mine.”

You whimpered, legs trembling as you tried to relax, tried to take him deeper.

“Good job, sweet girl,” Joel groaned, voice rough, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, spreading them wider, pressing his weight against you. “That’s it. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You clenched around him at that, and Joel felt it—felt the way your body squeezed him, the way your breath hitched, the way your back arched just slightly, like your body was instinctively trying to get more.

And fuck, that just about broke him.

His hips twitched, and suddenly, he was sinking deeper, forcing more of his cock inside your tight little cunt, and you gasped, nails raking down his arms as he stretched you even further, the feeling almost too much, too full—

But fuck, it felt so good.

“Joel—”

He groaned at the sound of his name falling from your lips, dark eyes snapping up to meet yours, pupils blown wide, his lips parted as he panted against your mouth.

“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice dripping with heat.

You couldn’t even form words. Couldn’t think past the way he felt inside you, past the way he was holding you open, filling you up, stretching you out in a way you’d never felt before.

“More,” you whispered, breath hitching, thighs trembling. “Please.”

Joel growled.

Deep and low, something primal and wrecked, and before you could process it—

He thrust forward.

Burying himself to the fucking hilt.

You choked on a gasp, your whole body jerking at the sheer force of it, the sudden fullness, the way he bottomed out inside you, his cock nestled so deep it felt like he was fucking splitting you in half.

Joel snapped.

The last thread of his restraint fucking gone.

“Fuck—” He groaned, hips jerking, grinding himself deeper, reveling in the way you squirmed, the way you moaned, the way your body clenched around him like you never wanted to let go.

“Goddamn, sweetheart—” His voice was all rough edges, his head dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am?”

You could barely think, barely breathe, barely function beyond the overwhelming stretch of him inside you, the way he filled every inch of you, every nerve ending fucking screaming in pleasure.

Joel didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because he knew.

Knew you felt it.

Knew you loved it.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his lips dragging over your throat, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Made for this. Made to take my cock, weren’t you? You were askin' for this, huh? Teasin' me all these weeks?”

You moaned.

Loud and wrecked, your head tilting back, exposing more of your throat, and Joel fucking ate it up.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” he rasped, voice strained, his hips pulling back just slightly before pressing forward again, grinding against that soft, spongy spot inside you. “Like this little pussy don’t wanna let me go.”

You whimpered.

Because it didn’t.

Didn’t want him to go.

Didn’t want anything except more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he was stretching you open, fucking ruining you for anyone else.

And Joel knew it.

Could feel it.

Could see it in the way your body arched, in the way your nails dug into his skin, in the way you moaned his name like a prayer.

And fuck—

That did something to him.

Something dark.

Something needy.

Something possessive.

His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and you cried out, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and fuck, he loved that sound.

“Oh, god—i - you feel so good,” you cry, eyes fluttering shut, pleasure rolling over you in hot, heavy waves.

“Yeah, baby?” he rasped, voice full of filthy heat. “That what you want? Want me to fuck this sweet little pussy with my cock? Want me to ruin you?”

You gasped, back arching, nails dragging down his back.

“Yes—”

And that was all he needed.

All he needed to let go, to give in, to let the raw, aching need consume him.

Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, and then—Joel growled.

A deep, wrecked, guttural thing that ripped through his chest, and suddenly—he was moving.

Thrusting.

Fucking you.

“Oh—oh god—” Your back arched, breath hitching, body jolting with each sharp thrust, each desperate snap of his hips.

Joel fucking grinned.

“That what it takes, huh?” he rasped, voice dripping with filthy satisfaction. “A big cock to shut you up, baby? Hm?”

You moaned, head lolling back against the cushions, unable to form words, pleasure slamming into you so hard your mind went blank.

And Joel? He ate it up.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he gritted out, gripping your hips tighter, dragging you down onto him, forcing you to take every inch. “Too busy takin’ my cock to be a smug little brat now, huh?”

You whimpered.

And Joel groaned, eyes rolling back slightly as his pace faltered, his cock twitching inside you.

Fuck—he wasn’t gonna last.

Not with this.

Not with the way you were tightening around him, squeezing him like you wanted him to cum, like you wanted him to break apart inside you, wanted to milk every drop from his aching cock.

His breath turned ragged, hips stuttering, muscles tensing, and—

“Oh, baby—shit, I—I won’t—”

His voice broke.

He gritted his teeth, fighting it, holding on as long as he could, but you were so fucking tight, so fucking wet, so fucking perfect—

And then—

You clenched around him again, dragging him deeper, pressing your lips to his ear, voice all soft and sweet—

“Cum for me, Joel.”

And that was it.

Joel snapped.

His body locked up, cock throbbing as a strangled groan tore from his throat, his hips pressing flush against you as he spilled deep inside you, pumping you full, burying himself as deep as he could while pleasure crashed over him in heavy, burning waves.

His breath stuttered, his whole body trembling, nails digging into your skin.

Your body was still trembling, sweat slicking your skin, the heat between your legs thick and wet with the mess Joel had already left inside you. Your mind was still spinning, your breath uneven, but Joel wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He held you close, his big body still caging you in, his thick arms wrapped around you like he needed to keep you there, to pin you down, to claim you.

His lips moved against your damp skin, pressing soft, wet kisses against your shoulder, up your throat, nuzzling against the sensitive skin behind your ear as he let out a deep, satisfied groan.

But then—

Another pulse.

Another deep, warm spurt of cum filling you up, coating your walls even though you swore he had already given you everything he had.

Your breath hitched, your body twitching slightly as you felt it—felt him still throbbing, still leaking, still making sure every single drop stayed buried inside you.

“Joel,” you gasped, tilting your head back against the couch, your fingers curling weakly into his sweaty back. “You’re still cumming?”

Joel grunted against your neck, his hips giving a slow, almost involuntary push forward, like he was trying to press himself even deeper, to make sure it stuck. His lips dragged up to your jaw, warm and slightly open, his breath ragged, his voice wrecked when he finally muttered,

“Still got more for you, baby.”

Fuck.

Your stomach tightened, another wave of heat rolling through you at the sheer desperation in his tone, the filth in his words. You felt his mouth on you again, felt the rough scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, and then—

Joel groaned, his lips finally finding yours, capturing them in a slow, wet kiss. The second you moaned into it—

Another slow pulse inside you.

Another spurt.

Hot, deep, filling you up all over again.

Joel shuddered against you, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, swallowing your soft whimpers as he rocked into you, his cock still buried deep, still throbbing, still giving you everything.

You broke the kiss first, tilting your head back against the couch, a dazed, smug little smile curling on your lips. “You really are an old pervert,” you murmured, voice teasing, breathless.

Joel’s hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. His dark eyes were hooded, heavy with lust, filled with something possessive and raw as his fingers flexed slightly, keeping you in place.

“And you,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous, “are a fuckin’ menace.”

His hips rocked again, and you let out a choked little gasp as you felt just how deep he was still buried inside you, still stretching you, still keeping you full. He groaned at the sound, dipping his head to bite softly at your bottom lip before licking over it, tasting you, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy tease.

You melted into it, humming softly as you curled your fingers into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly.

Joel growled.

His breath was heavy against your lips, warm and ragged, his body shuddering slightly as the last waves of pleasure pulsed through him. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, then another just beneath your ear, his lips soft and warm and so different from the way he’d just fucked you—filthy and desperate and rough.

Now, he was gentle.

Now, he was melting against you.

His weight pressing you down, his hands smoothing over your hips, his fingers curling possessively around the softness of your thighs. Keeping you close. Keeping you his.

You sighed, shifting just slightly, feeling the thick heat of him settle inside you, the stretch easing, leaving behind a deep, satisfied ache. You were so full.

So stuffed with him.

And god, you could feel it—the way he was still throbbing deep inside, the way the sticky warmth of his spend was already beginning to leak out, thick and hot, slicking your thighs where you were still stretched wide around him.

You smirked.

“Hm,” you mused, tilting your head back against the couch, letting your fingers drag lazily down his back. “I really got forty-year-old cum inside me right now, huh?”

Joel groaned, shifting slightly, dragging his lips down the curve of your throat, nipping softly. “Baby, don’t—”

“What?” You grinned, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you rolled your hips slightly, making him hiss. “Just stating facts.”

Joel exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing where they gripped your waist, holding you still. “Not forty,” he muttered, his voice a low, grumbled thing against your skin.

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “Oh? My bad. Forty-something-year-old cum.”

Joel groaned again, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “And yet,” you purred, voice sweet and teasing, “you still came so deep inside me.”

His hips flexed, pushing deeper, and you gasped, arching slightly beneath him. Joel lifted his head then, dark eyes meeting yours, something warm and hungry and satisfied settling there.

“Damn right, I did.”

You shivered.

His lips curled slightly, his hand dragging down to rest against your lower belly, pressing there—right over the place where you were still stuffed full of him.

“Know how long I been thinkin’ about that?” he murmured, fingers flexing slightly. “Fillin’ you up like this?”

Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering as he rolled his hips again, slow, lazy, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “Joel…”

His lips found yours again, slow and deep and lingering, his tongue sliding against yours in a soft, lazy tease. You melted into it, letting him kiss you slow, letting him take his time, letting him savor the taste of you, the feel of you, the warmth of you still wrapped around him.

When he finally pulled back, he looked at you for a long moment, his hand smoothing up your side, curling around your ribs, tracing absentminded circles into your skin.

“You okay, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice softer now, rough around the edges but warm.

You exhaled, stretching slightly, feeling the way his body fit against yours, warm and solid and safe. You felt good.

Better than good.

A slow, satisfied smile curled on your lips. “More than okay.”

Joel grunted, pressing one last kiss to your jaw before finally shifting, pulling out slowly, carefully, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he felt just how soaked you were.

He sat back, dark eyes dragging over the sight of you—legs spread, pussy messy and glistening, his cum already beginning to leak out onto the couch. His jaw clenched, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and push it back inside.

Your smirk deepened. “Like what you see?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

You stretched your arms over your head, arching slightly, your grin widening. “Well,” you mused, voice lazy and satisfied, “if you die, at least you’ll die a very happy pervert.”

Joel rolled his eyes, reaching for you, tugging you onto his lap effortlessly, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

You sighed, melting into him, pressing your forehead against his, your fingers dragging up the back of his neck.

Joel exhaled, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers flexing slightly where they gripped your hips.

Then, voice low, murmured against your mouth—

“Yeah, baby. Happiest I’ve ever been.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

...Hey y'all im back. Opinions and comments are greatly appreciated please PLEASE (please)

'Landed too hard'

outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: You save Joel's life from raiders but instead of thanking you, he gets mad at you.

or

You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.

wc: 7k

warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff

a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no wind—Just the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel who was ahead of you and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day, his broad shoulder seemed tense under his jacker, his grip on the rifle tighter than usual.

It felt like the premonition of something bad coming on your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand.

“We’ll set up camp soon,” Joel muttered, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.

Ellie groaned. “Finally. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall soon.”

You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel. His jaw was tight, the scar above his brow crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signs—he was worried. More than usual.

That’s why you didn’t even hear them coming.

One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.

“Stay down,” he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. “If anyone gets close, you shoot. Don’t move unless I say so.”

“Joel—”

“Stay.”

You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another and so on.

But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man who’d done this too many times, but even then, it was too much. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those men’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.

the man’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.

“Shit,” you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellie’s panicked breathing next to you.

Joel clawed at the man’s wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t going to get out of it and you couldn’t just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you.

“Stay here,” you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.

“Wait…what are you doing?!” she whispered.

Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.

You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own blade into the man’s neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attacker’s chest before he could recover. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.

You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.

Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. “Joel? Hey—hey, are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yours—not with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.

“The fuck were you thinking?” he rasped, voice raw.

You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. “I—I had to. He was going to—”

“You didn’t listen to me!” Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole-body trembling with anger. “I told you to stay hidden! What if he’d killed you?!”

“Well, he didn’t” you stated, “I saved your life!”

“And you risked yours doing it!”

His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.

“I’m not some helpless girl you can just shove behind a log, Joel! I did what I had to!”

Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.

He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn’t even look at you. "You put yourself in danger. You could’ve been killed. Do you even get that?"

"I get that I just saved your ass!" You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"

He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I ain't doin' this."

"Fine," you bit out.

The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed, her expression tense.

You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. The cut burned now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellie’s eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didn’t say anything. Joel still wasn’t looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.

"We should get moving," he muttered, voice low and strained.

You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like an open wound

That night, you found a small clearing tucked between dense trees, far enough from the road to feel safe. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.

You weren’t hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly die and feeling at peace with it. How easy would be for him to left you behind and in your own.

You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.

A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.

"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."

You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the antiseptic and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.

"Sorry," Ellie murmured, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "You’re lucky it’s not deeper."

You let out a small chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Lucky isn’t exactly how I’d describe this day.”

Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, you’re not dead, so that counts for something."

You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadn’t turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, kid."

She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."

As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfort—at least, from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of camp.

Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over you.

You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.

The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his termo, sipping coffee our from it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.

Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day before—a fight that left you and Joel in a tense, suffocating silence. Reminding him how you always put yourself in danger for him.

He hated himself for it. How he had came to the point where he felt useless.

Now, in the morning light, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well.

Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel. “Should I wake her up?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.

Joel shook his head. “Not yet.”

Ellie raised a brow. “Why?”

Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. “She’s got a frown.”

Ellie blinked. “Yeah, ‘cause she’s mad at you. Even in her sleep.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasn’t much fight in it. “No. It’s different. She gets that when she gets a migraine.” He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. “Let her sleep a little longer.”

Ellie’s teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer. “You really pay attention, huh?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “When it comes to her of course I do.”

Ellie sighed, dropping back down onto the log next to him. “So… you gonna fix this or what?”

Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. “She doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

“Yeah, because you yelled at her.” She reminded him.

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”

“She saved your ass, Joel.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “That ain’t the point.”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, it kinda is. She did what you would’ve done for her.”

Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.

“Do you think she would be fine if you were dead?” she pressed on, sighing.

Instead of answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look, tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.

Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. “Wait… you carry her pills?”

Joel didn’t look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, like he didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.

Ellie crossed her arms. “Huh.”

Joel finally glanced at her. “What?”

Ellie smirked. “Nothin’. Just—you act all tough, but you’re, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.”

Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Keep it to yourself, kid,” as he moved toward you.

You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once, he wouldn’t fail you now.

Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still weren’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop taking care of you.

As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression. “Still mad, huh?”

Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.

Ellie nodded. “Well… you’re doin’ the right thing, at least.”

Joel wasn’t sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion.

And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didn’t have to ask who put them there.

Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filling the quiet space. Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what you’d do.

You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.

Joel’s voice came before you could say anything. “Drink some water with that.”

It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.

You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didn’t have the energy to fight again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.

Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.

Ellie, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long. “Sooo… does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?

You shot her a look. “Ellie.”

“What? I’m just saying’—”

Joel cut in; his voice flat. “Eat your breakfast.”

Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.

You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.

He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.

You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasn’t working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.

Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didn’t always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to.

The way he always did when you were hurting.

But things weren’t the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.

You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldn’t need him like that.

Except you did.

Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. “Did you take the pills?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed it— “Still hurts?”

You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.

His lips pressed against your temple, warm and steady, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.

You closed your eyes, breathing him in.

“Get ready, we have to go now” he spoke, still closer to your face.

You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.

He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadn’t just touched you like you meant something to him. Like he hadn’t just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.

You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.

Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one that didn’t know how to bridge the gap now.

Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning. "Like... extra weird."

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."

She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."

You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended too, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely like he always did.

The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.

Joel was beside you, his steps steady, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments, but it wasn’t the same. Not like before.

Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.

Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of you.

Joel’s outburst had been raw, desperate, his voice breaking, his hands gripping yours like he could tether you to him. But now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just of losing you. But of what it meant if he didn’t.

Because Joel didn’t think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasn’t enough, that he never had been. And maybe… maybe he never would be.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You don’t have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.

Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"

"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you shout at me.”

His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all. But then—

"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.

You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for week, something's been different and yesterday you just broke."

Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothing’s different."

You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.

Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth opening—then closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.

Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.

That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.

So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothing’s different, then let’s just keep moving."

He Heard the way your voice broke at the end and he just watched as you joined Ellie.

Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. He’d done this—again.

He had Hurt you.

He told himself it was for the best, that it was the only way to keep you safe. But that excuse was starting to sound as hollow as he felt.

Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didn’t look back.

And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.

Because, deep down, he knew. It wasn’t the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.

A few hours later, when cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.

Joel stepped into the shadows first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasn’t just looking for supplies—he was looking for danger, as always, he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible, even though you knew better. The way he held himself, as if the weight of the world was constantly on his shoulders.

He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.

Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. “Think it’s safe?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.

You didn’t answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished. You could feel the tension coiling between the two of you, that invisible thread that had been growing tighter over the last few hours. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

“He’ll let us know when it’s safe,” you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.

Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. “Yeah, but what if-”

You cut her off with a shake of your head. “He’s careful. He’ll check everything first.”

She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Then, Joel’s voice echoed from ahead. “Clear,” he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.

His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.

You didn’t react, didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.

Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead, his rifle held tight as he checked the corners, ever cautious.

You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joel’s voice came from behind you. “You good?”

It was automatic, the way he asked. Like even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldn’t help but care.

You hesitated, keeping your back to him. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Then a quiet, “Alright.”

But it wasn’t alright.

Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder, as if he didn’t want to let go.

Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the building’s dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show. You knew Joel was doing his best to keep everyone safe, but the weight of everything—of what you had lost, of what you were still fighting for—was starting to catch up with you.

You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.

A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin, your foot didn’t feel right.

"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldn’t hold any weight. You couldn’t put it down.

Ellie’s voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. “What happened?”

“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You felt the weight of his presence before you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.

He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"

“I—I fell,” you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldn’t focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.

Joel’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. “I’m gonna need you to stay still, alright?” His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.

“Ellie, get over here,” Joel called out, his voice low and strained.

Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. “Shit, are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “It’s just my ankle.”

Joel’s gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. “We need to get you out of here, now.” His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.

Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. “I’ll go grab what we need.”

Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."

You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldn’t suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but there was something comforting in the way Joel’s arms secured around you.

“Joel…” you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.

“I got you,” he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."

As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle still lingered, a constant reminder of how fragile everything really was.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you weren’t talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.

Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands steady as he pulled your boot off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.

Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

You didn’t respond. Joel didn’t either.

Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.

You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t have to pretend you care about this.”

Joel’s hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You think I’m pretending?” His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.

You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Joel. One second, you’re mad at me. The next, you’re acting like—like this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like it actually matters.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. “It does matter.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Does it? Because you sure as hell didn’t act like it when you were yelling at me.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was mad because you almost got yourself killed.”

“I was saving you.” You protested.

“I don’t need saving” He replied, rough as always.

Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. “And I don’t need you acting like I don’t have a say in whether or not I protect you. You can’t just decide for me, Joel.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

You frowned, your voice softer now. “Can’t what?”

His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. “I can’t lose you.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “You think I want to lose you?”

Joel’s expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.

Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper. Something neither of you had the words for just yet.

“You are always so willing to die,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Like you’re just waiting for the exact moment. Like none of this matters to you. Like I don’t matter.”

Joel’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didn’t say anything.

You sniffed, shaking your head. “Do you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?”

He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasn’t saying.

“You walk into danger like you’ve already made peace with dying,” you continued, your voice raw. “And maybe you have. Maybe you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter if you make it out. Like you don’t care if I have to watch you—”

Your voice cut off as a sob wracked through you.

Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do care,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. “You sure don’t act like it.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. “I’m not waiting to die.”

You scoffed, looking away.

“I’m not” he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. “I just…I don’t know how to do this. How to—” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. “I spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then you—” He stopped, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words.

You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable.

"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.

"You're strong." he stated.  

"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death" you said, tired of the cycle.

“I’m not trying to--” he started, but you cut him off.

“Yes, you are,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You act like you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I don’t know what’s worse—watching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, you’d probably think I’d just move on.”

His brows furrowed. “That ain’t—”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joel’s wrist. “Do you love me, Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say it—that maybe, after everything, he’d still hold back.

But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing you.

“I do,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”

Your breath stilled.

Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “More than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.”

Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.

“Then stop trying to leave me behind,” you whispered, pleading to him.

He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.

“How do you even love someone like me?” Joel’s voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely saw—something raw and unprotected.

Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didn’t have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, “I love you because you’re you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls you’ve built around yourself, I still see the man who’s been there for me. You’re not perfect, none of us are. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldn’t shake.

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “Stop saying that,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You deserve me. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way. I’ve seen who you are, Joel. You’re not what you think you are.”

“Why do you think I keep pushing you away?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.

You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. “Because you’re scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,” you said softly. “You’re scared of losing me. But pushing me away won’t make it any easier. It’ll just leave you with a regret you can’t undo.”

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasn’t enough to break him completely, not yet.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do… I won’t be able to protect you. I can’t live with that.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.

Joel’s hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasn’t lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn’t the pain from your ankle that caught your attention—it was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.

Joel’s fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was steady, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didn’t want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.

You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place in them. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.

Joel’s gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Don’t laugh,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. “I’m just trying to make it better.”

You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Joel,” you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “It’s just... never thought you’d be kissing my ankle better.”

Joel’s smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious.  Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.

And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was a promise, as if it was everything, he hadn’t been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment.

“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Ellie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.

You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.

Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what she’d just walked in on.

Ellie rolled her eyes. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re already making out. Unbelievable.”

Your face burned, but you couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatic tone. “Ellie—”

“No, no,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “I mean, it’s kinda sweet, but gross.”

Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. “Ellie.”

“What?” She shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. But, uh—maybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.”

Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. “We should get movin’.”

You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.

As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, “God, I hope I never have to see that again.”

As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.

“Joel, it’s fine, I can walk,” you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes, the one that said, no argument.

“Not gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.” Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. “Get on.” He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.

You blinked at him. “Joel, I can—”

He shot you a look over his shoulder. “I'm not asking...”

Ellie snorted. “Just get on, lovebird.”

You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.

“Easy, old man,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. “Call me that again, and I’m dropping you.”

You laughed softly, “Thanks,” you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadn’t realized you needed until now.

You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with steady steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.

Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. “You trying to distract me?” His voice was lower now, rougher.

A smirk played on your lips. “Is it working?”

He huffed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, “I love you, Joel.”

His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.

He didn’t answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.

But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, “I love you too, darling. Always”.

Feliz cumpleaños primo!

PEDRO PASCAL via Paco Leon IG stories

My fluffy otter man

I saw someone in the tags say he looks like an otter, so here we are. Lol

Ughhhhh I promised my partner I’d wait for her to get back home from a trip in a few days to watch it together! Aghhhh This will be a painful wait

Hi, so, I'm killing myself.

The pain of watching Joel hold onto hope and really trying to believe that Ellie is just being a teenager and will come around hurts so much knowing what we know

My gf is a Pedro and Joel lover and we’re planning on watching tlou s2 together in a few days when it comes out. She doesn’t know the game but I do, going to be thinking this meme every time I see her until ✨the scene✨ happens

Little Drabble

A little Roman General Justus Acacius X Black/ Poc reader. A small dribble to just make something sweet for the time being.

His prize

General Acacius X Black/POC Reader

Hooves…All you heard when your husband was arriving home was hooves, as you were making your way to the entrance of your home with two handmaidens flanking you trying to help you cover up properly with a thicker robe, yet you didn’t have much care.

You were to see your husband, after many nights spent worrying about his safety, and praying to the gods for his safe return. You knew your husband wasn’t the most righteous man to others, but to you he was the stars that filled your devoid nights and the very embrace you’d wish for at that moment.

As your long curly and course/ loose and curly/ straight black locs trailed behind you to your mid-back, after falling from there silk covering as they fell against your silk night robes which were as white as pearls, as your beautiful melanin skin, which was almost like the color that made vases that told of the most beautiful stories and tales/ skin that held beauty as the brown tourmaline and as dark as the many shades of the Chocolate Tahitian pearls which were littered across your arms in bracelets.

The entrance opened as your husband still clothed in his ceremonial armor, came over to your, nearly running as you two embraced one another tightly, not many knew the gentler and more domesticated side of General Acacius, but you did.

You tilted your head up looking to see those tired yet loving dark brown eyes looking down at you, as you felt the warmth of his olive toned skin against yours, you both could let out a exhale of relief as your eyes closed no longer having to worry for the others safety, as the comfort of each other eased the worry’s off both your shoulders.

Your handmaidens gently laid the thicker robe across your back before leaving to their chambers, to leave you two. As he heard their footsteps go out of hearing range, he lowly whispered, “My Lady, Mea Vita, I can’t hold your body as close as I wish to, but I can carry your love closest with me…How I’ve longed to see you again.”. You let out a soft exhale as you reluctantly moved back some.

“As you carry my love with you, I carry and hold yours….I drew you a bath, relax yourself in it and then come back to me.” As you were about to take a step backwards against the marble, he gently tugged you back to him as you met his gaze. “Join me my lady..” He lowly spoke with a glint of pleading within his eyes as they softened, hoping you’d agree.

(Mea Vita translates to “My Life” in Latin)

Should I continue? Either with another character or just finish the chapter?

If you want a different character just comment.

welcome to my blog!!!

ੈ✩‧₊˚ about me, I am .. :)

seven ( yes that’s my legal name :)

afro-latina 🇵🇷

bisexual ( & s!her )

twenty-one 🫶🏽

an age regressor ( 1-4 )!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟmisc ..

i LOVE LOVE halloween or anything horror.

⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ╰┈➤ I do enjoy stupid shit and hyper-feminine things., and speak in that manner, so don’t be mean. please leave if you don’t enjoy or like that :)!

my posts will definitely be anything, if not all, about pedro pascal esp, joel miller ˘ ³˘

this blog is a safe place for girls, gays and theys! ( lgbtqia+ friendly esp., for poc )

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎ ﾟ｡⋆ ╰┈➤ please keep this blog safe for work for all the little ones who will eventually discover my blog. thank you ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ * cussing is allowed * *+:｡.｡

｡ * ｡ʚɞ°｡ fandoms I write/dabble for! ( agere incl! )

the last of us 🧟

night agent 🕵🏻‍♂️

true blood ☠︎︎

stranger things 🔦

outerbanks 𓇼

slashers ( xcpt., freddy krueger )

avatar 𓆛

shameless

criminal minds 📑

transformers

vampire diaries 🧛🏼

twilight ✨

the goo goo dolls 🎧

jennifer’s body

spiderman 🕸️

teen wolf

victorious 🎶

call of duty; war zone 2.0 🔫

euphoria 💸

╰┈➤( also incl. side characters! )

REQUESTS ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

🍂 please, if you are going to request, make sure you have some format.

｡ * ｡ʚɞ°｡ that has to/can include:

sending in a song you would like the dabble to be centred around.

I am a strictly sfw account. any requests must be sfw, fluff, angst, etc. I will not be writing anything smut related.

a sentence or a paragraph must be provided in order for me to understand what you want.

please make sure you are referring to the characters I provided at the top.

okay that’s it, hehe! let’s be friends. 👴🏾

"I just wanna be one of your girls tonight.."

free me from the clutches of middle aged men with mustaches

need attention from a certain someone of the erik dracula victor frankenstein zach varmitech anakin prince hans mr hyde gordon comstock eric northman pedro pascal henry winter dr gregory house persuasion

i’m going FERAL. made this while listening to yayo. i need joel so badly it hurts.

cate blanchett is pedro pascal for nmlw and i will forevermore stand by that

please validate my weird interests, or roast them. both work.

he tried to LIFT HIMSELF UP FOR HER

This is so 🥹💗‼️

Everyone's Got Secrets... (House Husband AU)

A/N: When I first saw Pedro Pascal’s character rushing into battle at the start of this movie, my very first thought of him was this:

He moved in for the kill, just like a wolf.

What does that have to do with fanfiction, you might ask…? Simple. When you add to this the legend that a wolf helped create the city of Rome, my love of the 'Way Of The House Husband' show, and a chat with @braveincafleet , then you may figure out that this is how my little House Husband AU came to be.

Anyway...I hope you enjoy this just as much as I do, and if so, be sure to give it some love before you go back to your scrolling. Thanks! <3

Story Premise: This is a little intro/infodumped backstory for a modern/ex-Mafia version of General Acacius, as that seems to be a writing style I've consistently had over multiple fandoms. It's also a version where he's (obviously) retired and settled down with the modern version of Lucilla Verus, though there are still glimpses of what he used to be like here and there if one is looking hard enough.

Story Word Count: 779 words.

Special Notes: So...maybe I'll turn this into a series someday, maybe I won't. Until then, I'll try and poke around to find more Lucilla x Marcus fics as soon as I possibly can.

No Pressure Tags:

@sweetperfectioncloud @letsgobarbs @rav3n-pascal22 @lilac-boo @iseefire16

@ultra-nina-bella @lunnaisjustvibing @blueheisenbergtragedy @vichons @mysticalgalaxysalad

@hicanivent @marvelforever352 @thischarmingmandalorian and anyone else who would like to read more stories about our favorite General. ;)

Justin Acacius was, according to the neighbors of Imperator Street, a fairly cultured man who wouldn’t dare break the laws of their fair city. Indeed, all outward appearances have never given them reason to think otherwise, for any red flag moments have not yet presented themselves.

For example, by day, he keeps the household of their esteemed Head Curator, Lucilla Gherardi, in perfect working order. This includes making sure that Lucilla herself never leaves the house without a homemade lunch in her possession, because there isn’t much work that a person can accomplish on an empty stomach. During the rare moments that she does, however, it’s not long before he’s on the nearest available bicycle to catch up with her, sometimes even breaking local traffic laws just to get there in time.

(Thank goodness the nearby law enforcement have learned to let him off easy by now.)

Second, there’s what this couple’s closest neighbors have come to label as “Piero Watch”, the daily sighting of the family dog on its walk around 9:15 am every day, most often with Mr. Acacius getting somewhat pulled along behind them. After all, sometimes dogs will go exactly where you don’t want them to go.

Third, whereas some neighbors are occasionally guilty of noise pollution, there's no such disturbance from Signor Acacius' side of the street. Sometimes he brings a friend or two over for short visits, sometimes he goes out for last minute groceries like the supplies needed to make homemade pasta--oh, but never will any strange women be seen going into that house beside him.

He's married, obviously, so he's not about to throw away a good life on one foolish act.

And speaking of foolish acts…neither will anyone notice this gentleman plotting any violence behind Lucilla’s back while she’s out of the house. That’s a vice best left for lesser men, for instead of any shady dealings, he’s much more likely to get into surprise “Cutest Dog” duels with passersby like Mr. Macrinus, as there’s quite the following for groups like these over social media these days.

As Macrinus himself may tell you, these sorts of “battles” will leave no fatal wounds behind them, and all parties involved will go home satisfied.

And finally, by the time that night falls, there’s not much of a change other than the occasional smoke break, if not also the even rarer trip outdoors for a few last minute groceries. In other words, though he might be a slightly imposing figure at times…there’s absolutely nothing to fear where Mr. Acacius is concerned.

At least, not if you’re the average, well-to-do citizen…because for those who wear their sunglasses a bit darker, their skin a bit more tattooed, and keep one eye over their shoulder, it’s a slightly different story.

Should any members of this crowd pass Mr. Acacius in the streets, the title “Il Lupo” is the name they speak. Sometimes they say it with a voice full of fear, sometimes with awe, but all, regardless of their age, status, or sometimes even gender, as this is the 21st Milennia, don’t dare stick around too long.

For the individuals in charge of such groups, be they The Twins in the center to The Emperor a bit further north, they will on occasion ask Acacius’ advice on what seem like trivial matters, such as the right temperature to roast a head of garlic or what is the best detergent to wash out a bloodstain or several—oh, but always from clumsy kitchen accidents rather than any violent executions.

In case you haven’t heard, these modern people don’t do that sort of thing any more.

That’s as far as the mystery reaches, of course, for as the dead can’t reveal any secrets and the living wish to keep their honor, nobody’s ever going to consider speaking up instead. It’s highly doubtful any average person will ever know the truth about Mr. Acacius, either, as there are no known books or magazines ever published that might otherwise hint about his true identity.

If someone were to happen upon the oldest man on the same street where Mr. Acacius lives, however—specifically, the one with a faded SPQR tattoo upon one arm and no photographs of grandchildren in plain sight—maybe they’ll one day hear the story of how the one known as Il Lupo, the one who looks suspiciously like Justin, narrowly escaped life in an Italian prison. Maybe they’ll also hear all about how he became a married man not long afterward, and curiously moved to the very same street address where Mr. Acacius now lives.

But then again…a story’s just a story, wouldn’t you agree?

I'm speechless

I love good angst but the best ones are just heartbreaking

The ending made me cry so much from how beautiful this is

<3

Golden - A Javi Gutierrez One Shot ☀️

Written for @perotovar 's Frith Writing Challenge. I adopted Javi G for this challenge, and he's paired with the Norse God Baldr. Gorgeous mood board created by @perotovar - thank you, Erin! 🖤 Read all the other stories in this challenge here.☀️ Read my other Offering of Frith story with Pero Tovar here.

Summary: He's always there, just like the sunshine, cutting through the fog. Even if you can't remember him, he makes sure you'll always find your way.

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader (No name, confirmed age, ethnicity or physical description of reader, except a brief mention that they have hair. Otherwise, it's you, bub.)

Word Count: 6.7k

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. You're safe. A little drizzle of angst.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Mentions of death and references to dementia.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: My silly sunshine man, I just love him! 🥹☀️ I personally didn't know too much about Baldr before writing this, but I leaned more towards the mythology about him where he guides you into the afterlife, so I hope this makes sense.

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Spring is here. Or at least, you think it is.  

There's a faint whisper of life humming in the air, though it feels hazy, just out of reach. The sunlight pours through the large bay window, its brightness pooling in familiar, golden honey patterns across the floor.

You squint, eyes watering as they struggle to adjust, a sensation both new and strangely familiar. There’s a sharpness to the light, a crispness that makes you pause, wondering if it’s always been this way, this intensely bright.

Outside, the world looks warm - pleasant, even. Trees sway gently, their branches crowned with delicate buds. You watch them for a moment, admiring the way the green seems to glow in the sunlight, though you can’t quite place if they’ve been like that for days or if this is the first time you’ve noticed. There’s a sense of renewal beyond the glass, a quiet unfolding of life, though the details are slippery, hard to hold onto.

You think you’ve felt this before - this soft warmth bathing you, this feeling that makes everything feel a little lighter. It’s familiar, isn’t it? Spring, that’s what this is. You’re sure of it, or at least you think you are. The sun looks like it does in the springtime, and the trees have that vibrant newness to them. But the clarity of the moment feels distant, as if it's been borrowed from someone else's memory, one you’re only half-remembering.

You glance again through the window, trying to focus on the outside. The light plays tricks, shifting in ways that make it hard to tell if it’s morning or afternoon. Time has been doing that lately - stretching, bending, losing its edges.

The distant hum of life beyond the walls feels muted, as though the world has tiptoed away without you. What time is it? Has it been morning for hours, or is the afternoon already fading? You can’t tell. The light that filters through the window is soft, timeless, offering no clues.

But it’s spring, isn’t it?

The warmth on the other side of the glass is unmistakable, inviting you out, calling you to feel it for yourself.

Yet, there’s a flicker of hesitation. It feels like spring, but the certainty of it wavers, like a thought that slips away just as you reach for it. The room around you feels still. Silent.

How long has it been this quiet?

You close your eyes, just listening to… nothing. The stillness presses in, thick like fog, and you try to remember if there was ever any sound here at all.

You glance down at your hands, clasped loosely in your lap, and for a moment, you stare at them, puzzled. They don’t look like you remember. The skin, thin and papery, stretches over knuckles that seem too prominent. Veins snake beneath the surface, tracing lines you don’t recall having seen before.

These hands - they feel like someone else's. But no, they must be yours. You can feel them, the faint, dull sensation as they rest against your knees, but they don't seem to belong to you in the way they once did. When did they change?

When did you change?

Something catches your eye on the sill. Petals, once radiant in their brilliance, now slouch in weariness, drooping with the quiet dignity of inevitable decline. Their smooth, silken forms have lost their youthful reach, folding inward as if yielding to an unspoken melancholy.

You try to summon a memory, something simple, like them holding a cup of tea or brushing your fingers through soft hair. But the images that come to mind are blurry, like an old photograph that’s been handled too many times.

You blink, shaking your head lightly, as if that will clear the crowd of butterflies that flit around obscuring your thoughts from something tangible, coherent.

A few, unable to hold on any longer, have detached themselves and have drifted soundlessly to the windowsill. There, they lie in gentle disarray, fragile vestiges of what they once were - pale spectres of fleeting grandeur. Their edges, brittle and curling, crackle faintly in the warmth, like the crumbling vellum of ancient manuscripts whose tales have long slipped from human grasp. 

The leaves, still clinging to their verdant hue but drained of their former vigour, the way they bend and curl is not frantic, but rather, resigned. Their movements, subtle and serpentine, suggest a quiet struggle, a dance with the inevitable.

You can't quite recall how long these flowers have been here, or where they even came from. They appeared one day, and you never questioned their arrival. Or did you? Did you thank the bringer of them? Who was it?

Was it you? 

You lean closer to the flowers. They’re neither fully alive nor fully gone, caught in that fragile in-between state. It feels as though they’re not just fading, but evolving - changing into something else. Something quieter, perhaps, but no less meaningful.

Their pale, crispy yellow petals, delicate and unassuming, have a softness that seems to speak directly to you, though you've never considered why. It’s a hue that feels timeless, like a colour that has always belonged to you, though perhaps you only realise it now. There’s a quiet warmth in it - a subtle radiance that doesn’t demand attention but gently insists on being felt.

Yellow. Yellow. Yes, it feels right.

It settles into your mind like an old, forgotten favourite, resurfacing just when it’s needed most. Comforting in a way you can’t put your finger on.

"Oh," comes a gentle cadence from behind, and it startles you.

You reach out to touch one of the petals, your shaky fingertips grazing its surface. It’s delicate, almost translucent now, but still holding onto some small semblance of what it once was. As you lift your hand away, a petal comes loose, drifting down to the sill below.

You watch it fall, weightless and unburdened, as if it’s always known this moment would come. It lands without a sound, settling amongst the others, and you feel an odd sense of peace.

You hadn’t heard him enter, but now he’s here, his presence announced only by the subtle trace of vetiver that lingers in the air between you and a sad sigh that escapes him.

"Oh wow, this is dreadful!" he exclaims, his voice laced with a mix of exaggerated concern and the soft click of disapproval.

His large hands reach for the vase, fingers brushing delicately against the brittle petals as if afraid they might disintegrate further under his touch. 

You can’t help but notice the way his bouncy curls tumble into his face, almost concealing the glint of his eyes, which seem to catch everything - even the details you always somehow miss.

His name escapes you, slipping away like so many other details lost in the haze, but his face - his face is always there, a constant amid the swirling fog that clouds your thoughts. Somehow, through the blur of forgotten moments, he remains a steady presence, a fixed point in a world that often feels untethered.

You blink, trying to place him. He’s in there, somewhere. You can feel him. He’s in yellow. The others are always in white, bland and so stark, but his shirt is always yellow. Yellow, your favourite, you think.

There’s something achingly familiar about him, a sense of recognition that hovers just beyond your grasp.

There’s a quiet reassurance in him, like the echo of a memory you can almost, but not quite, reach. He coaxes a smile from your thin lips. You can feel the corners of your mouth lift, a slow, tentative motion, as if your muscles are relearning the gesture. The sensation is strange - your skin stretches in unfamiliar ways, and your face aches with the effort. 

"Haaa-veee," you murmur, sounding out the name like you’re trying it on for the first time.

Your eyes drift down to the tag pinned neatly above his breast. Hello, my name is Javi, it reads, and just beneath it, a little smiling sun sticker beams up at you, its cheerful simplicity somehow cutting through the swampy fog in your mind.

There’s something about the image - so unassuming, so optimistic in it's holographic glimmer - that tugs more of a smile from your lips. 

"Yes. I am Javi," he replies warmly, his lips curving into a smile of his own that feels genuine and unhurried.

There’s something calming about the way he stands there, not rushing, not pushing for answers, just letting the moment settle between the two of you. His voice is soft but carries a sense of assurance, like he's been through this before, like he's used to being remembered only in fragments.

The room settles into a soft silence once more, broken only by the gentle rustle of withering petals as they shift with his movements. You find yourself pondering how many times you’ve uttered his name before, or how often he’s graced you with that disarming smile when you did. The specifics blur like watercolours running together, each detail fading into the turpentine as it strips it all away.

Yet, curiously, those particulars seem less significant than the warmth of the connection that lingers between you. It feels tangible, almost electric, a fleeting yet profound thread binding you together in this moment - reminding you that somehow, the details don’t seem as important.

It feels like you know him. He has a face that makes you smile and doesn’t frighten you. 

"Good morning, señorita," Javi says, cradling the vase gently against his broad chest. His voice is light, playful, and it pulls you out of your thoughts, if only for a moment. "Breakfast, I think, yes?" he asks, tilting his head slightly as he waits for your response.

You nod, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty. Are you hungry? You can’t remember if you’ve eaten already today. Maybe you have, maybe not - it’s hard to tell. The days confuse you like that sometimes.

The sound of squeaking wheels cuts through the room, and you watch as a trolley is pushed in. Javi busies himself with the vase, carefully placing it on the table with a soft thud. His fingers skim the wilting petals again, his brow creasing as he studies the dried-out flowers.

"Oh dear," he sighs, almost to himself, "too much sun and not enough water for the crocus, I think."

Without thinking, you mutter, "No such thing as too much sun," but the words feel distant, as though they belong to someone else. Your lips don’t quite feel like your own as they form the sentence, like they’re moving on their own accord.

Javi freezes for a moment, then his face lights up with a broad, delighted grin. "That's right!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together in an enthusiastic burst of approval.

His joy is infectious, and before you realise it, a laugh escapes your mouth. It’s a crackled, sweet sound, the kind that feels unfamiliar but comforting, almost like it’s coming from a part of you that hasn’t been touched in a long time. Delicate, easily torn. Your laughter feels all gummy around your tongue, your smile wide and easy, and for just a second, everything feels lighter.

Javi beams at you, as if your laughter is the best thing he’s heard all day, and in that small moment, the wilting flowers, the fading memories, and the fog in your mind all seem to recede.

"Let's see now, oh, dios mio! We have a feast this morning!" (My god) Javi announces cheerfully as he positions the trolley right in front of you.

He pulls the lid off each dish with a bit of flair, revealing eggs, golden pastries, yoghurts, fresh fruit, and something else - something that smells both tart and sweet, the scent so familiar that it makes your eyes light up. You can almost taste it in the air before you even see it - dusted with powdered sugar and topped with glossy, ruby-red fruit. The smell wraps itself around you, pulling you back to a place you can’t quite name but feel deep in your bones.

"Is that-?" you begin, the words catching in your throat as the scent envelops you.

It lingers at the edges of your memory, teasing you with its familiarity. The sweetness, the warmth - it brings with it a sense of ease, of laughter that flows effortlessly, of sunlight warming your skin as you throw your head back without a care in the world.

"French toast!" Javi coos, as though he’s revealing a treasure, his hands deftly tucking a napkin into the collar of your blouse with the care of someone who’s done this many times before.

You can almost feel it now - yourself, younger, lighter, sitting at a small café table, the air thick with the smell of fresh bread and cinnamon, your hands cradling a cup of coffee as the world bustles around you.

You remember the sound of laughter - yours, carefree and unburdened - and the way your fingers would brush over the edges of the plate, collecting a bit of powdered sugar that had fallen onto your dress.

You smile softly. "Gosh, I haven't had French toast since..."

"Since 1992. At least, authentic French toast," Javi interrupts, his voice gentle yet certain, weaving through the air like a soft melody.

His smile holds a knowing quality, like a cherished secret he’s delighted to share with you as you look at him in wonder. "Paris, if I’m not mistaken," he continues, his eyes sparkling with the joy of the memory. "Le Petit Café. Montmartre. You had it with a raspberry compote. Your favourite."

As he speaks, your mind flutters, trying to catch hold of the image in your butterfly net he conjures. You can almost see the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, the golden glow of sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalk. You can hear the distant laughter of patrons, the clink of cutlery against porcelain, and the low murmur of conversation that dances around the cosy café. 

You’re there, you can feel it as you smile at the plate. Sipping your café au lait on the sun-drenched terrace, you savour the warmth of the morning sun. The air is rich with the scent of fresh pastries, and the decadent melodies of distant conversation. As you relish your French toast, you glance up and catch sight of a man across the street.

It’s the kind of smile that teases the edges of something thrilling, as though in this moment, time itself might pause, and you could slip away with him into something frivolous. A whirlwind romance, perhaps - of stolen kisses in shadowed corners, laughter spilling recklessly as rain drenches both of you in the streets of the city of love.

He leans casually against a lamppost, dressed simply yet stylishly, with tousled curls that dance in the gentle breeze. The sunlight catches his aquiline features, creating a soft halo around him that gives him an almost ethereal quality. For a fleeting moment, your heart quickens as his eyes lock onto yours, your breath stolen from your lungs.

He smiles, as if he’s holding onto a delightful secret that you’re just about to uncover.

You remember standing beside him, fingers intertwined, the air thick with the promise of forever, though even then, perhaps, you knew nothing lasts. Still, the memory remains, even if the details have begun to slip through your grasp. 

You can almost feel it - his skin, golden from the sun and warm under your touch, the subtle rise and fall of his breath as you press your nose against his neck, inhaling that familiar, intoxicating scent. Sea salt lingers in his skin too; heights that are jumped from hand-in-hand, cliff faces, splashes and giggles. Wild euphoria.

The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering through half-drawn curtains, casting light pools on wrinkled bed sheets tangled beneath the both of you.

There’s the echo of laughter, intimate and carefree, punctuated by the rhythm of hands and lips and the headboard creaking - a love spoken in many languages that feels weightless and eternal. The last sunset you watched together flickers at the edges of your mind - golden light sinking slowly below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues that seem to blur now, like that watercolour paint bleeding into paper.

He holds your gaze for just a second longer, and you sense a shared understanding, a fleeting recognition that transcends words. Like he, too, can see your chapters together writing themselves in the air above you. Then, with a playful grin, he lifts his coffee cup in a silent toast before turning to walk away, disappearing amongst the crowd.

You blink, your heart fluttering with something unnameable, but as the throng of people swirls around him, his figure begins to blur. He melds into the lively parade of tourists and locals, each person absorbed in their own narratives, and suddenly, he’s just another face lost among the bustling streets of Paris.

You strain to recall his features, they slip away like sand through your fingers, leaving only an inexplicable sense of longing. The vibrant city feels both alive and distant now, a romantic kaleidoscope of colours and sounds that vibrate around you, yet the image of him remains just out of reach, like a dream you’re struggling to remember less and less each day you wake. 

Yet, just as quickly as the memory rises, it slips away with the taste, leaving you with only the warmth of Javi’s smile and the echoes of his words.

"Raspberry compote," you murmur, letting the syllables roll off your tongue as if trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

It feels significant, somehow - a thread connecting you to a past that exists just out of reach, woven together by the richness of experience and the gentle guidance of someone who remembers.

"Yes," Javi nods, his expression encouraging. "You loved it. It was a special day, full of laughter and sunshine. You wore that yellow dress with the white polka dots."

"I had a polka dot dress?" you inquire, the thought seeming almost absurd, as if it belongs to someone else’s story rather than your own.

"Yes," Javi chuckles, the sound warm and inviting, wrapping around you like a favourite blanket. "You had it just above your knees back then, scandalous.” He titters. “A cheerful yellow. It is your favourite colour.”

“It is?” You ask, flummoxed. 

"I’ll share a little secret, mi sol," (my sun) he leans in conspiratorially, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "It’s my favourite colour, too." Javi smiles. 

"Yell-ow," you muse, letting the word linger on your tongue like a drop of honey. “I like… yellow. And raspberry compote. And Javi.” You beam.

The sun warms your skin as you savour the first bite of French toast, its texture pillowy and light. A dollop of raspberry compote glistens atop, the tartness contrasting beautifully with the sweetness of the bread. You can taste the delicate balance of flavours, the way the warmth of the dish complements the coolness of the berries.

"Precisely!" Javi exclaims, nodding enthusiastically, his expression brightening even further. "Now," he says, his voice light as he carefully slices into the French toast, cutting it into neat, bite-sized squares.

He holds up a forkful, offering it to you with a gentle smile. "Today is another very special day. Do you know what day this is?" 

But his question lingers in the air, pulling you back into the present, even as the memories and the taste swirl together. What day is it? You think hard, the answer just out of reach, hovering like a foreign word on the tip of your tongue. You try to grasp at it, but it slips away, lost in the haze that clouds so many things now.

You chew slowly, savouring the taste, and a quiet moan escapes your lips, the pleasure of it almost overwhelming. It’s as if the flavours unlock something deep inside - a feeling of comfort, of familiarity, of being cared for.

Of mornings spent with French toast served to you on a floral plate by strong hands and a smile as blinding as the sun. Crocus flowers gifted in a vase. A cardigan placed neatly on your shoulders, a kiss pressed to your cheek and temples. Walking with arms linked, your body wrapped up in a soft towel, and dancing. Always dancing. 

Javi watches you closely, not rushing, giving you time. His presence is calm, steady. Finally, you shake your head slightly, not trusting your voice.

He doesn't seem disappointed, only nods with that same understanding smile. "It’s alright," he says gently, cutting another piece of toast. "It’s Wednesday. The second of April. But more importantly..." He pauses, his eyes searching yours, as though willing you to remember, though he never forces it. "It’s the day we always have French toast together," he continues.

"We do?" you ask, the words hesitant, fragile, as though you’re unsure of their weight.

Javi’s smile softens as he responds, "Yes, mi sol. We always have it on Wednesdays."

He holds out another piece of French toast, patiently waiting for you to take it, as though this ritual - this simple act of feeding and sharing food - could somehow bring clarity.

"I can't... remember," you whisper after swallowing, the words sticking in your throat, thick with frustration and sadness. It's like trying to grasp at smoke, the harder you reach, the quicker it slips away. 

You chew slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last, the sweetness of the compote doing little to mask the dull ache of something missing, something lost. A hollow space where memories should live.

But they’re not there - at least, not fully. They flicker, shadows at the edge of your consciousness, close but just out of reach.

A dry cough escapes you, and before you can react, Javi is already there - handing you a glass of water, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. His touch is warm, grounding, though your own hand trembles as you take the glass.

You sip slowly, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat, but it doesn’t wash away the heaviness.

“You’re alright, mi sol. Just drink, slowly. Breathe.” He reassures. 

As your fingers grip the glass, another memory bursts to life, sudden and sharp. Not yours, but his - his sickness. The smell of antiseptic fills your mind. You see his pale, sweaty skin, feel the way his body convulsed as he coughed and retched, helpless in your arms. The image is vivid - the sterile hospital corridor, the muted beeping of machines, the tubes that surrounded him, keeping him alive.

You remember your own hand stroking his back in slow circles, trying to soothe him, trying to calm him, telling him to breathe too, though terror had already settled deep within you.

His fingers had gripped yours so tightly, as though letting go would mean something irreversible. His eyes, wide and terrified, had locked onto yours, pleading without words as they wheeled him down the corridor. Wheeled him away from you.

He hadn’t wanted to let go, and neither had you.

The glass trembles in your hand as the memory fades, leaving behind a cold, hollow silence. You blink, but the weight of that moment lingers, pressing against your chest. You glance up at Javi, who watches you with an unreadable expression - calm, steady, as if waiting for you to find your way back to him.

The memory sharpens - his eyes, watery and desperate, disappearing behind the doors as the metallic hum faded away. And then, the sound of your own voice, cracking with wails and screams, when he wouldn’t wake up. When you couldn’t pull him back.

When you couldn’t say goodbye. 

"It’s alright," he murmurs softly, brushing a stray curl away from his face. "You don’t have to remember everything. That’s what I’m here for." His words wrap around you, offering a comfort you can’t quite grasp but are grateful for nonetheless.

"Haaa-veeee. Javi." You smile up at him. The sun seems to shine from him, casting a glow that makes everything else seem less heavy. "Javi. My sunshine man," you murmur, and the words come easily, as though they've always belonged to him.

Javi's smile deepens as he gently wipes at your lips with a napkin, his touch light and careful.

"Yes. That is me," he says with a playful warmth, and with a soft laugh, he boops your nose with the napkin and it pulls a giggle from you. "Come on now, eat up," he encourages, nodding toward the last few bites on the plate. "I have a great day planned ahead of us, mi sol."

Your eyes widen in surprise, the excitement bubbling up inside you. "You do?"

"Yes!" Javi grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief and promise. "We’re going on an adventure today."

Your heart skips a beat at the word, your curiosity piqued. "Where?" you ask, your voice filled with childlike wonder.

Javi leans in slightly. "Ah, well, that’s part of the surprise. But I can tell you this: there will be ice cream." He winks, and the sparkle in his eyes feels contagious, lifting your spirits.

"Ice cream?" you ask, the excitement rising in your voice. You watch as he jumps up and heads over to your closet. He rummages, searching through hangers.  

"Of course," he chuckles. "What kind of adventure would it be without a little sweetness?" 

"Do I like ice cream?" you ask, a touch of uncertainty in your voice.

Javi smiles warmly over his shoulder, without a hint of hesitation. "You love ice cream," he replies, his eyes soft with affection. "With chocolate sauce. Always with the chocolate sauce."

“A-ha!” He coos as he pulls an item from your closet. You look at it as he holds it up. A yellow dress with white polka dots.

His voice is so sure, so filled with certainty, that it feels like the truth - even if you can’t quite pull the memory forward yourself.

For a moment, you try to remember the taste, the cool sweetness of ice cream melting on your tongue, the rich chocolate sauce dripping down in velvety swirls. It’s faint, like a shadow in your mind, but Javi’s words make it feel real. You smile at him, trusting his certainty as your own.

You stare at it, the colour catching your eye, soft yet vibrant. It feels familiar, and yet it doesn’t. You tilt your head, studying the fabric, trying to make sense of the strange pull it has on you.

“Is that… mine?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine curiosity, as though the dress is a long-lost artefact from a life you’re not sure you lived. He steps closer, bringing it over, the faint scent of lavender clinging to it.

“Yes. Your favourite," Javi replies, his voice tender. “You used to wear it all the time. You said it made you feel like sunshine.”

You reach out tentatively to touch the pretty fabric, running your fingers over the soft cotton. There’s a flicker in the back of your mind - a flash of sunlight, laughter, the sensation of wind on your bare legs, and the feeling of warmth that wrapped around you whenever you wore it.

"Is it my birthday?" you ask, your voice carrying a quiet hopefulness.

For a brief second, you catch the way Javi’s smile dips - just a flicker, so quick it almost goes unnoticed. But you see it, and something in the air shifts, though only for a moment.

You can see the man smiling at you again from across the Parisian street. He’s so achingly beautiful. 

"No," he says softly, his voice gentle but sure. "It’s not your birthday. But..." He pauses, his smile returning, this time softer, more thoughtful. "It is a very special day."

"A special day?" you echo, curious but uncertain.

"Yes," Javi replies, his eyes steady on yours, as if to anchor you in the moment. "A day just for us. For adventures, for smiles, and maybe even a little magic." He tilts his head slightly, his grin widening again. "Doesn’t that sound like something to celebrate?"

It’s hard not to feel comforted by his words, even if you don’t understand all of it. The fog in your mind feels a little less dense with him here, and whatever this special day is, you trust him.

"That sounds wonderful," you say, a smile blooming on your face.

"I thought it would," Javi replies with a playful wink. There's something in the way he looks at you - like he knows just how to make the heaviness feel lighter, how to fill the space between the forgotten and the remembered with little moments of joy.

And it is a joyful day, one that has you laughing so hard your chest tightens, the kind of laughter that steals the breath right from you, leaving you gasping in the most wonderful way.

There’s an ease to the day, a rhythm to it, as if time itself has bent to the shape of your happiness. The air feels different - crisp, yet soft around the edges, as though the universe is conspiring to keep you in this bubble just a little longer. The dress, light and airy against your skin, flutters with your movements, as if it too is caught up in the laughter.

The sun is high, warm against your skin, and the world feels light, almost weightless, as though nothing dark could ever touch this moment. You can hear your own laughter ringing out, bright and full, mingling with the breeze.

It’s a sound that seems to come from a time when everything was simple and pure, when joy was something you could reach out and physically hold in your hands as it stroked you back.

“Just like that! Let the music in your heart guide you!” he encourages, his eyes sparkling with delight, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out like a bell.

He said there would be magic, and it is indeed magical - the way he has you up on your feet again, twirling and spinning with him on the pier after the delicious ice cream he promised you; the wooden boards creaking beneath your weight.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow that dances upon the water, reflecting the light like scattered yellow diamonds. Each step feels as if you’re floating, your worries fading into the breeze as Javi pulls you closer, his laughter mingling with the sound of the waves crashing against the posts.

The world around you blurs into a kaleidoscope of colour as he twirls you - blues and yellows, the cerulean sky mixing with the sun-soaked wood, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

“Up there,” Javi nods towards the cliff face, its rugged edges glistening in the sunlight, a chalky challenge painted against the clear blue sky. “We’ll climb it.”

“I can’t climb that, not with these knees anymore,” you grumble, an edge of frustration lacing your voice.

“Just hold on tight,” he says, his tone playful yet reassuring. “I’ve got you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, feeling the strength of his embrace, and suddenly the daunting cliff doesn’t seem so intimidating.

But before you can voice another protest, Javi has already scooped you up into his arms, effortlessly lifting you as if you were weightless. You’re caught off guard, surprise bubbling up inside you, mingling with laughter.

The world tilts slightly as he starts walking, your heart racing not just from the unexpected lift but from the thrill of his unwavering confidence.

“How did you get so strong?” You ask admiring his arm around you and his shoulders, so broad.

“Years of practice,” he replies with a wink, a playful smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “It won't be the last time I carry you up this cliff."

You chuckle, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. It’s moments like these that remind you, the memories fluttering back in, of the countless adventures you’ve shared, the way he’s always been your anchor, lifting you when the weight of the world felt too heavy to bear and navigate through on your own.

Soon, you’re both sitting on the edge, feet dangling with the ocean below and his arm is still around you keeping you steady and nestled into his side. 

“You are just as beautiful as when I first laid eyes on you, mi sol.” Javi whispers to you, his hand gentle on your hip, but reassuring. 

You turn to meet his gaze, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of something timeless - a spark that ignites a flutter in your chest. It's as if he can see beyond the weakened, wrinkly surfaces of you now, past the layers of forgetfulness and uncertainty that have settled in like dust. 

And in his eyes, you’re not the old, forgetful crone you’ve become, but the young woman back in Paris, entranced by a man glowing like the sun, with chocolate curls and dark, excitable eyes that seemed to dance with life.

All the years slip away like shadows fading in the light, and you’re that spirited girl again - full of dreams, laughter, and who once danced through the streets of Montmartre, belly full of French toast and in love.

He takes your hand in his, and the touch feels both fragile and grounding - your fingers are once again papery and thin. The warmth of his presence is tinged with a quiet resignation as it settles between the both of you.

The world around you transforms; the cliff fades, the salty breeze becomes the fragrant Parisian air, thick with the scent of fresh croissants and blooming lilacs. You can almost hear the distant strains of an accordion playing a lively tune, the sound weaving through the air like a magical thread that pulls you into the past.

The cobblestone streets of Paris materialise in your mind, each stone a reminder of the adventures you shared with him - moments filled with spontaneous laughter, whispered secrets beneath the stars, and promises made with the enthusiasm only youth and love can muster.

“It is time,” Javi says, and though he smiles, the warmth doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are clouded with a depth of emotion that makes your heart ache.

A sense of impending finality hangs in the air, heavy and charged. But you’re not afraid. You study him closely, searching for any hint of reassurance, and as you do, you can’t help but feel a deep sadness welling up within you.

“You look sad,” you say gently, your voice breaking the silence that feels almost sacred in its weight.

“I am sad because I am really going to miss you,” he replies, and the truth in his words hits you like a wave.

You can see it in the way his smile falters, a flicker of something deeper dancing in his eyes - a longing that mirrors your own.

“Are you not coming?” you ask, and his brow furrows slightly as if the very thought pains him.

“No, I can’t,” he murmurs, swallowing hard against the tide of emotion rising within you. “I have to stay here. But I will see you again soon.” 

He shakes his head, and with that simple motion, your heart sinks. You feel the weight of his words pressing on your chest suffocating you.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, as if you’re being pulled in two different directions - between what you want and what you must accept.

Javi's hand lingers in yours, the warmth between you a fragile tether against the backdrop of the reality that looms ahead.

“But I don’t want to say goodbye,” you confess, your voice trembling as you grapple with the impending separation.

He holds your gaze, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face - sadness, acceptance, and a profound understanding. 

“Neither do I. Each time we do, it does not hurt any less,” he admits softly, squeezing your hand with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “You have been my sunshine for such a long time.”

“Paris,” you murmur, the word slipping from your lips. “You were there in Paris. You've always been there with me, haven’t you?”

“Take me where?” you ask, a mix of curiosity and trepidation swirling within you.

“Yes,” Javi replies, his voice resonating with a depth that sends shivers through you.

"I... remember you, Javi. I remember that I love you. And that you love me, too." You say, and his eyes water, sparkly and big.

His hand cups your cheek delicately. “I have been equally waiting for this day, where you would remember again. And dreading this day, because I will take you forward myself.”

“To your next life,” he says, and the weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy yet shimmering with possibility.

His eyes hold yours, a deep well of understanding and promise, as if he’s offering you a glimpse beyond the veil that separates what is known from what lies ahead.

The thought sends a cascade of emotions through you - fear, excitement, and an overwhelming sense of inevitability. But more confusingly, peace. 

“I will hold your hand all the way,” Javi says, his voice soft yet firm, an anchor amidst the uncertainty swirling around you. “There is nothing to be frightened of. It will be easy, painless. We can just watch the sunset together, like we used to.”

“My next life...” you echo, trying to grasp the enormity of what he’s saying.

You can feel your heart quickening, as though it understands something you don’t quite comprehend yet.

You turn your gaze to the horizon, where the sun dips low, a hue that bathes the world in a warm embrace. 

“It’s really pretty. Golden,” you say, a smile blooming on your lips as the sky transforms into a canvas of vibrant oranges and soft pinks.

The colours dance together, a beautiful farewell to the day that has been indeed special. Javi helps you to your feet and stands beside you, his gaze fixed on the horizon too, and for a moment, you can’t tell if the colours of the sunset reflect in his eyes or if they're simply just a part of him.

He looks serene, with his name tag fluttering in the breeze on his yellow shirt, as if he’s found his place in this world; a guide, a carer, a husband... and you can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you.

“Thank you for this life, Javi,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, laden with emotion. “Thank you for loving me in every lifetime.” 

He turns to you, his expression softening. “It has been an honour to share it all with you, mi sol. Every moment we’ve danced, every kiss we’ve shared, it’s all been magic.”

You nod, feeling the truth of his words resonate deep within you. Each shared experience, each memory, feels like a thread weaving your lives together, rich with laughter and love - gosh were you loved! - even amidst the struggles of losing him over and over. 

“Even the hard moments?” you ask, seeking reassurance that the shadows were just as meaningful as the light. 

“Especially those,” he replies, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “They taught us how to appreciate the sunshine that follows.”

The sun dips lower, long shadows stretching, and you feel that sense of peace enveloping you again. 

“Close your eyes, mi sol,” Javi whispers, his tone soothing. “Take a nice long breath in and out, and then, we will jump, like we used to.” 

You smile, allowing the corners of your lips to curve upward as you close your eyes, leaving yourself with the final image of him - his dark curls catching the fading light, his smile radiant, as bright as the sun. 

“Will you find me there, Javi?” You ask, blindly.

“I’ll always find you.” He promises. You feel him press a kiss to the back of your hand.

Nodding, you take a deep breath. The air fills your lungs, cool and refreshing - expanding. You hold it for a moment, savouring the beauty of the life you’ve shared, the laughter, the love, the adventures that have painted your existence in vibrant colours.

All the shades of stunning yellow. Golden.

The last thing you remember is Javi Gutierrez - the man who loves you in every lifetime - standing across the street in Paris, smiling fondly at you. 

Then, slowly, you release it, letting go of all the worries, the uncertainty, the foggy shadows that have clouded the edges of your mind.

You wonder where he’ll be in the next life. How he’ll come to you again. How he’ll love you again. How he’ll take your hand and lead you into the afterlife again. You giggle and he laughs with you. 

And then, you jump.

Thank you so much for reading this offering of Frith. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and as always a re-blog is very much appreciated. Thank you! ☀️

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

-> Read my other Offering of Frith story with Pero Tovar here.⚡

Welcome!

Since December has just begun and I finally started writing fanfics again, I decided to spread some holiday cheer and write my own Advent Calendar, starting on December 1 and ending on December 25 2024.

Due to my hyperfixation on TLOU for the past few weeks, I've prepared 25 fanfics centered around Joel Miller.

I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

MDNI for certain days!

I do not know which warnings will be needed for individual fanfics so check each one just to be sure!

Days:

Day 1 - Frost (Explicit)

Day 2 - Card

Day 3 - Christmas Tree (Being edited)

Day 4 - Bells (Being edited)

Day 5 - Candle (Being edited)

Day 6 - Star (Being edited)

Day 7 - Fireplace (Being edited)

Day 8 - Gingerbread (Being edited)

Day 9 - Reindeer (Being edited)

Day 10 - Wreath (Being edited)

Day 11 - Mistletoe (Being edited)

Day 12 - Eggnog (Being edited)

Day 13 - Snowman (Being edited)

Day 14 - Bow (Being edited)

Day 15 - Hot Chocolate (Being edited)

Day 16 - Shopping (Being edited)

Day 17 - Stocking (Being edited)

Day 18 - Sweater (Being edited)

Day 19 - Wishlist (Being edited)

Day 20 - Gift (Being edited)

Day 21 - Manger (Being edited)

Day 22 - Ice Skating (Being edited)

Day 23 - Snowflake (Being edited)

Day 24 - Mittens (Being edited)

Day 25 - Carol (Being edited)

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Last Of Us or any of its characters. The Last Of Us is the property of Naughty Dog and Sony Interactive Entertainment. This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!

Requests are currently:

OPEN FOR THE HBO SERIES ONLY

Even though I might write for some characters more than others, the other characters are still available as well!

Do not be afraid to request anyone from the current open form of media of the Fandom!

Works

COMING SOON

Disclaimer:

I do not own The Last Of Us or any of its characters. The Last Of Us is the property of Naughty Dog and Sony Interactive Entertainment. This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!

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"Someone asked how I feel about Captain Crunch. I'm capable of eating an entire box of it without any milk. It is a sweet taste that is indescribable. Captain Crunch is its own flavour."

-my baby, my husband, my lover, Pedro Pascal

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you know, when i made that post about judge judy, i was really thinking about pedro pascal. ive been his fan since i was a child watching my mom watch law & order and buffy. i grew up thinking people on tv stayed that age (i didnt understand the concept of time) and i was utterly disappointed to find out that he did not wait for me (he didnt stop aging and wont sleep outside his age range, which i guess makes him a good person? but like cmon? its me? the literal love of your life?) if he would have me, i would take care of him in old age. change diapers, give medication, bathe him. i would remind him every day of who he was, every reason i love him, and any memory i could think of to remind him that hes human. that he deserves to be here just as much as anyone, else even in sickness.

now that ive basically wrote out my wet dream, bye! love you!!

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What if, ….everything that happened….was a bad dream?!

(Me right now)

// i'm always looking for you //

Screaming, shacking, crying, gun loaded and ready

tlou epsiode 3 tonight... im scared!!

So, I've just started watching the mandalorian and I have questions, as someone that has absolutely no prior knowledge about star was would:

How does the child get out of his floating baby carrier??? Does he just faceplant into the ground???

Is it just me that thinks the Alamites sound exactly like the fucking minions?

kinda wanna start posting ff ideas on here so they have more potential than what im giving them now (sitting quietly in my notes). like maybe someone will see them and make a piece of art out of it. i don’t know, imma think on it

— 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘺𝘢