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ilikeevilblondes · 22 days ago

Text

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

Part One | Part Two

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction.

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling.

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened.

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do.

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled.

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?”

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen.

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking.

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—”

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him. “You’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded.

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did.

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents at the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you?

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement.

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving.

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?”

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. Absently, you fiddled with your left ring finger, suddenly aware of its bareness.

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years.

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second.

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face.

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.”

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie.

He was practically salivating, now.

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.”

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had.

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance.

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “Y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk.

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.”

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers.

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside.

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours.

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did.

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled.

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.”

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight.

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again.

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.”

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck.

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed.

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

🏷️: @whaddupbaby, @pedritodowney08, @martuxduckling, @aadhinagony, @lanabobana, @pedr0swh0r3, @romancherry, @strawberriesandhotmen, @streamermattsgf, @bonneyzsk, @worhols, @serendippindots, @paprikainfurs, @lanternnightgarden, @12vamppp, @savvyisss, @umadirectioner, @tinawantstobeadoll, @not-the-teen-witch, @wundagre, @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere, @guelyury, @joelspickle, @callofdiva, @hotnmad, @brightestxxwitch, @pearl-diver-m, @kungfucapslock, @hellokittyyloverrrr, @meganfoxismywife, @natalieispunk, @billionairecowgirl, @my-tearsricochet

#joel miller smut #joel miller #smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #pedrohub #the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro x reader #zaddy pedro #hehe

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layaispunk · 1 month ago

Text

needs a good fix

jackson!joel miller x fem!virgin!reader

a/n: this idea is by @yxtkiwiyxt !!! i couldn't stop thinking about it.

summary: you can't stop fantasizing about joel taking your virginity.

warnings: UNPROTECTED P IN V SMUT 18+. competency kink. joel is jackson's handyman, reader has no physical description, dry humping, female masturbation, male masturbation, age gap (reader is over 21), reader is a virgin, praise kink, fingering, grinding, aftercare, soft!joel, lmk if i missed anything!!

wc: 4.7k words

Joel was always fixing things around town.

Ever since Joel Miller showed up in Jackson, folks started calling him the town’s handyman. The way his hands moved, steady and skilled, fixing what needed fixing… he was good. he was good at what he did.

The creak of his boots echoed from the side of the barn as he repaired the gate hinges. A few days ago, it was the broken heater in the art room. Before that, the fencing near the stables. He was the kind of man who did not like to sit still, and Jackson had plenty of things to keep him going. He liked helping around, and it made him feel needed.

You didn’t mean to notice him every single time. Your eyes just naturally averted to him, every time. At first it was small things.. how he always showed up early in the morning. How he talked to people with that low, Texas drawl, with kindness, and sometimes a little grumpy. It was clear he cared deeply about doing things right.

His rolled up sleeves, the grunts he made when he was moving, the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrating … it was all too much. He did everything so well, no neighbor ever complained. Every time you saw him with a tool in his hand, or a smudge of grease on his forearm, something inside you twisted. It started as a quite ache, one you could ignore if you distracted yourself enough. But the more you saw him, the worse it got.

And you… you were a virgin. Growing up in the apocalypse and all, you never really had the chance to get to know someone that intimately, besides, you were very comfortable with your own sexuality, taking care of yourself, and you were quite satisfied. Boys had thrown themselves at you before, but you weren’t into guys your age, immature and inexperienced. You always liked them a bit older, more experienced. You had a thing for competency, and men like him who were good at what they did. blue collar, broad-shouldered, good with their hands. Men who smelled like whiskey, sweat, and knew how to fix shit other people couldn’t. Joel, with that salt and pepper hair and his worn button-ups, the way he moved, was turning you on. You couldn’t look at him without your breath catching and sweat clinging to your forehead, without heat crawling low in your belly. You couldn’t stop thinking about your first time being with him, how protective he’d be, and how good he’d take care of you.

You didn’t live super close to him, but the universe clearly had other plans, because somehow your errands aligned with where he happened to be. And always, he’d greet you.

Just a “hey”. Simple, and casual. Too casual for the way heat pooled between your legs every single time. You try to keep it cool, offer a quick smile, or a nod, but your words never come out the way you want them. If he had any idea how tightly you had to clench your jaw every time he walked by, he sure as hell didn’t show it.

He had no idea what he was doing to you. As far as Joel was concerned, you were just another friendly face in town. You were kind to him, sweet even, traded coffee for paint supplies, but you never stayed long enough to hold a conversation. Joel figured maybe he made you didn’t like him, that you, maybe you just weren’t the talkative type.

He usually worn button-ups, long sleeves rolled up. But with the seasons shifting and the sun hanging higher, he was showing up in tight t-shirts that left little to the imagination. The fabric hugged his arms just right, tracing every muscle and vein, and it was impossible to imagine what those hands could do if they weren’t busy fixing shit. One time, he reached to grab something from a top cabinet, and with his arms stretched high, you caught a perfect glimpse of his waist. The way his shirt rode up just enough to reveal his happy trail leading down, and the waistband of his boxers. It made you feral.

Every night, you thought about him. What his huge hands might feel like. What his calloused fingers would feel like on your body. How his grunts might sound like if he was on top of you, whispering something low and filthy in your ear. Late at night, you let your thoughts slip where they shouldn’t. Under the covers, imagining what it would feel like to have someone there- Joel, instead of your own fingers, moaning and whimpering his name, hoping one day he would just magically show up and fuck you senseless.

One afternoon, you told yourself you weren’t going to do anything stupid. But it was a hot spring evening, you had two glasses of wine, maybe three, and it was just enough to make you feel courageous. Or reckless. Tipsy, that made your skin feel too hot, your clothes too tight, and your underwear soaked. You didn’t let yourself think it through. You just walked down the street, heart pounding and thighs pressed tight, wearing a top that accentuated your breasts & an old fashioned lie. and knocked on Joel’s door. You told yourself it was innocent. A neighborly thing.

He answered the door in a t-shirt. Collar a little stretched, fabric clinging to his biceps. You had to force your eyes to stay on his face.

“Hey,” you said, a little breathier than what you meant. “S-Sorry to bug you. I just-uh… my sink’s acting real funny. The one in the kitchen.”

The kitchen sink was fine.

Joel wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. “What’s it doin’?”

You shrugged, toying with the straps of your shirt. “Leaking. Making a sound. I dunno.” you said nervously.

“I can swing by tomorrow,” he said, nodding.

You licked your lips. “I’ll uh…. I’ll leave the door unlocked. In case I’m out. So you just let yourself in.”

Joel’s brow ticked. “You leavin’ your door open for just anyone, darlin’?”

Your heart stuttered. Was he flirting with you? “Uh… no, no.”

He smiled, “I’m just jokin’.” He clapped his hands. “Alright then, I’ll uh.. see ya tomorrow.”

Before you could respond, you turned around and walked back home, your heart about to rip open your chest.

The next day crept up slowly. You woke up flushed, replaying yesterday’s interaction in your mind like a dream.

You told yourself not to get too worked up. Not to overthink it. But by mid-afternoon, you were restless. The house felt too warm, your skin even warmer. You kept checking the clock, hoping his knock might come any second.

And when it didn’t, you grabbed the wine bottle. To cool you down, ofcourse. To calm your nerves. You’d left the door unlocked like you promised him. Just a crack, enough for him to step inside. The kitchen sink was fine. Didn’t need any fixing. But your body…? That was another matter.

You wandered upstairs to your room, still leaving the door cracked, restless and a little tipsy from the wine. The fan hummed softly overhead, but it did nothing to cool the heat spreading low in your belly. Your clothes clung to you, damp from the warmth… and your wetness. You ran your hands down the front of your thighs, exhaling a shaky breath as your fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. They felt suffocating. You slid them down your legs slowly, the cotton catching slightly on your hips before pooling around your ankles. The air kissed your skin, and you bit the inside of your cheek, goosebumps rising on your legs.

You sat at the edge of the bed at first, on your back. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shit. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way his biceps flexed. His Texas drawl dipped in honey. The way he said your name.

Your hand drifted over your stomach, skimming lightly, like even your own touch was too much. You didn’t rush, just let your fingertips trace lazy, aimless patterns, dipping lower each time until they reached the waistband of your underwear. There was a steady warmth pulsing at your core, a heat that had been building all day. You let your fingers press down, through the thin fabric, catching your breath at the feeling. You were already so sensitive, so wound up from hours of wanting, of imagining him. You were pretending your hands were his, touching you like this for the first time. You shifted against the sheets, chasing friction, letting your hips tilt just enough to press into your own hand. It was slow at first, knowing your body too damn well, until you started to rub your clit in small circles and gasping softly, your mouth falling open.

Joel told himself he’d swing by later in the afternoon, but something about the way you looked at him yesterday.. the wine flush on your cheeks, the way your fingers played with your shirt straps… He was confused. He was old. Surely, he didn’t think you were flirting with him. Why would someone so pretty, want someone like him?

The door was exactly as you left it. Unlocked, cracked open a little bit. He still knocked softly at first.

“Hey,” he called, voice low. “it’s Joel, you home?”

No answer.

So he stepped inside, slow and polite, calling your name softly. And suddenly, he heard it. Faint and breathless.

“Joel.. Oh..”

His heart jumped. You sounded like you were in pain, or crying. The sound of your voice had him moving before he could think. He dropped his tools, boots thudding against the stairs, every protective instinct in him lighting up. Another soft moan. “Oh God...”

He didn’t wait. “Darlin,? You alright?” He pushed the door open with his shoulder, chest tight, eyes scanning …. Until he saw you. laying back against the sheets, legs spread, hand between your thighs. Your shorts discarded on the floor.

You froze.

Joel froze too.

He wasn't dumb. He caught on what was happening immediately.

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His eyes were wide, locked on yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence was thick.

You sat up in panic, putting your shorts back on. “I-I thought you weren’t coming,” you whispered.

He looked dazed. He swallowed hard. Took one step closer.

“You left the door open,” he said quietly. “Said I could come in.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—” You whispered, embarrassment creeping up your cheeks. “Joel, I didn’t think you’d—”

He nodded once, firm, eyes still on you. “You say my name like that all the time when you’re alone?”

You couldn’t speak.

He took another step. “I came to fix the sink, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with something rough and warm, “but I think we’ve got somethin’ else that needs my attention.” You swallowed hard, heart hammering like it might break through your ribs.

Your fingers were still trembling from earlier. From the way you’d whispered his name like a fucking prayer. And now he was here. Real. Solid. Broad shoulders taking up half the space in the room.

You felt small. Exposed. And yet… your body ached for him.

Joel’s eyes dragged down your frame, slow and deliberate. His jaw ticked.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he said, voice low. “I just… didn’t know you… felt that way about me.” He swallowed. “I wasn’t supposed to see that.”

Your back straightened, chest still heaving. “Well, I do.” You blinked. “Joel, you should probably just go,” you stammered, voice shaky. You started rambling under your breath, words tumbling over each other like a flood. “I’m so dumb. I’m sorry, Joel. The sink doesn’t even need fixing. I mean, what was I thinking? I just wanted to see you, like some fuckass teenager with a crush. You don’t even like me like that.” You stared at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his eyes, heart pounding loud in your ears.

Joel shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Darlin’, calm down. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said, eyes soft. “I… like you, I’m just surprised,’s all,”

You opened your mouth, words caught in your throat. “I had too much wine. I just need a minute, okay? I’m overwhelmed”

He nodded, stepping back. “Alright, I’ll head home, okay?” His voice was low, unsure, like he wasn’t quite sure on how to act after that, and neither did you. He slipped quietly without another word. Did you just fuck everything up?

The next day, there was a knock on your door.

Joel stood there, hand on the back of his head. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I…come in for a sec?”

You smiled and stepped aside, still mortified from yesterday.

He glanced around like he was gathering his thoughts, then finally looked at you. “I been thinkin’ about what happened yesterday.”

You blinked at him, cheeks heating up. Talk about the elephant in the room. “What do you mean?”

Joel let out a slow breath. “I wanted to apologize. You were embarrassed. Thought I didn’t… want you like that.”

You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.

He continued, gently, “I didn’t mean to walk in on somethin’ so personal. I swear, I only came in ’cause I thought you were hurt. You sounded like you were in pain, and the door was open, and.. I’m sorry.”

You chewed your lip. “Joel, you don’t need to apologize. It’s not your fault, I should have closed the door.” You sighed. “I didn’t mean to make things weird”

“Nothing’s weird,” he said. “I just.. Jesus, I had no idea you felt that way about me. And I’m still tryin’ to wrap my head around it, ‘cause you’re…” he trailed off, eyes on yours, voice soft. “You’re beautiful, and young. I don’t know how in the world you would want someone like me.”

You stared at him. Your heart was thudding in your chest, heat creeping up your neck, wanting to tell him that you’re a virgin and just blurting it out. “I’ve never… had sex.” Your voice barely carried, but it felt like the loudest thing in the room. “I just wanted you to know.” You paused, cheeks burning, then forced the next part out. “I guess... I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I just want to get it over with, with someone more experienced, you know. To know what it feels like. So, um. That’s what I was thinking about. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Joel blinked, his gaze holding yours, unreadable for a second. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back to yours, voice rough, blurting out a confession himself too. “I thought about you too, last night.”

You blinked, confused. “what?”

His breath hitched. A humorless little laugh left him as he shook his head. “Couldn’t get the image outta my head. We’re even now. Ain’t gotta be embarrassed.”

You tilted your head, searching his face. “are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

His voice was low, thick with something darker, more vulnerable. “No.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t move. So you kissed him.

When Joel kissed you back, it was desperate. His hands gripped your waist, rough palms dragging over your back like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Your fingers tangled in his soft curls at the back of his head, tugging him closer, swallowing the low groan he let out when you parted your lips for him. You whimpered softly into his mouth, pressing your chest to his, needing him even closer. He smelled so good. Like whiskey, and soap, and musk. It invaded your senses, and your brain turned into mush.

His tongue swept over yours before he broke away to kiss along your jaw, then your neck, open mouthed and breathless.

“Joel…” you moaned, “Fuck,”

Your knees hit the back of the couch, and the two of you stumbled, breathless and tangled in each other until you fell on top of his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he sank back onto the couch, pulling you down with him. Your legs were straddling him, your hands braced around his neck. Kissing you deeper, his hands roamed your back, your waist, your thighs, like he was trying to touch every part of you all at once.

You rocked against him as he groaned into your mouth, hips bucking up just slightly. His mouth found your neck once again as you kept moving against him achingly, feeling the thick press of his erection beneath you, hard and growing. You were so turned on it hurt.

“Shit,” Joel rasped, gripping your hips, trying to hold you still. “Baby…”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You needed him. But his hands stilled you.

He leaned his forehead against yours, kissing your head, chest rising and falling under your palms. “Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and steady now, “we gotta slow down.”

You blinked at him with doe eyes, lips still parted. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” he said quickly, cupping your cheek. “God, no.” He swallowed, eyes on yours. “It’s just… it’s been a long time. And I want this to be good for you.”

He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You really want this?” he asked, voice quiet.

You leaned in, lips brushing his, barely above a whisper, “Yeah. I do.”

His chest rose and fell against yours, his eyes flickering down to your lips before dragging back up again like he was trying to memorize you.

He leaned in and kissed you softly, slow and unhurried, letting it linger, letting your fingers drift up the back of his neck and into his hair. He exhaled into your mouth, and you felt the way his hands gripped you just a little tighter.

Then, without a word, you reached down and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt.

Joel paused, eyes searching yours. But he didn’t stop you.

You lifted the fabric slowly, revealing the scarred, strong lines of his chest. Your fingers brushed over his skin as you pulled the shirt over his head and let it fall somewhere behind the couch.

His breath hitched when you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his chest, soft and reverent. Another to his collarbone. Another just above his heart. He wasn’t used to this.

Joel’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, a hand coming up to hold the back of your head like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this.

You sat up, heart pounding, and slowly reached for your own shirt. You watched his face as you peeled it over your head. his eyes widened slightly, lips parting, awe written all over him like you were a dream came true.

You took his hands and placed them on your waist, his palms warm and steady. Then you leaned in again, and he kissed you hard, lips sliding to your jaw, down your neck. When his mouth finally reached your chest, your breath caught. he was kissing you there, slow and gentle, like he was learning the shape of your breasts with his mouth.

A soft moan escaped you, hips shifting instinctively in his lap. You felt the heat building again, sharp and overwhelming. Every place he touched felt like it burned.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice breathless, “need you to touch me…”

One of his hands slid down slowly, carefully, finding the edge of your waistband. His fingers brushed your skin, teasing, and you gasped softly. You could feel the heat between your thighs, a growing ache that had only sharpened since the moment he walked through your door.

“I’ve never-” you whispered, barely audible.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you. We don’t gotta rush a damn thing, sweetheart.”

You nodded, heart pounding, eyes locked with his.

“Jesus,” he rasped, resting his forehead against your chest for a second. “You tell me if anything don’t feel right. Any second. You hear me?”

You nodded again, lips brushing against his temple. “Yeah.”

He leaned back just enough to kiss you again, slower this time like you were something delicate, hands trailing up your spine. You arched slightly as you were dry humping on the couch, gasping at the friction between your core and his erection. You stood up, and discarded your shorts on the floor, just your soaked panties covering you. When you lowered down on his lap again, your fingers found his, guiding his hand between your thighs.

“You can touch me,” you said quietly. “I want you to.”

Joel let out a quiet groan. “You tell me if it feels too much, alright?” he groaned, voice low and full of heat.

His fingers dipped down between your thighs, finding you through the soft fabric of your underwear. He rubbed slow, careful circles against you, patient and steady, coaxing every sound out of your lips.

You gasped softly, hips tilting toward his hand without meaning to. “Joel…”

“That feel good?” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw, his voice rough but gentle, making sure you were okay.

You nodded, too breathless to speak. Your fingers curled into his hair, holding on as he kept rubbing you through the thin cotton, your arousal soaking through. He could feel how wet you were, even like this.

“Jesus, baby…” he breathed, his voice thick. “You’re already so worked up for me.”

You whimpered as your hips began moving on their own, grinding against the heel of his hand. Joel’s breath caught, he was getting worked up too, chest rising fast, jaw clenched. His free hand slid up your back, gripping your waist like he needed something to hold onto.

He groaned again, almost like it hurt. “You keep movin’ like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna cum in my pants.”

Carefully, he slid his hand beneath your waistband, fingers finally touching you bare. You gasped, the heat of his skin against yours sending a shiver up your spine. Then, ever so gently, he slid one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as you clenched around him. “You’re alright. Atta girl. Just like that,”

You whimpered again, his finger moving in slow strokes, your hips rocking toward his hand instinctively. He added a second finger, easing you open while his thumb stroked soft circles against your clit.

It was overwhelming, in the best way possible. The stretch, the warmth of him, the way he watched your every reaction like he couldn’t look away. This was so different compared to your own fingers. You knew it would feel good, but not like this. Definitely not like this.

You whimpered, getting closer, reaching the climax as your hips stuttered against his hand. Joel was whispering quiet praises into your skin, fingers moving slow and steady inside you, coaxing you open like he had all the time in the world. Your thighs trembled, your body arching into his touch, and the pressure inside you built with every breathless second.

“Joel,” you whimpered, voice breaking, eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, my god…”

“Right there?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just let go for me.”

Your body tightened, back arching, and then the wave came over you. your climax washing over you all at once, sharp and warm, overwhelming and dizzying. You gasped, clinging to him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as you cried out his name.

Joel groaned, holding you through it, kissing your temple and whispering sweet nothings as your body shook against him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, slowing his fingers as you came down. “You’re alright. I got you.”

You were breathless, body still burning for him, for something more. “Joel… I want to feel you.”

He stilled, lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, fingers curled around his wrist. “I want you inside me.”

His gaze searched yours for any flicker of doubt. There wasn’t any. Just need.

He gently guided you off his lap, helping you lie back along the couch. The cushions dipped under you, the living room warm and quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing.

Joel stood for a moment, just looking at you. Then his hands went to his belt, undoing it slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched as he slid his jeans down, then his boxers, breath catching when you caught sight of him, thick, hard, and flushed at the tip. He knelt between your legs, bracing a hand on the couch beside your head, the other guiding himself gently as he settled over you.

You reached for him, touching his chest, then his face, grounding yourself in the heat of his body.

Joel hovered over you, breathing heavy, gaze locked on yours like he didn’t want to miss a single second. He lined himself up slowly, hand cupping the back of your head against the couch cushion like you were something precious.

When he pushed in slow, careful, giving you time to adjust, you both gasped. Your fingers clutched at his back, nails digging in, and Joel groaned low in his throat, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

Oh my god.

Your thoughts spiraled.

This feels so good.

It was everything you hadn’t let yourself imagine. full, warm, overwhelming in the best way. You couldn’t believe how right it felt, how gentle he was, how every slow thrust was lined with care and need.

This. This is why you waited for someone like him. For Joel.

His body pressed flush against yours, one hand bracing by your head, the other still gently cradling it like he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you. He rocked into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, his breath ragged against your cheek, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Goddamn,” he groaned. “Such a good girl.”

You whimpered, already fluttering around him, your body starting to tremble again. “I-I think I’m close again,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“Me too, baby,” he murmured, voice cracking as he started to move faster, hips snapping a little deeper now, rougher but still so tender it made your chest ache.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, lips brushing his jaw as your body built toward the edge again. He kept whispering to you, grounding you, worshiping you through every second until everything tightened, and then you broke for the second time.

You came with a cry against his skin, body shaking around him as he groaned loudly, hips stuttering.

“Shit-darlin’, I’m gonna,” Joel gasped, and then you felt him follow, his body trembling with the force of it, buried deep and breathless. It was intense.

Joel was still above you, calming down his breathing, foreheads pressed together, your bodies tangled and slick with heat. His hand was still cradling your head.

You could still feel the aftershocks in your thighs, your chest, the gentle tremble in your fingers. Your heart was hammering. You’ve had orgasms before. You touched yourself often. But this was something else. You’ve never had this kind of orgasm before. Every careful touch, every word, every look… he'd made you feel safe. Worshipped. Taken care of.

You blinked up at him through the haze, and he looked down at you like he was in awe.

“You alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed. “Mmmm.”

He exhaled softly, lips brushing your temple, and kissed it. Then your cheek. Then your mouth…slow, like he had all the time in the world now.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he said against your lips.

You didn’t protest when he gently pulled out, made quick work of cleaning you up as best he could with trembling hands and soft apologies, finding a blanket from your couch to wrap you in.

Then, like it was nothing,he lifted you into his arms. You curled against him instinctively, head tucked beneath his chin, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he carried you upstairs like you weighed nothing.

Your bedroom was dim, bed undone, but it didn’t matter. Joel set you down carefully, then climbed in beside you without a word. One of his arms slid beneath your head, pulling you close, his other hand resting lightly on your stomach beneath the blanket.

You sighed, melting into him.

For a while, neither of you said a thing. Just breathing. Just feeling. His thumb traced lazy little circles against your skin, and you let your eyes drift shut.

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#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #dbf!joel #joel miller fluff #jackson joel #jackson!joel #soft!joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #tlou joel #joel miller x female reader

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littledes1re · 1 month ago

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His flannel shirts are making me act up so a little cockwarming thought

Imagine he is just sitting there trying to work on something, rough dirty hands, messy curly hair. Eyebrows furrowed, his glasses on top of his nose and his sweet darling sitting on his lap. He is fully concentrating. Until you decide to start grinding on him, he just looked too good, you couldn’t help yourself.

With a gruff and an eye roll he reaches for his pants, unzipping his cock. „s’what happens when your old man doesn’t fuck you in the morning.” making you slowly take his cock.

When you start riding him he stops you, squeezing your hips, making you whine. You just wanted to cum.

“Didn’t tell you that you could ride me, girl.”

And he is so god damn annoyed with you. Annoyed the way you whine around, the way you make his seat all wet. But his cock feels too good in you, to just sit on him. “Keep me warm, till’ i’m done with this or you’re getting nothing.”

With a pout on your lip, you try to warm him. Cunt all wrapped around his shaft, trying your best to bury your head into his chest, trying your best to not move up and down. And while his public hair is touching your clit, you buck your hips subconsciously at one point.

But joel ignores it until he himself can’t take it anymore. Putting whatever he was working on down and sighing.

“Have myself a needy whore hm? 24/7 only thinking of cock.” While he slowly starts to thrust up to you, seeing your eyes roll back.

“That’s why daddy always needs to fuck her every morning, huh? Whining about wanting to make breakfast early today. But daddy just knows better, baby.”

And you know you should’ve listened to him but you are lost in pleasure as he guides your hips on his cock, daddydaddydaddy spilling from your lips repeatedly.

“There she is. S’my good girl.”

#im feral #joel miller smut #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #tlou #joel miller fanfiction #dbf!joel #joel miller x you #joel miller drabble #drabble #pedro pascal smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller x f!reader

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iamasaddie · 1 month ago

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The devastatingly hilarious reaction of the 'Eddington' cast to the spoiler about Joel Miller's death. And then there's Pedro.

#poor Micheal you can see him going through the 5 stages of grief and settling on denial #pedro pascal #joaquin phoenix #emma stone #austin butler #micheal ward #the last of us 2 #tlou 2 spoilers #the last of us #tlou #iamasaddie gif #pedro pascal gif #ppedit

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whoevenisjavier · 27 days ago

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strike the match

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader

you fuck joel miller, austin’s fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.

tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.

w/c: 9k

Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.

Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.

You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?

Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table and—

Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled “Pool for Dummies: First Steps,” just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.

“Another round?” she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. “Some guy just bought us drinks.”

Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.

Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.

But you’re only watching one of them.

Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.

His turn.

He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…

Suddenly, they’re on you.

Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.

His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.

“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”

“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”

“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”

You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.

“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”

“Old and stinky?”

“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”

Your table erupts in laughter.

It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.

And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.

You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.

Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.

The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.

“Shit,” says the wall.

Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.

“You alright?”

Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.

“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”

“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”

“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”

You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.

He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:

“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”

The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:

“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”

“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.

“Too damn bad.”

He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?

“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”

“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”

He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.

It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.

At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.

There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.

It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”

You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.

“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.

He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.

“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”

“They stayed.”

“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”

You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.

“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”

“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”

“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”

“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”

He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.

Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.

Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.

“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.

The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.

“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”

His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.

“What message?”

“You wanted me to follow you out.”

“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”

You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.

“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”

“Let me go!”

Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.

“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”

Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.

“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”

Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.

In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.

He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:

“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”

Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.

“You know that guy?”

“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”

“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”

“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”

He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.

You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:

“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”

He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.

“Are you kidnapping me?!”

His frustrated sigh fills the cab.

“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”

“I can call another Uber.”

“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”

Civilians? Swore an oath?

Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.

“Come with me.”

You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.

The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.

“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?

“We need you. We got a call on—”

“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”

You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:

“Come on.”

You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.

Miller shuts that down real fast:

“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”

You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!

With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.

Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.

Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”

Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.

“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”

Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.

Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.

You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.

Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?

The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.

Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.

You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.

“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”

That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.

He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.

“You’re back,” you mumble.

He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.

“Yeah. Didn’t die.”

“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”

He clicks his tongue, exasperated.

You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.

Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.

“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.

“No. He doesn’t want me.”

That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.

You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.

“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.

They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”

You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.

“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”

One of them steps forward. “Chief—”

“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”

Silence.

Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.

“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.

“You’re the fire chief.”

“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”

You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:

“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”

“What’s with your thing for older men?”

“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”

“How old are you?”

“You gonna judge me?”

“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”

“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”

“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”

“See? That’s discrimination.”

“You still drunk?”

You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.

“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”

“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”

The light turns green. He drives.

“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”

He shakes his head. No to all.

“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”

“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”

“No. Not with you.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”

A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.

“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”

Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:

“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”

More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.

“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”

“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”

“Fishing for an ego boost?”

“Forget I asked.”

“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”

Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”

“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”

Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.

“So I went out with this guy.”

“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.

“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”

“I can already imagine why.”

“Mhm.”

“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”

You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.

“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”

The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.

“Have you always been a battalion chief?”

“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”

“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”

“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”

“Tommy from the bar?!”

“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.

Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.

“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”

“Mhm.”

“Joel Miller.”

“Yes.”

“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”

It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.

“Family’s family,” he replies simply.

You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.

You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,

“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”

You open the door to get out. Joel says,

“Close that door.”

Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.

The console light dims.

You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”

“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”

If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.

“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”

“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”

Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.

“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”

“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”

Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.

“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.

Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.

“Not even your friends.”

“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”

“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”

“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”

“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”

“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”

He squints, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”

You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.

You say what he needs to hear:

“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”

“Good. That stays between me and God.”

He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.

Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.

Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.

God. That kiss.

“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”

His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.

“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.

He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.

“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”

“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.

“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”

He swallows hard.

He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.

“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”

Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”

He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.

“Not here,” says again.

God. You could cry.

“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”

“Go on. Get inside.”

But before you do, you raise a finger.

“Can I suggest something?”

You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.

And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.

With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.

“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.

“You want me to do a four?”

He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.

“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”

“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”

The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.

One raised brow. A wordless well?

Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.

“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”

Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.

You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”

“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.

A smile curls his lips.

“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”

The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.

Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.

Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.

A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.

Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.

You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.

“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”

Joel’s no exception.

You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.

Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”

Another smile. He’s on a roll.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”

You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.

“Again,” you whisper.

He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.

He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—

It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.

You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.

“You need to fuck me. Now.”

“Urgent?”

“Mhm. So I can come again.”

“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”

You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.

Thank you, God. Uncut.

You look up at him.

“Come here.”

Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.

“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.

“I don’t mind.”

“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”

The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.

You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.

“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.

You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.

Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.

“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”

“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”

You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.

“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.

“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Okay. Pull out.”

Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.

“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.

Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.

You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.

“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”

“Suck a soft dick?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”

Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.

You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”

“Yeah? You learn anything?”

You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.

“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”

Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.

“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”

“You’d never let me win.”

“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”

“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”

You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.

“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”

“No comment.”

“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”

“The divorcé,” he corrects.

Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”

He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.

And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.

“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”

Ah. Yes. But actually…

“Can I try something else?” you ask.

That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.

You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.

“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.

“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”

You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.

He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.

When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.

You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.

“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”

Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.

Your whole body shakes.

“Joel—”

“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”

You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.

“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”

“No. Just… stay off my clit.”

The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”

You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.

When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.

Goddamn.

Thanks for your service, Chief.

You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.

It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.

“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.

Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.

When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.

Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.

The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.

Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.

Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.

“Any pie here sweeter than you?”

You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.

Still, you smile back.

“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”

“Kidding.”

“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”

He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.

Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.

The Sweetest Bite.

That barely-there smile curves his lips.

You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.

Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.

Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”

“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”

Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.

“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”

“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”

“Right,” he says to both.

You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.

“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”

“I’m not going’ to your house.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”

“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”

“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.

A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.

And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you

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sceletaflores · 10 days ago

Text

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it.

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom.

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust.

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over.

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?”

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that.

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager.

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work.

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails.

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night.

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway.

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it.

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.”

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing.

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup.

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants.

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges.

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you.

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light.

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that.

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside.

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all.

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning.

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone.

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall.

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding.

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine.

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door.

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him.

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes.

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight.

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv.

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines.

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn.

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together.

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo.

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is.

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four.

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders.

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again.

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.”

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly.

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk.

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to.

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?”

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension.

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches.

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim.

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes.

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

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httpsastral · 2 months ago

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so you're telling me that in FIVE YEARS no one in Jackson got with him???? HELL NAH i don't believe it

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kiss-me-muchoo · 2 months ago

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#pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel last of us #joel x reader #joel the last of us #the last of us x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedroverse #pedro pascal smut

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pandapetals · 1 month ago

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Mine To Keep

Summary: After a heated encounter at the Tipsy Bison, Joel’s possessive streak is set off when a cocky newcomer makes a crude comment about you. Tension boils over into desperate, filthy lovemaking back home, where Joel reminds you exactly who you belong to.

Pairing: joel miller x fem!wife reader

Word count: 5k

Content warnings: smut, established relationship, married joel, possessiveness, heavy dirty talk, mama pet name used, other pet names, breeding kink, fingering, oral, squirting, p in v sex, creampie, aftercare, some fluff, banter/teasing from Tommy

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics. Do I want kids? No. Would I give Joel a litter? Yes. New kink unlocked. Also, this is not an original idea; sue me. I'm just feral over Pedro.

The Tipsy Bison buzzed with low laughter, the clatter of glass against wood, and the scratch of boots on the scuffed floorboards. Warm, smoky air clung to your skin when you stepped inside, the scent of old whiskey and woodsmoke curling in your nose. Conversations hummed around you, mixing familiar voices and the occasional burst of raucous laughter from the corner tables.

You didn’t bother stopping at the bar or pretending you were here for anything but him.

Your eyes found Joel instantly, as if your body knew where to look before your mind caught up. He was bent over the pool table, cue in hand, the curve of his broad shoulders and thick forearms framed by the golden glow of the overhead light. His tanned skin gleamed, stretched tight over muscle, the sleeves of his Henley shoved up to his elbows. Every practiced movement he made, every shift of his hips, sent a pulse of heat through you.

Goddamn, he was handsome.

You dragged your lower lip between your teeth, pulse fluttering low in your belly. It didn’t matter that it was late or that the whole town might whisper about you chasing after your husband like a lovesick fool. Let them talk. All you wanted was him — home, in your bed, with his arms around you so you could finally sleep.

Tommy stood nearby, beer in hand, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. A few other men lingered around them, voices blending into the warm hum of the room.

“Think your wife’s lookin’ for you, big brother,” Tommy called out, his teasing voice cutting through the chatter as his gaze landed on you.

Joel straightened, glancing over his shoulder. The moment his eyes met yours, something in his expression softened, the faint crease in his brow easing. He set the pool cue aside, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that made your breath catch.

“Whatcha doin’ here, sweetheart?” Joel rumbled, his voice low and rough.

You didn’t answer immediately, just crossed the room like some invisible thread was pulling you. The noise and light of the bar dulled at the edges of your senses the moment you reached him, your arms sliding around his waist like it was the only place you belonged.

“Couldn’t sleep without you,” you murmured, voice soft enough that only he could catch it.

His familiar scent filled your head, grounding you in a way nothing else could. Joel let out a quiet sigh, one hand resting on the small of your back, his thumb tracing a slow, lazy circle against your spine. His gaze flicked toward the clock above the bar, and you felt the tension in his chest when he realized the hour.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice thick with regret. “Didn’t realize it was so late, baby.”

You shrugged, fingers toying absently with the edge of his belt, the rough denim warm under your touch. The simple act made Joel’s throat work in a swallow, his free hand tightening on the pool cue.

From behind him, one of the younger guys — Wes, you thought his name was — chuckled into his drink. “Jesus, Miller,” he drawled, grinning around the rim of his glass. “A man that whipped, I swear. Must be some kinda magic between her legs, huh?”

The words landed like a spark in dry grass. Joel stiffened, his jaw ticking as he slowly turned to glare at the kid, his arm pulling you a fraction tighter against his side. The easy, good-natured grin he’d worn moments ago was gone, replaced by something colder, sharper.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” Joel said, voice calm in that dangerous, unhurried way.

The table went quiet for a beat too long. Tommy let out a short laugh to cut the tension, clapping Wes on the shoulder a little harder than necessary. “Ah, c’mon now. Don’t poke the bear, son. He’ll tear your damn head off.”

Wes raised his hands in mock surrender, but Joel’s eyes were already back on you, softer now, like nothing else in the room mattered.

“Let’s go home, handsome,” you murmured.

Joel’s jaw flexed, a muscle ticking in his cheek as his hand slid from your back to your hip, holding you close. His gaze stayed on yours, something unspoken passing between you. He gave a stiff nod, about to walk away when Wes opened his damn mouth again.

“Shame you’re leavin’ already,” Wes called, leaning back against the pool table with a cocky grin. His eyes dragged over you, slow and bold. “Didn’t realize Miller’s wife had such a pretty mouth on her. Bet she’s a fuckin’ firecracker in bed too, huh, Joel?”

The words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass.

The room stilled. A few guys exchanged glances, Tommy’s grin fading into a scowl as he straightened up from his stool.

“The hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, stepping toward Wes before your brain could catch up to your mouth. Heat rose in your chest, anger snapping through you like a whip.

But you barely made it two steps before Joel’s hand clamped around your waist. He hauled you back against his chest like you weighed nothing at all, his body slotting between you and Wes with lethal precision.

“Behind me, baby,” Joel growled, his voice low and dangerous, laced with a possessive edge that sent a shiver down your spine.

You felt the tension rippling through him. The tight coil of muscle, the storm brewing behind his eyes. His fingers flexed against your hip as his other hand balled into a fist, making Wes flinch.

“That’s my fuckin’ wife you’re talkin’ about,” Joel said, each word slow, deliberate, and deadly. His voice dropped to a dark, dangerous rasp. “And you’re one more word away from pickin’ your teeth up off this floor.”

Wes’s smirk faltered, his throat bobbing as the color drained from his face. The rest of the bar went quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the faint clinking of glass in the far corner.

“Alright, alright,” Tommy cut in quickly, stepping between them, a hand on Joel’s chest. “Easy, brother. He’s an idiot, ain’t worth it.”

You reached for Joel’s hand, which gripped your hip, lacing your fingers with his. “Come on, baby,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the pulse pounding in your ears. “Let’s just go.”

Joel didn’t move. His glare was still pinned to Wes, who had the good sense to look away. Then Joel huffed a sharp breath, squeezing your hand before turning toward the door, keeping you close at his side.

Tommy clapped Joel on the shoulder as you passed. “Get her home, big brother. I’ll handle this shit.”

Joel didn’t answer, focusing entirely on you as he opened the door and guided you into the cool night air.

The walk home was thick with silence. It hummed with tension, electric and heavy, stretching between you. Joel’s grip on your hand was firm, his palm rough and warm against yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

You could feel it in him. The rigid line of his shoulders, how his jaw stayed tight, his strides just a little longer than usual, like he was still chasing the fight he’d left behind in that bar. Every few steps, you rubbed your thumb along his wrist to soothe the fire simmering beneath his skin.

The lights of your house came into view, a soft glow in the darkness. Joel’s voice finally broke the quiet, low and rough.

“Is Ellie home?” he asked, eyes fixed on the front door.

You shook your head, your pulse picking up even before the words left your mouth. “No, she’s at Dina’s—”

You didn’t get the rest out.

Joel’s hand tightened around yours as he spun you toward him, backing you up against the porch rail before you could blink. His mouth was on yours in an instant. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was teeth and tongue and the low, possessive growl in the back of his throat, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pressing you into the hard line of his body.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt as heat flared through you, molten and sudden. His other hand cupped your jaw, angling your face the way he wanted, deepening the kiss like a man starved.

“Goddamn it,” Joel rasped against your lips, his breath hot and uneven. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Your heart pounded, your skin flushed from the sudden rush of him, from the possessiveness still radiating off his body like heat from a fire.

“Get what?” you managed, voice breathless.

He kissed you again, slower but no less intensely, his hand sliding down to squeeze your hip. “What you do to me,” he murmured, lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, cheek, and jaw. “Watchin’ some punk look at you like that… talk about you like that… Jesus, baby.”

You shivered, arching into him, your fingers tugging at his belt like they had in the bar, but now with clear intent.

“Then show me,” you whispered.

Joel’s eyes darkened, and the ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. “I plan to, sweetheart.”

Joel reached past you, shoved the door open, and pulled you inside like a man past the point of reason. The door slammed shut behind you, the soft click of the lock barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Before you could take a single step, his mouth was on your neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses, his teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. He sucked at the delicate skin just below your jaw, a low groan rumbling from his chest when your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Fuck, Joel,” you moaned, your head tipping back to give him more access.

His hands found your hips, dragging you against him, the hard line of his arousal grinding into your belly. Every touch was rough and needy, as if he was still chasing the high of what happened at the bar, and the only thing that could settle him was you.

Somehow, you made it to the couch, stumbling, pulling at clothes between frantic kisses. Shirts tugged halfway off, jeans yanked down just enough — it wasn’t graceful. It was heat and desperation, limbs tangling and mouths colliding like you’d fall apart if you didn’t touch.

By the time Joel dropped to his knees in front of you, your top was still on, bunched up over your ribs, your legs spread wide on either side of him. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked up at you from between them.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped, his voice a gravelly promise that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

Then his mouth was on you.

A sharp cry left your lips as his tongue dragged through your folds before his lips closed around your clit. He sucked, hard, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through your core. Your back arched off the couch, fingers tangling in his hair as heat bloomed low in your belly.

Joel groaned against you, the vibration of it making your hips buck. His hands pinned you down, thumbs digging into your thighs as his tongue worked you over — long, wet strokes mixed with sharp flicks of his tongue, his scruff rough against your sensitive skin.

“Joel—oh, God—baby,” you gasped, your voice breaking on a whimper as he sucked your clit between his lips again, his tongue relentless.

He grunted in approval, one hand leaving your thigh to slide a thick finger inside you, curling just right. You cried out, the pressure building fast, your body strung taut, teetering on the edge.

Joel pulled back just long enough to murmur, voice thick and wrecked, “Told you I’d show you, darlin’. Gonna make you come all over my tongue.”

Then he was back on you, tongue and fingers working in perfect, devastating rhythm, and you knew you wouldn’t last long.

Every flick of Joel’s tongue, every curl of his fingers pushed you higher, the pleasure building sharp in your belly. You could barely breathe, panting, gasping his name like a prayer, your fingers fisting so hard in his hair your knuckles ached.

“F-fuck—Joel, I’m—” you stammered, voice trembling, hips bucking despite his iron grip.

He groaned against you, the sound deep and hungry, his mouth sealing around your clit and sucking hard. His fingers curled inside you just right, and the coil inside you snapped.

Pleasure shattered through you, sharp and white-hot. Your cry broke from your throat, back arching off the couch, legs shaking as your orgasm tore through you.

And then it happened — a rush of wetness, sudden and overwhelming. You felt yourself gush against his mouth, a choked moan tumbling out of you as your vision blurred.

“Oh my— fuck, Joel, I—I can’t—”

But Joel didn’t stop.

He growled low in his throat, his tongue lapping at your release like a man possessed, hands tightening on your thighs to hold you open as you writhed. The way you’d fallen apart, the way you soaked him — it only drove him wilder.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips slick, beard damp with you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with pure, feral hunger. “Look at you… fuckin’ perfect. Such a good girl.”

His mouth was back on you before you could catch your breath, tongue working you through every aftershock, every tremble, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were a whimpering, shaking mess against the couch cushions.

“J-Joel—s’too much,” you gasped, half-laughing, half-crying as your body shuddered under him.

He only grunted, one last possessive suck against your clit before he finally let you go, his mouth glistening, his chest heaving. He looked up at you like he hadn’t even begun to get his fill.

“You make the prettiest fuckin’ mess,” he said, voice rough, thumb lazily stroking your inner thigh. “And I ain’t even fucked you yet.”

A slow, wicked grin tugged at your lips. You bit down on your lower one, teasing yourself with the scrape of your teeth as you looked at him through heavy lashes. “Ain’t my fault you looked so hot defending my honor,” you shot back, voice breathy but teasing, the words making his mouth twitch like he was trying not to smile.

Joel huffed a dark little laugh, shaking his head as he pressed another hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You’re my wife,” he muttered, like it was the world's simplest, most obvious thing. His lips dragged higher, soft kisses turning hungrier as he worked his way up your body. “’ Course I would. No one talks about you like that. No one looks at you like that. You hear me?”

Each kiss scorched a new mark into your skin, his scruff rasping against sensitive flesh, until he reached your stomach. He nipped there, the sharp sting of teeth making you jolt, your breath hitching in your throat.

“And I’m gonna make damn sure everyone in Jackson knows you’re mine,” Joel promised, voice thick and possessive.

You smirked, your hand weaving into his hair again, tugging just enough to make him grunt against your skin. “Gonna make me a mama, Joel?” you murmured, eyes locked on his.

The words seemed to snap something in him.

His pupils blew wide, his nostrils flaring as his hand slid up to palm your still-quivering belly, rough fingers splaying possessively. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and the hunger in his eyes made your pulse spike.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he growled, dragging his lips up your body, stopping just below your breast, his breath hot against your skin. “Gonna fill you up, get you nice and round. Put a baby in you so there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind you’re mine.”

You whimpered, your hips canting toward him, need flaring bright and sharp in your gut.

Joel smirked against your skin, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Bet you’d look so fuckin’ pretty all swollen with my baby. Takin’ me so good every night, beggin’ for it.”

“Then do it,” you whispered, shivering under his touch, a throaty little plea.

He lifted his head, his mouth crashing into yours, tasting of whiskey and you, his hands already pushing your top higher, moving to claim every inch of you.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Joel rasped, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw as he positioned himself between your thighs. “I’m gonna fuck a baby in you.”

Joel didn’t waste another second.

His eyes dragged over your body, hungry and wild, and when he settled between your thighs, his cock heavy and flushed in his hand, you swore you could feel your pulse in every inch of your skin.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you,” he rasped, fisting himself as he lined up with your slick entrance, the fat head of his cock nudging at your folds. “Already so wet for me. Messy little thing.”

You whimpered, hips tilting up to meet him, your fingers digging into his arms, desperate for more.

“Beg for it, mama,” Joel gritted, his voice rough. He leaned down, teeth catching your earlobe. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Joel,” you gasped, head falling back as your body ached for him. “Please. Need you inside me. Need you to fuck me. Fill me up—give me your baby.”

A deep, wrecked sound tore from his throat — half a growl, half a groan — and then he was pushing into you in one hard, slow thrust, sinking deep until his hips met yours. The stretch burned, your walls clenching around him.

“Goddamn,” Joel grunted, head dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out. “Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight. Feels like heaven.”

You could barely breathe, could only cling to him as he set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with desperate, brutal intent. The couch creaked beneath you, every slap of skin against skin loud in the otherwise silent house.

His mouth was everywhere — your neck, collarbone, and jaw underside. He muttered filth into your skin between ragged breaths, every word fanning the fire already consuming you.

“Gonna fill you up so good,” he growled, his hand sliding to your belly, pressing down just enough to feel the bulge of him moving inside you. “Put a baby right here. Get you so fuckin’ full you’ll be beggin’ me for more.”

“Fuck, Joel,” you sobbed, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming, your nails raking down his back.

He grunted, his thrusts somehow rougher, deeper. “That’s it, mama. Take it. You were made for this — for me. Always knew you’d look so goddamn pretty carrying my kid.”

The word mama on his lips sent a shockwave through you, your whole body reacting with pleasure. Heat coiled low in your belly, a deep, needy ache blooming, the edge of your orgasm creeping back up so fast it made your head spin.

You barely recognized your voice — breathless, wrecked, laced with a teasing, desperate kind of heat. “Wanna give you a baby,” you whispered, your nails raking down his sweat-slick back, hips arching up to meet every thrust.

Joel let out a sound that was half growl, half moan, like the words cracked something inside him wide open. His hips stuttered for a heartbeat before slamming into you even harder.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick and ragged, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “Say it again, darlin’.”

You gasped when he hit that perfect spot, the pleasure stealing your breath.

“Wanna give you a baby, Joel,” you choked out, fingers gripping his hair, pulling him down until his forehead pressed to yours.

The snarl he made against your lips was pure filth, his pace turning brutal, desperate.

“Yeah, you do,” Joel rasped, his voice rough with tenderness and possessive heat. “Gonna knock you up, fill this pretty pussy ‘til it takes. Get you nice and round, let everyone see what I fuckin’ did to you.”

Your body broke again, pleasure slamming into you like a wave, your moan spilling into his mouth as you came, clenching around him so tight it dragged a loud, broken curse from his throat.

Joel’s hips jerked, his cock twitching deep inside you as he followed, coming with a low, possessive growl. “Mine. All fuckin’ mine, mama.”

And the way he kept moving, soft, shallow thrusts as his come spilled inside you, made your head swim, the aftershocks rippling through both of you.

“Gonna fill you up again in a minute,” Joel murmured, his lips brushing against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Ain’t stoppin’ ‘til you’re carryin’ my baby.”

You shivered, a giddy, breathless laugh escaping you as you kissed him, your heart pounding against his.

Joel groaned against your lips, the sound deep and wrecked, his tongue slipping into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough of you. His hips gave a sharp, involuntary thrust, and you felt it, that familiar, liquid heat spilling deep inside you as his cock twitched inside your still-clenching walls.

A dark, possessive noise tore from his throat, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you knew there’d be bruises come morning. The weight of him, the heat, the lingering pulse of his release made your whole body tighten in response, another soft, needy whimper escaping your lips.

You bit his bottom lip, just enough to make him grunt, a wicked little smirk curling your mouth as you tugged before letting go.

“Can feel you,” you whispered, your voice breathless and teasing, your thumb brushing his jaw. “Fillin’ me up again, handsome.”

Joel’s gaze darkened, his breath hitching as his hand slid possessively over your belly, pressing his palm flat against it like he could already feel something growing inside you.

“Can’t fuckin’ help it,” he said, his voice a gravelly rasp, kissing you again. “This pussy’s too good, sweetheart. So goddamn tight, squeezin’ me like you’re tryin’ to keep every drop.”

Your body shivered at his words, arousal flaring sharp and hot all over again.

Joel groaned when he felt the way your walls fluttered around him, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah… you like that, huh?” he murmured, teeth scraping along your jaw. “Bet I could make you come again just like this, keep you stuffed full ‘til you can’t even think straight.”

The way he said it made your pulse stutter, your hips instinctively rocking against him despite the oversensitivity.

His hand slid between you, two fingers teasing your swollen, soaked clit with slow, lazy circles.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice thick with hunger and rough affection. “One more for me. Let’s see how much more this pretty pussy can take.”

You moaned his name as Joel rocked his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Each one dragged along oversensitive nerves, the thick slide of him inside you sending heat curling low in your belly, sharp and insistent. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, your body trembling, every lazy grind pushing you closer to the edge.

“Yeah, that’s it, mama,” Joel rasped against your ear, his voice rough and tender. “Feel that? Still so full for me.”

The tension in your belly coiled tight, your walls fluttering around him, and then it hit — your orgasm cresting sharp and hot, pleasure tearing through you in thick, rolling waves. You cried out his name again, your body clenching down around his cock, slick flooding around him as you came hard.

Joel groaned low, his hips giving a final, deep push before he stilled, buried to the hilt, savoring every pulse of you around him. His head dropped to your shoulder, sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your neck.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your collarbone.

He pulled out slowly, and you both let out soft, wrecked sounds at the wet, filthy slide of it. A warm, sticky mix of your arousal and his seed spilled out of you, slicking your thighs.

Joel watched it, pupils blown, a dark, possessive hunger flickering across his face. Without a word, he slid his fingers through the mess, gathering it up, and then eased two of them back inside you, pushing it deep.

“Not wastin’ a fuckin’ drop,” he murmured, voice a gravelly promise, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as his fingers worked it back in. “This’s all mine, darlin’. You hear me? Every last bit of it.”

Your breath caught, a whimper escaping you at the stretch and the possessive tenderness in his touch.

“Gonna keep you nice and full,” Joel went on, his voice softer now, fingers dragging slowly inside you, his other hand splaying over your belly again. “Get you nice and round for me.”

Your body shuddered, another wave of heat crashing through you at his words.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your lips brushing his. “All yours, Joel.”

Joel stretched out on top of you, his head resting against your chest. Both of you were too wrecked and sated to care about the mess clinging to your skin or the sticky heat between your bodies. His fingers lazily traced circles along your hip, his breathing evening out against your skin as the frantic pulse of earlier settled into something warm and steady.

You carded your fingers through his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew he liked. He released a low, contented sound and pressed a soft, unhurried kiss above your heart.

Eventually, Joel shifted, lifting his head to meet your gaze. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, the rough pad of it catching on your skin. “C’mere,” he said, voice still thick and gravelly from the aftermath.

He helped you sit up, wincing a little as he did, and you both chuckled softly at yourselves.

Joel disappeared for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you up gently, his touch careful and tender. He murmured soft apologies every time you flinched from oversensitivity.

When he was done, he leaned down, kissed your forehead, and scooped you into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world. You nuzzled into his neck, your body limp with exhaustion, your heart still pounding slowly and content beneath your ribs.

“You good, darlin’?” he asked quietly, kissing your temple as he carried you upstairs.

“Mmm,” you hummed, too tired to say much else but letting your lips brush his throat in answer.

You both stripped off what little remained of your clothes in the bathroom. The shower was quick and lazy — more leaning against one another than washing — the warm water washing away the sweat and mess while Joel kept his hand on you when your knees went weak from pure exhaustion.

Afterward, you both climbed into bed, skin still damp, limbs tangled beneath the worn quilt. Joel pulled you close, your head tucked under his chin, one big hand spread over your belly in a possessive, tender gesture.

The night was quiet around you. The only sounds were the faint chirp of crickets outside and the steady beat of his heart against your ear.

“Love you,” Joel murmured against your hair, voice already thick with sleep.

You smiled, pressing a lazy kiss to his chest. “Love you too.”

Sleep took you both not long after, wrapped up in each other, as if you never wanted to let go.

The next morning, Joel padded downstairs barefoot, the house quiet except for the creak of the old floorboards under his weight. The scent of sex and sweat still lingered faintly in the air, clinging to the room like a memory.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, still feeling the ache in his muscles, a hazy mix of satisfaction and guilt gnawing at him. Hope I didn’t wear her out too bad , he thought, glancing toward the stairs. You’d been so boneless, half-asleep when he kissed your temple and slipped out of bed, still curled up in the mess of sheets.

Joel filled the coffee pot and started a fresh brew before grabbing a rag to wipe down the couch. The dried streaks of sweat and arousal, and the faint outline of a handprint in the fogged glass of the side table, made his lips twitch in amusement.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, shaking his head as he scrubbed.

He’d just finished, the rag still in hand, when a sharp knock rattled the front door. Joel sighed, tossing the rag over his shoulder as he padded over.

The door swung open to reveal Tommy, leaning against the frame with a shit-eating grin and one brow raised.

“Oh good,” Tommy drawled, giving his brother a once-over. “You’re alive.”

Joel rubbed at his eyes with a groan, still half-asleep and in no mood for whatever this was. “Yeah, barely. Ain’t got patrol. Why the hell you here so damn early?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately — just snorted and jerked his chin toward the house behind him. “Neighbors complainin’,” he said, barely holding back a grin. “Said they heard some woman screamin’ her head off last night. Thought maybe some infected made it past the gate.”

Joel’s stomach dropped, his eyes going wide. “ Shit, ” he muttered, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Tommy’s grin split wide as he let out a bark of laughter. “Relax, big brother. I told ‘em it was just you bein’ an animal. Didn’t even blink.”

Joel scowled, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Goddamn it, Tommy.”

“Hey,” Tommy chuckled, backing down the steps, clearly enjoying himself. “Least now the whole town knows you ain’t as old and tired as you look.”

Joel shot him a glare, but there was no real heat. “Keep runnin’ your mouth and see if you don’t end up limpin’ on patrol tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tommy quipped over his shoulder as he walked away.

Joel watched him go, shaking his head with amusement before shutting the door. He turned, grabbed two mugs off the shelf, and filled them with coffee, still grinning.

Carrying them upstairs, he peeked into the bedroom, finding you still curled under the covers, hair a wild, messy halo around your head.

“Hey, darlin’,” he murmured, setting the mugs down and crawling back beside you, kissing your shoulder. “You know we got the whole town talkin’?”

You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Joel Miller, if you tell me what I think you’re about to…”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Might’ve made ya scream a little too loud last night.”

You smacked his chest with a sleepy grin. “Next time, I’m gagging you.”

Joel’s laugh rumbled against your back as he wrapped you in his arms. “Fair’s fair, sweetheart. Fair’s fair.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fluff #joel miller pedro pascal #pedro pascal #joel x reader #tlou joel #joel tlou

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bluetimeombre · 2 months ago

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۶ৎ Mess of a man.

| Joel didn’t know why he’d let his little brother convince him a night at the bar was what he needed. But he might need to listen to him more. Smut!

[this is pure FILTH. I don’t know what came over me, I need this out my system and I need Joel in mine STAT. If you’re a minor pls don’t interact, this is not a safe space.]

Warnings; language, drinking, age gap (Joel is in his late forties, reader is 21) masturbation reference, daddy, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, oral (both receiving), over stimulation, come eating?let me know if I’ve missed anything

"Still haven't gotten your dick wet, huh?" was Tommy's way of greeting his brother.

Joel grumbled something, propping his foot on the coffee table in front of him. "Get lost, Tommy."

He'd thought that with his daughter, Sarah, at summer camp he'd get six weeks of peace, get work done, maybe take his daughter somewhere nice when she got back. But he forgot he had a brother and he forgot how annoying he was.

Sure, six weeks without his kid was a perfect and maybe a once-in-a-lifetime to get his dick 'wet' as Tommy put it. But he'd been out the game for years, out of practise. He wouldn't know how or who to approach.

"C'mon, what kind of brother would I be if I let you mope around alone in the house," he said, whacking Joel on the shoulder.

"A good one." Joel took a swing of his beer, watching the sport without knowing what team was doing what.

Tommy turned off the tv and snatched away Joel's beer, getting him up from the sofa. "There's a bar I know where everyone looking to get fucked goes, c'mon."

Joel decided he didn't want to know how his brother knew this place but as Tommy was already grabbing his truck keys and heading out the door. He'd be damned if he let Tommy drive his truck.

Yeah... that was why he was going...

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The bar was already loud when he and Tommy got there and ordered their beers. Joel would have one, maybe another if he was here long enough but then he'd go home and... see to himself if he had to.

It would have been nice to have something for the evening. It had been a long time and his own fist wasn't enough. He had a pick if he needed, he guessed. He wasn't immune to all the single middle aged mom's around him that would talk to him on the school drop off, invite him to one of their garden parties. Even some with rings on their fingers always lingered too long when shaking his hand or asking for some 'construction' advice.

But none of them did anything for him.

Tommy patted his brother on the back as he winked at the lady behind the bar. "See anything you like, yet?"

They'd been there... what? Ten minutes.

Then yes, he saw something he liked and his jaw almost dropped.

Tommy spotted the way he stilled and followed his gaze. "Holy shit."

You were with three girls- your friends, Joel assumed- and a guy hanging onto you, an arm draped around your hips. You were nursing a drink, laughing with your friends, tongue darting out to the straw of your cocktail.

Joel was done. He knew it immediately.

You were only twenty-one, young and beautiful and worse, Sarah's baby-sitter. Sure, his daughter was fourteen but on the late nights he had to work he didn't like to leave her alone.

Enter you. Good grades, polite, always called him Mr Miller like it wasn't the hottest thing. You stayed every night Joel needed to work, you cooked for Sarah, even ensured there was left overs for Joel and Tommy sometimes.

You'd tidy when he never asked, you never drank the beers he left for you. You were perfect.

And Joel knew, the first day you'd baby-sat his daughter over a year ago he'd made a mistake. He knew it when he watched you walk down his porch, when he started offering you lifts home and wishing you'd accept, when he had a wet dream like a horny teenager and it was you under him.

This was some cruel joke.

As if you could hear his thoughts your eyes caught over the noise of the bar. There was shock registering first and then you were dismissing your group to walk over to the Millers.

Joel gulped when he spotted what you were wearing. A tight high collared shirt, your hair pinned and the shortest skirt with heels.

Like a present to be un-wrapped...

"If it isn't the Miller brothers," you grinned.

"Hey darlin'," Tommy greeted first, reaching up to give you a small hug.

Joel's jaw clenched as you hugged him back. But Tommy was respectful, hands staying high on your body. Better than Joel would do.

You pulled away and smiled at Joel. "Mr Miller."

He nodded, taking a swig of his beer as he watched your tongue dart out in search for the straw. Fuck.

Tommy held a hand on your back. "I gotta take a leak, keep him company would you."

Joel didn't know what kind of game his little brother was playing.

"Of course," you smiled, sliding into the seat Tommy had vacated. "Don't I strive to look after the Millers."

Tommy chuckled and winked at Joel as he disappeared into the crowd.

"Hi there," he drawled.

You smiled. Maybe it was the lighting, or the alcohol, but your eyes were darker than he'd ever noticed. "Hey. Didn't expect to see you here tonight."

"Sarah's at camp," he said. He was painfully aware you knew. You hadn't been around in two weeks because he'd had no reason to ask you. Well, no appropriate reason.

"She enjoying it?" you threw a leg over yours, grazing his leg as you did.

"Think so," he said, "what about you, huh? Enjoyin' your freedom?"

You chuckle. "You know I love working for you, Mr Miller."

"Joel," he corrected you. He took a swing of his beer, watching you watch him.

"Jo-el," you draw out his name.

Something in Joel stirred, his pants couldn't be growing tighter, right? Thank god for the dim lighting.

He cleared his throat. "So this is where the kids hang out these days, huh?"

"I dunno about kids?" you said, leaning your body over slightly. "Am I a kid?"

Joel let his eyes wander down. The expanse of your legs, the skirt riding up your thighs and the way your chest rose and fell with your breath. Then slowly, he trailed back up your body. "I guess not."

Of all those times he'd watched you from the porch, you'd always looked back at him at least once, maybe twice to give a little wave as he leaned on the door. Or when you'd started accepting his lifts home and would always linger in his seat when he turned the engine off, the two of you leaning over the console and chattering a bit longer. Or when it came to staying to watch a game with him when Sarah had gone to bed when he knew you hated sport.

Of all those times he'd never let his mind wander as much as it was not.

"Tommy dragged me out," said Joel, taking more of his beer.

"He dragged you?" you chuckled. "You didn't want to come?"

"I'm glad I did," he said.

You take a longer sip of your drink, nodding. "I'm glad you did too."

Joel watched you a second as you tilted your head, a small tilt to your head. "You wanna another drink?" he asked. He wasn't even sure how much you'd had already. Was all this new look and attitude the cocktails talking?

"I should be good," you muse.

Joel decided in that moment he'd either spend the rest of the night in your company, or go home alone. "Your friends not missing you?" he didn't even want to look back at your friends maybe waiting for you. Or that guy watching you.

You also didn't care to look back. "Let them."

Joel smirked as he brought his bottle to his lips. "Atta girl."

He heard your intake of breath and felt satisfied. Your leg kicked off your other one and had grazed his, going down and down and he was sure you weren't doing this on accident. Not anymore.

"You can't say things like that," you chuckle, shuffling in your seat.

God, your thighs were pressing together tightly. Such a pretty sight...

You leaned over in your seat. "Do you know how many women would kill to hear you say that to them?"

"Well, i'm saying it to you, ain't I?"

You look at him through your lashes and Joel's legs widen to accommodate for the rising need in his crotch. It was wrong. It was so wrong. It was crossing a line. "I think I'll take that drink, if you're still offering?"

Joel nods and waved someone over to get you the same. The two of you talked a little more as you waited, your drink sliding over moments later.

"It must get lonely," you said, fingers dancing around the condensation of the glass. "That house all alone."

It seemed both of you had forgot about Tommy at that point.

The game being played between the two of you suddenly seemed real to Joel. "You tryin' to get an invite over?"

"Maybe."

You didn't miss a beat.

Joel looked at you. People were piling into the bar, music was being played but all he could focus on was you.

Your hand darted out, your fingers grazing his knee.

He looked down at his knee, where you touched him. Could you make out the dent in his jeans. "You know, i'm old enough to be your father."

"So should I start calling you daddy?"

He chocked on his beer. He managed to finish it, smirking to himself. "You got a mouth on you."

"You started it looking at me like that."

Joel rested against the bar. "I'm your employer."

You shrug. "And i'm not at work."

Joel looked around the bar and found his brother making out with a woman at the furthest end. He was sorted. "Why do you hang out here, huh kid?" if what Tommy told him was true he wasn't sure he could handle the idea of you coming here, looking out for someone that wasn't him.

You shrug. "It's a good bar, good drinks, good company usually."

"Usually?" he teased, his hands on his thighs. "You know, Tommy told me some filthy things around this place."

You lick your lips, holding back amusement. "Really?" you stand to your feet, leaning on the bar closer to him. You slot perfectly between his thighs.

His hand danced close to your hip but didn't touch you. Not yet. "People come here for one thing."

"Enlighten me, Joel."

His name from your lips made his brain fuzzy, effecting him more than any beer. But he couldn't do it, god, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Of the counter. Of how good you'd look bent over the counter, tight skirt bunched up at your hips.

But the words failed with him.

It was like you could tell, like you knew every move of his and every twitch.

You take one more sip of your drink before sliding it over the counter.

Joel watched as you got to your feet and worry rose on him. Worry he'd lose all he wanted.

"I'm going around the back, i'm going to be there for two minutes before I call an uber to go home. See you."

You meant it to. He watched you walk off, only briefly waving to your friends as you wove in and out of the people.

You were giving him two minutes to fuck over his life.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You waited, and waited for what you thought was two minutes. Truth be told you didn’t have a watch and lingering around the back of the bar probably wasn’t the greatest idea.

You could tap your foot and wait, rethinking your words and actions and hope that every time the door swung open, it would be your boss.

Joel fucking Miller. What game were you playing? More to the point, what was he doing?

Looking at you like that, carelessly letting his eyes wander as he imagined everything he wanted to do to you? You weren’t immune to his looks, his touches that lasted too long and the way he always watched you walk up to your front door, the engine only roaring once you were safe inside.

But now it seemed- faced with the ultimatum of fucking you or leaving you as nothing but his daughter’s babysitter- he was choosing the latter.

You’d really thought your lonely nights with only toys and fingers for company may have been rectified.

As you push yourself off the wall you really thought-

A sudden strong and rough hand grabbed your wrist and turned you back until you were against the wall and until lips were on yours.

You knew the scent, knew the strength of the body as Joel Miller pressed himself against you, groaning and licking into your lips.

You hands are in his hair, tugging at the curls of black and grey as you let him feel all your body, his arms caging you in and hand dragging down and down and-

"That was three minutes, sweet girl," Joel’s beard scratched your neck as he dragged his lips over your pulse.

You hold back a moan. The music in the bar was loud and the only people coming this way were the ones looking for a quick piss. Still you wanted nobody to stop this. "Wanted to give you a chance."

He nodded into your neck, biting the skin and winning a gasp from you. Joel tilted his head back, searching your gaze that only saw him. "Tell me you want this."

You nod. "I want it."

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb dragging down your bottom lip. He watched, entranced. "You’d let me down anything, wouldn’t you?" He whispered, looking as if he wasn’t all there. That some part of his mind was already fucking you against the wall.

You lower your head until you can reach the pad of his thumb, kissing the tip. "I want it."

"Oh, fuck baby," he groaned, pushing the pad of his thumb further into your mouth. Promises of things to come. "You’re gonna kill me sweet girl."

Your hand ran down his stomach until it meant the tightness of his pants and running up and down until you could feel the press of his length in your palm.

Joel indulged for a minute. His thumb in the warmth of his mouth while your other hand rubbed him right. Then he snapped back into reality as the door banged on the wall.

Not there.

Against himself, he took his thumb from you and grabbed your wrist, alerting you.

"I need your word that if we do this, Sarah doesn’t find out," he said sternly.

You chuckled. "Well I’m hardly gonna tell her I screwed her dad, am I?"

"Hey," he held one finger in front of your face, defying your smirk. "Your word, little miss, or I can drop you off home and you can watch while I take care of the problem you created."

You gulped. Maybe for a moment you forgot it was Mr Miller you were affronted with. Quickly, you nodded your head.

"Good girl," he surged forward and sucked on the bottom of your lip, his hips digging into yours. He groaned as you ground on him, nails digging into his biceps. "Feel wha’ you do to me, huh? You know how many times I’ve had to fuck my own fist and think of you?"

You practically melt at his words, leaning back into the wall. "Joel… please."

"Please what? Huh?" he taunted, rutting his clothed hips into your own, biting down on his lip as you threw your head back, moaning at the sensation. "C'mon, tell me what you want. Be a good girl and say it."

"I want you to fuck me," you whispered.

Joel scoffed. He left his hips against yours. He tutted. "I'm an old man, darlin', you're gonna have to speak up."

"Fuck me!" you all but screamed, desperation turning you into a mess.

Joel grabbed your hand and started to drag you from the alleyway, searching around as if his daughter might pop up out of nowhere.

You couldn't care less, didn't think about the group of friends you were leaving, or the guy that wanted you. Your hand circled over Joel's stomached t shirt, nails scratching as you leant into his side, lips marking up his neck.

"Fuck, baby," Joel groaned as he searched in his pocket for his keys. You joined the search, your fingers searching all around the dent in his jeans. "Fucking desperate, aren't you, huh?"

"Can't wait, Joel," you whisper in his ear, lips brushing, shivers running down his spine as you squeezed his crotch. "Please baby."

Joel grunted. He was practically shaking with the need to fuck you, to feel you against him. To have his hands wander all over you and memorise the way you moaned under him. There was so much more he wanted. Wanted to have you scream, wanted your neck bruised with his love and his back to carry the scratches from you.

He just needed.

"Fuck," he couldn't believe he was being so reckless. Couldn't believe that with a kiss and a grope you had rendered him a horny teenager. "Get in the back, babygirl."

He held open the door and practically pushed you in, climbing over you.

You jumped into his lap as soon as the door slammed shut and Joel chucked his keys somewhere to the front. Your lips worked against his, claiming it as yours and invading an unknown territory. You moaned as his tongue ran against yours and sucked it into his own mouth.

His hands were warm and large as they gripped your ass harshly, a soft slap echoing around his truck.

"You gonna let me slide my fingers into your pussy, baby?" he asked against your lips.

You moaned.

"Hey!" he grabbed your chin, pulling you back to stare at him. Your lips were already red and swollen. "You gotta talk to me baby. You want my fingers? Say yes."

"Yes please," you say, catching your breath. Your chest felt heavy, your pussy throbbing. "Please, want your fingers."

Joel smirked, finger tips brushing under the band of your skirt. "So polite."

The space at the back of his truck was small and cramped but he'd be lying if he hadn't thought about this. Hadn't thought about you in the back of his truck, cock stuffed down your throat or his face buried in your thighs.

All those times he'd taken you back, it had never been as innocent as he would let on.

But having you in his lap, begging for it, practically drooling with just his words, he had a feeling you weren't as innocent as you'd always made out to be.

Joel let the elastic of your skirt slap into place, causing you to jolt into him. As you jolted, he used the leverage of your hips to pull your skirt up and feel under you. "Jesus baby- you're soaked."

His finger slid up the cloth of your panties, collecting the dampness and smearing it.

You gasp as he presses into your pussy, pushing the cloth into you. "Joel please, I asked so nice."

"You did, sweet girl, you did," he nodded, watching as your eyes squeezed shut. "Hey- eyes on me baby, right here." He gently slapped the under part of your chin to get you to look at him as he easily hooked your panties to the side and sunk a finger in.

You hum out a moan, head tilted back.

Joel found the crevice of your neck, dragging his beard against the soft skin and relishing in the red that bloomed. "You like it? You like my fingers inside your heat? God, you're so warm."

"Like it," you nod, eyes shutting again.

Joel groaned low in his throat as he grabbed your chin and forced your forehead against his. "You keep your eyes on me, you understand me. Or i'll drop you off home. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr Miller."

"Oh-" Joel sunk his ring finger in until he was knuckle deep. "You're so good for me."

You tighten around the feel of his fingers. He's barely curling them and already you're squirming at the sound of your own slick.

"Ride my fingers, babygirl, gowan' now."

Obediently you started to move, riding his hand. His rough palm moved with you. His mouth remained open in a small 'o' as you wither against him, moaning.

Joel couldn't help the filth that spilled from his mouth. But with every clench you gave around his fingers, you didn't seem to mind.

"So good for me... such a good girl,"

"Dirty too, riding me in the back of the truck you and Sarah ride in."

"Fuck, i've dreamt of this, you look so good with my fingers stuffed inside of you."

At his encouragement you grip his shoulders, moving faster until your skirt is ridging up your hips and the little wisps of your hair are sticking to your forehead from sweat.

His thumb pressed down on your puffy and begging clit.

"Shit- ah- fuck!"

Joel's hips involuntarily bucked up to yours. "You wanna cum, sweet girl?"

You bite down on your lip, nodding and looking at where his forearm- taunt and veiny- disappeared under you.

Joel rested his head next to yours, kissing the sweat at your neck. "Tough baby, you're so dirty. Dirty girls have to do a lot of waiting till they get their reward."

Slowly, he retracts his fingers.

"Look at all this mess," he tutted, looking at how his fingers glistened with your need. He pats your hips, "up."

You fall onto the seat next to him, legs spread and head resting back on the car door.

You watch as Joel lifts his hips, un-buckling his belt as he starts to pull off his boxers and jeans. Your foot danced over to his lap but he impatiently pushes it away.

"You want to cum, don't you?" he asked, sending you a dark look. His hand grabs your ankle as you nod and kisses the bare skin above your heel. "Then behave."

The hand that you had just been riding wrapped around his cock and brought it out.

Your mouth opened as you stared at the beauty of the thing. He was big, bigger than you'd seen and bigger than you'd dare dreamed. He shone with pre-cum and your arousal as he spread what was on his fingers. His hand worked himself up and down as he relaxed back in his seat.

He looked over at you. "Eyes up here, baby."

Your gaze flicked up to him. "So pretty, Joel."

He chuckled and tugged himself. "Always knew you'd like it. God, you've no idea the things i've dreamt."

"Tell me. Please."

Joel leaned his head back, moving up and down his length slowly as he re-called every filthy dream his mind conjured. "Your hands wrapping around me. Your mouth being so warm and wet as you fuckin' choke on it. God, bet your throat's not used to a man's cock, huh? Only used to boys, ain't that right?"

He opened his eyes, peeking at you.

You'd dared closer to him, leaning over. You nodded.

"Bet that kid in there was hoping you'd give him a chance," he went on, his other hand coming up and thumb and forefinger tugging at your chin. "He didn't stand a chance as soon as you saw me, did he?"

You shake your head, shuffling closer into his side.

He jerked your head toward him. "Answer me."

"Only want you, Joel," you tell him.

You lick your lips, eyes darting from him to his leaking cock. The tip was red, begging for attention. "Can I- Can I please?"

Joel stroked back your hair. "Go on then, baby. Have a play." He stretched his arms along the back of the truck and watched to see you move.

But Joel quickly realised you didn't come around to play.

You'd always seemed so innocent- so un-knowing- when you looked after Sarah, when you helped him clean down the kitchen, when he'd offer you lifts back or to stay over you'd always blush and lower your head.

You were lowering it now, throwing your hair back over your shoulder and holding the base of him.

First, you touch him with your lips lightly and he smiles, daring not to think this might be the only time he lets you touch him like this. Your lips are so pretty and pink, swollen and wet from kissing him as you drag them along the sides.

Then you pepper kisses along the skin and start moving your hand around the base.

"You really gonna tease me?"

"Wanna take my time," you mumble into his though, kissing the skin.

Next, your hand cups his balls that were heavy with need. He wasn't exaggerating, it had been years since his last good fuck and no amount of jerking himself off to the thought of you could satisfy him. As your fingers played with his balls, rolling them around and giving them warmth and attention they craved, you made out with the tip of his cock.

You collected his pre-cum with your lips and tongue while still fondling him.

He could feel his shirt stick to him, his chest rising and falling quicker. Shittin-fuck. How was he supposed to last if this was what you were giving him?

"Easy, baby, easy," he eased you, stroking back your hair.

He knew you heard cause you were smirking then opening your mouth and taking him deep, almost all the way in one.

Joel groaned and grabbed the door. "Shit-ah-"

He didn't care if he wasn't far from the bar. Didn't care if anyone tried to get a look in through the fogging up windows. He didn't care if Tommy came by and applauded him for getting his dick wet. All he cared for was the feel of your wet mouth all the way down him, spit drooling down his cock.

You were doing so well and he wanted you to know.

"You wanna take me deep, huh?" he grunted, clutching onto your hair and holding you down. You gagged around him. He chuckled. "I'm not even all the way in there. You got room for more?"

You dragged your mouth up, taking a deep breath and nodding. You wiped your mouth from the mess you made and went in again.

This time, you took him again and again, deeper, bobbing him in your throat until he was a grunting and groaning mess. His hips moved of their own accord, shoving himself in even when there was nowhere else to go.

But the sounds of gagging, of his balls slapping against his own thighs as he moved, of the moans coming out of you were enough to almost having him finishing in your mouth. Almost.

He wanted to, boy did he, but he wouldn't, not until your cunt had swallowed him.

Joel pulled you up, letting you release him with a pop. "Want to be inside, need to be inside."

The truck wasn't the best place but it was the only place he had for you. He wished he could give you a bed, give your hours to welcome him, but Joel needed like he'd never needed. He imagined this is what starvation was, having your treat dangled in front of you.

And you were moving with him, lying down on the back seats, legs accommodating him as he slid in between you.

Joel gently pulled down your panties and stuffed them in the back of his pocket. If he was gonna have to jerk himself off to thoughts of you again, having your soaked panties was the least he deserved.

He glanced down at your swollen pussy and salivated.

Your hand trailed down, circling your clit as you moaned at the time he was taking.

Joel grabbed your wrist, bringing it up to his mouth and nipped at the skin. "Only I get to touch, yeah, babygirl?"

"Yes," you answered, breathless.

Joel loomed over you, bringing the tip of his leaking cock to smear himself over your folds. "Tommy told me somethin' real interestin'. Ask me what?"

"I don't- I don't care about Tommy, right now," you grab his shoulders, trying to pull him forward.

"He tol' me-" Joel strained, his lips brushing yours. It wasn't just your torture he wad delivering. It was his own. "He said people go to that bar to get fucked. Is that why you were there?"

For a moment you seemed shocked to hear it. Then the palm of your hand held his cheek, running over the stubble.

"Worked, didn't it?" you teased.

Joel sunk into you with ease. "Yeah."

He hid his face in your neck as you arched your back into him. 'Take it, take it,' he spoke into your skin, tattooing the words there.

"Joel-" you gasped, holding onto his back. "Fuck!"

"You're ok, baby. You're ok, babygirl," his breath was short. He needed to feel you more, the half way in wasn't enough. "Fuck, you grip me so well."

You gasp, holding him in you. "Need-need more."

"I dunno baby, you think you got it?" he teased.

"Yes, yes."

"What have I said about speaking up?"

You groan, throwing your head back on the seat. "Fuck me, please Joel!"

With a grunt loud enough to be heard outside, Joel sunk further into you. 'Shit, yeah.... fuck,' spilled from his lips as he slowly took himself out of you before sinking in all the way again.

"You feel me?" asked Joel. He held himself up over you because he'd be damned if he wasn't gonna watch you fall apart on his dick.

"Feel it, feel you everywhere," you mumble.

You really did. You felt the soft seats of his truck, smelt him everywhere. The smell of old cologne, cigarettes (though you were sure he didn't smoke) and new wood. It wasn't just his cock sinking into you but his voice as he mumbled filthy things in your ear. His hand dragged down your face, gripping your neck. Not tight enough to cut airways but tight enough to make you squeeze him.

He stuttered, "sh-shit. If you do that again I won't last," he told you. "And I want you to come first."

"Then fuck me Joel," you said, looking up at him.

Joel looked down to where he disappeared into you. You were already rocking your hips into his, desperate for something- anything. His hand pushed back some of your hair as he stared at you with something more than need. Desire. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Wasn't it? Wasn't it everything you wanted since he first laid a hand on your shoulder and led you into his home, welcoming you to his life. "Yes."

His thumb dragged out your bottom lip before his lips were smashing onto yours, wet and sloppy as his thrusts increased.

He moved his hips in and out rapidly, giving you no more time to adjust. It wasn't long before he had to release your lips to breathe.

"Ah- shit!" you yelled.

"That's it baby, be as loud as you like. Let the whole fucking street know who's fucking you," he panted. His hands were at your neck, holding the both of you steady.

"Joel!"

"Shit! You feel so good!"

Joel tugged down your top, not in the mood to care if it rips. It's not like he was letting you back in that bar. He pulled out your tits and latched onto them like a child, nipping at the nipple.

Your hand winds itself in his hair, pulling at the roots and throwing your body into his. You could feel his cock stretch you, the pain mixing delightfully with the pleasure. With every thrust he tipped you closer and closer onto the ledge and as his warm, wet mouth sucked on your nipple, the other hand squeezing and playing with the other, you knew it would be the best orgasm of your life.

"I'm gonna, arg-"

Joel licked around your nipple. "Not yet."

"Joel!"

"Hold it!"

He pushed himself up, holding onto the back of the seats as he used the position to put a foot on the ground and fuck into you harder.

The windows were steamed, your bodies slick with sweat.

The truck was fucking shaking at how hard he was moving you.

You threw a hand out behind you to hold onto the door, bracing yourself as you rocked your body into his.

Joel threw his head back, his neck stretching you and tempting you. "Best fucking pussy out there. And I've been wasting you as a babysitter."

"Yours," you mumble. He hadn't even asked and you were giving him the promise.

His lips tilted into a lobsided smirk as he leaned closer to you. "You mine, huh? All mine? My girl, my pussy?"

"Yes," you nod.

For a minute you can only hear your breaths with the sound of his hips slapping into yours.

Joel's fingers dig into your thighs and bring your leg up to wrap around his waist. "Mine," he all but growled into your chest, nipping at the skin. "Show me. Show me you're mine. Cum."

He thrusted into you hard, his thumb holding your stomach down and playing with your clit until you were coming all over his cock. 'That's it baby... all over me.... there's a good girl.... keep coming,'

Joel fucked you throughout. He had his own finish to reach but watching you fall apart, your mouth open in a silent gasp as your fingers claw into his shoulders.

He cupped your chin, smiling down at you. "You gonna help an old man out?"

You were in no state to, coming down from your highest high.

Joel cupped your ass and lifted you from the seats that were slowly soaking in both of yours juices. "Ah-" he yelled out at the new angle he was reaching, his balls heavy hitting your pussy. "Yeah- there- just there baby."

"Joel!" you yell. "S'to much."

"No it's not," he shook his head. His eyes were screwed up as sweat rolled down his cheeks. "You can take it. You know you can."

Your pussy was throbbing, squeezing him so intensely you didn't know how he was still moving.

You bit down on your lip as you watched him concentrating hard. You test the waters, wrapping your legs around his waist until your entire lower body was in his weight.

"Fuck!" Joel's jaw clenched as he looked down at you, his fingertips digging into the skin of your soft thighs until he was sure bruises would be there for only him to see. "I'm gonna... shit- Where you want it?"

"Inside, please," you mewl.

Joel looked at you, danger in his eyes. "No, baby, we can't."

You nod and squeeze his hips. "I'm on the pill."

The words were heaven to his ears.

You squeeze around him and Joel yelled out, falling atop you as he spilled out inside of you.

"Take it! Take it! Fucking let me- let me in!" he yelled, hips stuttering as he fell into you. One of your legs remained around him but the other he let drop, holding it weakly.

You were sure you were still coming down from your high as his hips stuttered on yours. You could feel every drop of him smear on your pussy and leak out.

Then Joel's fingers danced around the space his cock was softening in you, pushing it all back in.

His brows rose as he looked down, a shaking laugh coming out. "I-"

You didn't want to hear the words that came after. The regret. The 'we shouldn't have' or 'think about Sarah'. You just wanted this moment of feeling held and cared for by Joel to last a little longer.

Your lips move against his slowly, tasting the salt of sweat from the both of you on there.

He didn't push you away, he just held his lips close to yours, in small and attentive brushes. "How do you feel?" he whispered, pulling back enough to look around your eyes.

"Good," you nod, "real fucking good."

Joel chuckled and looked down. Slowly, as not to hurt you, he pulled out.

You moaned at the sudden emptiness in you, lying there to catch your breath and so you didn't have to prepare for regret in his face.

But it seemed regret was the last thing on Joel's mind.

He had no idea what kind of animal was possessing him or just how far his need went. But when he fell back against the door, listening out to the low drum from the bar, he saw your swollen cunt. Red and white. Red from how hard he'd fucked you and white from the mixture of you and him.

Something growled inside of him- maybe it was him- but before either of you understood what was happening, Joel lunged back in and spread your thigs, diving in.

You lurched up onto your elbows, looking down at him. You could see the top of his hair, his eyes closed and you could feel his nose moving around you and nudging you. "Joel, what are you- holy-"

Joel hummed into your pussy. It was heaven on his tongue, dripping into him. So sweet and all you. He'd never felt closer to a person before. Never felt such a need. He was slobbering like a damn dog over your pussy.

"What the fuck have you done to me, huh," he'd pulled back only enough so you could understand his words.

Neither of you were sure if he was talking to you or what laid between your legs.

He opened up your pussy and went in, tongue fucking into you. He was caught between wanting to push his spill back into you and eating you out till you were dry.

"Joel!" you screamed, voice breaking. "You-you can't-"

"I fucking can," he snarled. His face was being pushed into your cunt as he shook it, smearing both of you all over him.

There was nothing you could say or do before your legs trembled and you came all over his beard and lips. You didn't know what to do, whether to push him off you or pull you closer.

Joel held your hips into his mouth and groaned as he took in everything you gave him.

Every flick of his tongue had you shaking. Every time he gripped your thighs you made a noise of pleasure.

Hours might have passed since he first discovered heaven between your thighs before he pulled himself out.

His face was wet with you. It was sinful and like nothing you could ever imagine. "Look at what you've fucking done to me."

You'd made an absolute mess.

4K notes · View notes

alexispunkkk · 2 months ago

Text

the giver

- pairing: joel x reader x tommy

- summary: the ‘sweetheart’ of jackson has both the miller brothers wrapped around her finger—and they’re ready to take what she’s willing to give

- warnings: sex, threesome (m/m/f), rough sex, oral (m receiving), hair pulling, light spanking, cum eating/swallowing, sort of cucking, alcohol consumption, manhandling, creampie, light fingering, joel lovessss ass, kissing, neck kissing, thigh riding, orgasms

- word count: 10.3k 😮‍💨😮‍💨

very roughly inspired by the song ‘the giver’ by chappell roan…. writing that as i forgot about it being the inspo a third of the way through

on ao3

masterlist

Being the sweetheart of Jackson comes with its perks.

You’re not one to join patrol shifts. Not one to dig perimeter trenches or be on the lookout for infected or raiders in the distance. Hell, you barely raise your voice in town, and folks just seem to gravitate to you.

Not once have you had any real work to do like everyone else–you sit and look pretty while the world is practically in flames around you. The comfortable town of Jackson keeps you safe from the apocalyptic world outside, and it’s virtually all you know now. Just sunsets dusted over the sky like gold, wooden porches, horses, movies every Friday night.

It’s never too serious with you, and that’s how you like to keep it. You have the freedom to head out to bars and drink your heart away, sing alone and spend your time however you like it.

Nobody expects much out of you. You’re always in your pretty cowboy boots and tiny tanks, glossed lips, baking for your neighbors and planting flowers.

Maybe it’s your baking. Sugar-dusted pies and muffins that everyone swears are to die for. Or maybe the wildflowers you insist on planting on wooden walkways to bring pops of color to the town saddened by the reality of the outbreak. Or, it could be your smile–looking stitched by sunlight, a certain sweetness that can only come with a warning.

The rumors say you came from a QZ in Colorado, wearing boots too clean for the end of the world. Some women are skeptical, but many of the men in town are stunned. Two, in particular. They’re wrapped around your pretty finger.

And you, on the other hand, don’t care. You wear that sneaky smile proudly and walk around Jackson calling everyone ‘darling.’ Handing out cookies to children, making friends with the community’s animals alongside Ellie, and sending an occasional wink to the many older and married men of the little ‘commie’ town. Cowboys are a favorite of yours.

You don’t normally need a map to find trouble–or to find men. They find you, and you hear it in the boots clacking on porches and smell it in the sweat and whiskey of Saturday night bonfires.

You’ve learned how to read a glance. To read pauses, sense held breaths. Quite familiarized with stares.

It’s in your nature.

So, you sit and look pretty on a daily basis, humming along to old country songs with the warmest voice and making your rounds. While you don’t have your own job, you seem to always help everyone else. You’re a giver.

When a job needs to be done, they know they can call you.

And that’s why everyone seems so devout to you–Jackson’s angel and heartbreaker all at once.

Tommy Miller, though, is a flirt. The man could sweet talk a bloater if he thought it’d wink back. The kind that talks to anything that breathes–but in an effective manner.

He’s attractive. A smile that belongs on a billboard and the warmest laugh ever that makes women peek over their shoulders. Lucky for Jackson, there weren’t many billboards left–so Tommy’s handsome face is kept safe in the borders of the town.

And unlucky for you, the man knows how to work that charm a little too well. Often in your direction.

A walking distraction dressed in boots and a perfect Southern twang, he carries himself well despite going through hell–still comes out the other side with a wink and the occasional joke. Where his brother, Joel, is more silence and tension, Tommy is easy laughter and a lazy arm slung around your waist. Before you can even realize he’s too close.

He always seems to be smiling, even if his mouth physically isn’t.

And it’s unfair. It makes you forget what you’re doing. What day it is. Your own name.

Tommy’s hair is always a little tousled by the wind, messy like he’d just taken off a hat or came in from a horse ride. His tan and freckled face seems to season him, and he wears it proudly. Comfortably. He’s gorgeous.

Strong, sure, after years of patrol and learning to fend and survive after the outbreak. But he doesn’t wear it. He’s laid back, like he’s not trying to intimidate, like he’s so casual and comfortable in his own skin that he doesn’t feel the need to flaunt. He’s the embodiment of warmth wrapped into a gorgeous body of a man–steady hands and touches.

An occasional shoulder bump, knee grazing yours under the table. Even his arm slung around your shoulders while he plants a wet kiss on your rosy cheek during a bonfire. Each touch lingers just enough to make you wonder whether or not he meant it, or if he’s just that friendly.

Joel, on the other hand, is a harder read.

Tommy is all sunshine stirred into sawdust, and Joel is dusk. Slower movements, eyes that see more than he lets on–he doesn’t say as much as his brother. He’s older, and you can tell. You sometimes see him holding the small of his back when he stands up or hear the crack of his knees when he leans down.

And when he does talk, it’s usually gruffer and quieter. About something pragmatic, not flirtatious in the slightest.

He fixes fences, carries crates by, drops things off you don’t ask for with a small “figured you could use it.”

Not much for compliments.

But he watches, and you enjoy that. The quiet is nice sometimes in contrast to Tommy’s outward flirtation and neverending sweet talk. From across the town square, behind his guitar, over the rim of his coffee mug at his favorite diner in Jackson–he’s always just there. Watching.

Noticing you. The feeling of his dark eyes burning into you makes the rest of the world go quiet, even managing to mute a drunk Tommy on saturday nights.

Joel has the raw and rough kind of beauty that also doesn’t flaunt itself, but creeps up on you. Broad hands, calloused and rough and capable from years of both contracting and fighting infected. His forearms are tanned from work, sleeves always pushed up to keep out of the way. A salt-and-pepper scruff covering his jaw that doesn’t behave very well, and his hair always sloppily pushed back with his hand.

Compared to Tommy, it’s like he doesn’t own a mirror. Rugged and hardened and messy but so, so gorgeous. Carries himself like a man. The most masculine you’ve ever seen. Big frame, thick and warm like a large space heater. Makes you wonder if all of him is that big.

He’s older, but not in a way that makes him seem out of place. More like he’s earned the scars and little creaks and marks dug into the crevices of his handsome face. He looks like a fighter and still doesn’t deserve to rest, like he’s carrying something you can’t figure out.

And his voice–god–his voice. Gravelly, but smooth and bourbon-like, hiding something a little dangerous beneath it’s drawl. Everything about him gets to you. The way he keeps greater distance, doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t let himself get close like his brother does, but it ruins you even more.

So you flirt a little more with Tommy when Joel’s around. Maybe you like watching him try not to look.

Yes, ma’am. No, darlin.’

Their matching Texan accents ring in your head, drawing you to them while you head out in Jackson with an unsurprising batch of cookies–baked to perfection and nestled in tupperware–in your arms.

The sun today is high, but not cruel, casting a warmth over the town that makes it look as golden and sugary as the pies you normally whip up. Kids are running barefoot down the road while their fathers work on splitting wood. Someone is playing their radio out of an open window.

You can hear the faint and tinny country music over the hum of townspeople going about their normal afternoon routines. Taking your time for a nice stroll, you have an apron tied around your waist and maybe a hint of flour streaked across your denim-clad thigh. Like your badge of honor.

And, like always, you’re not in a rush. What’s the rush when there's a dozen voices calling out to you when you pass by the men working?

“Smells like cinnamon again.” One calls out, giving you a charming smirk while obnoxiously chewing on his gum. Hot.

You laughed, but waved them off. Okay, maybe you gave him a wink.

But it’s just a batch of cookies, nothing too fancy. Chocolate chip with a sprinkle of coarse sea salt on top for the added flavor: your signature. You’re not trying to cause a stir, it just comes to you. People happen to notice when you walk by, smelling of baked goods and looking like the sweetest girl Wyoming has ever seen.

And then, like an answer to a distant prayer, there he is. Your favorite of Jackson’s men.

Tommy Miller, shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his broad chest and shoulder blades with streaks of sweat. He’s standing in the gravel yard beside a pile of fresh cut logs. An axe in one hand and a rag in the other.

He’s mid-wiping the sweat off his forehead when he catches sight of you, dragging it along the back of his neck right after while he presents his usual ever-charming smile. Cheeky, but slow. And so, so handsome.

Normally, you just shoot him a smile and offer a small glance up and down–occasionally narrowing in on his crotch. So you do the same–smile, wave, move on with your day.

“Hey, hold on.” This time, his voice pulls you back. Easy, like he doesn’t want the moment to end quite yet. Needs a good look at you, a taste of the cookies you’re holding. Maybe of something else.

He seems to take interest in the outfit under your apron when you stop: a pretty little white tank made of cotton and decorated with innocent lace. Big jeans held up by a dark cherry-colored red belt, matching maroon cowgirl boots thrown on your feet. And maybe he wants to know if what you’re wearing underneath would match the so-perfectly planned boots and belt technique.

He doesn’t move, not really. One hand is still resting on the axe handle, the other now supporting his weight against the chopping block. Leaned over and propped up on his hand, shamelessly checking you out. Sweaty. Gorgeous.

“You in a rush? He smiles, tilting his head just slightly to the left.

“Uh-uh. Not unless there’s a line somewhere waiting on these cookies.”

You giggle and lift the tupperware, showing off the newest batch of everyone’s favorite sweets. Better than the bakery’s, that’s for sure. Your smile distracts him for a second, the pretty gloss pasted over your lips luring him in like a siren.

Tommy chuckles, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. Kind of makes him look like an asshole. But you like it.

“As far as I know, I’m the only one who should be getting a fresh one.” He raises his eyebrows, letting go of the chopping block of wood and setting his trusty axe down. He steps closer, resting his thick fingers on the lid of the container.

“Please?”

He looks down at you, a manipulative smirk crossing his face. His gaze is switching between your face–your lips, eyes, freckled skin–to the batch of cookies you’re supporting. Almost begging.

When he moves closer, you catch a whiff of his scent. Most people wouldn’t exactly enjoy the smell of a man’s sweat after chopping wood for an hour in the summer, wearing a long sleeve shirt, but something about it is alluring to you. Anything that relates to masculinity is alluring to you, really. Musk and the faint scent of cedar from his cologne that was barely holding on but also accentuated by the aroma of the wood surrounding you.

“Fine. One.” You give in to that smile, any woman would. Stepping back, you set the container down on a nearby block of wood, crouching down next to it. You flick your hair back and Tommy is soon gazing at your profile now, the way you bite your lip in focus to get a cookie out for him. Also, the way your ass looks when you crouch down in the dust like that.

You grab one with a napkin, shutting the lid and standing back up to return to him.

“Here. Guess you’re special today. These are actually meant for the preschool.”

Tommy looks at you for a moment, and this time, his flirting is a little quieter. Muted. Softer. “Special? Not sure I’ve heard that one before.”

You roll your eyes, handing him the warm treat carefully before crossing your arms over your chest.

“Then nobody’s been looking close enough.” You snort, motioning for him to try the cookie. Your words shut him up for a second, eyes flicking up and down as if deciding something. Looking for the right kind of words.

But he ignores the feeling, taking a big bite of the cookie. You watch his lips as his teeth sink down into the dessert, the way his tongue darts out to clean the crumbs off his bottom lip while he chews.

And, as usual, his face displays his reaction to the taste shamelessly. He leans his head back, the cookie eliciting a small groan of pleasure from the back of his throat. His head bobs up and down with a nod of approval, of complete satisfaction at the taste of a single bite.

Upon swallowing, he looks down at the treat in his hand and grumbles in delight. “Mmhm. Sweetheart, that’s it. You’ve mastered it this time.”

His reaction is a little dramatic, but it makes you laugh. Makes you proud. Draws out that sweet giggle of yours that he loves so much, which makes him proud in return.

“It’s the same recipe as always. I did not master it, sweetheart.” You answer, playfully mocking the nickname he likes to use on you. Something about the way that Tommy is an expert flirt changes the way you flirt back. You don’t go easy on him, you’re a little ruder with it–sassy.

“Yeah, sweetheart. You did.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and mocks back, expression quickly changing back to an amused grin. He finishes the cookie in two short bites, stuffing his face and rubbing the crumbs off on his thighs.

You go back to the block of wood to pick up your cookies so you can carry on with your day, but Tommy follows. He steps right behind you, wrapping a warm and rough hand around your wrist before you can pick up the container.

“Hey–hey.” He stops you with a laugh, making your head turn to look up at him.

You try your best to seem annoyed, but it’s all performative. Really, you’d stay here as long as he wanted. Stay and watch him chop wood, feed him cookies to his heart’s desire.

“One more. C’mon.” Tommy grins, holding a hand out so you bless him with another.

“No, Tommy.” You groan, keeping your hands on the container to ensure it stays shut and he doesn’t cheat you for more treats. “They’re for the kids. I’m not gonna keep giving away my cookies to a grown ass man. You had one.”

He grumbles like a petulant child, pouting down at you. It’s annoying, but a little funny. Makes you want to give in and give him all the desserts in the world.

“It’s not for me,” he starts explaining, shaking his head in protest. “For Joel. He’s on patrol, I’m sure he’d appreciate a little snack when he returns.”

The fact that it’s for Joel makes you a little more receptive to the idea. You’re a sucker for that man, for whatever reason. And, unluckily for you, Tommy knows that. Joel Miller is your weakness.

You sigh, shaking your head and slowly opening the container back up. Tommy grins at the sight of the lid coming up and your hand reaching in for a second.

“Atta’girl.” His hand lands on the small of your back while you’re leaned over to get Joel’s treat, a warm presence that brings a flush up your neck and ears. Tommy’s always been a touchy one, especially in comparison to his brother. He loves to swing an arm around your shoulder and ruffle your hair whenever he can. Loves to say things like ‘atta’girl’ and ‘good job’ to watch how you get as red as a tomato.

Once the cookie is wrapped up in a napkin and kept safe in his pocket for Joel, he straightens his back and lets you stand back up, removing his hand from your spine. He rubs the back of his neck, something that would seem sheepish if it was anyone else. But on Tommy, it seems practiced. Like he knows just how to make you wanna lean in even more.

“Speaking of him,” he starts, pointedly. “There’s a bonfire tonight. Out past the paddock fence.”

You nod, knowing of it–you’re planning on going already, actually, but you listen anyway.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Couple folks are bringin’ instruments. Drinks and whatnot. I might even get Joel to bring out his old guitar.”

You lift an eyebrow in intrigue, especially by the sound of Joel bringing out his guitar. You’d love to hear him play–love to see his big fingers work the chords and strings under the light of a fire.

“You’re working real hard to make it sound casual, Tommy.” You giggle and tilt your head, finally picking up the container of cookies once and for all.

He snorts and shakes his head, wiping the sweat dripping down the back of his neck again. It catches your attention, distracting you, drawing you to the sight of little beads against his hot, tanned skin.

He gives you a crooked, stupid grin. “Yeah, well. I ain’t askin’ the whole town if they’re going. Just you.”

Your heart does the little thing–not jumping, not exactly skipping. But warming up. By the idea of Tommy only asking you about the bonfire. Like he wants you there. It felt like settling into a chair that feels just right.

You let your gaze drift down to the sweat-streaked white shirt clinging to his shoulders and the way the sun is catching on his temples. The crumb of the cookie still left on the corner of his mouth. Hell, he could be selling sins door-to-door and you’d still buy it. Of course you wanna go.

“I was already planning on going. But since you’re asking so sweetly…” You start, drawing out the words teasingly.

“That a yes?” He perks up, the grin on his handsome face growing exponentially.

“I guess so. Depends. Will you save me a seat with you and your brother?” You grin and lean back, fingers drumming against the tupperware in your arms.

Tommy nods obediently, crossing his arms over his chest. They look big that way, especially when the sweat seeps through the white shirt he’s wearing and makes it a little see-through.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Fuck, that always gets you weak. Being called ma’am–by none other than Tommy Miller, in particular, has you aching. The things you would do to hear that in a not-so-innocent context invade your mind.

“M’kay. As long as you two behave–and don’t talk through all the music–I’ll be there. See you tonight, Miller.”

You lift the tupperware in a little sort of a wave, sauntered off before he can even say anything else. Left with the little cookie in his pocket saved for Joel. Oh, it’s gonna be a long night. He’s in trouble.

Later that night, the sun starts to dip low and spill gold light into your kitchen window. That sweet, syrupy light that makes your skin glow. Makes you wanna dance in the kitchen and mess around.

You spent the day baking and then handing out cookies to the kids at Jackson’s preschool–it was adorable. But now, you’re getting ready for a night of drinking by a fire. A self-proclaimed “date” with both of the Miller brothers at once. With the town’s two hottest and beaten up men.

You’re standing barefoot in front of the mirror, one boot on while you weigh the options. Black, brown, or red? The outfit you settled for was a tiny old denim skirt held low on your hips and supported with the same belt as earlier. Paired with a little red gingham top you’d stitched yourself from scraps.

It was only the right option because it hugs your waist perfectly and clings to your chest, enough to surely make Tommy lose his train of thought mid conversation.

As hard as you tried to tell yourself this should just be another normal night, another bonfire, another excuse to laugh and drink with friends–it isn’t. You know why you’re going. You’re going to get drunk and mess with two brothers to the best of your ability. Fuck it.

Tugging a brush through your hair and letting it fall around your shoulder in lazy curls, not too fussy, you stared in the mirror. A dull red lipstick painted over your lips, highlighted by a smooth cherry-flavored gloss. Vanilla perfume on your wrists, lotioned legs–you smell as sweet as the cookies from earlier. Maybe Joel and Tommy would want a bite of you instead.

Sure, the world is over outside of Jackson. But tucked safely in the town, your biggest worry is how good you look tonight. And which brother you’d choose. Or if you’re even going to settle for one.

Your mind drifted as you put on all your jewelry.

Tommy. Sweet-talking and warmed from years in the sun. The biggest flirt you know. He makes you feel like the only woman in the room, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. There’s something so easy about him, which makes you feel comfortable.

He’s never boring, just familiar. Worn-in and all feel-good.

The only issue with Tommy is his flirtatious nature. Sure, it works on you, and makes you feel seen. But if he’s that good with his words, touch, and eyes, he must have too much experience. You’re sure he sweet talks every single woman in this town the same way he does with you, which makes you uneasy.

He flirts and doesn’t try to hide it. Makes it clear as day that he wants you. But might also want other women, so you’re not sure if he’s the perfect choice.

Then there's Joel.

Quieter, broader, and stiller. Doesn’t flirt or talk you up the way his brother does, but hovers. Makes you feel pretty with his eyes rather than his words.

He looks for too long, staring at you, whether you’re paying attention or not. His rougher voice settles low in your stomach when he speaks, smoke curling around your ribs and heating up your insides–all the way into your cervix, actually.

He’s much harder to pin down and slower to trust, but Lord, he’s worth the chase. You just know it.

Something about the fact that he makes it so much harder to tell if he wants you than Tommy arouses you. The slow burn of it all, confusion at each of his lingering glances. It gets you wondering, which eventually leaves you more hot and bothered than Tommy can get you. If Joel’d ever let himself get closer, he’d hold on tighter than his brother can.

Tommy is more a sunrise and Joel is a storm on the horizon. But they’re both fucking beautiful and dangerous, all at the same time.

You tap on your bottom lip in the mirror’s reflection, weighing the options. Most days, you don’t let the thought linger for two long. Jackson is small and gossip gets around quick, and you don’t want to ruin the existing flirtatious friendship with one brother and the stolen glances you exchange with the other.

Truth be told, most men wouldn’t be able to handle it very well if they were to find out that one woman was sharing attention with both him and his brother.

But, fuck, the idea of it?

Two men, both strong and stubborn and so big. So much bigger than you. Older, beaten by years of working. They’re burdened, and it makes them hotter to you in some sick way.

One with charm and one with intense heat, both circling you as if wanting to worship you and warn you off at the same time. What would it feel like to be in the middle of that want–to have Tommy’s hot breath and mouth on your neck and Joel’s big hands holding your hips down?

You exhale, slow and deliberate. Your thighs squeeze together and you allow yourself a single quiet smirk in the mirror.

No harm in thinking of it, right? After all, tonight’s just a bonfire. A little whiskey and music and possibly a seat between the Miller brothers on a bench. Not so bad.

So, you settle on the red boots. They match your belt and lipstick, after all. Lacing them up and giving yourself a last look, you head out.

The supposed ‘sweetheart’ of Jackson, ready to stir up trouble and, hopefully, have her way with at least one brother.

Later that night, you arrive just past nine. The bonfire is crackling tall and bright, its flames licking up at the starry sky. The scent of smoke curls through the air, sweetened by sap and pine of the surrounding forest. The low hum of voices–and a guitar being tuned–fills the space.

Tommy catches your eye first, sitting on a hay bale near the fire with one boot planted in the dirt and the other propped up on a small stump. He smiles, not flashy this time, but warm. Warmer than the fire, warmer than the heat beginning to return to your belly.

He knows exactly who you’re here to see.

Joel’s nearby, hiding more out in the corner, further from the fire. He’s tuning his guitar held across his lap, catching sight of you.

The signature look. He doesn’t smile or wave yet, just lips tightening in a greeting as he holds your gaze. Enough to make your breath catch in your chest. He looks back down like it’s nothing, deciding the strings of his old guitar need more attention than you do.

Fair enough, you’re already getting enough in that little outfit. From the men around the fire–Tommy, obviously.

You make your way over with a friendly smile, the firelight catching on your smooth bare legs. The glint of your lip gloss and shine of your hair not going unnoticed by the first brother.

“C’mere. Finally made it!” Tommy pats the spot next to him, thigh brushing yours while you sit. His gaze is quickly drawn to your lap, how short the skirt is–low on your waist but still only mere inches away from exposing your panties.

The warmth of the fire pressing on the two of you and making his skin glow more than it already does feels good, settling the moment into something comfortable. The familiar hum of the forest at night around you, all of your friends and neighbors gathered around the fire.

“I did make it. Can’t deny an invite from you.” You flash a smile back at Tommy, already entirely turned toward his body. With a little bit of whiskey on his breath and a more relaxed outfit now, he seems even more genial to see you tonight.

“Yeah? He chuckles, lifting the hand that isn’t occupied with a bottle to settle it on your thigh. Your smooth, shaven, and moisturized patch of skin that’s all free for him to touch. The bonfire is heating your skin up, and so is Tommy’s touch, making you feel like you’re truly on fire.

“You look good, though. I’m likin’ the gingham on you.” He nods casually, moving the hand up to toy with the bow on the straps of the top. “Lookin’ like a little cowgirl. Would never guess you’re not from the South.”

His voice is so sweet and lazy, more laid back than normally, most likely due to the bottle of whiskey in his other hand.

“Made this top myself,” you answer, stealing the bottle from his hand and taking a long swig. The feeling of it burns your throat, makes you almost sputter. You’re still so young compared to Tommy, and the intolerance to the strong alcohol reminds him of the fact.

He raises his eyebrows, shifting to face you more, forgetting entirely about the fire and his brother thirty feet away, tuning away at a guitar.

“Looks real good. I like it.” He takes the bottle back and drinks, slowly, before setting it down on the ground in front of the hay bale. “Almost didn’t recognize you without the apron and all the flour on your jeans.”

That makes you giggle. Of course you’re known to everyone in Jackson as the sweet girl who bakes, constantly lost in a cloud of flour and never seen without an apron. Valid comment.

“Is that a compliment or an insult, Miller?

“Both,” he chuckles and leans his head back to gaze down your body again, eyes narrowing down on your chest–the way the homemade shirt squeezes your breasts together perfectly. With the way you’re sitting, he’s got a great view down your chest. And you certainly notice–but, obviously, don’t mind. You’re not one to dislike attention.

The whiskey is rough but sweet, lighting your stomach up, and it slowly brings everything around you into a softer blur. The music presses pause on the rest of the world when Joel starts playing his guitar. Low and easy, something old and slow that sinks into your skin.

Everyone quiets down a tiny bit and limits their conversation as Joel gets up and moves closer. Inevitably, he comes right over, plopping down and sandwiching you between you and his brother.

The weight of the two men on your sides is two very different kinds of attention. Tommy’s is neverending, letting you know how he feels. His hand gravitated back to your thigh possessively when Joel sat down, silently pulling your leg against his.

And Joel’s was muted. Barely looking, focused on his guitar. But every chance he got to look away, it drifted toward your lap with his brother’s hand resting on it. If the guitar wasn’t strewn across his body and covering him, it’d be hard to miss the tent forming over his crotch.

The conversations around you died down to a low whisper, leaving you able to soak up Tommy’s touch and Joel’s music. His fingers stretched out on your thigh while he let out a satisfied sigh, lazy and confident and familiar on the skin.

He’d occasionally lean in, whispering all up close in your ear–on purpose, obviously. His breath is warm and smells of the whiskey and faintly of a cigarette he must’ve smoked before you showed up. His touch is unmoving, keeping you grounded by his side like you’re his.

His whispers are a random assortment, making you laugh and quiver all at once. He’d mention something stupid, like making fun of someone across the fire, or he’d lean in and remind you how good your tits look in that little top.

Joel’s playing slowed after a while, then stopped altogether. When he sets his guitar aside without ceremony the conversations pick up around you again.

You can finally take a breath as Tommy backs up and it isn’t as quiet anymore. But within seconds, it all gets more intense. Joel finally lets himself lean in and speak, smelling dangerously of cedar and something darker.

His thigh brushes yours, jaw clenching when he gives you a polite nod.

“Cookie was good earlier. Tommy gave it to me when I got back.”

You don’t even register what he’s talking about for a moment, awfully distracted by the feel of both their thighs pressing into the sides of yours, especially when accompanied by Tommy’s hand that seems to keep moving higher and higher.

“Oh, right. Thanks.” For a girl who’s normally confident, you choke up a little. Tommy laughs to himself, covering his mouth and letting his thumb rub the inside skin of your thigh.

Fuck, they’re actually getting you nervous. This isn’t what you planned for. You turn to look at Joel upon sensing he’s gonna speak again, the slow pull of attraction tightening in your belly.

But he whispers, glancing at Tommy leaning back with his hand splayed so intimately on your leg.

“You’re lettin’ my brother get real close tonight, huh?”

He questions, finally letting on a small smirk. He’s fucking into this. They planned this. And you’re only just now realizing.

It overwhelms you, but it makes the wetness build in your panties more than it may ever have before. The idea that the two brothers actually discussed this beforehand–sharing you–gets you weak.

“Pretty dangerous sittin’ between us like this.” Tommy interrupts before you can respond to Joel, making your head snap back around to him. You almost let out a nervous whimper, you can’t even register what’s happening. But somehow, you’re into it. You let it happen.

“Okay? I like it here.” You manage out with a gulp, eyes trained on Tommy before his brother’s hand lands on your other thigh. Still sassy. Both of them tighten their grips, squeezing at the supple flesh shamelessly as if you’re not all in public right now.

Too gone to care.

Joel snorts, shaking his head, and you look over at him now. He’s smiling, which isn’t too common of a sight. Must really be satisfied with their work right now.

“Careful what you ask for, baby.” He whispers and strokes your skin, hand moving up and down tantalizingly. You don’t know who to look at. Hell, you don’t actually know what you just asked for.

The moment goes entirely silent, the three of you exchanging glances. You–confused, but into it. The two men–seemingly have practiced this scenario millions of times before actually illustrating it.

Tommy’s watching you with a little half-smile, like he’s been waiting for this moment for longer than either of them would like to admit. His gaze zeroes in on your chest yet again, almost predatorily. Then, to Joel–his gaze is unreadable but filled with more desire than you’d like to imagine.

It hits you. Not fear or nerves, but want. This isn’t something to be scared of. Fuck, you were hoping for it in your bedroom while you were getting ready. You wore this outfit just for the hopes of this happening. Said ‘fuck it,’ so why would you be afraid?

In return, you let your hands rest on both of theirs, fingers trailing lightly over their knuckles. Your thumbs brush their skin, and nobody moves. The fire crackles and everyone nearby is laughing, drinking, and–most importantly–distracted.

As if reading your mind, Tommy leans in.

“We could get outta here,” he whispers, almost too casual. “Back to mine. Joel’s. Yours. Wherever you want.”

Your eyes flicker up to his, licking your lips and letting the overwhelming desire shine through once he essentially confirms what’s about to happen.

“Only if you want to.” Joel adds, ever the gentleman compared to his brother.

Their hands slide a little higher on your thigh, wanting and ready, and nothing else is exchanged but a quiet nod of approval from you.

Yet again, you’re the one left breathless.

The next thing you know, you’re at Joel’s, laid out on his bed like prey.

His place wasn’t far from the bonfire, a quiet little house on the edge of Jackson, tucked behind fencing and lots of trees. Quiet in the same way he is. You’ve been here before, dropping off food or supplies, but never like this. Never with your heart thumping this hard, two sets of heavy footsteps made by boots following behind you, two sets of warm hands ready to explore you and converge the different flavors of need in one space.

Joel opened the door without second-guessing anything, no more ‘are you sure?’ The two men gave you a look for confirmation when you reached the bedroom, and that’s all they needed. You, on the other hand, didn’t even have to answer.

Inside his house is warm, very lived-in. Very Joel. An old lamp in the corner and a woodworking table in the living room where he carves little animals and whatnot. He walks ahead, dropping his guitar in its case by the couch while Tommy peels off his jacket and throws it mindlessly on the floor.

You stood quietly for a second to process, and they both just looked at you. The air shifts, thick. So, so heated.

And this time, the older brother moves first–stepping close once you’re in his bedroom. You don’t stop him. His hand comes to your waist, rough and solid, checking one last time that you’re still good with a raise of his eyebrows.

You nod wordlessly, and Joel lifts you up by the waist.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before tossing you gently onto the bed. Neither of them took the time to get their boots off–or yours. Nothing stopping the three of you.

He climbs over you while Tommy stands back for a bit to watch. In seconds, you feel the first pair of lips on yours–firm and grounding. One big hand on the back of your neck, the other slipping underneath you to the small of your back, pulling you up against him as if he needs it.

Joel tastes amazing. Darker than you imagine Tommy will. More tobacco, stronger liquor.

Tommy steps forward finally, climbing onto the bed next to the two of you and smoothing a hand over your hip. While his brother is on top of you, kissing you, he waits his turn and instead lets his lips brush your shoulder.

Their energy is different, obviously, but they move together in harmony. Joel is slower, more intense, seemingly controlling the moment. Tommy is more free and tactical, his touch lighter but never giving up.

And you let yourself be used.

Growing up as brothers, they had to learn to share. And, naturally, they carried that ability into adulthood. So Joel gets off, freeing your body to his brother.

Tommy laughs, diving right in and attaching his lips to yours. It’s softer but more playful, like you don’t have to take him seriously in the way you just had to with Joel. He encourages you with his hands on your waist, squeezing and tickling at your sides teasingly.

“Tommy,” you gasp and giggle, leaning your head back and breaking the kiss.

“What?” He chuckles in return, peppering the kisses down your chin and to your neck, focusing on the soft area just beneath your ear. That way, when he whispers, it feels even better.

You don’t respond, laughing and laying back while he works at your neck so perfectly. Everything is revolving around you right now. They just want to give you everything.

In minutes, you’re forgetting where you are, overwhelmed by the feeling of not one, but two sets of hands exploring you and worshipping you in every way possible.

“Pretty little thing,” Tommy would laugh, sitting up and tangling his hand in your hair to give it a tug.

Joel was more quiet, but still whispered little instructions. He was more of a guidance while his brother was the fun part: both necessary in the moment.

“C’mere,” Joel whispered, moving back on the bed after you all actually took the moment to remove your shoes. He sits back against the headboard and pillows, spreading his meaty thighs and patting the right one. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping a hand around your waist to get you nice and close.

You comply, climbing right up and settling yourself on his thigh–legs spread and straddling his denim-clad leg. You’re surely leaking and making a mess on it, your skirt pushed up to your waist.

Joel’s head dips down, nose brushing your jaw while he murmurs and begins to guide your hips.

“Good girl. C’mon, you can move, sweet girl.” He manages out, hoarsely, with a bite at your sensitive earlobe. It makes you shudder, following his orders and shifting your hips.

The feeling of his jeans pressed against your clothed pussy elicit quiet gasps from your lips, leaning in and resting your head on his shoulder. He keeps an arm wrapped around you, grounding you against him and ensuring you feel safe while getting off on his thigh like this.

By the foot of the bed, Tommy is forgotten now while Joel’s scent and touch invades your brain. He’s fine with waiting his turn, though. He undoes the buckle of his belt, the clank of metal not disturbing you and his brother.

Discarding his jeans, Tommy pulls himself out of his boxers shamelessly, unable to help himself. He’s been hard since you sat down with him at the bonfire in that pretty outfit. Hell, since he saw you earlier today and you gave him a cookie.

He begins to stroke himself–one hand moving up and down the shaft, stretching himself, while the other rests under his balls and gently tugs at them to heighten the pleasure. His eyes are trained on the way your hips move back and forth on Joel’s leg, the small wet patch he can see forming on the denim fabric, even through your panties.

“She looks so good on you like that, doesn’t she?” Tommy groans, thumb brushing over the tip of his own cock while his brother nods.

“Mm–real pretty.” Joel grumbles, leaning back and letting his head hit the wall when you let out a particularly pretty little moan. His big hands come back to your waist, squeezing it and holding you tight to guide you in a slower rhythm.

You whine, opening your eyes back up to look into his. Eyebrows furrowing, you pout and try to speed up again.

“Baby,” Joel chuckles, squeezing you harder to keep you in place, to keep you going the speed he wants you to. “Gotta slow down for me, yeah? Be good. Take it slow, relax.”

His words are meant to be soothing and encouraging, but the low tone of his voice that gets you so wet only makes it all worse.

“Want–wanna go faster. Please, Joel.” You whimper, trying to rut your hips and speed up the agonizingly slow pace he’s got you going at. “Feels good.”

“I know, I know it feels good.” He sighs, giving up for now and letting you do it how you want to. Tommy laughs from across the bed, amusement and arousal all wrapped into one while he jerks himself off to the sight of you and his brother.

Joel only lets you get off on his thigh for maybe a generous twenty seconds before lifting you up, patting your ass in the process. The pressure was building in your belly, tiring you out, making you feel so good. You were approaching an orgasm in a short time, motivated by the arousal the scene itself produced in your brain, but soon were stopped by his big hands.

“Joel.” You frown, writhing on the bed and reaching down to touch yourself instead when he sets you down.

Tommy sits up, abandoning his achingly hard cock, crawling up to you and grabbing at your wrist.

“Uh-uh. Don’t gotta do that, angel.” He laughs, collecting both of your wrists in one hand and pushing them back. You’re pinned down and whining under him, but eventually give up protesting when you remember it's you versus two–very, very large–men.

He passes your wrists to Joel, who holds them with even more ease due to the size of his hands.

“Let’s make sure Tommy gets some lovin’ too, sweet girl.” Joel kisses you once, a soft peck, holding you down for a moment to let his brother get settled. Both of you watch as Tommy fully discards his boxers, stripping off his shirt and socks in the process until he’s entirely bare.

The man is a work of art. Tanned skin, some sun damage from always working outside–little spots all over his body, and freckles. He’s covered in hair, which you’d always expected due to the thick head of it he carries.

His lower stomach, especially. It’s got the most gorgeous spread of tiny hairs leading to something even more beautiful–thick and wiry. Not graying just yet. His cock is long but thin, already red and twitching from jerking himself off to the sight of you just a couple minutes ago. The fat tip of it is leaking desperately, just begging to be treated.

Tommy lays back, seated against the headboard like Joel was, his legs spread out wide. His head tips back lazily, sinking into the bed and patting his thighs.

Joel lets your wrists go, and you’re lunging forward like an animal in seconds. His thick, hairy thighs open to accommodate you while you kneel between them on the bed.

“Nice n’ big.” You whisper and giggle, hands on his thighs while you sort of nestle your head down for now. Nuzzling into his crotch, you worship Tommy’s cock–nose exploring every crevice, tongue darting out under his heavy balls.

He moans out quietly, hand finding your hair before you even begin and wrapping it up into a tight makeshift ponytail.

“Look at you, baby.” Tommy praises, lifting his hips up to encourage you to take him. You were resting your head on his thigh and taking a moment, but the sight of him literally aching for you has you moving quickly.

You grab the base of his cock, giving it a slight squeeze to draw more noises out of the man. Satisfied by a little grunt, you snicker and open your mouth, taking his tip into it eagerly.

“Fuck.” He jolts, head tipping back and eyes shutting happily. You focus on only the tip for a moment, swirling your tongue around the head and collecting the embarrassing amount of precum before sinking your head down and taking as much of his length as you can.

You sputter for a moment, just as you did earlier on the whiskey, but regain your bearings and start to move. His tip is hitting the back of your throat as if urging you to take more, but you physically can’t. He’s so big,

Tommy’s hand tightens in your hair, a little rude with the way he’s tugging and forcing your head down.

“Jesus, Tommy.” Joel interrupts after watching carefully for a few moments. “Careful with ‘er. She’s gonna gag.”

The older brother’s hand comes to your back, gently stroking it to keep you grounded while his brother forces your head down on his cock. Tommy doesn’t mind too much, easing up on the pushing but not entirely stopping. He’s always been much less of a gentleman.

“You’re okay, angel. Go slow if you have to.” Joel whispers to you, patting your back before standing up and discarding his own clothes. You hear the sound of fabric and a belt hitting the floor, and want nothing more than to look.

But you can’t, because his brother is holding your head down on his dick. It’s not all bad, though. You’re still eagerly taking it, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him with near-perfect technique. He’s very vocal, noisily encouraging you to somehow work him even better.

The mattress sinks as Joel returns from undressing, and while you can’t see, you feel where he’s going. While your head is buried between Tommy’s thighs, Joel gently unfolds your body and pulls your skirt off for you, leaving you in pretty panties and that damn gingham top.

He smiles, stretching the elastic of your underwear and letting it snap back against your skin. You gasp.

“Tommy, look at this.” He rubs your ass, giving it a gentle smack, showing off the fabric. It’s little cherries over the same red gingham that your top is made of. Matching, making you look like the prettiest cowgirl they’ve ever seen.

Tommy snorts, opening his eyes and giving your head another push down on his lap at the sight.

“How cute. Bet you wore 'em just for us, ain’t that right?” He smiles and uses his free hand to cup the side of your face, stroking it with a thumb while you suck on him so perfectly. “Fuckin’ slut.”

Joel shoots him a glance to be nice, because he’s already pushing your head down. He shouldn’t be calling you a slut like that.

“Ignore him.” He advises you, rubbing the skin of your ass that’s now pink from the little slap. He pulls at the fabric, tugging it down gently and working it over your feet before throwing them on the floor. On his way back to your ass, he kisses the back of your feet, ankles, calves, and thighs, leaving a trail of fire all the way to where he really wants to be.

His fingers go straight to the source, not even bothering to spread your legs. He digs two digits into your folds, groaning lewdly at the filthy feeling of how wet you are. Soaking his fingers, soaking the bed underneath you. Genuinely dripping for the two brothers.

“If only you could feel how wet this girl is,” Joel huffs in amusement, slipping his fingers back out and gripping the supple flesh of your ass again. The loss of touch elicits a quiet whine from the lips you have wrapped around Tommy’s cock.

“I bet.” Tommy answers, groaning and leaning his head back yet again in pleasure when he hits particularly deep in that warm, wet mouth of yours.

Joel grabs at your body with a mix of gentleness and fervor, lifting your hips until your knees are able to support your weight. Your head is down between his brother’s legs, your back arched, and your ass in the air for him to do whatever he desires with.

He leans over you, pressing a trail of kisses down your back–the center of it. Between your shoulder blades and down your spine, while his fingers trail all over your soft skin. Exploring. Taking his time.

He ends the trail at your back dimples, the spot where your butt and the small of your back meet. One last little kiss before he sits back up, spreading your legs just a bit so he can fit.

Once Joel ensures you’re not overwhelmed with what you’re doing with Tommy, he grabs his own cock and strokes it before gently pressing it against your ass. You moan around the other man’s length, and Joel taps him to let you have a break.

Tommy releases his grip on your hair, gasping when your mouth comes off of him–a string of spit connects his crotch and your mouth due to the excessive slobbering you’d been doing. Dirty and beautiful.

“Fuck.” The two men say, almost in perfect unison.

You take a moment to catch your breath, glancing back at Joel behind you when you remember he’d gotten undressed.

And, lord, he’s somehow more perfect than Tommy.

He’s built. Broad, hairy chest and a little tummy coming over his hips. Looks like he works out but certainly doesn’t deny a beer when offered. He’s hairier, even, a thicker and grayer trail leading to his pubic bone that’s pressed against your ass currently.

Older. Seemingly more experienced. He’s scarred and hardened, and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. The mere sight of him makes you moan.

Both of them laugh at the little strained moan you let out, Joel’s hand rubbing your hip while Tommy’s strokes your hair.

“You like him that much?” Tommy chuckles, kissing your forehead.

You nod mindlessly, still searching for the air you’d lost when your head was getting pushed down.

“Mm–mmhm. Like Joel. A lot. Fuck.” You manage out, dropping your head back on Tommy’s thighs and resting it there.

Joel smirks and lets the hand on your hip travel back to your ass, rubbing it before gripping his cock and giving it a few small strokes. “Yeah, baby?”

You nod again and groan against the fatty flesh of the thigh under you, kissing his warm skin. Your hips naturally move backward when you feel movement behind you, subconsciously begging for Joel. Your back arches as well, giving him quite the sight.

“You want it? Gonna take me good with my brother’s cock in your mouth?”

He smiles, teasing your dripping hole with his own leaking tip. Of course you want it. You’ve been dreaming of this all day–maybe even weeks before. But back then, it was a fantasy. Never a possibility in your mind. Now, you’re bent over, face down and ass up between the two of them. You couldn’t want it more.

“Yes, please.” You gasp out, arching more and forcing your ass back against Joel’s cock. You feel him twitch.

He hums in approval, not saying anything else before lining himself up. At the feeling of him against you, you know what you’re supposed to do in return. Tommy is back in your mouth in mere seconds, and you’re sucking and slurping to the best of your ability in hopes that it’ll get you more. More of Joel. More praise. More cock.

Joel slides in once Tommy looks satisfied, slowly stretching your tight pussy out. The noises are filthy, squelching and wet.

“Fuck–” He groans, panting and bracing himself by gripping your lower back. He isn’t even fully in yet and he’s ready to come all over you. He’s dreamed of painting you in ropes of release, of fucking you senseless and filling you up with his seed. Now it’s happening, and, God, he doesn’t know if he can even handle a minute.

You whine around Tommy, but he doesn’t push your head down again. He knows it probably hurts a bit, given the Millers are genetically big men. They let you adjust to Joel before resuming, going nice and slow.

“Pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, taking me this good. Just like that.” Joel becomes more vocal as he moves inside you, picking up the pace slowly, ensuring you’ve adjusted enough to take his size before doing anything you can’t handle.

The praise makes your head spin. Apparently, Tommy’s is too. You feel him twitch more in your mouth, see the way his hips are stuttering with each little bob of your head.

So you pick up pace. And so does Joel. Everything gets more intense.

Sucking in your cheeks, you take Tommy’s cock so deep that it hits your uvula, resulting in a soft gag. His first instinct is to let you take a break, but you continue despite the tears spilling from your eyes and the urge to vomit increasing.

Your hands fiddle with his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze that draws out the loudest moan of the night from the man. Success.

If you could smile, you’d be doing it. But he’s so deep in your mouth that you can’t move a muscle–not until you feel hot strings of release fill your throat.

You didn’t realize Tommy was that close, but he fills your mouth up more than it’s ever been stuffed. You’ve never felt a man come so hard. So much. He’s shaking as he finishes, piping it into your mouth and seeing it dribble down your chin as he pulls out.

“Ah-” he whimpers, actually whimpers, when your lips reattach to his tip to give it a final kiss.

Joel sees his brother’s orgasm, getting a little jealous. He would give anything to be filling your pretty mouth with his come right now, cleaning it off your lips where it spills out. But he remembers he’s the one inside you, and he has a better dumpster than Tommy does right now.

Once Tommy’s cock is removed from your mouth, he knows he can go a little harder. He wants to go a little harder. He can actually hear your pretty little moans and whimpers now that you’re not occupied.

When Joel starts hitting your cervix, the lewd noises slipping from your throat are unstoppable. You still haven’t swallowed the come, gurgling while moaning and trying to keep it in your mouth–almost to savor it.

His hand comes forward to grip your hair, remaking that damn makeshift ponytail his brother was just using. He tugs, forcing your back to arch as your head flies back with a whimper. He’s fucking you harder now, one hand gripping your hair and the other on your hip to press your cunt as close to him as he can possibly get it, pounding into you at a near-painful speed.

“Joel,” you cry out, more tears slipping from your pretty eyes that are quickly cleaned off by Tommy. You gasp and finally swallow his come, groaning in satisfaction and letting your head fall forward until it’s rudely tugged back by the other brother.

“You got it, darlin.’ You can take it. C’mon now, don’t go dumb on me.”

He groans, the hand on your hip giving your ass a solid smack. You cry out again, squealing with the mix of pain and pleasure. Pain, mostly now, as he’s fucking you deep and painfully harsh.

“Hold her still. She’s shakin,’ Tommy.” Joel leans forward with a growl, draping his body over yours and letting his head fall to your shoulder while he fucks you from behind. His teeth bare, nibbling on any exposed skin he can get, licking and sucking and kissing like an animal.

Tommy’s hands come to your shoulders, holding you still and shushing you while you cry under Joel’s hard body. “Almost there, angel. We’ve got you.”

And within the next minute, you and Joel’s orgasms approach at once. You can tell with him because his pace gets sloppy, hips slamming into your ass uncontrollably and inconsistently. He can tell with you because you’re impossibly more vocal, whimpering out and trembling.

When your thighs start to shake, he snakes a hand down your body and attaches his index and middle finger to your clit. That’s your weakness.

It’s not even eight seconds after he touches your clit that you’re coming, gasping and writhing and falling forward against Tommy. Joel follows suit, finishing deep inside you and smacking your ass as he comes.

The next thirty seconds go silent. You fell forward against Tommy, he pulled you into his arms. Joel’s now-soft cock slipped out, leaving you pumped full of his seed.

Tommy strokes your hair, kissing your forehead in an attempt to get your shaking body down from the intense high his brother had just given you. The other man lays next to the two of you, senseless now and in his own little world. His eyes are pressed shut, sexy pants coming from his mouth and into his pillow.

The room is quiet and hazy, heavy with sweat and the familiar scent of sex. It’s absolutely filthy. Wrecked.

Your limbs are all tangled up, breath catching. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s earned.

The sheets are tangled and damp, clinging to your thighs when Joel manages to sit up. He grumbles, moving closer and cuddling into your side that isn’t occupied by his brother.

On the floor are your clothes, laying scattered and forgotten. Tommy is on your other side, hand curled over your hip and quiet breath in your neck where his head is buried. Joel is curling onto your left, kissing your sweaty shoulder and arm, anywhere he can get.

And you–God. You’re spent, utterly and completely fucked-out. Used. Wrecked.

You’re past satisfied, actually sure that your bones probably aren’t solid anymore. Your limbs are too heavy to move, cheek pressed to Tommy’s chest and an arm slung over his brother’s body. They hold you like they’re afraid you’ll float off somewhere.

“Nothin’ left in me now.” Joel mumbles, lips brushing your skin. His voice is hoarse and dried out, more of an exhale than actual speech. “Not movin’ at all.”

The only part of him that can move is his fingers, trailing so slowly up and down your spine.

Tommy nods and huffs in agreement, kissing your cheek and pulling you closer. You just smile–lazy and slow and perfectly wrecked. Everything aches in the best kind of way. You feel as if you’ve been pulled apart and put back together with hands that know exactly what they’re doing.

Your throat is burning, hips stinging from Joel’s grip, your pussy leaking out his seed. And no one said much. They didn’t have to.

The air is thick and sticky, but also soft. Comfortable. Hearts beating in sync and bodies pressed so closely that you can’t tell where one ended and the next began.

Tommy is the last to speak–“Might have to stay here ‘til winter. Jus’hibernating.”—and you laugh. Blissed out and tangled between the men. Just laughed, warm and slow, like the fire hadn’t gone out yet.

WOO that was a journey to write. I’m going to hell. Love yall though 💋💋

TUMBLR ONLY LETS ME TAG 50 👎👎 I’m so sorry to everyone else ik i got like over 100 asking to be tagged so i tried my best

@possiblyafangirl @monicasblues @stories-we-read @pattwtf @kimm4710 @darkheartgatita @melmel-fandom @elliesr1fle @aretha170 @luvrgirls @whitewolfstar01 @taytay0403 @valyrianflower @alidiggory92 @love-you-inside-n-out @darknight3904 @cinnamon-slut @caramelic3dlatte @atthediscowithoutpanic @maystyles @justsarahbella @mynameisbaby9 @american-exodus @visenya-targarye @dilflover-3 @mani-pedro @ilovetoomanymen @xplicitz @foggypenguinrunaway @pigeonpinata0xo @majesticalcocoa @wildxxwolf @yoursweetgirl18 @millersbby @alwayswndr @zroberts13 @marzplanetz @lonelygirl56 @godlypresley @emilynersinger @ivyleagueeeee @lowrisemiller @staley83 @junajun4 @bluegardenn @grayandthyme @heavens-whore @nihilophobias @romancherry @catch1ngmoths

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iamasaddie · 1 month ago

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see you next year

#the fact that they had THAT MOMENT and Tommy still hasn't gone on a killing spree? pisses me the fuck off.#'oh but Jackson this' 'oh but Maria and Benji that' some of y'all really never had a sibling you love and it shows #craig mazin i will never forgive you for that #pedro pascal #gabriel luna #ppedit #pedropascaledit #gabriellunaedit #joel miller #tommy miller #the last of us #tlou 2 spoilers #the last of us 2 spoilers #joelmilleredit #tommymilleredit #iamasaddie gif

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stylesispunk · 2 months ago

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"What remains of us"

outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel doesn't die after the brutal encounter with abby because you saved him on time.

wc: 4k>

warnings: angst,mentions of blood, mentions of murder (reader becomes violent), fluff, mentions of broken bones. english is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. Written in a rush.

a/n: so uhmm. How are we feeling? I personally feel broken by the events from episode 2 so I rewrite the story while i was free in the morning to help me cope with the grief and joel is alive.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Something felt wrong in your bones the moment the snowstorm hit harder than anyone had expected. Not just the kind of wrong that came out from the conditions and freezing wind in a cold winter. This was deeper. Ancient. It whispered through the trees like a secret from another world, brushing icy fingers down your spine. In a kind of warning dressed up as bad weather. You felt it in your chest, in the weight behind your ribs, where your breath stayed too long before escaping your lips.

Your skin burned from the cold, your limbs throbbed from the fatigue, but it didn't compare to the way your heart pounded.

There was worry settled deep just over your chest from fear.

“Hey, you alright?” Jesse called ahead, pulling his scarf down just enough to meet your glance.

You nodded too fast, trying to find a source of breathing. “Yeah, but this storm is too cold.”

Ellie was further up the ridge, carving her own path through the deepening snow with over shimmer, unaware of how your whole body shook with more with the low temperature hitting your body. You hadn’t told any of them.

How do you explain to them that your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet? That every step forward feel like walking into danger?

Your heart was screaming at you, sending you signals through with every beating, in a language older than logic. Since the morning. Since Joel left your side before you could fully wake up.

The sound of his voice still lingered in your memory. It stayed there, like a tattoo he had kissed over your temple.

warm, softly, lingering as you stirred under the covers.

“Get some more sleep, darling.”

He hadn’t kissed your forehead like usual. He hadn’t lingered there. As if he couldn't face saying goodbye. And when you finally did get up, your gut twisted when you saw the empty space in the stable, the horse meeting, and snow falling hard over Jackson.

The truth was, Joel was out there with Dina; you had no idea under what circumstances.

The sky had turned more gray; it seemed angry, furious, waiting to hit someone else.

You shook your head, trying to focus on Jesse’s voice. Tried not to feed the panic unraveling in your chest like a pulled thread. But the cold in your mind spread, and no matter how tightly you gripped the reins, no matter how fast your horse moved, the feeling remained.

Something was definitely wrong; you could feel your heart beating harder.

You finally found a rundown outpost, an old hunting cabin half-buried in snow and swallowed by pine trees. The roof sagged, one of the windows was kind of cracked, and the door barely held on its hinges, but it was a shelter that would serve its purpose. You and Jesse pulled your horses inside the narrow lean-to out back, while Ellie stomped snow off her shoes and kicked the door open with force.

Inside, it was cold and smelled like old weed and damp rot, but you didn’t care; you needed to sit and think.

Inside, there was a radio.

You didn’t hesitate. You took your gloves off before Jesse could even notice. Your fingers moved over the knobs, turning dials, trying to find the frequency Jackson always used for patrol.

A burst of static. Then another, and finally, a signal.

Your breath caught. “Jackson patrol, do you copy?”

Ellie moved closer. Jesse pulled his scarf down, suddenly silent.

“Joel? Dina? Come in.”

Only static.

“Come on,” you muttered, heart hammering, twisting the dial again. “Joel, please, answer.”

There was nothing. This type of silence wasn’t normal or ordinary. You knew silence. This wasn’t a delay. It was an absence.

Your body went rigid, every instinct screaming louder than your racing thoughts. Your limbs moved before you made the decision. You were out the door and into the snow again before Jesse or Ellie could stop you.

He called after you still. But Ellie was already grabbing her rifle.

“Where are you going?” Jesse yelled, chasing behind.

“Something’s wrong!” you snapped, swinging onto your horse. “I just know it!”

Ellie mounted up beside you, voice louder within the storm, “Then we’re not wasting time.”

Jesse hesitated, glancing between you both and the radio inside.

“You don’t even know if that’s where they went—”

“I know,” you growled, already riding. “I feel it.”

Ellie followed you without a word. She trusted you, you were her family, and she would follow you wherever you went.

The snow clawed at your skin like it wanted to peel the truth away. The wind howled as if it knew what was waiting ahead. But you didn’t stop.

Because something had happened to Joel, and Dina was out there.

You and Ellie rode as fast as you could, the snow whipping across your faces like needles piercing your skin, the hooves of your horses lost beneath the storm. You could barely see five feet ahead, but then, in the distance, a glow that you could see anyway.

“Shit,” Ellie hissed beside you, pulling her hood lower.

You followed her gaze. Through the trees, past the slope of the hill, firelight. Orange, flickering, wrong. Was this your bad feeling creeping?

Fire was catching, rising in a bloom, too wild to be controlled. You slowed your horse as your stomach dropped.

“That's Jackson,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Ellie.

It wasn’t the whole town, not yet. But something was burning. And it was enough to send a coil of panic twisting through your gut, feeding that same deep certainty that had been clawing at you all day.

“Come on,” you growled, spurring your horse harder, cutting off the cold fear before it could settle. “We are way too far.”

And it wasn’t long before you saw it, the lodge over the hills.

It sat crooked and hunched near a clearing, like it had been dropped there by accident. Too nice to have survived years into the end of the world. One of the side windows was shattered. Smoke was seeping through cracks in the boarded upper floor. The front door hung ajar, barely moving in the wind.

You pulled hard on the reins. Your horse bucked a little, skidding in the snow. Ellie drew her rifle and slid off hers.

Your eyes locked on two shapes near the side of the lodge.

Horses.

Your heart stopped because those were Joel’s and Dina’s.

Both were tied loosely, hooves pawing nervously at the ground. Alone. No movement near the front entrance. No voices. No sounds but the wind and the creak of the old building groaning under the weight it wasn’t meant to bear.

You slid off your horse.

“Ellie,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, breath clouding in front of you.

She already had her knife out.

“Oh shit.”

You didn’t wait for backup. Couldn’t. There was something wrong.

Because Joel’s horse was here. And he wasn’t.

And whatever was inside that building, you felt it. It was about to break your heart open.

The sound of screams of agony and a body hitting the ground echoed down the hallway like a gunshot.

You knew that sound. It was torture. It was pain.

Your boots thundered down the corridor of the lodge, Ellie at your side, a worry and desperate look in her eyes. She’d followed the path like a wolf hunting its prey, her eyes screaming Please don’t let it be too late.

You didn’t say a word. Your heart was stuck in your throat, and the only thing that moved was your body, in fast motion, furious, drawn to the man who should have never left your side this morning in the first place.

Then you saw it. The door, a form from inside, screaming slipping from the lips you used to kiss every day. Those were Joel’s screams. In agony, in pain.

You didn’t wait. You didn’t breathe. You kicked the door open, and your world shattered.

Joel was on the floor, a mess of blood surrounding him and something worse. His legs bent at sort of unnatural angles. One hand barely raised in instinct. His face, bruised, bleeding, and one eye was swollen shut. His body twitched like it wasn’t sure if it should keep trying to fight life.

And above him, a woman. Blonde, her hair braided. Rage carved into her face like she’d waited for this moment. Her arms raised again, a golf club in her grip, stained in red.

She didn’t see you at first. Her eyes were solely focused on Joel, but you weren’t having that.

You roared, not screamed, roared, and tackled her with all the force you had, all your weight, all your fury into actions. You slammed her into the wall with a force that cracked wood. The golf club dropped from her hand and hit the ground.

“No more," you growled, your hand tightening around her throat.

Her group came fast, like shadows over you. One tackled Ellie to the ground. Another raised a knife at her. But they hadn’t counted on you.

You were already moving, eyes wild, mind gone. Every compassion you could have left in your body left, gone, you fought like someone who had nothing left in this life but him.

You weren’t skilled like Joel. You didn’t need to be. You were desperate. Right now, you were desperate.

Fists cracked bone. You took hits but didn’t stop. Didn’t feel them on you. You were pulling someone off Ellie, dragging them by their collar, throwing them into a chair that splintered on impact. You used what you had, a piece of wood, the same club the woman wore, your fists, and the most important thing, your fury.

And they couldn’t stop you. Because you couldn’t be stopped.

The blonde tried to rise again. You met her halfway and slammed her back to the floor. She spat blood. You didn’t flinch.

“Get away from him!” you shouted.

“Who the fuck—?!” Abby turned, fury and shock colliding on her face.

You dropped the shotgun, drew your blade, and charged.

The first one that tried to reach for you got a knife in his chest. You shoved him off like he was made of paper. The next came at you with a bat, you caught the swing and used his momentum to slam him face-first into the fireplace bricks.

“You don’t get to touch him,” you hissed. “Not him.”

The blonde took the club again, swinging it toward your face. You ducked.

Then you hit her. Right in the gut. The force of it sent her staggering back, wind knocked from her lungs.

“Do you wanna kill him?” you growled. “Try me first, then."

She looked at you like she wanted to, but she hesitated.

And that was her mistake. The moment she let her guard down, you shot her.

"It's over." You said, pointing your gun right between her brows, and the shot echoed in the stillness of the room.

She hit the floor, eyes wide. No final words. No redemption. Just silence.

Ellie flinched.

You stood over Abby’s body, breath hitching, heart pounding in your ears. The room reeked of blood, and then there was silence, except for Joel’s ragged breath.

The ringing in your ears stopped, and your breathing steadied as you took a look at the mess you had made.

Your eyes finally dropped back to Joel. You dropped yourself beside him as your knees had finally given out.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice cracking into pieces. “Joel, look at me. I’m here. I got you.”

His one good eye fluttered open, dazed, unfocused. There was blood crusted at his brow, dried and fresh, a cruel mask across the face you’d kissed so many times before, now dripping blood.

“Y-you-" he rasped, voice like torn gravel. He had barely made it.

You nodded, cradling his face in your hands, not caring that blood smeared across your palms. “I’m here. You’re safe. Don't you dare to close your eyes now."

His breath stuttered, chest rising too slow, too shallow. His eyes couldn’t stay fixed on you. They wandered, like he weren’t fully in the room anymore. As if he were fighting death and life at the same time.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, leaning close. Your forehead rested against his, warm against cold.

Not even the cold of the snowstorm had been so cruel to you.

“Hurts,” he mumbled, eyes slipping closed again.

“No, no,” you said quickly, your hands gently patting his face. “Stay with me. I got you. You’re gonna be okay. Help’s coming, okay? I will make sure of it. Just—just hold on.”

But he didn’t answer. His breathing slowed.

And your heart stammered in panic. “Joel!"

But there was no reaction from him. You pressed your fingers to his pulse, still beating but faintly.

“Don’t you do this,” you choked out. “You fight, dammit. You’ve been through worse, haven’t you? Don’t you leave me now, please.”

You'd already faced your worst nightmare. Now you were living in it, holding it in your arms, seeing the life leave him.

Joel lay limp and broken on the floor, his breath rattled. His face was swollen, almost unrecognizable on one side, purple and black with bruising. One eye was swollen shut. Blood trickled from his nose, his mouth, and the side of his head.

“Hey,” you whispered again, voice hoarse. “Joel. Are you with me?”

A faint groan, barely audible, but it was enough because it meant he was still here.

You pulled off your jacket rapidly, shoving it under his head. Your hands were shaking, but your mind was locked in: every first aid trick you’d learned from scraps of survival guides, emergency manuals, all this time surviving, and anything Joel had ever shown you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You had paid attention.

You just never thought you’d be using it on him, under these circumstances.

Dina stumbled in, still pale and groggy, her hand gripping the wall. “Ellie?” she rasped. “Wh—what the fuck happened?”

You didn’t look up. “You were drugged. Ellie is moving the bodies. We need the space.”

Dina staggered past, gagging at the sight of blood, but she didn’t hesitate. She knew what had happened.

This was now a war zone. You had blinded yourself, becoming a murderer monster just to save Joel.

You pulled Joel’s shirt open, shredded, stained with red. Purple splotches across his ribs. Swelling. At least two were broken.

Your throat burned, voice cracking. “You’re gonna hate me for this, Joel. But I have to move you.”

“Don’t…” he mumbled, almost unconscious. “Just... leave me—”

“Bullshit" you said, angry at you, at him, at that woman who had left him like this, your tears were splashing onto his collarbone. “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t give up.”

Ellie appeared, face pale, blood on her shirt, Dina behind her with a blanket.

“We cleared the room,” Ellie said, out of breath. “It’s just us now.”

“Good,” you said. “Help me splint his legs. We need to keep him still until we can get him out of here.”

You tore up a curtain and grabbed two broken chair legs. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing about this was. This wasn't something that should have happened.

Ellie held Joel’s leg as steady as she could while you worked the makeshift splint around the worst of the fractures. His left leg, with a shot on his knee.

Joel screamed just as he was being dragged through hell.

You didn’t stop, “I know,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his as you tied the cloth tight. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I got you.”

You felt his breath against your skin, shallow and hot, contrasting with the coldness on his hands.

His lips moved. “Why?” he whispered, barely audible.

You leaned back and looked at him. “Because I love you,” you said simply.

His eye fluttered open, just barely. And for one fragile second, the pain slipped away. There was only you and him inside this room. You brushed the hair from Joel’s face. He was burning up. You needed to clean the wounds. Stop the bleeding. Keep him warm and alive.

And somehow, by the grace of whatever broken god still watched over you all, you would.

You pressed a damp cloth to his temple where skin had split open. His blood soaked through instantly. You felt you were about to throw up.

Your hands moved on their own now, it felt monotonous. Wash. Compress. Tie. Splint. Whisper to him and beg him to stay alive.

Ellie and Dina had gone quiet. Standing behind you. Watching. Waiting for an order, a word from you that it wouldn't be a sob.

Then your voice broke through the silence. “Go back to Jackson.”

Ellie flinched, like she hadn’t expected you to speak at all. You didn’t look up. You were holding Joel’s hand, limp and calloused in yours. Trying to send him the strength he needed to survive.

“We need help,” you said, barely audible. Your voice was shot. Just whisper. “Tell Tommy, tell him to send help. We need to get Joel back there.”

You met silence. Just the sound of Joel breathing.

“Please,” you added, and that word cracked. “Please. I can’t carry him by myself. He’s...he’s too heavy. He’s—” You swallowed hard. Your fingers curled tighter around Joel’s hand.

Ellie stepped forward. “We’re not leaving you.”

You finally looked up, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “You have to. We need more people. Horses. Anything. I can keep him alive for a few more hours. But I can’t move him like this.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched. Her knuckles went white. “I don’t want to leave you with him like this.”

You reached out, brushing Joel’s graying hair from his brow with trembling fingers. “I got him.”

A pause. Then Dina touched Ellie’s arm. “I’ll go,” she said gently. “I’ll ride. I’m faster. You stay.”

Ellie nodded, eyes not leaving yours.

You left a loud sob. “No,” you said quietly, lifting your eyes once more to Ellie’s. “Ellie… you go with Dina. I’ll stay here.”

Ellie’s shoulders stiffened. Her brows pulled together like she was bracing for another blow. “What? No. I’m not leaving you and him.”

You sat back on your knees, your hands bloodied, trembling. Joel’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

“You have to,” you said, your voice breaking. “You have to, Ellie. Dina shouldn’t be riding alone.”

Ellie looked at Joel. Looked at you. And shook her head. “I can’t leave him like this. I can’t.”

You grabbed her hand, and that startled her. It startled you, too. But you held on, grounding her, pulling her attention back to your face. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Please,” you said. “Please. Help me save him.”

Ellie’s eyes filled. Not with tears, but with everything she couldn’t say. The guilt of the lost time. The fury of what they had done to Joel. The fear that maybe it was too late.

But you looked at her like there was still something worth fighting for.

She swallowed hard. Nodded once. “I’ll go.”

Your chest caved with relief. Joel let out a faint groan beneath you, and you turned back to him, brushing your thumb against his jaw.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

Ellie hesitated at the doorway, stopping to look at you once again, “Will he be okay?” she asked before daring to step a foot outside.

You nodded, but it was instinct, automatic, hopeful, desperate. The truth lodged in your throat like a splinter you couldn’t spit out.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, voice trembling. “I don’t know how much damage they did.” Your eyes flicked over Joel’s body again, breath catching at the way his chest rose unevenly. “But he’s breathing. And that’s something.”

Ellie stepped closer to you. “What do you need me to do?”

You looked up at her then, and for a split second, she looked like a kid again. Afraid and shaken.

“Just go back to Jackson and bring help,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath. "That's all we need now."

Ellie’s eyes burned. She nodded once, jaw clenched. “Okay. Okay. Just hold on, please.”

You gave her one last look. “I’ll keep him breathing.”

She was gone the next second, steps pounding out the door, calling for Dina, and you were left in the broken room, just you and Joel and the slow drip of blood on the floorboards. His blood.

You pressed your hands to the worst of the wounds, breath shaking. “Did you hear that, Joel?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “Help’s coming.”

He didn’t speak. But his fingers twitched again, slowly, and curled around your wrist.

It wasn’t much, but it meant he was still here.

That night felt heavy like wet ash. Everything smelled like blood, and outside, the snowstorm had died to a bitter hiss. The wind still screamed through cracks in the lodge, but inside, everything had gone quiet, except for the sound of Joel’s ragged breath and the low creak of floorboards every time you moved.

You’d done everything you could.

You had boiled snow over a fire in the next room just to clean the worst of the blood from his side. You weren’t a medic. But you were a woman in love. And that made you terrifying.

He faded in and out of consciousness, his lips murmuring your name between groans, sometimes not even sure it was real. You sat beside him, your back against the wall, holding his hand in both of yours.

But then it went still. You hadn’t realized how quiet it had gotten until the sound stopped completely.

“Joel?” you whispered, leaning close. There was no answer.

You shook his shoulder, gently. Then harder. “Joel.”

Nothing. His head lolled to the side. His skin felt clammy beneath your palm.

Your breath caught in your throat. “No, no—please, no. Joel—” You cupped his cheeks. “You stay with me; do you hear me?”

His brow twitched. His lips parted, barely, and a broken whisper slipped out.

"Sarah?”

The name came out like a breath lost in time. You froze. Your heart cracked open. His eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, a flicker of life.

In his mind, it was Austin all over again.

Sarah was laughing, running ahead of him, calling back over her shoulder, “Dad, come on!”

And he was smiling. Genuinely smiling. He could hear her. Feel her hand in his again. It was so warm and real.

He turned, and they were on the couch. Watching a movie. She was leaning against him, head on his shoulder. He’d just said something stupid, making her roll her eyes. He didn’t want to blink, afraid it’d all vanish.

But then came the gunshot. Her warmth was gone.

Now you were there. In the memory. Not Sarah, but you. Covered in blood and crying out his name.

Joel, please. Please.

Your hands were glowing with firelight, trembling as they pressed against his chest.

He tried to reach for you, but he couldn’t move, and the world was slipping through his fingers.

And then, your voice cut through the haze. “Joel, please. Please don’t do this.”

His heart stuttered once. A sharp inhale tore through his chest as if he’d been drowning.

“Joel!”

He coughed, body shaking, and your hands caught him just in time.

You sobbed, half-laughing as you gripped his cheeks again. “You scared the shit out of me—oh my god” you sobbed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

He looked up at you, dazed and confused. Then his eyes cleared, just a little.

“You were crying,” he mumbled, lips cracked.

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. “Yeah, I was.”

He blinked slowly. “Stop...”

“I can't,” you said.

Joel leaned ever so slightly into your palm, the pain pulling at him, but your voice anchoring him.

The night lingered like a wound that wouldn’t close, that wouldn't take time to heal.

And you didn’t sleep. Your body screamed for rest, but you had stayed next to Joel, watching the way his chest rose and fell, praying it wouldn’t stop again. Every time his breath caught or he groaned too hard, your stomach twisted into knots.

The lodge was cold. Blood had dried into the floorboards. The fire in the next room was too far away to warm either of you, and you didn’t dare move him to get closer.

So you pressed your body to his side gently, just enough to share warmth without causing him pain.

“Still with me?” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open, sluggish as if they weighed “Yeah…” His voice was more gravel than sound.

You breathed out a shaky laugh, your forehead resting lightly against his temple. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

Joel let out a faint puff of breath, maybe a laugh, maybe a wince. "Learned from you," he muttered.

Your throat clenched. You reached for his hand again, interlocking your fingers with his, so you wouldn’t brush the torn knuckles.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

His eyes moved slowly, searching, until they landed on you again. Then he mumbled something you barely heard.

Silence settled in. You closed your eyes, listening to the wind groaning against the windows. Time stretched, only broken by Joel’s breath stuttering again.

Then, his fingers twitched around yours.

Then you whispered, “Joel?”

He made a sound.

“I love you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were glassy with pain. But then he barely squeezed your hand, and his voice came soft, barely a breath.

“I love you, too.”

It felt like the first time he had told you those three words, and that had broken you the most.

You buried your face in his shoulder, careful of the bruises, and let yourself cry, not in panic, not in fear. But in overwhelming, soul-shaking relief.

He was alive.

Joel woke to the soft hum of voices and some old machines. The scent of cleaner stung his nose before the light even reached his eyes.

His body was in pain. He tried to move, but something warm and heavy rested on his side.

Your head was there, leaning on his side.

You were slumped in a chair beside him, your cheek pressed gently to his arm. Your fingers were laced with his, your grip loose with sleep but still holding on.

The light in the room was soft, filtering through the curtained window. Outside, life stirred in Jackson. But here, it was quiet. Just the two of you.

Joel blinked slowly, his throat dry, the taste of cotton still on his tongue. His gaze drifted down to you. There was a crease between your brows even at rest. You looked exhausted and pale.

But you were here. He breathed your name, raw and hoarse.

You stirred at the sound, your head lifting slowly as if from the depths of a dream. Your eyes met his, still sleep-warm but wide with shock. Disbelief flickered, then relief so powerful it made your lips tremble.

“Joel,” you whispered, leaving a sob behind.

His smile was small. Barely there. “You didn’t leave.”

Your hand came up to cup his cheek. “Never,” you said. “You scared me so much."

He swallowed hard, his hand tightening weakly around yours. “How long?”

“Three weeks,” you said, voice shaking with the memory. “You were unconscious the first few days back. The fever wouldn’t break. They weren’t sure if you’d make it through the second night”

He looked at you again, really looked. “And you sat here the whole damn time?”

You gave a soft, broken laugh. “Where else would I be?”

His good eye softened. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You leaned closer, resting your forehead to his. “You promised me once you wouldn’t leave me.”

He nodded faintly, his eyes closing for a moment as your breath mingled.

Your fingers brushed his temple, so gently, as if afraid he’d fade again like some half-formed dream that wouldn't last. Joel’s skin was warm beneath your touch, warmer than it had been in days, and that alone nearly broke you all over again.

“It’s going to take time,” you whispered, your voice barely louder than the hum of the machines. “To heal from this.”

Joel didn’t say anything, but you felt the tremor in his breath.

You threaded your fingers more tightly with his. “But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?” you said, firmer now, voice catching on the tears in your throat. “I’m not leaving your side. You will get sick of me.”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue, maybe even protest, but then he looked at you again. Really looked. The cut on his brow. The bruising on his cheekbone. The pain behind his eye, and beyond that, the softness that only came when it was just you.

“You shouldn’t have had to—”

“I had to,” you cut in, gently “Because I love you. Because I couldn’t lose you. And I won’t ever lose you.” you paused to take a deep breath before continuing, “You and I will grow old together, and we will die peacefully in a farm, just as you wanted."

Joel blinked. His hand tightened slightly in yours again, like the only strength he had left was meant for that one touch.

You leaned in and kissed his forehead, bruised, stitched, healing. “You’re mine, Joel. And I’m yours."

Silence fell, heavy but not suffocating anymore. The kind of silence where you could finally breathe again. Where you knew he was going to live.

Joel let his head rest back into the pillow, the edge of a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

“Okay,” he whispered, smiling at you.

You smiled through your tears, the kind that burned hot down your cheeks but carried no pain, only relief.

You shifted in the chair, reaching up to brush a bit of hair back from his forehead, careful not to touch where it was most tender. His skin warmed beneath your fingertips. He was alive, and the reality of that still hadn’t fully settled in.

“I’m gonna be here when you wake up,” you promised, voice like a hush of wind through leaves. “Every morning. And every day if I have to. You focus on getting better.”

Joel's smile trembled, worn and crooked. His good eye drifted shut, but not before his fingers gave yours one more squeeze, like he couldn’t bear to let you go in his sleep.

You watched him as his breathing evened out again, slow like the beat of a song you never thought you would hear again. The soft light of the light, caught a golden hue over the bedsheets.

You rested your head by his side again, your cheek brushing his arm, eyes closing just for a moment. Not to sleep, but to hold the feeling. The warmth. The miracle.

He was still here.

And you would be, too. Always.

#fic: what remains of us #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller angst #pedro pascal

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sceletaflores · 23 days ago

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HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front.

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted.

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after.

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

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