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followyourfleart · 11 days ago

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Petty Grievances

blurb - You know your husband—five years of marriage has seared every one of Joel’s habits into your mind. The good, the bearable, and especially the parts you’ve learned to swallow down. So when he gets petty, you know how to manage it. But how much can Joel really handle when his wife is standing right there—and how much longer can he stand there when you look like that?

warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, jealousy, established relationship (marriage), petty!Joel Miller, slightly possessive!Joel Miller, slightly mean!Joel, no outbreak AU, fluff, slight angst, mentions of Sarah, some plot before the porn, DIRTY talk, orgasm control/denial, condescending, panty gags, finger fucking, oral sex (f receiving), marriage kink??, heavier (yet not fully stated) Dom/sub dynamic, light spanking, creampies (don't try this at home!), and aftercare.

One shot requested by: @ anyomous

wc: 14.4 k

You noticed it in the produce section.

At least, that’s where you started paying attention.

Joel was standing in front of the tomatoes. Arms crossed over his chest, brows low, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You watched him stare at a container of cherry tomatoes for a solid minute without blinking.

You approached slowly, pushing the cart with your forearms as you scrolled on your phone. “What’s going on over here?”

No answer.

“...Joel?”

His head tilted, just slightly. But he didn’t look at you. Then he spoke. That flat, deadpan, bone-dry drawl. “Tomatoes look like shit.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“They’re soft.”

“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”

Joel still didn’t look at you.

You stared at the side of his face. “...Are you mad at the produce section?”

Nothing.

Just a grumble under his breath and a slow pivot toward the green beans like that would explain everything. You stared at his back as he walked away—boots heavy, jaw set, posture stiff—like he was storming a trench.

Okay, you thought, weird.

You exhaled, rolling your eyes affectionately, and turned back to the tomatoes, tossing a decent-looking carton into the cart anyway. He was right, they did look a little sad. But they were for Sarah, and if she wanted soft tomatoes, soft tomatoes she would get.

You plucked up a few avocados next, giving each one a careful squeeze, mind half on ripeness and half on tomorrow. Joel had been buzzing around the house all week like a man possessed. Re-caulking sinks that didn’t need caulking. Replacing lightbulbs that hadn’t even burned out yet. He scrubbed the guest bathroom twice.

You hadn’t been much better. The linens were washed, the throw pillows fluffed and rearranged. You dusted the top of the kitchen cabinets, for God’s sake. You’d picked up her favorite shampoo, baked muffins for her first morning back, and cleaned out a corner of the garage in case she wanted to bring any boxes home from her dorm.

She wasn’t yours biologically, but it didn’t matter. She was Sarah. Bright, funny, stubborn as her father. She gave the best hugs and asked about your day even when she was swamped with finals. You’d loved her before you even realized that was what it was. And now that she was coming home?

You were nervous.

Ridiculously so.

So Joel’s poor attitude today was the least of your worries.

You shrugged it off. Kept pushing the cart. You were halfway to the cereal aisle when he started doing it again.

You held up a box of your favorite granola. “This one okay?”

He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”

"Or do you want something else?”

“Nah.”

"...Raisin Bran? You’re always weird about fiber—"

“I said it’s fine.”

You blinked again. Slowly lowered the box. The tone was clipped. Not sharp, not angry, but weird. Off. Tired and dry and… cold.

That was when it really hit you.

He was being weird. Really weird.

Joel was never chatty, sure. You didn’t expect him to spin cartwheels down the aisles and ask about your day like a sitcom husband. But he did usually toss random things in the cart. Made fun of the music playing. Stood behind you at the fridge section and pressed his hand low against your back like he always needed to touch you somehow, even in the most ordinary moments.

But today? Nothing.

You watched him reach for a gallon of milk. Shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight, no eye contact. He handled it like it might explode if he moved wrong—slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the 2% as he dragged it off a wire shelf.

You grabbed the cart and rolled up beside him, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder. “Okay. Seriously. Are you mad?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

The voice was outhern and flat, worn paper edges and deadpan delivery. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as blink in your direction. Just dropped the milk into the cart like it might bite him if he held onto it too long.

You sighed. Here we go.

Joel wasn’t dramatic by nature—not loud or combative, not the storming-out, voice-raising type. He didn’t get into shouting matches or start fights for the sake of it. No, when he was pissed, it was like this.

Quiet.

Tense.

Internalized.

Five years married to him and you could spot the signs from a mile off: the long silences, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way he clammed up like someone stapled his jaw shut. He’d sulk for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours depending on the severity of the offense. And, of course, with how hot it was outside, it added about twenty percent to his overall grump factor.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even intentional, really.

It was just Joel. It was his version of cooling off. Letting his mind spin out until he could file his feelings into neat, Joel-shaped boxes. Then he’d let you in. After he’d suffered in silence for a while first.

You’d learned to give him space. Learned to let him take the long road back to you.

So, you just sighed, patted his shoulder as you passed, and said, “Okay. You do your thing, baby.”

Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.

Not close, not far—just hovering within a four-foot radius like some brooding, ghost. You could hear his boots behind you, heavy and slow, the rhythm off-tempo like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk next to you or not.

You didn’t look back.

You were wearing one of your thinner sundresses—pale yellow, soft cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs. It clung in the heat, even in the fridge aisle, the air conditioning barely keeping up with the July temperatures that had been frying the pavement outside. Your thighs felt tacky. Your collarbone was slick. You could still feel the outline of sweat across your lower back, even though it had dried on the walk from the car to the store.

You crouched in front of the dairy case, cold air blasting against your legs, trying to find the right cheese for the pasta you were planning that night. You could feel him watching you—even if he was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t.

You stayed there for an extra second, reaching slowly, letting your fingers graze a few of the blocks. Then, without looking back, you asked:

“Joel, which cheese do you want for your pasta?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, with no help to you what-so-ever: “Cheese.”

You blinked and turned your head slowly.

“You wanna say that again?”

He was leaning on the edge of the freezer case, arms crossed, pretending to study the shredded cheese.

You held up a block of cheddar. “Yes, Joel. Cheese. Incredible answer. Groundbreaking. But what kind of cheese?”

“You pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, hell no. Last time I picked, I used goat cheese and you had one of your little fits.”

“I do not fit,” he growled.

You arched a brow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

Just crossed his arms harder, like he could make himself immune to the conversation by doubling down on the pout.

You looked him up and down. The heavy brow. The tight jaw. That stubborn line his mouth always settled into when he was trying to bury his emotions six feet.

“Sure,” you said. “Sure, you don’t throw fits. You just stop talking, glower at your dinner plate, and mumble about textures like you’re the one who did the cooking.”

That earned you a twitch. Not a full reaction— but a crack in the armor.

You rolled your eyes, sighed dramatically, and grabbed the block of aged white cheddar you knew he liked. “Fine. If this one suddenly offends your delicate palette, that’s on you.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. So you pivoted and veered into the home décor section.

You didn’t need anything.

But Joel wasn’t talking, so you were going to use the opportunity however you wanted.

You could feel him trailing behind you, still not talking, still definitely watching, filled to the brim with opinions he refused to say out loud.

You stopped in front of a little wooden sign that read Home is where the coffee brews and snorted. “We need this.”

Joel scoffed behind you.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept moving, hips swaying a little more than necessary, letting your fingers trail across a row of throw blankets you absolutely didn’t need. The fabric was soft, plush. Your fingertips curled around the edge.

“Hmm,” you murmured. “This one would look good on the couch.”

“We got three already,” Joel said, voice gravel-thick and grumbled.

You gasped and turned. “Oh my god. He speaks.”

Joel gave you a dead stare.

You sighed, amused, and reached up to adjust the strap of your dress. The movement lifted the fabric just enough to expose more skin, your hand brushing your collarbone lightly.

Joel’s eyes—subtle as they tried to be—dropped.

For just a second. Just a flicker of heat. Then gone. Buried again under that mask of annoyed indifference.

You reached for a vase you didn’t need. “Should I get this? Maybe put some fake sunflowers in it?”

Joel didn’t answer.

But when you gently dropped the too-expensive vase into the cart, he reached out with one big, calloused hand and nudged it so it wouldn’t tip over.

You saw that. You always saw it.

The little things. The quiet things. The kinds of gestures that lived in the in-betweens. Between I’m pissed and I love you too much to let you drop something and break it. Between leave me alone and don’t go too far.

You smirked to yourself, just a little.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond.

Still standing there like a statue. Still arms crossed, still jaw clenched, still eyes focused anywhere except you. He looked like he was trying to manifest a portal in the linoleum. Like he’d rather fall through it than talk about his feelings.

So you stepped in close.

You didn’t even think about it, you just moved on instinct. The same instinct that had been honed over five years of knowing his rhythms, his moods, the way he built walls only so you could gently scale them.

You lifted your hand and cupped his face.

Fingers soft, brushing over his scruff. His skin was warm—not just from the heat in the store, but from him. Always was. Like he carried a low burn under the surface, something he never let reach his mouth, but always lived in his eyes.

His body went still the second you touched him.

And then—after a breath—his arms dropped from his chest, as he slightly melted.

You tilted your head, giving him your softest smile. The one that usually melted him like butter left out in the heat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours. They were darker than they’d been earlier. Brow drawn, mouth slightly parted—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite sort out what.

“You’re not mad at me,” you continued gently. “Not really.”

He still didn’t speak.

So, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Just soft lips brushing rough skin. Just one warm second of closeness. You pulled back with another sheepish smile, fingers still cupping his jaw.

“Truce?” you whispered.

Joel blinked, then his eyes darkened. His voice came low. Tight. Gritted like he’d chewed through a whole bag of nails.

“…Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Look at me like that.”

Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.

“I—I was just saying sorry,” you said. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand went to his hip. Like he was physically restraining himself.

“Not really mad at you,” he muttered. “Ain’t even the point.”

You stared. “Then what’s the point?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the concept of gravity. Something he felt every damn day, pulling at his bones, weighing him down—but couldn’t quite put into words.

The silence stretched. You stared at him.

And he stared at your mouth. Then your neck. Then your legs.

The hem of your sundress had hitched higher when you leaned forward earlier. You didn’t even realize.

But Joel did.

You reached for his hand.

That was it. That was the end of him.

He took a step back. Like he needed space. Like he was two seconds from doing something that’d get you banned from this store for life.

“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Go. Get the rest of what you need. I’ll finish up here.”

“Joel—”

“Please.”

The look in his eyes stopped you cold. It was raw. Like he was hanging on by a thread.

Your head tilted, then you nodded slowly, trying not to let your smile falter. “Okay… yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll grab the rest.”

You stepped back, turned away.

You rush, but you didn’t look over your shoulder either. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little wounded by the way he’d shut down.

Like you weren’t standing in the middle of a home decor aisle asking your husband for a truce while he looked at you like touching you was some kind of mistake.

You grabbed the last few things you needed: soap, razors, paper towels. You took your time. Didn’t linger, didn’t sulk, but you didn’t exactly hurry either.

It wasn’t the first time Joel had gotten like this. And it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

You knew his moods. Knew how he simmered. But today felt different—a little sharper around the edges. A little less I just need a minute and a little more don’t touch me unless you want me to snap.

You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.

Register Four was open. You recognized the boy behind it—he was young, probably twenty at most. Soft brown curls under a baseball cap, name tag crooked, fingers fidgeting with the barcode scanner like it might bite him if he didn’t angle it right.

You came here often, usually alone. Joel was extremely busy during the late afternoons to do anything like this with you, but Tommy had given him the day off to go on a ‘real date’ for once.

“Take your wife out,” he’d said with that crooked grin, “‘fore she starts thinkin’ Maria’s the only one in Austin who knows what wine is.”

Joel had grunted. You’d been excited. But now?

Now you were standing in line feeling vaguely rejected while the AC hummed and a nervous boy with too-kind eyes struggled to scan your bottle of dish soap.

He cleared his throat. “Uh—uh, sorry, ma’am.”

You smiled politely. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Take your time.”

He flushed immediately. His fingers fumbled with the box of pasta. Nearly dropped it. Caught it at the last second and blurted, “C-Can I ask you somethin’?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Sure.”

He looked like he was going to combust. Then, suddenly, in a rush: “Can I have your number?”

You froze.

The world tilted for a second, like the floor dropped two inches beneath your feet.

“Oh,” you said. His face turned crimson. You held up your hand slowly, showing him your ring. “Oh, sweetie—I’m married.”

The words left you gently. Kind. Soft. Not an ounce of mockery in your voice.

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God—no—I didn’t—I didn’t mean anythin’ bad—I just thought—y-you come in here a lot and you always smile and you’re so—uh, I mean—ma’am, I’m so sorry—”

You winced. “Oh no, don’t apologize. I’m not upset. Really.”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”

“You didn’t!” You leaned forward, laughing softly. “Hey. Breathe. I promise you, it’s okay. You’re sweet. You were just being brave, and I think that’s admirable.”

He stared at you like you’d just spoken ancient Greek.

“Some girl’s gonna be real lucky,” you said, giving him an encouraging nod. “It’s not me, but—hey, you’ll get there.”

The poor boy looked like he might cry. Or faint.

You reached into your purse to grab your wallet, hoping the small distraction might settle the tension—and that’s when you heard it.

The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.

You felt him before you saw him—a heat behind your back, a presence too heavy to ignore. All broad shoulders and silence. The cart creaked slightly as Joel gripped the handle tightly. You didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.

The boy immediately blanched.

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, eyes fixed like a sniper’s scope on the poor kid who had just made the mistake of his life.

You turned slowly. Looked up at your husband. He didn’t glance at you.

He was too busy leveling his deadpan, I’ve killed a man with a wrench stare at a twenty-year-old cashier who probably still lived with his mom.

The kid squeaked.

Literally squeaked.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean anythin’—”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, turning fully to Joel. “Joel.”

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

His presence was doing the job just fine. His glare was practically a physical force. You stepped between them slightly, trying to cut off the eye contact.

“Hey, baby. Relax.”

Still nothing.

The boy was now full-on panicking. “Please—I swear—I wasn’t trying to cross a line—I just—I didn’t know!”

Joel’s brow twitched.

You pressed a hand to your face. “Joel, stop.”

“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.

“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”

The kid swiped your items faster than humanly possible. It was honestly impressive. You barely saw his hands move. Bags were packed, receipt printed, card already back in your purse and you hadn’t even finished sighing.

You took the bags gently.

“Have a good day,” you said softly.

The kid didn’t reply.

He just nodded, eyes still wide, and looked like he might call for security if Joel so much as blinked wrong.

You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.

The Texas heat hit you again like a slap. Joel loaded the bags into the truck while you stood there with your jaw locked and your arms crossed.

Finally, once everything was packed and the cart shoved into the return stall, you turned to him.

“Well,” you said dryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“You traumatized the poor boy.”

“He’ll live,” Joel muttered, rounding the front of the truck.

You followed behind, shaking your head. “He’s like, twenty.”

“He asked for your number.”

“He asked once. The second he saw you he died, Joel. Like he was gonna apologize himself into the floor.”

Joel didn’t answer.

You threw up your hands. “If he pushed after I said I was married, then fine—that’d be a problem. But he didn’t. He backed off. He was nervous as hell. That’s it.”

Still nothing.

He opened the driver’s side door, one big hand gripping the top of the frame as he climbed in. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that might’ve been kid shoulda known better.

You stared at him for a beat.

And then you dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and exhaled sharply. “Just drive, Joel.”

The truck rumbled to life.

The drive was quiet.

Unbearably quiet.

No music. No conversation. Just the buzz of the engine and the whoosh of cars passing by. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in thick summer air and the occasional wail of cicadas from the tree line. You sat with your arms crossed, looking out the window, sighing loudly every five minutes like it might crack the silence open.

It didn’t.

Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.

Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.

He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out without a word.

You didn’t follow right away.

You just sat there, hands limp in your lap, watching as Joel carried every single grocery bag inside on his own—arms full, face still unreadable, steps heavy against the driveway like he was stomping out a fire.

You finally got out once the door swung closed behind him.

Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.

Just slipped quietly into the bathroom, peeled off your sticky clotes, and stepped under the hot water.

And then you let yourself think.

Okay.

What the hell could you have done?

You rewound the day like a cassette tape.

Grocery list. The belt joke. Teasing him in the dairy aisle. Cupping his face. The kiss. Okay, maybe the kiss.

But he didn’t even look mad about that.

More like… tense.

You dragged your hands through your hair, water cascading down your back, and sighed. Again.

This wasn’t like a normal Joel mood. He was always slow to process—needed time, needed space, needed quiet. But this felt different. Sharper. Heavier.

More... personal.

By the time you shut off the water, you were still no closer to an answer.

You toweled off, still thinking, still analyzing, and threw on one of Joel’s old contracting t-shirts—the faded gray one with Miller Bros. Construction across the chest in chipped blue lettering. It hung soft and oversized over your hips, swallowing your frame in familiar cotton.

You slipped on a pair of sleep shorts. Didn’t bother with a bra. Your skin was still warm from the shower, hair damp, sticking slightly to the back of your neck.

You padded out barefoot.

Joel was in the living room.

Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown across the back cushion, the TV flickering against his cheekbone. Some football game was on—low volume, closed captions flickering across the bottom of the screen.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.

You stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. Your arms folded gently across your chest, the hem of your shorts brushing your thighs.

The silence crackled.

You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”

He grunted.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just gonna do the Cold War thing ‘til I forget why I like you?”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

You narrowed your eyes and slowly walked around behind the couch. Your steps were soft. Bare feet against wood. You leaned over the back of the couch, arms draping over Joel’s shoulders like a shawl. He was so warm. Stubbornly still.

You pressed your mouth to his neck. Right beneath his ear. Soft. Sweet.

Nothing.

You did it again.

Still nothing—except for the slight shift in his shoulders. Barely there. But you felt it.

He swallowed.

You smirked to yourself. Didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Baby,” you whispered against his skin, “if you don’t tell me what I did, I’m gonna start apologizing for everything I’ve ever done.”

No response.

“I’m sorry for throwing away that old shirt you said you didn’t care about, but definitely cared about.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep during Scarface. Twice.”

Still nothing.

“I’m sorry for making you late to that dentist appointment ‘cause I wanted to see how long I could make you moan in the shower—”

His head tilted slightly. Barely.

But you saw it.

And you grinned.

Bingo.

“I’m sorry for using your flannel to clean up that wine spill,” you continued sweetly. “I’m sorry for not telling you I bought more candles when you said we had enough. I’m sorry for giving the mailman banana bread and not saving you the corner piece you like.”

Still nothing

You leaned over the back of the couch, lips brushing his temple, hands sliding around to gently cup his jaw and turn his face to you.

“Joel,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear, “Please.”

He finally looked at you.

Expression flat. Deadpan.

Eyes dark, unreadable.

But there was something under it. A spark you could feel in your chest like a struck match. His hands didn’t move. His shoulders stayed tense.

You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.

Then you flopped onto him—full weight, no hesitation. Limbs splayed, pressing him into the cushions like a weighted blanket of pure intent.

He let out a soft oof like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

Good.

You wiggled, settling in. Your leg slid between his. One arm wrapped around his middle. Your cheek found the curve of his shoulder, pressed against soft cotton and sun-warmed skin.

“You’re not that fragile,” you murmured into his shirt.

“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.

You smiled.

Joel always gave you something when you got dramatic enough. It was like chipping away at a glacier with a spoon, but eventually, you knew he would crack.

You sighed. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just said what was bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”

He didn’t respond again.

So you started stretching—slowly, like a lazy cat. Arms up, spine arching, your full weight still sprawled across his lap and chest. You felt his hand twitch slightly against your waist, like he wanted to grab you. Anchor you. Maybe throw you.

You smirked.

“God, you’re such a man,” you muttered teasingly. “All silence and brooding and long-suffering looks. It’s like being with a cowboy who doesn’t know how to write his own country song.”

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressed a soft kiss there. Then another.

Joel stayed still.

Stone quiet.

But you could feel the tension in his chest now. Could feel the way he wasn’t breathing evenly. The heat of his skin.

Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.

You pulled back slightly, leaned over him, peering into his eyes. “Is this about the cheese?”

Joel blinked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”

He sighed. “It ain’t about the cheese.”

“Oh, thank God,” you whispered, deadpan. You threw your head back for dramatic effect. “Because if I have to listen to your slideshow on all your picky foods, I’m calling Sarah to mediate.”

That got him. A tiny—tiny—upward quirk of his mouth.

You leaned down and kissed it.

Soft and sweet.

You pulled back just an inch.

Then climbed farther into his lap.

Joel’s hands hovered near your thighs now. Not touching. Just there. Like he didn’t know what to do with them. Or he did, and was trying not to.

You kissed his cheek.

His jaw.

The soft curve of his neck again.

And all the while, you kept talking. Soft little murmurs between kisses.

“Remember when we first moved in and you said, ‘I don’t need throw pillows’ and now you’re the one who fluffs them before bed?”

No response.

“Remember when you said you didn’t want a dog, and now every time you see one on the street, you stop and talk to it?”

Still nothing.

“Remember when you said you don’t do pouting?”

You kissed the edge of his mouth.

Then pulled back and pouted.

Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But not nothing either.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

You gasped, loud and dramatic. “You do still speak!”

Nothing in his expression changed.

But his eyes flicked over your face. Down your body. Then quickly back up, like he hadn’t done it.

You didn’t comment.

You just smiled—soft and amused—and stretched again, your hips shifting in his lap as you moved to loop your arms around his neck.

“God, you’re warm,” you murmured, half to yourself. “You always get warm when you’re annoyed. Or when you’re turned on.” You snorted. “Which, now that I think about it, probably means I’m annoying and hot.”

Joel blinked once. Slowly.

You ran your hands along the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape as you kept going. “Also, this shirt is very soft. I get why you wore it for ten years. Smells like you too. Not fair.”

Joel exhaled—tight. Controlled. His hands hadn’t moved, but the one at your waist was gripping just a little harder now. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to let you feel it.

Joel dropped his gaze.

You didn’t stop.

“Y’know,” you added thoughtfully, fingers trailing down the edge of his collar, “when I was in the shower, I kept thinking about all the stuff I could’ve done to make you mad. I even washed all the way behind my knees just in case you were mad about that.”

That got him.

A strangled sound—half cough, half growl—escaped his throat.

“What?” you asked, blinking innocently. “You’re always saying I never rinse right.”

Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.

And then his head dropped.

Right onto your shoulder.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just slumped a little heavier, his breath hot against your skin.

You froze, heart thudding in your chest.

Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”

He didn’t lift his head.

Just sighed. Deep and long. A full-body exhale like he'd been holding something in for hours.

Then, low, gravelly, and rough:

“You really don’t know?”

You blinked. “...Know what?”

He turned his face slightly, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips near your collarbone.

You waited.

Silence stretched.

Then finally, slowly, he said:

“You were wearin’ that dress.”

You paused. “…What?”

He sighed again. Frustrated. “At the store. That yellow one. The one that clings. That makes your thighs—” He cut himself off, groaning. “Fuck.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re being pissy at me ‘cause of my dress?”

He finally sat up. Met your eyes. And oh—his face.

That quiet, deadpan fury.

That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.

“I ain’t mad at the dress,” he ground out. “I’m mad ‘cause you wore it without even thinkin’. You just—put it on. Walked around the store, leanin’ over, lookin’ like—like that. Like you didn’t know. And that little boy looked at you like he’d just seen God.”

You blinked.

Then you bit your lip.

But Joel wasn’t done.

“I’ve been hard since the dairy aisle.”

You choked.

He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.

“And then you came home. In my shirt. No bra. Crawled all over me. Kissed me like it was sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were doin’. Whisperin’ all soft, makin’ those fuckin’ pouty faces. I’m sittin’ here tryin’ not to throw you over the back of the couch, and you’re talkin’ about ‘behind your knees.’”

Your lips parted.

He growled.

“And I can’t be mad at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “Not really. ‘Cause you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just bein’ you.”

You opened your mouth to respond.

But nothing came out.

You just stared.

Joel stared back.

His chest was rising hard now. His hands had slid to your hips. Gripping. Holding you still in his lap like he wasn’t sure what he’d do if you moved again.

“I hate how much I love you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Hate it when you’re cute. Hate it when you wear my shirts. Hate it when you kiss me when I’m tryin’ to be mad.”

You whispered, breathless, “So don’t be mad.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to be mad,” he snapped, fingers tightening. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ lose it.”

You blinked.

And then—quietly:

“…You want me to get off you?”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

“Fuck no,” he said, and the word hit like a warning. “You move now, I swear to God—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:

“…So I’m off the hook about the cheese?”

Joel scoffed.

But it came out rough.

More breath than sound.

Then, without another word—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Like he’d been waiting all day to do it. His mouth found yours with heat, with hunger, with the kind of urgency that made you squeak softly against his lips before melting—completely—into him.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other sliding over your hip to keep you grounded, pressed tight into his lap where you belonged.

You gasped into his mouth when he angled you just right, when he kissed you like he wasn’t your husband of five years but a man trying to earn you.

“Joel—” you breathed, between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, “baby, I—need to start the pasta—”

“Screw the pasta,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing along your collarbone like he was mapping it for memory. “Fuck all of it.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up in your chest, bright and breathless.

Joel kissed the sound right out of you.

“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.

You blinked, a little dazed. “Missed me?”

He nodded, nose brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. I know you’ve been here, but baby… you’ve been everywhere but with me.”

Your brows drew together, guilt tugging already, but Joel just kept going, voice low and full of heat and heartache.

“You’ve been movin’ nonstop all week. Preppin’ the guest room, scrubbin’ the floors like it was a damn hotel inspection comin’. Stressin’ over the timin’ of the plane, re-foldin’ towels that didn’t need foldin’, runnin’ errands twice ‘cause you forgot the list the first time. Cookin’ like we’ve got ten people to feed instead of just one girl comin’ home for the week.”

His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.

“Runnin’ out the door before I can even tell you I love you.”

He was still kissing you, slower now. Softer. Like every word cost him something.

“I ain’t mad about the cheese,” he whispered. “Ain’t mad about that poor boy at the register lookin’ at you like his world was endin’. I’m just…”

He sighed.

And then held you closer.

“…selfish,” he admitted. “I want my wife.”

You melted against him, curling your fingers through the back of his hair. “Joel…”

“I want her mouth,” he murmured, kissing the corner of yours. “Want her laugh. Her hands. Her smart mouth and her soft skin and her stupid apologies about flannel.”

You giggled again, and he kissed that too.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said roughly. “And I still missed you.”

Your heart cracked open. And that was it.

That was the moment you moved.

You slid forward, slow and deliberate, swinging one leg fully across his lap until you were straddling him—knees planted firm on either side, thighs bracketing his hips.

Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

He just watched you.

His hands landed on your waist automatically. Like muscle memory. Like they’d been there a thousand times and still weren’t done learning the shape of you.

You lowered yourself slowly into his lap, letting the weight of your body sink against the growing heat beneath his jeans. The second your hips touched down, you felt it—thick, hard, there.

Joel’s jaw clenched.

But he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a move.

So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him. Open-mouthed and deep.

Not sweet this time.

Not soft.

You kissed him like you missed him too, like you hadn’t seen him every day. Like you meant it. Like every minute of silence between you had been a mistake you were now determined to fix with your mouth.

He let you lead, just for a moment.

And God, the sound he made when you pulled back just slightly, only to roll your hips forward, pressing down against him with a teasing grind—

A low, broken grunt spilled from his throat, half-pain, half-prayer.

“Jesus, baby…”

You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.

And did it again.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist like he was barely holding back. Like he was grounding himself. You felt the flex of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt.

He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.

You shifted again, dragging your cunt over the firm line of his jeans, and Joel exhaled like it physically pained him.

He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered again, trying to keep his classic deadpan delivery, but his chest was rising hard now, breath shallow.

You tilted your head, smiling innocently, biting the corner of your lip like you weren’t absolutely soaked and unraveling already.

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “What am I doing?”

He gave you that look—half narrowed eyes, half disbelief—like he could see straight through you.

You didn’t give him time to answer.

Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.

Soft, at first.

Just a brush.

Then firmer, deeper—trailing kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat, until you reached the warm patch of skin behind his ear that always made him twitch. You kissed it slowly, let your breath spill over it.

“You said you wanted my mouth,” you whispered. “Just trying to give it to you.”

Joel groaned. Just one low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like it cost him something.

You felt his grip slide lower, from the swell of your hips to the backs of your thighs, and then he rocked you forward for you.

One, slow drag.

Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.

Your breath hitched. “Oh—”

“Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough and fraying. “Then give it to me, baby. Just like that. Keep grindin’. Nice and slow.”

You whimpered. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t help it.

So you did what he asked. What he always made sound like a command, even when he spoke soft.

You rolled your hips against him again. And again.

Each pass sent sparks shooting down your spine. Each brush of friction left you clinging a little tighter, breathing a little harder.

The TV flickered in the background, some commentator still droning about pass coverage or something equally irrelevant.

But Joel didn’t look away from you. Not once.

He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.

His mouth opened against yours, tongue curling deep, hand still anchored around your thigh, keeping you pressed tight. Like if he let go, the earth might shift.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses. “Crawlin’ all over me in that damn shirt… knowin’ I was tryin’ to stay mad?”

You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips still moving, pace steady and deliberate.

“I was trying to apologize.”

“Tryin’ my ass,” he growled, biting the edge of your jaw. “You were makin’ it worse. Bein’ all soft and sweet… kissin’ on me like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”

You leaned in close again, breath mingling.

“Didn’t I say I was yours?”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

And it hit you—like a wave crashing in all at once.

That stare.

That devotion.

That deep, simmering heat that lived behind his eyes, like he was fighting it every second just to keep it contained.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You did.”

His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging slow and reverent across your stomach, then higher, like he was relearning every inch of you.

“Still tryin’ to stay mad,” he muttered, tone dry but unraveling. “Not doin’ a very good job of it.”

You grinned. Pressed your hips to his again. Harder this time.

Joel hissed through his teeth, hands tightening on your waist for just a second. Like he had to remind himself not to flip you over right then and there.

Because the truth was—he was just as mad. At himself. At the way he always snapped at you first before ever admitting how he felt. At how you knew how to twist him up without even trying. At how good you looked in his damn shirt.

At how fucking much he wanted you.

“Up,” he grunted.

“What?”

He didn’t explain. Just grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it up over your head, arms slightly rough but careful, like muscle memory had him treating you like something expensive.

You didn’t even get a second to tease him for it. Because the second your shirt hit the floor, he was on you.

Mouth hot. Open.

His mouth locked around your nipple like he’d missed it. Like it was a lifeline.

“Jesus—Joel—”

His only response was a low groan. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed to him, the other still gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you not to float away.

The couch creaked beneath both of you. That ugly old brown one you always said he should’ve gotten rid of when you first moved in. But right now? The way he had you anchored in his lap, thighs spread, chest bare under his mouth—you would’ve worshipped that goddamn couch if it meant you got to stay right here.

He switched sides, mouth greedy now, and your head dropped back as your nails dug into his shoulders. He sucked, slow and deep, then grazed his teeth along the sensitive skin, a groan vibrating low in his throat when your hips rolled again—instinct, need, love, all tangled together.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.

You barely had time to register the look before he moved—swift and deliberate. One arm looped around your waist, the other shifting beneath your thigh, and suddenly you were airborne for half a second—

Then thud.

You yelped, a high, startled sound, as your back hit the couch cushions, Joel’s weight braced above you, one hand cupping the back of your thigh as he hiked your leg up and perched it over the armrest like it was his position and his idea.

Your hands flew to his chest, more out of instinct than resistance, heart thudding as he looked at you with that flat, unreadable Miller stare. The one that meant he was thinking something loud but saying absolutely nothing.

“Joel,” you warned, already breathless. “I just showered.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Yeah.”

His fingers were already sliding under the waistband of your shorts.

“And the game’s still on,” you added quickly, trying to hold onto a sliver of reality as your shorts started disappearing, Joel tugging them down like they were offending him.

Joel didn’t answer.

Just stared at you, flat and unreadable, that slow blink that always made you feel like he was assessing something. Whether he was going to tease you or be straight forward. Go gentle or go mean.

Then—his brow lifted. Just a slight arch, subtle, but smug in that way that made your stomach twist.

Your hips jolted as he tugged your shorts the rest of the way down—slow, unhurried—and left your panties on. Thin lace, soaked clean through. Like it was part of your punishment.

You shifted, instinctively trying to lift for him, to help.

He didn’t let you.

“Stay,” he muttered, pressing one broad palm flat on your hip. His other hand slid between your thighs, spreading them open with firm, heavy pressure, until you were open for him.

Then his mouth.

Hot breath dragging over fabric that felt thinner by the second. His tongue didn’t touch skin. It ran slow and warm across the center of you, pressing the soaked material against your aching clit.

You whimpered. The sound came out high and needy, and he smiled.

“Joel—” you gasped.

“You said the game’s still on,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. “So we’re watchin’. Both of us.”

And then—finally—his tongue. Right through the center of you. A slow, deliberate drag that made your eyes roll back in your head. Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, hips bucking before you could stop them.

He paused. Pulled back. Looked at you with that lazy, lethal stare. “Don’t move,” he said, quiet. Dangerous. “Or I stop.”

You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”

Joel didn’t reply. He never did when he was in this mood—this controlled, razor-sharp space he sank into like second nature. He just bent again, licked over you with slow, measured cruelty. Tongue steady, pressure maddening. Over. And over.

You were soaked. The lace clung to you, sticky and wet. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. He was teasing you through it, sucking at it like it was skin, like he had all day.

“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.

“Watch the game,” he murmured, lips brushing right against your clit, his voice muffled by your body. “You’re fallin’ behind.”

You blinked at the screen, trying to focus, but everything was heat and static and him.

“What’s the down?” he asked.

You froze. “What?”

Another flick of his tongue—sharper this time. Precise. You choked on a moan.

“I said,” he said again, tone cooling, “what’s the down, baby?”

Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”

His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”

You hesitated. “Maybe?”

Joel sat back on his heels. Fingers hooked in the side of your panties, tugging them aside with infuriating gentleness. He leaned in again. One long, hot lick—bare skin now. Bare clit. Bare torture.

Then he pulled away. Sat there. Breathing you in. Looking at you like you were a meal he’d decided to starve just because he could.

You shook, panting. “Joel—”

“You don’t guess,” he said flatly. “You either know, or you don’t get to come.”

You whimpered. Full-body shiver. Nails curled into the couch cushion. Every muscle screamed for friction, for movement.

“Focus,” he said softly. Not kindly. “Get it right, or I’ll make you beg for more than just permission.”

You turned to the screen, vision blurred with tears and need. Some play was happening. You weren’t even sure what anymore.

Joel’s tongue met you again. Gentle, coaxing, relentless. And then—

“Possession?”

“Colts,” you gasped.

He hummed. A reward. His tongue flattened against your clit, slow circle, firm pressure. Just enough to make your breath hitch. You moaned, moved just barely, and he immediately pulled back.

“Nope.”

“What? Joel��!”

“You moved.”

“I twitched.”

“You moved,” he repeated. Cold. Decided. “Better learn the difference.”

You covered your face with your hands. “You’re evil.”

“I’m patient.” He brushed a single finger over your thigh. “That’s worse.”

You whimpered, again. And he didn’t stop.

The next stretch was agony.

He mouthed at you—sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always calculated. Just when your hips rose, just when your chest stuttered with that telltale gasp, he’d pause.

Then came the questions.

Flag on the play—what for?

Which quarter?

What yard line?

If you answered right—he’d reward you. Tongue firm and dragging. The kind of lick that made you sob.

If you answered wrong—he went silent. Kissed all around your thighs, letting his stubble drag out whimpers and pleads.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t give in. Joel Miller had you mapped. He knew every twitch. Every inhale. Every desperate, clenching muscle.

He kept you on the edge for what felt like hours—until your eyes were glassy and your thighs were trembling. Until your nails had torn at the cushion. Until your chest was heaving and your panties were ruined, and you weren’t even watching the game anymore, just listening—but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. From his mouth. From his tongue tormenting you.

“Joel,” you begged, voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Please—please, I’m—”

“Score?”

Your mind scrambled, hands fisting the cushions. “Uh—24–21?”

Joel looked up at you from between your thighs. Smug. Ravenous. His mouth slick and glistening, chin wet with your arousal. His eyes held that gleam—that sharp, satisfied gleam that made your stomach flip.

“Good girl.”

And then he devoured you.

No teasing. No slow build. No more cruel, lingering licks meant to test your patience. He shoved your panties properly aside, and dropped his mouth to your cunt like a man starved—like he’d waited all damn day to rip into you and was finally cashing the check.

Your breath caught, then tore loose in a sob. You cried out, voice shattering in your throat as heat rolled over your body in waves. Hands flew to his hair—those thick strands you loved to grip—fingers curling in deep. Your thighs twitched around his head, instinctively trying to pull him closer, to anchor yourself to something as he wrecked you.

And fuck, did he wreck you.

His tongue slid through your folds with obscene pressure—long, deliberate strokes that left you soaked and quaking. Like every lick was a reminder: this was his. You were his.

His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, the rough drag a perfect contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Joel groaned into you like the taste of you was everything. His hands gripped your thighs tight—bruising tight—thumbs digging in, keeping you open, helpless, exactly where he wanted you.

“Sound real sorry now,” he growled against your cunt, voice shredded and low. His tongue never stopped moving. “Should I keep goin’? Or you wanna get smart again?”

You sobbed. You sobbed, the sound barely human. Your legs clamped around him and your hips bucked wildly against his face.

“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”

Joel laughed. A dark, amused sound, muffled by your cunt. He sounded pleased. Too pleased.

Then he flattened his tongue over your clit and dragged it slow. Long. Torturous. Like he knew how close you were. Like he could feel it in your thighs, in the twitch of your hips, in the broken way you moaned.

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a huge wave. There was no slow climb. It hit hard—violent in its release—like your body had finally quit holding back and gave itself over to him completely.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound ripped free—raw and wrecked. You came with your whole body—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the couch. Fingers yanked hard in his hair, like that was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.

And Joel didn’t stop.

Didn’t budge.

He kept his mouth on you like it was his right, his job, his revenge. Licking you through it, dragging it out until your thighs trembled and your hips jolted with every aftershock.

When he finally pulled back, your thighs were shiny. And you were boneless, panting like you’d just run a marathon barefoot.

Joel sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lick the rest off his lips, and gave you that look. The one that was from a smug husband who just made you weak from one orgasm.

“You cryin’?” he asked, brow arched. “Or just finally quiet?”

You blinked up at him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your voice was wrecked. “Need more—”

He tilted his head. “More?”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—please, Joel, I—fuck—I need it—”

He looked at you for a long, quiet second. Then glanced at your ruined panties, still moved off to the side, completely soaked through. Then back at your face.

He slid them off slowly with a firm grip on your ankle. They made a quiet, wet sound as they peeled off your cunt.

“Should make you wear these around the house after I’m done,” he muttered. “Let you feel how soaked you get beggin’ for it. Make you sit in your own mess while I watch somethin’ nice.”

You whimpered.

Joel smirked again. “What, that too much?”

You shook your head. “No—no, I want it.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up your bare thigh, settling heavy on your pelvis, thumb brushing between your folds where you were still sensitive and trembling.

You gasped. Twitched. Your hips bucked helplessly into his touch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured. “Look at you. Blissed out and still greedy.”

You whined.

And Joel—dear and evil—laughed low in his throat.

“C’mon, baby. Spread these legs wider. I ain’t done teachin’ you your lesson yet.”

You did as told. Because how could you not?

Your hips tilted, thighs falling open, and the pads of his fingers got better access as he barely brushed where you were soaked, and your hips jumped.

You let out a shuddery breath, squirming beneath his touch. “Please—”

“Please what?”

You swallowed, tried to speak, but your voice cracked in the middle of it. “I—I want your cock.”

That earned a low hum.

Joel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was especially unimpressed.

“Yeah? Wantin’ don’t mean gettin’,” he muttered. “Don’t remember sayin’ you could ask for anythin’.”

Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”

He cut you off with a sharp glance, fingers sliding between your folds in one slick.

“I said,” he growled softly, “you take what I give you. And you stay damn quiet.”

You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.

And that was it. That was enough.

He reached behind him without warning, took your panties in his free hand, and before you could even react, he stuffed them into your mouth.

You gasped, muffled immediately, lips stretched around the fabric. You could taste yourself—warm, musky, sharp from where he'd worked you over earlier—and the moan that escaped your throat was pathetic.

Joel grinned. Not wide. Not gleeful. Just slow and knowing.

His hand cupped your jaw for a moment, thumb dragging across your cheek, eyes sharp as they bore into yours.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “Gettin’ worked up over your own mess. Filthy girl.”

You nodded because it was all you could do. Your thighs tried to rub together restlessly. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure where to go, what to do with yourself.

Joel got up. Shifted his weight to sit back onto the couch next to you.

Then, without warning, he reached for you and dragged you into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you easily until your spine was pressed against his chest, your legs straddling his denim-covered thighs, your ruined panties still in your mouth.

The couch groaned under both your bodies, the old leather protesting with every shift—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. Your brain was mush, your limbs boneless, your mouth still slack and wet around the wad of fabric he’d stuffed there minutes ago.

And then—Joel’s hand again.

Sliding down between your thighs like it belonged there. Like it had never left.

Two fingers pushed into you without warning. Thick. Slick. Deep. The stretch punched the air from your lungs and sent your hips jerking reflexively.

Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, right at your ear, slow and steady like he wasn’t the one wrecking you open on his lap. “You stay still.”

But you couldn’t.

Your hips moved anyway, rocking helplessly against his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the space between you.

His fingers curled inside you, just the right pressure against that devastating spot that made your back arch and your knees quake.

You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked his fingers into you harder. “Can feel you clenchin’ already. Barely inside and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”

You pressed your head back against his shoulder, trembling all over, thighs spread wide over his lap. The rough fabric scraped your skin. Your hands clawed at the front of his jeans, grabbing at anything, his belt buckle, waistband, seams, anything to keep you sane.

His pace quickened. His fingers drove up into you, every stroke sharp, confident, filthy. His palm was soaked, smacking wetly with each thrust, the heat of your arousal smeared over your thighs, your folds, your inner legs.

His thumb started to brush your clit. Fast. Tight little circles.

Your whole body jolted.

“Fuckin’ greedy thing,” he murmured, lips dragging against your neck. “Thought you were done cryin’. Thought I’d worn you out.”

You whimpered around the gag, back arching. Every muscle tight, electric.

Joel grunted softly, like the sound of you unraveling turned him on more than anything. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Course you got more in you.”

You were ruined. The couch cushions beneath you were damp, and the mess between your legs was shameful, slick, and constant. Your thighs were shaking. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your body burned—hot and tight and strung out.

His arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you still, keeping you open. His fingers fucked into you relentlessly, slick and punishing, while his thumb dragged over your clit with merciless precision.

And then—

You came.

So fast, it blindsided you.

That coil inside you snapped, sharp and raw, and your whole body convulsed in his arms. Your thighs slammed shut around his hand, your spine bowed, and the scream that tore from your throat was strangled by cotton and spit.

You shattered—mouth wide, tears spilling, muscles spasming.

“Mm. There she is,” he said, low and warm like you hadn’t just come like you were dying. “Knew you had another one in you.”

You whimpered, boneless now. Arms limp. Head heavy against his shoulder.

His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.

You let out a broken sob through your gag, and Joel just grinned, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

He shifted behind you—gentle now. No more teasing pressure. No more mean streak. Just a warm, solid wall of comfort at your back.

His big hand rested low on your belly, spread wide, thumb tracing little slow, aimless circles over sweat of your skin.

Protective.

Sweet.

Possessive.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Bare skin, damp with sweat. His nose nudged you after, slow and unhurried.

One kiss. Then another.

Then one right behind your ear, soft enough to make your heart hiccup. You made a small sound, muffled by the panties still stuffed in your mouth.

Joel heard it.

“‘S’alright,” he murmured. “I got you. Just breathe a sec.”

You did. Or tried to. Inhale in. Exhale out. His scent wrapped around you—soap and salt and the heat of his skin. The TV was still on, some post-play analysis murmuring in the background, but it felt far away. Fuzzy. Like it didn’t matter anymore.

Joel reached up. Fingers brushed along your jaw. Then gently, he pulled your ruined panties from your mouth.

They came free with a soft, wet sound, and he set them aside without a word. You breathed in deeper, lips tingling, tongue dragging over them instinctively.

“You with me now?” he asked, pressing another kiss to the shell of your ear. “Hm?”

��Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.

You felt his smile more than saw it—small, private. His chin dipped down, and he kissed your cheek. The side of your neck. Then your shoulder again.

“Did good for me,” he murmured.

Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”

That earned a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a hum. You could hear the apology in it, even if he didn’t say it aloud.

“Was I?” he asked. “Don’t remember hearin’ any complaints.”

“You gagged me with my own panties.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“You whined so damn loud, baby. Was the only way to shut you up.”

You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.

“I was desperate.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

That quieted you. Completely. Because even with your hair stuck to your forehead, your thighs slick and trembling—you believed him. You felt it in the way he rocked you just slightly in his lap, grounding you. Felt how he loved you completely with no conditions.

Joel didn’t say shit he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste words. So when he whispered things like that—it hit hard.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired. Soft. His forehead rested against yours.

But even through all the love, you could feel it.

Pressed tight behind you, the warmth of his body steady, grounding—but his cock, straining hard against the thick denim of his jeans, throbbed like a barely-contained secret. And it wasn’t subtle, either. Not with the way you’d come apart for him, more than once, all over his tongue and fingers and the damn couch.

He was giving you a break.

Just like he always did.

Even if it cost him his own pleasure. Even if it meant sitting there while you trembled, thighs sticky and breath still catching in your throat.

Because Joel never asked for more than you could give. He knew your edges, every single one.

Where to push. Where to let you fall.

And right now, he was holding.

Letting you rest.

Even though his body was screaming to take.

That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.

So you shifted—slow at first, experimental—grinding your hips back into him. Rubbing your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, where you knew he was aching, pulsing.

Joel groaned. Low and guttural, barely contained. His hand tightened on your hip like a warning.

“Baby,” he gritted out, voice hoarse, “I’m bein’ nice.”

You rocked again. Firmer this time. Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch beneath you. Big. Hard.

“Tryin’ to give you that break,” he went on, jaw clenched. “C’mon. Take it.”

Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“I had my break.”

He huffed. Short. Sharp. No patience left. “You sure?”

You turned your head a little. Just enough to whisper, “Yeah.”

Joel paused, studying your face to confirm you were sure.

“Alright.”

The next second, his hands were under you, lifting you like nothing, and you squealed, breathless as he turned your body with ease and planted you down again. Hips against the armrest this time, bare skin against leather, ass in the air, legs spread.

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

Ready.

You barely had time to breathe before he was behind you again—hovering close, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, thumbs digging in like he wanted to mark you there.

You felt the heat of him through his jeans. Still in control. Always in control.

He palmed your ass, slow and reverent at first. Then slapped it, sharp and deliberate.

You jumped. Moaned softly. Chest pressed to the armrest.

He did it again. Slower this time.

“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a pretty ass for my pretty wife.”

You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Pretty enough to make you lose your damn mind in a store.”

Joel made a sound. Something between a groan and a laugh. His palm skimmed over your ass again, this time lingering. Loving.

“Mm,” he drawled. “You think I forgot about that dress?”

“I think you stared long enough to memorize every inch of it.”

“Wasn’t the dress I was memorizin’,” he muttered, hand slipping lower. “You walked in front of me on purpose.”

You smiled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. “Sure did.”

Another slap. Harder this time.

“Goddamn tease.”

You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.

Behind you, you heard the soft clink of metal. His belt—coming loose. Then the snap of his jeans as he unbuttoned himself one-handed, still keeping you pressed down with the other.

You craned your head, trying to look back at him. “You’re still dressed.”

“Yeah.” His voice was low. Dangerous. Warm. “And you’re not.”

The implication of that was everything. The unfairness of it. The intentionality.

You clenched around nothing, already needy again. You heard him sigh—a deep, throaty exhale like he was trying to keep his composure.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured.

You smiled again, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “I think I do.”

Another pause.

Then the sound of his zipper lowering. Slow, easured and drawn out like a threat. Like a promise.

Your whole body tensed—not from fear, but from the kind of aching anticipation that made your skin burn.

“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.

“Shhh.” His mouth was close. Too close. The rough scratch of his beard brushed your cheek as he leaned in, voice pitched low and raspy—like it came from the center of his chest. “Lemme look at you…”

His palm braced against the small of your back, steady and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

His other hand?

Stroking.

You felt it—hot and thick behind you, heavy in his grip. The barest brush skimmed your ass, then slid down the curve with a slow, deliberate drag.

Then over the swell of your hip. Along the inside of your thigh. Everywhere but where you needed him.

Your breath caught. Fingers clenched the couch cushion like it was the only thing holding you to earth. Your knuckles ached. Your thighs twitched.

He let the weight of him trail over your bare skin. Lazily. Like he was painting you with it. Marking every inch of you with his cock before he even gave you the chance to take it.

You panting. Absolutely wrecked, your body overstimulated, used up, still trembling from two orgasms, but it didn’t matter. Not when Joel was like this. Not when his patience was more devastating than any touch.

“Joel—” you gasped, trying to tilt your hips back, desperate to catch the head of his cock, to line him up, to feel something. You missed.

He chuckled. Low. Pleased. Like you were performing exactly the way he liked. “Aw. Sweet thing,” he murmured. “You’re tryin’, huh?”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just—just put it in—”

“Mm.” That small sound of false consideration. Barely interested. “You think beggin’s all it takes?”

You let your forehead drop to the cushion, gasping now, thighs spreading wider out of instinct. “It’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re teasing—”

“That’s ’cause I can,” he said simply. Another drag of his cock, this time notched so close to where you needed him—almost there—and still he didn’t push forward. “And you like it.”

You shook your head. Tried to protest. Then he leaned down again, chest brushing your back, the rough cotton of his flannel rasping against your flushed, sweat-slicked back . His breath ghosted over your neck.

“You been good?” he asked, casual as anything. Like he was asking about the weather. Like you weren’t spread open and dripping for him.

You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”

He hummed, unconvinced. A kiss landed at the base of your nape. Warm. Unfairly tender.

“Don’t believe you.”

“Joel—”

“You wore that little yellow dress,” he murmured. His mouth dragged down your shoulder, slow and unhurried. “Knew exactly what it’d do to me.”

Your breath hitched. “You liked it, though…”

“I liked it too much.”

He shifted, and his cock slid down the inside of your thigh again, hot and impossibly slick from how ready you were. The head caught—just briefly—at the edge of your folds.

It was enough to make your spine jolt.

Joel grunted softly. Like the feel of you against him had snapped something loose in his control. “You wanna be filled up, baby?”

“Yes.” Your voice broke, wrecked and raw. “Yes—please—God, please—”

The hand at your back flattened. A warning. A reminder.

He just hovered. Let the head of his cock rest there, heavy and perfect, teasing your entrance, just existing. Threatening.

“You look real pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging a hand down the curve of your spine. “Bent over. Waitin’. Drippin’.”

You were panting now. Shaking. Your hips trembled with need.

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

He laughed—low. Dark. A little cruel, a little sweet. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or worship you.

“I know you are,” he said.

You felt it. The tip of him, thick and flushed, pressing just barely where you needed it most. The promise of relief, right there—

And then he paused.

“Say thank you,” he commanded.

You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

His voice dropped, a growl at your ear. “For what?”

Your legs shook.

“For—fuck—baby—”

“Say it.”

You shut your eyes, mouth trembling, chest heaving. “Thank you… for making me feel good.”

The words left you hoarse and broken. Quiet and sincere. Your voice barely made it past the pounding of your pulse.

But Joel heard it. He always did.

A beat of silence. A low grunt.

He pushed in.

All at once.

Your breath left you in a broken gasp, your spine arching hard as he filled you deep, impossibly deep, the stretch so intense your hands scrabbled against the couch for anything to anchor you.

“Jesus,” Joel hissed behind you, voice ragged, gravel thick in his throat as he started to rock back and forth. “Always so fuckin’ tight after you come.”

You whined. Couldn’t help it. Could barely hold yourself upright with the way your body shook, stretched full and pulsing around him. It felt like he’d taken everything—what was left of your breath, your bones, your reason—and replaced it with him.

He was so warm. So there. One braced at your waist, holding you in place like he was scared you’d float away.

You reached for it.

Blindly. Desperately. Your left hand stretching back, trembling midair, searching behind you for something that made this real. Something solid.

You didn’t even have to ask.

Joel’s hand found yours. Rough, warm fingers threaded between yours, locking down. Anchoring. His palm enveloped the back of your hand like a promise.

And that’s when he broke.

You felt it in the tremble of his exhale, the way his hips faltered for just a beat before crashing into you again, harder, deeper. A growl built low in his throat—raw and breathless, cracked at the edges.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’ll never get over this.”

You whimpered. “Joel—”

“Our rings,” he gritted out between his teeth, his thrusts jolting your whole body. “Your fingers on mine like that—fuck.”

He didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow down.

But the rhythm had changed. Something deliberate in it now. Like every thrust was a vow.

He shifted forward, chest brushing your back, his weight covering you now, thick denim scratching against your thighs. His breath was hot at your ear.

“That ring, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Means you’re mine when we’re like this. Means you chose me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’ll always choose you,” you whispered.

He pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder, soft and fleeting, like he couldn’t let himself be gentle for long without unraveling.

You cried out when he bottomed out again, your body clenching down instinctively. The sound tore from your throat was high, open, and honest.

He held your hand tighter. Like it was the only thing tethering him now.

You could feel his wedding band press into your skin as he gripped your hand. Could feel your own—twisting slightly on your finger as his thrusts jolted you forward and pulled you right back again.

You were trembling. Overstimulated. Barely here—but that grip in your hand kept you grounded.

“You love this,” he whispered, nose brushing behind your ear, breath hot. “Love when I take my time. Love when I make you earn it.”

You nodded—shaky, frantic. “I do. I do, Joel—”

He kept driving into you like he wasn’t done yet. Like he needed to finish what he started and brand the memory of this into your bones.

“I give you everythin’, baby,” he muttered, fingers flexing in yours. “All day long. Every day. You know that, right?”

You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”

“So when I ask you to wait,” he said, still going, “when I tease… make you beg…”

He pulled your hand further, dragged it down the curve of your stomach, placed it flat over your own belly, his on top.

“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“You. This sweet body. Mine.” He grunted the word, thrusts getting sloppier, chest heaving behind you. “You wearin’ my ring, cryin’ for my cock—”

“Joel,” you gasped, throat burning, hips jolting with every punishing thrust. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snapped. “You will.”

And God help you, you did.

The orgasm hit like a truck.

Your whole body seized. You went rigid, then loose, your limbs jerking helplessly as pleasure tore through you—raw, electric, and far past the point of sanity. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.

Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He just adjusted his grip, dragged you up against his chest, and kept going, growling low in your ear.

“You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he breathed, his arm banded tight around your waist. “After that? After the way you fuckin’ beg for it?”

He pushed in deep and held, breath shuddering. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers toying with the mess he’d made of you.

“Look at this,” he muttered. “Look how good you take it. How fuckin’ ruined you are.”

You whined—pathetic, needy. Your whole body was trembling, oversimulation taking over, heart jackhammering against your ribs. And Joel…

“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, pace stuttering. “Gonna come so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days.”

Then you heard him groan. It hit all at once—warm and hot and so thick inside you, it made your stomach twist.

Joel kept pushing. Grinding. Emptying everything into you with his jaw clenched and breath stuttering.

You cried out—overwhelmed, stunned, mind white-hot and blank. It was all too much. Too much heat, breath, heartbeat, and sweat. The air around you thick and quiet, like the house itself had stilled to make space for what just happened.

Your cheek was pressed to the couch, your chest heaving. Your knees trembled where they’d gone weak. Your fingers were still laced with his, though neither of you had moved.

And he was still inside you.

Or maybe it just felt like he was. The weight of him, of what he’d just given you, settled so deep, so complete, it didn’t feel like something that would leave anytime soon.

Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.

A kiss.

Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.

Another, lower. Then one to the side of your neck, his lips pressing into the flushed skin like they had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak yet. Could barely think. But God, you leaned up into him.

Shivering a little, your muscles twitching, nerves frayed, but still chasing every brush of his mouth. You could feel him softening in you, feel the shift in his breathing, calmer now.

His nose brushed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin between words. “You always just—fuck. You bring it outta me.”

You closed your eyes. Your hand found his again, right where he’d dropped it at your hip. You tangled your fingers, holding him.

“You okay?” he asked again, a little lower this time.

“Mmhm.”

He chuckled, just under his breath. “That all you got in you?”

“Don’t make me talk, Miller.” You hummed, too wrecked to laugh.

Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.

“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “You need water? Blanket?”

“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.

He laughed for real then. Low and breathy. God, you loved that laugh.

“Smartass,” he murmured.

Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.

You winced. A soft inhale through your teeth. Your whole body trembled once, a shiver slipping down your spine like your nerves hadn’t figured out that you were done.

And then you felt it.

Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.

Joel stilled behind you. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.

Closely. Intently. Probably with that smug, twitchy-lipped expression he wore when he was trying not to look smug.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice hoarse as you buried your face into the couch cushion. “Don’t say a word.”

Silence.

Then: a short huff. Half a chuckle. A shake of his head. “I didn’t say anythin’,” he muttered.

You lifted your head just enough to side-eye him. He was standing now. Somehow still put-together while you were bare and wrecked in the living room sunlight. His belt hung loosely open, jeans low on his hips, cock still out.

He looked down at you like you were the prettiest mess he’d ever seen.

You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”

“I’ll get somethin’,” he said simply. Voice flat. Not unkind—just Joel.

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall. You took a breath. Stood up slowly. Very slowly.

“Oh—shit,” you whispered, biting your lip as you shifted your weight to maneuver around the couch to sit. The movement sent a dull ache radiating through your thighs and lower back. Everything between your legs was sore. Sticky. Tender.

Your arms wrapped instinctively across your chest—not out of shame, but because your skin felt loud. Touched in every sense of the word.

You looked around your living room. The way the sun hit the hardwood. The TV was still playing, now with an ad that was sponsoring some new water bottle.

And there you were. Naked. Blown apart. Sitting on a couch you complained constantly about.

Great.

Joel returned with a warm towel in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, zipped up and looking a tad bit flushed. He handed you the towel first wordlessly, and you took it with a whispered, “Thanks.”

He didn’t move far. Just leaned a hip against the armrest and waited. You cleaned yourself slowly.

Carefully.

The towel was soft and warm from the dryer. You pressed it between your legs and flinched, hips jolting at the sting. Not pain, not exactly. Just the rawness..

And God, the mess. You breathed through it. Wiped slowly, trying not to tense up, trying not to think about how full you still felt.

And Joel watched.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed. Like he was giving you the space to care for yourself, but couldn’t stop making sure you were okay.

When you were done, you dropped the towel back into his out stretched hand. He handed you the water next. You drank.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”

“Figured.” He stepped away and returned a second later with a folded t-shirt and another pair of cotton sleep shorts. He didn’t hand them to you, just set them gently beside you on the couch. “These’re clean. I’ll throw the rest in the wash.”

Joel dutifully went around the living room, picking up each of your discarded clothes. His fingers brushed over your panties on the opposite end of the couch, and you swore a smile crossed his face. He then disappeared back into the hallway.

The shirt he gave you was soft and worn—another one of his. Still smelled faintly of him and laundry detergent. You tugged it over your head slow, your limbs still limp, body aching in all the right ways. The cotton shorts were better. And, importantly, clean.

You sank down onto the couch with a quiet exhale, limbs folding in like you’d melted. The TV was still droning on in the background—some post-game commentary, pixelated stats dancing on the screen.

You grabbed the remote with the tips of your fingers and clicked around until you landed on something quieter. Comforting. Just background hum. A house-hunting show, with soft music and couples debating backsplash options.

You should’ve stood up. You should’ve gone to the kitchen. Started the water. Chopped the garlic. That was the plan, wasn’t it?

But your body wasn’t listening. It was sunk deep into Joel’s shirt—your shirt now—and your limbs were humming, still, faint echoes of everything he’d done to you not even five minutes ago.

And then you heard the washer click on down the hall. Then the creak of the floorboards. The sigh of the hallway. Joel’s footsteps, low and even, approaching from around the corner.

He rounded the corner, changed into a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from where he’d splashed his face.

You glanced up, already reaching for the armrest to start pushing yourself up.

“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t even like making pasta.”

“I like you not passin’ out in the kitchen ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sit down.”

You huffed, flopping harder against the cushions. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen. “And you’re gonna be walkin’ funny, so maybe hush.”

You covered your face with your hands and groaned.

God, he was impossible.

But you didn’t move. You stayed curled on the couch while he rummaged through into the bags, found the pasta box, clattered the pot onto the stove. You heard him muttering about the olive oil again. He never remembered where you kept it, even though it hadn’t moved in five years.

The water started to boil. You caught the smell of garlic—strong and sharp, mixing with the citrus of the countertop cleaner he must’ve wiped up with after.

He was humming now. Quiet. Just a line or two of something—sounded like it was from the radio. You couldn’t quite place it, but the low timbre of it settled in your ribs like a lullaby.

You peeked over the back of the couch.

Joel stood barefoot at the stove, spoon in one hand, your favorite chipped mug full of water in the other, waiting for the timer to go off. The sunlight caught on the edge of his watch. Alongside that, his wedding band glinted.

Your chest squeezed.

It hit you like it always did after days like this—when your body was sore, and your heart felt wrung out, and the house was quiet. That ache of love. That sense of this is real. This man. This home. This life. Five years of inside jokes and laundry folded wrong and everything in between.

You leaned your cheek against the back cushion and watched him for a moment longer, smiling softly to yourself.

You then tell yourself it was fine to just let Joel do it—to lay back, enjoy the pleasure of being cared for, every ounce of soreness earned and every bite of pasta lovingly stirred by the same hands that’d destroyed you.

But the moment he muttered something about not being able to find the damn colander—again—you were already on your feet.

You padded into the kitchen slow, your knees sore but steadied. The ache between your legs was sharp, but not enough to stop you. You leaned against the fridge for a beat, watching Joel try to juggle both the spoon and the strainer.

He clocked you instantly. Didn’t even turn, just said, “No.”

You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”

“I told you to sit down.”

You reached up and grabbed the block of cheese from the grocery bags. “Just grating cheese. I’m not building a deck.”

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Gratin’ cheese turns into settin’ the table, then stirrin’ the sauce, then fillin’ glasses—”

“I’m just grating,” you repeated, fighting back a smile as you pulled the grater down from the cabinet and got to work.

He groaned under his breath. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”

He went back to stirring, jaw working like he was biting back whatever scolding he wanted to give you. You didn’t look at him—just grated slowly, deliberately, watching curls of cheese pile onto the plate.

There was a silence as you both worked. Only the sound of water bubbling and voices of a couple decided between city or suburban life echoed between you both. Then, quietly, you placed down the cheese and grater, and stepped around him

You didn’t say anything at first—just looped your arms around his neck from behind and pressed a kiss to the nape of it, right where his skin was still a little warm.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Joel sighed. “You’re ‘pose to be gratin’ cheese. Why are you kissin’ me?”

You smiled, let your lips trail to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses there through his shirt. Then another. And another.

One to his jaw. Another to the spot just behind his ear.

Finally, he turned—just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all that for?”

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.

“I love you,” you murmured. “And all your little grievances.”

He stilled.

“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.

“Mhm.”

His brow twitched. “The hell does that mean?”

You grinned against his cheek. “Just sayin’ I love all the Joel-isms. The stuff you complain about every day.”

“Complain?”

“Yep.”

He turned now, fully, the spoon still in his hand, water boiling quietly behind him. “Like what.”

You counted on your fingers. “The thermostat. The towels being folded ‘wrong.’ Your mystery colander you keep misplacing. People who park too close to your truck. People who walk too slow at the store. Mushrooms—”

“I hate mushrooms.”

“Exactly,” you laughed. “And you complain about them like they’ve been made to spite you.”

“They are,” he grumbled, but his mouth twitched.

You kissed him again. This time slower. Right on the lips. Your fingers hooked behind his neck now, your body slotting up against his.

“And I love all of it,” you whispered.

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Even when I get pissy ‘cause you wear that dress to the grocery store?”

You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”

Joel huffed, but he was smiling now, really smiling, that quiet, softened version of it that only ever showed up at home, when no one else was around to see.

You rested your cheek against him again. Let him hold you.

The water boiled behind you. Garlic and tomatoes scented the air. Mushrooms in a pack laid unopened.

But neither of you moved.

Because some grievances could wait.

It’s official, Tumblr hates me 😭. A girl can’t write fan fic in peace without having to gut her work to fit the 1000 block limit.

Can you guys tell I'm obsessed with domestic Joel?? I love all the requests that ask me to do Joel when he's your husband/boyfriend. Hehe...

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this! Just letting you guys know my requests are still open!!

2K notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 10 months ago

Text

Part 4 of Men at Work!

Just a note, I know I mix phonetic and Cyrillic spellings of Russian in this. Mostly it's so that people can easily translate the more complex words directly.

Content: Masturbation, very mild protective/possessive behavior

It’s becoming a problem.

You think this from the overstuffed daybed recently purchased for the explicit purpose of feeding into aforementioned problem. Not that the porch is the problem, heavens no. If so much as a nail came loose, there’s a trio of men across the street all too eager to lend their hammers and bulging, glistening muscles to fix it.

Which, conveniently, is the problem.

Their muscles, that is. And how magnanimous they are with them.

Your house is nice. New. It took them three days to fix all the issues you’d been putting off for a day you were non-reclusive enough to schedule a handyman.

Your house is too nice and too new.

You’re feeding a Vegas buffet’s worth of appetites raised on old world sensibilities with no outlet for them to be expressed. There aren’t enough squeaky hinges, crooked cabinets, stuck windows, or leaky faucets in your two-bedroom for all that… chivalry. (Or whatever Krueger has that passes for chivalry’s surly cousin.)

They’ve taken to invading earlier in the evening for busy work before dinner. Cutting vegetables, tenderizing meat, cleaning dishes, setting the goddamn table.

Like, sirs, you’re a single woman with three cats and a sham of a personal life – the last time you saw a centerpiece on a domestic dining table was Christmas at your nana’s.

Until Konig shuffled in with a fistful of sunflowers and zinnias, promising that he double-checked that they’re non-toxic to cats. You didn’t have a vase, so you had to make do with an empty mason jar you were keeping for ostensible aesthetic reasons.

Now you’ve got an ongoing bouquet, kitschy salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like lemons that no one ever uses (as if your seasoning decisions are as good as god) and are contemplating cloth napkins like some kind of… of…

“Socialite?” you muse aloud. You glance at Rasputin. He blinks slowly. “Hostess? Woman of the night?”

You’re pretty sure Agatha didn’t mean that as a compliment when you overheard her gossiping to Margot yesterday. (She should really remember that if she can eavesdrop on you from her backyard, the same is true the other way around.)

You’re toying with an idea for a new series with your last one wrapping up and your solo-novel due for release come fall. Something about a rich young woman with a wild streak and her fantastically wealthy gentlemen callers…

“Scarlet woman,” you murmur aloud, eyes on the reason for your recent porch décor purchase.

Krueger is on the roof, cloth around his head to stave off the summer heat. Doing… something with shingles and a nail gun. Your face flushes with each flex of hard muscle, jump of thick tendons. The grip he has on that thing…

As inspiring as your neighbors are, they are also a huge (in many, many ways) distraction. Hence, they are a Problem.

And not just for you. On your right, you catch the flutter of curtains from your peripheral. Lisa taking another peek – to be properly scandalized, probably. (You’re not really sure what the neighborhood biddies tell themselves when they decide something is Simply Not Proper.)

“We’ll have to start charging admission,” you muse, sipping a strawberry mojito.

Curled up far too close for the weather, Little Guy chuffs and stretches. You smooth a fingertip up his little nose, between his eyes, and over the crest of his empty head.

“Jezebel,” you mumble. He yawns, tongue curling and pearly fangs gleaming. “Trollop.”

An annoyed grunt pulls your eyes forward again. Nikto is standing halfway up the porch, one foot planted on the last step like a sexy Russian Captain Morgan. His thighs stretch his workpants oh-so-nicely. There’s a smear of white paste across the material – caulking, maybe?

(You could do with a caulking too.)

“Has someone called you these?” he asks. “Who?”

You laugh. What would he even do if someone had?

“No – well, not to my face, anyway.”

He snorts, shoots a withering scowl at Agatha’s property anyway. You spin your pen around your fingers and try not to bite your lip at the way his shirt is clinging from sweat.

“Aren’t you hot?” you fuss. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Nyet, we have been in worse,” he replies, finishing the short journey up the porch. He pauses in front of you, taking in the sight of you and your cats. What does he think, seeing you lounging about all day while he and his friends(?) are working so hard? If it’s something negative, he’s never let on.

“Still,” you insist, “have you been hydrating?”

“Da, the water runs.”

You blink, put together pieces to assume he and the others are chugging tap water (probably right from the faucet) when necessary. Well, that just won’t do now, will it?

“No, no. Hold on. Rasputin, hold him hostage.”

And like the little angel he is, Ras gets up, stretches out, and begins rubbing his face all over Nikto’s pants. With him distracted, you hop to your feet and scurry inside. The house is almost uncomfortably cool after most of your morning spent outside, but you’ll only be a moment.

There’s a large ruby pitcher waiting in the fridge from last night, complete with various berries floating at the top. You use two hands to heft it out, set it on the counter, then flit to your cabinets for the travel cups you invested in for on-the-go wine sipping. Nice and insulated.

You pour a cup for each of them, stow the pitcher away again, and carry all three in triangle-formation back outside. (Maybe you should get a tray? The antique store in town probably has something pretty and lemon-themed to match the salt and pepper shakers…)

Nikto hurries to help as soon as he sees you, plucking the extra cup from your hands.

“I saw this recipe and wanted to try it since it’s been getting hotter.”

He blinks at you, then the juice.

“You don’t have to try it now, I just thought—”

Your voice abandons you as Nikto tugs his filtration mask down. The skin beneath is warped and scarred, discolored in some places. When he raises the edge of the cup to his mouth, the skin of one cheek stretches distressingly thin. You can see the individual indents of his back molars pressing against the flesh as he drinks.

You understand why he’s been hesitant to show you; it’s not easy to look at. Which makes you all the more determined to flick your eyes back to his and ask, eagerly, “What do you think? Too sweet?”

As he swallows, throat clicking, you think you hear him grunt something.

“Hm?”

“Nyet. Not too sweet. Is good, пчела.”

You grin even though you’re not sure what it means. All three of them have some nickname in their mother tongue that you can only hope is complimentary and not because they forgot your actual name.

“Good, then I can bring some to K and K while you help me with lunch. That’s why you came by, right?”

He nods. “Nearly noon.”

“That late already!” you say. Wow, staring at hot, sweaty men really makes time fly. “Alright, I was going to make chicken wraps and latkes. Could you start peeling potatoes? You know where everything is, da?”

“Da.” He clicks his tongue, luring Rasputin in and stirring Guy awake. “Come, малышу, before we leave you out here for vultures.”

“Nikto!” you scold. “Don’t threaten him.”

“I do not threaten. It is what will happen.”

You swat at his arm, but at least Little Guy has been lured into Nikto’s reach – if by nothing else than a hand has been offered and cats are helpless to resist a good sniff. Nikto scoops him up while you turn to flounce down the stairs.

“Make sure Susan doesn’t get out!” you call over your shoulder.

She was roused by your quick turnaround to get the juice cups and will certainly be stalking the door now.

Sure enough, you faintly hear him cursing in Russian as you reach the end of the yard. Luckily, you see him closing the door with all three of your demons inside, so you continue across the street.

Krueger hasn’t noticed your approach, his back to you, so you stop at the edge of the property to watch for a moment. Yep, just as good this close, too.

“Krueger!” you call. He doesn’t turn. You huff and try again. Nothing. Christ, you’re starting to think he’s ignoring you on purpose. “Sebastian!”

His head whips around alarmingly fast and finds you right there on the ground. No need to look around at all – sometimes they remind you of their profession in the oddest ways.

“Ja, ja, no need to shout,” he replies.

You open your mouth to do just that, but he’s already scaling down from the roof. You’re stunned into silence as he slides down to the edge of the roof, catches the edge, and swings down to the ground. Lands with barely more noise than one of your footsteps. It’s quick yet so graceful.

You stare (gawk, more accurately) as he saunters up, pants sinfully low on his narrow hips.

“What did you need, bienchen?” he asks. “It is too early for lunch.”

You stutter for a second before your brain reboots.

“What was that?!” you demand, a little shriller than necessary. If you don’t shriek about this, you’re going to shriek about that gorgeous chest and the tattoos and the everything else, and you absolutely cannot do that. “That was so dangerous! You’re going to break a leg!”

“You worry,” he scoffs. He shakes his head, but there’s a wicked, knowing grin at the corners of his mouth and his eyes are far too bright. “That was a little jump.”

“It was not!”

“It only seemed big because you are so little, but it was nothing for me.”

“You’re not that much taller!”

“It is sweet to worry,” he coos, “but it is too hot for it, yes?”

You scrunch your nose at him, not sure if you’re annoyed or turned on or both. (Probably both. It’s annoying how hot he is. And how hot he knows he is.)

“If it’s so hot, then here.”

You all but shove the cup at him. He takes it with a flicker of genuine surprise, sniffs at the liquid, then takes a sip. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest, raises the temperature another few degrees.

“My mother used to make something like this,” he muses, expression softening. You blink, lean in automatically for a peck to your cheek. “Danke schön.”

“Bitte,” you mumble, mouth drier than Reggie’s garden.

His eyes crinkle, mouth hidden by the edge of the cup as he proceeds to chug the rest of it. A droplet slips down his jaw and skips down to his collarbone. You force your eyes away before you’re driven to do something irreparable by thirst.

“Is Konig inside?” you ask. “I have a cup for him, too.”

He grunts confirmation, tongue curling around a blueberry to coax it into his mouth.

Yep, alright, that’s about as much as you can take.

“Scooch, before the punch goes warm.”

“Punch?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow at you.

“That’s what it’s called in English. Punch.”

“That seems like it would cause misunderstanding.” Except he’s grinning as he says it, like he cherishes the idea of someone confusing the two words and starting a fight. Considering how often you catch him and Konig smacking at each other, that’s probably not a stretch.

“Just please don’t swing on anyone, yeah?”

“Only because you ask so nicely,” he croons.

You click your tongue at him. “Wipe off before going in, I don’t want Shithead to stink after crawling on you.”

He barks out his usual sharp laugh and tugs the cloth – his own t-shirt – off his head to mop up his sweat. You make a mental note to tease him about sunburn later as you slip past him.

You can hear Konig singing off-key upstairs when you open the door. The house is sweltering, only mildly cooler than outside with none of the fresh air. You grimace as you pause at the bottom of the stairs; the boys have warned you that it’s dangerous up there and it’s best not to go wandering.

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like he’s using power tools at the moment.

“Konig!” you call.

“Is that you, biene?” he calls back.

You grin. “Who else would it be, huh?”

You hear his footsteps right over your head, track his gait until the first heavy boot on the stairs. He meets you at the bottom with his usual ventilator on, but he tugs it down when he sees the cup in your hand.

“Is this for me?” he asks eagerly.

“Yep! Tell me what you think!”

With none of Nikto or Kreuger’s hesitation, he knocks back a big mouthful. Licks his full lips as he lowers it, eyes bright as they land on yours.

“This is perfect,” he chirps, “so refreshing! Thank you, biene!”

You beam right back, flushed with pride that all three of them liked the recipe you “happened to find” when you saw the temperature projections for today.

“There’s more back home,” you offer, “come out of the heat.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “I will wipe off first.”

You hum agreeably, watching him slip back upstairs with great enthusiasm. Konig in a tank top and those tight cargos… summer really is delivering this year.

That evening, you sigh as you recline across your huge bed, naked and cooling off with the night breeze rolling through your window. Ras and Shithead are happily distracted wrestling each other in your forgotten towel, and Little Guy is snoozing on his personal pillow.

You stretch out, feeling a bit decadent and indulgent with moonlight spilling over your body, and let your hands wander. It’s not the high-efficiency sleep-oriented wank you usually rush through, not this time.

You unspool memories of the day with each brush of your fingertips over moisturized skin. You hum as your skin tingles, imagining Konig’s calloused palms in place of yours. He’d be so surprisingly gentle, you’re sure. Big, strong hands but he’d play with you like a precious toy. Plucking your nipples and scratching his blunt nails over the plush of your hips.

As your breathing picks up, you see Krueger’s broad shoulders flexing behind your eyelids. Imagine them bullying between your thighs, hooking your knees over. That bright glint in his eye as he smirks against your cunt. Can practically feel the curl of his tongue around your clit, eating you out messy and mean.

You’re already halfway there when you curl two fingers into your pussy. You’re so wet that your fingers slip and slide, squelch lewdly as you rock your hips, trying to find just the right angle.

You imagine Nikto clicking his tongue at your struggle. Almost hear his low, hoarse voice chiding you for doing his job while he takes over. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, you have to press a third in just to maintain the fantasy.

You want to lean back against his broad chest while he strokes your walls, listen to him and Krueger and Konig talk about you like you’re not even there, debating if you should come. Ignore you as you beg and whimper, big hands pinning you down while they draw it out.

Please, please, please…

You clap a hand over your mouth just in time, hips jerking so hard that it makes your wrist ache.

Whoops.

Well, you doubt anyone heard. It’s pretty late, and you’re on the second story anyway.

Already sleepy, you’re too lazy to close the window after a pre-bed stop in the restroom. It’s such a nice night, after all.

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Masterlist

#men at work fic #nikto cod #cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #grey fic because it's not that dark i swear #cod krueger #cod konig

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ilium-ilia · 5 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: love notes

tw: anxiety

Simon stares at the bathtub.

It hasn’t changed a bit over the last decade or so. No, it’s been a lifetime ago since he was thrown into this tub and its frigid water. It still has the same pale, cracked tiles with ancient peeling caulk. Perhaps the spout is a bit more rusty than he recalls—tiny speckles dot the iron like high impact splatters in old, oxidized blood brown. They sit and fester, like cancer growths on decaying lungs.

He swallows and doesn’t appreciate how tight his throat is. Serpentine constrictions plague his neck as if he were a tasty mouse—he’s surprised he can even breathe. This feeling is so unfamiliar to him. He’s removed himself from this agonizing fear for so long, and now he doesn’t know how to force it into submission. He doesn’t remember how to be strong. All he knows is that if he were to compare his nose to the dent on the spout, the scars would match.

A fluffy cotton towel and fresh set of clothes rest on the corner of the counter next to the sink. It screams at him. It reminds him of what he came here to do.

It’s only water. He’s bigger now.

Five minutes, he promises himself—five minutes, and that’s it.

In reality, it’s significantly less than that. Short hair is easy enough to wash and rinse, as is his body. A part of him is used to washing up quickly, in some terrified way. Less time under water, the better. Less time in here, the better. Without any blood or grime to scrub away, he’s even more efficient. Soap, scrub, rinse, repeat.

Soap, scrub, breathe—breathe.

Then, the tiles start to whisper to him. Hushed echoes of the past bounce around at his feet, saturating the tub, filling it up until it’s at his knees. It's all briny tears, spit, and viscous snot. Muffled cries that can’t quite leave his throat. Childish begging. The yearning for his mother. Angry fists gripping his shirt.

An unceremonious squeak sounds as the water ceases. Fat drops dribble out of the showerhead as clawed fingers drag the curtain open, cold air rushing in to meet his exposed body. Old scars pucker and dance along his skin as goosebumps form, and he sucks in a breath through the brume wafting around him. Pale blue walls turn grey—like dead, rotting flesh. He swallows. His throat is still tight.

Soft cotton rubs across his abrasive skin as he dries himself and quickly dresses. Moisture wicks from his skin and it feels like sweat instantly replaces it. It seeps from his skin as anxiety brews into something tangible and rotten. A thin fog obscures the mirror he attempts to look at, leaving only the shadow of him on its surface. Huffing, he rubs his bare hand across the glass. With such heavy nervosity gripping his throat, he half expects to see a scared child as the image of himself forms. Instead, it’s him.

Just him—his father’s eyes and all.

A knock declares itself with a sharp crack, but Simon’s eyes don’t wander a bit. He stays, hands on either side of the counter, gripping the tile as if he’ll fall through the floor if he doesn’t. The only thing that prompts him to finally move, to crack the stone encasing his body, is the soft sound of anxious feet shuffling against the floor outside the room.

When Simon opens the door, you’re certain you’ve upset him somehow. Furrowed brows and firm set lips make your hands tense, nearly snapping your toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste in half. You look up at him like a wounded animal. Tail between your legs, lip caught in your teeth—you try to smile, but the malaise hanging around him is thick enough to suffocate even you.

Then, something snaps. He melts. His eyes soften as his shoulders fall, and his lips part to speak only to then say nothing. He looks you up and down, still dressed in your pajamas, and then smiles.

“Am I takin’ too long?” he teases.

“No, just wondering if I could squeeze in real quick to brush my teeth before breakfast,” you sheepishly admit.

Warmth swirls around your body and envelops you as Simon steps to the side, letting you steal a spot at the counter. Though he smiles at you kindly, something feels wrong with that room. It festers like a bad wound—a dead body that wasn’t quite cleaned up. Spoiled viscera still soaks the floor for the flies to eat. You stare at your hands—at the way your fingers grip your toothpaste, trying to squeeze it out onto the brush—and you think for a moment, that maybe; maybe that rot comes from you. Sullying everything you touch.

“Is that kid’s toothpaste?”

Fluttering eyes land on Simon as you open your mouth to reply. Nothing comes up but a strained laugh and a half formed smile as you bashfully look down at your items.

“Uh, yeah,” you nod.

“I’ve got real toothpaste if ya want it,” he offers, shaking the tube. You stare at it. That classic minty green freshness flashes in reflective foil like a warning beacon. Cracks form in your smile, and you feel your stomach turn.

“No thanks. I… erm… don’t like mint,” you admit.

Your admittance feels like you’ve laid some sort of hot sin before him, and you avert your gaze in favor of spreading a generous line of paste on your brush. Imitation fruitiness coats your tongue as you shove it into your mouth, and you grimace. You forgot to wet your brush. The texture is rough and sandy, yet you persist.

Simon shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

You try not to let him see the way your eyes water when he begins to brush his teeth. Abrasive mint overpowers your senses, seeping into your nose and churning in your stomach. It’s too strong. Offensive.

You disguise your disgust with a cough.

Breakfast is a quiet event. With the Christmas cheer dwindling into the back of everyone’s minds, the delectable meal of pancakes, sausage, and eggs is brought to the front. Mrs. Riley’s cooking truly is remarkable, and you feel yourself missing her meals already. Bruce keeps you fed plenty well at work when he can, but there’s something different about eating in the presence of her warm gaze. Pale blue eyes flicker like sapphire flames as she glances back and forth between you and Simon. The look on her face isn’t lost on you—that quiet simper that stains her lips isn’t either.

It screams. Shouts at you. You are welcome here.

“So, back to London, then?” Tommy asks as he wipes his mouth clean of crumbs.

Humming, Simon nods. “Yeah. Work tomorrow night. Gonna get busy with the new year.”

“Everythin’ going well at the club?” Beth chirps.

It’s a simple question—an innocent one. Still, it has Simon and Tommy sharing glances with one another. A million words are shared in an instant with one simple exchange. Tight lips, tighter fists; this is what happens with men like them. There is always bound to be some sort of dark secret they keep buried with the old versions of themselves; the versions they had to snuff out in order to survive.

“As well as it can,” Simon nods.

Simon doesn’t completely beguile her. As far as anyone else is concerned, Terminus is doing fantastic. Only occasionally does he have to bloody his hands and toss out patrons who are too pissed for their own good. It’s an easy job. A simple one for a man of his talents.

But there are names that lurk in the depths. Swarming in ruined water, waiting to capture their next prey; their next victim. Andrei. Though he’s been off having his fun with you and his family, the bastard’s name and face etch in the grey matter of Simon’s brain. It’s quite the balancing act, hunting a man who vanishes into smoke and mirrors all while trying not to concern you with the mess. His skin itches at the thought—that terrible memory of you. Doubled over, blacking out.

What would have happened to you if he hadn’t been there?

Clearing his mind, Simon reaches for the plate of toast just as you do. Knuckles knocking, you retract, hand falling back into your lap. Had he not known any better, he would have thought he electrocuted you.

“Sorry,” you mutter, gauche laugh expelling from your lungs in a pitiful huff.

He looks at you, curled forward in your seat like a shriveled bug; always making yourself small. Always too afraid to take up the space you need. His hand persists, fingers gripping a golden slab of toast before he places it on the plate before you. Only then does he retrieve one for himself.

“Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.”

Once plates are cleaned, it’s time for farewells. Everyone meanders around the house, picking up their items and shoving it into bags for easier storage. Simon steals your travel pack like a bandit, refusing to let you assist in packing anything into the car. You’re not sure why you even bother to do anything for yourself anymore; not when you’ve got Simon around to wait on you hand and foot.

So you watch him from inside the house as he loads up the car. He moves everything around with ease as if it’s lighter than air itself. Tommy leans against the boot with his arms crossed as he shivers in the bitter Mancunian winter. Once Simon manages to get your bag situated next to his in the backseat, Simon retreats, back straightening out and stretching as he slams the door shut.

“So. Gonna bring Chip home for Easter?” Tommy questions.

All Simon can do is shrug. “We’ll see.”

“Oh, come off it,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “Sleepin’ in the same bed as her, gettin’ all cozy on the couch. Takin’ the fuckin’ piss outta me sayin’ shit like that. Well see? You pillock.”

“What I do in my personal life doesn’t concern you,” Simon says nonchalantly as his hands wave the man off. “Now up. Off my shit.”

Tommy huffs, and it’s cynical. Boiling acrimony laces his words as he mumbles: “Used to think the same thing once. Next thing I knew, I was nearly gettin’ gutted like a pig.”

Flooding memories cause Simon’s eyes to gloss as they sear through his brain. Unpleasant bile eats at his esophagus as he recalls that day at his old job. A butcher’s shop. He would spend his life quartering swine, never once thinking about how similar humans are to pigs. Tender meat. The fiber of muscle and skin. A sharp blade sinks into flesh all the same no matter what you name it. The blood is just as warm. The gasps are just as cacophonous.

Tommy’s warning is clear. It causes his diaphragm to freeze as dark eyes cut through the air to find you like he’s scared you’re already injured. Like he’s ruined you. His heart ceases to beat when he finds you on the porch, little Joseph wrapped around your leg with tiny arms.

“Bye-Bye Aunt Chippy!” he says, unabashed with his gaiety.

Red hot embarrassment burns Beth’s face until her cheeks are the same shade as her hair, and within an instant she’s beckoning her son off of you. Just as always, you are kind. You smile and shake off the awkwardness with as much grace as you can muster. You assure Beth it’s fine. You’re not sure what you are—be you an aunt or something else—but the title fits snug like it’s the first thing you’ve ever worn that fits properly.

“It was lovely having you,” Mrs. Riley cuts in, easing the tension. She’s bundled herself up in a thick blanket draped over her shoulders like a shawl, and still she shivers so fiercely you swear she’ll turn blue. Despite the tremor, she reaches her arms out to you, welcoming and warm.

You accept her embrace without a second thought, and for a moment things are quiet. Nothing rings. Nothing buzzes at the tip of your brainstem. There is only the quiet, and the scent of lavender. It leaves your body yearning in a way you haven’t felt for quite some time. A bitter tainted nostalgia dances along your spine and weaves through your ribs—and yet it is welcoming all the same.

“Thank you for having me,” you whisper. Your voice decays in your throat—half formed and hardly ejected.

Mrs. Riley steps back, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. You know you should. You’ve always had to let go of everything eventually, but your fingers flinch and your arms twitch, and you realize this time you can’t. Some sort of mawkish pain squeezes your heart and you fear you’ll crumble if she’s not there to hold you up. You’ll crack and splinter into dust that the December wind will carry away without so much as a second thought.

She doesn’t let you. Instead, she holds you together, scooping you up in her arms until you’re buried in her. Pressure builds and twists behind your eyes, and you ignore the way your throat begins to shred itself.

“You’re always welcome here, dear.”

They wave from the porch when you and Simon leave. It’s a proper send off that has you smiling to yourself and aching for their presence again. Simon turns the heat up the moment you hit the motorway, and you feel your eyes begin to grow heavy. It’s impossible to pinpoint exactly why you’ve been stuck with such lassitude these last few days, but you only feel it worsen as the heat warms your skin. Leaning against him, nearly falling asleep on the couch, resting in his arms… Simon feels safe. Like you can rest and wake up knowing everything—including yourself—will be fine.

He offers you his coat to use as a pillow just as your head begins to nod. You don’t bother to argue. You don’t say that you’ll be fine, or that you can stay awake, or that you’ll just rest your head on the jittery window. It feels nice accepting his help. You think he’s the only person who’s ever been kind to you without it leaving a bad taste in your mouth. So you take it. Bunch it up and curl into a ball in the passenger’s seat as best as you can as the hum of the engine sings you to sleep.

Tobacco and nicotine envelopes your senses. It’s stronger on his coat than it is himself. It’s marinated—burrowed into the stitches.

You sleep so well that you don’t wake up until you reach the outskirts of London, and even then you’re only roused by Simon rubbing your arm. Limbs extending, you stretch as much as you’re able to in the confines of the car as you rub at your face. The afternoon glow ignites the frost lining the railing that leads up to your apartment complex, but it looks like glitter on dull cement. A waste of something pretty. In whatever festive cheer your ancient, crabby landlord can muster, you notice a spindly wreath on the entrance. Perhaps it’s his attempt at making that dilapidating building feel more homey—if anything, it feels more fake than ever.

Simon opens your door with a smile as he helps you out of the car. He’s still on a mission to refuse to let you carry your bag, and he lets you lead the way inside the building as he trails behind you like a good dog. Creaky stairs announce their existence all the way up to the second floor, but their song is quickly drowned out by the violent vibrating of Simon’s phone.

He plans on ignoring the call until he reads Johnny’s name on the screen.

“Hello?” he answers. His voice catches you off guard, and he watches as your head snaps over your shoulder to look at him. He gives you a reassuring smile as he shakes his phone, and you smile back in recognition.

“Got a hit on your dance partner.”

Simon’s heart skips a beat. That deadly killer in him begins to surface—the one that’s cold and calculated; the one that can’t afford to let feelings get in the way. His face hardens as images of Andrei flashes across his mind, but he knows he can’t be too standoffish. Not when he’s with you. Not when you don’t know something’s wrong.

“Workin’ through the holiday?” he asks, attempting to tease but it comes out too gruff.

“Had nothing better to do,” Johnny shrugs. “Aye, but listen. You remember Milena Romanova? Makarov’s financier?”

Simon scoffs at the name, bitter bile rising in his mouth just as you both reach the second floor. “Plays well with Garrick’s mum, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, plenty well. Plenty of letters, threats, the usual,” Johnny deadpans. “Anyway, Kyle caught sight of her at some bullshit aristocratic party his mum was throwing on Christmas Eve and Andrei—whose last name is Nolan, I’ve learned—was there with her.”

The tension in Simon’s jaw grows so tight that he can hear the way the enamel in his teeth creaks with the pressure. It’s an easy conclusion to draw. One that has his chest growing tight.

“Whatever mess Chip has got herself in… Riley, if Makarov’s got his sights on her-”

“I know,” Simon interrupts. It’s sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t apologize for it.

Johnny sighs, breath crackling on the line. “One more thing… you’re really not gonna like this.”

Somehow, Simon has managed to fall behind you. Several paces back, he sees you standing at the entrance to your apartment. You’re frozen. Eyes locked on the doorknob, wide as saucers, lips parting as if to say something but nothing comes out.

“The security system here at Terminus caught some weird activity on cams yesterday,” Johnny continues. “Checked them out this morning and… well, it seems as if Andrei’s not the only one hanging around where he shouldn’t be.”

Your door is open. Slightly ajar, hardly even cracked, but it’s open. You swear you locked it before you left, but it doesn’t matter when there’s splintered wood on the ground at your feet. Simon’s hardware and new screws held up plenty fine. The door plate isn’t even bent. Still, it can only do so much when the wood it’s screwed into is as soft as butter.

The air is wrong. Too thick. Like water. Like smoke. Like it’s someone else’s breath.

“Marco was here last night. It… It looks like he was looking for someone.”

Eyes welling with tears, you turn to look at Simon. His face is like stone. Hard set and rigid as he continues to hold the phone to his ear. The line has gone silent. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I gotta go.”

The line dies.

Neither of you speak as Simon quickly puts himself between you and the door before gently pushing it open. You hold your breath as he does. Quiet hysteria builds in your chest as you wait an eternity to see what’s become of your home. The door creaks and whines as it falls open, hitting the wall, revealing the state of your apartment.

Nothing is as it should be. Plastic plates and cups litter the ground in the kitchen, along with old—and now bent—pots and pans. Cupboards and drawers lay flung open like spilling intestines, completely emptied of their contents, all dumped into a pile on the floor as if setting up a pyre. The rubbish bin is knocked on its side. Old garbage spews from its mouth, staining the faux tile as nameless black bugs enjoy the rot.

As the two of you cautiously press inside, you catch sight of the way your clothes hang halfway out of your dresser. Plastic hangers lay shattered outside of your tiny closet, sprinkling the floor with the shards. The bathroom light is on, and when you meander inside, you find the mirror is shattered. Your reflection is warped. Wrong. A drop of blood stains the sink. It’s old. Hagriding. Clotted. Hardened. You stare at it, and it screams back that you have made a very grave mistake.

There isn’t an inch of your apartment that Simon leaves unchecked. Hackles raised, he turns every corner with care, eyes darting around like an animal ready to strike. But there is nothing. Your flat has always been too small to properly house yourself, let alone hide away anyone that would cause harm. There is no Andrei. No Makarov.

No Marco.

You stand in the midst of your home like a lost child, spinning in circles as you witness the war-torn room. Your eyes widen as you scan everything like a hawk, or some clever fox finding her way out of some precarious situation. Trepidation coils around your chest as you attempt to hold back sobs, but your diaphragm shudders despite your efforts. You are both overcome with terror and yet so devoid of emotion because—in some way—you know you deserve this.

You brought this on yourself.

“Fuck,” you curse, hand slapping over your trembling lip.

Simon’s ears perk at your voice. Heavy feet crush rubbish and clothes as he reaches for you. He’s careful, as if trying to calm a spooked horse. Warm hands bleed through your skin as he holds you steady, but you don’t look at him. All you can do is continue to take in the mess around you.

“It’s gonna be alright. We’ll get this sorted, I promise,” he assures you.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” you snap.

Hands brush against his chest as you push yourself away from him while a hyperventilated sob rattles your throat in the process. You nearly trip on a cup as you stumble around the room. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes.

“How the fuck could I forget? I’ve… never… fuck,” you mumble.

Simon says your name, but you refuse to hear it. Utterly disconsolate, you continue running away, feet meandering throughout the room as if you’re in a drunken stupor. He lets you. Watching you carefully as the emotions overwhelm you, he lets you feel what you need to as you stare at the crumbled remains of your life.

The only thing that isn’t ruined is your bed.

You freeze. It’s perfect. Pillows fluffed. Blankets neatly pressed along the mattress. It looks professionally done with a folded lip at the top for ease of grabbing. Spotless—it almost looks lovingly done.

You don’t remember making your bed before you left.

Careful feet approach the furniture as your nerves begin to fry. You feel your mind start powering off—neurons going silent. There’s no fear or anxiety or anger; there’s just you and your shell. You’re so far underneath the waves that there’s no use in screaming for help. All you can do is let the tide carry you forward.

A pristine envelope sits quiet and docile on top of your blanket. It’s unmarked, but there is no mistaking who it’s addressed to. Simon slowly approaches from behind, hands outstretched, requesting that you hand it over to him, but you refuse. Shouldering him away, your quivering fingers can hardly undo the seal. It tears. Shreds like cloth and skin. You retrieve the note inside.

Missed you on the 25th. Will come by to collect your late fee on the 28th. Same place as usual. You know better than to call the police. Don’t stand me up this time, babe.

-M

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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bratkook · 2 years ago

Text

two point five. part three (m) jjk.

part one. part two. pairing. handyman!jungkook x reader genre. smut, pwp, fluff!! word count. 5.9k warnings. they’re in luvvv its sick, jungkook still loves to tease, pussy job, finger sucking, its just sweet and dirty idk summary. jungkook finally fixes your pipes, sure he gets distracted while doing it, but what else could you expect when you’re sitting on top of him looking like that. note. thank u guys for loving them & for being patient for more! they make my heart happy so i had to continue writing for them. i hope u enjoy the filth and brief jimin interaction hehe

“Isn’t it cute?” The excitement in your voice makes Jungkook smile as he stares at you, nose scrunched up in endearment when you pull out the shiny brass object from the box you had just ripped open.

“Super cute, baby. What is it?” Jungkook honestly hadn’t seen it too well, but anything you liked was cute to him so he obviously agreed. He was currently leaning against your dining chair, hands resting along the back of it as he hunched over to examine the plastic wrapped thing. It’s not until you peel it back that he knows exactly what it is, giving you another smile when he looks up to meet your gaze.

“A new faucet! I figured since you still need to fix my leaky pipes you could just…install this for me too?” Your voice is hopeful, almost as if you think there’s a chance he’d say no.

“I’ve been trying to fix it for weeks and you keep telling me no.” His eyes are playfully narrowed at you.

“I know, but that’s because this was back ordered. But it’s here now, so can you? Please.”

He sighs, looking away from you as he pretends to contemplate it, giggling when you whine and round the table to grip his shoulders. Even as you wrap your arms around him and beg, he continues to hum in thought, not caving until you’re leaning up and gingerly kissing his jaw and finally his lips.

“Mm, you know just how to convince me huh?” he mumbles against your lips, feeling you smile as he kisses you back.

“Kisses are your weakness?” You giggle when he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer.

“No, just you.” His smile is cheeky as he admits this, giving you another squeeze before you’re pulling back with a cute laugh.

Jungkook had taken it upon himself to just keep a tool box at your place, leaving it in your coat closet for emergencies. He had gone ahead and told you what every tool in there did, not like it meant anything to you, knowing you wouldn’t be reaching in there after how horrible your attempt at mounting your television had gone.

This was Jungkook’s emergency tool box, not yours. So, after a quick trip to his truck parked down below, grabbing a few things he knew he’d need, he’s grabbing his toolbox out of your closet and getting right to work. You typically let him work on his own now, busying yourself with cleaning up your apartment, hanging up the newest photostrip you both took last night at your favorite bar and admiring it on the fridge with a smile. But once your to-do list runs out you can’t help it when your feet lead you to your bathroom, slowly pushing open the door as you lean on the frame and observe your boyfriend.

He had managed to remove the old faucet, cleaning up the caulking and any weird water spots before replacing it with the cute brass swan faucet you had scored. He is crouched on his knees now, trying his best to fit under the small cabinet to properly screw everything in, cursing slightly under his breath when he lifts his head and bangs it on the wood.

“I think you’re too big to fit under there babe,” you giggle, enjoying the pointed look he gives you as he straightens himself back out. “What if you try doing it from under?”

His brows pinch on his forehead as he looks at your floor, checking the spacing between the sink and the wall across from it, deeming it wide enough for him to lay on his back to get a better point of view. As long as he kept his knees slightly bent he could definitely fit, he’ll just have to keep his light on his chest to be able to see, unless, “Can you do me a favor, baby?”

Your face lights up at the question, nodding in confirmation instantly, already stepping into the bathroom for whatever he might need.

“Hold the light for me? I need both my hands to finish this off.” You could definitely do that. That’s literally the only way you knew how to help. So without another thought you’re grabbing the flashlight for him and squatting beside his body, angling the light to where you think he might need it.

Jungkook chuckles lightly under his breath when the beam of light hits the wrong spot, his large hand coming out to grip yours and angle it a little better, making you partially lean over him.

“Jungkook, I can’t keep this position for too long,” you laugh out, your knees already burning from the weird angle. He peers out and laughs too, well attempting to before it slowly dies in his throat when you get the grand idea of swinging your leg over his body and straddling his hips. It’s clear your thoughts are pure as you smile at how much easier it is this way, but Jungkook was a weak weak man, and the pretty flowy dress you were wearing made it so he could feel you directly on top of him, only the thin fabric of your underwear and his sweats separating you two.

“Better right?” you wonder, ever so softly putting more pressure on him as you settle, your free hand gently resting on his stomach, thumb mindlessly rubbing along the thin sliver of skin exposed as his shirt rode up. When he simply stares at you, absolutely dazed, you tilt your head and give him a pout that makes him want to sit up and capture your lips in a kiss. Luckily, he snaps out of it, thankfully saving his poor forehead from receiving another awful slam against the cabinet.

“Much better,” he forces out, letting his head fall back to resume his work. His eyes are focused on tightening the screws holding the new faucet in place, but then you’re adjusting your position and his eyes can’t help but look back down at you. He knows you’re not being intentional, but the pressure of you resting on his slowly hardening cock was going to be the death of him. Jungkook really didn’t have anyone to blame but himself, getting riled up so easily thanks to the horny lovesick cocktail he always had fogging up his brain around you.

“Baby,” he groans out, squeezing his eyes shut as he leans back and lets his palm fall over his face. “You gotta stop moving.”

“I’m sorry. Am I not pointing the light where you need it?” Your brows are furrowed on your forehead, pure confusion clouding your features as Jungkook gives you another glance. He has a very familiar look on his face, a look reserved for when he was inches away from you before pouncing on you and turning you into an absolute mess.

That’s when you notice it, the firmness pressed up against your core as you slowly settle back. Your eyes widen briefly, fighting back a sly smile from spreading onto your lips when you realize just how easily affected he is by you.

Maybe it's cruel to relish in it, the mischief already brewing in your mind as you give an experimental roll of your hips. Jungkook groans instantly, brows pinching on his forehead as he glances down at where you connect, words dying on his tongue when you roll forward again before he has a chance to utter anything out.

“Focus on what you’re doing,” you murmur, head tilted slightly as you smile down at him. Jungkook refuses to look away, his brain fighting him on what to do. He knew he could easily turn this around, scoop you up and fuck you right on this bathroom floor. But why was this so hot to him?

All of his thoughts turn into mush when you reach forward, fingers cupping his cheeks as you forcefully turn his head to look at the faucet again. His cock twitches beneath you as you speak once more. “Focus, baby.”

Oh yeah, he’s whipped.

You hum in content when he does just that, hands a little shaky as he resumes his work and attempts to act unaffected. The act only works for a brief moment, his hands faltering when he feels you shift around, your fingers dipping into the waistband of his sweats before you tug them down. Jungkook’s breath shudders as he shuts his eyes and just waits, knowing he couldn’t look down at you because the temptation would be too much.

A small gasp hits the air when you see he’s bare underneath his sweats, his cock already hard and leaking. Jungkook hisses when your hand wraps around him, giving him a gentle tug and swiping your thumb along the tip. He only caves and looks down again when he feels the way you press his length against his stomach, curiosity getting the best of him, allowing him the sight of you tugging your panties to the side before you’re settling back onto him.

“Fuck,” he groans out, seeing your pussy lips spread around him as you rock along his length, tip of his cock nudging against your clit perfectly. The view only lasts a minute before you’re letting your dress float back down around you, the playful look in your eyes telling him he needed to focus on his job.

Jungkook knows he’s good at his job, and he’s proud of it, knowing he always does his best to do everything perfectly. But he usually doesn’t have the prettiest girl he’s ever known on top of him, hell bent on making him cum as he works. So he admits he might not be doing the absolute best job he can, going through the steps as fast as possible, trying his best to focus on something other than how fucking amazing he feels.

Your hand trembles a bit as you continue to hold the light for him, small little moans of pleasure filling up the room as you continue to roll your hips, your other hand resting firmly on his chest to hold you steady.

“I can feel you making a mess,” you giggle, knowing there would be a puddle of precum on his tummy, smearing along your folds with each rock forward.

Jungkook just grunts in response, jaw clenched tightly as he finishes up tightening the last screw. With one final check, he’s smiling underneath the sink, allowing his tools to clang beside him as he grips your hips with both palms, enjoying the way you gasp in surprise.

“My turn,” he breathes out, tongue prodding along his cheek as he effortlessly shimmies out of his position. Your eyes are wide as you take in the look on his face, feeling your chest fluttering in excitement as he easily sits up, scooping an arm around you as he stands up straight.

“That was fast,” you breathe out, the slight tingling of nerves crawling up your spine, knowing Jungkook didn’t love being teased like that—not without knowing he’d get a chance to pounce back at least.

“I had some helpful motivation,” he mumbles, turning you around and settling behind you. His nose nudges along your head as he bends forward, soft breath felt against your ear as his hands slide up your thighs beneath your dress. Your skin tingles as his fingers dance along the edge of your wet panties, teasingly tugging at them as he presses his hardened length against your ass.

“Jungkook, we’re meeting up with your friends in a little bit,” you breathe out, voice trembling slightly as your hands fumble against the sink.

“I know, but you started it.” He smiles now, his eyes looking forward to meet your gaze in the mirror above your sink, brow cocked up. “Do you want me to finish it?”

He can see the way your face is lit up, lower lip held captive by your teeth as you gently bite down, eyes already glossed over as you mindlessly nod. Of course you want him to finish what you started.

“I need words, pretty girl,” he murmurs, both palms continuing to glide along your skin, enjoying the slight tremble he feels, how your body reacts to him instantly. His smile is teasing, lip curling up as he breathes out a laugh when you can only shudder as you try to get your brain to cooperate.

“Please. I want you to fuck me.” Your voice is low, raspy around each syllable, already on your way to being ruined before he has a chance to do anything. Perfect.

“Oh, I get a please? So polite,” he jests, peppering a kiss to your temple as his hands finally hook into your underwear and yank them down. When they pool around your feet you kick them out of the way, instinctually spreading your legs and pressing your ass further into him. Jungkook hums in content, his gaze falling down as he flips up the bottom of your dress, seeing the soft skin of your ass pressing against his length.

He guides his length between your thighs once more, resting perfectly against your sodden folds as he shallowly ruts forward. You moan softly as the tip of his cock nudges your clit, aching for his touch.

“I’ll always do whatever you want.” You know this is a promise from him, having experienced how true to his word he is during the last few months. All you can do is grip onto the counter to prepare yourself when you feel him start to move back. Your gaze is locked onto his reflection, seeing the way he bites onto his lip when he grabs your ass, gripping onto the flesh for his own satisfaction before delivering a swift slap, smiling at the small mewl you release.

You watch with bated breath as he grips the base of his cock, feeling the tip of it pressing into your soaked entrance, teasingly circling around it just to see the way your walls beg for him. He loved it too much, thoughts getting hazier with each small moan that escapes you. The bulbous head of his cock slowly inches forward, your pussy tightening around his tip and making him moan under his breath before pulling out entirely. It was the same motion he loved to do, teasing himself and getting a kick out of the delayed pleasure.

“Jungkook,” you whine out, giving him a pout when he looks up at your reflection. He mumbles out an apology that he clearly doesn’t mean judging by the smile on his face, but the way he finally sinks into you makes up for it. The satisfying stretch that follows is something that will never get old, and the small gasp he lets out when he bottoms out lets you know he feels the same.

Jungkook can only shut his eyes as he lets the feeling wash over him, his palms gripping your hips tightly when he feels your walls pulse around his length. He could live and die buried inside of you, always wanting to hear the soft moans of his name and the small whimper you release when he pulls his hips back and thrusts forward.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans out, eyes fluttering open to stare at the way your arousal coats his cock, shiny essence glimmering in the bathroom light. His mouth drops open in awe, stomach tensing up at the sight, hands gripping you harder when he sees the way you arch your back for more.

“You were fucking made for me.”

His words make your body warm up, spoken so sweetly in such a lewd context, only intensifying when he speeds up the thrust of his hips, bending forward to kiss the exposed skin of your shoulder.

“Tell me,” he breathes out, slight begging dripping from his tone, always so desperate to hear how much you wanted him. His hand comes up to grip your face, fingers cupping your jaw to turn you to look at him. The look on his face makes more arousal gush out of you, seeing the pinch between his brows, eyes swimming with desire as they float between your eyes and your lips.

“I was—fuck—“ you keen at a particular thrust, eyes rolling back momentarily. “I was made for you. Only you.”

“Mm, good girl,” he sighs, connecting your lips in a messy kiss. You moan against his lips when he snaps his hips forward, just hard enough to have you seeing stars behind your closed lids. His fingers rub your cheeks, gently coaxing your mouth open as he flicks his tongue along the seam of your lips, groaning in approval when you allow him entrance.

Your arm reaches back to grip his face, needing to touch him, to let your fingers slip into his hair and yank as your tongues flick against each other. Jungkook groans unabashedly when you gently suck his tongue, heavy eyes opening up to stare at you when you pull away briefly.

“We gotta be quick.” It’s spoken mainly to himself, a reminder that he couldn’t take his sweet time with you today, knowing there was a ticking clock telling you both to hurry up. He’s tempted to say fuck it, to blow off the plans with his friends and ravish you the way he always wanted to. But he knows how much you were looking forward to it so he sucks it up, deciding he’ll just have to make up for it tonight.

“Yeah, quick. Quick is fine,” you shudder, eyes focused on the way his lips shine, slightly swollen from your kissing. His tongue swipes at his piercing as he smiles when he notices your dazed stare, giving you another kiss to satisfy you before turning your head back to stare at your reflection once more.

“Don’t worry baby. I’ll still take care of you.” His head presses against yours, staring directly into the mirror. “Want you to be good and watch yourself for me though. Can you do that?”

His hips have yet to slow their rhythm, the wet smack of your skin connecting still filling up the bathroom. It makes you feel dizzy, too transfixed on it and the way he just looks at you. His smile is as sweet as can be, his fingers coming to your lips, humming in content when you open your mouth to allow them in, coating them in your spit just the way he liked it before pulling them out.

“Yeah, I can do that.” He mumbles out more praise against your head, whispering it into your ear, each raspy syllable turning you into a puddle against him. Your eyes are glued to your reflection, seeing the way he kisses down the side of your neck, sucking on your skin until he’s satisfied with the mark he leaves. His trail isn’t complete until he’s yanking down the top of your dress, watching in fascination as your tits spilled out. A choked moan fills the air when he pinches a sensitive bud, spit covered fingers rolling along it, smiling when you jut your chest out further for more.

“You said quick, Jungkook,” you pant out, having an internal battle just like he was. It was easy for him to get side tracked though, enjoying the teasing, taking it slow until you were crying for it, bringing you right to the edge just for you to stay there until he thought it was time. You can see his mind floating now as he grabs your boob, admiring the way it fills up his palm, his hips slowing down ever so slightly to really enjoy the way you clench around him with each yank of your nipple.

“Sorry baby.” He’s back now, eyes sharpening up as he looks at you again. You can see something brewing in his mind and it fills you with the tingle of nerves, not knowing what he could be thinking. “I’ll be quick.”

Before you have time to think, his hand slides down to scoop around your thigh, hauling up one of your legs, fucking you deeper and laughing when you squeal at the feeling. Your mouth is dropped open as you try to take it all in, hands gripping the counter until your knuckles pale, the curve of his cock hitting just right inside of you.

“Oh fuck, feels so good—you always feel so good.” Your mindless babbles have pride filling his chest, seeing the debauched look on your face reflected back on the mirror. Everything feels hot, the thick air clinging to your skin, leaving you gasping out as he fucks you harder. It has you desperate, leaning back against him, one hand reaching behind you to hold him close despite the position.

“Yeah? You like the way my cock fills you up, pretty girl?” Jungkook huffs out a breath when you tighten around him in response, his arm situating your thigh until your knee catches on the counter. “Keep that there for me baby.”

You can only nod in response, doing your best to do as he asks despite the rocking of his hips. His hand settles onto the countertop on top of yours, interlocking your fingers together as he speeds up. A mewl reaches his ears when his free palm slides up your supported thigh, under your little dress and meets your clit, soaked in your arousal as he rubs tight circles into it.

“Oh fuck, just like that,” you gasp out, your hand clinging onto his bicep, digging tiny half moons into his skin. The muscle in your thigh is starting to ache from the position but the overwhelming pleasure you feel is enough for you to ebb it away.

You can feel the way his arm flexes as he rubs deft circles onto your swollen clit, his harsh breathing hitting your hair, and when you meet his gaze in the mirror it makes your stomach flip.

“You’re so wet,” he groans out, his fingers glide with ease, applying more pressure so they don’t slip around, sending sparks up your spine. “Always so messy for me. Do you really like me that much?” He teases you, trying to act calm and unaffected but you can see the clenching in his jaw, can feel the way his hips stutter slightly as his orgasm creeps up on him.

Jungkook moans out your name when your walls tighten around him, body desperately trying to keep him in as your own high approaches. “I can’t help it, you know I love you.” You sigh it out so beautifully it makes his heart skip a beat. You had both said it before but Jungkook would never get tired of hearing it, would never get tired of saying it back to you, not ashamed to admit that a simple four letter word was enough to nearly send him over the edge.

“I love you more,” he groans out, snapping his hips fluidly, feeling the way you start to tense in his hold as all of it begins to overwhelm you. His eyes are locked onto you, the way your chest hiccups as you gasp out in pleasure, the purple splotch on your neck that he was so proud of, your kiss swollen lips dropped open perfectly, eyes glossed over in ecstasy. You were close, the grip you have on his arm tightening, digging into the dark ink on his skin.

“I gotta feel you cum baby,” he begs, not wanting to cum before you did, already feeling it too close to hold it off any further. His cock throbs inside of you, each torturous glide of his hips making his eyes fall shut, finger continuing to flick along your clit. You’re nodding against him, head falling back, moans getting breathier until your orgasm finally washes over you.

“Fuck fuck, oh my god,” you whine out, brows pinching together as you squeeze your eyes shut, bright white flashes behind your lids as the feeling spreads through your limbs. Jungkook groans as he fucks you through it, your walls milking his cock, feeling you gush around his length until it trickles down your legs.

It’s an absolute mess between your thighs and Jungkook just wants to add to it. His hand finally retreats from your clit when you start to whimper at the overstimulation, his lips peppering kisses onto your shoulder as he lowers your thigh, being as gentle as he could be while pushing you forward. You’re pliant in his grasp, allowing him to bend you over, supporting yourself on the sink while he repositions you enough to be comfortable.

“C’mon Kookie, want you to make me messier,” you coo out, voice sounding dreamy as the afterglow hits you. He can see the soft smile on your lips as you turn your head to look back at him, fully enjoying the sight of your boyfriend falling apart.

“Don’t worry baby, I will.” Both hands grip your hips now, his hips snapping forward with enough force to turn your mind into mush. His eyes fall on the way your ass bounces with each thrust, the smack of your skin sounding like music to his ears. He curses under his breath as the familiar feeling starts to spread, hips losing their grace as he gets desperate, surging forward to get as deep as he could before he finally cums too. A guttural moan of your name fills the room as he shoots into you, painting your walls and making you hum in content at the warmth.

Jungkook fucks into you a few more times, savoring the feeling as he comes down from the high, bending forward to kiss and soothe your skin. His hands glide up your body, gentle touches making goosebumps flare up on your arms. A smile spreads on your face when he interlocks your fingers, gently tugging you back up and wrapping his arms around you.

He looks like a giddy child in the reflection, face smushed against your head, eyes shut with the biggest smile on his lips. You take this moment in just like you do every other moment with him, shutting your eyes and smiling as you let him hold you, storing the memory in your mind in a space made just for him.

Jungkook gives your temple another kiss before slowly pulling out of you, the two of you groaning at the feeling. You wince when you feel the globs of cum already leaking out of you, but before you can move he’s already reaching to the side, grabbing a handful of toilet paper to clean up the mess he made before letting your dress fall back down.

You spin around now, finally seeing him face to face, wrapping your arms around his neck, the sweetest smile on your lips. His hands smooth down the fabric of your dress, fingers fiddling with the material.

“This dress is really pretty by the way. Makes you look like an angel.” He makes it easy to swoon over him, your heart warming in your chest as you take in his casual compliment.

“Thank you baby.” You pucker your lips as you lean up and he wastes no time kissing you back.

“I ruined your lip gloss,” Jungkook murmurs against your lips, pulling back to stare at your bare lips, no longer shiny with your favorite coconut scented gloss. The pink gloss was long gone, no evidence left on his own lips either.

“Yeah, you always do.” You give him another kiss before looking at yourself in the mirror and groaning while your fingers attempt to fix your mess of hair. “Jungkook, we’re supposed to meet your friends in half an hour.”

Jungkook laughs as his hand comes up to gently prod at the small hickey he had mindlessly sucked into your neck. It was a teenage habit he would be taking to his grave. “Oh shit, well you better cover that up or they’re gonna make it the topic of conversation for the night.”

You glare at him through the mirror. This would be the first time you’d be meeting his friends, and if they were really the way he described them to be then you know that Taehyung and Jimin would definitely point your hickey out. The tingle of anxiety starts pooling in your stomach as you make a move to exit the bathroom, needing to fix yourself up as quickly as possible. As you walk you realize you’re still naked from the waist down, only the thin fabric of your dress keeping you decent.

“Oh god. I need my underwear too, I can’t embarrass myself with a hickey and going commando.”

Jungkook beats you to it, bending over to pick up your ruined panties off the floor, looking cocky as he lets them dangle off his finger like a prize. “These are mine.”

Your cheeks burn as you watch with wide eyes, seeing him bring the material close to his face before he’s tucking them into the pocket of his pants. He looks so proud as he pats them, acting like it was nothing as he turns around to open the bathroom door. It’s not like he gets far though, your hand grabbing his arm and yanking him back with a force he had never experienced.

“Jungkook, you freak! You can’t take those with you.” His eyes are huge as he stares at you, slightly impressed at your determined strength and entirely amused at how scandalized you look.

“Says who?” he guffaws, keeping you at arms length when you try to reach for them.

“Says me! I’ll tell your friends you’re a panty thief.”

“Please,” he laughs, loud. “They already know! Already roasted me about it a few weeks back.”

“Wait, is this something you do?”

His face falls briefly, realizing he had just confessed to stealing your underwear. “What?”

That makes you laugh now, no longer trying to reach for your panties, letting your head come to rest against his chest as you giggle. This all made sense now, the realization that a few pairs of your underwear had mysteriously gone missing. You had blamed it on your washing machine eating them, had even asked Jungkook to check it or call someone to repair it before the entirety of your underwear drawer went missing.

Of course it was him.

“You’re so dirty!”

Jungkook reassures you that you look great for the millionth time in the span of twenty minutes, a smile still on his face as you ask him, “Are you sure?”

“Yes baby. Your lipgloss looks perfect and you can’t even tell that I went to town on your neck.” He laughs when you gently swat his stomach, holding the door open for you as you step into the brewery. Jungkook had said it was his group's favorite place to hang out in, a huge space with games and activities for everyone to enjoy, a wide selection of beers and even a few cocktails that he knew you would prefer. He leads the way with his hand in yours, knowing exactly where they would be.

When you approach a corner near the dart wall you spot a group of boys, all standing up with dorky smiles on their faces as they clap obnoxiously loud.

“Oh my god, what are you guys doing?” Jungkook questions, laughing as he gets closer. None of them pay him any attention though, looking right at you as they continue to clap.

“Wow,” a boy with pale blonde hair sighs out, being the first to stop clapping as the rest slowly follow suit. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet the woman who has turned Jungkookie into an absolute fucking simp.”

That makes you laugh now, hand covering up your mouth as you see them all nod along. Jungkook doesn’t even respond, tonguing his cheek as he tries to hide his smile when he steps away from you to allow you to have your moment.

“Really, it’s honest work but I’m happy to do it. You must be Jimin?”

He gasps, smile growing wider on his face as he looks at Jungkook, finally acknowledging him. “Do you talk about me?”

“Yeah, about how fucking annoying you are,” Jungkook scoffs, playfully rolling his eyes as he takes a seat at the edge of the bench, scooting down enough for you to settle in next to him.

Your earlier nerves calm a bit as everyone starts to talk, introducing themselves before it flows into easy conversation. Once the drinks start making their rounds you find yourself joining in, laughing along to old stories they reminisce on, playfully teasing one another in a brotherly way that shows you how deep their friendship actually was.

“Oh no, we need to tell you about that time Jungkook got so high off a pot brownie that he cried at ColorMeMine.” Taehyung can barely say the sentence before he’s cackling as he recalls it, smile wide as can be while he throws his head back.

“No you absolutely fucking don’t!”

“C’mon, we basically already told her! She just needs all the juicy details.” Yoongi adds on to it, a smug smile on his face as he holds up his beer to take a long sip.

“What, the juicy details of them threatening to kick me out?” Jungkook groans, covering his face in embarrassment. It wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t properly read the strength of it and before he knew it he was staring at his half painted plate wondering how the hell he got so high and why the fuck everyone else was so calm about it.

“Well…that, and the video I took of it all,” Jimin whispers out, biting down on his lip as he starts to unlock his phone and scroll through his photo gallery.

That makes Jungkook’s head snap up, wide eyes giving Jimin a look that you know was meant to be threatening but the other boy finds it funny, giggling as he turns to look at you.

“I’ll send it to you later. Keep it for emergencies.”

Jungkook’s mouth drops open in betrayal, eyes floating over to you and seeing the way you smile and nod. “Emergencies?”

“Jungkook, don’t worry about it!” You cackle as you gently cup his cheek, feeling it bulge out as he smiles back, enjoying the way you were getting along with his friends—even if it was at his expense. He didn’t care really, he’d dish out all of his embarrassing stories if it made you laugh as hard as it did today.

“Am I gonna regret introducing you to each other?” he mumbles out, playfully glaring at his friend.

You look over at Jimin too, the same thoughts brewing in your minds as you laugh together. You could only imagine all the ways you and him would gang up on your boyfriend, pushing his buttons in that way he swore he didn’t like while secretly enjoying it.

“Oh, definitely.”

Jungkook can only groan, trying so hard to pretend like this was detrimental, as if the idea of two of his favorite people getting along was the end of the world. But as he stares at you giggling while you watch that god forsaken video, his heart swells, thankful Jimin had given him the pep talk he needed to confess and even more grateful you had decided to hire him off the sketchiest app ever made.

#jungkook smut #new

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sharkdevils · 3 months ago

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mutual aid request for a disabled trans person trying to survive after escaping DV and homelessness!!!! please share and reblog!!! 🍀🌱🧿

goal: 0/600

cashapp: $skyrimhead

venmo: rabbitknife

read below for more information please! thank you 🤍🤍🤍

hi, as some of you may already know, i am a domestic violence victim who in late february fled my former home after being assaulted by my abuser and becoming homeless. an extremely wonderful DV organization in my area took me in, and i had been living in a shelter until two weeks ago, when i was given an opportunity by this organization to acquire a studio apartment with the first three months of rent paid by them, while i look for a job (i was fired from my previous position because my disability unexpectedly got significantly worse and i asked to have my schedule reduced slightly so i could seek medical care). this has been amazing and i cannot stress enough how grateful i am to them, and to everyone who has helped me get here.

unfortunately, i drained my entire savings account while moving in due to buying household supplies and stuff like bedding, cleaning supplies, etc. this is currently how much is in my bank account as of 4/22/25:

i have food stamps so im not concerned about groceries, but i do need to buy more cleaning supplies, and have some money set aside for upcoming bills and also paying for transportation, i currently dont have access to a car anymore and have been relying on uber and friends who offer rides, and if i get a job that isnt in walking distance from my apartment, i need money to be able to uber to work until i can buy a car again.

i want to have at least 400 set aside so in case of emergency i can still pay rent, and about 150-200 left so i can buy cleaning supplies, pay for my hrt, pay for medicine to manage my disabilities, pay for doctors appointments for my disabilities, pay my bills, pay for transportation, and also caulk and advion to seal my apartment from pests and also kill palmetto bugs.

anything left over, or any extra money im given, will go towards helping me get things like wifi (im living off of data currently) shelving and lamps and such so i can make this space more functional.

it would also go towards fixing my laptop which is currently broken, so i can work from home more easily and not have to keep using library computers. i am very disabled and walking and standing for long periods of time is extremely strenuous and painful and has even led to partial dislocations for me before, and i dont want to risk doing it more than is necessary, the more i can do from my home, the better.

if you cannot donate, i humbly ask that you share this post by reblogging it or sending it to others. if youre interested, you can dm me and i can talk to you about offering something of equal value in return for your donation, such as a commission.

if youve read all of this, thank you so much, and i hope you have an amazing day 🤍

#mutual aid #crowdfunding #donations #mutual funds #mutual assistance #gofundme #go fund them #chronically ill #actually disabled #queer community #trans community #nonbinary #just adding hella tags lol sory #transgender

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the-golden-vanity · 2 months ago

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My The Terror-induced crush on Adam Nagaitis has led me places I wouldn't go with a gun, and after seeing him use a sledgehammer for evil as the explicitly Hickey-influenced gangster Franny Sutton in modern-day cop show The Responder, I'm kind of disappointed we didn't get to see him take a swing at someone with a caulking mallet in The Terror.

I mean, look at that potential weapon! This picture doesn't even give a great idea of how big a caulking mallet is—these things are HEFTY.

Can't you imagine?

Anyway, if your Age of Sail-set TV series is going to have a major antagonist whose job is to be a ship's caulker, I think you should let him do some violence with the tools of the trade. As a treat.

#cornelius hickey #the terror amc #amc the terror #the terror #mr. hickey #age of sail #boat show #boat media #ship caulker #caulker #nautical #maritime #you don't see him actually doing his job much in the show but I enjoy the brief glimpses

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toastytrusty · 4 months ago

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random half-hearted not that serious complaint but i think people overemphasize how "lazy" hickey is. i think he just often doesn't see the work other people expect of him as actually relevant to his goals. but he is quite proactive about achieving his goals, when he has proper motivation to do things. his goals just don't involve pulling boats or doing a good job caulking. Can't a boy have priorities

#he's not Lazy he's just...doing his own thing. focused. in his lane #i do think he would rather do a lot of other things than manual labor #but like we do see him volunteering to do physically taxxing things on multiple occasions #when it serves his interests and he has motivations #fixing david young's coffin to get his ring #kidnapping silna #helping magnus and hartnell take the body to the dead room #etc #he just can't find reason to do things that seem pointless. he got executive dysfunction #cornelius hickey #the terror #the terror 2018 #the terror amc #terrorposting #my art

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lillaydee · 5 months ago

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Shhh!!! Part 5

Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader

A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...

She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...

Tag List:

@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove @liciafonseca

Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.

Dividers by the awesome @saradika

Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!

WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 4

“Here you go, Sir, enjoy your coffee, come again soon!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the exasperated sigh that escaped him after the last cup was handed to the last customer, an older man who wouldn’t stop asking him questions about which caulk was best to use for the small project he was DIY-ing. Joel must’ve extended his hand with the coffee in it towards him five times before the man finally took it, very quickly flipping the ‘open’ sign to close before plopping himself on the lone stool you had offered him before.

“How do you do this every day? My jaw, my cheeks are killing me feom smiling too much! And don’t even ask about my back!” he rubbed his face, massaging his jaw and cheeks with both hands, cracking his back and neck a few times.

“Don’t you hammer things for a living? I can’t do that to save my own life!”

“Pfft… I don’t do all that anymore. People do that for me. I just tell people what to do.” There was a look on his face when he said that. A longing one, perhaps?

“You’re telling me you would’ve been okay doing that on your own if I hadn’t stayed?”

You nodded, hands busy cleaning the machine, running hot water out to clean it of any residue.

He got back up, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Oh, no, you are not touching my very expensive machine, sir.”

“How do you keep the truck safe? Aren’t you worried someone might break in, steal the machine?”

“My apartment has very good security, so does the truck. I made sure to invest in that.”

“Where do you live?”

You told him, and he just whistled. He threw the rag on the counter, asking you if he could buy you lunch.

“Taco truck, next door. Tell Tony it’s for me.”

He tipped his hat at you, leaving to get the tacos.

You finished cleaning, wiping everything down, taking not much time at all. You’ve done this daily for a long time, it was all on autopilot. By the time you rinsed all the rags, Joel was back, bags of tacos in hand, asking you if you would join him for lunch. The two of you ate and chatted, mainly about the tacos, but also about the rec centre itself. Sarah had been here a lot, volunteering. Ellie too, obviously. But he had only dropped them off and picked them up. You suggested he should visit. They do amazing work with underprivileged kids. He looked as if he was genuinely contemplating it.

“I have to apologize for something else now,” he told you, wiping his mouth after everything was demolished. “I never knew selling coffee could be that tiring. I don’t know why. But that was…” he stopped talking, rubbing his own shoulder and neck. “And how the heck do you keep a smile on at all times like that? I watched you. You are always smiling when talking to the customers. How do you do that?”

You shrugged, “Been doing this since I can remember. My Dad didn’t have a helper early on, so he would keep me in a sling across his chest as he served his customers. I just grew up in a café, smiled at customers since I could. A smile goes a long way when you’re in service. It was something my Dad did a lot, so I sort of just caught the habit, I guess.”

“Your Dad was a barista too? Which café?”

You told him. He nodded. There were a few of those cafés all over LA. He had even seen them in New York.

“You’ve always worked in cafés?”

“Yeah… since I was old enough to know you shouldn’t touch boiling water with your bare hands.”

He looked taken aback. “Isn’t that child labour or something?”

You laughed. “He didn’t hire me, exactly, he just let me help. Learn the ropes.”

“Is he retired now?”

“He did a few years back. Passed not long after.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. He’s still with me. That’s why my stepmom and I started the truck. He loved his job. I feel like he’s here whenever I make a cup, you know?”

He nodded. “It’s why I started building in the first place. My Papa was a labourer slash carpenter. He practically built all of our furniture. He helped me build my first project – a small recipe box for my Mama. Been building stuff since. I did the TV stuff at first for the steady income, you know? I was alone, I had to think about Sarah, and then when everything blew up it just got so… invasive. Fake. It’s all about the viewership. No one gives a damn about the work anymore. It’s just… I don’t know. Doing this job used to make me feel closer to my Papa, but now… I just feel like my life has turned into a circus, you know? Everything’s just hyped. Sexualized. I don’t get the same rush I used to get from doing this work anymore. I just dread going to work now. The more exposure, the more invasion there will be, the less close I feel to my Papa.”

You listened, feeling a bit sad for him.

“That’s why I was so rude to you that first time. I didn’t mean to be, you know, I’m so sorry about that. It’s just, every time a stranger taps me on my shoulder it’s to ask for a selfie or something. You saw that girl the other day. She just leaned in, right up against my chest and snapped a picture. No respect for my personal space at all. I was literally standing at a urinal once and someone just whipped their phone out to take a picture with me.”

Your eyes literally went round with shock. Seriously? Okay, that was so much worse than being sent to some organic store to buy a packet of sugar for one teaspoon, or even counting 100 drips of espresso, for that matter.

“So when you tapped me on my shoulder…”

You nodded, hand still over your mouth, seeing his point of view. You already knew this, Ellie had told you. But when it came from the horse’s mouth… particularly Joel, who you had only seen as a grumpy, moody, seemingly entitled man, looking extremely uncomfortable at the mere mention of these happenings, you sort of get it.

“God, Joel…” you rubbed your face, cringing a little at how much you had judged him. “I’m sorry too… I just… having lived here all my life, I’ve met all kinds of celebrities, you know? Most are actually nice… but the ones who are not…”

It was his turn to nod. “Tell me about it. I have to work with some sometimes – for special episodes. God… the entitlement!”

You rolled your eyes.

“I know, right? ‘I’m famous, I don’t need to pay.’ Girl…”

He laughed as you sneered, copying said celebrity so well he actually recognized who you were talking about, head thrown back, free, loose, relaxed.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” he said, leaning on the small foldable table you set out front. “Where do you get your beans? That coffee… how is it bitter but sweet at the same time?”

You zipped your mouth, locked it, and threw away the key.

“Oh, come on…”

“Nope. Trade secret, that. Passed down to me by my father, and I am never sharing it!”

“You mean, you roast your own beans?”

“Of course I do! What do you take me for, Joel Miller?”

He looked impressed. “Will you sell me a bag?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll pay anything!”

“Careful what you wish for. If I can charge you 40 bucks for a cup of coffee, just imagine what I would charge for a whole bag of beans,” you joked, getting up to throw the paper plate out, wiping the table with your free hand as you did.

He got up and began helping you fold the chairs and tables, loading them in the cargo space under the sill. You closed everything up, handed him the mill he brought, and got into the driver seat of your truck. He waited for you to get in and closed the door for you.

“It was nice spending time with you today, Mr Miller. Thank you for helping me out, and for lunch. Should I pay you now, or should I just give Ellie a raise?”

He smiled, his dimple showing, and shook his head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, when I come for my cuppa. Since you won’t sell the beans to me.”

You laughed and thanked him again for helping you out that day. You turned to him one last time and gave him a smile. Joel’s heart stopped beating. There was something different about that smile, he thought. It wasn’t the smile you gave your customers.

He took a step back from the truck and raised his free hand, standing in that spot until your truck turned the corner and went out of his sight, the mill he brought held tightly to his chest.

Joel Miller drove all the way home before realizing that he hadn’t stopped smiling at all since you left.

“So, the plan was successful?” Sarah asked, painting her toenail as she spoke into the phone propped on a box she had packed and unpacked for the millionth time.

“Well, he went, left at seven-ish and he hasn’t come back, so I’m just waiting with breath that is bated. God just don’t come back angrier, that’s all I’m hoping for,” Ellie shoved another mouthful of chips into her mouth, cringing a little at the vinegary taste.

“I still can’t believe he yelled at Lil. Of all people! You know Lil hates celebrities? Tony told me. One came to the rec centre once, apparently for some supposed volunteer thing for his community service, the guy made a scene, obviously high from something – climbed into her truck started snacking on coffee beans like nuts – Tony swore Lil chased him out with an airgun. I’m just thankful all she did was overcharge Dad for coffee and not tear his face off or something.”

Ellie snorted, “Imagine how mad Angela would be if that were to happen. Money making face and all...”

“I don’t know… he’s been thinking of quitting. Doesn’t want to continue his contract, apparently.”

Ellie sat up. She took the mug she was using and propped her phone up, looking at her big sister with wide eyes. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

Sarah moved closer to the phone, looked around a bit, as if worried Joel might suddenly burst through her door miles and miles away at any moment. “Don’t tell him this, but Angela called me. Begged me to talk him out of retiring. I mean, she wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t said something, right?”

Ellie rolled her eyes. She did not like that woman. Neither did Sarah. She had a problem with Ellie from the start. Pulled Sarah aside and tried to stop her from volunteering at the rec centre, not wanting her to mix with the ‘riffraff’ there. Anytime Ellie was within her vicinity before the adoption, she looked at Ellie with a look that said she smelled bad.

When Joel decided to take her in, Angela went all out to stop him. Did a background check on her mom and dad, smugly presenting her findings to Joel. Sarah remembered like it was yesterday. “Bad breeds bad,” she had told him. “She’s the daughter of a drug addict and a criminal, Joel. Bad enough that Sarah is seen with her a lot, God knows what she could pull Sarah into, but now you want to legally invite her to stay with you? She’ll rob you blind Joel! I’m only looking out for you,” she had simpered, a supposedly concerned look on her pulled-too-tight face.

Joel didn’t listen, thankfully. When the public found out, Joel got so much publicity from it, his name was everywhere. He was ‘Daddy’, hot, responsible, good hearted, basically a handy hunk that women couldn’t get out of their heads. Suddenly, adopting Ellie was the most brilliant idea ever. In fact, she might have talked Joel into doing it, at least, that’s what she told Twitter back then. She had always known Ellie was his good luck charm, she crooned to Joel when she came to the house unannounced with a big bag of donated clothing, most of which were far too small and girly for Ellie, pinching her cheeks. Ellie was only 12, but she remembered recoiling away from the obviously fake lady, in both manners and physique, determined to stay away from her as much as she could.

Angela also pitched the idea for a reality show – Meet the Millers, where cameras follow their day to day lives. Imagine the money! That got shut down really quickly, even Tommy was barking at her. He may like the money, but no one touches his nieces. Even he wouldn’t stoop that low, he had told her.

So no, the girls didn’t like Angela. And no, Sarah wasn’t going to talk her Dad into signing on for five more years. Ellie certainly wouldn’t. They wanted him to rest. Relax. Settle down. Be happy. If he wanted to continue working, let it be on his own terms. Something that he would be happy to do, not something he would be forced to do. The girls may think he’s the grumpiest, most stubborn man to ever live, but they were fiercely protective of their Dad. And nothing Angela could do or say would sway them.

“What do you think he would do, if he really does retire?” Ellie asked.

“I don’t know. But I can’t imagine he would want to stay here. Would you be okay if he decides to leave LA?” Sarah was worried, changing school, making new friends, that’s a lot of change.

“I’ll follow him anywhere, you know that.”

Sarah smiled, “Well, I’m…”

“Oh shit!” Ellie scrambled. “He’s back. Fuck! Do I look sick?”

“Erm, no… you look like you’ve had too many chips, but otherwise…”

“Shh… he’s coming in,” Ellie picked up her phone, screen towards her torso, lying on the couch, blanket all the way up to her chest, doing her best to look sick.

“Ellie…” Sarah whispered. Another shush.

“Hey, old man,” Ellie croaked as Joel waltzed in, carrying the mill. He placed it on the coffee table, coming towards Ellie to check her temperature.

“You feeling better kiddo?”

Ellie opened her mouth to answer.

“Great! Rest up! Work tomorrow!” Joel was already turning around to go to his room, whistling as he did, a little jig in his steps. He looked at her over his shoulder and winked at her, his whistling now morphed into a humming, continuing his little waltz as he went up to his room, closing the door behind him.

Ellie shot up, her phone still clutched to her chest.

“Ellie! What’s going on?” Sarah’s whispers were filled with urgency.

Ellie looked at her sister, looking perplexed. “Sarah, I think we need a doctor.”

“What? Why? Is he okay? Are you really sick?”

“He was… whistling… and Sarah…” she paused, looking worried as heck, she leaned in and whispered, “He sorta did a little jig... and I swear he was humming!”

Sarah didn’t say anything. She looked troubled. Her Dad, humming? And doing little dances?

Shit.

What the fuck happened?

The next morning, Ellie woke up to a very enthusiastic banging on her door. Wake up kiddo! Don’t wanna be late! She groaned, jumped out of bed and had a quick shower – all about 30 minutes too early compared to the usual time, but maybe Joel had somewhere to be? It wouldn’t be the first time. His schedule can vary a lot, but wasn’t he on a break?

She walked out to Joel shoving a packet of pop tart and a granola bar into her pack, a buttered toast into her hand, telling her she was late. Let’s go!

She walked out into the garage to him standing next to an open passenger door, frantically gesturing for her to get inside, practically shoving her in as she climbed her way up to the seat. He checked the door really quickly before running to the driver side, muttering ‘come on, come on…’ as the garage door slowly opened,

He drove the way he usually did, but his fingers were drumming on the steering wheel every time they hit a red light. The man just looked odd. Ellie was worried.

“You okay?”

Joel looked at her, lips scrunched up, nodding as if he was behaving that way every single day, foot immediately on the gas pedal as soon as the light turned green. When he finally pulled to a stop at the rec centre, he leaned across Ellie and opened the door for her, the teenager still stunned at how keen this man was to be rid of her.

“Will you chill? My class doesn’t start for another 30 minutes. I’m gonna go get iced tea from Lil. You want coffee?”

He went quiet. All jitters stopped. “Uh… sure. Tell her I want the usual. The expresso thing.”

“ESpresso,” she corrected, as she climbed down the truck, mumbling she had no idea how he could drink that every day.

Joel waited for her to disappear around the corner before letting his head fall on the steering wheel. Shit. Now he had to wait for her to come back and go back inside before he could see you again. He looked at his watch, feet tap-tapping on the floor of the cab. God, why was she taking so long?

He took his phone and dialled Sarah’s number, the young lady picking up after only two rings, face all swollen and sleepy still.

“Dad, everything okay?”

“Yeah, just calling to see how the packing is going. You sure you don’t want me to go get you?”

“Yeah… I’m sure. I’m all packed, Dad. Just a few loose things I’m just gonna throw in my backpack at the last min… what are you searching around for?” she asked, her Dad clearly jittery, his eyes looking around as if he was worried some mafia head was gonna pop up and off him.

Joel refocused on his daughter, a bit embarrassed to be caught. “Just waiting for Ellie to come back with my coffee. Need coffee, that’s all. Machine’s busted again.”

“Uhuh… so you just need coffee? And then you’ll go back to your old self?” she questioned, looking wary as heck, side-eyeing her Dad on the FaceTime.

“What are you talking about? I’m my old self.”

“Okay…”

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked her, determined to focus on his daughter now. “I’m excited to see you! We should have a cookout. Maybe go somewhere before you start your internship?”

“Uh… The three of us plan to start driving before dawn, stop for breakfast on the way, drive a few more hours and stop for lunch, get to Lindsey’s, spend the night, and then start again the morning after. Drop Jenna off at her place and I should be home around dinner time.”

“Anything special you want for dinner?”

“Sushi. Please. And that ramen from that place.”

“Okay. You call me before you leave, okay? I don’t care what time. And take turns driving. Don’t try to be a hero.”

“Yes Dad… I know… How are you enjoying your break so far?”

“Well, it’s only been a few days… I… oh, my coffee’s here. Hang on.”

Sarah watched as he wound his window down, eager hand claiming his coffee from Ellie. He tilted the phone towards Ellie, who took the phone out of his hand, saying hi to Sarah. “Watch,” she whispered to Sarah, clicking on the reverse camera feature, focusing on Joel as he took his first greedy sip, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, tilting his head back to rest it on the headrest, an unwitting smile on his face.

Sarah watched as her Dad smiled, looking all… something… she didn’t recognize this. She had never seen him like this. And the whistling and the jigging and now this… over a sip of coffee. No wonder Ellie was worried. She was too, now that she’s seen the evidence.

Joel was struck by the silence, he opened his eyes, looking questionably at Ellie, who quickly clicked on the reverse camera button again, “Sarah, can you hear me? I think your line is patchy. I can’t hear you… you’ve frozen… I’ll call you later okay?” She quickly hung up and gave Joel the phone. “I’ll call her back…” she mumbled, standing there, just waiting to see what he was going to do. Joel looked flustered for a bit, reaching out to give her head a rub before putting the truck into reverse and driving away.

Ellie took out her phone and dialled Sarah’s number. She picked up before the first ring was over.

“You saw that, right?”

Joel drove around the rec centre before turning back into the parking lot, relieved Ellie was no longer there. He glanced at his watch again, the tap-tapping was back. He class wouldn’t start for ten more minutes. He looked around the truck for something to do until then, just to be safe. He didn’t want Ellie asking too many questions.

He had no idea what was happening. He just knew he wanted to be here. He took another sip of the coffee, his insides warming up, that smile back on his face. This must be why he wanted to come here. Yesterday, he was standing for hours, his back hurt, but he just felt at peace. Must be the smell of coffee. It calmed him down. He took another sip, savouring the somehow still sweet bitterness that took over his senses.

When was the last time he felt this at ease? God, he couldn’t remember. Maybe… when he was a kid? When he was sick and his Mama and Papa slept on either side of him? He felt as if he was all bundled up in a protective blanket, like everything would be alright, he would be alright, whatever came. He just wanted to savour that feeling for as long as he could, before life came after him again.

And if being at that truck, breathing in the glorious smell of coffee was what it took, he was more than willing to go back and suffer through the back pain and aching cheeks once more.

He finally got out of his truck, locked it and walked towards your truck. He could already see you smiling at your long line of customers, joking around with them. He took yet another sip of his coffee, jogged a little towards you, climbing into your truck, absent-mindedly taking the spare apron hanging on the hook and put it on, placing the hat he brought with him on his head. You lectured him about taking it off the day before, so yeah, he was keeping it on today.

You were shocked he was there, to say the least, but you were busy, and he did behave himself the day before. So you moved out from behind the till and took your spot in front of the machine, ready to make the next order.

You had no idea how, but the two of you worked well together. The truck was small, but somehow it wasn’t cramped with both of you in it. He learnt that till quickly, only making a few mistakes the day before, and you quickly fixed them, and he never repeated the same mistake twice.

About half an hour later, the line slowed. He went outside after the last person took their drink and began clearing up the tables for you. You leaned on the window, watching him sing along to the tunes Tony had on, shaking your head a little, wondering why on earth this man had decided to return and torture himself again.

“So… not that I’m not appreciative,” you called out to him, “But what the heck are you doing here Miller?”

He tossed the empty cups in the trash, a wide smile directed at you as he walked back towards the truck, tossing the rag he was holding on the sill, resting his elbow on it. “You don’t mind, do you? I have nothing to do. I’m bored. Sarah won’t be here for two more days, Ellie’s out for the class, have a heart…” he pleaded.

You jokingly contemplated his plea. “Do I have to pay you?”

“Just that cup of coffee.”

“Deal.”

The two of you shook on it. A customer came to the sill, asking for an iced tea. He ran back up into the truck, keying it in, and asked if he could watch you make the tea, maybe he could help with the non-machine-touching drinks? You let him, telling him exactly how much tea to put, how much hot water, brewing time, the likes.

Joel listened, taking everything in. The amount of tea. The hot water. The brewing time. The way your lips moved. The way your dimples played peekaboo. The way your ponytail swayed as you moved. The way the neckline of your blouse today gave him little peeks of your skin.

When the tea was ready, you turned around to give it to the customer, asking her how the baby was. You chatted with her for a bit, leaning on the counter below the window. Joel couldn't help continue studying you... how your legs were crossed together at the ankle, how your ass…

Wait… stop it.

Joel picked up a rag and wiped the counter you had just wiped again, just to have something else to do that didn’t involve staring at your ass, perfectly jutting out for his viewing pleasure, swaying a little as you laughed with your regular, clad in the perfect pair of jeans that hugged your curves just right.

You turned around to face him, took the rags off the counters and his hands, and went to the small sink you had to wash them. He stood next to you, watching you wash them, earning him a light-hearted jab from you – what, you want to learn the art of washing rags too? He laughed, telling you that he might just. Maybe coffee truck rags had a different method of cleaning.

“Joel?”

The two of you turned around. Ellie was standing in the doorway of the truck, looking at Joel as if he had two heads. “What are you doing here?”

Joel stood up straight, his hand went straight for his cup of coffee, now empty, and took a sip of air. He flustered a bit.

“I think the question is, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” he blubbered, a hand on his hip, the other awkwardly on the counter.

“Frank has car trouble. Class is postponed. I thought I’d work ‘til you pick me up. I thought you had something to do?”

“Erm… my thing got cancelled,” he managed to say.

“Oh, so maybe we can go watch a movie or something? You’re okay if I don’t work today, right Lil?”

You nodded. You understood. Ellie had always told you Joel was a busy man. He really should be spending time with her when he could.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” Joel said, trying hard to hide his disappointment from his youngest daughter. He began to untie his apron, missing Ellie’s widened eyes upon noticing that he had it on.

“Hey Lil?” Tony called out, walking up to the window. “My cousin just called me for some food for his office, he also ordered coffee, do you mind? Pickup in 30 minutes,” he said, forwarding you a list of orders on your phone.

Joel retied his apron, pushing Ellie out of the truck, telling her to wait for him at the tables. Maybe practice drawing the truck. He’ll be right with her.

Ellie sat waiting with her phone in her hand, filming her grumpy adopted father who hated fancy, thieving coffee chains help you with the order, keying in the order, labelling the cups, readying the to-go bags, he even filled in a smaller bag with sugar and creamer packets, complete with those fiddly stirrers he made fun of at least a thousand times in the few years she had been living with him.

When he was finally done, Ellie watched as Joel Miller took off the apron, telling you he would see you the next day, before turning around to walk away with a nervous look on his face, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He turned back to face you as he took out his phone and sheepishly asked for your number, “So I could text you if I can’t make it,” he said. He waited patiently as you keyed in your number, and immediately texted you something, smiling widely as he heard your phone ping.

Ah… Ellie immediately texted Sarah.

‘I think your Dad has a crush on my boss.’

To say you were in a jam was an understatement. Your showerhead decided that today, of all days, was the perfect day to shoot out of its socket and spray water everywhere. The super was out of town. You called your plumber, but he said the earliest he could get there was after lunch. He was booked solid. Relax, he told you, you’ll be fine ‘til then.

You texted Ellie, telling her that your shower broke and you wouldn’t be working today. Please let Joel know. You were about to toss the phone on your bed when the phone immediately pinged.

‘Send me your location’

‘Why?’

‘We have a plumber, he can get to you now.’

Your fingers had never worked faster. You sent her the location and your apartment number, going back into the bathroom to empty the bucket you’d placed under the shower. The last thing you needed was a flooded bathroom.

You were disappointed. You had never wanted to go to work more than you did today. You didn’t know why exactly. Your heart just felt… heavy. You felt guilty… or something… for not being able to go in today. You wondered why.

Ah… Joel texted you last night asking if there was a chance you would teach him to brew a good cup of coffee, just so he could have one daily when summer was over and Ellie no longer needed to go to the art class. He won’t even touch the machine, he promised. Just teach him how.

You promised him you would, and now you had to break that promise. You just hated disappointing people, that’s all.

Yeah. That must be it. That’s why you were disappointed you couldn’t go in.

The doorbell rang, so you placed the bucket back in its place and ran to open the door.

Joel Miller was standing outside your door, a toolbox in his hands. His face lit up when he saw you, but then suddenly snapped shut awkwardly, turning his body around.

It was only then you realized you were standing in front of him in your sleep shirt.

Your white sleep shirt. Your wet, white, sleep shirt.

With nothing underneath but a pair of panties. Your nipples were sticking to your wet shirt, which was now basically see through.

You ran inside, yelling your apologies, telling him to come in, grabbing a bathrobe and putting it on, trying hard to laugh your embarrassment away. He didn’t answer, and when you went to the door, his tool box was there, but he wasn’t. The riot that was your spraying shower went quiet, and he came back after a few seconds, telling you he shut the water line for your house – easier for him to work, he said.

There was still water dripping from the shower, but he fixed it within 15 minutes, coming out of your bathroom with water trickling down from his hair onto his neck, coming down his chest. He went back outside and came back to test the shower, now working perfectly.

You asked him how much you owed him, telling him he didn’t need to come all the way over to your apartment.

He smiled and told you his payment was a cup of coffee, as he had told you the day before. He watched as you made him a cup, jokingly asking you if he had to buy a fancy coffee machine now?

For some reason, apart from those few sentences, the two of you didn’t really talk. There was a silence as you both had your coffees, both awkward and not awkward at the same time. He wouldn’t really look at you, and you found yourself unable to look at him much either.

“Would you like some breakfast?” you asked him, taking his cup from him, your fingers brushing his for a split second, a spark of static causing you to pull back quickly, the mug slipping from your grasp, crashing onto the floor. He bent down to collect the pieces while you got a broom, sweeping the remnants off the floor, telling him you’ll vacuum later. He picked up his tool box, hesitantly telling you he should be going, looking regretful.

For some reason, you found yourself feeling sorry he had to leave so soon. But you walked him to the door anyway. He turned around once he was outside, thanking you for the coffee, asking you if he could see you the next day? Sarah was coming back, so he won’t be coming for a while, wanting to spend time with her before she started her internship the next week.

“Of course,” you told him, “Thank you so much for helping me out, you really didn’t have to.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” he insisted, “The coffee was worth it.”

You didn’t know what came over you, but you leaned in and lightly kissed him on the cheek, whispering your thanks to him one more time, unable to help yourself from taking in his scent, making you feel lightheaded. He didn’t pull away, staying where he was when you pulled away. He looked you in the eyes, contemplation in them. You may have imagined it, but you thought you saw them flick towards your lips for a split second.

“Joel? Joel Miller?”

The two of you turned to see the source of the snappy voice. Your young neighbour Lucy, formerly known as the off-key alarm system to your building was standing there, obviously on her way out, her keys clutched in her hand. She eyed your bathrobe, your wet hair, his slightly wet appearance.

“Lucy,” he said, rather awkwardly.

She turned around and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

“I should be going,” he said once more, before turning around and walking away as fast as he could.

Okay that was weird, you thought, but it was none of your business, surely? You had an anvil in your chest, but you didn’t know why. You distracted yourself by vacuuming your small kitchen, getting rid of any remnants of that broken mug.

You didn’t understand what happened. What happened? Between you and Joel. Between him and Lucy.

The doorbell interrupted your thoughts. You opened the door to Lucy standing outside.

“Are you fucking Joel Miller?”

Huh?

“If you are, we need to talk,” she said, pushing you aside and walking into your apartment, aggressively turning around to face you, her arms across her chest, a serious look on her face.

Part 6

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