Finally Got To Read This, I Was So Excited To See An Update On It! This Story Has Made A Home For Itself

Finally got to read this, I was so excited to see an update on it! This story has made a home for itself in my brain and I love it soo much!!!

a safe haven l ten

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l previous chapter l next chapter

summary: After a long night, Joel and Ellie take you home.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF AN INJURY SUSTAINED FROM AN ACT OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, PREGNANCY, CONVERSATIONS SURROUNDING PREGNANCY LOSS . PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. Ellie and reader are very close to each other, Joel deals with feelings of guilt, Joel and Maria make nice, Joel gives reader a bath and washes her hair, food consumption (i am just gonna apologize to my lactose intolerant folks right now, trust me i must pretend with you), both reader and Joel have some big feelings, reader mentions her deceased father, angst, soft and domestic Joel, fluff.

word count: 5k

a/n: i have not updated this series since october. :l i feel a a mixed bag of emotions updating after all this time, but most of all, i am grateful to know there are a couple of people out there who are still invested in this story. to anyone who has been waiting: truly, it means the world that you have shown me patience, support, and kindness. believe me, i am going to be seeing this story to the end, and it is all thanks to those who continue to show this lil story of mine a whole lotta love. special shoutout to the loveliest human @mrsmando who made me this beautiful mooodboard every single time i got stuck during this chapter, i looked at it and it gave me the boost of inspiration i needed. thank you mimi <33 this chapter is fairly tame, the next chapter is already in the works, and there are a couple of time jumps coming. overall, we are down to the last handful of chapters. let’s finish this story and give these two the ending they deserve, shall we?

“What the hell is taking Tommy so fucking long?” Ellie whines. She’s sprawled out on the couch with her head in your lap, and her arm draped over her eyes. Her feet are hanging, dangling over the edge of the couch at an odd angle after you’d warned her not to get muck from her sneakers on the linen fabric. Despite Joel insisting over and over that she head on back to the house, she had stubbornly refused, not wanting to leave your side. “It’s been over two hours! He’s taking fucking forever, man. What’s the fucking hold up?”

Joel bites back a sigh, masking his own impatience. Or at least, he tries. He’s grown just as restless as the kid, if not more. Much like Ellie, he’s desperate. He’s itching to take you home already, almost too anxious to watch you take that first step over his threshold, and into your new life with him and with Ellie. He aches, aches, to get you settled into the place where you would be spending the remainder of your days with one another, where you would be safe, and loved in the way you deserved to be loved—the place where he would cherish and adore you until his final breath.

“Don’t know,” he answers, his voice sounding rougher, more gruff than usual. Reaching up, he scrubs his hand down the side of his face, adding tiredly, “He might be a while longer, kiddo. It could be another hour, could be more. Like I already told you, s’probably best if you just go on and head back to the house without us, alright?”

“No. I’m not walking out that fucking door unless she’s with me.” She pauses and pulls her arm away from her face for a moment, just long enough to throw a teeny glare his way. “Unless you’re both with me. The three of us go home together, or it’s no fucking deal. Got it?”

He shakes his head in utter exasperation.

“Ellie, we’ll be right here down the fuckin’ road—”

Her hand shoots out and she flips him off.

Just when he’s about to chastise her, he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut. It’s pointless.

Kid’s too goddamn hard headed for her own good, and Joel knows he’s just wasting his breath with her.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” you reassure them both, weaving your fingers through her hair to scratch at her scalp in an effort to soothe her. “Right, Joel?”

He meets your exhausted, worn down gaze from where he’s standing across the room, and his heart lurches in his chest. As the guilt begins creeping in, he’s forced to look away. He can’t imagine the living hell you had been through over the last twenty four hours alone. And the worst part about it was the realization that last night, while he was fast asleep in bed just a couple of houses up the road, that fucking bastard had his belt wrapped around your throat.

Joel feels sick to his fucking stomach all over again.

Horrifying, vividly real images of you helplessly trapped underneath Luke scratching and clawing at the leather around your neck with trembling fingers, struggling to breathe oxygen into your burning lungs as he tugged it tighter and tighter through the buckle flash in his mind, a gruesome nightmare turned into reality.

Exactly how far had Luke taken it?

Until you had grown too weak to keep fighting?

Until you almost lost complete consciousness?

Until he noticed the life threatening to leave your eyes?

Is that when he had finally stopped pulling on the belt?

Joel shudders, a bitter taste climbing up his throat as it sinks in. He could have lost you—and his unborn child.

This shouldn’t have happened.

He shouldn’t have let you walk away that night.

This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t let you walk away from him that night.

“Joel,” you say his name, quiet and weary.

His head snaps back in your direction and he glances at you, almost missing the subtle shake of your head. It is a silent warning telling him not to go there, though you know by the tight clench of his jaw it’s too late for that.

Joel makes the futile attempt to hide it, but he sees it written all over your face—you know what he’s thinking because you know him like the back of your own hand, and you just know he’s placing all of the blame for what happened to you on his own shoulders.

But can you honestly fault him for that?

How can you expect him not to feel like he is somehow responsible for this? Just how the hell is he supposed to make himself believe he hadn’t failed you?

Joel promised—he had fucking promised you—that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. He had sworn to keep you safe, made a vow to protect you from Luke, but here you are, your soft, delicate flesh marred with the painful evidence of yet another one of his failures.

And it was all because he had let you walk away on that fucking night.

He should have done something.

Even if it meant running the risk of you never speaking to him again—even if you never forgave him, spent the rest of your life angry and hating him for going against your wishes. He should have something.

“Joel—”

“Be right back,” he mutters, lightly shaking his head.

Shoving away from the doorframe he’s leaning against, Joel pivots on the heel of his boot and starts down the hallway. He walks into the kitchen where he finds Maria standing at the counter, tapping her fingers against the smooth, laminated oakwood as she waits for the coffee she’d offered him a few minutes ago to finish brewing. She’d offered to whip up a quick supper, but food was the last thing on everyone’s mind.

“Tommy’s been gone for a couple hours now. Girls are startin’ to get real tired of just sittin’ around waitin’ for him to come back,” he tells her, exhaling the sigh he’d held back in the living room. “What do you think could be keepin’ him so long?”

With her back still to him, Maria reminds him, “Well, he did mention he was going to round up the council and get them together for an emergency meeting.” She lets out a sigh that matches his own—it’s been a long night for her, too. When the last drop of dark roast drips into the glass pot, she carefully takes the pot by the plastic handle and pours the steaming coffee into a speckled, white and blue ceramic mug. “Do you take it with milk and sugar?”

“No thanks, that’s alright,” he declines as politely as he can.

“I also have cinnamon if you’d like?”

“Plain black’s just fine.” He gives her a nod of gratitude when she hands it to him. “Thank you. And I don’t just mean the coffee, but for, uh—for bandagin’ up my hand for me, too.” He clocks the brief look of surprise on her face and almost laughs. He doesn’t blame her for being taken aback, because truth be told, so is he. Since he’d met Maria, he had known she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. There was something of a mutual understanding between them, a silent agreement they had made to keep each other at arm’s length, to only interact when it was absolutely necessary.

Never did he think he would be standing in her kitchen, thanking her for patching up his hand, and for making him a cup of coffee out of the kindness of her heart.

His brother wouldn’t believe it.

“Don’t mention it.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans back against the counter. “How’s it feel, by the way?”

“S’fine,” he replies, shrugging. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

There’s a momentary silence. A taste of tension lingers over their heads, and he knows at one point or another, he’s going to have to address the affair, the very reason everything had unfolded in such a terrible manner.

Guess now’s as good a time as fuckin’ any, he thinks to himself with an inward sigh.

Joel lightly clears his throat. “Listen, since we’ve got a minute alone, just the two of us, I was wonderin’ if, uh—if we could talk ‘bout somethin’? If that’s alright?”

“Of course.” Maria gives him the floor.

“I know that she—” Pausing, he shuffles from the heel of one boot to the other, his ears burning hot. He had known it wouldn’t be an easy conversation to have, but he underestimated just how uncomfortable it would be, regardless of what she already knew. “I know she told you and Tommy all ‘bout us, and ‘bout our relationship. See, the thing is, the first time I saw her—”

Again, Joel stops, the burning sensation now radiating, spreading from his ears to his face and down his neck, flushing his skin a deep, deep shade of pink. Unable to meet his sister in law’s gaze, he glances down into his mug, as if he will somehow find the right words to say somewhere in the depths of his coffee.

“It was never my intention, y’know,” he finally says after a minute. “Goin’ after a married woman. I swear, I never meant to fall for her. I just fuckin’ did. I think I might’ve fallen for her long before I even met her,” he confesses. He feels himself darken to a shade of maroon under her curious stare. “And somehow, for reasons I ain’t all too sure I’ll ever understand, she fell for me too.”

Maria raises an eyebrow at him. “Look, I’m not judging you, Joel,” she assures him, shaking her head. “If that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not judging her, either.”

He looks up at her, blurting out, “You’re not?”

She moves her hands to cradle her swollen middle. “Do I wish you two had handled everything differently?” she answers her own query with a nod of her head. “Oh, I’m sure we all do. But I’ve known her for a long time now. I know the kind of woman she is. And I’m starting to see the kind of man you are.”

“And what kinda man is that, Maria?”

He waits without the slightest clue as to what she could possibly say.

“Since you came back to Jackson, I’ve chosen to keep my distance from you—but make no mistake, I’ve been watching you like a hawk since day one. Waiting for any signs of trouble. Waiting for you to fuck up. Waiting for you to give me a good reason to throw your ass out of this community because I didn’t trust you. Not after all the things I was told about you.”

He snorts. “You goin’ somewhere with this?”

“You are not who I thought you were,” Maria admits, smiling wryly. “I’ve gotten to see a different side of you. You pull your weight around here by doing your job and doing it well. You stay out of trouble—for the most part. And more importantly, I have seen the way that you’ve stepped up to be a father figure to Ellie. It takes a good man to do that, Joel.”

“Think that’s the nicest fuckin’ thing you’ve ever said to me,” he muses, setting his mug down on the counter. “I stepped up because I love her. I love them both. Those two, they’re the best parts of me. They’re the reasons I keep goin’ and now I’ve got another reason on the way.”

Maria smiles, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Catching her hesitance, Joel asks, “What? What is it?”

“What comes next is not going to be easy,” she warns him, lowering her voice. Even with the living room a fair distance from the kitchen, she doesn’t want to run the risk of you overhearing her. “For as hard as we’re going to try to contain the fire, it will spread, and everyone in this town will find out about everything—including the affair. People are going to talk, and believe me, they’re going to have a whole lot to say about it, Joel.”

He can’t help but roll his eyes at her.

“Think I can handle some fuckin’ gossip, Maria.”

“I know you can. But I’m not sure if she can,” Maria tells him, quietly. “It worries me. She’s been through a lot in just one night alone. I don’t want her stressing anymore than she already has. She is in a very delicate stage of her pregnancy right now, Joel. If she’s not careful, she could have a miscarriage. She had one about two years ago when her father became sick—” Observing his lack of a reaction, she realizes, “You knew that already.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. He knows where she’s going with this. “I did. She told me ‘bout it.”

“It makes her chances of having another one higher—”

Joel doesn’t even allow himself to think of it happening to you again. “I get it,” he interjects, trying not to sound too curt. “I’ll make sure she takes it real easy, alright?”

Lifting a hand off her belly, she reaches out and takes a hold of his forearm, gripping it tightly.

“Promise me something, Joel. Promise me that you’ll look after her,” Maria pleads him, gently. “Please. After everything she’s been through—I need you to promise me that she’s going to be in good hands with you.”

He nods. Without thinking, he places his hand over hers in an unexpected token of affection and reassurance. “You have my word, Maria. I’ll take good care of her.”

She gives his arm a grateful squeeze, then glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “It’s getting pretty late. We don’t know how much longer Tommy’s going to be with the council. Why don’t we just go ahead and call it a night?” she suggests. “We can all get together first thing in the morning at your place to talk about it.”

“Yeah, good idea,” he agrees. “She really needs to rest.”

Maria gives his arm another squeeze. 

“Go on then, Joel. Take your girls home.”

“Finally!” Ellie exclaims with a dramatic flail of her arms as she shoves through the front door.

“Alright, kiddo. Get your behind upstairs and into the shower,” Joel instructs her, flipping on the lights in the foyer. “Y’smell like fuckin’ horse shit.”

She lifts the collar of her shirt to her nose, takes a whiff, and makes a face. “Yeah, I won’t argue with you there,” she mutters. She toes off her dirty sneakers and leaves them beside the door before dashing up the staircase, taking two steps at a time.

He shouts after her, “And don’t use up all the hot—”

“Yeah, yeah, I fucking know the rules, dude!”

Moments later, you both hear the shower going.

“Little shit,” he grumbles.

You exhale an amused huff through your nose.

Joel withdraws his arm from around your shoulders and reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together. “C’mon, darlin’.” He guides you up the stairs and down the hallway into his bedroom where he switches on the light before proceeding to lead you over to his dresser. “I’ve got a bunch of shirts in this top drawer here,” he says. Dropping your hand, he pulls it open for you and gestures to it with a jut of his chin as he takes a step backwards, moving out of the way. “Go ahead and pick one to sleep in tonight. Want you to be comfortable, so help yourself to whichever one you want, sweet girl.”

Nodding, you begin to rummage through the drawer, unaware of the moment he slips away. You reach for a t-shirt, but then a plaid green flannel catches your eye. You pluck it from the drawer, running your fingers over the soft, warm fabric. “Is it alright if I wear—?” You turn around, stopping mid sentence when you realize he’s no longer standing behind you. Puzzled, you follow the sound of running water into the bathroom where you find him kneeling beside the tub. “Joel? What are you doing?”

“Runnin’ you a bath.”

You notice the bloodied bandage beside him on the tile floor. “Joel, are you serious?” you scold him. “Maria just patched your hand up for you.”

“S’okay, peach. I can rewrap it when we’re done.” Joel sticks his injured hand under the faucet to check the temperature, the cold water soothing his cuts. Once it turns warm, then hot, he pulls out his hand, waiting for the tub to fill halfway before shutting the faucet off and rising to his feet. “C’mere, sweetheart.” He rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his forearms, then beckons for you with both of his hands. “Let’s get you washed up.”

You remain standing by the door. “Joel, you don’t have to do this for me.”

“I know.”

“I’m capable of washing myself—”

“Yeah, I know that too,” he says, chuckling. “S’only fair, darlin’. Don’t you think?”

That’s when it hits you—how this moment is mirroring that night you had cleaned Joel up after you and Ellie had brought him home from the clinic with an injured shoulder. He allowed you to take care of him, and now, he was looking to do the same for you. And all you had to do was let him.

“But your hand—”

“Will be just fine,” Joel persists, stubbornly. “It’s nothin’ but a few cuts and scrapes. C’mon—or else I’m gonna march right over there and get you myself, peach.”

Knowing Joel, you certainly wouldn’t put it past him to throw you over his should and carry you to the bathtub.

“Fine,” you relent with a small sigh of defeat.

Setting his shirt down on the sink, you slowly walk over towards him and whirl around, letting him help you out of your knitted cardigan. You finish undressing yourself, inhaling a deep breath as you muster up the courage to turn back around and face him—when you finally do, it feels like a punch to the gut to see the heartbreak in his dark brown eyes, the subtle tremble of his bottom lip. You don’t have to look at yourself in the mirror to know it looks about a hundred times worse when you’re not wearing clothes.

Keeping your arms down at your sides, you fight every urge to cover yourself up. You’ve never felt so fucking vulnerable.

Clearing his throat, Joel holds out his hand. “C’mere.”

You accept it, and he helps you into the tub.

“How’s the water? S’not too hot, is it?”

You shake your head and he leans forward, kissing your temple so sweetly, your eyes flutter closed.

He washes your hair first, then takes a clean washcloth, lathering it up with a bar of milk and honey soap—the same soap he would smell on your skin all those nights. Admittedly, Joel preferred castile soap, but switched it when he found himself missing you during those weeks you were apart from him, when he needed the comfort of your scent. He is gentle with you, so gentle, as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter into pieces in his hands.

As he lightly drags the washcloth up your back and around your neck, you stiffen, prompting him to freeze too. “Fuck. Baby, did I hurt you?” he asks, and you hear the slight panic in his tone.

“No,” you say quickly, desperately trying to swallow the lump rising in your throat. “No, you didn’t hurt me. It’s just—” Every overwhelming emotion slams into you all at once, and you can’t seem to figure out which one to feel first. Humiliation? Fear? Relief?

The water sloshes around you as you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around your knees, giving yourself permission to feel them all. Bowing your head, you begin to sob quietly, hoping that Ellie, who is just down the hallway, won’t hear you crying again.

Joel says nothing. Washcloth still clutched in his hand, he leans forward over the edge of the tub and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, or at least, as close as the barrier between the two of you will allow him.

“Joel,” you choke, trying to push him off. “Stop it. Your clothes, they’re getting all wet.”

“Hush. Don’t fuckin’ care ‘bout my clothes,” he croaks, and for a second, you swear he’s about to cry too. But he doesn’t. He holds himself strong. Tugging you closer against his chest, he buries his nose into your soaking wet hair, whispering his reassurance. “You’re okay, baby. You’re safe, my sweet girl. I’ve got you, alright?”

He pulls back slightly, dipping his hand into the water, placing it on your lower belly.

You look down, your eyes glazing over his bruised and battered knuckles. Proof that Joel Miller really would do anything for you.

“I know you do,” you say, softly. “I know you’ve got me, Joel.”

A while later, you’re dried, dressed, and composed. You follow Joel out of the bathroom and back into his room, where he has you take a seat on the bed. Noticing you had missed a button on his flannel shirt, he does it for you. He plants a kiss on the top of your head and says, “Give me a minute while I change.”

He peels off his wet clothes, being careful so as not to further agitate his sore, injured hand. After changing into a pair of gray sweatpants and an old, faded black t-shirt, he turns around only to find you’re sitting in bed underneath the covers.

“Sorry,” you apologize with a nervous chuckle as you rest your back against the headboard. “It just looked so warm and cozy—and it smells like you. I couldn’t resist making myself comfortable.”

Joel pads over to the side of the bed. He leans over, planting one hand on either side of you as he dips his head and brushes his lips against yours. “Ain’t got no reason to apologize, baby,” he assures you in a gentle murmur. “This is your bed now too, peach. This is your room. This is your home. Alright?”

Home.

You’re home.

He touches the tip of his nose to yours, and then draws himself back up to full height. “There’s somethin’ that I’ve gotta take care of downstairs, peach. I won’t be too long,” he promises.

It’s almost midnight. Joel goes about the kitchen and he prepares you the quickest meal that he can think of. He plates the sandwich he’d thrown together and pours a glass of cow’s milk—he’s always sure to keep a pint of it in the refrigerator to make the kid her oatmeal in the mornings.

He heads back upstairs, only to find that while he had been gone, Ellie had joined you, making herself a little too comfortable on his side of the bed. He stands there at the door, watching the two of you.

“Hey, so is it true babies can hear stuff while they’re in there?” Ellie questions you, curiously.

“Mhm,” you reply with a nod. “They can hear music, for example. Voices—”

“Voices?” She smushes her face into your stomach and he hears a muffled, “Hey, dude!”

You giggle. “Ellie, I think it’s still a little too early.”

“When do you think it’ll be able to hear me?”

“I’m not too sure. In a few months, maybe?”

Ellie lifts her head, humming. “You know, I bet there’s baby books in the library,” she tells you as she sits up. “I’ll have Dina help me look for one tommor—oh shit.” She stares at you with wide eyes. “Dina! How are you going to tell her and Talia about Luke?”

Joel grimaces. He hadn’t thought of that, either.

“I—I’m not too sure.”

“You have to fucking tell them. Dina has to know about him. She has to know what a piece of shit he is, and so does Talia.”

Sensing your discomfort, Joel steps into the bedroom and intervenes before she can say another word. “Ellie, get to bed. S’late.”

“But—”

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he warns her, sternly.

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Fine.” She climbs off the bed and on her way out, she eyes the plate in his hand. “That chicken?”

“Turkey. And it ain’t for you, it’s for her. So scram, kid.”

“Couldn’t have made me one while you were at it, old man?”

“Ellie, if you don’t get outta here right now—”

“Alright!” Ellie holds her hands up. “I’m leaving. Jesus.”

She disappears, closing the door behind her.

“Pain in my ass,” Joel mumbles, shaking his head as he walks over and carefully perches himself beside you. He hands you the plate. “Here, darlin’.”

“Joel, I appreciate this, but I’m really not very hungry.”

“Maybe not, but y’gotta eat,” he insists. “Baby needs it.”

Thankfully, you accept it without further protest.

“I’ll have Ellie get your things tomorrow,” Joel states as you’re eating. “Maria can go along with her since she knows the house. They’ll get your clothes and whatever else you might need outta there.”

“My father’s belongings.” You accidentally talk through a mouthful of turkey and bread. Swallowing, you tell him, “I have some boxes of his stuff in the basement. But they’re way too heavy for either of them to carry.”

“I’ll take care of that for you.” He reaches up, wiping a breadcrumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “I can ask Tommy to give me a hand. Don’t you worry, peach. We won’t leave your dad’s things behind, I swear it.”

Relieved, you shoot him a grateful look, then polish off the last few bites of your sandwich.

“Here,” he says, offering you the glass of milk. “Figured it’s good for you, and good for the baby. Y’know, since it’s got calcium and…stuff.” He shrugs sheepishly, no clue as to what he’s talking about. “Vitamins, right?”

Nodding, you grab the glass and take a reluctant sip.

“You hate milk,” Joel realizes, raising an eyebrow.

“I do,” you admit with a laugh. “But you’re right. It’s good for both me and the baby, so cheers.” And with that, you somehow force the entire glass down.

He sets the dishes aside on the nightstand, figuring he can take them downstairs first thing in the morning.

Without bothering to rebandage his hand like he’d told you he would, Joel turns off the lights and climbs into bed with you. “All those nights wishin’ I could bring you home,” he muses as you curl into his side. “Wantin’ nothin’ more than to hold you in my arms in this bed. In our bed.” His arm slips around your shoulders, a laugh rumbling through his chest. “Almost doesn’t feel real, darlin’.”

Tilting your head, you nuzzle your nose into the scruff of his beard, prompting him to laugh again. Then, he remembers his conversation with Maria, and his smile fades from his face, his lips pursing together.

You catch the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“Joel? What’s the matter?”

“M’fine, baby. It’s just—” He hesitates. “From this point forward, I need you to let me handle things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want you gettin’ all stressed out, alright? I don’t want to run the risk of you—” He’s unsure of how to say it.

“Of me losing the baby,” you finish for him, quietly.

Joel winces, knowing he was wandering into sensitive territory. “Yeah. I—I really don’t want that to happen.” He pauses. “Maria mentioned to me you’re in a delicate stage. When do you reckon you’ll stop—how long until you don’t gotta worry ‘bout it?”

“After twelve weeks, my risk isn’t as high. If I make it to the second trimester in six weeks, then my chances of having another miscarriage are lower.”

Though you speak calmly, he clocks your anxiousness.

You’re worried, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t fucking worried out of his mind too.

Being a father at his age wasn’t ideal, but he wanted this child. It was part of him, and more importantly, it was a part of you.

Joel squeezes your shoulders. “I only ask ‘cause I was thinkin’ that, y’know, once we get to that point, maybe I can go ahead and start buildin’ the baby’s crib.”

“You’re going to build the crib?”

He nods. “And the highchair too. I can even make you a diaper changin’ table if y’want one.”

“Joel.” You can’t help but chuckle. “Our worlds were just turned completely upside down. You just found out that I’m pregnant, and you’re already thinking about building furniture? Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?”

“Hey, those things take a whole ‘lotta time,” he says in defense of himself. “Besides, winter’s right around the corner and I don’t wanna be out in the garage freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off. If I can get a head start now, I can have them all done in the spring by the time the baby comes.”

You fall silent.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’m really scared of losing it,” you confess. “When I first took that pregnancy test, I wanted nothing more for it to be negative. Now, I’m terrified I won’t make it past my first trimester again. I really don’t want to lose it. I want this baby, Joel.”

He turns his head, meeting your eyes in the silver light shining through the lace curtains over his window. “S’why you’ve gotta let me handle things, darlin’. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“C’mere, my sweet girl.” Joel presses his lips to yours, murmuring against them, “I love you.”

His declaration comes with natural ease.

And so does yours.

“I love you too, Joel.”

So proud of you Bug! ❤️ You deserve every follower you have and kudos to you for sticking to a hobby!!! 🥰🥰🥰

Holy fuck! Not one, but TWO milestones to celebrate!

Sometime in April I hit 5000 followers and I was gonna celebrate then, but with my one year fic anniversary gbu899i (< my cat Gizmo typed this, we're leaving it here. Everyone wave to him) and mostly because the end of the semester right around the corner, I decided to wait until May in order to give this the attention it deserves. Here we are! May 10th marks one year of me writing fic here on tumblr, and I want to celebrate both achievements.

Your support has played such a vital role in making writing such a gratifying hobby of mine. Whether you’ve been here since I started writing a year ago or just recently stumbled across my blog, it means the world to me. Having people read, like, reblog, comment, and engage with my fics is beyond fucking incredible. You keep me inspired to keep writing.

It’s not easy for me to stick to a hobby for a year. Ask the 20% finished afgan I started knitting two years ago that hasn’t been touched in months!! It’s beyond cool to have both a date on the calendar and such a pretty number to reflect how hard I’ve worked, and neither the date nor the number would be possible without you. Thank you 🩷

So we’re gonna celebrate. I haven’t done one of these before, unless you count the time I hit 2000 followers and said “send me requests!” and then did just one of them and zero others because I was so overwhelmed. So we’re taking a slightly different approach this time…

I’m thinking an extended sleepover, lol. Depending on how many participate, for a week or so you can send me asks from the prompts below and we’ll have some fun with them.

@noxturnalpascal and @beefrobeefcal heavily inspired these choices with their recent follower celebrations 🩵

🐈‍⬛ Show and tell - send me pics of your pets, or Pedro if you don’t have any pets, brownie points for Kieran Culkin pics, or anything else that you love. And tell me all about it, and I’ll show you something I love! 👯‍♀️ I want to get to know each other better, so tell something about yourself or ask something about me. If you want, you can use this and this (⬅️ two send an emoji posts) for prompts 🏞️ Request a Moodboard (my favorite) I love doing moodboards, just tell me what you wanna see and I’ll do my best. 🗳️Send me a poll that you wanna see! Ask any question, let us all decide the answer. 🍆 Send me your dirty horny old man headcanons. I’m a horndog for some old men and I can’t change who I am. 📖 Send me your own writing (or another’s work that you love) I actually have a summer reading project where I’ve tagged each and every one of my mutuals to send me their own works for me to read all summer. So consider this just an extension of that- please send me the links to works you’ve written and/or works you’ve read and enjoyed so that I can enjoy them too and support fellow writers ✍️ 🩷 I enjoy just about anything, but I have a soft spot for dark/dub-con, masturbation, uhhhh anything hot and dirty like that. 👩‍💻Request some writing. I can do Joel, Roman Roy, and I’m maaaybe feeling brave about Frankie. @beefrobeefcal has dibs on my first Frankie fic anyway. Horny and debauched thots encouraged, dare I suggest dark as well? Fluff too, though I think I suck balls at writing it. I’ve been told I should do drabbles,,, that’s not really how I roll with my writing but I’m willing to try. It’s entirely possible and actually likely you’ll get a full length fic, in which case, it’ll take some time to get those done so bear with me. Depending on how many requests for writing I get, I may cut off requests at a certain point too. *It’s also possible I won’t jive with your idea, in which case please don’t feel bad. I only want to write something I feel I can do well, and if I can’t, that’s not on you.

GOD I am a rambler. I could have said so much less. But I hope to hear from some of you all and have some fun! Love you love you love you.

Tagging some friends, readers, and mutuals who’ve made writing what it is for me 🩷 I love you all @ievutebebe @pinkypromisepascal @yazsos @heartfairy @magpiepills @medellintangerine @merz-8 @bitchesuntitled @theweedisasterxoxo @covetyou @theywhowriteandknowthings @futuraa-free @smok3r7 @toxicanonymity @atticrissfinch @xdaddysprincessxx @whatsnewalycat @addictedtotlou @littlevenicebitch69 @marisferasiop @joelsgreys @just-some-random-blogger @ghostlovesbaguettes @sweetenerobert @swiftiegirliepop @joeloverture @dorims @munsonhoneybaby @umnitsa @nostalxgic @yazsos @rainbowcosmicchaos @rav3n-pascal22 @604to647 @starry-eyes-love @paleidiot @bluecookies-and-ink @beardedjoel @aestheticisinq @corazondebeskar @axshadows @kyloispunk @survivingandenduring @pedroswife69 @bean-is-reading @pedroshotwifey @casa-boiardi @knittingandfanfics @molt3ngold @worhols @iknowisoundcrazy @nostalxgic @pattwtf @cerridwen007 @corozondebeskar @blackmetalamazon @jazzysnazzys @sheepdogchick3 @alltheseperfectimperfections @mermaidgirl30

you would fuck that old man. i would fuck that old man. we are the same. hold my hand

It’s very unfair!

DAKOTA DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE….. DO YOU ??????

Hey DD 🙏 Once again, thanks for your ask ❤️

I wanted to know, if you don't mind, what are your favorite Pedro (and/or his characters) gifs?

😘

I’m horrible with GIFs 🤣 But Dieter Bravo is my main love 😍 So any involving Dieter

Also any Frankie 😍

Last but not least, this one of Pedro himself 🫠🫠🫠

This is absolutely beautiful! The longing, the wondering, then when they finally get together?! 😍🥲 I loved reading this so much!!!

fresh out the slammer

➔ Javier Peña x afab!Reader

➔ 4.4k words

➔ Javier Peña moves home and, in the process, breaks the invisible bubble of your complacency.

➔ Rated MA // reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used), age gap (reader is 23, javi is mid-30s), infidelity (reader is married), unprotected p in v sex, oral (reader receiving), pet names, smoking/nicotine use, reader wears a dress

You’re not sure when the ring on your finger, a glistening band that you used to admire so much, transformed into a shackle.

You loved him at one point, you’re sure you did. You never would’ve ended up here otherwise. You’re not weak, you’ve never been the type to need a partner in order to feel complete. You got married because you were in love, because you thought that you would love your husband for the rest of your life.

It’s terrifying how quickly the illusion of comfort comes crashing down when you meet Javier Peña.

You’ve heard so much about him that he’s nearly a thing of legend, despite never having met him. Your neighbor Chucho is incredibly proud of his only son. Every day that you go over to help around the house with Chucho’s seemingly endless list of chores, you’re regaled with stories about the fearless Deputy-turned-Agent Peña; about how the world will be changed and molded by Javier’s hands. It’s hard to believe all the tall tales that Chucho weaves, and still there’s undeniable reverence in your mind as you catch a glimpse of Javi’s handsome face in the photo frames that you dust.

All the stories you hear, though, never could have prepared you for the real deal.

He shows up without warning one sweltering afternoon and sets his bags down on the floor with a hefty thump, clearly confused at the beautiful stranger in his father’s kitchen. Apparently, Chucho didn’t warn him about you, either.

He knows within seconds of stepping through the door that you’re off-limits–he’s trained his eyes to seek out the glistening golden band on your left ring finger. But the more you talk to him, the more you look at him, the more you smile at him… he can’t help wondering more and more exactly how off-limits you are.

Days don’t blur together the same way they once did for you. You find yourself eager to visit your neighbor just for a chance to glimpse the easy smile that Javi reserves for you–his pretty next door neighbor, his friend.

It’s so painfully easy to like him, even despite your best efforts to the contrary. He’s the perfect gentleman–always says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, holds doors open for you, helps you carry in groceries. He thrives with acts of service, and it shows. He seems like he genuinely likes spending time with you. He tells you the lighter stories of his time with the DEA, and you tell him stories in return. Mostly about your childhood so you can avoid what your life has become since then: just a moon spinning mindlessly in the gravitational orbit of your husband. Nothing more than a phantom floating around your boringly nice little house, in your boringly nice little neighborhood.

You were so young when you uttered the vows that would become chains. Eighteen, fresh-faced and wide-eyed and all those other descriptors that come with youth and naivety. You had wanted to be wanted, and your husband had wanted you. It could’ve gone on forever without a wake-up call.

Then there’s Javi and everything changes because of him. With each passing day, you grow closer and closer to a man who isn’t yours. Bit by bit, Javi pries the steel trap of your doubts open without even meaning to–and when those doubts pour out, they come like a flood.

You used to sleep so soundly in the king-sized bed you share with your husband. But now, there are late nights where you lay awake in that bed and you wonder even as you lay beside your husband if you were too hasty in marrying him so young. 

Your quiet resentment was at least subconscious before Javi strolled in, short sleeved button-up shirt sweaty from the late summer humidity and dark wash jeans hugging those broad hips in a way that should be considered a crime. You leave his house and return home to a husband who takes you for granted, who thinks your care of him is just the bare minimum, and it chafes.

You try not to let it bleed over, but little comments you make paint a much larger picture. Javi can tell as clear as day that you’re not being appreciated–that you’re even starting to feel trapped. 

Your friends start to see it too, on the few occasions you go out. You’re a bit more transparent with them, because they can read you like a book regardless of how much you try to hide. That’s the hardest part of coming to terms with how unhappy you are; that you were wrong, that you made a stupid decision, and the people around you know it. You’ve never been good at admitting mistakes, and this is the biggest mistake you possibly could’ve made. The vows you made to your husband are supposed to be engraved in stone for eternity.

You know you should focus on fixing this rather than condemning it. You were happy before, and you could be happy again. Then you look up into Javi’s dark eyes, and you start to think that you might never be happy if it’s not those eyes that you come home to each night.

It’s infinitely harder when you can feel the burgeoning desire every time you step foot in his home. Javi knows it’s not his place to speak his mind, but it’s right there in the look on his face. He thinks you deserve better, even if better isn’t him. That’s the part he fights to keep to himself; that he so desperately wishes it could be him. Javi could appreciate you the way you deserve, Javi could make you happy. If you would just give him a chance, he could change everything for you. He’s so willing to ignore the doubts and the what-ifs in favor of the perfect fairytale ending. Realistically, could he really deliver on all the promises he’s made to you in his mind? He’s tried this out before, and it didn’t end well. It could just end up as the same story, different chapter.

That’s the scariest part, to him–the realization that he’d rather love you and lose you than never have you at all.

The scariest part for you is just how willingly you would uproot your entire life for even a chance to be his. There’s no reality where it happens easily, your life is far from a Hallmark movie. Divorce would be messy, and it would halt not only your life but your husband’s, too. He has no reason to think you’re unhappy; on the surface, everything is great. He supports you, and you support him in return. He doesn’t recognize that you’re wasting away your wonder years in the home of someone who doesn’t excite you–and even worse, that you spend most of your days pining after someone he’s never even been properly introduced to.

Maybe that’s the hardest part of all this; that it’s not really your husband’s fault, but yours by way of negligence. If you had waited, maybe explored a little further before settling down, you might have found the man you really wanted to be with. You wouldn’t have led on a perfectly nice guy who’s just a little too vanilla in all aspects of life for your taste.

You know it’s considered emotional cheating, what you have with Javi. Your husband would be so hurt if he found out, and you know it. The last thing you want to do is hurt him, but Javi makes you feel so alive. He makes you feel so cared for, so valued, and who can blame you for wanting more of those feelings?

Every morning when you walk across the expanse of lawn that separates your property from Chucho’s, Javier’s waiting for you with a smile and a cup of coffee made exactly the way you like it. He protests half-heartedly that you don’t need to come take care of Chucho anymore now that he’s home, but you know he would worry his head off if you didn’t show up. Besides, your home is so lonely. When you go next door, you have constant company between Javier and Chucho. When you’re home, you have no one but yourself until your husband comes home–and even then, it’s hollow company. There’s not much conversation between two people who can feel something dissolving but are powerless to stop it.

Your husband starts to ask questions about the neighbors that he’s never bothered to bond with. He’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. You used to go to Chucho’s once a week to help out, and your visits have only increased since his son moved back in. It looks suspicious even from an objective point of view; Chucho is old, but he’s far from decrepit. He doesn’t need as much help as you offer,  certainly not with Javier around.

You never talk about it, but you know he wonders. And really, he has a right to. You’ve thought about taking that final, irreversible step a million times. You’ve thought about taking Javier’s handsome face between your hands and kissing him absolutely breathless more times than you can count.

But that’s all it’s been so far, thoughts, never actions. As much as you want to forget, you always remember that you’re married. Javi can’t seem to forget it either. You know he wants you–maybe even as badly as you want him–but he won’t do a thing about it. Not with that shiny ring on your finger.

It’s your five year anniversary, and your husband thinks it needs to be a big deal. You would think so too, if you weren’t so preoccupied with other thoughts. Regardless, you go through the motions. You go into town and buy a nice dress for the occasion, you send out hand-written invitations, you organize catering and decorations. It’s slated to be the backyard shindig of the year, but celebrating your marriage is like a punch to the gut right now–especially when Javi offers his help with the preparations.

Your feelings are a little unreasonably hurt by how eager he is to assist. Why is he so excited for you and your husband? Have you been reading all of his signals wrong? 

You haven’t–his love language is acts of service, and he’s sure he can prove to you that he’s the better choice if he can demonstrate his worth. But it’s not like he can just come out and say that–he can’t be the deciding factor of whatever happens between you and your husband. It’s a choice you have to make on your own. So he grins and bears it–even as each wedding photo and reception memento you pull out of storage drives a chisel into his heart.

You’ve grown used to being able to read him so well. Now, as he helps you lug boxes down from the attic, you have no clue what’s swirling in those pretty brown eyes. It seems like distance, and maybe that’s for the best. Maybe celebrating your wedding anniversary is exactly what you need to get back on track–to finally put the man you can’t have out of your mind and focus on the man you do have.

“You did good,” Javi hums, beer in hand as he leans against the garage to admire the finishing touches of backyard decoration with you.

“You probably did more than I did,” you admit sheepishly.

“Nah, I’m just brawn. You’re the brains behind this operation,” he tells you with a quiet chuckle. “He’s gonna love it.”

You let out a little sigh and push away from the garage, wiping imagined dust from your palms. “Let’s hope.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, and Javi takes a few sips of his beer before working up the courage to ask what he wants to. “You still love him?”

“Of course I do,” you answer without thinking, because that’s what you’re supposed to say–even if it’s not entirely the truth.

You want to take it back the moment you see the crestfallen look on his face, but it’s too late. You shouldn’t want to take it back, even if you could. You’re supposed to love your husband forever, ‘til death do you part.

“Guess I’d better go clean up,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He treks off across the lawn before you can stop him, broad shoulders practically bursting through the seams of his tight button-up, and all you want to do is throw yourself at that retreating back. You want to bury yourself in him and beg him to run away with you, to save you from this mess of your own making. 

Instead, you go back inside and get yourself ready for what is shaping up to be the longest night of your life.

It’s busy, there’s really no other way to describe it. You’re being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously–everyone wants to hug you or take photos,  the caterer keeps pulling you into the kitchen for issues that they should be able to handle on their own. Your goal of a nice, relaxing party is completely out the window by the time the last of the guests arrive.

Big parties have never really been your thing, but your husband soaks up the attention. You hardly even see him the entire night–he’s always off chatting with a friend or a coworker.

All these smiling faces are like nails in your coffin. You get so many hugs and congratulations that it’s suffocating. There’s one face you really want to see, one face that could make your anxiety melt away like butter on a stovetop. He’s not here.

Chucho seems to sense your anxiety as he brings you into a warm hug–there’s something unreadable in those anciently wise eyes. “Javier sends his best.”

“He’s not coming?” Your stomach drops, and Chucho can tell. 

“Think he’s come down with somethin’,” Chucho explains. Then, with a subdued smile that tells a deeper story than words ever could, he says, “Maybe you ought to go over and check on him. You might do more good than I could.”

Deep down, you know it would be so horribly irresponsible and rude of you to leave your party at this moment. You’re supposed to be hosting and having a good time, enjoying a night dedicated to you and your husband. If Javi doesn’t want to join in, he doesn’t have to. He has every right not to be here, it’s not like it’s his celebration.

You’re knocking on his front door before you’re even conscious of making the decision to do so.

His eyes are red-rimmed when he opens the door. For a moment, he looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost–the most beautiful spectre of a person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“You still love him.” This time, it’s not a question. Just a cold, hard statement.

“I’m supposed to,” you whisper. It’s an easier answer than the truth.

“You should go back,” he tells you, and you know. You know you have no right being here, no right to ask him to give you more of himself than he already has.

“I know.” The unspoken part of your answer is that you won’t, because there’s nothing worth celebrating back there. Those people are all at your house under false pretenses, and the only other person who knows it besides you is standing in the doorway of this modest ranch house with tear-stained cheeks that you can hardly bear looking at because you put those tears there. “I’m sorry, Javi.”

“I am too.” You don’t know what he’s apologizing for until your brain catches up to your nervous system and you realize he’s kissing you. Not sweetly, either–it’s harsh, as if he’s chastising both of you for what’s happening even as he’s powerless to resist it. His tongue sweeps into your mouth and your arms snake around his neck without thinking, because the thought of pulling away now that you’re here hurts more than anything else ever could. There’s no going back now and you both know it.

He pulls you inside and presses you against the door, every delicious inch of his body pressed up against yours as he kisses you deeper and deeper.

“You need to stop me,” he murmurs into your mouth, even as his hands trace down your waist and tug you closer against him.

“I don’t want to.”

Javi knows he should be the bigger man and put a stop to this before it can go any further. He can’t ask you to uproot everything for him. He doesn’t have anything better to offer you than your husband does–realistically, he knows he’s the lesser of two options. He just can’t bring himself to do it when his lips are trailing down your neck and your hands are unbuttoning his shirt.

“This’ll change everything,” he mumbles as your hands find his belt buckle. It’s a last, fleeting attempt to save you both from something that only ends in disaster.

“Good.” 

Really, when you put it like that, he’s doing you a favor by pulling you down the hall to his bedroom.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you confess as he pulls your dress over your head. “It’s all bullshit.”

“I know, baby. I know. But you have to.”

“We can’t just ride off into the sunset?” You ask, a tinge of humor in your voice because you both know that it isn’t that simple. Maybe in the movies, but definitely not in real life.

“I wish we could,” he admits with a smile as his warm lips trail lingering little kisses down your stomach. “I’d give anything to make that happen.”

Really, you know there’s nothing more for him to give. He’s risking his own security by doing this, too. He’s dooming himself to backwards glances at the supermarket and whispers behind closed doors–the typical curse of a small town. Whatever heat you get for this, he might get it just as bad. Still, he doesn’t seem to care. Still, he’d ruin his own life for a chance to be yours.

If you were merciful, you’d bail him out now before he has to take any of the heat from this disaster. In the end maybe your biggest flaw is how unable you are to stop yourself from being selfish, now that you finally have a glimpse of the sunshine you’ve been hoping for throughout the winter that your marriage has become.

He’s achingly gentle as he pries your thighs apart and makes quick work of sealing his lips around your clit. He looks up into your eyes as he unwinds you, like he’s never seen anything more magnificent. The thought excites you more than it should.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he all but whines into your cunt. It’s impossible not to let that go to your head–the fact that he’s imagined working you open on his tongue like this before.

In the end, you need the reassurance that it hasn’t just been you this whole time–that he’s always wanted you as much as you’ve wanted him. “You imagined this?”

“All the time, baby.”

That does you in all on its own. You shatter like a vase dropped on a hardwood floor, pleasure coursing through every vein as you struggle to escape his ministrations yet simultaneously desperate to press yourself closer to him. His grip is strong as he works you through it, keeping your hips firmly in place against his mattress as he laps at you like he’ll never be able to get enough.

“Jesus…” he murmurs once you’ve come down enough to stop moaning his name. He scatters little kisses over the insides of your thighs, desperate to stay close even as you shiver with the remnants of your orgasm. “I gotta be inside you, baby.”

“Come here then.”

You’re still a little breathless as his lips find yours, but he breathes life back into your lungs quickly enough. He’s shoving his jeans down and grinding his hard cock against your soaking cunt in a matter of moments, and it’s intimidating. Not because of his size—although he’s quite a bit bigger than you're used to—but because of how right this feels. What if this is the first and last time this ever happens? What if nothing ever feels this right again?

He quells your fears one kiss at a time, tongue sliding across your bottom lip as his hand comes up to hold your jaw.

“We can stop here, baby,” he tells you so sweetly, even though you can see in his beautiful eyes that stopping is the last thing he wants. He would do it for you though, even if it hurts, and that only makes you want him more.

“Please don’t stop, Javi.”

He’s lining himself up before you’ve finished saying his name, eyes dark and searching. “Nice and slow, querida.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

The first push of him is ecstasy. Like stars lighting up the night sky or waves crashing against time-worn cliffs, it’s right. It feels good, his hands holding your thighs open while he presses deeper inside you, but what makes it feel great is that it’s Javi. It’s the man you would give everything up for, finally filling you the way you’ve dreamed since the day you met him.

“Ohhhh, Christ…” he murmurs as his eyes flutter shut, finally filling you to the hilt. It’s almost hard to hear over the deafening pace his thumb works against your clit. “This is gonna be so embarrassing.”

“W… what do you mean?”

“I’m not gonna last long like this,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck. “Feel too damn good.”

You’ve got to be hearing things, because surely there’s no way he’s as unraveled as you are? Surely you don’t have that much of an effect on him?

You brush your fingers through his dark hair, soothing him even as you’re desperate for him to move. “It’s okay. You’re perfect.”

“I’m far from it,” he admits, but he pulls back and starts slowly rolling his hips against yours anyway.

“You’re perfect for me, then,” you whisper. His hips jolt a little at that, and you’re stunned once again by how much simply your words affect him—by being wanted as much as you want him.

“God, I don’t fuckin’ deserve you.” He thrusts deep, as if to distract you from his passive self-degradation, and it draws an involuntary whine from your throat.

“You deserve everything, Javi.” You hope he’ll keep you around long enough for you to drill that lesson into his head.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Words would never properly convey what he feels, anyway. He dedicates himself to showing you instead.

It’s like time stands still just so he can wreck you more effectively. Every moment of his hands hitching your legs higher around his waist, every moment of his cock splitting you open, every moment of his breathy kisses; it all seems drawn out. And yet it’s not enough— you don’t think it’ll ever be enough. You’ve wasted too much time not being his.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” he mumbles into your mouth with a particularly deep shove of his hips. “I never thought I’d get to have you.”

“I never thought you would want me,” you admit earnestly. Your voice is so much higher than you remember it being—everything is so tightly wound you feel like you might combust into flames.

“How could I not?” He kisses you again—slow and languid, even as his hips pick up the pace and his thumb speeds up on your clit to match. “I can’t let you go now. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want you to,” is all you can manage before all coherent thought is wiped from your mind by a blinding wave of pleasure.

Time doesn’t exist for a little while. Nothing does, really, outside the bubble of this queen-sized mattress. All you know is the waves coursing through your nerves and Javi’s little grunts filling the room as he fills you, with short and deep strokes that leave you dripping the creamy reminder of what you’ve done. You’re sweaty and sticky as he unwinds himself from you so he can flop down beside you, and nothing’s ever felt better.

By the time you manage to pry your eyes open again, Javi’s coming back from the bathroom down the hall with a wet washcloth.

He winces at the overstimulated groan you let out when he starts wiping you clean. “I know baby, m’sorry.”

He tosses it into the laundry hamper at the foot of the bed when he’s done, then sits on the edge of the bed next to you to light a cigarette.

For a moment, it’s quiet. You watch with quiet fascination at the little swirls of smoke that drift from his lips, and you think you could get used to this. 

“I meant it, Javi,” you hum quietly. You prop up on your knees behind him, arms snaking around his waist as he leans back against you. “I don’t wanna go back to the way things were. I don’t want you to let me go.”

“I won’t, then.” He lets out a contented hum, then leans forward to drop the butt into the ashtray on his nightstand. Your arms are open when he leans back into you, and this time he turns so he can kiss you. It’s light and lingering, a contrast to the desperate kisses from earlier—it feels like a promise.

“It won’t be easy,” you warn him. You know he knows, but you have to give him an out. You have to make sure he sees the storm that’s coming.

“It doesn’t have to be.” A smirk flashes across his lips as he leans his forehead against yours. “You did your time, baby. You tried. It’ll be alright.”

And here, in the safety of his arms, in the safety of his bed, you believe him.

You’ll go back to your own home in a few short minutes, when you can bear to release Javi from your arms. You’ll finish out the party for your guests, and then you’ll talk to your husband. And then, once everything is finished imploding, you’ll run to the porchlight that calls your name from next door and the open arms that can soothe any ache.

➔ this is third submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge thank you for the prompt love :)

➔ beta: @shakespeareanwannabe and @schnarfer ; dividers: @saradika-graphics thank you darlings <3

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