adelliet

[adelliet]

Hey guys!

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while – I’ve been super busy and barely have time to write lately :(

But don’t worry, I’ve got a BOB REYNOLDS x F!READER SMUT in the works and it’s gonna be so worth the wait! Get ready!

Love you, my little cookies. Take care, BYEEE 🤍

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DREAMY VACATION

Summary: You've been sent on vacation to take a break from saving the world, but there's no hiding from your emotions that will eventually take over.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, body insecurity, Sentry awakening (just for a second), erection, breast play, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hickeys

A/n: Hii! So uhm this is LONG AS FUCK, like a literal novel so I am warning you. Anyways I wanted to thank you for 1k followers?! How?! You have no idea how much this means to me. I am grateful for each and every one of you and I will try my best to improve my writing. Hopefully you will like my future projects as much as you've liked the ones I have done so far. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts had been deployed to Spain on what was supposed to be a critical mission. The briefing was vague but urgent, something about a potential global threat developing near the coast.

On the plane to Alicante, you sat down next to Bob. He looked tense. Really tense. He was gripping the armrest like it might fly off on its own. His face was pale, and his shoulders stiff as stone.

“Hey,” you said gently, nudging him with your elbow as you got settled. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He blinked, clearly trying not to throw up, and then murmured, “Um… do you maybe wanna sit by the window instead?” He didn’t look at you, just stared straight ahead like a man facing death.

Without missing a beat, you nodded. “Sure. Come on.”

You stood up and let him shuffle over into your seat. The second he sat down, he let out a deep belch, followed by a hoarse, “Oh God…”

You were already leaning closer, scanning his face with concern. “You good?”

Your hand found his knee, giving it a comforting rub. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands now gripping the tray table for dear life.

He nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “I’m okay. Just… hate flying.”

You offered a soft smile and stayed close. “I’ll be right here the whole time, okay? Just breathe.”

He nodded again, and despite how miserable he looked, his posture softened slightly, just enough to tell you that your presence was doing what your words couldn’t.

“I’ll go get some water and a bag, just in case,” you told him gently, already sliding out of your seat. Bob gave a tiny nod, eyes still shut, lips tight as if even opening them would invite disaster. You made your way down the aisle, stopping a flight attendant with a polite smile and a quick explanation.

She gave you a knowing look. “Nervous flyer?”

“Something like that,” you chuckled.

A minute later, you returned to your row, holding a small bottle of water and one of those crinkly, shame-colored paper bags. Bob looked slightly less pale than before—his hands weren’t as white-knuckled on the armrests, and his breathing had calmed a little. But he still had that I-might-hurl-any-second look going on.

“Here,” you said, sitting back down and offering both the water and the bag. “Just in case. Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours.”

The moment the word “hours” left your mouth, Bob visibly tensed. He choked on his own spit and shot you a wide-eyed stare like you’d just told him he’d have to wrestle an alligator.

You raised your hands defensively. “Okay, wrong choice of words—ignore me.”

Before either of you could say more, the engines began to roar and the plane started rolling forward. Bob immediately slumped into his seat like a melting popsicle, shut his mouth and eyes, and gripped the tray table as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this dimension.

You couldn’t help a soft smile. He looked a bit ridiculous and miserable at the same time.

“This is the worst part,” you said soothingly, glancing out the window as the runway sped beneath you. “It gets better after takeoff.”

As the plane began to lift from the ground, your heart fluttered with excitement. A new mission in Europe. A whole new landscape, new memories. Even if you weren’t saving the world, part of you loved the thrill of the unknown.

You inhaled deeply, a soft smile on your lips… until you felt a touch.

You turned your head just in time to see Bob—eyes still closed, jaw clenched—reach out blindly and grab your hand in his. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at you. He just held on. Tightly.

You looked down at your interlaced fingers. He was basically crushing your hand, but you didn’t pull away. If this helped him even a little, you weren’t going anywhere.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in quiet reassurance. You didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But something in the weight of his grip, the vulnerability of that small action, felt more genuine than a thousand words.

Sure, your hand might be useless for the next few hours, but somehow that didn’t matter. It was Bob. That’s what made it okay.

The flight dragged on peacefully, and at some point, exhaustion won.

By the time the pilot announced the descent, both you and Bob were fast asleep. The flight attendant’s gentle voice over the intercom was what stirred you.

“Excuse me—we’ll be landing shortly.”

You blinked groggily, and as your senses slowly returned, you realized that you and Bob were still holding hands. The entire flight. Neither of you had let go, not even in your sleep.

You turned your head at the same time he did, both of you blinking at each other in a dazed, half-dream state. Then you both released your grips at once, slowly, carefully.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. Bob straightened his seat and adjusted his hoodie like he could hide in it.

“…Feeling better?” you asked softly, keeping your voice low enough so only he could hear. He nodded, and for the first time that day, smiled at you—not the nervous, half-broken kind, but something real.

“Y-Yeah. Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but sincere.

You smiled back before you even realized it, heart tugging in that dangerous, stupid way it did whenever he looked at you like that.

Sometimes you wondered if Bob Reynolds was even real. Maybe he was a highly advanced hologram, or worse, a social experiment where you were the test subject. Because if he was a trap, a trick, or an illusion… well, you’d already fallen in pretty deep.

The moment you landed at the airport in a sunny seaside city called Alicante, your adrenaline was high, ready to face whatever was waiting for you.

But instead of military vehicles or local agents waiting on the tarmac, there was a giant banner reading “SURPRISE!” flapping in the Mediterranean breeze. An agent, smiling way too much for someone who usually briefed on extinction-level events, greeted you all with the bombshell: “There is no mission. You’re here on vacation for one full week. Fully paid. Mandatory.”

Everyone had a different reaction. Some of the team burst out laughing. A few gave each other looks of disbelief. Alexei screamed, “HELL YES, BEACH TIME!” and fist-pumped the air. Yelena already had sunglasses on. But not everyone was thrilled.

Bucky Barnes, for one, looked like someone had just kicked his dog. Twice. He crossed his arms and muttered, “This is ridiculous. I don’t do beaches.”

“Well, now you do,” said Ava with a smirk. “Welcome to bonding camp, grumpy.”

You were all told this wasn’t just a vacation, it was a “team-building retreat.” You were going to be forced to relax together, apparently to grow stronger as a unit. And no one was allowed to bail.

Despite the chaos of your missions and all the tension in the beginning, over the past few months of cohabitating in Stark Tower, you’d all grown… closer. There were still arguments, sure—someone was always stealing snacks, using someone else’s mug, or playing music too loud at 3AM—but you knew each other now. Knew who liked what, who needed quiet mornings, who hogged the bathroom, and who cried during certain movie scenes (spoiler: it’s more of them than you expected).

But the bond between you and Bob Reynolds stood out most.

Everyone saw it. From the moment you helped rescue him, you’d never left his side. You were the first to check if he was injured, the first to speak to him like a human being and not a walking nuclear reactor. You made sure he was okay. Like some stray dog the world had tossed aside—and you just quietly decided he was yours now.

And the team followed your lead. Despite what he’d done, despite nearly destroying the world and ripping open old wounds in everyone’s psyche, they welcomed him with open arms. Because you did.

“Vacation?” Bob raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused.

“Yup,” John said with a grin, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s when you don’t do anything and it’s totally fine. You should try it sometime.”

Bob didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked suspicious of the concept. His whole life had been built around duty, damage control, and trying not to explode. The idea of just… existing with no expectations felt foreign. Maybe even dangerous.

“Alright folks, let’s move out,” Yelena called, hoisting her bag over her shoulder with that bossy tone everyone obeyed without question. She might’ve shared the leadership role with Bucky, but she had the charisma of someone who got things done.

Like a herd of reluctant high schoolers on a mandatory field trip, the team followed—grumbling, joking, dragging their feet, but moving.

The drive wasn’t long.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to your destination within the hour. A row of elegant, private beach cottages spread out before you, nestled in a secluded cove just outside Alicante.

The sand was pale gold, soft as powdered sugar, stretching out toward the turquoise horizon. The sea shimmered beneath the sunlight, waves gentle and lazy. Palm trees lined the perimeter, their leaves rustling with every breeze, casting just enough shade to make the heat feel like a pleasant hug instead of a punishment.

The place felt untouched. Quiet.

Not exactly deserted—but exclusive. You could see why no ordinary tourists were lounging here. It wasn’t just the off-hour, it was the price. This was the kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and billionaires. For people who’d seen too much, done too much, and needed the world to shut up for five minutes.

For the first time, you felt the weight of silence around the team. Not the awkward kind—just a collective breath being held, like everyone was realizing at once how damn beautiful it was here.

The agent who’d escorted you out of the airport handed over two keycards with a charming smile. “One cabin for four men, and one for three ladies,” he said, giving them to Bucky and Yelena respectively.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, he was gone, limousine and all, leaving you standing under the cloudless sky, surrounded by the scent of salt and coconut sunscreen.

You glanced around, soaking it all in. Then your gaze shifted to Bob. He was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he flinched and immediately turned his head, pretending to be very interested in a nearby bush.

You snorted quietly to yourself, lips twitching with amusement.

“This one’s ours, I guess,” Yelena said, pointing toward the cottage just a few steps away. Even from a distance, the place looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Creamy-white walls, light wooden trim, huge windows, and a little porch with hanging hammocks swaying lazily in the breeze. A dream come true.

You, Yelena and Ava made your way over with your bags. Yelena slid the keycard, and the door clicked open. The inside was even more stunning.

It was like stepping into a Pinterest board. The walls were painted in soft seafoam greens and sun-washed whites. Rattan furniture, pastel cushions, and airy curtains gave the space a coastal, boho vibe. There was a faint scent of lavender and driftwood in the air—relaxing, expensive, comforting.

Sunlight poured through the huge windows, illuminating a common area with plush couches, a breakfast bar stocked with fruits and snacks, and wide glass doors that opened directly onto the beach. You could hear the waves as if the ocean was whispering, You’re safe here.

��Holy shit,” Ava breathed out, spinning in a slow circle like she couldn’t believe this wasn’t CGI. “This is nicer than my actual apartment.”

Yelena dropped her bag on the nearest bed with a satisfied smirk. “This is acceptable.”

You couldn’t help but smile. A real, easy smile, the kind that felt rare lately. Everything about this place felt… right and peaceful.

And as you peeked out the back window and saw the boys dragging their bags toward their own cottage, you knew this week was going to be something different. Maybe even healing.

A few hours had passed since you arrived. You’d unpacked, showered, explored the fridge, which was magically stocked with mouthwatering, chef-level food, and finally settled into that post-travel stillness.

The late afternoon sun blanketed everything in golden light as you lounged on the front veranda of your cottage. Yelena had claimed the hammock and was swinging gently, sunglasses on, arms behind her head, looking like a war-hardened goddess pretending to be chill.

You and Ava had claimed two of the hanging lounge chairs, gently swaying as you soaked in the sun. Both of you had sunglasses perched on your noses, and the soft breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming.

“What are we even supposed to do here?” Ava asked, not bothering to open her eyes. Her voice was lazy, relaxed, a perfect match for the quiet waves in the distance.

It was a simple question. One you should’ve been able to answer. But you paused. Because… you honestly didn’t know.

Before you could respond with something vague, Yelena chimed in with a deadpan comment that made both you and Ava snort with laughter. It was something about team bonding meaning “not-murdering each other in close quarters,” and that this counted.

Then you added, perfectly flat, “I didn’t even bring a swimsuit.”

Ava blinked, then looked over at you. “Wait, me neither.”

“Didn’t expect this,” you muttered. “Was packing for death, not tanning.”

Yelena groaned. “Okay great. Let’s go buy swimsuits now. Or we’ll end up stuck here melting like idiots on a porch for the rest of the week.”

She was right, so without much debate, the three of you grabbed your canvas totes, wallets, and phones. None of you were wearing anything particularly beach-shopping-appropriate, but it didn’t matter. The streets near the coast would be casual, laid-back—just like the air already felt.

Of course, this wasn’t just a swimsuit run.

You were three women, unsupervised, in a beach town, surrounded by potential sales racks, accessory stands, cafés, and tourist traps. There was no way you were only coming back with swimwear.

As you walked past the guys’ cabin, Yelena suddenly veered off toward the door.

“I’m gonna see if any of the boys want to come with us,” she said casually.

You and Ava paused, hanging back by the path and watching her disappear into the house. After a beat of silence, Ava tilted her head toward you, voice sly behind her shades.

“So… are you two dating?”

You frowned, confused. “What?”

She shifted her sunglasses down her nose just enough to raise her brows. “You and Bob.”

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth dropped into a dramatic, perfect “O.”

“What— no, pffft, no! We’re just… friends. Like you and me.”

Ava laughed softly, but her gaze stayed locked on you, way too perceptive for your comfort.

“Then why don’t you look at me the way you look at him?”

The question hit harder than expected. You froze. Your heart did that thing where it picked up speed, like it was trying to run away before your brain could even catch up.

You opened your mouth to respond—but didn’t get the chance. Yelena reappeared, walking toward you like she owned the world, flanked by Johnny and Alexei, who looked far too amused to be joining a swimsuit shopping trip.

“They’re coming,” she said with a smirk. “Apparently the boys need suits too. And they want to pick out something ridiculous for Bucky.” That got a laugh out of all of you.

You glanced past them, half-hoping Bob would be in the group.

He wasn’t.

A tiny sting settled in your chest—nothing sharp, just that quiet flicker of disappointment. Maybe he needed rest. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out. Maybe… you were overthinking again.

You shook the thought away and caught up with the group, quickly weaving yourself into the casual chatter about the town, the ocean, and just how absurdly gorgeous these beach houses were.

Still… you couldn’t help but glance back, just once, at the boys’ cabin. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he wasn’t. But part of you hoped he’d noticed you were gone.

The shop you found wasn’t some cheap tourist trap. It was small, chic, and clearly catered to high-end beachgoers with taste. White walls, light wood floors, soft acoustic music playing in the background, and racks of curated swimsuits arranged by style, not size. It even smelled nice, like sunscreen and coconuts and fresh linen.

You, Yelena, and Ava wandered through the racks like hunters in the wild, each with your own goal. Ava leaned toward white or black prints. Yelena made a beeline for anything tactical-looking or black. You? You didn’t know what you were looking for, until you saw it.

A white two-piece bikini, delicate but bold.

The top had thin, adjustable straps and a soft triangle cut that showed just enough while still keeping you comfortable. The fabric was smooth, almost pearly under the light, and hugged your shape in a way that felt way too flattering. The bottoms were high-cut at the hips, elongating your legs, and dipped just enough in the front to make you feel sexy.

You held it up, biting your lip.

The fitting rooms were individual little cabins with thick curtains and full mirrors, and for a moment, you just stood inside yours, staring at yourself.

The bikini really did fit, almost suspiciously well. The white stood out against your skin like it was made for you. It hugged your waist, shaped your chest, gave just enough curve to make you hesitate. You adjusted the straps, turned sideways, checked again.

You weren’t sure if you felt powerful or exposed.

Still undecided, you pulled the curtain back and stepped out barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. Yelena was standing just outside, holding a one-piece camo-pattern swimsuit that looked like it belonged in some military-themed Sports Illustrated shoot.

When she turned to look at you, her face froze for a second. And then she blinked. Twice.

“Oh my god,” she said loudly. “Bob’s going to get an erection so hard he’s gonna pass out.”

You stared at her, completely stunned. “Yelena!”

She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s true. That bikini is illegal. You look like someone who knows how hot she is.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. That loud, shocked kind of laugh that felt like it echoed off your ribs.

“I’m not getting it just because of Bob!” you protested.

“Sure. Of course,” Yelena said, already turning to hang her swimsuit back on a rack. “You’re getting it because of you. Which happens to be the same you that wants Bob to think about you every time he blinks.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because maybe she wasn’t totally wrong.

You looked back at yourself in the big mirror. Your fingers lightly touched the strap on your hip. Yeah, part of you wanted Bob to notice. And part of you was absolutely terrified he would.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

The walk back from town was filled with laughter and light teasing. John and Alexei were leading the way, both proudly swinging shopping bags, one of which contained a ridiculous pair of swim trunks Alexei had picked for Bucky, covered in pineapples and flamingos, while Bob’s were thankfully simple and classic.

You held a bag in one hand and kept your eyes on your feet, but no matter what, you couldn’t stop your thoughts from drifting.

What’s Bob gonna do when he sees you in this bikini?

You hadn’t meant to obsess over it. The idea had just settled in your mind. Naturally. Like it belonged there. And now it was stuck. Even as Ava was telling a story about how she accidentally bought three identical sarongs, your mind wandered right back to Bob.

The moment you and Ava set the bags down on the porch with a thud, Yelena clapped her hands like a general calling her troops.

“Alright, troops! Try on your swimsuits, we’re playing beach volleyball in ten!”

You exchanged an amused glance with Ava. You were all tired, even Yelena was complaining on the way back how well she'll be sleeping. Guess that thought was gone now.

Still, the energy in the air was contagious and none of you had the heart to say no, so Yelena texted the guys while the rest of you headed to change.

When you stepped outside, the sun was warm on your skin and the sound of the ocean made everything feel like a dream. Bucky and Alexei were already out there, stretching and tying up the net between two poles. John stood nearby, casually tossing the volleyball between his hands.

But Bob wasn’t there.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could spiral, Ava appeared behind you and gave you a sharp slap on the butt.

“Relax, your loverboy probably just got distracted picking the perfect outfit,” she teased.

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but your heart was beating just a little faster. You walked over to the group, the sand soft under your feet.

Bucky noticed you first. His eyes lingered for a second longer than they probably should have, but he kept his expression locked down – soldier mode. Alexei, on the other hand, had zero filters.

“WOW, GIRL, LOOK AT YOU!” he shouted across the beach. “YOU LOOK LIKE A GODDESS! AND YOU TOO! AND YOU TOO!!”

He even stumbled into the net and collapsed dramatically, like your beauty had physically floored him. All of you burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, but sweet.

Walker stood back, saying nothing, just calmly observing like always, the ball still rotating between his palms.

“Let me help you with this,” you offered, moving to Bucky’s side and helping him secure the net to the post. You worked silently for a moment until he glanced at you and said, in his typical stern voice: “You look good.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

Then, behind you, you heard the soft click of the cabin door opening. Your head instantly turned.

Bob stepped out. He wore a plain green T-shirt and simple black swim shorts. His hair was a little tousled from the wind, and the second his eyes landed on you, he froze.

You gave him a small, friendly wave.

He just stood there. His brows twitched. His jaw tensed. Then, as if his legs had remembered how to move, he took a step forward and tripped a little in the sand. Your heart did a backflip.

“See?” Yelena appeared beside you, slapping your shoulder. “Told you he’d be wrecked when he saw you.”

You laughed, half in embarrassment, half in disbelief, and shook your head. “Shut up.”

“Alright, LET’S GOOO!” Alexei yelled, clapping loudly before peeling off his shirt in one dramatic motion. The dude was built like a Greek statue.

Then Bucky followed suit, revealing defined abs and a torso clearly sculpted through years of combat training. All of you fell into stunned silence for a moment.

Even Walker, who hadn’t said a word, took off his shirt and casually joined the group. His body was lean, defined, quiet strength. Bob arrived near the group, awkwardly raising a hand.

“Hey,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. All eyes slowly turned to him waiting. Expectant.

He looked around nervously. “What? Did I—?”

And then he realized. He looked down at his own shirt, then back up at the group.

“Oh! Uh… I think I’ll keep the shirt on. I’m kinda cold,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blinked. Cold? You didn’t believe him for a second, and you were pretty sure no one else did either. Still, no one pushed him. It was Bob. If he needed to keep his shirt on, he could.

Yelena turned to split the teams. “Alright, someone from the guys can join us, but anyone except Ale—”

“GOING WITH MY GORGEOUS LADIES!” Alexei yelled, cutting her off and dashing over to your side like a golden retriever on espresso.

Yelena let out the longest, most defeated sigh and rubbed her temples.

Teams were decided, and as fate would have it, you and Bob ended up on opposing sides. The game was lighthearted at first, filled with laughter and playful banter. But then John raised the stakes.

“How about this? Winning team gets treated to a round of rum by the losers!”

A collective cheer erupted, and the game intensified. The air buzzed with laughter, the sounds of sneakers shuffling and palms slapping against the volleyball echoing across the beach.

You were focused, at least, you were trying to be. But every time your eyes met Bob’s across the court, something fluttered in your chest. It wasn’t just the look he gave you, it was everything about him.

The way his green shirt clung to his chest, damp from sweat, outlining the gentle definition of his torso; the way his dark hair was slightly tousled, sticking to his forehead; the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And he was looking.

Almost every single time you looked over at him, his eyes were already on you. And every single time, without fail, he’d catch himself and look away. Fast. Like a startled animal. His Adam’s apple would bob slightly as he swallowed hard, clearly rattled by something—by you, maybe.

But then came the moment he didn’t look away.

You looked across the net, searching for Bob again, and there he was, watching you. He didn’t flinch this time. He didn’t look down or pretend to scratch his face. He stared. And you, feeling just a little bold, gave him a playful wink.

That did it.

Even from across the sand, you saw the way his face lit up red. Not just a hint of blush, but full-on, ear-to-ear crimson. His lips curved upward in a tiny, embarrassed smile—so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching for it.

And of course you were watching. The next serve came. Fast. Too fast. You turned just a moment too late, the ball whizzing past your shoulder and hitting the sand behind you.

Point lost.

Your teammates groaned in playful frustration, and you raised your hand apologetically. “My bad,” you laughed, even though inside, your stomach was doing backflips. Bob was still watching. Except now, he looked like he was having a different kind of crisis.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt nervously. His jaw clenched. His chest was visibly rising and falling faster than it should. His arms were tense. His fingers curled into fist, his knuckles white. His eyes were definitely not on the ball.

They were on you.

Suddenly, he took a deep breath and bent slightly forward. “Uh—sorry! I just need a… quick break!” he blurted out, turning so fast he almost tripped on his own foot. Without another word, he jogged off the court and toward the cabins, his shirt bunched up slightly at the back and clinging tighter at the front than before.

Everyone kind of paused.

“Everything alright?” John called after him, spinning the ball on his finger.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good!” Bob replied quickly, too quickly, his voice cracking slightly as he disappeared around the corner.

The group exchanged glances, some shrugged, some laughed. Yelena rolled her eyes. “He probably has bad stamina.”

But your heart dropped just a bit. Something felt off. You didn’t even think, you tossed the ball aside, murmured a quick, “I’ll go check on him,” and broke into a quick jog, sand kicking up around your ankles as you made your way toward the cabins.

Bob barely made it into the room before slamming the door shut behind him, chest heaving, face flushed and mind spinning. He pressed his back to the wood as if trying to barricade himself from the outside world, from you. His breathing was erratic. He glanced down.

“Oh no no no…”

The situation in his swim trunks was unignorable. His erection was pushing painfully against the fabric, a direct result of the way you looked—sweaty, flushed from the game, laughing with your hair a mess, skin kissed by sunlight. The way your bikini hugged your curves. The way your chest rose and fell when you ran. The way you winked at him.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. This was not supposed to happen.

He tried to steady his breath and think about anything else, but it was useless. All he could think about was you. How close you’d gotten. How dangerous it felt to even have you in the same game, let alone within touching distance.

Then came the knock.

“Bob?” Your voice was gentle, concerned. “Are you okay?”

He froze. Your voice was the last thing he needed right now. It sent a fresh wave of heat through him. His hands curled into fists.

“Yeah! I’m—uh—I’m fine. Just a headache,” he called out quickly, praying you’d leave.

But you didn’t.

“I can come in, I’ll bring you water or—”

“NO!” he shouted. Too loud, too harsh. The silence that followed was gutting. You stood on the other side of the door, frozen in place. “…Bob?”

He could hear it. The confusion in your voice. The hesitation. He hated himself instantly.

“I just—I need to be alone, okay?” His voice was muffled now, pressed into the crook of his elbow as he paced the room. He could feel his heart pounding, his frustration mounting—not just with the situation, but with himself. “Just leave. Please.”

You didn’t speak. He imagined your face, how hurt you probably looked, how your brows might have creased, how your mouth might’ve opened to argue before you stopped yourself.

Then… footsteps. Soft. Fading. Gone.

He felt the loss immediately. Like something had been torn out of him. He let out a heavy breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, too late. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell.”

No answer.

“Please don’t be mad… I just—I didn’t know what to do, okay? You—you do things to me, and I panicked. Please, come back.” But the hallway was empty and the only response was silence.

As you stepped out of the cabin, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand, forcing a shaky breath through your nose.

“Hey, is Bob okay?” Ava asked, glancing toward the cabin you’d just exited.

You hesitated for a second, then nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “He just said he had a headache,” you replied, your voice carefully even.

You walked toward the volleyball net and joined the opposite team—the one now short a player with Bob gone. “Let’s keep playing,” you added cheerfully, hoping no one would question it further.

To your surprise, the game was good. Fast-paced. Fun.

Even with the ache in your chest, you gave it your all. Maybe even because of it. Every hit, every run across the sand, every cheer was your way of forcing yourself to focus on something else—anything else.

And in the end, your team won.

Yelena, Ava, and Alexei groaned in dramatic defeat while you, John, and Bucky raised your arms in victory. “Winners get the drinks!” Walker grinned.

“Fine,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “But we’re picking the place.”

The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting a soft golden glow over the beach. The heat lingered though, a warm comfort against your skin. Everyone decided to freshen up a bit before heading out, and you slipped into something light—a black fishnet-style dress over your swimsuit, barely-there but airy enough to keep cool.

The girls whistled playfully at you as you walked out, and you returned their teasing with a twirl and a wink. But your heart still felt heavy.

The bar you ended up in was cozy, loud with laughter, music humming low in the background. The lights were warm and soft, casting shadows across everyone’s faces. You weren’t drunk—just a little lightheaded from the rum, the kind that made your thoughts buzz and your limbs a bit too loose.

Yelena stuck by your side most of the evening. She laughed with you, poked fun at Walker, and even made a show of challenging Alexei to a drinking contest. But at one point, she leaned in, her gaze a little too knowing.

“You’re smiling,” she said gently, “but your eyes are somewhere else.” You blinked and looked away, sipping from your drink.

“I’m fine,” you murmured.

Yelena sighed and gave you a long look. “I’m gonna go talk to Ava for a bit, okay? You good here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I need some time alone anyway.” She gave your hand a light squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd.

You sat in silence for a while, swirling your drink, the taste of sugar and burn lingering on your tongue. Your gaze drifted around the room, but you weren’t really seeing anyone. The voices blended together. The laughter felt far away. Until one voice didn’t.

“Hey…”

You froze. Slowly, your eyes shifted to the side.

Bob.

He stood just beside you, looking awkward, guilty, and entirely out of place. His hair was a little messy, his green shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d been sitting in one place too long before deciding to come. His voice was soft. Tentative.

“…Can I sit?”

You just nodded faintly and let out a small, wordless hum of agreement.

He took the seat next to you, cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he really had the right to be there. You could feel his nervous energy radiating off him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. His leg bounced subtly beneath the bar. It was obvious he’d been overthinking every second since earlier.

There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice strained but sincere. “About before. I didn’t mean to—” He hesitated, sighed. “I panicked. That’s all. I didn’t want to shout at you like that. I don’t even know why I did. I just… freaked out.”

You were still leaning against the bar, your head tilted slightly sideways, cheek resting on your folded arm. With your other hand, you absently played with the rim of your empty glass, turning it slowly between your fingers. You didn’t look at him, but your shoulders rose in a small shrug. It wasn’t cold—it just said I hear you. But I’m still processing.

He bit the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated with himself, then tried again.

“I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Can I… can I buy you another drink? Something strong, maybe? Vodka?”

That finally got a soft sound out of you—a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. You sat up properly, brushing your hair back and meeting his eyes, just briefly.

“No thanks,” you murmured. “I don’t wanna get drunk.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

The quiet between you stretched again, but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now. Just… tentative. Cautious. Slowly, your expression softened, even though the sadness still lingered. You could see how hard he was trying—how guilty he looked, how much he regretted that brief flash of temper. And even if it still hurt, you knew it hadn’t come from a place of cruelty. Just fear.

You sighed gently, then gave him a tiny nod. “It’s okay,” you said at last. “I get it.”

His eyes flicked up to you in relief, and he nodded eagerly. A beat passed before you tilted your head slightly. “Are you having anything?”

He blinked. “Uh… no. Acohol— I don’t really— It doesn’t go well with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a little shyly. “I’m not exactly the fun drunk type. More like the ‘embarrass myself and then cry about it later’ type.”

That finally earned a genuine smile from you. A small, honest one. “Alright,” you said.

“What if we uh…drink something sweet? Like juice?” Bob suggested cautiously and you nodded with a hum.

Bob grinned sheepishly and waved at the bartender, ordering two fruity, alcohol-free drinks. When he slid yours toward you and caught the way you looked at him, smile soft, eyes warm, his ears turned a little pink. You raised your glass and clinked it gently against his.

As the conversation carried on, whatever tension had existed between the two of you earlier slowly dissolved, like mist in the morning sun. You laughed together, genuine, unguarded laughter, and it felt easy again. Comfortable.

Before long, you completely forgot why you’d been upset in the first place. Bob was being his awkward, charming self, and it was disarming in the best way. He made a silly comment about the drink being too fruity for a “manly guy like him,” and you rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh. You teased him back, and time began to slip by, unnoticed and unchecked.

Eventually, Bucky appeared at the entrance of the bar, a little sweaty, clearly ready to call it a night. “We’re heading out,” he called over the soft hum of music and clinking glasses. “You two coming?”

You glanced at Bob and then shook your head with a smile. “We’ll stay a little longer.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow knowingly, gave a short wave, and disappeared with the rest of the group. That “little longer” quickly became several hours. The sky outside deepened into full night, the noise of the bar gradually quieted as the crowd thinned out, and you and Bob were still there, talking and laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the moment, gentle but firm. The bartender leaned over and said something in Spanish, “Cerramos.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out a soft gasp. “Oh! They're closing.” You jumped off the barstool with a flurry of movement, grabbing your things quickly and tossing an apologetic smile toward the bartender. You replied: “Lo siento!” then turned to Bob.

He was still sitting there, watching you with a puzzled look on his face. Then he glanced at the bartender, and back to you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You speak Spanish?” he asked, a bit of awe in his voice.

You laughed and shook your head. “Nooo,” you admitted, grinning. “But it’s not that hard to guess what he said.”

Bob smiled as the realization hit him. “Right… yeah. That makes sense.” He stood up, stretching a little, and pulled a few bills from his wallet to leave on the counter for the drinks. Together, the two of you stepped out into the warm night.

Outside, the air was rich with the scent of saltwater and distant blossoms. The sky was a canvas of stars, crisp and clear, glittering like tiny diamonds. The moon hung low, casting a soft silver glow over the beach. The waves rolled in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, their gentle crash against the shore creating a peaceful, natural soundtrack that filled the quiet spaces between your laughter.

You walked side by side along the sand, your bare feet leaving prints behind you that the tide would soon claim. Every so often you’d bump shoulders slightly, accidentally-on-purpose, and Bob would smile that sweet, crooked smile of his. Conversation flowed as effortlessly as the breeze around you.

Then, your tone shifted—just a little softer, more curious. “Can I ask you something?”

Bob glanced over at you and gave a small nod, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“Why didn’t you take off your shirt?” you asked gently. “Back when we played volleyball?”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, then scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. His fingers tugged slightly at the fabric of his shirt. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice, and he avoided your gaze.

“I guess I’m just… not that confident. About my body, I mean.”

He let out a soft, nervous snort through his lips, something between a sigh and the sound horses make when they’re annoyed, and looked down at the sand as if it had the answers.

He paused, then looked up at you, his eyes full of something vulnerable, raw, and honest. “But I’ll get there. One day.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Just… not yet.”

You nodded slowly, not saying anything at first. You looked down, watching the way your feet pressed into the sand, how your steps left soft imprints that trailed behind. You understood. Completely. And more importantly, you respected it.

Your silence wasn’t judgment, it was empathy. And as the two of you walked on, bathed in moonlight and ocean air, it was clear that even unspoken things had a way of being heard between you.

Bob walked you back to your cabin, the two of you moving a little slower than before, as if neither of you truly wanted the night to end. When you reached the steps, there was that moment, an awkward little giggle shared between you as your eyes both dropped to the ground, trying to avoid the tension hanging in the air. But it was there, unspoken and electric. You felt it in your chest, and judging by the way Bob was fiddling with his fingers and nervously rocking on his heels, he did too.

Maybe it was the rum still lingering in your system, or maybe it was the feeling of confidence bubbling up from the hours of honest conversation and gentle laughter. Either way, you found yourself standing a little taller, just bold enough to speak your mind.

“I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” you said, your voice soft but sure, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him. Bob lifted his gaze, eyes wide with something between surprise and fragile hope, like a puppy waiting to be told it’s a good boy.

“I think you have a beautiful body,” you added gently.

The moment the words landed, his eyes locked with yours, and the connection was intense. Warm. Heavy. It hung in the air between you like a string pulled tight.

You could see it in his face that he felt it too. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then his nervousness took over again. He let out a small, breathy laugh, looked to the side, and scratched the back of his head. His cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red, and his voice came out unsure and stammered.

“You too… you have a nice body. Not like—in a creepy way or anything! Just, uh… like, you know…”

He was tangling himself in his own compliment, flailing to land it gracefully, and it made your heart melt just a little more. Smiling softly, you lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture, giving a single nod with a calming expression.

“I get it,” you assured him gently. “Thank you.”

Relief washed over his face, and both of you started to laugh again, this time more naturally, more connected. The night felt sweet, even a little magical. You didn’t want to go inside. You didn’t want this to be the part where he left, where things faded into goodnights and what-ifs.

Something in you, maybe the remnants of courage, maybe the warmth still blooming from that last drink, refused to let him go. So, you decided to take a risk. A brave one.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words came out direct, sincere, without apology or hesitation. They hit Bob like a thunderclap. His eyes went wide and fractured with shock. You could see his heart stop and start again just by the way his chest moved. Goosebumps appeared along his arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his entire face flushed deeper than ever before.

“I-I… I mean—I… um,” he stumbled, blinking rapidly, completely overwhelmed.

You didn’t push, but you did move closer, stepping into the space between you, your hands slowly, carefully, rising to his chest. You placed them there gently, barely a touch, more of a whisper than a grip, and you could feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath your fingertips, pounding like a wild drum. The moment you touched him, he froze. His whole body stiffened, eyes locked on you, his lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

You tilted your head up, catching his gaze with a bold, flirtatious glint in your eye. Then you bit your lip, slowly and deliberately, giving him that look—the kind that stripped away all doubt.

“May I?” you whispered again, your voice lower, breathier, your fingertips brushing against his shirt as your palms moved slightly over his chest.

He inhaled sharply, the sound trembling through his lips, and after a second that felt like forever, he nodded—quickly, wordlessly, his entire body trembling with anticipation.

A sly, satisfied smile crept onto your face at his permission. You rose onto your toes as he instinctively leaned down to meet you halfway. And when your lips finally met his, it was as though the world simply fell away.

The background noise, the wind, the waves, the sound of cicadas, melted into silence. There was only warmth, only him.

His lips were soft, tinged with sweetness from the drinks you’d shared, and you felt a wave of heat roll through your body.

At first, he kissed you carefully, cautiously, almost as if he wasn’t sure if this was real. But the moment you leaned in hungrily for another kiss, something shifted in him, he melted into you completely.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him in closer, anchoring him to you. He responded instinctively, his hands finding your waist with gentle hesitance, holding you like you were delicate and precious, like the wrong touch might break the spell. His fingers traced small circles against your back, sliding slightly higher as he began to kiss you deeper, more surely.

And then you started to sigh—soft, involuntary little sounds escaping your lips, muffled between kisses. That was it. That was all it took to make Bob shudder slightly against you, his grip tightening just a little as he buried himself more completely in the moment.

For a man so shy, so careful with his words, his body was now telling you everything you needed to know. Your lips danced together under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies.

The kiss between you and Bob deepened quickly, the heat building with every brush of lips, every inhale that seemed too sharp, too needy.

Bob began to let out these quiet, helpless little moans—soft, desperate sounds that made your heart stutter and your core clench with hunger. His breath was hot, uneven, as if he couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling.

But then, just when things began to slip into something hotter, more dangerous, you pulled away.

Your lips left his with a quiet, breathy pop, and Bob’s eyes fluttered open in confusion, his brows furrowing as you took a small step back. You reached into your bag, rummaging clumsily, fingers searching for your keys. His expression was adorably baffled—eyes wide, lips parted, his chest still rising and falling too fast.

He didn’t even get the chance to ask what you were doing. Before he could speak, you found the keys, turned, and unlocked the door with a soft grunt of effort. The handle resisted for a moment—just long enough to make you curse under your breath. But then it gave way, and without a word, you grabbed a handful of Bob’s shirt and yanked him inside with you.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And then you were on him again.

You pushed him up against the wall before he could even blink, your lips crashing onto his like you’d been starved of him for hours instead of minutes. He let out a muffled gasp, taken completely off guard, but your mouth, your touch, the fire burning through you, it overwhelmed him. It shut off whatever part of his brain had been trying to stay grounded.

He melted into you, hands clinging to your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. But you weren’t slowing down.

You pressed your body hard against his, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart, pinning him to the wall with a surprising strength, despite your smaller frame. Your kiss was ravenous, unrelenting. Every time his breath hitched, it only drove you more.

But Bob still had some part of him trying to be responsible.

“Wait—wait, what about the others?” he asked, panting between kisses, his voice shaky, his lips still brushing yours. His hands remained at your hips, uncertain but not resisting.

“They’re asleep,” you breathed without hesitation, already leaning in again.

You kissed him hard, and he let out a startled noise in the back of his throat, half protest, half surrender. But just as your hands started trailing lower down his sides, he gently pulled back again, his eyes wide, his whole body trembling like he was barely holding on.

“I-I mean, I—” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed, caught in the tug-of-war between nerves and need.

But you were on fire. Every pulse in your body throbbed with want, and the heat between your thighs was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. You leaned in closer, placing a hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. Your eyes locked on his and your voice dropped into something sultry, something that made his breath hitch.

“Do you want me?” you whispered, your words low, teasing, soaked in longing.

Bob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He was frozen, wide-eyed, staring at you like you were made of fire and he couldn’t decide whether to run or let himself burn.

So you stepped in closer. Your bodies were touching now, pressed chest to chest, and your mouth hovered barely a breath from his. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering half-shut, your voice dipping into a softer, flirtier murmur.

“Do you want me, Bob?”

This time he nodded. Hard. His breath caught in his throat, and a deep, shaky sound escaped him. His hands clutched tighter at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish.

Then you gave him the final push—the one that made everything else fall away.

“Do you want me… right now?”

His answer wasn’t words. It was a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest and another frantic nod, his eyes burning with need. That was all the answer you needed. All the answer he could give.

And then your lips were on his again, fiercer this time, hungry and hot, and whatever doubts had been in his head melted away with each breathless kiss.

But the kisses between you and Bob grew messier, deeper, more desperate. There was no longer any hesitation, only raw, breathless need. Soft, pleading moans slipped from both your lips between every frantic brush of your mouths, and each sound only made the other crave more.

Bob’s hands fumbled at your waist, your neck, your hips, trying to be everywhere at once but still so careful. His swim trunks were starting to grow tight again, and the heat in your own body was unbearable. Your swimsuit clung to you, soaked through with arousal, even tho all you had done was kiss.

Stumbling into your room was chaotic, clumsy. Bob bumped into the wall, you tripped on your own feet, giggles and gasps filling the space between frantic kisses. But somehow, with limbs tangled and hearts racing, you made it to your room. You barely managed to shut the door behind you before dragging both of you toward the bed.

With one firm but gentle push, you toppled Bob onto the mattress and let yourself fall with him. You landed on his chest with a bounce, both of you breathless and grinning, and then, before he could even process it, you rolled off and stood quickly. You turned back toward the door, locking it with a soft click. Then, you turned around again and froze for a beat.

Bob was sitting at the edge of your bed, completely still, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. His hair was messy from your fingers, his lips red and swollen from your kisses and his eyes were glassy with lust, with longing. His pupils were huge. His face was flushed. And lower down, his erection was unmistakably visible.

You had never felt like this about any man before. Not like this.

You let your purse fall to the floor without a second thought, fingers slipping under the hem of your fishnet dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, you pulled it up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.

Now, standing there in only your swimsuit, you began to approach him. Slowly, like a predator circling prey. The hunger in your eyes was impossible to miss.

Bob didn’t move. He couldn’t. He watched you the entire time, mouth slightly open, hands resting on the bed like he needed the mattress to ground himself.

You stopped in front of him and brought your hands up to cup his face, leaning in to kiss him again—but this time it was slower. Gentler. A soft, intimate prelude.

His hands found your cheeks too, fingers stroking your skin, and he tried to pull you back down onto him. But you resisted. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Can we… get rid of this?” you asked with a playful smile, tapping a finger against the center of his chest.

His eyes dropped to your finger, then flicked back up to your face. He swallowed hard, clearly nervous.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered, your tone low and teasing. “But how about a deal?”

You licked your lips slowly, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before lifting it back to his eyes.

“If we take this off,” you said, finger still resting on his chest, “then we also take this off…” Your hand drifted up, motioning briefly toward the top of your swimsuit.

That was all it took.

Whatever fear had still lingered in him melted away instantly. His fingers gripped the hem of his shirt and, without a single pause, he pulled it over his head in one swift, fluid movement and tossed it aside. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He wanted this. He wanted you. Badly enough to show you a part of himself he’d just admitted he was ashamed of.

But the moment your eyes dropped to his now bare torso… your jaw practically hit the floor.

He was stunning. Broad chest, strong shoulders, abs like something sculpted by a god, toned arms with just the right amount of muscle, exactly how you liked it. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. Not from someone as shy and self-conscious as him.

You looked back up at him, wide-eyed with a mix of disbelief and awe. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Bob sat there, half-nervous, half-burning, unsure how you’d react—until he saw your expression. And even though your reaction was silent, it told him everything. The look on your face said it all.

You knelt down slowly, your eyes still locked onto his body as if mesmerized, and began showering him with a cascade of kisses. They rained down over his skin, his chest, his stomach, his sides, each kiss playful, some lingering, others accompanied by soft, teasing licks or the occasional gentle bite.

It tickled him a little, making him laugh under his breath, his abs tightening instinctively. He wanted to reach out, to touch your hair, cradle your face, pull you close—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to break the moment or push too far. So he kept his hands behind him, gripping the mattress like an anchor.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured in between kisses, your lips brushing against his skin with every word. Your hands rested firmly on his thighs, fingers splayed out, grounding yourself as you explored him with both touch and mouth.

“So beautiful,” you repeated, almost breathless with admiration. You couldn’t get enough of him. You kissed every inch of skin you could reach, tasting the warmth of his sun-kissed body, losing yourself in the way he squirmed slightly beneath your lips.

Eventually, the hunger in you built beyond just kisses.

You looked up at Bob, meeting his eyes. He looked dazed, utterly blissed out, but beneath the surface, there was something else. He was waiting. For your part of the deal.

A mischievous smile curled on your lips.

Still on your knees, you slowly straightened up and reached behind your back, fingers deftly untying the knot of your bikini top. With a small motion, you let it slip off your shoulders, revealing your bare breasts to him.

Bob’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes widened and locked on you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands dug into the mattress, and through his swim trunks, you could see the very visible twitch of his hard-on as it reacted to the sight.

He wanted to touch you so badly. You could see it. The craving in his eyes. But he still held back, being a gentleman, respecting your pace, refusing to make a move without permission.

“Wanna touch?” you asked, tilting your head and giving him a knowing smirk.

His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. He nodded eagerly, licking his lips, his hands already twitching to move. He slowly reached out but paused again, eyes flicking to yours, searching for that last bit of reassurance.

You gave him a small nod.

And then he touched you.

Gently, reverently, like you were something sacred. His hands cupped your breasts with a mixture of awe and need, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. His touch was warm, tender—curious yet careful.

He didn’t grope. He explored. Played. Worshipped. One hand cradled the underside while the other traced slow circles around your nipple, sending delicious shivers down your spine. He was in heaven, and judging by the way his breath caught every time you so much as sighed, he wanted you to feel that same bliss too.

Bob looked up at you, his hands still cradling your breasts as if he were holding something fragile and precious. Then his gaze flicked to your face, a bit hesitant.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, voice low and tender.

You smiled, nodding, and that smile alone seemed to ease something in him. You weren’t just okay—you were glowing. It felt good, the way his fingers explored you with such care, and the look in his eyes made it all the more intense.

And it definitely did something to him. You could tell from the way his chest rose with every breath, how his eyes occasionally fluttered shut like he was overwhelmed. Still, after a moment, he pulled his hands away, clearly not wanting to get too carried away without your lead.

You leaned in again and kissed him.

It was slower, deeper. Your hands roamed his body, savoring the shape of him, the tension in his muscles, the way he melted under your touch. His hands were verywhere. Moving over your back, your hips, your sides, as if trying to memorize every inch of your body.

But you remained on your knees, just slightly lower than him, even as the kiss grew hotter.

Then one of your hands started to travel—leaving his neck, gliding down over his chest, his stomach, until it reached the waistband of his swim trunks. You paused there. Not moving or rushing. You stopped kissing him and looked up at his face.

Bob’s eyes followed your hand, then quickly returned to yours. There was a storm behind those eyes—desire, definitely, but also uncertainty.

You gave him a slow, sultry smile, tilting your head ever so slightly as if to say, It’s okay. I want this too. He exhaled shakily, his lips parting, and after a moment, he nodded.

With the same care he’d shown you earlier, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and began to pull them down. Painfully slow. Your eyes never left his face, watching his expression shift—excitement, nervousness, and that unmistakable tension of anticipation.

As the fabric slid down his thighs and hit the ground, your breath caught audibly. You gasped so loud that even Bob flinched a little, startled. You hadn’t expected… that.

There it was—thick, veined, heavy, and already so hard it twitched in the cool air. The way it stood against his toned stomach, pulsing gently, made your pulse echo right along with it.

You couldn’t help but whisper in disbelief, “And you’ve been hiding this the whole time?”

Bob let out an awkward little laugh, clearly flustered. His cheeks flushed deep red, not just from arousal, but from your stunned compliment. He looked away for a second, bashful, and mumbled something incoherent.

Carefully, you reached out and brushed your fingers against him. The moment your skin made contact, his body jolted, just a little, and he let out the softest whimper, almost a sigh.

You looked up again, eyes wide and a little wicked, and bit your bottom lip.

Slowly, your hand began to move, gentle at first, as though you were still getting to know this part of him. He trembled beneath your touch, trying to stay quiet, but his hips shifted involuntarily, betraying how sensitive he was.

His hand gripped the sheets tightly, knuckles pale. He was trying so hard not to make a sound—to keep still so he wouldn’t wake the girls in the next room—but you weren’t making that easy.

The pressure, the rhythm… it was enough to undo him. But then, before he could fully process what was happening, you leaned forward and kissed the tip. Bob let out a strangled sound and tensed, as if his whole body was about to short-circuit.

You looked up at him, holding eye contact the entire time. At first, you were teasing—pressing soft kisses to the sensitive head, letting your tongue glide around it lazily, deliberately. His thighs trembled. He bit down on his lip so hard it turned white.

Then you got more serious.

You took him in slowly, still holding his gaze. Bob’s lips parted, his eyes fluttering half-shut, and a shaky breath escaped him like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. His entire body tensed as if overwhelmed by the sensation.

He tried to stay quiet, tried to keep his hips still, but sometimes his body moved on its own, bucking up just slightly, and he immediately muttered a breathless apology every time it happened.

You didn’t rush. You let the anticipation burn slowly, letting him feel everything.

“God—” he whispered under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and then—“I’m sorry,” he added instantly, as if ashamed of reacting too strongly. You didn’t mind. In fact, it made your heart race.

The way he melted for you, how his body surrendered so easily, he wasn’t trying to be dominant or in control. He wasn’t trying to hide how much it affected him. And that vulnerability? It was intoxicating.

You could hear how much it meant to him in every breathy sound, every shaky exhale, every stifled moan. He whimpered again, high and desperate, and the sound echoed in your mind like a reward.

His fingers were digging into the mattress, every muscle tight with restraint. He whimpered again, soft and broken, and your innocent gaze stayed locked on his, only intensifying everything he felt.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached up and took his hand—guiding it to your head. He hesitated at first, breath shaky, eyes wide with uncertainty. But you gave him a sweet calm look that said it’s okay. That you trusted him. That he could touch.

His hand accidentally tangled in your hair, gripping a bit too tight, and when he realized, he gasped and immediately loosened his fingers.

“Shit—I’m sorry—are you okay?” he stammered, guilt flashing in his eyes.

You looked up at him again, lips still wrapped around him, and gave the tiniest nod, reassuring him you were fine. More than fine. You loved seeing him like this. Raw, undone, his tough exterior peeling away one soft moan at a time.

And it hit you, too. That fluttering heat in your chest. That ache between your legs. The feeling of being wanted this much. Of making someone feel this good. His reactions lit a fire inside you. Every twitch of his thighs, every tremor in his voice—it all made you feel powerful and delicate at the same time.

Bob’s hands were restless now. One gripped the sheets, the other hovered near your head again, as if unsure whether he was allowed to touch. You leaned into it, and he gently threaded his fingers through your hair, this time softer, more reverent. But his voice was breaking. Little, helpless gasps.

Whispers of your name.

And once or twice—a shaky, choked-off moan that sounded like he might cry if you kept going. But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

Because the way he trembled under you, the way his stomach clenched and his legs shifted, the way he sounded like he was falling apart, that was everything.

Bob was right on the edge, his whole body was trembling, his hands clenching the sheets like he was holding on for dear life. And when he finally came, gasping your name like a whispered prayer, you didn’t pull away.

You stayed with him. Took everything he gave you.

He let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan, overwhelmed beyond words, his hips twitching from overstimulation as you gently helped him through the last waves. You even cleaned the rest of him up with soft, careful kisses, and that alone nearly made him whimper again.

“Jesus…” he breathed out, barely able to speak, a hand running through his tousled hair as he looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. “I– I’m sorry.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised. “What for?”

His voice was small. Fragile. “For… everything? For that being too fast? For—” he swallowed, looking embarrassed, “—for not lasting longer. I didn’t mean to be so…”

You climbed up to him and silenced him with a kiss. Not hurried, not demanding, just soft. Tender. Full of comfort.

Your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs stroking his flushed skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling good,” you whispered against his lips. “That was perfect.”

His eyes closed, his breath catching. He looked like he might cry for a whole different reason now.

You gently straddled his waist, not quite there yet, but close enough that the shift in energy was obvious. Your thighs pressing lightly against his sides, his hands flew instinctively to your hips. Not in a needy grip, but gentle, hesitant. Your body was warm and ready, and you were preparing to fully connect, but before you could guide him further, Bob stopped you.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

You paused, blinking down at him, your brows gently furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes met yours, and something was different. The nervousness that had clouded his gaze earlier was gone. What replaced it was soft but firm, confidence built not from ego, but devotion.

“I want to take care of you now,” he said.

A small smile curved your lips, your heart skipping a beat at how genuine he sounded. “You don’t have to, really—”

But Bob shook his head. “No. I want to. I need to.”

There was something so deeply sincere in his voice it made your chest ache.

You gave him a soft nod, and he smiled, one of those rare, crooked, bashful smiles that melted you inside. Then, with gentle hands, he shifted you. Slowly, carefully, he rolled your body so you lay on your back in the center of the bed, like he was positioning you at the heart of a sacred space. His arms hovered around you, cradling your movement so you never felt dropped, never out of control.

He knelt between your legs, just watching you for a moment. You were laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling, hair fanned out across the pillow. He looked awestruck.

His hand came to your side. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, lips parted, your voice caught somewhere between breath and heartbeat. “Yes.”

His hand slid up along your ribcage, following the natural shape of you with reverence. He wasn’t just touching—he was memorizing. Like every inch of your skin mattered. Like you were art.

He kissed you again, slow, coaxing, warm. And as the kiss deepened, he murmured against your lips: “Can I take these off?”

His fingers were resting lightly at the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms.

You nodded. “Please.”

Bob peeled the fabric down slowly, as if every inch was a treasure to be revealed, not a secret to be rushed. His eyes never left your body, and his hands trembled just a little.

Once the swimsuit was off, he let his fingers trace lightly along your inner thighs, but never without looking up at you first.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his breath brushing over your bare skin.

You nodded again, heart pounding. “Yes.”

And then he lowered his mouth to you.

The moment his lips met your most sensitive spot, your whole body arched. But it wasn’t just the touch—it was the tenderness, the intention. Bob wasn’t careless or clumsy. He listened. He adjusted every motion based on how you sighed, how your breath caught, how your fingers curled in the sheets.

His movements were soft, exploring. He let his tongue move in long, unhurried strokes, drawing out your reactions—your sighs, your tiny gasps, the way your fingers curled into the sheets. You felt your body start to unravel under the attention, your hips shifting instinctively, needing more.

His hands held your thighs, steadying you but never trapping you. He let you move against him. Let you guide him with nothing more than the sound of your breath. His tongue moved slow, experimental, reverent. And as he began to read your body, he grew more confident.

Every flick, every gentle suck, was delivered with the knowledge that he was giving you pleasure, not taking it. He wasn’t doing this to prove something. He was doing it because he wanted to worship you.

“God, Bob…” you whispered, voice cracking as your fingers found his hair.

He hummed at the sound, and the vibration sent another shiver racing through you.

He learned quickly. How you liked it slower, how a certain flick of his tongue made your whole body twitch. How your voice caught every time he sucked softly at just the right spot.

“Yes… yes—so good,” you breathed, your hips moving almost without permission.

The way he reacted to your pleasure, how eager he was to see you fall apart, made everything more intense. He was moaning softly too, like just tasting you made him dizzy with need. He liked knowing you wanted him there. That you trusted him there. He never once looked away from you, not even when he grew bolder, more confident.

He explored every inch of you with his mouth like you were something to be adored, not conquered. And every sound you made, every shiver in your body, only spurred him on.

Your breath started to catch, your thighs tightening around his shoulders as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. He felt it. Saw it. Knew it.

And he didn’t let up.

His hands squeezed your hips gently, anchoring you as he focused entirely on giving you what you needed. He stayed right there, lips and tongue working with delicious rhythm, sending shockwaves through you with every stroke.

You were close. So close it scared you.

“Bob,” you gasped, voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He wanted this for you.

The wave crashed over you so suddenly, so completely, it stole the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you came—shaking, pulsing, everything unraveling under his touch.

Bob held you through it. Never pulling away, never letting you feel alone. Even as you trembled and gasped and whimpered his name, he stayed with you, riding the waves with the same quiet patience he always gave you.

And only when your body finally relaxed, chest heaving and limbs limp, did he slowly lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and shining. And when he saw you looking at him, completely undone and breathless, he smiled the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing along your thigh. You nodded, dazed and glowing, trying to catch your breath.

Bob slowly crawled back up your body, leaving a warm trail of kisses across your skin. He moved as if afraid to disturb the peace settling over you, like he was returning to you from a place of worship. When his face hovered above yours, he looked into your eyes for a long, quiet moment.

Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

His hand came up to your hair, brushing it back with slow fingers, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Your heart squeezed.

You reached up to cup his face and pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss—sweet at first, but quickly deepening. The electricity between you hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger now that there was nothing between you but skin and trust.

Still breathless, you moved, shifting your hips just enough to push him onto his back. He let out a surprised little laugh as you rolled with him, your bodies twisting together until you were on top of him, straddling his hips. The heat between you flared instantly.

He looked up at you with wide, reverent eyes, his hands resting gently on your waist as if asking silently for permission to hold you there.

You leaned down and kissed him again—slow, deep, melting into each other with every heartbeat. Your fingers ran along his chest, down his sides, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his body. You could feel him against you, hard and throbbing, and it sent shivers down your spine.

This was it. The moment you’d both been tiptoeing toward.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Are you ready?” you whispered.

Bob nodded, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Only if you are.”

“I am,” you said softly, and meant every word.

Your hand found him again, guiding him with care, your breath hitching as the tip pressed against you. You moved slowly, lowering yourself with a careful rhythm, taking him in inch by inch. Both of you gasped—Bob’s hands gripped your hips tightly, trying not to buck up into you.

The stretch made your whole body burn, but it was a sweet, full ache, one that had been building from the first time he looked at you like you were the sun.

Once he was fully inside, you stilled, letting your body adjust, both of you panting softly. Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his jaw clenched, as if overwhelmed by how deep it all felt—emotionally and physically.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your hands braced against his chest, your body trembling slightly. “You feel… amazing.”

A shaky laugh left his throat. “So do you. God, so do you.”

You started to move—slow, steady, your bodies learning each other. Every thrust, every sigh, every soft gasp between kisses told its own story. It wasn’t just sex. It was connection. It was trust. It was two people baring everything, souls and skin, just to be close.

You moved together in perfect rhythm, hips rising and falling in sync, his hands mapping your body like he never wanted to forget a single inch. And with every moan, every whispered name, every breath you shared, love wrapped tighter and tighter around you both.

Your rhythm picked up—slow and deep giving way to something needier, hungrier. The friction between your bodies grew more intense, breaths turning to gasps, gasps to moans. The sounds of skin against skin, the creaking of the mattress beneath you, the soft rustle of sheets, it all blended into a symphony of desire that filled the space around you like firelight.

Bob’s hands roamed your back, your hips, your thighs—desperate to hold you, ground you, memorize you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were glowing. You were everything.

And then he sat up, his arms wrapping around you as you stayed straddled on his lap. Your chest pressed tightly against his, your lips meeting his in a fevered kiss. He held you there, anchored you to him like he was terrified of letting you go.

You clung to him just as tightly.

Your mouths moved together like you were breathing the same air. His tongue tangled with yours, his hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you even closer. But then his grip on your waist tightened.

Hard.

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips pausing. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead still resting against his, trying to catch your breath. And that’s when you saw it.

For a split second, just a flash, his eyes glowed. Golden. Not metaphorically, a actually glowing. And then it was gone. Blink, and you might’ve thought you imagined it. But you didn’t.

Bob froze. His arms loosened immediately, and panic flooded his face. “Shit—did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Hey,” you said gently, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He was breathing fast, his brows drawn tight, clearly shaken by the moment. “I felt something… I didn’t mean to grip you that hard.”

You nodded slowly. “It's okay.”

He winced. “I- I'm sorry, I don’t want to scare you, or—God—I don’t want to lose control around you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his again. “You didn’t scare me, Bob. You trusting me with that… it means more than I can say.”

His breath hitched and before he could say anything else, you kissed him again, before guiding his hands back to your waist. This time, his grip was steady. Gentle. Confident.

And then you moved again.

The pleasure hit like a wave crashing into shore, harder than before, deeper. His hands gripped you tighter, not in fear this time, but in raw need, in love, in reverence.

You kissed his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, whispering his name like a prayer.

You rocked against him, and he met every motion, your bodies tangled in something that went beyond skin and muscle, it was soul-deep. The sounds coming from him, breathy moans, quiet whimpers, your name, drove you wild.

And then it happened. You felt your climax building again, hot and fast and unstoppable.

“Bob,” you gasped, nails digging gently into his back.

He was right there with you, sweat beading at his brow, jaw tight, voice strained. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you breathed.

You crashed into release together—messy, overwhelming. You held each other through it, limbs trembling, lips finding each other again and again, clinging to the moment like it was all you’d ever need.

You collapsed against his chest, your limbs heavy and warm, your cheek pressing into the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder. Both of you were still catching your breath, chests rising and falling rapidly in sync. His arms wrapped around you protectively, and you let yourself sink into him, feeling completely safe and full.

There was a moment of perfect silence, just the sound of breathing, soft and human and real.

Then you shifted slightly, curling up beside him and resting your head against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, still racing, but slowly calming beneath your ear.

You smiled lazily. “Okay… serious question.”

Bob tilted his head to look at you, already smiling like a complete goof. “Shoot.”

You looked up at him with narrowed, mock-suspicious eyes. “Where did you learn to do that with your tongue?”

Immediately, Bob’s face flushed. He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked. “I—uh—I watched a couple things.”

You squinted. “What kind of ‘things,’ Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “Just like—like, y’know. Tutorials.”

You pulled back, eyebrows rising. “You watched porn?!”

Bob’s entire face turned bright red. “No! I mean—it was educational! There were diagrams!”

You blinked. “There were diagrams in your porn?”

He let out a strangled sound and covered his face with his hands. “Okay, I regret everything.”

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet room. “Bob Reynolds, you little nerd.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, totally mortified but smiling. “I just wanted to be good at it. For you.”

You leaned in and kissed him sweetly. “You were.”

A comfortable silence settled over you again, warm and soft like a blanket. You traced idle shapes on his chest with your fingertips, still smiling, still glowing.

Then Bob’s voice broke the quiet, a little more cautious this time. “Hey… do you… remember the volleyball game? When I kinda bailed and told you not to come?”

You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “Well… I sorta… had a situation. In my swim trunks.” He exhaled, long and painful.

Your mouth fell open slightly. “You got a boner?!”

Bob winced, covering his face again. “I’m sorry! It just—happened! You were in that swimsuit and laughing and I don’t know, my brain just… betrayed me!”

You were quiet for a moment. Not judging. Not laughing. Just watching him squirm. Then you reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Bob.”

He looked at you through his fingers again, completely sheepish.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s totally normal.”

His eyes widened a little. “It is?”

You nodded. “Yeah…and honestly, kind of sweet.“ You smiled teasingly. He laughed, relieved, and pulled you close again, resting his chin on top of your head. “God, I like you so much.”

You nestled into him, your fingers laced together on his chest. “Good. Because I really, really like you back.”

The two of you lay there for a long time, tangled together, breathing slower now, hearts lighter. The night was quiet, soft, and full of something that felt a lot like the start of forever.

The golden morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, dancing lazily over tangled limbs and a rumpled blanket. You and Bob were still wrapped around each other—bare skin against bare skin, your head on his chest, his arm draped protectively over you. Your legs tangled, breaths slow, hearts steady.

A knock. Sharp. Three times.

“Hey, you coming to breakfast or are you dead?” Yelena’s voice chirped from behind the door.

Your eyes snapped open in panic. You bolted upright under the blanket, your heart immediately in your throat. Bob groaned quietly, still groggy, eyes not fully open yet.

You whispered, “What time is it?!” your voice barely audible and full of dread.

Bob blinked, looked around helplessly, and shrugged. “I—uh… no clue.”

You covered your face with both hands. “We’re dead. We’re actually dead.”

Yelena knocked again, softer this time. “We're going now, just letting you know.”

You scrambled to respond, “Yeah! I’ll be there! In a sec!”

Bob turned to you, now slowly realizing the situation. The blanket slid down his chest, revealing faint marks from your mouth the night before.

You stared at him. “We need to get dressed. Now.”

It was mayhem. You both jumped out of bed, frantically looking for clothes. You grabbed your swimsuit top, which had ended up halfway across the room, and pulled on a hoodie over it. Bob, on the other hand, was still stumbling, holding only his swim trunks in one hand, his shirt nowhere to be found.

“You can’t go out the door!” you hissed. “Someone could see you!”

“Then what do I do?!”

You gestured to the window. “Jump out.”

“Are you serious?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. You’re a superhero. I think you can survive this.”

He groaned dramatically, pulled on his swim trunks and shirt, then paused before the window. You rushed over, stood on your tiptoes, and gave him a rushed, smiling kiss. “Go. Before someone sees you.”

He opened the window, one leg already out, then looked back with a crooked grin. “You’re chaos.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

With that, he slipped out and disappeared into the early morning light.

Later that morning, everyone gathered at a nearby rustic café for breakfast. You sat at a corner table, sipping coffee, trying not to look suspicious. Yelena sat beside you. Bob was diagonally across, seated next to John. The chatter around the table was casual—about the lake, someone’s forgotten towel, who burned marshmallows last night.

You and Bob exchanged occasional, brief glances. Not long. Just enough to pass a message between you. A silent, thrilling electricity. You could still feel the echo of last night under your skin, and judging by the way Bob nervously rubbed the back of his neck, so could he.

“Dude…” John leaned closer to Bob, squinting. “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve got like, bruises or something. All over here.” He pointed.

Bob’s brows furrowed and instinctively reached for the spot. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, clearly unaware. Your fork froze mid-air. You looked straight down at your plate. Yelena turned to you. Her eyes widened slowly. Then, lips barely moving, she mouthed with a dramatic grin:

“You. Fucked. Bob.”

You nearly inhaled your scrambled eggs. Your face heated like wildfire. You avoided everyone’s eyes, especially Bob’s. Meanwhile, Bob was trying to deflect. “Maybe I slept weird or—uh—bug bites?”

“Mmhmm,” John muttered, unconvinced.

You dared a glance at Bob. And that was it—your eyes met, and he knew. His brows lifted just slightly. His lips parted. You both quickly looked away.

Yelena leaned into closer to you and whispered, “I knew it. I heard really weird noises last night.” “Yelena, shut up.” She just chuckled into her cup of tea.

As the conversation drifted elsewhere, your face still radiated heat. Across the table, Bob leaned his elbow against the table and rested his cheek on his hand, sneaking one last look at you. You caught it—and gave him the tiniest smile.

This week was going to be… very interesting.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE📙🦋

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

I’VE GOT YOU

Summary: Bob was injured during the mission and you helped him to ease the pain, as every good girlfriend should.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, nicknames (sweetheart, baby,…), getting caught, crying during intimacy, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, injury, fingering, handjob, unprotected sex (piv), kinda soft & dom, creampie

A/n: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

By now, the team should have been back. The mission had ended hours ago, and at this point, they should’ve been crowding into the lounge of Stark Tower — laughing too loud, celebrating another successful operation, and raiding Tony’s minibar like they always did. That was tradition. That was how every mission ended.

But tonight, the lounge was silent and your nerves were beginning to spiral.

You hadn’t joined them this time. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it was your mother’s birthday. A rare family gathering, one you couldn’t skip, not even for a world-saving mission. This time, your family came first.

But it wasn’t easy. Because no matter how much you loved your family, this job… this job was your passion.

You loved the thrill, the fight, the fire in your veins as you went toe-to-toe with villains. The satisfaction of saving lives, protecting people, being someone the world looked up to. And the praise? The applause? The adoration? Yeah… that felt good, too. Especially when you had Bob by your side.

Bob had been your boyfriend for a few years now, and from the very beginning, there was something undeniable between you.

That first moment you met — it was electric. A kind of pull. Something you couldn’t name at the time, but felt deep in your chest. You didn’t rush it. The connection grew slowly, naturally.

Conversations turned into glances. Glances turned into touches. And eventually, without either of you having to say much… it became real. You were his, and he was yours.

And when the team found out, they couldn’t have been happier — cheering, clapping, raising drinks in your honor. They loved you two together.

But tonight, that love was being smothered by a rising dread. You weren’t just anxious about the team being late. You were anxious about Bob.

Because while he might be The Sentry, godlike, powerful, nearly unstoppable, that didn’t mean he was untouchable. Something could still go wrong. There were enemies that didn’t play fair. Threats that no one saw coming.

And tonight, you weren’t there to watch his back.

You paced the hallway outside the elevator, arms wrapped around yourself as your boots echoed softly on the marble floor. Your teeth gnawed nervously at your thumbnail. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked toward the elevator doors — praying they’d open.

They didn’t.

Your mind raced, inventing scenario after scenario. Maybe the car had mechanical issues. Maybe there was an ambush on the way back. Maybe one of them got hurt, maybe he got hurt —

You couldn’t finish that thought. At one point, your hand instinctively reached toward your gear, your suit, your weapon.

Your instinct was screaming at you to go. To find them, find him. You were seconds away from sprinting to the armory, from throwing caution aside and flying out there into the night — When you heard it.

Ding.

The elevator chimed and your heart jumped. Your head snapped toward the sound, breath caught in your throat. And in that single moment, everything else faded — fear, anxiety, adrenaline — all waiting for one thing.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft whoosh. Your breath caught, your eyes widened. And for a second, just one suspended, terrifying second, the world around you froze.

Yelena stood there, holding Bob upright, supporting most of his weight as he limped beside her. He looked exhausted, disheveled.

His uniform was torn, one sleeve hanging loose, and his entire body sagged as if every step was a fight. He winced with each movement, clearly favoring one leg. You didn’t wait. You ran straight to him.

“Bob— Bob, are you okay? What happened?” you asked breathlessly, eyes scanning him up and down like you could somehow make sense of the damage with sheer panic.

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to smile. “Just hurt my leg a little.”

But he wasn’t fine. You could see it, the way he winced. The way he tried to hide how much he was leaning on Yelena. His voice was too tight. Too forced.

Your eyes flicked to Yelena, and she gave you a look, equal parts tired and guilty.

“He got the worst of it,” she admitted, her voice low. “Took the hit for the rest of us. Thanks to him, we made it out.”

Something twisted in your chest. You looked at the others trailing into the hallway — laughing, bantering, more or less intact — and then at Bob, still barely standing. He was the strongest among them, and they should have protected him, too. Why was he the only one hurt?

But you didn’t say it. You swallowed your frustration, forced a small nod, and turned back to Yelena.

“Here, switch with me,” you said. She nodded wordlessly, handing Bob over into your arms. You wrapped your arm gently around his waist, guiding him through the hall and into your room. Each step he took made you wince inwardly. He was trying to stay upright, to stay strong, but you could feel how much he was hurting.

Once inside, you helped him to the bed.

“Easy,” you whispered.

Bob groaned softly as he sat down, back resting against the wall, his leg extended in front of him. His breathing was shallow.

“Okay, let me have a better look,” you murmured, crouching in front of him.

You carefully reached for the hem of his pants and began to pull them up, slowly, gently, just enough to uncover the injury.

Bob hissed between his teeth. “Shit…”

The wound was worse than you expected. Not fatal, nor hospital-level urgent. But deep, ragged, swollen, and already bruising around the edges. Blood had dried in streaks down his leg, sticking to the fabric.

“Stay still,” you said quietly. “I’ll get my med kit.”

You moved fast, crossing the room to retrieve the supplies you always kept on hand. You weren’t just another superhero with fists and reflexes. You were trained, a certified medic. In a team like yours, that made all the difference. You’d patched up more people than you could count. But this wasn’t just anyone.

This was Bob. And the sight of him, hurting like this, made your chest tighten painfully.

You returned quickly, climbing onto the bed beside him, hands steady as you laid out antiseptic, gauze, and thread. He watched you silently, eyes soft.

“You’re amazing you know that?,” he said suddenly, voice low and hoarse. “You fight like hell, patch us all up like it’s nothing… And then still find time to take care of me.”

You paused for a second, looking up at him, your hands still hovering over his leg.

“I always find time for you,” you said, voice just as quiet. He smiled — small, tired, but real.

You reached into your med kit with practiced hands, your fingers quickly finding the familiar shape of the disinfectant bottle.

But as you gripped it, your heart sank a little. You knew this part was going to hurt. A lot. Your eyes drifted to Bob, guilt flashing through you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, already reaching for a nearby piece of clothing, an old shirt that had been tossed carelessly onto the bed earlier. You held it up toward him. “Here. Bite down on this.” He didn’t hesitate.

With a shaky hand, he took the fabric and pressed it between his teeth, jaw clenching as he braced himself. His eyes met yours, full of silent hope and trust, his heartbeat pounding visibly in his throat.

And just before you started, he reached out and grabbed your free hand. His fingers wrapped around yours tightly — not rough, but desperate. Like he needed something to anchor him, something solid, something safe.

You smiled at him gently and gave his hand a small squeeze in return.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Here we go.”

You uncapped the bottle and began to slowly pour the disinfectant over the wound. The effect was immediate.

Bob jerked, his entire body tensing as pain exploded in his leg. A muffled scream escaped into the shirt in his mouth. His eyes clamped shut. He squeezed your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed there with him, steady as stone.

“I know, I know— I’m so sorry,” you whispered quickly, your voice calm and full of warmth as you worked. “You’re doing so good. Just a little more. I’ve got you.”

You continued pouring the liquid around and over the injury with careful precision. His breath came in short, harsh gasps. His muscles trembled from the pain. But you never stopped speaking to him. Words of comfort. Praise.

Only when the wound was fully cleaned and flushed did you finally close the bottle and place it back in the kit. You exhaled slowly, but you didn’t want him in pain for a second longer than necessary, so you gently let go of his hand, reached for the bandages, and immediately began wrapping the injury.

Each motion was efficient, but soft. You worked with purpose, but care, every loop of gauze a silent reassurance: I've got you.

Bob watched you the entire time. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. The way your brow furrowed in focus. The tenderness of your touch. The quiet intensity of your love, visible in every motion. He slowly pulled the T-shirt from his mouth and let it drop beside him, exhaling a little easier.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw but sincere.

You looked up at him, raised an eyebrow, and gave a dry, ironic laugh.

“Oh sure,” you said. “I basically tortured you, and you thank me?”

He smiled, that tired, crooked grin that always melted your heart. “You made it bearable. That’s what counts.”

Once the bandage was secure, you smoothed it gently with your hand, your fingertips tracing the edge. Then, without thinking, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss right to the gauze.

Bob let out a low murmur as your lips pressed gently against the freshly bandaged wound. But it wasn’t from pain. It was a different kind of sound, something soft, something warm. Something that came from the depths of his chest.

You looked up at him with a small smile and tucked a stray lock of his hair out of his face, letting your fingers trail across his skin just a little longer than necessary.

He was watching you. But not just watching, drinking you in. As if you were salvation itself. As if you were the very last thing he’d ever want to see in this world, and if so, he’d die a happy man. Because that’s exactly what you were to him. The center of his universe.

You tilted your head slightly. “Do you want something for the pain?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, still holding your gaze. “No… well—”

You paused, mid-motion, raising your eyebrows in curiosity as you began putting away the medical supplies.

“There is one thing,” he added, his voice suddenly taking on that teasing lilt you knew all too well.

You turned toward him, the first signs of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Yeah? And what would that be?” Bob gave you a playful look.

“Can I get a kiss for the pain?”

Your face immediately flushed. You ducked your head with a soft, breathy laugh, shaking it in amusement. God, he could be so charming when he wanted to be, a total menace, really. And yet somehow, you never stood a chance.

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath, still smiling.

Then, slowly, you lifted your gaze back to his. You leaned in, closing the distance, and gently brushed your lips over his, just barely. A featherlight touch. A whisper of warmth.

But as you began to pull away, Bob’s brows drew together. That wasn't enough for him.

His hand slid up to the back of your neck with firm, but tender insistence. In one smooth motion, he pulled you in and captured your mouth in a real kiss, one that was hot, deep, and absolutely unmissable.

All the gentleness from before evaporated in an instant. Your body tensed, then melted. Your breath hitched. And for a heartbeat, or maybe more, you forgot where you were.

There was nothing but him. Nothing but his lips on yours, his fingers tangled in your hair, the heat rolling off his skin, the electricity sparking down your spine.

Your lips moved against his in a gentle rhythm —exploring, savoring. A tender dance filled with unspoken emotions, every brush of your mouth against his saying I’m here. I’ve got you.

Bob’s hand stayed at the back of your neck, grounding you to him, his fingers gently stroking through your hair. You could feel the tension slowly melt from his body — replaced by something warmer.

You pressed in just a little more. He responded immediately. The kiss deepened.

No longer hesitant or soft — now it was needy. His other hand found your waist, gripping you with just enough pressure to make your breath catch. You could feel the way he exhaled sharply through his nose, the way his lips began moving faster, his mouth opening more, inviting yours to follow.

And god, you did.

Your hands slid up over his shoulders, into his hair, pulling him closer. Your lips parted. Your tongues met.

The heat between you spiked like a lit match dropped on dry leaves. The way he kissed you… it was wild. Messy. Desperate.

Like he’d been holding it back for days, and now that he had you like this, he couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t breathe without you.

You only broke the kiss when your lungs begged for air. You pulled back slightly, your lips tingling, your cheeks flushed, your heart absolutely pounding in your chest. You were both breathless.

“Wait—” you said softly, brushing your fingers across his face. “Aren't you in pain?”

Bob blinked up at you with that dazed, blissed-out expression that made your stomach twist in the best way. And then he smiled.

“Not when I’m with you.”

That answer hit you right in the chest. You couldn’t help it. You let out a soft, breathy laugh. And then you kissed him again.

This time there was no holding back.

He pulled you against him and you leaned into the kiss with everything you had. You could feel the way your bodies fit together, how he reacted to every touch, every sound you made.

With Bob’s hands guiding your hips, you found yourself straddling his lap, your legs on either side of him, your body pressed flush against his. The kiss didn’t stop. It couldn’t stop.

His hands roamed your waist, your back, anchoring you to him as your fingers slid into his golden hair. Your mouths moved in sync, messy and greedy and breathless. The world faded around you. All that existed was this, his mouth, his touch, his heat, him.

Bob wasn’t always like this. He didn’t always kiss you with such bold hunger. He didn’t always touch you with that certain quiet confidence that now made your breath hitch in the best possible way.

In the beginning, Bob had been, without a doubt, the shyest and most adorably awkward man you had ever met. He was gentle, soft-spoken, always watching his words, always second-guessing his actions.

He was sweet, achingly so. That part of him never changed. But back then, he was hesitant. Unsure of how to move, how to approach you, how to let himself have you.

His touches had been featherlight. Fleeting. Sometimes almost nervous. He rarely initiated physical affection — not because he didn’t want to, but because he was scared he’d mess it up somehow. Like if he reached out too fast, he’d break the perfect thing blooming between you.

It was you who tore down the invisible wall between you. You were the one who leaned in first and kissed him.

The one who showed him it was okay to want, to take, to be close. Even when it came to your first sex together, it was you who led the way, guiding him, showing him it was safe, it was good, it was okay to let go.

And Bob let you. He trusted you so deeply, so purely, it made your heart ache. He admired you. Looked up to you like you were something just out of reach, even as you held him in your arms. You gave him space to breathe, to grow — and now, months later, you could see it happening right before your eyes.

His confidence was growing. Bit by bit, day by day, it bloomed. And you loved it.

That’s why now, sometimes, in the middle of kissing, you’d feel his hands tighten around your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath stutter.

Or maybe he’d trail those hands slowly over your waist, your back, your thighs — exploring without hesitation.

Every now and then, he’d even nip at your lips with a playful growl, pulling you closer like he couldn’t help himself.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just free, free with his love, his desire, his joy. And you adored every second of it.

You didn’t even realize when your hips started moving. At first, it was subtle, a slow, natural roll forward as you adjusted your weight in Bob’s lap. But when his hands instinctively tightened on your waist in response, something in you clicked.

That small shift, that tiniest reaction, made the warmth between your thighs flare up into something much hotter.

You moved again. This time slower. More deliberate. You rolled your hips forward once more, then gently back, creating just the faintest friction between your core and the growing bulge in his pants.

Bob groaned into your mouth. It was deep, low, and impossibly sexy. His lips broke away from yours just long enough to breathe, his chest rising sharply under you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice rough and full of heat.

You smirked and tilted your head, letting your lips graze along his jawline as you whispered teasingly,

“Oh? Am I distracting you, Bob?”

His hands slid up your back before settling just beneath your shoulder blades.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

“Oh, I think I do,” you said with a quiet laugh, rocking your hips forward again — slower, firmer this time. The friction made you gasp softly against his lips. “You’re not the only one who’s losing their mind here…” And it was true.

Every time your hips moved, you could feel the heat building between your legs. The ache. The need.

Your body was growing desperate for more, even if your brain kept you teasing for now — just enjoying how it made both of you unravel. The way your core pulsed with every motion, every sound he made… it was driving you wild.

Bob’s breath hitched as you gave another grind, just a little harder now.

His lips caught yours in another kiss — deeper, hungrier, messier. And through every moan, every shiver, every little movement, that fire between you kept growing.

He pulled you closer, impossibly closer, his hands now back on your hips, fingers digging into your skin like he needed to feel every part of you.

“Keep doing that,” he growled against your mouth, “and I swear—”

“What?” you breathed, your lips brushing his. “What’ll you do, Bob?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a breathless, broken moan as your hips rolled again, slow and firm. You were torturing him. And it felt so good.

Bob was wrecked. You could feel it, his hard cock beneath you, straining against the soft fabric of his pants. You weren’t much better. The damp warmth pooling between your thighs was impossible to ignore now. Every shift of your hips sent another delicious jolt through your body.

His breath was heavy against your cheek, shaky, restrained. His forehead pressed softly to yours, and for a second… there was silence. Thick, loaded silence. Then his voice broke through it.

“Did you lock the door?” he asked suddenly, his hands still firm on your hips.

You blinked, dazed. “I… I don’t know.”

Bob paused for half a second. Maybe he thought about getting up. Maybe he meant to. But then you shifted again and the friction made both of you gasp softly. He exhaled through his nose. A defeated little groan.

“Screw it,” he whispered.

Before you could ask what he meant, his hands moved. They weren’t rough, but they were sure. Steady. He trailed one hand from your waist down, slowly, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. The other stayed on your back, holding you close, anchoring you to him.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a drum.

And when his fingers found the edge of your waistband — gentle, teasing, with purpose — your whole body tensed in anticipation. The heat inside you was unbearable. Almost dizzying.

He leaned up, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered with that signature Bob softness, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t even think of stopping. All you could do was nod and melt into his touch.

You buried your face in his neck, as his fingers brushed against your wet folds. His movement was slow, rhytmically moving up and down, teasing with a smirk on his face. Every movement sent sparks rushing through your veins. Your whole body responded, arching into him, trembling against him, lips parted in barely audible sighs.

“You like that?” he asked innocently, as if he had no idea what he was doing to you, though he knew exactly what effect he had.

You were grinding your hips against the rhythm of his fingers, warm breaths falling from your lips in shaky moans as you tried to chase more friction, more contact, more him.

You nodded harshly, biting down on your bottom lip, your eyes fluttering shut.

Bob kept the same unhurried pace for a moment, watching you fall apart with a hunger in his eyes that made your whole body buzz. Then, without warning, he slipped two fingers between your folds, slow, deep, and deliberate.

You gasped sharply, your head falling back as your spine arched off the surface beneath you. Your body trembled, melting into his touch, your thighs twitching as he hit just the right spot.

The soft, broken moan that escaped you made his cock twitch inside his pants—his jaw clenched, but he didn’t rush. He wanted to take his time with you. He wanted to remember every sound, every breath, every little reaction you gave him like it was sacred.

And god, the way you looked right now—eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, body squirming under his control—it took everything in him not to lose himself right then and there.

His fingers moved with slow, deliberate intent, curling just right inside you, like he already knew what made your body tremble. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, the pressure building faster than you expected, and still, he didn’t let up.

You moaned his name softly, a breathless whimper that made him look up at you through half-lidded eyes. He was watching you like you were the only thing that mattered, his lips parted, pupils blown wide with lust.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, at first just resting there—but the deeper his fingers went, the more precise his movements got, the harder you gripped. You tugged, desperate, pulling his head back just a little. He hissed at the sensation, his breath catching as he let out a quiet groan in response.

“God…” he muttered under his breath, his hips jerking subtly against the mattress as your moans grew louder. The way you were reacting to his touch, it was undoing him piece by piece.

His free hand slid up your waist, holding you steady as your thighs began to tremble around his wrist. Your back arched, and another sharp tug of his hair made him grunt, his cock straining almost painfully inside his pants now, but he still didn’t rush.

He curled his fingers deeper, pressed his thumb to just the right spot, and your whole body jumped.

You gasped, eyes flying open for a second before they fluttered shut again. “Bob—please, I—”

“I know,” he said, and kissed the corner of your mouth, voice hot and shaky. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let go for me.”

And just like that, the pressure snapped.

Your climax hit like a crashing wave, rippling through every inch of you. Your fingers tightened in his hair, your legs trembled violently around him, and a long, broken cry escaped your throat. Your body arched, locked, then slowly melted back into the sheets, trembling in the aftershocks.

Bob didn’t stop right away. He eased you through every pulse, whispering soft praises against your skin—his own breath ragged, his jaw clenched from the restraint. His forehead rested against your shoulder as he slowly pulled his fingers out, his hand wet, his eyes absolutely wrecked from watching you unravel.

“You okay?” he whispered, and you nodded weakly, your lips trembling with a dazed smile.

Your body was still trembling slightly, your skin flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. You were breathless, completely undone, and yet your gaze locked on his.

He was staring at you like you’d just knocked the air out of his lungs, chest rising and falling as if he was the one who’d just come. His cheeks were slightly pink, lips parted, eyes dark and wanting.

But then you pushed your hands against his chest, steadying yourself on him, and leaned in a little.

“That was amazing,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, a little shaky… but firm enough to make his brows twitch. “But aren’t you supposed to be the one getting pleasure right now?”

His breath hitched. Then, a soft chuckle rumbled from deep in his throat. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice still rough. “But I love seeing you like this.”

He leaned forward, grinning like a man who was about to break all his own rules, and kissed you—hard. There was nothing gentle about it this time. His lips crashed against yours with hunger, like he needed to taste the sounds you’d made a moment ago.

You kissed him back with equal fire, fingers sliding up into his hair again, tugging lightly as you deepened the kiss. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly lifted yourself up on your knees, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached down, fingers ghosting along his waistband, eyes locked on his as you whispered: “Now it’s my turn.”

His pupils dilated instantly. You tugged gently at his waistband, and he sucked in a sharp breath, lifting his hips with a grunt to help you. Despite the injury, he was more than willing to let you take control.

You pulled his pants down together with his boxers, just enough to reveal the aching bulge straining against his briefs. He was hard. So hard.

Bob hissed quietly as the cool air hit him, his muscles tensing under your touch. You wrapped your fingers around him—slowly, teasingly. His head fell back with a groan, hips twitching slightly.

“Oh…” he whispered, voice tight and ragged. “Your hands are—god, baby…”

You started stroking him with a slow, steady rhythm. Your eyes didn’t leave his face—not even for a second. You wanted to see every twitch of his lips, every furrow of his brows, every stutter of his breath. You wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d just watched you.

And he was. His abs clenched, lips parting around little gasps, the muscles in his thighs twitching as he tried not to buck into your touch. His hand gripped the sheets tightly beside him, knuckles white.

“You feel so good,” you murmured, your voice a breathy purr as you leaned in to kiss just below his ear. “I want to see you lose control for me.”

He growled softly, his free hand sliding up your thigh in pure reflex. “Don’t stop,” he muttered, voice rough and needy. “Please don’t stop.”

You didn’t stop. Not even when his voice began to crack, or when his hips started bucking into your hand involuntarily, chasing every stroke like it was the last bit of sanity he had left.

Bob was panting, his jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut, brow furrowed in that beautiful, desperate way. You leaned in again, letting your breath brush against his ear, and that was it. His body jerked beneath you, and he let out a broken sound, half moan, half sob.

“I—ah—please, I can’t—” His voice shook, cracking at the edges. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes from the intensity, and he clutched at your thigh like he needed something—anything—to ground him.

You kept going. Just enough pressure. Just the right rhythm.

“You can, baby,” you whispered sweetly, lips grazing his cheek. “You’re doing so good for me. Let go.” And he did.

With a soft cry, his whole body tensed. His back arched off the bed, fingers digging into your skin as hot ropes of release spilled over your hand. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one more broken than the last. A few tears slipped free, and you kissed them away softly, smiling like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes blinked open slowly, dazed, overwhelmed—wrecked.

“I… I think I saw God,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You laughed softly and leaned in to kiss his jaw. “Told you it was your turn.”

You let him rest, wiping him down gently with a nearby cloth, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, tracing your fingers softly along his chest. The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your breaths syncing together. You stayed close, your body pressed together.

Bob’s hand found yours, fingers intertwining lazily, his thumb stroking your knuckles.

But after a while, that hunger returned to your eyes, subtle, controlled, but unmistakable. You shifted slightly, signing that you're ready for more. He blinked up at you, still slightly breathless.

“You sure?” he asked, voice soft but already laced with anticipation. “I… I don’t know if I’ve got much left in me.” You leaned down, brushing your lips over his, your voice a gentle whisper.

“Then just lie back and let me take care of you.”

His breath hitched again as he nodded, completely at your mercy. You reached for your pants to unzip them and somehow manage to get them off together with your soaked panties.

You reached between your bodies, guided him to your entrance, and slowly you sank down onto him. A soft gasp escaped your lips as he filled you, the stretch delicious, his warmth spreading through you like fire.

Bob moaned beneath you, his hands finding your hips as his head fell back against the pillow.

“Mhm… you feel—God, you feel amazing,” he whispered.

You began to move, rolling your hips with careful, steady rhythm. Letting the sensation build between you like waves lapping against a shoreline—slow, sensual, deep. You were savoring every inch of him inside you. Bob’s hands trembled slightly on your waist, half from overstimulation, half from awe.

His head tipped back into the wall behind the bed, lips parted, soft gasps escaping as you rocked against him. His lashes fluttered, brows drawn in that way that made your heart ache.

“You’re so… warm,” he whispered, breath catching. You leaned down, your chest brushing his, and kissed him, deeply. Your tongue moved against his with lazy hunger, and he whimpered softly into your mouth. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer despite his exhausted muscles.

He kissed you like he needed it to stay alive. Like you were oxygen after drowning.

Your hips kept a steady rhythm, dragging every motion out, making him feel all of you. You whispered little praises against his lips, like spells. But the deeper you sank into each other, the more the intensity began to rise.

You started moving faster, your body hungry for him, chasing that rhythm together. Bob’s fingers dug into your hips, his breath growing louder. His body was exhausted but his need for you overrode everything.

You sat up slightly, your hands pressing into his chest again as you began to ride him properly now. Harder. Deeper.

“B-baby, please—” he gasped, tears welling in his eyes again as the overstimulation hit him full force. But he didn’t beg you to stop. He held on.

“I’ve got you,” you breathed, voice firm and loving. “You can take it, I know you can.”

And he could. He did.

Even in his spent state, he tried to meet your thrusts, hips twitching upward with what little strength he had left. His hands ran over your body like he couldn’t get enough, fingers trembling against your waist.

“I—I love you so much, I can’t—” he groaned, voice breaking. Your movements faltered for a second as those words hit, and your eyes met his, wide, open, vulnerable. And he meant it. Every word. Your chest tightened with something far deeper than arousal.

“I love you too,” you whispered, and then your lips were on his again, devouring the moment.

You rode him harder now, moaning into his mouth as your body coiled tighter and tighter. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, again and again, and his gasps turned to cries.

He was losing it, hands gripping you, moaning brokenly, muttering your name like he was afraid he’d forget it if he stopped.

And when you clenched around him just right, you felt him shudder.

“I’m gonna— I can’t—”

“You can,” you whispered against his lips, grinding down hard. “Let me feel it. Give it to me.”

And he did.

His second climax ripped through him like a thunderstorm, violent, overwhelming. He let out a desperate, shattered sob, clutching you tight as he came inside you, hips jerking uncontrollably. His whole body arched, muscles seizing, breath stolen right out of his lungs.

You followed just seconds after, crying out his name as you collapsed against him, your body trembling from the force of your orgasm. It was perfect.

You stayed there, forehead to forehead, chests pressed together, your bodies still joined. Bob was shaking beneath you, completely spent, tears still glistening on his lashes. But he was smiling. That dazed, euphoric, in love kind of smile.

“God,” he whispered, brushing his fingers weakly along your back. You kissed his cheek, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Did I ease the pain,” you whispered back, “at least a little bit?”

He laughed a soft, breathless sound. “More than a little bit darling.” He held you tighter, like he never wanted you to leave and both of you were happy, warm, still inside of each other, still connected.

Then suddenly a click. The door creaked open.

“Hey, I just wanted to check if Bob’s—”

Bucky froze mid-step. Your eyes flew open in horrified realization. Bob turned his head, blinking in confused panic.

“Oh my god—”

“SHIT!” Bucky’s eyes went wide. Like regret-wide. He immediately spun on his heel and slammed the door shut.

“NOPE—NOPE—I DIDN’T SEE SHIT!” His voice echoed faintly from the hallway, clearly scarred for life. There was a beat of absolute silence.

Then you and Bob slowly turned to look at each other with wide eyes. You were still inside him. His hair was a mess. The sheets were chaos. He swallowed loudly and then you burst out laughing. Bob followed a second later, throwing his head back with a groan.

“I swear to God,” he wheezed, voice still breathless, “I’m never going to be able to look him in the eyes again.”

You giggled uncontrollably, burying your face in his neck. “Well,” you snorted, “looks like I forgot to lock the door.”

Bob let out a helpless, high-pitched laugh, wrapping his arms around you tighter even as his cheeks burned red.

“Babe, I love you… but we’re never speaking of this again.”

“Too late,” you grinned against his skin, still laughing. “I’m gonna tease you forever.” And even though embarrassment still buzzed under your skin, neither of you moved.

You stayed like that as long as you could and even though the two of you were thoroughly satisfied and wrapped in each other’s arms, Bucky was probably out there somewhere, scrubbing his eyes with bleach.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE🪻🌂

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

FATAL ACCIDENT

Summary: When Bob accidentally caught you in a deeply inappropriate moment, he decided to make it up to you. He brought muffins and suggested a movie night. Neither of you expected what would happen next… or how everything would change between you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, unprotected sex (piv), dry humping, multiple orgasms, stimulating through clothes, cum in pants, soft sex, creampie, sleeping inside of each other, sweet ending, sub!Bob, use of Y/N

A/n: Hi there! I hope you'll like this story/smut! I really tried my best so…anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It was late, well past midnight, when Bob found himself standing outside your door. The rest of the tower had gone quiet hours ago, wrapped in the peaceful hush that only came once the chaos of the day had settled. Lights were dimmed, hallways empty, and the low hum of distant generators was the only thing keeping him company. But he knew you. You were a night owl, always the last one to go to sleep. That’s what brought him here in the first place.

He told himself it was just a small question about the mission briefing tomorrow. Something minor. Something he could’ve asked anyone else, sure—but not at this hour. And not with the way his brain kept coming back to you, no matter how many reasons he tried to invent.

So, he knocked. A quick, rhythmic tap. Nothing.

He paused, waiting for your voice, footsteps, any movement. Silence. He knocked again—same rhythm, a little firmer this time. Still, nothing.

He called out your name gently, voice soft but just loud enough to carry through the door. Not a yell, but enough that you would’ve heard it if you were in there.

Still no answer.

That ache in his chest started to grow—tight, warm, and completely irrational. He knew you were probably just asleep, headphones in maybe, passed out after a long day. Nothing bad had happened. He told himself that twice, then again, like repetition would make it true.

But it didn’t ease the tension building behind his ribs. It didn’t stop the way his fingers curled against his palm or the faint pull in his stomach as the silence stretched on. And still—no sound from the other side of the door.

Bob’s worry was growing by the second. He knew that you were probably fine. But still, that uncomfortable knot in his chest didn’t go away. He lingered by the door, biting the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat softly.

“Can I come in?” he asked, still hopeful for a response.

Nothing.

He hesitated only a second longer before his hand reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, carefully, as though the metal itself might protest. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, just a crack at first.

He peeked inside, half-expecting to catch you mid-change or in a situation where he absolutely should not be present. But the room was empty.

No one in sight.

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room smelled faintly like your perfume and something warm, like vanilla and fabric softener. Familiar and comforting.

But then he heard it. The sound of running water. A soft, steady stream. His eyes darted toward the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for steam to be drifting out and curling into the air.

You were in the shower.

Relief rushed through him like a wave. You were safe. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and smiled to himself, already turning to quietly slip back out of the room. He could talk to you tomorrow. No big deal.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice rang out from down the hall.

Bob froze. Panic hit him like a truck. The sound of footsteps rushed toward the door. She was heading this way. Fast.

“Oh no no no,” Bob whispered under his breath, looking around in a frantic circle. His brain went blank. If Yelena saw him in your room, especially this late, especially without you even in the room, well, that would definitely send a message. One he wasn’t ready to explain.

His eyes darted to your closet. No good. Not enough room. Under the bed? He’d never fit. His thoughts were racing. The doorknob outside jiggled slightly as Yelena neared—

And in a moment of sheer panic, Bob made the only decision he could. He turned and slipped into your bathroom. The steam hit him like a wall and before his brain could yell STOP, he realized where he was. Inyour bathroom while you were still in the shower.

Bob’s hands were up like he was surrendering to an armed SWAT team, his fingers trembling as sheer panic rushed through his entire body. His chest was tight, breathing shallow, and every cell in his brain was screaming, Why are you here? Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?

He stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, as the sound of the shower continued, taunting him. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. He was in the bathroom. With you. While you were still in the damn shower.

And before he could even string together a plan, or even a thought, he heard her again.

“Y/N!” Yelena’s voice echoed louder now, clearly already inside your bedroom.

Bob’s soul practically left his body. From inside the shower, your annoyed voice finally rang out over the sound of the water.

“I’m coming!” you shouted, clearly frustrated.

Then the stream shut off. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat. His tongue felt dry as sand. His skin was burning and cold at the same time. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.

He stared helplessly at the fogged-up glass of the shower door, and when you slid it open— he saw you.

Completely naked.

Water still clung to your skin in droplets, sliding down the curve of your neck, your collarbones, gliding along your thighs like liquid silk. You hadn’t seen him yet, but he was already about to combust from embarrassment and sheer secondhand shame.

And then your eyes landed on him.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you screamed, your voice pure panic and fury as you instinctively reached for a towel and yanked it around your dripping frame.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t—” Bob choked out, immediately spinning around to face the wall, his entire face a violent shade of red. His hands went back up, this time like he was trying to blot himself out of existence.

But fate wasn’t done dragging him through hell just yet. Because just then, Yelena pushed the bathroom door open. And paused.

“Woah. What the fuck is happening here?” she asked in her signature deadpan tone, heavy Russian accent slicing through the awkwardness like a hot knife through shame.

You, still clutching your towel and dripping on the floor, looked absolutely stunned. “I have no idea what he’s doing in here!” you snapped, eyes wide with a cocktail of betrayal and pure what-the-actual-hell.

Bob didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, lips pressed into a thin, miserable line. His whole body was trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

He was so unbelievably screwed.

It was the next afternoon when you heard a soft knock on your door. You didn’t even need to ask who it was. You knew instantly.

“Come in,” you called calmly, already anticipating the awkwardness that was about to step through the door.

Bob peeked his head in first, like he was making sure it was safe before fully entering. Then, with a hesitant “Hey…” he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.

He looked… guilty. Shy.

His cheeks were flushed pink, his posture small and careful, and his legs? Slightly shaking. He was holding a plate of something in his hands—and the second he came closer, the sweet scent of freshly baked muffins filled the room like a warm, edible apology.

You were sitting on your bed, a book in your lap, one brow raised as you watched him silently. You weren’t mad anymore—but you were curious. And you were definitely going to make him squirm a little first.

For a moment, the room was wrapped in silence. Bob shifted awkwardly, his weight bouncing between his feet, clearly searching for the right words.

“I, uh…” he started, eyes flicking to yours then immediately down again. “I wanted to apologize… for yesterday. I—I didn’t mean for any of that to happen and… as an apology, I… got you these.”

He stepped forward, extending the plate like a peace offering, holding it out to you with a hopeful look in his eyes.

The muffins smelled amazing—still warm, soft in the center with little chunks of what looked like chocolate and banana. You looked up at him and took a deep breath.

He looked so genuinely remorseful. That kicked-puppy look on his face nearly made your heart melt. You knew he didn’t mean to barge in on you, and you definitely knew he wasn’t some creep.

Still. You had one burning question.

“Why were you even in there?” you asked gently, but there was still a bit of edge in your tone. You needed to hear it straight from him.

Bob’s arms retreated slightly as he clutched the plate back toward his chest, like the question caught him off-guard.

“I—I just wanted to ask if you were coming with us to the England mission,” he said honestly, blinking fast. “That’s all. I swear.”

Ah. That explained it. That put the final puzzle piece into place.

You nodded slowly, letting out a small breath and placing your book aside. You scooted forward, settling on the edge of your bed, resting your hands down on the mattress beside you.

Your expression shifted, now more playful than stern.

“So…” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “How much did you see?”

Bob blinked, clearly caught off guard by your question.

His eyes widened just a bit, and his shoulders tensed.

“Uh—I didn’t see anything,” he said too quickly. Way too quickly. “Like… nothing at all. Swear.”

You raised a brow. Just stared at him. That stare that you knew always made people squirm. Bob shifted awkwardly, the plate of muffins now looking like the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You didn’t say anything. You just waited and it worked. Eventually, he cracked. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, gaze flickering down to the floor like it was the only thing willing to forgive him.

“Okay… I—I saw a little. But I barely remember, I swear. It was just a second.”

His voice was soft, guilty. And you couldn’t help but laugh. You shook your head with a smile and stood up from the bed.

“It’s fine, Bob,” you said with a gentle wave of your hand. “I’m over it.”

You walked up to him, close enough to smell the sugar and chocolate clinging to the muffins.

“You made these?” you asked, nodding toward the plate.

He nodded sheepishly. You narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

“You don’t bake.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shy chuckle. “But… I looked up your favorite recipe. I figured if I’m gonna apologize, I should at least do it right.”

His voice was so genuine, and there was something so… stupidly sweet about the way he stood there, just hoping they were edible.

You smiled again, softer this time, and reached out to pick up one of the muffins. You took a bite. It was warm, fluffy, and the flavor hit perfectly. Just the right balance of chocolate and banana.

Honestly? Kind of impressive.

“They’re actually really good,” you said, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thanks.”

There was a moment. A quiet beat between you where something sparked. You looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Try one,” you offered, nudging the plate toward him.

“Oh, no, I—” Bob took a tiny step back. “They’re for you.”

Before he could make another excuse, you rolled your eyes, grabbed the plate from his hands and picked up another muffin.

“You’re eating it,” you said, no room for negotiation.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you were already pushing the muffin into it.

Literally.

He choked out a laugh as you shoved it into his face. He bit down instinctively, chewing with his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, crumbs already on his lips. You giggled, watching him use his fingers to wipe his mouth, and that’s when something shifted.

Suddenly, time slowed. The laughter died down, but that flutter in your stomach didn’t. A pulse between your legs sparked to life, and you became acutely aware of the heat building inside you.

You watched the way Bob chewed, the way his jaw moved, the way his tongue darted out to catch a crumb near the corner of his mouth.

And just like that… you were wet. Soaking.

And all you could think about was how pretty he looked. How soft and gentle.

Of course, Bob had always been cute to you. From the very first time you saw him, with that messy hair and his little giggle that felt too soft for someone who flew jets and handled missions like a pro.

He was sweet. But never hot. Not in a “I want to drag you into bed and ruin you” kind of way. But now? Something had shifted.

You didn’t know if it was the ovulation hormones messing with your brain chemistry, or the fact that he saw you naked in the shower, or maybe it was his maddeningly addictive cologne, but something clicked.

And suddenly… he was sexy. Like, you-couldn’t-stop-thinking-about-his-mouth sexy.

You bit your lip and watched as Bob finished chewing the piece of muffin you’d shoved into his mouth. His lips moved slowly, tongue catching a few crumbs.

He swallowed, glanced at you and said, “It’s not that bad, actually.”

His voice pulled you out of your internal spiral. You nodded a little too quickly, letting out a soft hum in agreement, a smile playing at your lips. He smiled back, a little shy, a little unsure.

“Well…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should probably let you get back to your book.”

You tilted your head. “You’re not bothering me.”

But he still insisted. “Yeah, but… I mean—you probably wanna, y’know, process everything. I just—yeah.”

He moved toward the door, slowly, awkwardly, and you returned to your bed, settling into the pillows with your book in one hand and another muffin in the other, though your eyes weren’t exactly on the page.

Bob was halfway out the door when he paused and turned back.

“Oh! Uh—one more thing,” he said, his voice just a bit higher than usual. “Bucky finally helped me set up that TV in my room, so… I was thinking maybe, tonight, if you’re not busy, we could watch a movie?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to be your test subject?”

He shrugged, smiling nervously. “I just don’t wanna sit there and watch it alone like a loser.”

You laughed softly. “Sure, Bob. I’m in.”

His smile widened, that same boyish grin that somehow made your stomach twist now in a very different way.

“Cool. Uh—great. I’ll… come get you later then?”

You nodded, trying not to look too eager. “Sounds good.”

He gave you one last smile before he disappeared behind the door, and the second he was gone your book was forgotten. Your thighs pressed together, the ghost of that look he gave you still lingering.

The lights were dimmed in Bob’s room, the only real glow coming from the soft flicker of the TV screen. You were both sitting on his bed, technically his bed, but it didn’t really feel like that now. Not with the way you were both perched on the edge of it, backs resting lightly against the wall, a shared blanket covering your legs.

You sat just far enough apart for it to be considered “friendly.” A safe distance. But god, you wanted to move closer.

The movie playing was some classic, older film, one of those feel-good, slightly cheesy ones with warm lighting and 90s nostalgia oozing out of every frame. It was so Bob. Of course he’d like something like this. Comforting, predictable and sweet. Just like him.

From time to time, your eyes would drift toward him. He was so focused on the screen, eyebrows twitching ever so slightly during tense scenes, mouth curled just faintly at the corners when something funny happened.

And maybe that was the problem. Because his pure, oblivious cuteness was driving you insane.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands, resting in his lap. To the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. To the way his Adam’s apple bobbed whenever he swallowed. You could practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You licked your lips, trying to focus on the movie, but the images blurred. You weren’t even listening anymore.

Why the hell was this happening to you? Why are you suddenly feeling like this? Was it the way his thigh was just barely brushing against yours under the blanket? Or maybe it was that familiar soft scent of his cologne, sweet and woodsy and him?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair. Not when he looked that innocent, completely unaware of the storm building inside you.

You’d been pretending to watch the movie for the last ten minutes, but let’s be honest—you hadn’t registered a single scene. Your mind was elsewhere. On him. The steady warmth beside you, the way his scent filled your lungs, the shape of his jaw in the soft glow of the screen.

And then… you cracked. You turned your head slightly, looking at him from under your lashes, your voice soft—almost too soft.

“Hey… um, I’m kinda cold. Mind if I scoot closer?”

It wasn’t even cold.

Bob’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in Russian. He blinked, then gave the tiniest nod.

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You moved closer, slow and deliberate. Your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t flinch—didn’t pull away. Good. But his whole body tensed like a drawn bow.

And then came the real move, you gently laid your head on his shoulder.

Bob didn’t breathe. Like literally, he just froze. His fists clenched in his lap, not from discomfort—but from sheer sensory overload.

He could feel you. All of you. Your warmth sinking into his hoodie, your hair brushing his jaw, your scent melting into the air around him. His brain short-circuited.

This wasn’t a dream, right? You weren’t just… doing this?

He swallowed hard, throat dry, trying not to move or ruin the moment. Your thighs were just barely touching under the blanket. That soft friction, the tension—goddamn.

You noticed everything. The way his jaw clenched. The shudder that ran down his spine. The way his breath stuttered ever so slightly.

Your lips curled into a small smile. He was nervous—but not in a bad way. Not because he was uncomfortable. He was nervous because it mattered to him. And maybe that made it all the more intoxicating.

The sexual tension was practically radiating off his skin—buzzing in the tiny space between your bodies, where your arms nearly touched.

You shifted just a little closer. So close now that you could hear his heartbeat pounding like a drum.

The movie was still playing, but your focus had drifted miles away. Not on the screen. Not on the plot. But on Bob.

The air felt thicker somehow, heavier with something unspoken. Every small glance at him only made it worse. That gentle look on his face, the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked, his throat bobbing every time he swallowed—everything was unbearable in the best kind of way. You had this ache, low and steady, impossible to ignore.

So you moved.

Under the blanket, slow and casual, your hand found his thigh. Just a gentle rest, as if you needed a place to land. Bob tensed immediately, his whole body reacting like a live wire being sparked. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. Not even a flinch. He stayed still, as though frozen in place, except for the way his chest was rising just a bit too fast to be calm.

Your thumb began to brush soft circles along the fabric of his sweatpants. Just small, teasing motions, and yet you could feel how it made him react—his thigh twitching slightly beneath your touch, his jaw clenched tight, lips slightly parted as though he didn’t trust himself to breathe through his nose anymore.

You turned your head and whispered, slow and velvety, “By the way… those muffins? They were amazing.”

Bob blinked, once, twice, and barely managed a grunt of a response, like speaking full words would crack him wide open. He gave a slight nod, clearly trying to keep his composure, but failing beautifully.

You smiled, wickedly pleased, and lifted your head from his shoulder so you could really look at him. His eyes locked on yours immediately, wide and uncertain—but undeniably filled with heat. And hope.

“Did you…” you started, voice dipped low like velvet on skin, “like what you saw yesterday?”

He froze.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands, still clenched in his lap, curled even tighter. It was obvious he was trying to say something, trying to figure out if this was real or a fever dream he was about to wake from. The red on his cheeks deepened, and his eyes darted from your face to your lips and back again.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to—I mean—I didn’t really see—”

You leaned in closer, your hand still warm and steady on his thigh.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind.”

And then you moved your hand. Just a little higher, right where his twitching dick was.

Bob let out a shaky breath—one of those breaths that almost sounded like a prayer, or a curse, or both. He looked like a man on the edge, hanging by a thread spun from every suppressed feeling he’d ever had for you. The tension in his body, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his lips parted and didn’t quite close again—all of it screamed one thing:

He wanted you. Badly. And you knew. You leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and asked one last question, barely more than a breath:

“Do you want me to stop?”

Your fingers moved slowly, so slowly it almost felt like an accident. A barely-there stroke through the soft fabric of his sweats. He twitched. You felt it. And still, he didn’t move. He just stayed still, frozen, his breath hitching in his throat and he couldn't even answer you.

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. His lips parted slightly, a quiet sound slipping from his mouth—a mix between a gasp and a helpless whimper.

You turned your head just enough to see his face. His brows were drawn together, his jaw tight, and he looked so unbelievably vulnerable. Lost. Struggling. But not stopping you.

“You like it?” you whispered, voice low and warm.

He nodded, quickly, too quickly, but didn’t speak. You kept going, slowly, tenderly, through the fabric, feeling the way his whole body reacted to your touch. He was holding onto the edge of the blanket with white knuckles, his other hand hovering, as if unsure where to go or what to do.

“And did you like yesterday?” you asked softly, meaning the shower incident. You leaned a little closer, lips brushing his ear.

Bob choked on a breath, and his head tilted back slightly. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to— I mean—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His voice cracked.

You smiled.

“I think you did,” you murmured.

And then, just as his breath caught and his hips gave the tiniest, helpless twitch beneath the blanket, you felt it. His whole body tensing, stuttering, a soft, broken noise escaping his throat as he came apart completely under your hand.

Bob froze, then practically curled into himself. Face flushed deep red, breathing erratic, shame washing over him like a wave.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His voice was small, strained, like he wanted to disappear.

“No I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” you felt guilty, more than Bob did. You just wanted to tease him a bit, just a few touches. Who knew Bob was that sensitive, but in the end you didn't mind.

“I uh…it's been a while since I've been with someone…” Bob tried to explain himself, even tho he didn't need to. You understand. You smiled at him, sighing.

“It's okay…we can go slow,” your sweet tone calmed Bob down, his chest wasn't raising that fast, and his eyes softened.

The eye contact was so loud, but at the same time so quiet. Soft and gentle, barely brushing your lips against his, just testing the waters, but when you kissed him again, he melted. Your lips were making wet sounds, as you explored your mouths, touching your tongues and mixing your salivas.

After a long make out session, you slowly swung one leg over his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the quiet rustle of your clothes and the soft shift of the bed were the only sounds for a moment.

Settling on top of him carefully, you totally made him forget everything else but the feeling of you, the heat between you, the way your mouths moved together like they were made for this.

His hands finally moved to your hips, trembling just slightly, like he needed the confirmation that this was real.

The pressure of you settling onto him was electric. Your bodies fit together like matching puzzle pieces, your chest pressed gently to his, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered beneath you. Your forehead met his for a moment, just a shared breath, your fingers tangling in his tousled hair.

Then, really gently, you began to move. Not urgently, not to finish something, but to explore. The softest grind of your hips into his, dragging fabric against fabric, building friction that made his lips part in a quiet, broken gasp. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his hands clutched your sides like he needed grounding.

You could feel it all. The growing heat pooling low in your belly, the ache between your legs intensifying with each shift, and the clear tension in Bob’s body as he whimpered helplessly. His head tipped back against the wall, exposing the long line of his neck, and his thighs tensed beneath yours.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice breathless but sure.

He nodded quickly, voice cracking. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The desperation in his whisper made your stomach flip. You leaned forward, kissed along his jaw, his ear, and then back to his lips—this time slower, deeper, letting him feel how much you meant it. How much you wanted him.

And still, your hips moved. Measured rolls that made his breath catch and his hands dig just a little harder into your waist. The tension between you thickened like honey, sticky and warm, and everything slowed down.

He whispered your name like a prayer, and when you whispered his in return, voice thick with want and wonder, he shivered, completely undone beneath you.

Your fingers moved cautiously, tracing the hem of his shirt. You paused, eyes flicking up to meet his, giving him a silent chance to pull back. But he didn’t, he just nodded slightly, and that was all you needed.

You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm meeting the heat of his skin. He shivered immediately, muscles twitching beneath your touch, and you felt him grip your hips just a little tighter — not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

“Still okay?” you murmured against his lips.

He swallowed thickly, nodding. “More than okay.”

Piece by piece, you began to remove each other’s clothing, slowly, like unwrapping a secret. Every inch of exposed skin felt like a discovery. His shirt first, then yours. His eyes widened when he saw your chest, and for a moment, he just stared, completely speechless.

You smiled softly, brushing his cheek with your fingers. “You’ve seen me before, remember?”

“Not like this,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

His hands ghosted over your sides, hesitant at first, as if afraid you might vanish. But you didn’t, you leaned into his touch, and his hesitation melted into something bolder.

The more skin you revealed, the more the tension between you tightened, until it was a living, breathing thing. And when the last layer of clothing fell away, when you were both completely bare, there was nothing left to hold back.

Bob looked up at you, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on your hips. His eyes, full of something deep, searched yours, like he needed your permission again, even though you were already here, already his.

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your lips moving against his in a way that made both of you sigh quietly into the space between. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell faster, how his body tensed beneath yours as you slowly rolled your hips, letting the sensation build gently, teasingly.

He moaned — not loud, but broken, like the sound had been pulled out of him without warning. His hands flexed against your skin, not guiding you, just holding, grounding himself in the reality that this was happening. That you were here. That you wanted him.

“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, voice low and shaky.

You smiled softly against his neck, then whispered, “So do you.”

When he finally slid into you, it was careful — almost reverent. There was no rush. No hunger to claim. Just the slow, aching press of bodies coming together, like a deep breath being exhaled after being held too long.

Both of you stilled for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync. You were full of him — not just physically, but emotionally. And in that moment, you swore you felt something inside you settle. Like a missing piece had finally found where it belonged.

You began to move together, slow and deliberate, each thrust more about connection than release. His hands roamed up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, like he couldn’t bear to let go of even an inch of you. Every time your hips met, a soft gasp or whimper left your lips, answered by the way Bob groaned low in his throat, utterly overwhelmed by how good you felt around him.

The air between you was thick with warmth, your bodies slick with sweat but never frantic. The way you kissed him between moans, the way his hands stroked your sides with a trembling tenderness, it all spoke louder than anything you could’ve said out loud.

“I’ve never—” he choked out, voice cracking, “—never felt anything like this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me neither.”

Your pace quickened slightly, not from desperation but because your bodies knew each other now, moved together naturally. You could feel yourself getting closer, and from the way Bob’s grip on you tightened and his hips stuttered slightly, you knew he was too.

But neither of you chased it. You let it build, let it take its time, let it matter.

And when you finally came — together, as if perfectly timed — it wasn’t explosive. It was soft. Like sinking into something that had always been waiting for you. You held each other through it, every muscle trembling, your mouths finding each other again and again as if to say, I’m here. I’m still here.

Even as your breathing slowed and your bodies softened, you didn’t pull away. You just stayed there, tangled together in warmth and silence, hearts thudding gently in the same rhythm.

The world had gone quiet. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need to. You were both still coming down from the high, your minds slow, your bodies heavy and satisfied.

Bob’s chest rose and fell beneath you, his heartbeat echoing faintly in your ear where your head rested against him. You could feel that he was still inside you, the connection unbroken, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to move.

You shifted just slightly, a tiny sigh escaping your lips as your thighs twitched from the lingering tension. Bob pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the gentlest thing, like he was afraid he’d wake you even though you were still very much awake but fading.

Your voice was quiet, half-murmured against his chest. “You okay?”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm before.”

You smiled, your eyes closing at the sound of his voice, that low, warm rasp that made your chest flutter even now. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, not heavy, just peaceful. The kind of pause where two people are so content, silence feels like part of the conversation.

You felt yourself drifting, your body melting further into his. Your legs tangled with his, your arms limp, every inch of you relaxed in a way you hadn’t known you needed. You were safe. You were full — in every sense of the word. And his presence beneath you was like an anchor, a soft place to land after everything.

Your breath started to slow. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy. Sleep pulled at you like the tide.

And then, just as you began to slip under, Bob’s voice, barely there, a whisper made of breath and feeling, broke the stillness.

“I love you.”

He didn’t say it like he expected an answer. He didn’t even say it like he meant for you to hear. It was quiet. Almost scared. Like a secret that had waited far too long to be set free.

But you didn’t stir. You were already gone, lost to sleep in the safety of his arms, your face soft and peaceful against his chest.

Bob looked down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then full of something tender, something real. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, let his fingers rest against your naked back, and closed his eyes.

He will never forget this moment.

And so do you.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE🫑🍋‍🟩

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

HOT MISSION

Summary: After the mission, you, Alexei, and Bob are finally heading home. But the entire drive, you can’t focus on anything else except your boyfriend—and how good he looked while fighting. So when Alexei pulls over to take a quick bathroom break in the woods, you see your chance and take it.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, semi-public sex, reader is horny asf, soft Bob, unprotected sex (p i v), creampie, dry humping

A/n: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! This is kinda short but I absolutely love it! I am obssesed with Lewis Pullman since I saw him in Thunderbolts*. Holy moly. Anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and Bob had only been together for a short while, but in that short time, it had become undeniably clear: you were the sexual deviant in the relationship.

Bob was shy. Sweet. Careful. He let you take the lead, followed wherever you pulled him — and you loved pulling. You weren’t even sure what it was that made you this obsessed. Maybe it was how innocent he looked, how goddamn adorable he was, like some lost puppy who didn’t yet know what he was capable of. But that innocence only lit the fuse on something much darker inside you. Something feral. Something insatiable.

He turned you on by simply existing. Breathing. Blinking. You weren’t even sure it was healthy — hell, it probably wasn’t. You were obsessed. Maybe dangerously.

And that obsession? It was making itself known right now.

You sat in the passenger seat, next to Alexei, legs bouncing with barely contained tension. One leg wouldn’t stop trembling — a frantic, pulsing rhythm that mirrored the heat between your thighs. You stared out the window, pretending to care about the trees rushing past, but your thoughts were filthy, soaked, dripping with images of Bob.

You could feel the wetness in your panties, hot and needy. You tried to breathe slow, steady. You tried to focus on the damn mission, or the road, or anything but him. But today? He had ruined you. The way he moved during the mission. Confident but still so damn gentle somehow. The way he wiped blood off his cheek with that dazed little smile, like he didn’t quite realize how beautiful he was. Every word out of his mouth made your skin burn. Every look he gave someone else made you want to straddle him in the middle of a warzone just to remind him who he belonged to.

You were drunk on him. Fully intoxicated. It felt like he’d slipped something into your drink, but it wasn’t drugs. It was just him. And you were high. Addicted. Hopelessly gone.

And poor Bob, sweet oblivious Bob, was just sitting in the backseat, gazing out his own window with a small, content smile. He had no idea what he’d done to you.

He was just proud — proud the mission had gone well, that he hadn’t screwed it up like his overthinking brain kept warning him he would. He’d been so hard on himself lately, so tightly wound, and today he’d actually done everything right. It could be seen in the way his shoulders relaxed, the soft little breath he let out as he leaned against the seat. He looked… happy.

And then there was Alexei.

Beside you in the driver’s seat, the Russian tank of a man was practically buzzing with joy. The mission had been a complete success, and he was riding that high like a rollercoaster. He talked nonstop — cheerful, loud, blissfully unaware that your brain was halfway undressing Bob. Every few minutes he’d turn to you, asking questions or making jokes, but all you could offer in return were occasional grunts or distracted nods. You barely even heard him.

Even his deep, booming voice couldn’t break through the noise in your mind — the breathy moans in your imagination, the fantasy of Bob’s hands on your body, his lips fumbling against yours, the taste of him… God.

You clenched your thighs together. You were completely losing it. And Bob? Still had no idea.

Alexei said something.

You weren’t even sure what. Words hit your ears like static. All you could do was nod slowly, eyes still locked on the glass, watching nothing but your own reflection. The heat between your legs was making you delirious. And when he asked again, louder this time, with a little laugh in his voice, you finally blinked and turned toward him.

“Huh?” you said, your voice sweet and coated in distraction. “Oh. Sorry. What was that?”

He chuckled, completely unfazed. “You okay? You look like you’re about to fall asleep over there.”

You gave him a tired smile, nodded once. “Just… worn out.”

“Da, da, of course,” he said with a shrug, one hand still resting on the wheel. “Long day of shooting bad guys, I get it.”

You turned back toward the window with a sigh of relief. He had no idea. None. And he didn’t ask again — just kept talking, mostly to himself now, rambling stories in that deep, animated voice of his.

Your brain wasn’t listening. Your pulse was drumming in your ears. Every second you spent sitting still next to Alexei felt like torture. Bob was still right behind you. Right there. Close. And still so fucking far.

But then, finally — salvation.

“Okay, okay,” Alexei said suddenly, his voice cutting through the air like a bell. “I need to pee. Like now. I drank three Red Bulls, this is your fault.”

You turned your head quickly as he pulled the car over to the side of the road near a quiet patch of woods. He was already unbuckling.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Try not to get kidnapped while I’m gone, da?” He flashed a grin and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

The moment it clicked shut, your body reacted like a gunshot had gone off. You moved.

Crawled, practically, over the center console and between the seats — a mess of limbs and heated breath. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a wild, unstoppable rhythm. Adrenaline and lust surged through you like lightning. You didn’t think. You just went.

Bob looked up at you from the backseat, wide-eyed. His expression was pure innocence, lips parted in surprise, his seatbelt still snug across his chest. He smiled, so sweetly it nearly broke you.

“Hey,” he said, soft and happy. “You okay?”

You weren’t breathing right. But not from the climb. From the heat — that aching, dripping heat that had soaked your panties long before Alexei even stopped the car. You hovered over Bob, panting like you’d just run ten miles, every nerve in your body on fire.

Without a word, you cupped his face. His cheeks were warm under your fingers. So soft. You kissed him harshly.

There was no hesitation. No build-up. Just lips crashing against his, tongues clashing, teeth nearly clicking from the sheer desperation. It was hungry — like you were starving, and he was the only meal that would ever satisfy you.

Bob let out a small noise, almost a whimper of surprise. His eyes were huge, his hands frozen at his sides. He didn’t know what hit him.

“Mm—!” he mumbled, eyebrows lifting as you kissed him deeper. His body tensed, caught between confusion and desire. But then, just as your hands started to slide down his chest, just as your hips shifted closer toward his lap—

He gently grabbed your wrists.

“Wait—wait,” he said, his voice still breathless, barely above a whisper. His eyes were wide, his lips kiss-bruised, his breath shaky. “What’s… what’s going on?”

It felt like you were on a mission. A new objective. One that had to be completed under a strict time limit, in a very, very confined space. And yet the heat between your legs made every second feel like a ticking bomb. Your pussy was on fire, pulsing, aching. You needed Bob. Now.

You stared at him — breathless, pupils blown wide like you were on something. Your chest heaved up and down with every shaky inhale, lips parted, heart racing like it was trying to escape your ribs. You looked like you were about to pounce, like a starving predator cornering the one meal it had left in the world.

Bob, for a moment, just stared back at you. Confused. His sweet, innocent eyes searched yours, trying to figure out what the hell was happening, and then it clicked. You saw it happen. The realization spread across his face like dawn breaking through clouds.

“I need you, Bob,” you whispered — breathless, raw, desperate.

Your fingers flew to his seatbelt, unclipping it with the speed of light. The click of the release echoed in the small space of the car as your other hand already started fumbling at the button of your pants.

“Woah, woah—hey, baby—” he gasped, catching your wrist again, holding it tight. His voice cracked, and when you looked at him, those big, soft puppy eyes nearly melted you.

“Let’s just wait till we’re home, yeah? We’ll have space, we’ll have time—”

“I need you now,” you cut him off, your voice trembling with urgency. It wasn’t just a want. It was a need, primal and overwhelming. You were whining, practically begging, and Bob heard it. Felt it. Your need clung to the air, thick and humid and impossible to ignore.

It killed him, seeing you like that. So turned on, so lost in it. And god, he wanted to give you everything — himself, all of him. But the risks, the space, the fact that his brain was already spiraling…

“But Alexei—” he started.

“We’ll make it,” you snapped. Immediate. Unshakable.

Bob knew right then: he’d lost.

Any argument he might’ve had, any excuse, any delay — you would’ve crushed it in a second. You were in control now, and your body language screamed it. When you felt his grip on your wrist loosen, just slightly — when his fingers eased up, not fully letting go but almost — you wasted no time.

You surged forward.

Your lips found his again, hungrier than before. This time, when you kissed him, he hesitated… but not for long. His lips responded, shaky and unsure, but there. His hands twitched at your sides, like he didn’t know where to put them. But he was kissing you back.

You straddled him.

Your hips moved on instinct — slow at first, grinding against his lap, trying to find some kind of relief. That ache between your legs was maddening, pulsing and wet and unbearable. You could feel the friction through your clothes, just enough to tease you, to scratch at that desperate itch but never quite satisfying it.

Your lips never left his.

You kissed him like you were starving — devouring his mouth with breathy moans and growled whimpers. Every slide of your tongue, every bite of his bottom lip, was fueled by the pent-up tension that had built from the moment the mission ended. You had craved him the entire ride home. And now he was finally under you.

Bob let you take the lead.

His hands came to your hips slowly, almost shyly — as if he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you, even after all the times you’d done this. Even after all the ways you’d shown him how badly you wanted him. That was just Bob. Always gentle. Always asking for permission to touch you.

But there was no time for asking now. You rolled your hips again, harder this time.

Your pussy throbbed with every motion, your clit catching against the ridge of his jeans. The pressure was heavenly — not enough, never enough, but so damn close. You gasped against his lips, hips rocking with more purpose now, grinding down like your life depended on it.

Bob groaned softly beneath you, his breath catching. He gripped your waist tighter, trying to keep up, trying to match your rhythm even though he was clearly overwhelmed.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With shaking hands, you pushed your pants down — underwear and all — sliding them off in frantic, jerky movements, doing whatever it took to free yourself. The second you did, cool air kissed your soaked folds and you let out a trembling exhale. Your thighs quivered. Your skin buzzed.

Bob swallowed hard.

His eyes, wide, stunned, reverent, dropped to where you were exposed. Even though he’d seen you like this before, been between your legs before, he still blushed. Still. The softest shade of red colored his cheeks, climbing to his ears. It was fucking adorable.

You climbed back onto his lap without hesitation. Naked now. Dripping. You rocked again.

This time, the wet heat of your pussy pressed directly against the thick bulge in his jeans. You moaned — high, breathy, uncontrollable. You could feel him growing harder beneath you with every grind, every stroke of your slick folds against the rough fabric. The heat soaked through his clothes, leaving a visible wet patch between his legs.

You were soaking him.

And part of you wanted to apologize — meant to, really — but there wasn’t time. Not now. All that mattered was the friction, the pressure, the tension mounting inside your core, winding you tighter and tighter until it felt like your entire body was about to snap.

Bob whimpered under you. Soft, needy, broken sounds spilled from his parted lips every time your soaked pussy rubbed against the hardness straining in his jeans.

His head lolled back against the seat, neck exposed, throat working with every swallow. His fingers twitched against your hips — unsure if he should pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

He was trembling. You could feel it. Every inch of him was buzzing — not from fear, but from that unbearable tension that made his breath hitch and his thighs tighten.

He let out the softest, most pitiful moan when you rocked harder, faster, dragging your slick folds across the rough denim. You could practically feel the wetness seeping through — sticky and hot, soaking into the fabric that was still in your way.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

The friction helped. That delicious texture of the seams and fabric pressed against your aching clit made your toes curl, your lips part in a gasp, but it was nothing compared to what you really needed. Not pressure. Not teasing. You needed Bob.

Your hands moved on instinct, desperate and shaky, fumbling at the front of his jeans. Buttons. Zippers. Whatever it took.

Bob watched you, wide-eyed and breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips were slightly swollen from your kisses, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened along his collarbone. When he saw you struggling, too shaky and eager, he reached down with trembling fingers to help.

Together, you finally got them open. And you didn’t wait a second. You gripped the waistband and pulled everything down — jeans and boxers in one impatient yank. Bob gasped, his whole body tensing as his cock sprang free.

Even though you’d seen him before — touched him, tasted him, had him — the sight still made your breath catch. Made your pussy throb.

His cock was flushed and thick, veins prominent along the sides, the head an angry red and already glistening with precum. He was longer than you’d expect for someone so sweet and nervous — a contradiction to his shy demeanor. The contrast made you wetter.

You stared for a second, only a second, letting the image burn itself into your brain, the way he was twitching under your gaze, his thighs flexing, his hands clutching at the seat, knuckles white. His cheeks were on fire, painted in that telltale pink that spread to the tips of his ears. And yet he didn’t look away.

He looked right at you.

With those soft, pleading eyes, full of need and hesitation and so much goddamn trust.

You couldn’t wait another second. You didn’t want to. Not when your entire body was pulsing, screaming, burning for him. Teasing him had been sweet agony, but now? Now, it was time.

You climbed into his lap again, hands bracing yourself against the seat as your legs straddled him fully. Bob blinked up at you and let out a soft gasp as you leaned in to kiss him.

It was fast, deep and wet. Your breath mingled as you moaned into his mouth, your hips already shifting downward with a desperate urgency. His hands were on your waist again, not guiding, not forcing, just there, because he wanted to feel every second of this.

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him.

The moment your fingers touched his length, Bob hissed through clenched teeth — his head falling back, throat flexing. “G-god…”

His cock twitched in your hand, already so hard it almost hurt to hold. You gave him one quick stroke — slicking him up with his own precum — before lining yourself up.

And then… you sank down. Slowly. So painfully slowly. At first, just the tip, pushing past your soaked folds, parting you open with a stretch that made your toes curl. You gasped. Bob whimpered. Your bodies both shook.

Your head tilted back as you took more of him in, inch by inch, your pussy squeezing tight, clenching around him with greedy need. Your nails dug into his shoulders, through the fabric of his shirt, and he hissed again, not from pain, but from how intoxicating it felt to be inside you.

“Jesus,” he breathed, barely able to get the word out.

Your walls were hot, wet, and tight — impossibly tight. Every little movement made him twitch inside you, and the way you clenched around him as you adjusted only made things worse. Or better. Depending on who was asking.

You let out a low, shuddering moan, your forehead resting briefly against his. “Shit… you’re so big…”

He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “Are you—okay?”

You nodded, but your breath caught again as you finally bottomed out, your hips flush against his. You were full. Stretched to your limit, stuffed in the best possible way. A delicious ache settled deep inside your belly.

And Bob was shaking.

His fingers flexed on your hips like he was trying to ground himself. His mouth was parted in a soft, helpless moan, and his eyes fluttered shut again as he whispered, “You feel…you feel so good…”

You just sat there for a moment. Not moving. Just breathing.

Soaking in the heat of him inside you. The stretch. The weight. The sound of his soft, whimpering breaths in your ear. Your walls fluttered around him, adjusting, needing, wanting more.

Your foreheads were pressed together, breaths tangled in the limited space between your mouths, lips brushing but never fully touching, as if both of you were too lost in the moment to close the distance again. You started to move—slowly at first, tentative, like you were just testing the limits of your own restraint… and his.

The slightest motion sent heat blooming deep inside you, your body clenching around him with each careful roll of your hips.

The feeling—so full, so overwhelming—had your breath catching in your throat. Bob whimpered. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your hips, not enough to guide you, just enough to tell you he was losing control.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging now and then when his tip brushed just right against the tender spot inside you, sending shivers rippling down your spine.

His head tilted back slightly, mouth falling open in a breathy, helpless moan. His cheeks were flushed, his brows drawn together in pure focus, like he was holding onto every ounce of self-control he had left.

And then… you sped up.

Your hips began moving with more urgency—forward and back, faster each time. Your thighs trembled with effort, your breath stuttered, and the slick rhythm of your movements filled the air along with the soft, sweet curses and gasps that escaped both your lips.

Bob’s voice rose in pitch, his hands shaking now as he tried not to dig his fingers too hard into your skin. He bit his lower lip, trying so hard to hold back—but it was written all over his face: he was overwhelmed. Completely, hopelessly overwhelmed by you.

You kept going. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You bounced, gasped, pressed your forehead back to his as your bodies slapped together, the sound quickening along with your pace. Beads of sweat gathered at your temples and slid down the curve of your spine, and a few drops dripped onto Bob’s thighs, making him flinch. His whole body was hot, trembling, and so red he looked like he might actually explode.

And just when your strength faltered, just when your body screamed for mercy, Bob took over. His hands clutched your waist and began to move you with him, slow but deep at first, and then—

He hit it. That perfect angle. That one spot inside you that sent you spiraling.

You cried out, your body arching against his, eyes wide and blank as your fingers clawed into his shoulders. He whimpered, nearly choked on his breath, and kept going, his voice breaking with every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop. Neither of you could. The rhythm was desperate now—quick, reckless, unrelenting. Every sound in the car was either your gasps or his moans, the wet slide of your bodies, the creak of the leather seat beneath you, and the sticky, rhythmic slaps of your hips meeting his.

Bob’s grip on you tightened. His head fell back, lips parted in a strained cry.

“Oh—god, baby, I—” he choked out, his voice cracking with the intensity building inside him.

Your thighs burned, but your body didn’t care. You were too close. You felt him swell inside you, and your walls clenched around him with the same urgency flooding your veins. You were overheating, completely unraveled, every nerve in your body firing like a live wire.

Then it hit.

You cried out, a broken, breathless sound that echoed in the cramped car, as your climax shattered through you, pulling your entire body into spasms. Your hands flew to Bob’s shoulders, nails digging in, your forehead pressing against his as you gasped through wave after wave of white-hot pleasure.

Bob followed.

With a strangled moan and a sharp inhale, he came—deep inside you, twitching, warm, filling you with such intensity it made your toes curl. His breath stuttered in your ear, his voice just a whisper:

“God, I love you—”

His release mixed with yours, wet and messy, dripping onto his thighs, pooling between your bodies, soaking the seat beneath you. You were flushed, sticky, trembling.

And completely spent.

Your limbs gave out. You collapsed forward, your body pressing to his chest as your head buried itself in the crook of his neck. His skin was damp with sweat, but it felt like home. Your heart pounded, breath unsteady, your voice small and weak as you whispered against his skin,

“I’m sorry… I am so sorry…”

Bob’s arms wrapped around you gently. He cradled your head, kissed your temple, and spoke with a tired, affectionate chuckle.

“It’s okay. I promise. You’re okay.”

You stayed there for only a moment before Bob’s body suddenly stiffened.

“Uh—uhh, babe?”

You lifted your head, confused and bleary-eyed, following the direction of his gaze. Outside the window was Alexei, walking back toward the car. Your eyes went wide.

“Shit—”

Panic set in instantly. You scrambled off Bob, legs shaking, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. Both of you moved with lightning speed, throwing on whatever clothing you could find, still sticky, still flushed. Bob yanked his pants up halfway while you dove over the console back into the passenger seat.

You just barely landed, chest still heaving, hair a mess, when the car door swung open. Alexei climbed in, blissfully unaware.

“Guys! You would not believe what I just saw. I was takin’ a leak, right? And then—bam—hedgehog. Middle of the woods! Just starin’ at me like I interrupted his bathroom time!”

You blinked, heart pounding.

“I… don’t wanna know more,” you said weakly, trying not to sound winded.

Alexei, of course, kept going. “Nah, nah, it was hilarious! Little dude just waddled away. I think we had a moment.”

You burst out laughing. Half in amusement, half in pure relief.

The car started, and you leaned back in your seat, your body still aching, still buzzing. You were exhausted. You were blissful. And yes… you were filled in more ways than one.

Bob sat behind you, quiet, red, still catching his breath—but the smile on his face said it all. He adored you.

And this? This was the best damn mission debrief you’d ever had.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE🪴🥒

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Summary: You and your boyfriend Tommy have been having problems lately. You don't understand each other, argue a lot, but somehow you're still together. Everything change one fateful evening, when his brother comes to comfort you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, kinda toxic relationship, cheating, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), praise kink, rough, Joel talks you through it, creampie, nicknames

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! It's kinda long again :( but, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It all started with your first real fight with Tommy.

For months now, something had been off. He was distant — emotionally absent, almost like he was just going through the motions. He used to come home and wrap you in his arms, tease you with that lopsided grin, ask about your day with genuine interest. But lately… it was as if work had swallowed him whole. He’d return exhausted, irritated, sometimes barely even looking at you. And when he did, the warmth was gone.

At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Jackson needed him, and you understood that. You really did. But weeks turned into months, and you started to feel more like a ghost in his life than a partner. Every attempt you made to spark something — a touch, a kiss, an evening set just right — was met with excuses. “Too tired.” “Long day.” “Maybe tomorrow.”

You even wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he was cheating. The thought clawed at your gut, but there was never any real sign. No secretive phone calls, no lipstick on the collar, no changed passwords. Just… nothing. He wasn’t cheating. He just didn’t want you. And that, somehow, felt worse.

Then came the day. Tommy walked through the front door, shoulders slumped, boots muddy, a scowl carved deep into his face like it had taken root there. He didn’t even greet you — just grunted and collapsed into the armchair like his bones were too heavy.

“Grab me a beer, will ya?” he muttered, not even looking at you. Something inside you snapped.

“You know what, Tommy?” you began, voice trembling — not from fear, but from months of pent-up anger. “No. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, confused. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

And then it started. Words flying like arrows. You yelling. Him raising his voice in return. Neither of you laying a hand on the other, but the fight was loud. Emotional. Raw.

So loud that people passing by outside the house either crossed the street or hurried along, pretending not to hear.

You couldn’t take it. Not anymore. You couldn’t even look at him when it was over. Couldn’t stand being in the same room, breathing the same air. So you walked out. No plan. No destination. You just had to go. Had to get out before something inside you shattered.

He didn’t stop you. Maybe he knew you needed space. Maybe he was just too damn tired to fight anymore.

And you wandered through the quiet town, dusk settling like a blanket over the rooftops, the air cooling against your skin, until you realized — you had nowhere to go.

Nowhere… except for one place. One man.

Joel Miller.

Joel had always seemed like a good man.

Rough around the edges, sure. There was something intimidating about him when you first met — that deep voice, the scowl he wore like a second skin, the heavy silence he could summon with just one glance.

But beneath that tough shell, you’d found something else entirely.

You were nervous at first. Afraid he wouldn’t like you, that he’d think you weren’t good enough for Tommy. That he might act like the overprotective big brother and treat you like an outsider. But all those fears dissolved quickly, scattered like dust in the wind.

Joel welcomed you. Genuinely.

He talked to you, helped you without hesitation, offered you rides, fixed things around your place when Tommy was too busy. He made you feel like part of the family — someone he respected. Someone he cared about.

And tonight… he proved that once again.

You found yourself standing at his front door, breath visible in the cool air, knuckles trembling as you knocked. You didn’t even know how your feet had carried you there. Only that they had. That you needed somewhere to go. It didn’t take long for the door to open with a soft creak.

Joel stood there, blinking into the porch light, clearly roused from sleep. His hair was tousled, a little messy — grayer than you remembered, curling at the ends. His t-shirt was wrinkled, clinging to broad shoulders and thick arms, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, softened the moment they saw you.

And just like that… something snapped inside you. Something you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding back. Desire.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should’ve. On the messy hair. The beard you secretly liked way too much. The tired lines around his eyes. The way his biceps flexed just from leaning on the doorframe.

And then it hit you and your core pulsed.

It was involuntary. A biological response. A full-body reaction to a man who had no idea what he was doing to you.

Joel’s brows furrowed. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed hard and managed a small nod. “I just… had a fight with Tommy. Needed some air.”

He stepped aside without hesitation. “Come on in.”

Inside, his house smelled like cedar and something vaguely smoky. The lights were low. It felt warmer than you expected — like a quiet cabin tucked away from the world. He offered you coffee. Tea. Something to eat.

You shook your head. “No but thank you.”

He nodded and said you could take the spare room. He even went to get you some clothes to sleep in — a soft, oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that were far too big for you.

And when he handed them to you, your fingers touched. The spark was small. Barely there. But it spread like wildfire through your chest, then your spine. You looked up at him. And for a moment, your eyes locked.

He said something, probably a simple “here you go” or “they’re clean” — but you didn’t catch it. Your ears were ringing. You were too busy staring into the deep brown of his eyes, too caught up in the way they seemed to study you back, like maybe he felt it too.

You took the clothes, mumbled a thank you, and retreated to the bathroom to change. But even as you stood there alone, the shirt hanging loosely on your frame, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

And that night, lying in a bed that wasn’t yours, wrapped in the scent of his laundry detergent, you realized something that made your stomach twist. You knew you were absolutely, completely, and irreversibly… fucked.

And now, it had been a week. A week since that night at Joel’s. A week since everything shifted — even if no one else could see it.

Things with Tommy hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

You fought constantly now. About stupid things, about nothing, about everything. You didn’t even know what started most of them anymore — the toothpaste cap, the way he sighed too loudly, the silence at dinner.

It wasn’t explosive, not always. But it was endless. A simmering discontent that never quite faded, only circled back again and again, like waves hitting the same crumbling shore.

And worst of all — neither of you ever talked about it. No apologies. No meaningful conversations. Just this sad, quiet erosion of something that used to be whole.

But Joel…

Joel was different. Joel was the problem, wasn’t he? Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not just that night, not just how he looked, standing there sleep-rumpled and warm and so utterly male, but every damn day since.

He was in your mind when you woke up. When you brushed your teeth. When you made dinner. When you argued with Tommy and wished he was someone else. You didn’t mean to. But God, it was getting impossible to stop.

You kept picturing his hands — the thick fingers, the rough calluses, the way his veins curved over his knuckles like they were sculpted with intention. You imagined how those hands would feel on your hips, gripping your thighs, sliding under your shirt with practiced ease.

You thought of his arms — strong and solid and made to hold. Of how his shoulders looked like they could carry the whole damn town if they had to. You thought about being held in them, your head tucked under his chin, your breath catching when he exhaled slow and deep.

You thought of his chest — broad and warm and lined with that dark, silver-streaked hair. Thought of laying your cheek there, fingers splayed across his heart, listening to it beat steady beneath your touch.

His face haunted you.

That strong jaw, always clenched like he was holding back a thousand words. The curve of his mouth, half-hidden under the beard but always there — lips you kept imagining pressed to your neck, your shoulder, between your thighs.

And his eyes… His eyes were your undoing.

Dark, deep, unreadable. They saw through you — not just your clothes, but your walls, your lies, your guilt. When you closed your own eyes, you saw his instead, full of lust. Or maybe that was just your own twisted fantasy. You shouldn’t want him. You knew that. He was your boyfriend’s brother.

But your body didn’t care.

Your body betrayed you every time you thought of him — a flutter low in your stomach, a tightening in your chest, a heat between your thighs that left you squirming in bed at night, aching for something you couldn’t name out loud.

You tried to drown it out. Tried to pretend. But the truth whispered like a lover in the dark:

You wanted Joel Miller. Desperately. And the worst part? You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending you didn’t.

Becuase it’s not just a passing thought anymore, not something you can brush off like a stray cobweb in your mind. No, it's visceral, constant. It lives under your skin like a second heartbeat.

Every time Joel walks by, you feel it. That earthy, musky scent of his — a mix of sweat, cedarwood, and something deep and masculine that makes your thighs clench without warning.

You hate how much your body reacts. How just one whiff of him leaves your panties damp, how the air feels thicker when he’s near. And when he works… God, when he works, that's the worst.

You’ve seen him splitting firewood behind the house, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his tanned skin as the muscles in his arms ripple with every swing of the axe.

The tight line of his jaw. The way his shirt clings to his broad back. The grunt he lets out when the blade hits the wood just right.

You watch him from the porch like a starved woman watching a feast she’ll never be allowed to touch. And it drives you fucking crazy.

Most nights, you don’t sleep.

Most nights, you lay in bed, biting your lip, heart racing, one hand gripping the sheets while the other slides under the waistband of your panties, because thinking about Joel isn’t enough anymore.

You need to feel it.

You imagine him looming over you. That heavy, calloused hand wrapping around your throat — not tight, just enough to make you submit. His other hand spreading your legs, fingers rough and sure as he slides them between your folds, dragging through your slick heat like he owns it.

You imagine his voice — low, rough, dangerous.

“Look how wet you are for me.”

“You want this, baby? You want me to ruin you?”

And you do. You want him to ruin you. You want him to take you right there, against the wall, the bed, the floor, anywhere, as long as it’s him.

Your fingers move faster now, desperate and messy, circling your clit in tight, practiced motions.

You press your thighs together, arching your back, your breath catching in your throat as your slick drips down your wrist.

You picture his mouth on your skin. His beard scraping your inner thigh. His tongue pushing inside you — thick and hot and hungry.

You choke back a moan. Your body is burning. You’re grinding into your own hand now, fucking yourself on your fingers like he would, imagining how deep he’d go, how big he’d feel, how he’d stretch you open and make you scream his name.

“Joel,” you whisper into the dark, breathless.

It’s always his name.

You come hard — thighs trembling, chest heaving, sweat beading along your hairline — but the ache doesn’t fade. Not really. Because as good as it feels, it’s not him.

No matter how many times you make yourself come, no matter how vivid the fantasies get, no matter how soaked your sheets are in the morning, you still want more.

Every time Tommy lay down beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion and the scent of sweat and woodsmoke still clinging to his skin, guilt clawed its way up your spine like a cold hand.

You would lie there stiff, eyes open to the dark, heart pounding, not from affection or comfort, but from the memory of your own trembling fingers just an hour before, hidden beneath the blankets, gasping his brother’s name against your bitten lip.

Joel.

Tommy’s brother.

The man you couldn’t stop thinking about — not now, not ever. You hated yourself for it. You weren’t just betraying your boyfriend. You were betraying a family. A trust.

But the worst part? You didn’t want to stop.

Tommy hadn’t apologized. Not once. But that didn’t stop him from organizing a barbecue. Some way to press “reset” on everything, as if grilled meat and forced laughter could patch over weeks of silence, resentment, and half-finished arguments echoing off the walls.

You knew him well enough by now to see through it. He wasn’t trying to fix things. He just wanted to pretend they were fixed. And that… hurt more than the fighting.

So, you dressed for the occasion. Not for him — not really.

You put on the white lace dress that didn’t quite reach your knees, the one that hugged your hips, cinched your waist just right, and fluttered in the summer breeze like something soft and dangerous. You wanted to feel beautiful. You wanted to feel powerful. Maybe even cruel.

When you stepped out of the bedroom, Tommy was standing at the kitchen counter with a beer half-raised. He froze. Completely.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on you like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You could feel his gaze moving, mapping, remembering.

And when you passed by him, deliberately brushing just close enough, he reached out — a firm grip on your wrist.

“You look… you look good.” He muttered.

You paused, turned to him with a small, unreadable smile. “Thanks.” Your voice was polite, detached. And the moment he released your hand, you slipped out the door like a whisper on wind.

Outside, the sun was still warm.

People were already gathering, familiar voices, laughter, clinking glass. The backyard glowed in golden hour light, casting long, soft shadows across the tables and swaying grass. You fixed your face into the practiced smile you’d worn so many times — the one that said everything’s fine even when your chest felt like it was made of glass.

Then you saw him. God.

He walked up the path like he owned every step of it, in that worn flannel shirt and rolled sleeves, arms streaked with dust and sweat. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it instead of brushing it. His beard, just the right length to make your skin ache to know how it would feel. His eyes… they found yours.

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

He smiled, that subtle Joel kind of smile that only lifted one corner of his mouth, and stepped forward, arms opening as he greeted you.

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He pulled you into a hug, and the moment your body met his, you knew you were in trouble. His arms were strong. Warm. The scent of him curled around your brain like fog. You imagined his mouth, his fingers.

And your body… reacted.

But you smiled. You played innocent. You even laughed at something he said. And he had no idea that your panties were already damp and that your heart was beating like a drum against your ribs.

The barbecue continued like some slow, lazy dream.

Music floated in the air from an old radio, someone poured too much whiskey, and laughter echoed off the fences. The sun dipped lower, turning the sky into a watercolor wash of pink and tangerine. Kids played tag near the trees. The smell of grilled meat mingled with fresh cut grass.

And all the while, you watched Joel.

He leaned on a post, beer in hand, talking to someone with that low, gravelly voice that made your stomach twist. You weren’t really part of any conversation. You were too busy stealing glances.

Then came the moment with the salad.

It was almost a relief to slip away — an excuse to clear your head. You made your way back into the house, opened the fridge and pulled out the cold bowl of greens.

That’s when you heard footsteps behind you.

“I’m glad you wore that dress,” Tommy said quietly. You turned around. He looked more serious than he had in days. Weeks.

“I know I’ve been… distant,” he said. “Hell, maybe even a real asshole. I just… I’ve been stressed, but that’s no excuse. You deserve better. And I’m sorry.”

His eyes met yours, and for once, you saw something honest there. You didn’t say anything. You just nodded. And then he kissed you.

It was hungry. Desperate.

Weeks of tension burst all at once. His hands were on your waist, pulling you close. You kissed back. Maybe you wanted to forgive him. Maybe it felt good to be wanted again — by someone who should want you.

But just as his hand began to slide beneath your dress —

“Hey—”

Joel’s voice at the doorway.

“—where’s that salad, huh?”

You froze and Tommy stepped back, startled. You turned slowly, cheeks flushed, heartbeat thundering. Joel was standing there with a lopsided smirk, but his eyes caught yours — and lingered.

And just like that, the heat pooled in your stomach again. Not because of Tommy, but because of the way Joel looked at you like he knew.

You stood there in the now-quiet room, trying to steady your breath. Your hands were resting on your sides, clenched just a little too tightly. It wasn’t just what had happened—it was how it made you feel. Like you were a pawn in some game… only the rules were seductive, dangerous, and written by men like Joel and Tommy.

And Tommy took charge. Said something about the salad being on its way and vanished with the bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world. You needed to process it. Breathe. Think. Only… thinking wasn’t helping much.

Later that evening, the fire crackled, casting a warm flickering glow across familiar faces. You were sitting on a log, surrounded by others from the community, the sound of laughter, bottle caps popping, and faint guitar strumming filling the night air.

Joel sat directly across from you. Beer in hand. Legs spread slightly. Relaxed, but not unaware.

His gaze would meet yours every so often, and every single time it did… it felt different. Like something had shifted. The look wasn’t teasing—it was loaded. Heavy. Hot.

And each time your eyes met, your stomach would flip in that delicious, terrible way. You’d forget someone was talking to you, only snapping out of it when someone waved a hand in front of your face or chuckled at your distraction.

Then Tommy appeared, standing beside you with a crooked smirk.

“Up. Come on,” he said, motioning with his hand.

You blinked. “What?”

“Trust me,” he chuckled. “Just stand.”

You did, hesitantly. Tommy immediately dropped down onto the log in your place and patted his thigh with a smug grin. “Sit.”

You raised an eyebrow but obeyed. As you settled on his lap, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. The warmth of him, the calm strength in his hold—it brought a sense of peace you hadn’t even realized you needed. Things with him were okay again. That mattered. That grounded you.

But…Joel was still in your head.

You looked up, just as he shifted in his seat. A subtle movement, but enough to draw your eyes. He adjusted the way he sat, lifting his hips ever so slightly, and the motion was enough to ignite something deep inside you. You could feel your breath hitch.

You shifted on Tommy’s lap, just a little. Just enough.

Your underwear—already damp from earlier—felt traitorous against your skin. This was the fourth time tonight you’d caught yourself being wet… and always because of Joel.

Tommy felt it.

He tightened his grip on your waist, leaning close so only you could hear. “You tryin’ to tease me, darlin’?”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it. But your body had been responding to Joel all night. And now, it was affecting Tommy.

You shifted again without meaning to, and this time, you could feel Tommy’s erection pressed firmly against you. It made your breath catch. The air around you was thick. Electric.

Tommy leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “We’re goin’ inside. Now.”

You gave a small nod, barely able to speak, and stood up with him. You mumbled an apology to the group, but your eyes found Joel one last time. He was watching.

Not speaking, not smiling, just watching.

And that look, God, that look, it followed you even as Tommy took your hand and led you into the house.

The door slammed shut, and everything exploded.

Tommy didn’t wait. He had waited long enough. Weeks. Maybe months. His mouth crushed yours before you could even say a word, hands already under the hem of your dress, grabbing at your thighs like he had every right to claim them.

And in that moment—you wanted him to.

You moaned into the kiss as his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he bit, just hard enough to make you gasp. He swallowed the sound hungrily.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. The kiss was messy. Hot. Tongues colliding, teeth clashing, breaths heavy and desperate. It wasn’t slow or sweet, it was starved. Like both of you had been dying for this.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he growled against your lips.

You nodded blindly, breathless. “Me too.”

His hands slid up under your dress—rough, impatient—and found bare skin. Touching, exploring every inch of your body, like a reminder of what skin feel like. His knuckles grazed the inside of your thigh, then higher, until his fingers found how wet you already were.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes dark. “This all for me?”

You didn’t answer.

You watched his expression change, something wild flickering in his gaze as he gripped your ass hard with both hands and lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him as he pressed you back against the wall, grinding against your core through the fabric of his jeans. You could feel how hard he was. How badly he wanted to be inside you.

He bit at your neck now, harder than before, leaving a mark. You cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“God, Tommy—”

You were soaked. Panting. Desperate.

And then—he dropped to his knees.

There was no teasing. No build-up. He pushed the dress up around your waist and shoved your legs apart, spreading you open in front of him. You braced yourself against the wall, heart pounding as you looked down at him, eyes blown wide with lust.

His mouth was on you in seconds. Hot. Wet. Greedy.

He licked you like he was making up for every day he’d gone without it. His tongue worked you in tight, focused circles, alternating speed, pressure, rhythm until you were writhing. His nose was buried against you, breath hot, beard scratching your inner thighs in a way that made your knees threaten to give out completely.

You moaned his name, over and over, gasping for air. “Tommy… fuck, please… just like that…”

Your hand buried itself in his hair, yanking, tugging as your hips rolled into his face without shame. You could feel his groan vibrate through you, sending another jolt up your spine.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, hard, and your vision went white for a second.

“Tommy—oh God—I’m gonna—”

You were so fucking close, teetering right at the edge, every nerve screaming. You could feel the pressure building, tight and unbearable, ready to break—

“…Joel…”

So soft. So breathless. So honest. But the effect was immediate. His mouth froze. Then his hands. Then the heat. Silence slammed into the room like a fist. You opened your eyes and met his. And his face looked like someone had gutted him.

He stood slowly, like every second hurt. The warmth, the fire, the hunger from just moments ago—gone, replaced with silence.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you and you looked at him, breathing heavily.

Then, finally:

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to explain, to say anything, but your voice cracked before a word came out. Tears were already stinging your eyes.

Tommy backed away from you like he couldn’t stand to be near you. “That’s who you were thinkin’ about? While I had my fuckin’ mouth on you?”

Your hands trembled as you tried to pull your dress back down, cover yourself—shield from the weight of his voice, his stare. “Tommy, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he barked. “Don’t bullshit me.”

His voice broke on the last word. That hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I’ve been waitin’, hopin’ we’d get back to how we used to be, and this is what I get?”

You reached for him, desperate. “Please—”

But he jerked away from your touch like it burned.

“I can’t fuckin’ look at you right now.”

And with that, he turned and stormed out. You didn’t even hear where the door slammed. Maybe it was the back one. Maybe the front. It didn’t matter.

He was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch like the strings holding you up had been cut. The sound that left your throat wasn’t even human. A sob, raw and wet and broken. You curled in on yourself, dress still hiked halfway up your thighs, chest heaving. Tears soaked your cheeks and the fabric of the pillow you gripped with white knuckles.

The fire pit was still glowing outside. You could hear distant voices, laughter, clinking bottles—life happening while yours felt like it had just imploded.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Everything was numb, except for the ache in your chest. Like someone had reached in and twisted your heart until it bled.

You wiped your face, tried to breathe, tried to calm down—but your body refused. Every time you thought the tears had stopped, another wave hit.

Then the door opened.

“Hey… I’ve been lookin’ for—”

Joel stopped.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You just pressed your face into your hands, body trembling, barely able to breathe through the mess of it all.

“Shit,” he said softly. You heard the door close again behind him, slow and careful.

“Hey. Hey—what happened?”

You felt the couch shift as he knelt in front of you, warm hands hovering just inches from your knees, not touching—waiting for permission.

“Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?”

That voice—rough, low, full of concern. You shook your head slowly but didn’t lift it.

Joel exhaled, his hand finally brushing lightly over your calf. “You’re shakin’. Jesus… What happened?”

Joel’s eyes searched yours the moment you looked up at him, and he froze.

Your face was soaked, lashes clumped with tears, lips trembling. Your eyes—glassy, red-rimmed—looked like they were still breaking in real time. And they were. The tears didn’t stop. They just kept coming, welling up and spilling over in fresh waves.

He could see you didn’t have the strength to speak. So he didn’t ask again. Instead, he moved.

He gently, slowly, pulled you into him. The moment his arms wrapped around you, you caved.

You collapsed into his chest, breath hitching, sobs stuttering out of you again as he held you tighter—arms strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed over your back, pulling you into his warmth like he could glue your pieces back together.

“Shhh…” he whispered into your hair. “I got you. I got you…”

And he meant it. You could feel it.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, calm and steady, grounding you. His shirt smelled like sweat and firewood and something so purely him it made your throat tighten. His skin radiated heat, and his arms were solid around you, unmovable, like nothing in the world could get to you if he didn’t let it.

Being in his arms felt like safety. Like home. You sank into him fully, shaking, letting the quiet take over. The tears kept coming, soaking through the fabric of his shirt until it clung to his skin.

After a long silence, you mumbled, voice rough and small:

“…Your shirt’s wet…”

Joel huffed a soft breath, like he almost smiled. “I don’t mind.”

A few more tears slid down your cheeks, and you could tell he felt every one of them against his skin. He didn’t push. But the question was still there, unspoken, hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, his voice rumbled low beside your ear.

“You don’t gotta talk if you’re not ready… but if somethin’ happened, I need to know. Did Tommy…?”

You shook your head quickly, breath hitching again.

“No—no, not like that,” you whispered. “We just… we had a fight.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

You hesitated but he waited. The truth sat like glass in your throat—jagged and dangerous. So you shook your head again.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Joel shifted just enough to look at you, hand still holding your shoulder.

“I get that,” he said softly. “But if it’s somethin’ serious… maybe I can help. You two are close. Whatever it is, maybe it ain’t as bad as you think.”

You almost laughed—almost. But it came out choked, hollow.

“It’s bad,” you whispered. “It’s… really bad.”

Joel’s fingers gently traced up and down your arm now, soothing, grounding.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to give me every detail, just… talk to me.”

You stared at the floor for a long moment, lips pressed together, heart pounding.

“…I said something,” you murmured, “during a moment and it hurt him. A lot.”

Joel was quiet, but you could feel the tension under his touch now. Like he was trying not to read into it.

“What did you say?” he asked carefully.

You looked up at Joel.

Straight into those beautiful, kind, heart-wrecking eyes. The light from the living room lamp hit them just right, made them shimmer, like they were made of something more than just brown. His brows were drawn, lips softly parted, that usual scruff shadowing his jaw in the most familiar way.

God, his face.

That face, all concern and comfort and that damned puppy-dog softness, it made everything worse. It made the truth burn inside you like acid.

You looked away again.

“…You can tell me anything, you know that?” he said gently. And you knew he meant it. That was the problem, he meant it. But if you told him, how could he ever look at you the same? How could anyone?

Your heart was hammering. You could barely breathe. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. If you said it, everything between you and Tommy would definitely be over. And maybe it already was.

Because of you.

Because you couldn’t even keep your mouth shut during something that was supposed to be intimate, sacred. You said his name. Joel’s name. And now all of this—the tears, the fight, the possible end of your relationship, was because of that.

Because of you.

The weight of it hit you like a truck, and your throat clenched all over again. More tears flooded your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fresh, helpless waves.

Joel was still rubbing your shoulders softly, whispering gentle reassurances. “Hey… hey, you’re alright. Just breathe, okay? Just talk to me.”

You were shaking now, fists clenched. He didn’t stop. He stayed with you. But you couldn’t hold it anymore. The guilt erupted from your lips—maybe louder than it should’ve. Maybe desperate.

“I said your name.”

The words dropped like glass onto hardwood and you couldn’t even look at him. Instead, you buried your face in your hands, trying to hide from the horror of your own confession. The shame curled in your gut like fire. Your breath was shaky, lips pressed to your palms, heart thundering like it wanted to escape your chest entirely.

Joel froze. Completely.

Even his hands, which had been so gently stroking your shoulders, stopped mid-motion. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Every second it lasted made your stomach twist harder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a moment. Just… stared.

You didn’t dare look up to see what was on his face. You were scared to see the same thing Tommy had shown you—hurt. Shock. Disgust. Your head spun. You wanted to disappear.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “This was stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

You stood up, desperate to escape, to do something other than sit there and drown in your own shame.

But before you could take a step, his hand closed around your wrist. You froze.

Joel stayed seated, his grip firm but not rough. You turned to look at him—and when your eyes met, everything in your chest just stopped.

The silence that passed between you in that second felt like a storm. His expression had shifted. Gone was the softness, the worry, the quiet patience.

Now there was something else.

His eyes burned into yours. His jaw was tight. His brow furrowed in a way that felt almost… territorial. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then shot back up, and that heat in his stare made your breath catch.

And then—he stood. Slowly. Purposefully.

He was close now. Too close. The kind of close where your body tensed and your skin tingled, and every nerve screamed that something had shifted in the air.

His voice came low. Rough. Like gravel soaked in heat.

“Did Tommy ever make you come?”

The question hit you like a slap. Your lips parted. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat.

You were so stunned you couldn’t even answer right away. A nervous sound slipped out, barely a word—just air and panic tangled in your chest.

But Joel didn’t wait. He asked again, sharper this time, more intense, his voice scraping down your spine like thunder.

“Did he ever fuckin’ make you come?”

A shiver ran through your entire body. You swallowed hard, the air suddenly dry in your throat. Your gaze dropped to the floor, heat rushing up your neck.

You couldn’t lie.

You just shook your head once.

Joel exhaled a bitter, humorless sound—almost a laugh. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek as he looked away, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. He turned slightly, pacing two short steps before running a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was trying to keep himself from saying something worse.

The room felt too quiet again. Your heart was hammering. You didn’t know what was happening, what this was turning into.

“Joel… why did you ask that?” your voice comes out quieter than you intended, almost a whisper. “Why would you—?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just turns away from you for a second like he needs to breathe, like looking at you makes it harder. His hands settle on his hips, fingers curling in frustration.

You watch him like he’s something dangerous. Not because you’re afraid — but because you don’t understand him. You don’t understand what he’s thinking. Why he cares. Why it felt like something cracked in him when you shook your head.

Finally, he speaks.

“‘Cause it ain’t right,” he mutters, but the words are too quiet. He says it more to himself than to you.

You blink. “What isn’t?”

He turns to you again, and his eyes lock with yours. There’s something burning there, low and slow and intense. You feel it before he even says a word.

“That you’re with someone who doesn’t even know how to take care of you.”

Your breath catches. The words hit you straight in the chest — like they weren’t just meant to be heard. Like they were meant to be felt.

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You’re frozen, not by fear, but confusion. Confusion that somehow carries a pulse deep in your stomach.

He takes a step closer. Not much, just enough to make your heart pick up. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t prepared for — and the air between you and Joel is different now. Thicker. Charged.

You whisper, “Why do you care?”

He stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he should tell you the truth. Or maybe he already has.

He looks at your face, your mouth, then your eyes again. His voice is lower now, almost rough.

“…Don’t ask me that unless you wanna hear the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. You can feel the tension rolling off him like heat, and suddenly you’re not just confused. You’re scared — not of him, but of what’s happening. Of what you want. Of what might come next. But that fear is mixed with anticipation and excitment.

The guilt is still there, still whispering into your ears, trying to convince you to just leave and don't get yourself into any more trouble than you already are. But one side of you, the one that is leading you these past days is screaming at you not to leave, to cross the line and break the ice, to gamble with your fate.

He takes another step closer.

There’s something in the way he moves now — slower, deliberate. Like he’s stalking a moment that’s been building for far too long. His eyes never leave yours, and it’s not just a stare — it’s a pull, dragging you in with each second that passes.

The air in the room thickens. It wraps around your body like smoke, warm and heavy, and it settles deep in your chest. You can feel your own heartbeat between your thighs now, each beat like a silent cry. The thin fabric of your dress brushes your skin, soft and ghostly, no underwear to muffle the feeling. Just you. Bare. Vulnerable. And aching.

Joel’s voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he murmurs. “This thing between us?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just nod, barely.

He takes another slow step, his boots scraping softly against the floor. He’s close enough now that you can smell him — leather, sweat, something masculine and heady. It makes your head swim.

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, softer now. “The way you breathe when I’m this close.”

Your breath hitches. He’s right. You’re breathing faster now, shallow and sharp, chest rising with every gasp.

His gaze drops to your mouth, to your throat, then lower. His eyes darken when he sees the outline of your breasts through the thin fabric, the curve of your thighs where the dress has shifted. And he knows.

He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

You watch his jaw clench, the muscle ticking — a flash of restraint. He shifts his weight, and for a moment, your eyes fall to the hard shape beginning to press against the front of his jeans.

You swallow. Heat pools low in your belly, hot and thick. Your pulse pounds louder between your legs, insistent and wet and wanting.

Joel moves closer. There’s barely a foot of space left between you now. One move, one breath, and you’d be touching.

He tilts his head slightly, voice barely audible.

“You wanna kiss me?”

His words slice straight through your self-control. You feel your whole body clench in response, as if your muscles themselves are answering for you.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Just air. Your lips part and your breathing quickens — faster now, raw and shallow. His eyes flicker between your mouth and your eyes, over and over again, and you realize… you’re doing the same.

The moment stretches. Neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing fills the space, fast and hot and frantic. His hand twitches — not quite reaching for you. He wants you to move first.

Everything burns.

Your thighs are pressed tight together. You can feel the slick heat between them growing with every second. The ache is sharp now, desperate. You clench around nothing, your whole body begging for contact, for relief.

His chest rises and falls quickly, and the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. His jeans are tight now, that hard bulge pressing against the zipper, throbbing. Waiting.

He licks his lips. You do the same. Your gaze locks again, the silence screaming between you. Someone has to break and you can’t take it anymore.

You move — fast, hungry, like something inside you finally snapped. You grab the front of his shirt, drag him down to you, and crash your mouth against his.

He groans, deep and low in his chest, and his hands are on you instantly — gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. You straddle him, your dress riding up your thighs, the heat of your bare skin grinding against the bulge in his jeans.

Joel groans into your mouth like he’s been waiting years for this. His hands slide under your dress immediately, rough palms dragging up the bare skin of your thighs.

There’s nothing coy left in you. You’re past that. You’re on fire, desperate, your whole body pulsing with need. His fingers grip your ass tight, pulling you flush against the hard line in his jeans. You gasp when it presses right between your legs, through nothing but heat and skin.

Without blink, Joel suddenly picks you up and both of you crushed on the sofa, you on top of Joel. You squeak in surprise and he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown, dark, pupils wide. He looks like he wants to ruin something.

“Bet my brother never made you feel like this,” he growls, voice low and thick. “Did he ever touch you like this, huh?”

He trails one hand up between your bodies, over your stomach, under your dress, stopping just below your breast.

“You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No. He didn’t. He never—”

Joel doesn’t let you finish. His mouth finds your neck, and suddenly he’s sucking, biting, dragging his teeth along your pulse. You moan loudly, fingers fisting in his hair. You feel the bruise forming instantly, heat and sting and possessiveness all in one.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m gonna mark you up so good. Let him see what he lost.”

His hand finally cups your breast — firm, rough, claiming. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, slow at first, then harder. You arch against him with a whimper. You’re so sensitive, the touch sends lightning down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “So perfect for me.”

Every word he says goes straight to the ache between your legs. You’re soaked now, thighs slick, grinding slowly on his lap because you can’t stop yourself. You’re past shame, past hesitation — you’re riding the edge of something, and Joel knows it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, leaning in close again, kissing down the hollow of your throat. “Just needed someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

He thrusts his hips up, just a little, grinding into you. You let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a plea. He’s so hard it’s unbearable. You can feel the outline of him perfectly through the denim. You want him. All of him.

“You wanna feel me, baby?” he asks, eyes burning into yours. “Wanna know how I fuck you? Not him, me.”

Your breath stutters, hips rocking without thinking. You nod again, frantic now.

“Use your words,” he growls.

“Y-Yes. Joel, I want you,” you whisper, voice cracked and breathless.

“That’s my girl.”

He pulls you even tighter against him, his mouth on yours again, teeth clashing, tongue deep. There’s nothing soft about this — it’s raw and rough and real. You can feel every inch of him between your legs, every heartbeat thudding through your core.

And when he whispers, “I’m gonna make you forget his fuckin’ name,” you believe him.

His hands tighten around your hips and he moves — fast, fluid, strong. In one motion, he lifts you off him and guides you back onto the couch, gently, but with a command behind every touch.

You’re sitting now, alone on the couch. Chest heaving. Legs still parted from how wide you were straddling him. The thin summer dress is bunched up around your hips, your bare skin exposed to the warm air of the room, and his dark eyes drinking in everything.

Joel doesn’t sit back down. He sinks to his knees in front of you.

The sight alone makes your stomach flip — Joel Miller, broad and burning, down on his knees between your legs, eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed.

“Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice low, but not asking. Telling. You obey without hesitation.

The second your thighs part, his breath catches and he smiles. That slow, crooked, devilish smile that makes your whole body throb.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, gaze dropping between your legs. “Look at you. Already so wet for me, baby.”

You squirm, cheeks hot, heart pounding. You’ve never felt so seen — so shameless and completely desired. He leans forward, slow and reverent, placing a kiss on the inside of your knee. Then another. Then higher. And higher.

Each kiss burns into your skin. By the time his mouth is ghosting over your inner thigh, your hands are clutching the fabric of the couch, nails digging into the cushions. Your legs are trembling.

Joel pauses, looking up at you — his face so close you can feel his breath on your skin. His hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your dress.

“You ever have someone devour you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Not just touch you. Not just fuck you. I mean really take his time — make you fall apart over and over again ‘til you forget how to speak?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You shake your head, trembling.

“I didn’t think so,” he murmurs. His lips brush the inside of your thigh again. You let out a soft whimper.

He chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs. “That ends tonight.”

And then, finally, he leans in. His mouth meets your folds like he’s starving. And not just for anyone. For you.

His tongue is slow at first — lazy, teasing — just enough to make you cry out in frustration. Your hips buck toward him instinctively, but his grip is firm. He holds you in place.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, pulling back just enough to breathe against you. “You take what I give you. Nothin’ else.”

Your legs tremble. You nod, lips parted, breath ragged. Then he really gets to work. Long, slow licks — deep and thorough. He moans against you, like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. He eats like a man possessed, tongue and lips working together to unravel you completely.

You cry out, head falling back, hands flying to his hair.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Just like that. So fuckin’ sweet. You feel that? That’s me. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

You’re already close. Embarrassingly fast. Your body is burning, shaking, legs threatening to close, but Joel doesn’t let you. He grips your thighs tighter, spreads you wider, and keeps going.

“Bet my brother never had you beggin’ like this,” he mutters against your soaked skin. “Never even knew what to do with you, huh?”

You sob out his name. “Joel—!”

“That’s it. Say it again.”

“Joel—oh god, Joel, please—!”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re falling apart, unraveling under his mouth, praise and hunger and heat flooding through you like fire in your veins. And he doesn’t stop.

Joel has you trembling, gasping, clutching at his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your legs are draped over his broad shoulders, your dress bunched up to your waist, and his mouth is working you like he wants to ruin you forever.

You moan his name again, voice breaking as your body convulses, heat flooding through you in sharp, hot waves. He doesn’t stop, not even as you twitch and cry out, completely undone. He groans into you like your pleasure is his, like he needs it, feeds on it.

Then, finally he pulls back.

He’s panting, lips glistening, eyes locked onto you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He looks completely feral. Wrecked. Controlled only by some last shred of restraint.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still staring at you, and whispers:

“Told you. Didn’t I?”

You’re still catching your breath, trying to remember how to speak, how to think — and then he moves.

He stands in one fluid motion, towering above you, and then bends to scoop you into his arms like you weigh nothing. You let out a soft sound, somewhere between surprise and surrender, and he carries you back down to the couch — but this time, you are underneath him.

His body covers yours, solid and warm, and you can feel the sheer size of him — every hard muscle, every sharp breath. His jeans are still on, but the bulge pressing between your thighs is undeniable.

Your pulse pounds. You want him. You need him.

Joel braces himself on one arm, eyes flickering down to your swollen lips, your flushed chest, the mess between your legs. He growls softly, the sound vibrating through you.

“Christ, look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Can’t believe he had you and didn’t worship every inch.”

He leans down, mouth grazing your jaw.

“But I will.”

He kisses your neck again, slower this time — no rush. His lips move down, finding the bruises he left earlier, tongue tracing the marks like he’s proud of them.

You arch into him with a soft moan. His free hand slides up your dress again, palm dragging along your thigh, your waist, your ribcage — until he cups your breast once more.

“You feel that?” he whispers, rolling your nipple between his fingers again. “This is mine now. All of you. Mine.”

His hips grind down, slow and hard, and you cry out — it’s too much and not enough all at once.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, needing skin — needing him closer. He helps you, yanking it off over his head, revealing every broad muscle, every scar and freckle. He’s so warm, so solid. You can barely breathe.

Joel lowers his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“You tell me when to stop, and I stop. I mean that,” he says. “But if you don’t stop me now… I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes flash.

“I want it all,” you whisper.

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, deeper than before, as his hand slips between your thighs — possessive, sure. You gasp into his mouth as his fingers slide through the slick heat he left behind, teasing, preparing, claiming.

He growls again, lips brushing your ear.

“Gonna make you scream my name. Again. And again. Until you forget his ever left your mouth.”

And then, with a sharp, dark smile, he finally undoes his belt. His eyes don’t leave yours as he tugs the belt free with one rough pull — the click of the buckle makes your stomach flip.

You bite your lip, chest heaving, heart hammering. Your dress is still hitched high around your waist, breasts rising and falling with every breath, nipples hard and aching from his touch.

You’re completely bare under him. And he knows it. He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and whispers, “Still wet for me?”

You nod and he groans against your lips.

“Good,” he says. “Keep that pretty little pussy ready. I’m not gonna be nice.”

You shudder, hands sliding over his chest, nails dragging down his ribs. He growls low, then kisses you again — deeper this time, hungrier, like he needs to taste every breath you take.

You reach down, desperate, shaking, and he grabs your wrist, holding it still.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs darkly. “You just lie back and take what I give you. You hear me?”

Your thighs tremble as you whisper, “Yes.”

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

His eyes ignite.

“That’s right.”

He pushes the fabric of your dress off your shoulders — slow, deliberate — until you’re completely naked beneath him. His eyes drink you in, pupils blown wide with hunger, reverence, and something else… something almost possessive.

He kisses down your collarbone, your chest, stopping to suck a dark bruise just above your breast. You gasp as his teeth graze your skin, and he pulls back with a wicked smile.

“Mine,” he mutters again, almost to himself. “You feel that? That ache in your belly? That need?”

You nod quickly, dizzy.

“I put that there.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers sliding through your slickness with practiced ease. You cry out, back arching — and he grins.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls. “You hear me? I want you to remember this. Every time you think of me. Every time you lie in bed alone. No one else is ever gonna make you feel this way. Not even close.”

You’re gasping, trying to keep up, but he overwhelms every sense — the scent of him, the weight of his body, the deep rasp of his voice in your ear.

He lines his hips up with yours, breath ragged.

“You ready?”

“Yes—please—”

He pushes forward. Slow, steady, relentless, and you both groan at the same time.

The stretch makes your eyes flutter. You cling to him, digging your nails into his arms, and he holds still for a second, letting you feel everything.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “So tight. So good. Bet my brother never even got you halfway there.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, tears prickling behind your eyes from the intensity. Joel leans down, kisses your temple, and murmurs:

“You take me so well. Just like you were made for this. For me.”

And then he moves. Long, deep strokes. Slow and unforgiving, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to every single inch. He watches your face, hungry, like it’s the most addictive thing he’s ever seen. And maybe it is.

“Look at you,” he pants, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’re already falling apart, and I’ve barely even started.”

You whimper, legs tightening around his hips, fingers clawing down his back. He hisses, but doesn’t stop, if anything, he thrusts harder, deeper, dragging a loud cry out of your throat.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fuckin’ town know who’s making you feel this way.”

He kisses you — messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth — then moves to your neck again, sucking another bruise just below your jaw. You moan his name, breathless, shaking.

“You ever scream like this for him?” he mutters, voice sharp against your skin. “Did he ever make you beg?”

You can’t even answer — just whimper, nod, then shake your head. Joel chuckles darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

One hand grabs your thigh, throwing your leg higher around his waist, changing the angle — and you scream.

Your back arches off the couch, vision going white. He grunts as you clench around him, and leans in, forehead to yours.

“You close already?” he whispers. “Fuck, baby, you gonna come for me?”

You nod wildly, too far gone to speak.

“Then do it. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

He slams into you harder, faster, relentless now. The praise, the pressure, the heat — it all builds to a breaking point, and then you shatter.

It’s too much. Too deep. Too Joel. You cry out, body shaking under him, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll float away otherwise.

He groans, deep in his chest, and then follows — thrusts turning rough, erratic, as he loses control. His body stiffens, then you feel the heat of him inside, pulsing with every last roll of his hips.

He collapses against you, both of you drenched in sweat and still trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but your rapid breathing, your fingers in his hair, and the pounding of two hearts against each other.

Then, finally, he speaks. Low and gentle.

“…Damn.”

You let out a breathless laugh. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

You nod. More than okay. You’re wrecked. Raw. Full. But you manage a soft smile.

“Better than okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, arms still wrapped tight around you. You’re still breathing hard, lips swollen, skin hot — but your body’s no longer trembling from pleasure. Now it’s trembling from something else entirely.

Joel is quiet above you. Both strong arms draped around your waist, his forehead resting against yours as he tried go catch bis breath. His chest rises and falls, rhythmically with yours. But your own breath… it’s hitched. Tight. Shaky.

And of course he notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers softly through your hair. “Talk to me.”

Your stomach twists. It hits you — full force. The weight of it. Not the sex or the lust, but the reality. You just had sex with Joel. Your boyfriend’s brother. Right there — on his couch, in his home. While he was gone.

You push yourself up slowly, Joel sits up with you, eyes narrowing, instantly alert.

“What is it?”

“I… I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “I just…”

And then you burst. The tears start falling before you can stop them. Big, hot, painful tears. The kind that come from your chest, not your eyes.

Joel moves fast, cupping your cheeks, holding you like you’re something fragile that could break if he squeezes too tight.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers, caressing your face. “I’ve got you.”

“No,” you sob, burying your face into his neck. “It’s not okay. I just slept with you. Joel, what did we do?”

He holds you tighter, jaw clenched as he tried to search something in your eyes.

“We did something that we both wanted,” he says. “And yeah… it was messy. But it was real.”

“I cheated on Tommy,” you whisper. “With his own brother.”

Joel flinches at that — just barely. But he doesn’t let go.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I can’t bring myself to regret it. I’ve wanted you for so long, darlin’. I don’t know if that makes me a bastard… but it’s the truth.”

You cry harder. He rubs your back, murmuring things you can’t quite make out — gentle, soothing things. He kisses your shoulder. Your temple.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Don’t carry all the weight by yourself. I was there too.”

You sit in silence for a long time, curled against him, your tears finally slowing. The room is quiet except for the occasional sniffle, and Joel’s steady heartbeat

Eventually, you both dress in silence.

The air is heavier now. Like you’ve both stepped into a different world — one where consequences have finally caught up.

Joel leans on the edge of the couch, watching you. Guarded. Protective. You wipe your face again, still fighting the tremble in your chin. “What… what happens now?”

Before he can answer—

The front door creaks open. Click. Thud. Boots on wood. Your heart stops. Joel straightens instantly. You freeze. And there he is.

Tommy.

Walking through the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow, rifle slung over his shoulder. He stops when he sees you, then looked at Joel. You were shocked, nervous, your face still swollen from all the crying, while Joel played with his fingers, dropped by his sides.

“Could you leave us alone?” Tommy said, looking at Joel. He clearly had no idea.

Your chest falls and your body relaxed, closing your eyes in relief. Joel just nodded and before he fully left, he gave you one last look. Look, that clearly said:

it's gonna be okay.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

BYEE🦋🌀

[adelliet]

JOEL MILLER: triptych [pt. 2/4]

[adelliet]

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

TEACHER'S PET

Summary: You, as always, didn't do your homework, so you got detention. But, what starts as a punishment turns into a secret, obsessive game of power and lust, that you will not forget.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, teacher/student relationship (both characters are adults), dominant/submissive dynamics, nicknames (slut, sweetheart, …), fingering, multiple orgasms, oral sex (male receiving), praise kink, unprotected sex (piv), creampie, school-setting tension, little angst!Joel

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It’s just another school morning.

You’re walking down the hallway with your best friend Maya. She’s grinning like an idiot, nudging you with her elbow as she sips iced coffee from a reusable cup.

“Try not to cum the second he walks in, okay?” she teases, half-whispered, half-laughing.

You roll your eyes with a snort, cheeks warming instantly. “You’re so dumb,” you mumble, but the corner of your mouth can’t help twitching into a smile. Because yeah… she’s not exactly wrong.

Joel Miller.

Your new literature teacher. Only two months in, and you’re already a mess. He teaches with that deep, Southern drawl, his voice rough like gravel and honey, and God help you, the man reads poetry like it’s a sin.

Every class with him feels like you’re being edged intellectually and emotionally. And maybe a little physically too. You walk into the classroom, and it’s all downhill from there.

You drop your bag by your desk and sit down, already distracted before class even starts. The room is buzzing with chatter, people rustling papers, unzipping backpacks, getting ready. You? You’re just staring at the door, waiting.

And then it happens. The bell rings and the door opens. There he is.

He steps inside with that signature calmness, a worn leather messenger bag slung across one shoulder, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, revealing strong, veined forearms dusted with dark hair. The cotton of his shirt clings to his chest in all the right places, and the way he adjusts his glasses as he looks around the room? Unholy.

Your core pulses. Just from looking.

He walks slowly to the desk, every step like a magnetic pull. His boots hit the floor with a muted thud, his posture relaxed but confident. That salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed perfectly, shadowing the line of his jaw you’ve stared at one too many times during his lectures.

You don’t hear a single thing he says. Because you’re not listening.

You’re watching his fingers. Those thick, skilled fingers, uncap a pen and jot something down on the board. You wonder what they’d feel like tugging your hair or gripping your thighs or—

You blink, cheeks burning.

“Okay, folks. Take out your homework,” Joel says, his voice a velvet command.

Only when zippers and rustling bags start echoing around the room, you snap, blinking back to reality. Shit.

You turn toward Maya, panic flashing in your eyes.

“You did the homework, right?” she whispers, pulling her sheet from her folder.

“I—” You hesitate. You had every intention of doing it. You thought about it, you really wanted to impress him, wanted to do well in his class. But something came up and then it slipped out of your mind.

You’re fucked.

Your fingers fidget. You chew the edge of your nail. Your leg bounces nervously beneath the desk. He’s making his way around the room, collecting the papers one by one. And then he’s at your desk, right in front of you.

He reaches for Maya’s assignment without a word, his body angled slightly toward you, and you can smell him—woodsy cologne, leather, coffee. Something warm and addictive. He leans closer.

“Y’got yours?”

You look up at him, eyes wide, your mouth suddenly dry. He’s so close. Close enough that your skin prickles, close enough that the heat of his body almost brushes your cheek. His gaze stays neutral, unreadable, but his jaw’s tense.

“I… I’m sorry. I meant to do it but something came up and I forgot.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking toward the classroom window like he needs a second not to react. His voice is calm, but tight.

“That’s not the first time, is it?”

You flinch a little. It’s true, you've forgotten a few homeworks lately, too caught up in him to function properly.

“You’ll stay after. Detention.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “W-What? I’ll do it tonight—I’ll hand it in tomorrow, I swear, just—please, I have plans after school—”

He’s already moving on to the next desk without reaction, without argument, just: “Detention.”

You slump back in your seat, humiliated. Maya covers her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Someone’s gonna be suckin’ Miller’s cock,” she teases under her breath. You elbow her, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

But even through the sting of frustration and embarrassment, a little part of you, the part currently wondering how he’ll look at you when the classroom is empty and quiet and the lights are low, kind of… doesn’t mind.

Time alone with the hottest, most captivating teacher in the whole damn school? Doesn’t sound so bad.

You didn’t hear a single word for the rest of the class.

Not because the room was quiet—Joel’s voice still echoed, low and steady, through the lecture hall—but because your focus was completely consumed by him.

Every movement he made felt deliberate, magnetic. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The subtle flex of his fingers as he turned a page or tapped chalk against the board. Even the faint lines at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, as if every sentence was backed with some deeper thought he wasn’t sharing.

Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath your white summer dress, a subconscious attempt to anchor yourself, to not let the heat building between your legs take over your mind completely.

The fabric of the dress, light and barely grazing your skin, didn’t help. It clung in places it shouldn’t, and the warmth of the room—or was it just him—had your skin tingling, oversensitive, alert.

You shifted in your seat, squeezing your legs together again when you saw him adjust the cuff of his sleeve, revealing more of his forearm.

Something about that simple act made your breath catch. It wasn’t just attraction. It was need, raw, irrational, impossible to ignore. Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves, your core pulsing with every stolen glance you dared to take. There was something primal about the way he commanded space. And you felt it everywhere.

When the bell finally rang, it startled you back to the present like a sudden jolt. The rest of the students began to gather their things, rustling bags and murmuring to each other. You blinked, hands reaching for your notebook in slow, distracted motion. Your pulse was still racing.

You and Maya were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the air like velvet wrapped in iron.

“Don’t forget—detention.”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

His tone wasn’t raised, but it held an edge. Stern, direct, laced with authority. But it didn’t scare you. Quite the opposite. It hit something deep inside you, something that made your knees go weak and your breath hitch in your throat. The heat that had been simmering all class long flared suddenly, dangerously. You could barely look at him, not with the way his eyes brushed over you, steady, unreadable, as if he already knew what kind of thoughts were spinning in your head.

Beside you, Maya let out a soft laugh and nudged your side. “Girl, get your face under control.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, but you weren’t. Not even close.

Later, at lunch, Maya sat across from you at your usual table, smirking into her salad.

“You’re gonna combust,” she said, pointing her fork at you. “I swear, you looked like you were about to pass out when he said ‘detention.’ You okay?”

“No,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m not. I’m—”

“Thirsty,” she offered helpfully.

You peeked at her through your fingers. “Do you think… if I actually had a shot—like, a real one—to blow him, should I take it?”

Maya choked on her water.

“Oh my god,” she coughed, laughing. “You did not just say that.”

You leaned back in your chair, flushed and breathless. “I mean, I wouldn’t actually do it. Probably. Maybe…I don’t know! It’s just, he’s Joel Miller. Have you seen his hands? The way he talks?”

“Yeah, and the way he gives you detention,” Maya teased. “Which, by the way, I think you’re secretly looking forward to.”

You stared down at your tray, heart still fluttering like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of you. Because truth be told… she wasn’t quite wrong.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Every class felt like static noise in the background—your mind already stuck on what awaited you at the end. Detention. With him.

By the time the halls emptied and the last bell rang, your heart was racing like you were heading into something forbidden. You walked slowly, deliberately, each step echoing down the corridor, your palms slightly clammy as you pushed open the classroom door.

Joel was already there, seated at his desk with a few papers in front of him. He was reading something, brow furrowed, his fingers absently rubbing against his lower lip—a gesture so casual and yet so… distracting.

The door creaked as it closed behind you, and his head lifted. His eyes found yours in an instant, dark and unreadable, and he gave a slight nod toward the desk closest to the front. “Sit,” he said simply, and you obeyed.

You didn’t say a word as you settled into the chair, trying not to let your dress ride up too high. It was hot today. It wasn’t your fault that the short summer dress made your skin feel electric, or that your thighs kept brushing when you crossed your legs.

Joel stood up, approached slowly, and stopped at the edge of your desk. He looked down at you, voice calm but firm. “Do you even know what the assignment was?”

You hesitated, already knowing the answer was no. Your mouth parted to form something, anything—but he exhaled, frustrated, and slapped a sheet of paper onto your desk.

“The prompt,” he said, “was to write about your greatest desire. In poetic form. Minimum of two hundred and fifty words. You’ll sit here until it’s finished… and until I think it’s good enough.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He arched a brow. “You heard me.”

Then he turned and returned to his desk, sitting back down with a controlled calm that made your stomach clench.

You stared at the blank page for a while, your mind swimming—not with words, but with him. Then you looked up at him and thought about his voice. His scent. The way his forearms looked with those sleeves rolled up. The veins in his hands. The line of his throat when he tipped his head back.

And then it hit you.

Words started flowing faster than you could think. Line after line, vivid and raw, filled the page. You didn’t filter. You couldn’t. It was as if something had broken loose in you—this quiet, desperate longing you’d been carrying for weeks, now shaping itself into metaphor and pulse-heavy confession.

Every so often, you looked up, and sometimes his eyes were already on you. Not for long. Just fleeting moments, but they ignited sparks all the way down your spine. And when your eyes locked, you had to squeeze your thighs together beneath the desk, trying to contain the wave of warmth rushing through you.

Finally, when you’d scrawled the last word and your hand trembled from how fast you’d written, you stood up, gripping the paper tightly. Every cell in your body screamed that this is insane, and yet… you were already crossing the room.

Little did he know, that you wrote about your sexual desire for him. You described it in detail, poetically, what would you like to do to him and how, as well as what would you like him to do to you.

He looked up as your shadow passed over his desk. His brow arched again. “That was quick.”

You didn’t answer. You just handed it to him.

Joel leaned back slightly, eyes shifting down to the paper in his hand. He lifted it slowly, his fingers brushing over the edges, and brought it closer to his face. He didn’t read aloud. But you watched, his expression change with every line. The tightening of his jaw. The flicker in his eyes. The stillness that suddenly overtook him.

Then… his gaze lifted to yours.

And it was different now. Heavy. Tense. You felt the weight of his stare everywhere—on your skin, in your breath, between your legs. It was first time he saw your outfit and he really scan you.

“This,” he said lowly, voice edged with something he was trying hard to suppress, “is inappropriate.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to cross a line…”

He stood up. Slowly. The scrape of the chair against the floor made your whole body flinch. He took a step toward you—close, but not quite touching.

“Stand there,” he said.

His voice had dropped an octave. Controlled. Commanding. You moved around the desk to stand where he’d pointed—his spot. Joel placed your paper on the desk, smoothing it with his palm.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. And neither did you. The air between you was charged, electric, so heavy it felt like gravity had doubled.

His expression was stern, serious, eyes narrowed with a fire that made your knees feel weak. He set a pen down on the desk next to your writing and said in a low, firm voice, “Cross out anything inappropriate.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and leaned over the desk. Your white dress brushed softly against your thighs as you bent forward, exposing just enough of yourself to feel the shift in the air behind you. You knew he was still standing close—too close. You could feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your back, burning through the thin fabric like sunlight.

You feel him before you even hear him—his hand brushing against the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. Goosebumps rise instantly, your spine tensing as heat coils low in your stomach. The pen trembles slightly in your hand.

“C'mon, keep going” Joel mutters, voice low, rough, but there’s something else in it, something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

His fingers trail higher, grazing the hem of your dress, then slipping just beneath it. Your breath catches, and you grip the edge of the table harder.

Your eyes locked on the ink-stained paper in front of you, even though the words blur under your gaze. His hand slides between your thighs, calloused fingertips moving up your inner thigh slowly, torturously. “You’re too distracted. Maybe I should teach you how to really pay attention.”

You bite your lip hard as his fingers press gently against your underwear—just enough to make your hips twitch, not enough to satisfy anything. You can feel the smirk in his voice without even turning to look.

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You gonna cross that out or keep pretending you’re some innocent little thing?”

Your hand moves shakily, red pen dragging a line across the paper, but your mind isn’t on the words anymore. It’s on his fingers, teasing at the edge of the fabric, sliding it to the side—just enough for him to slip between.

When he finally slides your panties aside, the first brush of his fingertips against your bare heat pulls a sharp breath from your lungs. You tense, the sensation electric—like a jolt low in your belly that travels down to your thighs. His touch is light at first, teasing, as if he wants to savor every second of this new power he holds over you.

“Already wet for me,” Joel murmurs, almost to himself, but loud enough that you hear it—and feel your face burn with heat. You don’t move, don’t speak. You’re completely frozen, except for the way your hips shift back just slightly, begging without words.

His index finger slides on the surface of your folds, slow and deliberate. He traces you from bottom to top, gathering your slick, then circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees tremble. He doesn’t rush. He wants to feel every twitch, every reaction—wants you to know you’re under his control.

You whimper when he presses down more firmly, rubbing slow, torturous circles. Your hands grip the table harder, knuckles white, breath shaky. He watches the way your body responds—the way you arch into his hand without even realizing it.

Then he slides a finger inside you.

The stretch makes you gasp. He moves it carefully, deliberately curling it just enough to brush against that sensitive spot deep inside. Your legs shake as he sets a rhythm—steady, unrelenting. Then comes the second finger, thicker, deeper. You moan, softly, head dropping as your body clenches around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

Each thrust of his fingers is slow but deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. The wet sounds between your legs grow louder, obscene, echoing through the quiet room. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing tight circles in sync with the rhythm of his fingers plunging in and out of you.

Your body is fire—hips jerking, thighs quivering, mouth open with desperate little gasps you can’t hold back.

“You close?” he mutters, leaning in so his voice rumbles right against your ear. “Gonna come all over my fingers, sweetheart?”

You nod helplessly, barely able to form words.

And then he speeds up, fingers moving faster, thumb harder, and it’s too much. The pressure bursts all at once. You cry out as the orgasm rips through you, your muscles tightening around his fingers, your body shaking uncontrollably. Joel doesn’t stop, not until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and breathless, collapsing against the table, legs barely holding you up.

He finally pulls his fingers out, slow and dripping, and brings them to his mouth—sucking them clean with a low groan.

“You taste even better than I imagined.”

You’re still trembling when he steps back, his belt already undone, jeans pushed down just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already hard from watching you fall apart under his touch. He’s looking at you like you’re a feast, like you were made just for this.

You straighten slowly, legs shaky, and turn to face him. Your eyes drop to the way he strokes himself lazily, precum glistening at the tip. You swallow hard. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“You starin’, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice thick with arousal. “You want it?”

You nod, stepping closer, sinking to your knees without breaking eye contact. Joel hisses through his teeth when you do.

“Good girl,” he says lowly. “Knew you’d look perfect down there.”

Your fingers wrap around the base of him, and he’s so hot and heavy in your hand that it makes your core clench again, already aching for more. You run your tongue along the underside, slow and teasing, tasting the salt of his skin. He groans, hand falling to your hair, not pushing—yet—but guiding.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, licking up the precum, and then you take him in—just the head at first, letting your lips stretch around him. He growls softly, head tipping back.

“Fuck, feel so good.”

The praise makes your thighs press together instinctively. You take him deeper, slow but hungry, feeling him stretch your throat. He’s big—almost too much—but you want it. You need it. His hand tightens in your hair when you hollow your cheeks and start to bob your head, setting a steady rhythm.

“Atta girl,” he grunts. “Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

You hum around him, sending vibrations down his shaft, and he groans, bucking his hips forward just slightly. Your eyes water, but you don’t stop—you want him to use you. His breathing turns ragged as you take him deeper, faster, spit dripping down your chin, your hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach.

“Look at you,” he growls, gaze locked on yours. “On your knees, takin’ my cock like a good little slut.”

That makes you moan—so much so that your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the need to please him. He twitches in your mouth, and his grip tightens.

“Shit—keep goin’. I’m close,” he breathes. “Gonna come down your throat. You want that?”

You nod with him still inside you, eyes wide, desperate.

“Then take it,” he snarls. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

With a final thrust of his hips and a broken groan, he comes—hot and thick, spilling onto your tongue. You swallow quickly, not wanting to waste a single bit, your lips still wrapped tightly around him until he jerks from the overstimulation.

When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, he’s staring down at you with a mix of hunger and admiration.

Before you can even wipe your mouth, Joel grabs you by the waist and hauls you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, caught off guard, hands flying to his shoulders as he turns and slams you down onto the table. Papers scatter everywhere.

“You think you can just sit there in that little dress,” he growls, pushing your knees apart with rough, determined hands, “actin’ like a tease, not do your goddamn homework properly—”

He yanks your panties down your thighs and tosses them aside.

“—and not get fucked for it?”

You don’t get a chance to answer.

He lines himself up and pushes in with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch makes you cry out, your nails digging into the wood of the table as your body adjusts to his size. He doesn’t give you time. His grip on your hips tightens as he pulls back and slams into you again, the force jolting the table beneath you.

“This what you needed, huh?” he grunts, voice sharp with control. “A hard fuck to teach you how to focus?”

“Mr. Miller—fuck!” you moan, your words barely coherent, back arching as he pounds into you, fast and brutal, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning over you, his mouth at your ear. “You take my cock like a goddamn champ, baby. So tight—so fuckin’ wet for me.”

Every thrust hits deep, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you, making your thighs tremble, your breath coming out in frantic, broken gasps. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head against the table, fully owning every inch of you.

“You gonna be a good girl next time?” he growls. “Do your fuckin’ homework when I tell you?”

You whimper, nodding, barely able to speak. He smirks, slamming into you harder.

“Say it.”

“I—I’ll be good,” you gasp. “I’ll do it, I swear—”

“That’s more like it.”

He releases your wrists and lifts one of your legs higher over his shoulder, changing the angle—and suddenly he’s even deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur. You cry out, eyes rolling back, fingers clawing at the table’s edge as he keeps going, unrelenting.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me teachin’ you a lesson.”

You can feel your orgasm building again—hot and fast and uncontrollable. Joel sees it in your face, in the way your body clenches around him, and he grins darkly.

“Gonna come again, aren’t you?” he mutters. “Such a desperate little thing. Come on, baby. Come all over my cock.”

And just like that, you shatter—legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream, your body pulsing around him. Joel groans low and guttural as you tighten around him, and a few rough thrusts later, he’s coming too—filling you with a hot rush of release, staying deep inside as your bodies collapse together on the desk.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathless, sweaty, completely spent.

“Now that,” he mutters with a smirk, “is how you learn.”

The next morning, your thighs are still sore.

You try not to limp into class, but Maya clocks you the second you slide into the seat next to her. She leans in, eyes narrowing.

“So…” she hums, “how was detention?”

You glance at her, trying for casual—but the moment your lips twitch into a smile, it’s over. Maya gasps so loudly that a few people in the rows ahead of you turn their heads.

“Oh my god. YOU FUCKED JOEL MILL-”

You lunge across the desk, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“Are you crazy?” you hiss, eyes wide. “Do you wanna shout it louder, maybe let the principal know too?”

Maya yanks your hand away, but her eyes are dancing, her voice lowered now to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t you dare lie to me. I saw your face. You’re glowing. Like post-orgasm, wrecked-for-life glowing.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Shut up.”

She gasps again, this time softer, leaning even closer. “You fucked him! You totally—oh my God. You and Professor Tall, Dark, and Growly?”

You’re already blushing. She fans herself dramatically.

“Okay, details. I want everything. Was it hot? Was he rough? Does he growl the way he does in class?”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “Maya—”

“He totally does, doesn’t he? God, I knew it. That man is sex personified. Did he make you come with just his—”

“Jesus Christ, Maya!”

She stifles a laugh. “Sorry, sorry! I’m just… I’m happy for you. That’s like… forbidden fantasy dreams fulfilled. You’ve had a crush on him since the first lecture, babe.”

You look down at your desk, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.”

Before Maya can reply, the classroom door opens. And there he is.

Joel Miller. Same flannel, same boots, same deep, intimidating presence—but now all you can see is yesterday. His fingers buried inside you, your knees on the table, the weight of him pounding into you like he owned your body. Your thighs press together involuntarily.

He strides to the front of the room, placing his notes on the desk. Your eyes trail over his hands, remembering how rough they felt on your skin. You’re so deep in the memory that you barely hear him start to speak.

“Alright. Let’s get started.”

But then, then he looks at you.

Just a flicker. A glance that lasts a half second too long. And the corner of his mouth twitches.

It’s not a smile. It’s something darker. Wicked.

Maya turns toward you, oblivious, scribbling something in her notebook. But you’re frozen, breath caught in your throat.

Did he just wink?

You can’t be sure. It was so fast, so subtle—but that little spark in his eye… it wasn’t nothing. It was intentional. And it was meant only for you.

He turns back to the board like nothing happened, like he didn’t fuck you senseless on his desk the night before. But your heart is racing, and your whole body feels like it’s on fire.

And now you have to survive the next hour trying not to squirm every time he says your name.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEE!!! 🎀🌷

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST II.

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: After your incident with Joel, born out of a moment of weakness, you both silently agreed to pretend like it never happened and continue with the therapy sessions. But it’s not that simple, not for either of you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), masturbation,, unprotected sex (piv), nickname ( first time being called baby ), strong language, getting caught

A/n: Hi! You wanted next part, so here it is! I hope you like it, I'll maybe think about writing another part🤭 , anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You see him every day now. Just like you agreed.

Joel shows up without fail — every single workday, without exception. He never misses a session, never cancels, never even shows up late. And somehow that should feel like progress. Like he still wants to see you. Like he still wants you. But the moment he sits down and you begin the session, the illusion breaks.

He barely speaks. One sentence per hour, if you’re lucky. Otherwise it’s grunts, shrugs, subtle nods, all taking you back to the very beginning. To when he first stepped into your house with arms folded and walls higher than Jackson’s outer gates.

It’s like nothing ever happened between you. Like that night was a glitch in the timeline. Like you dreamed it, and now you’re awake.

And maybe it’s your fault. No, it is your fault. If you hadn’t invited him in, hadn’t handed him the joint, hadn’t let your hands wander… maybe you two could’ve actually been friends by now. Close. Laughing. Maybe he’d trust you. Maybe you wouldn’t sit across from him now, counting how many times his jaw clenches, wondering what it would feel like to touch it again.

But you did sleep with him. And the worst part? You fucking liked it.

There isn’t a single day that passes without the memory clawing its way back to the front of your mind. Joel — his hands, his voice, his breath against your neck, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer he didn’t believe in. The way he fucked you like he was angry about it.

You’re wet the second you think about him. Every. Damn. Time.

You know it’s wrong, in a thousand different ways. He’s your client. You’re his therapist. He’s so much older than you. And while it’s not illegal, it’s morally a fucking disaster. If anyone in Jackson found out, you’d both be drowning in whispers for the rest of your lives. He’d be torn apart. You’d be discredited, outcasted.

So why do you keep wishing he’d shove you against a wall and fuck you like tomorrow doesn’t exist? Why does your desire scream louder than your conscience?

Joel’s no better.

He thinks about that night constantly, sometimes in fragments, sometimes in full color, detail by aching detail. He’s zoning out more than usual. Tommy catches him doing it, asks him what’s wrong. So does Ellie. Maria. Everyone. Joel just mutters something and brushes them off. But he’s not here, not fully. Because his mind’s still with you.

The way you moaned beneath him. The look in your eyes right before he lost control. The sound you made when he came. And more than anything, the thing that plays over and over in his head, is what you said right before you left:

“I wasn’t that high.”

You knew what you were doing. That morning, when you got dressed in silence and slipped out the door, he didn’t know what to think. He still doesn’t. Did you regret it? Did you hate it? Were you ashamed of him? Of yourself? Because he sure as hell doesn’t regret a fucking second of it.

You hear the knock just after noon. Right on time. Like always.

You open the door, and there he is — same worn flannel, same unreadable stare, same posture that’s somewhere between exhausted and closed-off. Joel steps inside with a quiet grunt of acknowledgment. No smile. No words. Just routine. Just him.

You try not to look at the space between his fingers as he shoves his hands in his pockets. You try not to remember what those hands looked like gripping your thighs. You try, but you fail.

He sits down on the couch across from you without waiting to be asked. Like he always does. You follow, notebook in hand, heart in your throat.

“How’s your sleep been?”

No answer. He shifts. His eyes flick to the side.

“Any more fights with Ellie?”

A shrug.

“Have the headaches gotten worse?”

Silence.

You press your lips together and glance down at your notes, but you’re not seeing the page. You’re seeing him. The way he looked that night. That moment his voice broke into a groan, face twisted in something between pleasure and guilt, whispering your name like it burned.

You want to ask. God, you want to ask so badly. What are we doing? Are we pretending it didn’t happen or are you just pretending for my sake? But you can’t.

This is his session. He decides what you talk about, not you. And clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it. You don’t push. You just sit in silence with him, again.

The minutes crawl by. The clock ticks too loud. Joel’s eyes barely meet yours. You think about how different it felt that night — when his gaze locked with yours like he was drowning and you were the only air. Now, you’re back to being strangers who know each other’s skin.

When the session ends, you close your notebook slowly, half-expecting him to leave without a word and throw something he would pay with onto the table right in front of you.

But instead, he reaches into his coat. And pulls out a small bag, of weed.

He hands it to you, no explanation, no preamble. His fingers brush yours for a second too long. That same electric sting, that same unspeakable tension hums between your skin. You take the bag automatically before you can stop yourself.

“Seriously?” you ask, eyebrows raised, trying to make it light. Trying. Joel doesn’t say a word.

You give a breathy, nervous laugh. “Last time this shit got us in a mess, remember?”

It’s out before you can stop it. Before you can think. Joel’s jaw tightens.

That was the first time either of you ever acknowledged it out loud. The sex. That night. Even just referring to it as a mess was enough to stir the air into something thick and unbearable.

You instantly regret it. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s angry, or ashamed, or maybe just tired.

There’s a long, aching pause. Your stomach twists. He finally speaks, voice low. “You want it or not?”

You nod, clearing your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hate how small you sound. Joel nods back, once, then walks to the door without looking at you again. He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut. You’re left holding the bag. Not just the literal one. God, why the fuck can’t you just shut up sometimes?

The evening sky is full of stars, a light breeze is blowing outside and your house is quiet. Too quiet.

You sit curled up on the worn couch in nothing but a loose t-shirt and underwear, your legs folded beneath you, a cup of lukewarm coffee cupped in your hands.

A single lamp casts a soft amber glow across the room, painting golden edges onto everything , your book, the edges of your thigh, the faint lines under your tired eyes. The town outside is asleep, and the world feels so still it almost hurts.

You’re reading, or trying to. But your eyes have scanned the same sentence for the fourth time now, and none of the words are sticking. Your mind drifts. Again.

You don’t mean to let it happen. You never do.

But there he is — Joel. In the dark corners of your thoughts, in the way your chest tightens, in the way your thighs press just a little closer together. He’s always there now. He has been since that night.

The book slips from your lap without a sound.

You don’t even hear it fall. All you hear is your heartbeat, thudding dully in your ears like a warning, or a promise.

You’re stretched out across the couch now, one leg bent lazily, the other draped over the edge, toes curling slightly against the fabric. The mug rests abandoned on the table beside you, half-full, forgotten. Your skin feels too tight for your body, as if every inch is strung with tension.

It starts slowly. Hesitant. You let your fingers skim over your lower belly through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. The hem has ridden up, exposing the curve of your hipbone, the faint trail of hair leading downward. You trace that line gently, barely brushing your skin, as though testing your own restraint. But there’s none left.

You push your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

The fabric is already damp. That warm, sticky kind of damp that makes your breath catch, even if no one else is there to notice. Your fingers slide against your folds — swollen, sensitive, aching — and a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can catch it. He did this to you.

You imagine it’s his hand instead of yours, large and rough, the pads of his fingers pressing where you need it most. He wouldn’t be careful. Not now. Not after the way you left. Not after the things you said.

Your fingertips circle slowly at first, barely pressing, just enough to make your hips twitch. You close your eyes and let your head fall back against the cushion, breathing heavier now, the heat curling low in your belly like smoke.

You can feel your arousal gathering, thick and wet, coating your fingers as you push deeper. The pressure is delicious — enough to make your thighs tense, enough to make you whimper. You imagine his voice again, rough and low, whispering filth in your ear. “You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” The phantom sound of it makes your whole body jerk.

You bring your other hand up, slide it under your shirt, palm your breast, thumb grazing the hardened nipple. You moan softly, helplessly. You can’t stop. Don’t want to.

You fuck yourself harder.

Not fast — not yet — but deeper. One finger becomes two, and the stretch makes your breath stutter. You twist them just enough to make your back arch, hips lifting from the couch. Your slick walls clench around the intrusion and the tension inside you starts to burn.

Your thoughts blur.

You see him, above you, inside you, all over you, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs. You imagine his weight pinning you down, the gruff sounds he’d make when you clenched around him, the way he’d look at you like he was both furious and starved.

Tears prick your eyes. You hate that you want him like this. That your body remembers him more clearly than your mind ever could. That your release is building faster now, helpless and hot and overwhelming.

Your thumb circles your clit in messy, frantic motions, and your body trembles, thighs shuddering, breath shallow.

You cry out when it hits you.

Not loudly — the sound is broken, strangled — like you’re trying to keep it in, like if you make too much noise someone will know. Your body curls around the sensation as waves of heat crash through your core, and your fingers don’t stop until it starts to fade, until you’re shaking and overstimulated and aching with the weight of what just happened.

You lie there afterward, hand still tucked between your thighs, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

And all you can feel… is empty. No warmth. No comfort. No Joel. Just the ghost of him. And the terrible silence he left behind.

You have the day off, and it should feel like a gift. But instead, it feels like a sentence.

No obligations, no appointments, no expectations — nothing but time. Time to sit with yourself, with your thoughts, and the longer you’re alone, the louder they become. They crowd into your mind like smoke under a door. And no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, with coffee, with reading, with cleaning, even with music, it’s no use.

Everything leads back to him. Back to Joel.

The silence of your home is saturated with the memory of his voice, his hands, his mouth. Your body seems to pulse with the echo of what he did to you. Of what you let happen. Your core aches around nothing, emptiness pressing against the very place you want him most.

It’s unbearable.

You drag yourself to the bedroom and start to get dressed, throwing on a pair of jeans and a loose shirt. You’re not going anywhere specific — not yet — but you know you need to go. Anywhere. Out into the woods, into the town, maybe even into the little bar Maria runs near the edge of Jackson. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s not here.

You need space from your own head. You’re pulling your hair up when the knock comes. Three firm raps at the door. Confident. Familiar. You freeze.

For a second, your mind scrambles through names, possibilities. Maybe a client forgot your schedule. Maybe it’s Kate with a surprise visit. You already feel yourself preparing a polite excuse “Sorry, I’m off today,” when you move toward the door.

But when you open it… Joel’s standing there. Your heart stutters so violently it feels like your whole chest trembles.

He’s in that worn flannel again, the one with the tear near the elbow, and his hair is still damp from a recent shower. His face is unreadable — maybe just the hint of tension in his jaw, maybe not. His eyes find yours and you swear they hold every sin you’ve tried to forget.

“Joel,” you say, your voice tighter than you meant it to be. “Hey.”

He gives a short nod, like it costs him something. “Hey.”

Silence swells between you like smoke in the lungs.

You grip the door just a little tighter, unsure what to say. You weren’t ready for this — you hadn’t planned this scene, hadn’t run through the dialogue in your head a dozen times like usual.

Then Joel speaks first. His voice low, like gravel dragged across concrete.

“I came by last night.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t fidget. Just says it plain, like a fact.

“I knocked. Waited a while.” A pause. “You didn’t open.”

Your stomach twists.

You force a soft breath and give a strained smile. “I was already asleep,” you lie.

Were you asleep? No. You were wide awake, wrist-deep in thoughts of him, biting your own knuckles so you wouldn’t say his name out loud.

Joel nods slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but doesn’t push. You blink, trying to re-anchor yourself. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “Everything okay?”

There’s a beat. And then he shrugs. Casual. Too casual.

“Just figured I’d let you know they’re talkin’ about openin’ up a flower shop over near the old mill,” he says. “Could be good for Jackson. Maybe you’d wanna see it sometime.”

A flower shop.

You stare at him, stunned by the absurdity of it. “Oh,” you manage. “Thanks… that’s nice of you.”

Another beat of silence. You’re both standing there like statues — two people who’ve done things they can’t take back, pretending to be normal on a quiet morning.

He nods again, then finally steps back.

“I’ll… see you around,” he mutters, voice lower now. Almost hoarse.

And then he turns, walks off your porch, hands in his pockets like it’s just another morning. Like he didn’t drive himself crazy last night, standing in the cold outside your door, trying to work up the nerve to ask what the hell you both were.

You close the door gently, then lean your back against it. Your fingers grip the wood behind you, nails digging in, trying to ground yourself.

What was that?!

You didn’t notice right away. You’d been going through your things casually — restocking your small cabinet of items you keep for sessions: herbal supplements, teas, oils, pain relievers, and the occasional light sedative for especially anxious clients.

Your fingers move automatically through the jars and boxes… until they stop.

The tiny glass bottle with the white label — the one that holds your low-dose headache relief capsules — is empty. Fucking empty.

You stare at it in disbelief for a moment, then double-check. Then triple-check. You even crouch down and look behind the shelf, like the bottle could’ve magically rolled out of view. But it’s gone. And so are the backups. You’re completely out.

You mutter a curse and stand up quickly, grabbing your bag.

The pharmacy in Jackson isn’t far, and you make the walk briskly, hoping it’s just a quick fix. A refill. Nothing serious. But when you step inside and ask, the answer you get is exactly what you didn’t want to hear.

“Sorry,” the pharmacist says, not even looking that sorry. “We’ve been wiped clean since last week. Next shipment’s delayed. Could be a few more days.”

You press your lips together, managing a tight nod before stepping back out into the street. Days. You don’t have days.

You can’t treat people without being properly stocked — not when so many of them come to you barely hanging on. You need your tools. Your basics. This isn’t optional.

So your mind goes straight to the only possible solution. You’ll have to go to the next town over. But that means driving, and you don’t drive. Which means you need someone who does.

There weren’t many people in Jackson with working vehicles. And fewer still you knew personally. You considered asking one of the women from the community board, or maybe Maria, but you quickly scratched that idea.

You weren’t exactly “close” with anyone here. Not yet.

Which leaves you with Joel. Goddamn it.

Half of you sparks at the idea. The other half wants to slam your head into a wall.

The last thing you need right now is to sit next to him for hours — in a confined space, the air thick with unspoken tension and memories you can’t scrub out of your brain. And yet… part of you wants it. Craves it. Needs to see him, to be around him, even if it hurts.

Before you can think your way out of it, you’re already walking.

His place isn’t far. And with each step closer, your pulse climbs higher, fluttering like wings under your ribs. When you reach his door, you pause, press your hand to your chest, and take a deep breath.

Then you knock. You hear the familiar shuffle of footsteps, the sound of a door unlocking. And then — there he is.

Joel.

He looks like he always does, which is to say, fucking unfair. Fitted jeans, a plain gray shirt that hugs his shoulders just enough to make your stomach clench, and his usual scruff that you know feels exactly as rough as it looks. You blink and force your throat to work.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes, brows raising just slightly in curiosity.

“I, uh…” You glance down briefly, regroup. “I need a favor.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes shifts. He stays quiet.

“I need to get to the next town. The pharmacy here’s out of something I use in sessions and… I can’t really go without it.”

You stop, letting the weight of your request land. Then continue, quieter now.

“And I know you drive. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but I don’t have another option.”

Joel doesn’t say anything at first.

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment it’s impossible to read what’s going on behind that dark gaze. It’s not that he’s debating whether or not to help. You can tell that part of him already decided before you even knocked.

What he’s weighing… is something else. Something heavier.

But in the end, he just gives a small nod. “Alright,” he says. “Lemme grab my keys.”

You watch him disappear into the house, and a strange mix of relief and dread spreads in your chest. Your body feels hot. Anticipatory. Like you just stepped into something dangerous and didn’t have time to check the water’s depth.

When Joel returns, keys in hand, he doesn’t say much. Just jerks his head toward the road. You fall into step beside him. And together, you start walking toward the truck.

Silence stretches like a taut thread between you and Joel. Outside, the world is still. Inside, the air feels heavy, thick with everything unsaid, everything you’ve both been pretending not to carry. There’s something hanging between you, undeniable and tense, and it’s begging to be addressed.

You shift slightly in your seat. Even though you’ve made a life out of understanding human minds, of listening and guiding, this… this is something different. Something raw. Something far too personal. You don’t know whether speaking up will mend it, or ruin everything.

Joel seems just as conflicted.

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the low light. He breathes in slow, calculated. His mind is circling too. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. God, the last thing he wants is to fuck this up with you. But this thing between you—the tension, the distance—it’s driving him insane. You shared the most intimate night, and now you’re sitting like strangers.

So he speaks first. Careful. Low. His voice thick.

“I keep thinkin’ about that night.”

You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you can see it—how much it costs him to say it aloud.

“I keep thinkin’ about you.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Doesn’t matter what I do. Can’t stop.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him. Watch his jaw flex, his lips tighten. Your heart is hammering so loud you can’t tell if it’s yours or his. There’s hope fluttering inside your chest, rising like smoke.

Then Joel glances at you, quick but intense.

“I was at your place yesterday. Lights were on. I—I heard you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink. “You… what?”

But before you can ask more, he veers gently to the side and pulls the truck over by the trees, killing the engine. Quiet wraps around you both like a second skin. He turns to face you. And then it all spills.

“I’ve been losin’ my goddamn mind. I hear your name and my chest tightens. I see your house and my legs go numb. Every night, it’s the same. I close my eyes and it’s you. Always you. That night—what you looked like, the sounds you made, the way you touched me…”

His voice lowers. Gravel, but soft.

“My body remembers. Even when I wish it didn’t. Even when I know I probably shouldn’t… I can’t stop.”

Your mouth is parted, stunned. Everything in you stills.

This wasn’t just lust. He felt it. He’s been feeling it—drowning in it just like you.

You want to say something. Anything. But he keeps going.

“I know I was scared. I didn’t know how to deal with it. You’re my goddamn therapist.” He laughs, bitter and breathless.

“But I can’t ignore it. You’re not just some woman. You’re the woman I think about before I sleep. When I wake up. When I breathe.”

He looks wrecked. And beautiful. His lips, soft and cracked. His hands, strong but trembling slightly. His jeans, creased tight against his thighs. His hair, mussed from his hand running through it too many times. His eyes, like an open wound, filled with you. And his beard, messy, perfect, framing the mouth that ruined you and made you all at once.

You can’t hold it back anymore. You reach for him—grab his jaw with both hands, your fingers curling along the scruff of his cheeks, your thumbs brushing the edge of his lips. You pull him toward you. Hard.

Your mouth crashes against his in a kiss that’s been waiting far too long. It’s deep, desperate, a little messy. His breath hitches against your lips. Then he groans low and melts into it.

His hands grab your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His tongue meets yours like he’s trying to taste every ounce of pain and need that’s lived in him since that night. Your teeth graze his bottom lip and he growls.

But then he pulls away. Just slightly. Breathing ragged.

“This ain’t right,” he whispers. “We said it was a mistake. It was the weed. We—we can stop now. Do it different.”

“I don’t want different,” you breathe out, already leaning in again.

“I want this. You.”

And before he can answer, your lips are back on his. His tongue swept inside—slow, thick, possessive. You whimpered, clutching the front of his shirt in both hands, your knuckles white. His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, sliding behind your neck, running down your spine with a firm, greedy touch. Each graze of his calloused skin against yours made your entire body light up.

There’s no guilt, no hesitation, no logic, just heat. Raw, blistering heat. Your fingers dig into his hair, fisting the strands while his hands roam over your body with a kind of urgency that makes your skin burn.

Joel growls low against your lips. It’s a deep, primal sound that goes straight to your core. You feel it throb through you, pulse between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breathless. “I need you.”

He pulls you over the console, desperate hands sliding under your shirt. You gasped when his palms touched your bare stomach. Your muscles twitched. He noticed, smirked against your lips, and then yanked the fabric up, over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you.

Your bra followed. You didn’t even remember him undoing it, but it was gone, and so was any sense of shame. His mouth was on your collarbone, then your chest, trailing kisses along the top of your breast, murmuring filthy praise in between breaths.

“Been thinking ‘bout these,” he rasped. “Since the fuckin’ second I saw ‘em.”

His lips closed around your nipple and you nearly cried out. His tongue swirled, flicked, sucked, while one of his hands kneaded the other breast—rough, reverent, aching with need. You arched your back, grinding down into his lap, and that’s when you felt it—all of him. Hard. Thick. Pulsing through his jeans.

“Oh, fuck—Joel…”

Your voice broke, hoarse with lust. He bit down gently, then released you, panting, eyes dark and molten.

“You feel that?” he growled, thrusting his hips up against you. “That’s what you do to me.”

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was kiss him again, deeper this time, messier. You needed to feel more—all of him. Your hands fumbled for his jacket, his shirt, pushing layer after layer away until he was bare from the waist up. His skin was hot. Taut. Scarred and strong, and utterly beautiful.

Your palms slid across his chest, over his shoulders, down the ridges of his stomach. He shivered under your touch. And then his hands were on your jeans.

“You want this?” he asked, voice rough like gravel.

“Fuck yes I want this,” you gasped.

He unbuttoned your jeans with practiced urgency, tugging them down along with your panties in one fluid motion. The cold air made you shudder. So did the way his eyes dragged over every inch of your now bare skin. Slow and heavy, like he was memorizing you.

“Christ…” he breathed. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached for him next, your fingers trembling as you undid his belt. His cock sprang free the moment you got his jeans open—thick, flushed, already leaking. You swallowed hard.

He groaned the second your hand wrapped around him.

“Jesus—fuck.”

You stroked him slowly, teasingly, watching his eyes flutter shut, his jaw clench, his hips jerk forward with every pump. His precum smeared across your thumb. You spread it, tightened your grip, made him hiss.

But it wasn’t enough.

He pulled your hand away, grabbed your thighs, and lifted you into his lap again. His tip brushed against your entrance—hot, heavy, throbbing—and you both froze, trembling.

“Please,” you whispered. “Joel. Please.”

He didn’t need more. With one hand guiding himself, he pushed inside you—inch by inch, stretching you wide, filling you to the point of breaking. Your head dropped back. His mouth fell open.

“F-fuck—you’re so—tight—”

You whimpered at the stretch, at the burn, at the overwhelming fullness. He didn’t move, not yet, just held you there, buried deep, chest heaving.

“Look at me,” he said, breathless. You did. And in that second, the whole world disappeared.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first—pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in with a force that made your body jolt. The car creaked. The windows fogged. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs shaking with every sharp thrust.

“Fuck—fuck—Joel—”

His name was a prayer on your tongue. A desperate, broken sound.

You rode him hard, grinding your hips against his, panting into his mouth, chasing the high you knew was coming. Every thrust made your stomach tighten. Every slap of skin against skin pushed you closer to the edge.

He held you tight, one hand on your ass, the other on your back, growling curses and your name like they were one and the same.

It’s not just sex. It’s release. A collapse into each other. A confession spoken through sweat and heat and skin. Every time you moan, his name slips out like a prayer. Every time he curses, it sounds like worship.

Your bodies moved in rhythm, tangled and burning with need, every breath a gasp, every touch a spark.

The inside of the truck was sweltering now, heat coiling around you both like a fever, the creak of the leather seats became a steady soundtrack to the way your hips met his, desperate and relentless.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, dragging you down harder against him, fingers spreading across the curve of your back as if anchoring himself to reality through your skin. His breath was ragged, hot against your ear, each groan vibrating straight through your spine.

“Fuck…” he muttered, voice thick, low, strained. “You feel so goddamn good.”

Your thighs trembled as he thrust deeper, harder. The car rocked with each movement, soft creaks and thuds echoing off the frame like a chorus to your desperation.

You dug your fingers into his shoulders, sweat slick under your palms, your nails dragging lines down his back through the cotton of his shirt.

The pressure inside you built with every grind, every sound that left his lips—gritty, breathless, hungry. He was chasing it, just like you, both of you straining toward that breaking point.

The slap of skin, the warmth of his chest pressed to yours, the way his mouth found your neck, open-mouthed and fervent, only added fuel to the fire in your belly.

And then he wrapped his arms around you tighter—one strong, grounding embrace. A quiet, guttural noise tore from his throat as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. You could feel the shift in him—deeper, slower at first, then faster again, his body determined and burning.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your hips rolling down to meet every push of his.

“I’m not,” he growled. “I’m right there with you, baby…”

Your bodies met in a frantic pace, sweat dripping down your spine, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you close, locked you to him like the world could fall away and he’d still keep you safe—keep you his.

Your moans turned breathless, rhythmic, until you were both caught in it.

Eyes squeezed shut, nerves alight, lungs gasping for air. And then it hit you both at once, like a crashing wave, your bodies seizing, clinging, shaking in each other’s arms, a quiet cry leaving your throat as Joel’s hand fisted in your hair and his mouth caught yours in a trembling, open-mouthed kiss.

He came with a broken moan, gripping you tight, spilling deep inside, trembling as he collapsed against you. You came with a loud cry against his mouth, legs shaking, core clenching until you released on him.

You stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, drenched in heat and breath, hearts pounding in sync.

Your breath was still uneven, but the chaos had ebbed. The sweat cooling on your skin mingled with Joel’s as he stayed wrapped around you, his arms strong and secure, one large hand splayed gently across your spine. His other traced slow, soothing circles along the curve of your hip, grounding you, steadying your racing heart.

The rhythm of his touch shifted, no longer frantic, but tender. Worshipful. The kind of touch that said I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. And you felt it, every muscle in your body slowly unwinding under his fingertips, like knots being untied one by one.

You breathed in the scent of him, salt and pine and something undeniably Joel. You’d never felt safer. Never felt more seen.

And when you finally lifted yourself from his lap, pulling away just enough to catch your breath, you found him staring at you with eyes so soft it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.

Big, brown, puppy eyes. Vulnerable. Full of unspoken questions: Are you okay? Did I go too far? Do you regret this?

You smiled, gently, warmly, and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. Not hungry this time. Not desperate, but quiet and loving. The kind of kiss that answered every silent worry in his gaze.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. He let out a small, breathy chuckle.

“We should… probably get dressed and get movin’,” he murmured, his voice husky, still soft from what you’d shared.

You laughed lightly, nodding. “Yeah… probably a good idea.”

The two of you began putting yourselves back together. You slowly started pulling out of him, both of you growling through clenched teeth, Joel squeezing your bare hips. You glanced sideways, becuase you wanted to. Maybe it was intuition, or you just had the urge to look towards the forest, but something caught your eye.

Out the window. Beyond the fogged-up glass, two small figures. On horseback. Emerging from the trees.

You squinted. One of them—a girl—looked young. Both did, actually, but the one in front… her face. There was something so familiar about it. She stared straight at you.

Her expression wasn’t just surprise. It was disbelief. Fear. And maybe, just maybe, even disappointment. Your breath caught and your heart skipped a beat.

“Joel…” you said, voice suddenly tight.

He followed your gaze, turned to the woods, and the second his eyes landed on her, his whole body locked up, his face went pale and his breath stopped.

“Ellie,” he whispered, the name leaving him like a punch to the gut.

You snapped your head toward Joel, panic wide in your eyes, your chest tightening as a thousand thoughts crashed into each other.

What did she see? How long was she watching?

Joel turned to you, his eyes just as shocked, just as lost, then flicked back to the woods where the girl still sat on her horse, motionless. You didn’t speak and neither did he.

You didn’t need to, because you both knew, that you were fucked. Badly.

HEYY! Thank you so much for reading!

If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

LOVE YA!🥭🍂

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

MILLER'S ABYSS

Summary: Your sister is marrying one of the Millers — but you despise the other one, and the feeling is mutual. Still, family is supposed to stick together, not tear each other apart. So, over time, the two of you grow closer… far closer than anyone ever expected.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, enemies to lovers, age gap (not really mentioned), strong language, nicknames (goor girl…) praise kink, sexual tension, oral sex ( f receiving ), creampie, rough unprotected sex ( p i v ), harassment, mention of weapons and alcohol

A/n: Hello! I swear to god I wrote a long ass novel. I am really sorry for anyone, who decided to read the whole thing…anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You’ve been around since the very beginning of your sister’s relationship with Tommy.

From the moment she started gushing daily about how beautiful his eyes were, how no man had ever smiled at her the way he did, how kind and attentive he was. You witnessed it all — the blissful highs and the inevitable lows. The fights, the breaks, the tearful late-night conversations about breaking up… though they never actually did.

You were there for every moment, even the ones you wish you hadn’t been. Kate had never been shy about sharing even the most intimate details of her relationship with you. She had no filter, and unfortunately for you, that included describing her and Tommy’s sex life in disturbingly vivid detail.

Once, you even caught them in the act in your own house. But hey, that’s a memory you can kind of laugh about now… sort of.

So when she told you Tommy had proposed, you weren’t surprised — not in the slightest. You were happy for her. You loved your sister more than anything, and you knew she had chosen the right guy. Honestly, you were just relieved she hadn’t chosen his brother — Joel.

From the first moment those grumpy, judgmental eyes met yours, Joel Miller had been a pain in your ass. Arrogant. Insufferable. Always had something snarky to say about you at every family gathering. And sure, you gave it back. You were never the type to sit there and take it. Which is exactly how this rivalry had formed. Let’s just call it what it is: you and Joel were enemies.

Until now, it wasn’t really a problem. You could ignore him, roll your eyes when his name came up, and pray you wouldn’t be seated next to him at dinner. But now that your sister was officially going to be a part of the Miller family, officially taking their name, sharing their home, their holiday dinners, that made you, like it or not, a part of their family too. Great.

And if that wasn’t enough, your sister had been relentlessly pushing you to make peace with Joel. “For her.” As if you owed it to her to get along with a man who seemed to exist solely to piss you off.

She guilt-tripped you into it, like she always did, and you hated that it worked. Because as manipulative as she could be, you loved the hell out of her. And you knew this meant the world to her. But Joel? Joel was still a jackass, pre-wedding or not, he wasn’t going to change.

You were still at home when Kate barged into your room like she owned the place — which, technically, she almost did, considering how often she was there. Dressed in a soft green sweater and jeans, she looked casual, relaxed, and maddeningly excited.

Meanwhile, you were half-dressed, still holding a flat iron in one hand and a look of pure dread on your face.

“Come on,” she said with a cheerful grin. “It’s just dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes at her in the mirror. “It’s never just dinner when Joel’s involved.”

Kate sighed dramatically, flopping down on your bed like some exhausted mother of the bride. “You two need to get over this weird… war thing. He’s really not that bad.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He once referred to me as ‘extra baggage’ in front of your entire family.”

“Okay, yes, that was… not his finest moment. But he was joking,” she admit, but still tried to save it.

“Oh yeah, nothing screams hilarious comedy like being publicly insulted.”

She sat up, crossing her legs under her. “Please, babe. Just try tonight. For me. If you can survive one dinner without threatening to stab him with a fork, I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You say that every time.”

“And yet you keep saying yes,” she smirked.

You groaned. She was right. You hated how much you loved her. With a final puff of frustration, you turned off the flat iron, stood up, and grabbed your jacket. “Fine. But if he calls me ‘baggage’ again, I’m pouring wine on his lap.”

Meanwhile, Joel is going through the exact same thing. Tommy’s been in his ear all week, pressuring him to play nice. To “just give her a chance.” Tommy’s been acting like he’s the victim, like he’s stuck in the middle, practically begging Joel to make the effort. So now you and Joel are both being dragged into this under the pretense of a “family bonding” dinner.

By the time you two got to the Miller house, it was already dusk. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the wood panels and old swing seat hanging to the side. Tommy opened the door before you even knocked. He immediately scooped Kate into his arms, greeting her with a kiss that lasted a bit too long for your taste.

“Jesus, get a room,” you muttered under your breath.

Tommy chuckled. “Evenin’,” he said, giving you a nod.

You gave him a polite smile. “Hey.”

Then came the moment your blood turned cold. Joel stepped into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His hair was slightly damp like he’d just showered, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He didn’t say anything — just looked at you. You looked back. And there it was again, that mutual expression of ugh, it’s you.

Kate and Tommy exchanged matching looks and leaned into your ears simultaneously.

“Be nice,” she hissed at you.

“Don’t start anything,” Tommy whispered to Joel.

You both scoffed.

Dinner prep was a disaster waiting to happen. For some unknown reason, probably Kate and Tommy being evil geniuses, you and Joel were tasked with setting the table and bringing out the food. The tension in the kitchen was unbearable.

“Could you not stand in front of the fridge like a statue?” you snapped.

“I’m getting the damn salad, princess,” Joel grumbled, pulling out the bowl and practically shoving it into your arms.

You glared. “Try using your words instead of your muscles, Neanderthal.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tempt me to go back to grunting. Might actually be more productive.”

The more you moved around each other, the worse it got — bumping hips at the counter, brushing arms when reaching for the same spoon, and more than once, you two knocked elbows hard enough to make you both wince.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back.

“Jesus Christ,” you both said at the same time, throwing your heads back in sync. Which, of course, only made things worse because now you were in sync, and that was not acceptable.

Finally, Kate came in and clapped her hands. “Enough! Can you two just pretend not to hate each other for one night? Please?”

You and Joel both grumbled something under your breath and carried the last dishes to the table in stony silence.

Dinner was… exactly what you expected. You sat across from Joel — naturally. Your jaw was clenched the entire time, and you were very aware of every fork and knife placement, just in case they needed to become weapons. The air was so thick with tension it could’ve been sliced like the roast chicken on the table.

Kate and Tommy tried to salvage the evening with small talk.

“So…” Kate started, glancing between you and Joel, “how was everyone’s day?”

“Fine,” you said flatly.

“Work,” Joel replied, same tone.

Tommy tried to step in. “Hey, did you two know you both listen to Johnny Cash? I found out the other day when—”

“I liked him first,” you snapped.

Joel raised a brow. “Didn’t realize it was a competition.”

“Everything is a competition with you.”

Tommy looked between you both like a tennis match was playing out on the table. “O-kayyy…”

Kate, bless her heart, still tried. “Oh! What’s one thing you two have in common, hmm? Let’s start there.”

You both said nothing.

Joel took a slow sip of water and said, “We both hate this dinner.”

You nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Kate sighed, Tommy just reached for the wine bottle, shaking his head. They both knew this is going to be a long night.

Dinner was mostly quiet — painfully so. The clink of forks against plates and the occasional hum of conversation from Tommy and Kate filled the room, but that was about it. You and Joel barely spoke.

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the table, sometimes with passive annoyance, other times with flat-out disgust, and sometimes with something neutral. But even neutrality between you two felt tense, like a ceasefire that could end at any moment.

Tommy tried to lighten the mood a few times, making dumb jokes about the food or poking at Joel’s cooking skills.

“This chicken dry, or is it just me?” he teased with a grin.

Joel gave him a look. “If it’s dry, it’s ’cause you didn’t baste it. That was your job.”

Kate laughed, trying to follow up. “At least you two managed not to kill each other in the kitchen, right?”

No response. But they tried again.

“So,” Kate began, clearly reaching, “any plans this weekend?”

“I work,” you said.

Joel echoed, “Same.”

Another silence fell, heavier than before. The kind of silence that made your jaw ache just from clenching it so long. No matter how hard Tommy and Kate tried to spark something between you two — laughter, small talk, anything — the tension in the room snuffed it out before it could catch fire. It wasn’t just awkward. It was chemical.

You and Joel in the same space were like two opposing forces, constantly repelling, constantly charged. Too close and it sparked. Too far and it still lingered in the air like static.

After dinner, as expected, you and Joel were once again exiled to the kitchen, this time to wash the dishes.

Kate had literally clapped her hands and said, “Bonding time!” before shoving the dirty plates into your arms. You didn’t even have time to argue before she and Tommy disappeared into the living room, probably to laugh about your misery.

Now you stood next to Joel, the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink.

He washed. You dried. Silence.

The sound of running water filled the space, along with the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. You hadn’t said a single word since you entered the kitchen, and neither had he.

The mood wasn’t angry, though. Not anymore. It was something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You turned your head slightly, and your gaze drifted downward, toward his hands.

You didn’t mean to stare, but something about them caught you. His hands were large, strong, weathered. The veins stood out beneath the tanned skin, pulsing slightly as he gripped a soapy plate. His knuckles looked a little bruised, like he’d been working with tools recently, or maybe throwing punches. There was hair on his forearms, just enough, and the muscles flexed subtly as he moved, the way a man’s body does when he doesn’t even think about it.

You swallowed. Your eyes lingered on his fingers. Long, sure, and steady. You imagined, just for a split second, how they would feel against your skin. What they would do if they weren’t holding a dish, but holding you. You bit your lip.

The kitchen faded around you. The water noise dimmed. Everything felt slow, heavy, thick like honey. Your chest tightened, your stomach dropped, and something low and electric buzzed between your legs — a tension that coiled and pulled without warning, warm and unwanted and there. You weren’t even breathing right.

You didn’t realize he was speaking to you.

“Hey. Plate.”

Your head snapped up, too late. He was holding a clean plate, expecting you to take it. But your hands stayed frozen, and when he let go, it slipped. The crash was loud.

Porcelain shattered against the floor in a sharp burst, and you gasped, stepping back automatically.

“Shit,” Joel muttered under his breath, already reaching down.

You moved forward, instinctively trying to kneel, but his hand shot out fast, palm pressed against your hip to stop you.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his voice low — not angry, not annoyed. Protective. You froze in place.

He crouched and swept up the shards quickly, moving with precision, barely saying a word. He worked silently, efficiently, like it was nothing, but his jaw was tight. His eyes flicked up at you once, his brows furrowed. His expression was angry and confused all at once.

He stood back up after dumping the last of the shards into the trash bin, wiping his hands on a towel with a sigh, sharp and fed up.

Then he turned toward you with that same ever-present frustration in his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

You blinked at him, speechless.

“What, were you daydreamin’ so hard you forgot how to use your hands?”

His tone wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was accusatory, like you’d done it on purpose, just to piss him off.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was frozen in place, the towel still clenched in your fingers, your lips parted like you might say something — but no sound came out. You weren’t even mad. Not this time. Because underneath all that embarrassment, all that tension, was confusion.

What the hell was that?

Why had you been staring at his hands like they were goddamn poetry? Why had your brain short-circuited and your body reacted like that — like you wanted something from him?

From Joel fucking Miller.

You didn’t understand yourself right now. At all.

Joel scoffed under his breath when you didn’t respond and brushed past you without another word, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink and leaving you standing there — warm, unsettled, and angry at no one but yourself.

After you and Kate finally left the Miller house and inhaled the fresh night air, Kate looped her arm through yours. She looked up at you with that too-knowing expression.

“Well?” she asked, her voice casual, but the look on her face said spill it.

You gave her the look — that don’t start with me kind of face.

Kate exhaled, long and exaggerated. “Seriously? What is it gonna take for you two to stop acting like mortal enemies?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stared out at the sidewalk ahead.

“I know he’s annoying,” she went on. “I know he’s pushy, and grumpy, and rude as hell, but Jesus, he’s not the devil. He’s just Joel.”

You finally spoke, voice lower than usual. “I get it. Okay? I get it. You’re marrying into his family, I’m technically gonna be stuck with him for the rest of my life, blah blah blah.”

She smirked. “So you’ll try?”

You sighed. “I will. But only if he does, too. I can’t be the only one putting effort into something we both clearly hate.”

Kate made a noise between a laugh and a groan. “Fair enough. But God, I swear, if you two ruin the wedding photos with your death glares…”

Back inside the Miller house, Joel was slouched on the couch, legs spread out, beer in hand. Tommy returned from the kitchen with two more beers and plopped down beside him.

“So,” he said, cracking open a bottle. “What the hell happened in there?”

Joel didn’t even look at him. “She dropped a plate.”

Tommy squinted. “She dropped it?”

Joel shrugged. “I handed it to her, and she just… didn’t take it. Let it fall. Her fault.”

Tommy gave him a really, man? look. “You think maybe she was distracted or somethin’? Maybe you distracted her?”

Joel scoffed. “You think she was distracted by me? Please. If anything, she was probably daydreamin’ about strangling me.”

Tommy raised a brow, clearly not buying the sarcasm. “You ever think that maybe the reason you two can’t stop fighting is because there’s somethin’ else going on?”

Joel shot him a glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tommy said, leaning forward with that big-brother patience, “that you’ve been on her case since day one. And maybe it’s not just because she annoys you.”

Joel opened his mouth, but Tommy cut him off.

“I’m serious, man. The wedding’s in a few days. Can you do me a favor and try to get along with her until then? I don’t need you two turning the rehearsal dinner into a goddamn war zone.”

Joel looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything for a while. Just took a long drink from his bottle.

Eventually, he muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

The tension between you and Joel hadn’t eased in the slightest since that night at the Miller household. If anything, the silence had grown louder, more hostile. Kate and Tommy, of course, refused to give up on their master plan to “bring the two of you together,” as if your lives were a cheesy rom-com and not a daily emotional battlefield.

With the wedding quickly approaching, they decided the best way to force bonding would be through responsibility. Specifically: seating arrangements and wedding invitations. Apparently, this critical task needed the undivided attention of you and Joel. Together. Alone. In their house. Because of course.

Kate and Tommy conveniently had an appointment in town, something about last-minute candle holders and music rehearsals, and “oh no, what a shame, you guys will just have to hold down the fort!” Kate practically squealed while Tommy tried to look like it wasn’t part of their evil plan.

So there you were, sitting stiffly at the Millers’ dining table, stacks of RSVP cards, envelopes, and color-coded guest lists spread out in front of you. Joel sat across from you, equally still, equally uninterested in being here.

The silence was thick. Occasionally, one of you would mutter something like, “He’s allergic to nuts, right?” or “That name’s spelled with an ‘e’.”

Minimal communication. Minimal eye contact. Maximal contempt.

You let out a heavy sigh as you picked up a fresh stack of blank envelopes. “Y’know, this would’ve been so much easier if the world hadn’t ended,” you muttered under your breath. “A few clicks and everyone would’ve had a damn email invite. Done in five minutes.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You miss the internet that bad?”

You shrugged. “I miss not having to do this shit by hand, yeah.”

He scoffed. “It’s a wedding. People used to do this all the time.”

You shot him a look. “People used to do a lot of dumb things.”

Joel raised both hands in mock surrender, then muttered, “Including arguing about paper.”

A few beats passed in silence again before you looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “This whole thing’s weird, isn’t it?”

Joel looked at you cautiously. “Which part?”

“All of it,” you said. “Two people falling in love in this… mess. Choosing each other. Wanting to celebrate it. Feels like some part of the old world pretending it still exists.”

He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

You watched him a second longer, then said, “I mean… what does that even mean anymore? Love. You think it still means the same thing it used to?”

Joel finally looked up.

You met his gaze, and the words slipped out before you could think twice, not really curious, more mocking than anything else. “What does love even mean to you, Joel Miller?”

He stared at you, his jaw slowly tightening.

You added with a touch of venom, “Have you even ever been in love? Or are you too emotionally constipated for that, too?”

He froze. The look in his eyes darkened, and the air between you changed.

“The hell did you just say?”

You didn’t flinch. “I called you a pussy, Joel.”

His nostrils flared. “Say it again.”

“I said, you’re a pussy.”

The silence that followed was dense, almost buzzing. Joel’s eyes drilled into you, and for a second, you weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell? Walk out?

But instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, voice low and sharp.

“You wanna talk big, huh? Then tell me, what does love mean to you, sweetheart?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Since you’ve clearly got all the answers.”

You hesitated, heart skipping. Your mouth opened, then closed. You looked away.

“That’s what I thought,” Joel said.

You stared at the table for a long moment, heart pounding in your ears. Then, before you could stop yourself, your voice broke the silence.

“Love is… when you can’t breathe right unless that person is in the room. When you’d rather fight with them than be at peace with anyone else. When you want to see all the ugly parts of them and still stay. And when their pain… feels like yours.”

You didn’t dare look up, not right away. When you finally did, Joel was staring. Not blinking. Not moving. Just looking. Like he’d never really seen you until now.

He cleared his throat suddenly, shifted, and said, “Huh.”

Then he nodded. Once. Turned back to the list. The moment lingered. Hung between you like a string, pulled taut.

Then he spoke again.

“Love’s when you wanna walk away but something keeps pullin’ you back. When you can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how they laugh… or how mad they get. When you know it’s messy and it still feels like home.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Something inside you had shifted.

But before it could settle, before the warmth could sink in…

Joel muttered, “Still doesn’t explain why you act like a damn gremlin every time I speak.”

You scoffed. “Because you speak like a man who’s never been hugged.”

“Then maybe you should try it sometime,” he shot back.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. I’d rather hug a cactus.”

“Figures,” Joel said. “Prickly little thing like you would.”

Still, despite the insults, the two of you finished the task. The guest list was done. Invitations sorted. But the words exchanged, the raw ones, clung to the air. And you didn’t quite know how to feel.

You had just gotten home, the front door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud. Your shoulders slumped immediately. The moment you stepped into your own space, a small but safe corner of Jackson, you let out a sigh that had been bottled up since you left the Miller house.

The silence here was different. Not tense or charged like it had been with Joel. Just… quiet.

You slipped off your jacket, toed off your boots, and dropped your bag on the floor without ceremony. The thought of Joel’s voice, his eyes locked on yours when you told him what love meant to you…it haunted the back of your mind like a persistent shadow. You shook your head, trying to return back to reality.

A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. You already knew it was her.

Kate stood there with a small smile, holding a container of something vaguely edible and homemade. “Peace offering,” she said. “And no, you don’t get to say no.”

You let her in, and a few minutes later you were both curled up on your couch, the dish of food forgotten on the coffee table. Kate had that look, the one she wore when she was trying to act casual, but her whole soul was bubbling with questions.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out dramatically. “How’d it go?”

You blinked, already mentally preparing your response. “Fine.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “Fine?”

You nodded. “We didn’t kill each other. That’s a win.”

She stared at you, and you could practically hear her brain doing somersaults. She knew something was wrong. You've never looked so confused.

Kate pulled her legs up onto the couch and faced you fully, expression softening.

“You look… tired,” she finally said, trying to keep her tone light.

“Long day,” you replied simply, brushing it off.

Kate gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was the… invitation thing?”

You shrugged. “It’s done.”

There was a pause. You didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t press. You could feel her gaze lingering on you, trying to read something on your face, but you didn’t let her see it. Whatever was still spinning inside you, the strange heaviness, the warmth that shouldn’t have been there, the ghost of Joel Miller’s voice, that was yours. Yours alone.

Kate leaned back with a sigh, folding her arms.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” she said softly, “but I just… I need to ask.”

You looked at her, guarded.

“Do you think it’s ever going to change? Between you and Joel?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at your hands, picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Some things don’t change,” you said quietly. “Some things just… stay broken.”

Kate’s face twisted, the fight going out of her. She blinked quickly, but it didn’t stop the tears that started forming.

You looked over, guilt blooming in your chest. “Kate…”

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” she whispered. “My wedding. This whole day I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid. I wanted everyone I love to be there and to be happy and whole.”

“You will have that,” you said firmly, even if your voice shook a little.

She shook her head, wiping her cheeks as the tears finally fell. “Not if you two are at each other’s throats the whole time.”

You stayed quiet, watching her break down in front of you — your strong, soft-hearted sister who tried so hard to keep everyone together.

“I know I sound dramatic,” she laughed bitterly through her tears. “But I don’t want to remember walking down the aisle and seeing you scowling in one corner and Joel brooding in the other.”

You reached out and took her hand. “You won’t. I promise.”

Kate sniffled. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise I’ll try,” you said. “I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’ll try. For you.”

That seemed to help — not fix it, not fully, but soften the edges of her sadness. Her grip on your hand tightened.

Kate wiped her cheeks and let out a breathy laugh. “You better try, because if not, I was going to threaten you with the world’s ugliest bridesmaid dress.”

You snorted. “I’d wear it. Just to ruin your photos.”

She gasped in mock offense, then started laughing, a real one this time. You joined her, and for a few minutes, the air was lighter. Less pressure. Less ache.

At least for now.

The bed creaked softly beneath him as he shifted for the third time in five minutes. Joel lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his dimly lit bedroom, the moonlight cutting across the room in a cold stripe. The air was still, thick with silence, and yet his mind was unbearably loud.

He’d tried everything. Rolling over. Flipping his pillow. Forcing his thoughts toward patrol routes, inventory lists, anything functional. But no matter what direction he turned, you were there. Like a ghost he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t exorcize.

Your face hovered behind his eyelids. Not angry or sharp the way it often was — but softer. Lit with that rare, fleeting smile you gave Kate. Or the way your head tipped back when you laughed at something that actually caught you off guard. That sound — fuck, that sound — warm and bright like the first day of spring after a brutal winter.

And then there was the way you touched your hair, that unconscious little motion, fingers gliding through it, tucking it behind your ear or sweeping it out of your eyes. You didn’t even know you did it. But Joel did. He’d seen it. Noticed it. Memorized it like a fool.

He pictured you leaning over the table earlier that day, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of bare lower back. His gaze had lingered. Too long. He knew that. He hated that.

Your ass—round, perfect, smug in those tight jeans—had haunted him every time he closed his eyes since.

He shifted again, jaw clenched now, heat starting to pool somewhere low in his belly.

No. No, no, no.

But it was already too late. His body wasn’t asking for permission — it was responding. A twitch of pressure, a slow tightening beneath the waistband of his briefs. His breath caught as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish you from his brain.

Didn’t work.

You stayed, and now you were closer — the imagined warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice in his ear, teasing, smug. The tilt of your mouth. The curve of your hips as you stood with one hand on them, rolling your eyes at something he said.

His hand fisted the sheets.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, voice rough, hoarse with frustration — and something else.

He turned onto his side, dragging the blanket higher, willing his body to calm down. But it wouldn’t. Every time he shut his eyes, there you were — sometimes laughing, sometimes biting your lip, sometimes looking up at him with that fire in your gaze that made him feel like he was being dared to cross a line.

He groaned, low and miserable, rolling onto his back again.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were infuriating. You were stubborn, impulsive, mouthy. You didn’t like him. He didn’t like you.

But your voice still echoed in his head, that quiet answer you’d given when you talked about love. It had knocked something loose in him. Something buried. Something he didn’t want to name.

Joel cursed under his breath again and threw an arm over his eyes, as if blocking out the light might also block you. His body was still betraying him — hard now, pulsing and persistent, refusing to let him pretend.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Why it was happening. Why it was happening, because of you.

He hated you. Every fiber of you. Every sound that came out of your mouth was insufferable, every sentence laced with that arrogant, sarcastic tone that made his blood boil. Your eyes, your posture, your voice, your goddamn presence—he hated it all.

So why the hell is he fucking hard right now? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

Why did the image of your lips slightly parted as you chewed on your bottom one haunt him? Why did the memory of the soft curve of your waist, revealed when your shirt lifted just a little too high the other day, replay in his mind like some sick punishment? Why did he remember the sway of your hips when you walked away from him in irritation, those tight pants hugging your ass so perfectly it should’ve been illegal?

And why did his cock throb every time he let the image linger? It was torture.

He shifted in his bed again, groaning under his breath. Sheets rustled around him, clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.

He closed his eyes. He opened them. He closed them again. You were still there—in his head. Laughing, glaring, rolling your eyes, teasing him with that attitude that made him want to pin you to a wall and shut you up with his mouth.

He threw an arm over his face. Growled.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Sleep definitely wasn’t coming tonight.

The next morning arrived like a slap in the face.

You were walking through Jackson, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, breathing in the chilled air. The sky was pale and clouded, the usual buzz of early activity around you—a couple of kids running down the path, dogs barking, someone hauling wood nearby.

You were just going to the store. That was it. Simple. In and out. Until your eyes landed on him - on Joel.

He was a little far off, working on a newly constructed cabin. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick, sun-kissed forearms, and you watched, breath hitching as his muscles tensed with each swing of the hammer. The way his biceps bulged, like fucking granite, as he brought the tool down with precision and force.

You knew it was wrong, but… your eyes wandered lower. Watching the way his back flexed beneath his shirt, the curve of his ass in those damn jeans, the way his hair bounced slightly with the movement, sticking to his sweaty forehead. The veins in his hands, so prominent, so… masculine, wrapped around the handle of that hammer like it owed him something.

Your stomach twisted. You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together. Your panties were… wet. Unmistakably. You could feel it. You were pulsing. And it was because of Joel fucking Miller.

You stared for a moment too long, heart racing, body betraying you in every way it could. Then it hit you like a truck, the embarrassment, the fury.

You tore your gaze away, eyes wide, and stormed forward like your feet could carry you out of your own body.

What the hell was wrong with you? Why were you reacting like this to him? You hated him. He was rude. Cocky. Infuriating. Not even that attractive.

So why the hell was your body acting like it wanted him inside you?

You cursed under your breath. Not at Joel. At yourself.

By the time you entered the store, you were still flustered, heart thudding in your ears. You pushed a cart forward and moved through the aisles like you were on autopilot, scanning for what you needed. Your brain was still somewhere else entirely.

That’s when someone spoke behind you.

“Hey—uh, sorry, do you know which flour’s better for, like, sourdough bread? The brown bag or the white one?”

You blinked and turned around. There was a guy. Kinda cute. Probably around your age. Tall, lean, with soft features and warm eyes. His voice was kind, curious. Not annoying. Not Joel.

You glanced at the two bags in his hands, then pointed to one. “The brown bag’s whole grain. It’s heavier. Depends what you want, but for sourdough? White’s probably safer.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I’m Hank, by the way.”

You nodded, giving a small smile back. “Nice to meet you.”

And that was it. Just… nice.

You continued your shopping, finishing quickly, keeping the interaction in the back of your mind, but it was faint. Not because Hank wasn’t lovely, but because Joel was still in your system like venom.

You paid, stepped outside with your bag in hand, and started the walk home, your mind looping the same awful thought:

Why did your body want the one person your brain wanted to strangle? You had no answer. Just the echo of his name in your head and the heavy, traitorous thrum in your chest.

The sky had long since darkened into a deep navy, the stars peeking shyly through the scattered clouds above Jackson.

Inside your home, it was warm—quiet. A soft amber glow bathed the living room from the single lamp you’d turned on, casting long shadows against the walls.

You were curled up on the couch, wearing nothing but a loose oversized T-shirt that draped just over your hips and a pair of simple cotton panties. Your legs were bare, tucked under you as you sipped from a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm long ago, but the comfort it offered hadn’t worn off.

The silence was calming, the kind that followed an emotionally messy day. You breathed out softly, your body finally beginning to unwind—until a knock pulled you back into reality.

You didn’t flinch. You assumed, without question, that it was Kate. Probably coming to drop off something or chat about the wedding. So you padded lazily to the door, not thinking twice about how little you were wearing. Your shirt clung to your body slightly, the thin fabric doing little to hide the curve of your breasts or the faint outline of your nipples beneath it. You didn’t care. It was just Kate.

But it wasn’t Kate.

The second the door opened, and you locked eyes with the man standing there, your breath caught. Joel Miller. And he looked stunned.

His eyes scanned you—fast at first, like he knew he shouldn’t—but then slower, more deliberate. They flicked down your body, taking in the exposed skin of your legs, the hem of the shirt barely grazing your thighs. The hard peaks beneath the soft fabric. Your bare feet. Your collarbone. His mouth parted slightly, and for the briefest moment, he forgot whatever the hell he was doing there.

You noticed. You definitely noticed.

Your expression flattened into a scowl as you exhaled, annoyed. “The fuck do you want?”

That snapped him out of it. He blinked, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly trying to summon the familiar arrogance that always kept him armored around you.

“Trust me,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, “I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

“Great,” you snapped, already pushing the door to shut in his face. But his large, calloused hand caught the wood with ease, pushing it back open like it was nothing.

You glared but didn’t resist. There was no point. You couldn’t overpower Joel Miller, and honestly, you were too tired to try.

“Tommy sent me,” he finally said, voice returning to its usual gruff cadence. “Said we need to go grab some shit from the woods. Decoration stuff. For the wedding.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why me?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Apparently, you’re a woman. Which means you’re supposed to be better at this crap than me.”

You scoffed dramatically, rolling your eyes, and turned to glance at the clock hanging in your living room. “It’s nine-fucking-p.m. Are you stupid?”

“I worked all day,” he bit back, voice edging toward exasperation, though his gaze never left your bare thighs.

You mumbled under your breath, “Yeah. I noticed.” Your eyes flicked down to the floor quickly.

Joel tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you replied with a fake sweet smile, lips curling with venom.

He sighed. “Are you coming or not?”

You knew damn well that if you said no, not only would he keep annoying you, but so would Kate and Tommy, and eventually, you’d cave. So you made the only rational choice—gave a dramatic sigh and stepped back into your house, leaving the door open behind you.

“Wait here,” you muttered over your shoulder.

Joel stepped inside, his boots heavy against your wooden floor. He didn’t say anything. Just took in your space with a kind of silent judgment that felt oddly intimate. It was homey. Clean. Warm. He liked it more than he should’ve.

When you returned a few minutes later, your body was dressed in a black button-up shirt that clung to your figure, paired with tight black jeans that hugged your hips and ass like they were tailor-made. You tossed your hair back and brushed your hand along the wall, grabbing your jacket.

Joel saw you. swallowing hard when he felt the blood in his body rush somewhere it really shouldn’t.

“Let’s go,” you said curtly, pushing past him and stepping out the door. He followed. Silently.

The truck rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the inky black night as Joel pulled out of your driveway. You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window.

Silence. Thick silence.

Not the peaceful kind from earlier. This one was charged, buzzing under your skin like static. The air between you crackled with unspoken things, heavy tension that neither of you dared to slice through. Questions, feelings, memories—none of them had names, but they were all there, pressing into the cab of the truck like ghosts refusing to stay dead.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you. But both of you felt it. Every second ticked by like a countdown to something inevitable. Something neither of you were ready to admit.

The road stretched out endlessly ahead, swallowed by the dark trees on either side. The only sound filling the truck was the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. You sat with your arms crossed, your body angled slightly toward the window, your gaze locked on the shadows flashing by. The silence was thick. Claustrophobic. And entirely unbearable.

Finally, Joel broke it.

“What’d you do today?”

His voice was neutral. Uninterested, even. He didn’t look at you—kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other draped over the armrest. Just a casual question, thrown out into the air like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

You turned your head slowly toward him, an incredulous smirk pulling at your lips. “Really?”

Joel glanced at you once, then again, brows drawing slightly together. “What?”

A laugh burst out of you, short and bitter, as you shook your head in disbelief. “You’re seriously trying to ask me about my day?”

He didn’t respond immediately. You could tell he was debating it. Trying to find a retort that wouldn’t sound weak. But before he could even open his mouth, you beat him to it.

“You don’t even care.”

Your voice was quieter now, almost defeated. You turned your head back toward the window, watching the world blur past, soft shadows and moonlight playing tricks on your vision. For a moment, there was only silence again. Heavy. Tense.

“…I don’t,” Joel finally admitted, his tone dry, “but it’s better than this annoying-ass silence.”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. The bastard had a point. You let a few seconds pass, then finally gave in.

“I went to the store.”

Joel gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, a slight nod that was barely perceptible.

“I met someone. Hank.”

Another grunt. Another nod. But this time… his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice. But you saw the way his forearm flexed, how his fingers wrapped more firmly around the leather. It was subtle. But there. A small flash of something ugly and hot in his chest. Jealousy? No. That couldn’t be. Why the hell would he be jealous?

“Is he cute?” he asked.

You didn’t even hesitate. “Not bad. Might give him my address if I see him again.”

That did it. Joel’s knuckles went white on the wheel, his jaw tightening so hard it ticked. His whole body tensed like a wire pulled too tight.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And you liked the reaction a little more than you should have.

“What about you?” you asked, voice suddenly lighter, almost teasing. “Meet any girls today?”

“Huh?” Joel glanced over at you quickly before looking back at the road.

“Come on, you know… did you meet someone new? Maybe someone young and smiley and way too optimistic for her own good?”

Joel let out a huff of air—half a laugh, half a scoff. “Not into that crap.”

“Not into what? Dating?”

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Who the hell would date a grumpy old bastard like me?”

Your eyes met for a second too long. And something in your chest… shifted. He didn’t say it like a joke. He wasn’t fishing for pity. He was just being honest. And you saw it, really saw it, in his expression. That quiet loneliness that clung to him like a shadow he didn’t know how to shake.

“Don’t be stupid,” you muttered. “I’m sure someone would.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. It came out before you could stop it. Before you could build your usual wall of sarcasm and spite.

Joel’s mouth twitched bitterly. “Wish I was as naïve as you.”

And god, you hated how that made you feel. That burning in your throat. The aching behind your ribs. He was so frustrating, so guarded, so closed off—but in moments like this, you could almost feel how much it cost him to let anything through.

You wanted to hug him. You wouldn’t, of course. But you wanted to.

Joel pulled the truck to a slow stop, the gravel crunching under the tires as the headlights hit a clearing at the edge of the woods. “We’re here,” he muttered, already pushing open his door without a second glance.

You followed a few seconds later, slamming the passenger door a bit too hard and catching up with him.

“So,” you asked as you reached his side, “what exactly are we looking for?”

“Shit for the wedding. Kate wants it to be all… nature-themed or whatever. So twigs, berries, moss, mushrooms. Forest crap.”

You arched a brow. “Romantic.”

Joel didn’t reply. He just handed you a small burlap sack and started heading deeper into the woods, boots crunching over fallen leaves. You walked with him in silence, collecting whatever looked remotely wedding-appropriate. The air was damp and smelled like earth. Leaves brushed against your ankles. Moonlight filtered through the branches in silvery streaks.

Then, suddenly—snap. The sharp crack of a stick breaking echoed nearby. Joel froze. His body went rigid, hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. In a second, the weapon was drawn, held steady, and aimed at the darkness beyond the trees.

You jumped, stumbling back a step and grabbing onto Joel’s arm without thinking. “Shit—what was that?”

“Do you have a gun?” he asked, eyes scanning the shadows.

“Do I look like I have a gun?!”

You moved closer to him, practically hiding behind his solid frame. Your heart was thudding like crazy, adrenaline crawling under your skin.

Joel didn’t move for a long beat, waiting. Watching. But nothing came. Just the wind brushing through the leaves and the chirp of a distant bird. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

“Probably just an animal,” he muttered, but you saw the way his shoulders remained tense. Still alert. Still ready. After a few more seconds, he glanced back at you. “You ever even held a gun?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I have?”

Joel sighed heavily and handed you his pistol. “Here.”

You stared at it like he’d just handed you a live snake. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Aim,” he said flatly, giving you the simplest instruction imaginable.

You blinked at him. “Come again?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just raised an eyebrow. His expression said don’t argue. So you tried. Kind of. You awkwardly lifted the gun with both hands, your arms stiff, elbows out, your grip all wrong.

Joel let out the most exhausted sigh you’d ever heard, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

He took the pistol back, turned it in his hands, and then showed you how to hold it properly.

Feet apart. Elbows relaxed. Grip tight but not too tight. Then he placed the gun back into your hands and watched you. But even so, you were still holding the gun wrong.

Your hands were trembling. Not much, but enough that he noticed. Enough that you noticed. The gun felt heavy, unnatural. Like it didn’t belong in your hands. Joel sighed.

He stepped behind you. Closer than he ever had before. You could feel the heat of his body pressing along your back, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades, his breath — warm and unfiltered — ghosting across the curve of your neck.

Then came his hands.

Big. Rough. Calloused. They slid over yours like they’d been made to fit there — palms swallowing yours completely, fingers curling around the outside of your own to adjust your grip. His thumbs pressed down gently, firmly guiding you, correcting you. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t breathe.

His beard scraped softly against the edge of your cheek as he leaned in closer. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Like this. Keep your elbows down. You’re stiff as a damn board.”

You didn’t hear the words.

You just heard him. The low rumble in his chest. The scent of him — cedar, sweat, something smoky and old and undeniably male. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in the cold woods.

And something inside you snapped. Or maybe it awakened.

A pulse flickered deep in your lower belly. Then it dropped lower. Heat bloomed between your thighs, a slow, aching throb that made your breath hitch and your knees feel just a little weaker. You clenched without meaning to — your muscles tightening instinctively, reflexively — and you felt it in your underwear. The wetness. Already.

Fuck.

Your face was on fire. You were sure of it. Your cheeks burned, your ears burned, even the back of your neck was hot — but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because if you did, you’d have to step away from him. And you didn’t want to.

Your heart was hammering inside your chest, pounding against your ribs like it wanted to get out. Your thoughts were chaotic, messy, breathless, spinning.

And when he adjusted your fingers again, his thumb grazing along the sensitive skin between your thumb and forefinger, you couldn’t help the tiny sound that escaped your throat — a breathy, almost inaudible gasp.

Your skin was soft. Warm. He could smell your shampoo, something faint and floral that made him want to bury his face in your neck. He tried to focus on your stance, on the gun, on anything except the way your ass pressed back slightly against his hips, or the tiny hitch in your breath, or the fact that he could feel your pulse through your wrist.

His cock twitched.

The heat spread through him fast — like gasoline catching flame. His hands were supposed to be steady, but they started to shake. Just a little. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your cheek, the curve of your jaw, the way your lips were slightly parted. You looked flustered. Flushed. He saw your chest rising and falling faster than before.

And he felt it.

Your body stiffening. That subtle shift of your hips. That soft, barely audible sound that slipped from your throat.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were turned on. And now he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare at the back of your neck and fight the overwhelming urge to bend his head down and press his mouth there. To see if you’d make that sound again, louder this time.

His cock was already hard. Thick and aching behind his jeans, pressing against the inside of his thigh. And all because of you. Because of the way your body felt under his hands. Because of the way you smelled. Because of that little gasp.

He had to pull away. Now. Before he did something really fucking stupid. But his hands didn’t move. They wouldn’t move.

Instead, he lowered his voice again, leaning closer, his lips grazing your ear.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good.”

Your body shivered. And Joel knew, with complete, devastating certainty, that he was royally, irreversibly fucked.

You turned around slowly, pulse loud in your ears, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

His face was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Your noses almost brushed. The small space between you felt volatile, like a match hovering over gasoline.

His eyes met yours and you swore time folded in on itself. Everything narrowed down to that one unbearable moment of stillness, your shared breath, the roughness of his exhale fanning across your cheek, his scent laced with sweat and cedar and tension.

You weren’t breathing. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, suspended in the heaviness of that electric, untouchable almost.

And just when you swore he might tilt his head that tiny bit to close the distance, crack. A branch snapped not far from where you stood.

Joel moved instantly, instinctively. He stepped in front of you, arm extended protectively as his eyes scanned the trees.

Your chest rose and fell, rapidly now, the illusion shattered but the heat still simmering under your skin.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “We’re done here,” he said, his voice gravelly, low, but tight. “Let’s go. Ain’t smart to be out here after dark.”

You nodded, mute. There was nothing to say. You followed him through the trees, the pressure in your chest still coiled tight like a loaded spring.

The silence in the truck was worse than the previous drive into the woods. Neither of you said a word. You didn’t even try. The memory of his hands on yours haunted your skin. The way his body pressed behind you. The way he felt. The way your body had responded.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together, breath shaky. From the corner of your eye, you saw his grip tighten on the wheel.

He was thinking about it too. You knew it. You felt it. Like the air between you still crackled with something unnamed and unbearable.

When he pulled up in front of your house, the engine idling, you turned your head to him.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely audible. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.

You got out quickly, afraid your legs might give out if you didn’t move fast. Your fists were clenched as you stormed into your house and slammed the door behind you.

Joel watched until the porch light flicked on. Then he drove off. He had to.

Because if he didn’t leave right now, if he stayed even a second longer in that truck with the memory of your body pressed into his and your eyes looking at him like that, he wouldn’t be able to think. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

And he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to hide the growing ache in his jeans.

The next morning came like a slap. You didn’t sleep much. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the woods. His breath. His voice. That moment.

You sat now on a little wooden stool, knees tucked under you, watching Kate twirl in front of the mirror in a champagne-colored dress.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding the fabric out by her sides like she was floating.

You smiled. Or at least you tried to.

“It’s perfect,” you said.

And it was—for her. It hugged her curves beautifully, made her look like a springtime goddess. She looked happy. Radiant.

You wanted to be happy with her. But you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel. You couldn’t stop thinking about his voice low in your ear. His hands gripping yours like they belonged there.

The way he pressed into your back, firm and controlled, but just barely. You swallowed hard, shifting on the stool. Your thighs pressed together and stayed there. Your fingers dug into your own knees.

God, what would it be like if he said things like that in a bed? His voice rough, that little growl he did in his throat when he was trying not to let something slip.

“That's it,” he’d say again, but slower this time, with your legs around his waist. His hand around your neck. His body heavy over yours. His—

“Hey?” Kate’s voice broke straight through your filthy mind like a cold slap of water. Your head snapped up. She was watching you in the mirror, a little frown on her face.

“You okay? You zoned out like… hard.”

You blinked. Forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”

Kate turned toward you, dress swishing with her. “You sure? You look kinda pale.”

You smiled again. “I’m good. Promise.”

She squinted for a second longer, then let it go. “Okay. Well, you better wake up before tonight. Everyone’s gonna be at the bar. You are coming, right?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know, Katie…”

“Don’t you dare bail on me,” she said, walking over and poking you square in the forehead. “It’s my last free Saturday before wedding chaos hits full force. You’re coming. No excuses.”

You sighed, lips pressed together. “Fine. I’ll go. For you.”

“Damn right it’s for me,” she grinned, turning back to the mirror, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes.

Because she had no idea that the only thing keeping you from vibrating out of your skin was the image of her future brother-in-law. His voice, his hands, the pressure of him against your back, his body between your thighs, his cock filling you as he growled against your neck—

You clenched your fists again. You were not okay. And tonight, you were about to walk into a room full of people, awesome.

The bar buzzed with life. Music pulsed in waves from the overhead speakers, something upbeat and forgettable, and people swayed and shouted and laughed, glasses clinking against each other, beer sloshing onto tables and sticky wooden floors.

You were perched on a high stool at the edge of the chaos, your drink half full and your nerves stretched thin.

You’d let Kate drag you here. You hadn’t wanted to come. But the smile on her face as she danced in a small circle with her friends made it all worth it. You were here for her.

But even now, even under the dim golden lights and the noise, your mind flickered like static back to the woods. Joel’s hands. Joel’s breath. Joel’s words. Your thighs pressed together. You took a bigger sip of your drink.

“Thought that was you,” a familiar voice said behind you. You turned and saw him, Hank. That cute guy from the store. You almost forget about him, because your mind is currently full of Miller.

“Hank,” you said, forcing a tight smile, trying to hide your overthinking and zoning out every five second.

He held a drink in each hand, his leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the collar of some aggressively loud shirt underneath.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you without asking.

“Yeah… my sister dragged me out.”

“Ah,” Hank chuckled. “Lucky for me.” He slid one of the glasses toward you. Whiskey. Neat. You nodded politely. “Thanks.”

You didn’t ask for it, but you took a sip. Because refusing would be more exhausting than drinking.

Hank talked, mostly about himself. Occasionally he asked you a question, but he never waited for the answer before launching into another story. Still, it was noise. Noise was good. Noise kept you out of your head.

“You’re quiet,” Hank said, tilting his head. “You mad at me?”

You blinked back to the present.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just… tired.”

He smiled. “You need to loosen up.”

You tried to smile back. But then his hand landed on your thigh. It wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Heavy. You froze. Your pulse quickened.

You shifted, a small movement—polite, non-threatening, clear. But he didn’t move his hand.

Instead, he leaned in closer, the alcohol on his breath making your stomach twist.

“You look so fuckin’ good tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Bet you feel good too.”

You jerked back. “Hank, don’t—”

He grabbed your wrist, quick and tight, and leaned in.

“Relax, sweetheart. We’re just talkin’.”

“No,” you said, firmer now. “Let go.”

His expression changed. Gone was the charm. What replaced it was flat. Cold.

“You wanna cause a scene?” he whispered.

And then you felt it. Something cold and sharp pressing against your ribs. Your eyes snapped down.

A knife. Small, dirty, folded out from a pocket tool. But real. Panic bloomed in your chest like poison.

“Let’s go,” Hank whispered, teeth clenched in a smile. “Now.”

You nodded. What else could you do?

He guided you off the stool, the knife barely brushing your side as a constant reminder. No one noticed. No one cared. The music was too loud. The lights too low.

He steered you toward the back of the bar, toward the restrooms.

Your heart thundered. Your stomach churned. You were already running through what you’d say, what you’d do, how you’d get out—

“Let her go.”

The voice split through the air like a shotgun. You turned, Hank right after you.

And there he was, your savior. Joel.

Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes black with rage. His hand hovering near the holster on his hip. Not on his gun, at least, not yet.

Hank laughed. “C’mon, dude. We’re just talking.”

“I said let. her. go.”

He stepped closer. Each footfall was silent but devastating, like the pressure drop before a tornado hits. His voice had lowered now, dangerously calm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t even realize tears had formed in your eyes until you blinked and they fell.

Hank looked between you and Joel. He weighed his chances. And then, he shoved you.

You stumbled back—but before Hank could bolt, Joel moved. One hand slammed the knife out of Hank’s grip, sent it skittering across the floor.

The other grabbed the front of his jacket and shoved him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked behind him.

“You ever touch her again,” Joel growled, face inches from his, “I’ll break both your fuckin’ arms. And that’ll be merciful.”

Hank didn’t speak, didn't fight, didn't move. He was shaking, his eyes wide open like he just saw a ghost. He was so fucking scared.

Joel dropped him with a final shove and turned toward you, chest rising and falling fast. You stood there frozen, still shaking, tears streaking your cheeks now.

“Hey,” he said softly, all that rage melting into something gentler. “You alright?”

You nodded quickly. He stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a scared animal. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

You followed him without thinking. Out into the night. Into the truck. The door shut behind you, and silence filled the cab.

But this silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Comforting. You let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the seat.

Joel didn’t speak. He just drove, his hand occasionally flexing on the wheel like he still hadn’t shaken off what he’d just done.

When the truck rolled to a stop in front of your house, you reached for the handle, but something in your chest seized. You looked over at him.

“Do you wanna come in?” you asked softly. “I… I could make some coffee. As a thank you.”

Joel hesitated. You saw it all over his face. His jaw flexed, his throat bobbed. He shouldn’t go. He knew he shouldn’t. But his eyes dropped to your lips. Just for a second, and that was enough for him to decide.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Alright.”

You unlock the door with slightly trembling fingers, the echo of the evening still buzzing in your bones. Joel follows close behind, silent but solid, like some kind of ghost who bled warmth instead of cold.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you say softly, stepping inside and beginning to shrug off your jacket.

Joel doesn’t speak. He just nods and quietly peels off his own coat, hanging it neatly by the door. You move through the familiar space of your kitchen, the air oddly still. Behind you, you hear the chair scrape softly against the floor as he sits down at the small table.

Joel's eyes were glued on you, burning through your clothes, lingering on the curve of your spine, the swing of your hips. It’s not like before. It’s different. Hungrier.

You reach for the coffee tin without looking at him. You know exactly what kind of coffee he likes.

Which is stupid. Because this is Joel. The man you were supposed to despise. And yet here you are, pouring the water, adding just the right amount of grounds, without needing to ask a damn thing.

The silence wraps around the room, thick and buzzing with the unsaid. You can feel him watching your every move. When the coffee’s ready, you grab two mugs, pour them evenly, and walk over to him.

You set his mug down, sitting across from him, your fingers wrapping around the warmth of the ceramic. You both take the first sip in tandem. Then, quiet. The kind that presses in, like fog.

Finally, you speak. You felt like you have to, after being saved. After practically everything.

“Thanks for earlier,” you murmur, your voice a little raw. “That was… Hank.”

Joel’s jaw shifts slightly. His eyes darken. “Figured.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think he’d be that type.”

He leans back a little, cradling the mug in one hand. “A lot of men like him are out there. Even now. You give ‘em power, they use it to corner someone weaker.”

The words sit between you, bitter like the coffee on your tongue. You nod, slowly. “How’d you even see me? No one else noticed.”

You watch the flicker of hesitation pass behind his eyes, the clench in his jaw. “I just… saw you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In that whole crowd?”

He meets your gaze, lips twitching slightly. “What can I say? You kinda stand out.”

You smirk, mock-offended. “Was it my clothes or the way I awkwardly clung to the wall?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Bit of both.”

You both chuckle, and something shifts. The ice melts. The air gets warmer. It’s not like before. It’s lighter, easier, safer.

Joel finishes his coffee, setting the mug down gently. “I should get outta here. You’ve had one hell of a night.”

You nod, standing with him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

But as you turn to lead him out, your sock catches on the edge of the rug and your balance tips.

“Shit—!”

You stumble forward, instinctively reaching out, but Joel is already there—his arms snapping around you, pulling you tightly against him.

Your chest slams into his, and his hands steady you, one firm on your waist, the other wrapped just under your ribs.

You’re both laughing at first. A light, breathy kind of laugh, like the end of a good joke. But then you look up at him. And suddenly, it’s not funny anymore.

His face is so close. Again. Like in the woods.

Your noses almost touch. His breath brushes your cheek. One of his hands tightens slightly on your hip, grounding you. His other hand firm against your back, your palms flat against his chest.

You looked up into his eyes, and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed. Just the two of you, breathing the same charged air, close enough to feel the heat rolling off each other. You didn’t know if it was a good idea. Hell, it probably wasn’t. This would ruin everything. Complicate the wedding. Complicate Jackson. Complicate… him. You.

But you didn’t move. Neither did he.

His eyes kept dropping, from your eyes to your lips, back up again, then down. Every time he looked at your mouth, it felt like fire ran through your veins. His thumb brushed along your spine like he was grounding himself, and you swore your knees nearly gave out from just that.

Then, like something broke inside him, he kissed you.

It was sudden, deep, and full of something too big for either of you to name. It wasn’t soft, not really. It was controlled. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to remember how to be careful. But the second he felt you lean into it, tilt your head and let out that quiet, needful sound from the back of your throat, he was done.

He pulled back just a fraction, like he was afraid to have gone too far. Like he was waiting for you to push him away.

But instead, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in like a wild thing that had been starving for this. Your lips crashed into his and there was no more hesitation, no more thinking.

Only need.

The kiss turned feverish — teeth, tongues, breathless groans swallowed between your mouths. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to memorize every inch.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Your body was reacting like it had waited a lifetime for this. You were pressed up against him, feeling the hardness straining against his jeans, the way his hips rolled into yours with unconscious desperation.

Somehow, you stumbled backwards through the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through your gasps and moans as he kissed your neck, your jaw, your mouth again. His hands slid down your thighs and lifted you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist.

His mouth never left yours, the kissing is harder now—urgent, uneven. The hallway dimly lit by the golden hue of a single lamp in your kitchen blurred behind you as he carried you toward your bedroom.

Your fingers twisted into the collar of his shirt, knuckles white, and his breath hitched when your teeth grazed his bottom lip. His hips pressed into you as you gasped softly into his mouth, your thighs squeezing around him. The friction made your body jolt with a pulse of heat that spread through your stomach like wildfire.

He kicked the door to your room open, then brought you down to the bed. Not gently. Not softly. There was no time for that.

Your bodies hit the mattress with a thud, your hair splaying out beneath you like a dark halo. He hovered above you for just a second, both of you panting, eyes locked, your chests rising and falling in unison. Then his hands were on you again—rough, wide palms pushing under your shirt, dragging it up. His touch was everywhere. Greedy. Desperate.

You sat up to help him, tearing the shirt over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Joel’s gaze dropped to your chest, dark and feral, his breath catching hard as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. His hands, already trembling slightly, moved with surprising reverence as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra.

It slid down your arms slowly, and the moment your chest was bare, Joel exhaled shakily like he was in physical pain. Like he’d been imagining this for far too long. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His expression was torn between reverence and hunger. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

Then, his hands came up to cup you.

They were big, calloused, and the contrast of his roughness against the softness of your skin made you shudder. He traced the curves with his thumbs, gentle at first, then firmer when he saw how your body arched into his touch. Your breath caught again, a small, sharp sound that broke the silence like a dropped glass.

Joel leaned in, lips parting as he pressed his mouth to the swell of one breast, then to your nipple, hot, wet, insistent. Your head fell back with a whimper as his mouth worked in slow, teasing circles. His hand kneaded the other breast, his thumb flicking expertly, rhythmically, and your legs began to shift restlessly beneath him.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging.

Not to stop him, to beg for more. The sensation was overwhelming, grounding and floating you at the same time. He groaned low into your skin, and you felt the sound vibrate through your ribs, down your spine. Your hips lifted off the bed involuntarily, searching for contact, for pressure, for anything.

Joel paused only to look up at you—his lips shiny, his expression undone. You couldn’t breathe. He looked like sin, and you wanted to drown in it. His hand slid down your side slowly, possessively, as if mapping you. Memorizing you.

With a firm but gentle hand, he urges you backward until your spine meets the mattress. You obey without protest, eyes locked on his, heart thundering in your chest. He follows you down, hovering above you, and then he’s on you again, his mouth returning to your chest, latching onto a sensitive nipple like he’s starving for it.

His tongue swirls, wet and deliberate, flicking over the peak until you whimper. Then he sucks, slow and deep, and your back arches as pleasure shoots through you like a live wire.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice gravelly and full of reverence. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your thighs press together as heat pools between them. You can barely focus, your hands fisting into the sheets as he alternates between each breast—suckling, kissing, grazing them with the barest edge of his teeth. Every touch makes you writhe, your body hypersensitive, your breath short.

You moan his name, barely a whisper, and he growls softly in response. His lips are warm, skilled, knowing. There’s nothing rushed in his worship; he’s savoring every second, and it drives you wild.

Eventually, his mouth releases you, leaving your skin damp and flushed. But he doesn’t move far—only lower, lower still, lips grazing a path down your torso. He leaves a kiss beneath your ribs, then another just below your navel. Each one sets off sparks in your belly. Your breath hitches as he pauses, right above the hem of your panties.

He glances up, eyes catching yours. “You want this?”

Your nod is immediate, shaky. “Yes.”

He hooks his fingers beneath the fabric of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with excruciating slowness. As he slips them off, he holds your gaze, and then he brings the panties to his lips, kisses the damp center, and tucks them into his back pocket with a smug glint in his eye.

And then he lowers his head again.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you—warm, wet, divine. His tongue dips between your folds, exploring you with devastating thoroughness. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, groaning against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

His tongue is rough, textured, dragging deliciously across your most sensitive parts. Every flick, every swirl, every subtle change in rhythm makes your hips lift off the bed, your thighs trembling around his head.

He moans into you like you taste like salvation. One of his hands pins your hip down gently, the other resting on your thigh, keeping you open for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes between licks, “you’re drippin’. So damn perfect.”

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, anchoring yourself as your body threatens to unravel. Every sound you make, every twitch and gasp, seems to fuel him. He buries his face deeper, devouring you like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you tremble.

And god, you can’t stop moaning—his name, half-formed pleas, incoherent gasps. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.

You’re flushed, your legs shaking, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. He slides his tongue over your clit, slow and firm, circling it in ways that make your toes curl.

His mind is a mess of craving and possessiveness. He wants to make you come on his tongue, over and over, until you forget anyone but him has ever touched you. You can feel it in every movement, every low sound he makes against you—he’s not just giving you pleasure. He’s claiming you.

The pressure builds fast and fierce, and your thighs clamp tighter around his head. He doesn’t stop. He just groans into your heat, sending vibrations through you that make you cry out, teetering right on the edge.

And just before you fall, he pulls back slightly, eyes glazed with lust, lips glistening.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he whispers.

“Yes—Joel, please—”

He just smiled devilishly, before his mouth is on you again, relentless. And you break. Your orgasm slams into you like a wave crashing over your body. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s violent, intense, a full-body convulsion that steals your breath and bends your spine off the mattress.

Your mouth opens in a scream, but all that comes out is a strangled moan, broken and raw. Your thighs tighten around Joel’s head, trembling uncontrollably, and your fingers yank at his hair as if anchoring yourself to reality.

The pleasure rips through your core in sharp, overwhelming pulses. Each one sends another shock down your spine, through your arms, your legs, your fingertips. Your vision whitens at the edges. You can’t hear anything but the pounding of your own heart, your ragged gasps, and the obscene wet sounds of his mouth still working you through every last wave.

Joel groans like a man starved, like you are the only thing that’s ever mattered. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, your whole body twitching beneath him. When he finally pulls back, his beard is damp, his lips swollen and slick, his chest heaving.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glued to you. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful when you come.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your pulse thudding in your ears. The room tilts a little as you try to breathe through the aftershocks. Everything feels too much, your skin is flushed and hypersensitive, your muscles limp and tingling. You can barely keep your eyes open.

“Joel…” you whisper, dazed. You blink up at him just in time to see his hands at his belt. He unbuckles it slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he’s daring you to look away.

You don’t.

The sound of the leather sliding free is sinful—low, threatening, full of promise. He lets it fall to the floor with a soft thud, then pops the button of his jeans and drags the zipper down.

You watch, helpless to do anything else. He’s broad, powerful, and glowing with heat—shoulders wide, stomach lined with a thick trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband he’s tugging down. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking, and your mouth waters just looking at him.

But he’s not done.

He shrugs off his shirt slowly, working each button free with frustrating patience. And when he peels the fabric off his shoulders and tosses it aside, you nearly forget how to breathe.

All muscle and scars and raw masculinity. His chest is dusted with dark hair, his abdomen hard and sculpted, veins visible on his forearms as he braces himself above you. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making every dip and ridge of his body gleam under the soft light.

You stare, dazed and aching, lips parted as your eyes trace every inch of him.

“Like what you see?” he asks, voice rough, almost teasing, but there’s a strain there. He’s barely holding it together. You nod, unable to speak.

And he smirks, just a little, before leaning down to kiss you again, the heat of his bare skin pressing against yours. Then, he crawled up your body, eyes dark, jaw clenched. His control is fraying, shredded to the edge. You can see it in the way his arms tremble slightly, in how fast he’s breathing.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

You nod frantically, legs already parting for him.

He doesn’t even bother with teasing. He just grabs himself. Thick, hard, flushed at the tip, and guides his cock between your thighs, rubbing the head slowly through your slick folds. He groans at the contact, voice shaking.

“Fuck… You’re so wet for me.”

And then, he pushes in. The stretch is unreal. You gasp, eyes flying open as he sinks into you inch by inch. He’s thick, hot, and pulsing with need. Your walls clench around him automatically, your nails digging into his back as he slowly pushes deeper.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, every muscle in his body rigid. “You feel like heaven.”

The sensation is overwhelming. Your body tries to adjust, but he’s so big, so deep already. You bite your lip, crying out when he bottoms out, pelvis pressing flush against yours.

You’re full. Stuffed. You feel every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

Joel doesn’t move at first, just leans over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, chest heaving as he fights to keep control. His forehead rests against yours, sweat starting to gather at his temples.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Please—Joel, move.”

That’s all he needs. He starts slow—long, deep thrusts that make your breath stutter, your nails dig into his skin. The sounds of your bodies fill the room: skin against skin, your wetness coating him with every stroke, the soft gasp and grunt of every movement.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

Joel groans low in his throat and suddenly snaps his hips forward—hard. You yelp, eyes rolling back. He does it again. And again. Then he loses the last of his restraint.

He fucks you hard, fast, mercilessly. The rhythm ruthless, pounding into you so deep your legs shake around his waist. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking softly against the wall, but you barely register it.

You can only feel him—his cock driving into you with unrelenting force, your pussy clenching with every thrust.

His grip on your hips tightens, bruising. He watches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth open in gasps and cries, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Take it. Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You can barely form words. Your mind is gone, wrecked, your entire world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you—stretching, filling, owning every part of you.

He leans down, capturing your mouth again, and fucks you so hard you feel like you’re going to shatter around him.

Then, he pulls out slowly, just for a second, only to flip you onto your stomach.

You barely register the motion before his hands are on your hips, strong and commanding, dragging your ass up until you’re on your knees, chest still against the mattress.

You whimper at the loss of him, but then he’s there again—his cock thick and hot as he drags it through your slick folds from behind.

“Joel—” you breathe, barely able to form the word.

“I can't hold back,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Need you. Need this.”

He thrusts back into you with no warning, making you scream into the sheets.

He’s so deep, so thick, the angle making it feel impossibly intense, like he’s splitting you open all over again.

Your arms give out, your face pressing into the mattress as he starts to move. And it’s brutal. No finesse, no patience. Just raw, driving thrusts that shake your whole body.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget the shape of him. You won’t.

His grip on your hips is bruising, fingertips digging into your flesh as he slams into you again and again. Your skin stings, your scalp prickles—until suddenly, he grabs a handful of your hair, yanks your head back, and you sob at the mix of pain and pleasure.

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he growls behind you, breath hot against your ear. “You were made for me.”

Tears spill from your eyes, uncontrollably, shamelessly. From the intensity, from the feeling of being completely and utterly taken. Your body can’t keep up. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, moaning brokenly as every thrust punches another cry from your throat.

He leans over you, rutting into you deeper now, rougher. His chest presses against your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pinned in place while the other stays tangled in your hair.

You feel yourself spiraling again, your second orgasm rising so fast it almost hurts. Your vision blurs, the mattress soaked with your tears as you sob, “Joel, please, I’m—God—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants into your neck. “Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

It tears through you like lightning, your body locking up before shattering into trembling convulsions. You scream—loud, raw, broken—back arching hard against him. You’re gushing, pulsing around him, your slick flooding down your thighs as your body clenches around his cock.

You’re sobbing, half-coherent, and Joel curses—low and wrecked.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight—”

He’s close. You can feel it in the way he moves, the frantic pace, the desperation in every thrust.

Then his hips stutter. He growls your name like a curse and slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes.

It’s not soft—it’s violent. His entire body shudders behind you, his hands gripping you like you’re the only solid thing keeping him grounded. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, filling you up as he lets out a low, strangled moan against your skin.

You both collapse.

Joel slumps over your back, breathing hard, his body heavy and trembling with aftershocks. Your legs are jelly, your vision blurry with tears and sweat, your heart pounding against the mattress like it’s trying to break free.

Everything’s quiet, except for your breathing, your sobs slowly calming, and the soft curses Joel whispers as he presses his lips to your shoulder, over and over again. His body still draped over yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your back, can feel the way his arms tighten around your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Eventually, he shifts—pulls out of you gently, muttering something soft against your shoulder that you can’t quite make out. You’re too dazed, too shattered, your limbs heavy and slow like you’ve been drugged. He disappears for a moment.

You barely lift your head when he returns with a towel. Joel doesn’t say a word. He just nudges your legs apart, cleans you carefully, almost reverently.

His touch is gentle, surprisingly so. No roughness, no urgency. Just patient, quiet care. He wipes between your thighs, along your trembling skin, and when you flinch from sensitivity, he whispers, “Shh, I got you,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls the blanket up over both of you. You barely notice him crawling in beside you until you feel the weight of his arm wrap around your waist, tugging you back into his chest.

Your eyelids are heavy.

Your body is sore, humming with satisfaction and confusion and something dangerously close to contentment. His warmth seeps into your spine, his breath soft at the nape of your neck. You think he might kiss your shoulder again, but he doesn’t. He just holds you, skin to skin, until you drift off to sleep in his arms.

It’s been three days.

Three days since you let Joel Miller into your home. Three days since you let him see you—all of you. Three days since he touched you like you were something sacred and ruined you all at once.

Tomorrow, your sister’s getting married. Tomorrow, she becomes a Miller. But tonight… tonight is the last night she’ll fall asleep with your name still matching hers.

And all you can think about is him.

Not the ceremony. Not the dress. Not the decorations you spent hours picking out.

Only him. Only that night.

The taste of his mouth. The feel of his body. The way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

It should’ve been nothing. A mistake. A one-time moment of insanity. You could’ve stopped it. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You let him in. You invited the devil to your doorstep, and you didn’t slam the door in his face.

You let him fuck you like you meant something. And worse—you liked it. You hate yourself for that. Because now? Now you can’t even look at him.

He tries. You see it. A polite nod, a soft “hey,” a wave from across the street. You ignore it all. You keep your eyes down. Pretend not to hear him. Pretend he doesn’t exist—because if you don’t, if you let yourself remember even a second of what happened that night, your chest might split open.

He saw you. Really saw you. And he did things to you no one’s ever done before. Things you didn’t know you wanted, let alone needed.

And now… he’s just walking around Jackson like nothing happened. Like he’s fine.

But you’re not.

You’re a mess. A storm barely contained behind a polite smile. Because every time you shut your eyes, he’s there. That mouth. Those hands. That voice in your ear whispering “good girl” as you came around his tongue.

What the hell were you thinking?

Sleeping with your sister’s future brother-in-law? With your enemy? It sounds like a sick joke. A bad decision spun wildly out of control. And the worst part? You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You should’ve said no.

When Kate looked at you with those sparkling eyes, veil clipped into her hair, all glowing and giddy and “Can you do me a favor?” You should’ve said it right there. No. But you didn’t.

Because tomorrow she gets married. Tomorrow she becomes someone’s wife, and you’d cut off your own arm to make sure her day is perfect. So now you’re stuck in Joel Miller’s truck. Alone. With him.

You sit curled up on the passenger side, arms crossed, body tense like a coiled spring. You haven’t spoken since you got in. Haven’t looked at him once. He tries though.

“Hey,” he said when you climbed in. “You look… nice.” You didn’t answer.

“You sleep alright last night?”

You made a noncommittal grunt and turned your face to the window.

He’s still trying, glancing over occasionally, fingers drumming on the steering wheel like he’s searching for the right rhythm to break the silence. But you give him nothing.

Because what the hell is there to say? That you still feel his hands on your body when you close your eyes? That your throat tightens when you hear his voice, because it reminds you of how it sounded whispering filth in your ear while he ruined you? That your entire body clenches at the thought of him inside you again?

No, there’s nothing to say. But the universe doesn’t give a fuck about timing. Because just as you pass the city limits, the sky cracks open. One fat drop hits the windshield. Then another. Then it’s a full-on storm.

Rain lashes at the glass, fast and blinding, and Joel slows down immediately. Thunder growls somewhere above, deep and low like the sound of something ancient waking up.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Gotta pull over.”

He steers the truck down an overgrown path and finds an old garage, half-collapsed, but enough to get out of the worst of the storm. The rain slams into the tin roof above you, loud and wild. You’re safe, but it feels suffocating.

Joel turns off the engine. Silence falls, except for the storm. He exhales slowly, then speaks.

“You gonna keep pretendin’ I don’t exist?” he asks quietly.

That’s it. You snap. You whip your head toward him, the heat in your chest rising like boiling water. “What do you want me to say, Joel?!”

He blinks. You’re already throwing the door open, going straight to the rain. You needed a fresh air, one that doesn't smell like Joel's car. His door slams right behind you.

“What are you—,”

“Hey, remember that time you fucked me senseless and now I can’t breathe without thinking about it?” You step out into the rain. “That I feel like a complete idiot because I invited you in and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror?!”

The cold hits you like a slap, rain soaking your clothes instantly. You welcome it. He follows, his voice sharp through the downpour. “I didn’t plan it either! You think I woke up that morning hopin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind over you?!”

You spin on him. “You didn’t stop me!”

“I couldn’t!” he shouts back, eyes wild, hair already soaked. “You looked at me like you wanted it. Like no one ever looked at me before and I couldn’t—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You stare at him. The rain pours around you, drumming on the roof, the truck, the gravel. Your chest heaves. Your teeth clench. Everything is raw, exposed, trembling.

“This was a mistake,” you say, but your voice breaks halfway through. He steps closer.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I have to,” you whisper.

Joel’s hands reach out slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His palms settle on your wet cheeks. “Look I get it…,” he says softly, “but I ain’t sorry for what we did, and I defenitely do not regret it.”

Your breath catches.

“Do you?” He asked, his brown chocolate eyes made your knees weak, and you knew the answer damn well, but it was just hard. Hard to admit that you have feelings for Joel fucking Miller. That you feel something more, and unfortunately, it's not hatress.

“I don't—” you start, but then he kisses you.

Hard. Desperate. Wet mouths clashing in the rain like something out of a dream you’d never admit to having. His hands hold your face like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. Your fingers dig into his shirt, nails catching fabric. There’s nothing gentle about it.

It’s all tongue and teeth and years of hate folding into hunger. You kiss him like you’re punishing him. He kisses you like he’s begging for mercy.

When you finally break apart, you’re both panting.

Foreheads pressed together. Rain dripping from your lashes. His hands stay on your face. Yours clutch his jacket.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” you whisper.

Joel smiles. “Yeah. I know.”

The morning sun filters in through sheer curtains, soft and golden, bathing the room in light that feels almost sacred.

Kate stands by the mirror, surrounded by laughter, perfume, and a blur of ivory fabric and flowers. Her wedding dress hugs her figure perfectly—delicate lace at the shoulders, tiny buttons running down the back, and a soft, flowing skirt that pools like clouds around her feet. Her hair is curled and pinned, a few loose strands framing her glowing face, and in her hands is a bouquet of wildflowers tied with satin.

She looks like something out of a dream. You watch her, heart pounding, throat tight with nerves. It’s now or never.

“Kate,” you say gently, stepping forward.

She turns to you, bright-eyed. “Yeah?”

Your hands are shaking. You swallow hard. “I need to tell you something. And I should’ve told you sooner, I just… I didn’t know how.”

She blinks. “What is it?”

You inhale slowly. “It’s about me and Joel.”

She was quiet, her eyes full of expectations and lips sucked nervously into a thin line.

“Me and Joel are… kinda together,” you sigh, heart hammering in your chest, fully expecting a meltdown. But instead, she squeals.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! This is—this is amazing!” She throws her arms around you, nearly knocking your breath out. “I knew there was something! You’ve been acting so weird! But this, this makes me so happy!”

You’re stunned. “Wait… you’re not mad?”

She pulls back and beams. “Mad? Are you kidding? I ship this. Hard.”

You burst into laughter, nearly crying from the relief.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, wiping your eyes.

“I’m your sister, it’s my job,” she grins.

The wedding ceremony is set beneath an arch of flowers, surrounded by rows of chairs filled with friends and family. The sun is just starting to dip lower, casting long shadows, the sky streaked with pink and lavender.

You stand at the altar as a bridesmaid, bouquet clutched tightly in your hands. You’ve never worn a dress like this before—it’s soft, elegant, pale lavender—and your hair is pinned back, a few curls brushing your cheek. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart’s full.

Across from you, Joel stands in a dark suit, tie slightly loosened, that damn rugged charm still impossible to ignore. And then, the music starts. Everyone rises. You turn your head, and there she is.

Kate walks slowly down the aisle, hand wrapped around your father’s arm, veil trailing behind her like a whisper. Her eyes are wide, lips trembling with a smile, and she looks so happy, like every fairytale in the world decided to make a cameo in her life today.

You feel it before you realize it, tears welling in your eyes. You blink rapidly, but they fall anyway, slipping down your cheeks in quiet streaks.

Then you glance sideways. Joel isn’t looking at the bride. He’s looking at you.

His eyes are soft. Warm. His lips curve into the smallest smile—just for you. One corner up, the kind that says I’m here. I see you. I’m yours.

You smile back, heart blooming.

And in that moment, standing in the golden light of your sister��s wedding, mascara streaking your cheeks, hands still trembling from the weight of it all, you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

With him. With all of it. And finally, finally, it feels like the chaos was worth it.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

LOVE YA! 🥮🍂

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Joel’s therapist is very sick, and you’re new in town — since you’re licensed, you decided to step in as a replacement. Joel was hesitant at first, not one to open up to strangers easily, but when he finally gave it a try, he didn’t regret it.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), anxiety, masturbation, verbal harassment, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (piv), changing positions, praise kink, nicknames, strong language

A/n: Hi! I am not even trying to convince myself anymore to bealive that this isn't long asf. I really love to write a good plot yk, anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Mastelist

It was late morning when Tommy stopped by Joel’s house. He knocked twice and then let himself in, as he always did — brothers didn’t need permission in Jackson. Joel was in the middle of buttoning up his flannel, looking freshly showered but not entirely awake. His hair was still damp, and he moved slowly, like every motion cost him something.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted, holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. “Got those patrol maps you wanted.”

Joel took them with a grunt, gave them a glance, then placed them on the kitchen counter without a word. He reached for his mug, sipped cold coffee, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, slinging the jacket over his shoulder.

Tommy tilted his head. “Where you headin’?”

Joel hesitated, clearly not eager to elaborate. “…Therapy.”

That made Tommy pause. His brows lifted, confused. “Uh, you sure about that?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Same time as always.”

Tommy gave him a strange look and shifted awkwardly. “Joel… She’s sick. Like, real sick. She stopped seein’ people. Some kinda respiratory thing — folks say she’s not comin’ back for a while.”

Joel froze. The keys in his hand stopped jingling. “What?”

“Yeah. Word’s goin’ around. They say at least three weeks, maybe more. I figured you heard.”

Joel shook his head slowly, frown deepening, jaw tightening. He looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him — not that he’d ever admit that.

“I… didn’t,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

There was a long pause before Tommy scratched the back of his neck, pulling something from his pocket.

“Look, I know you don’t like this kinda thing,” Tommy said carefully, “but there’s someone new in town. Moved here a few weeks back. She’s licensed, she’s smart… young, yeah, but folks been sayin’ good things.”

Joel shot him a skeptical glance, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “Young?”

“Not that young,” Tommy chuckled. “Just… younger than your usual shrink. But hey — she works from home, keeps things real low-key. Thought maybe it’d suit you.”

Joel didn’t respond, just stood there looking at the card Tommy handed him. A simple business card. No frills. Just a name, a soft-colored print, and an address.

Tommy caught the look in his brother’s eyes and backed off.

“Hey, just… think about it, alright? You ain’t gotta go. But don’t sit around and bottle this shit up either.”

Joel didn’t answer. He watched Tommy leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and then looked back at the card in his hand. He turned it over slowly between his fingers. Thought about throwing it away. Thought about the ache that hadn’t left his chest for months.

He sat down at the table. Stared at the wood grain. Rubbed his thumb over his temple. The silence in the house felt heavier than usual.

And he sat there. Thinking. For a long, long time.

Eventually, he ended up going.

Against his better judgment, against all the tight, thorny doubts clawing inside his mind, Joel found himself walking through Jackson’s quiet streets, shoulders hunched, head low like he was trying not to be seen. He already regretted it. Every step closer felt like one more chance to turn around and go the hell back home.

But he kept walking.

It wasn’t the idea of talking to someone that rattled him, not really. It was the idea of talking to you. Someone new. Someone who didn’t know his history, who hadn’t been there when his walls were higher than ever. He didn’t know what to expect… didn’t even know if you were going to be kind, or cold, or too damn young to understand any of what he carried.

But the worst part was how exposed he felt. Every glance from a neighbor, every quiet “hello” from someone passing by, it all made his skin crawl. Like they knew where he was headed. Like they were silently judging him for needing help. Of course, they weren’t. Nobody cared. But Joel’s anxiety didn’t exactly listen to logic.

He finally reached the address. The house looked… normal. Inviting, even. The kind of place you wouldn’t expect someone to open up their deepest, darkest shit inside. And maybe that’s what made it even harder.

Joel stared at the door for a moment, frozen mid-step. His hand hovered in the air, curled into a loose fist, just inches from knocking. But he didn’t move. He stood there like a damn statue, fighting himself all over again.

Just leave, his brain hissed. Just walk away. You’ve made it this long without this. You don’t need—

He exhaled. Loud and heavy, before he slowly, knocked.

He waited. At first, it was only a few seconds. But then those seconds stretched into something longer, heavier. Joel started to feel stupid - standing there like some lost teenager, like someone who knocked on the wrong goddamn door. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe this was all just a mistake. Hell, maybe you were home and just didn’t want to deal with some grumpy old bastard knocking on your door uninvited.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back. One foot already turned to go, hand dropping from the air like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And that’s when the door opened.

The soft click of the handle. The creak of the hinges. And then, you.

Joel stood there, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on you like he’d forgotten how to breathe. You were smiling — that soft, sweet kind of smile that didn’t feel forced or polite, but real. You looked calm. Warm. And Joel? He was completely fucked.

His brain short-circuited. His first thought wasn’t “she looks young,” or “she looks kind.” No. His first thought was “she’s beautiful.” Not in the distant, poetic sense — no, not the kind of beauty you admire from afar and then walk away from. It was the kind of beauty that grabbed him by the throat and whispered, “You’re mine.”

His eyes flicked down for half a second, just a second, but that second was enough. The soft shape of your chest under that casual shirt. The subtle curve of your hips. The bare skin of your legs, the way your mouth moved as you said hello, lips plush and so fucking inviting it made his teeth clench.

And suddenly, his mind wasn’t where it should be. It was picturing things. Fast flashes. You underneath him. The way your voice might sound when it wasn’t professional — when it was breathless and messy and gasping his name. The way your hands might clutch at his shoulders. The way your body might arch, needy and open for him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Forced himself to look you in the eyes. But even that wasn’t safe. There was a spark there, something intelligent, a little playful. You weren’t shy. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.

He hadn’t said a single word. And he already knew he was in trouble.

You tilted your head a little, still holding the door open with one hand, the other tugging down the hem of your shirt instinctively. “…Sir?”

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel. “I… I’m Joel. Joel Miller. Tommy gave me your card.”

You blinked. “Oh! Right. The therapy sessions?”

He gave a slow nod, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed now. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should come by but, uh… figured I’d give it a try.”

You stepped back and smiled, waving him in. “Come on in. You’re actually my first today.”

As he stepped past you into the warmth of the house, you noticed the way his gaze flicked briefly down to your outfit — an oversized t-shirt and a pair of short cotton shorts, your long warm fuzzy slippers making gentle scuffs against the floor as you moved.

It was freezing outside, but the heater was blasting and the tea was steeping, so this was your comfort zone. Still… not exactly professional.

You glanced down at yourself and laughed softly. “Sorry. I should’ve probably worn something more appropriate for a client…”

Joel looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes — a twitch of amusement, maybe, or something darker, heavier.

“Nah,” he said simply, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Doesn’t bother me.”

You nodded and motioned toward the cozy living area just off the hallway. “You can go ahead and take a seat. Want anything to drink? Tea, coffee?”

Joel hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Coffee’s good. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” you said, already padding off toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He watched you disappear around the corner, the sound of the kettle starting up filling the silence behind him. As he settled onto the couch, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the throw pillow beside him, he let out a slow breath.

When the coffee was finally ready, you brought it over with a smile, carefully placing the pastel purple mug in front of him. “Here you go,” you said, the warmth of the mug almost making the room feel cozier. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

Joel gave a small, grateful smile, his hand brushing against yours for just a second as he took the mug. “Thanks. Smells good,” he muttered, his voice slightly raspy, as if the warmth of the coffee was just what he needed to break the cold barrier that had settled between the two of you.

You nodded and slipped into your chair, pulling your notepad and pen from your bag. The soft rustling of paper filled the air, your legs crossing comfortably as you got ready for the session. However, the moment you crossed your legs, Joel’s eyes flicked down, just for a second, but long enough for him to catch a glimpse of the soft juicy thights and-

His throat tightened a little, and before he knew it, he was coughing slightly, almost choking on the coffee he’d just taken a sip of. The damn thing went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t help but cough harshly, slamming the cup back down on the table, his face reddening with the embarrassment.

You laughed softly, leaning toward him. “Oh my god you okay?”

Joel cleared his throat, shaking his head, trying to recover his cool. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine.”

You gave him a reassueing smile, sensing his awkwardness but not letting it rattle you. “It’s alright, happens to the best of us.”

Once the tension had passed, you set your notepad in your lap and folded your hands over it, looking at him with a more professional air. “Alright, so… to start, I’m just going to ask you a few basic questions, just so I can get a better idea of where you’re coming from.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking to your face, trying to stay focused but still feeling that lingering heat from his earlier slip-up.

“Okay, so first off, tell me a little bit about yourself. I know you’re Joel… how old are you?”

“Fifty-six,” he answered, his voice low, but steady now. He had clearly gotten himself under control.

You scribbled that down, nodding. “Got it. And, uh… what about your family?”

Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was obvious that even though he was a man who’d seen more than most, talking about his family was still a sensitive subject. He hesitated before speaking, his voice dropping a little. “I have a brother… Tommy. He’s… important to me. Got a daughter too, Sarah. She’s… she’s gone now.”

You paused, noting the weight in his words. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Joel,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his in a quiet show of empathy. “That must be really hard.”

He gave a slight nod but didn’t say much more about it. You sensed he wasn’t ready to go deeper yet.

“So, what brings you to therapy today?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation gently back to the reason he was there. You hadn’t expected him to just unload everything all at once, but you hoped to start pulling out the layers, one by one.

Joel ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, his eyes darkening slightly. “Well… mostly just… I’ve been having trouble. With, uh… things. Life, y’know?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat again. “It’s been hard. Haven’t really felt like I’ve had much control over… well, anything.”

You nodded, the silence between you feeling comfortable enough to allow him space without pressure. “That sounds difficult. But it’s good that you’re here. I know it’s not easy to take that first step.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared into his coffee, and you could feel the weight of his words hanging in the air. You made a mental note to keep the session light for now, to let him open up when he was ready. You could sense this wasn’t going to be a quick fix — that this was going to take time, patience, and a lot of trust.

The quiet moments that followed were filled with the warmth of the coffee and the soft sounds of your voice as you guided him through the session, making sure he felt heard and understood.

As you continued, you couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of connection with Joel — even if it was subtle. He wasn’t saying much, but the little gestures, the brief moments when his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke about the hard things… it all made you realize that, maybe, this therapy thing was going to be a lot more complicated than you’d originally thought. And maybe, just maybe, there was something else simmering just beneath the surface.

Time had slipped by quietly, like the gentle ticking of an unseen clock. You hadn’t even realized how quickly the hour passed until there was a lull in the conversation—a natural pause that signaled the end.

Joel shifted on the couch, clearing his throat as if to bring himself back to the present. You offered him a small, warm smile as you closed your notepad and tucked your pen behind your ear. “That’ll be it for today,” you said softly. “Do you have a way to pay, or…?”

Joel looked at you for a second. And then, without a word, he reached into the pocket of his worn jacket and pulled out a small ziplock bag filled with a generous amount of dried weed. He held it out with a completely straight face, as if this was the most normal form of payment in the world.

You blinked once. Then twice. Your lips parted slightly in surprise as your brows lifted. “Seriously?” you asked, your voice somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Joel didn’t flinch. “Well I suppose you don’t take cards,” he muttered, a hint of defensiveness laced with deadpan humor. “Figured this might do.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, but your hand reached forward anyway. “You realize this isn’t exactly standard practice,” you said, taking the bag from him between two fingers, the contact brief—but still electric.

“Neither is showin’ up to therapy in fuzzy slippers and shorts,” he shot back with a slow smirk.

Touché.

You tilted your head, smirking right back, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you walked over to your bag and casually dropped the weed inside, your movements slow, deliberate. When you turned back around, Joel was already watching you with that same look in his eyes—somewhere between curiosity and hunger.

“I guess we’re even,” you said quietly, your voice a little lower now, like it belonged in a different kind of conversation.

He didn’t answer, just stood there. Big. Still. Tense.

You walked him to the door, silence trailing after you both like a second presence. As you opened it, cold air swept in from outside, brushing over your skin, raising goosebumps on your thighs.

Joel didn’t step out immediately. He lingered, turning back to face you, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing something. Or maybe just trying to convince himself not to do something he’d regret.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was soft now. Almost intimate.

You nodded. “Of course.”

The air felt tight. Like something had been said without actually being spoken.

And then he left. The door clicked shut, and you exhaled.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just stood there, the quiet of your home closing in around you, but your thoughts loud as hell.

Joel Miller had this… presence. Something raw, heavy, carved out of scars and silence. He was clearly complicated—guarded. But under all that gruffness, there was something else. Something that made you want to crack him open and see what was underneath.

And maybe that was exactly what scared you.

He was your client. And that alone should be enough to slam every door inside you shut. But your heart didn’t seem to get the memo. Because it was still beating hard. Still remembering the way his voice dipped low when he thanked you. The way his eyes flicked down your legs. The way his hand brushed yours when he handed over the weed.

You bit your lip, suddenly aware of how warm your skin felt. No. No, no. You couldn’t let yourself feel that. Not for him. Not now.

Still… the scent of his jacket lingered in the air. And so did the strange ache in your chest.

And deep down, where you wouldn’t even let the thought fully form, you wondered: What would happen… if those lines blurred?

The next day…

You were still adjusting. To Jackson. To the cold mornings and quiet streets. To the fact that life here, while safer than the world outside the gates, still pulsed with tension. People wore their grief like layers of clothing, and every client that knocked on your door carried more than just pain—they carried stories they didn’t know how to tell.

You were getting used to that, too.

The morning had been busy. Three clients before lunch, each one with their own shadows. You were sipping lukewarm tea, organizing your notes, when there was a knock at the door. You glanced at the clock. Not your usual appointment window. You opened the door.

And there he was.

Joel.

Again.

He looked the same, rough edges, tired eyes, that same guarded posture, but something about him felt… different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe you were different, now that you’d seen the way his eyes softened when he smiled. The way his voice dipped when he said your name.

This time, you were dressed more… professionally. A soft knit sweater that hugged your waist, black jeans, cozy socks. No shorts. No slippers. But his eyes still flicked over you in that same slow, burning way.

“Hi,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Of course not. Come in.”

He walked past you with that heavy, confident step, and for a second—just a second—you let your eyes trace the shape of his back. The way his shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The worn denim that clung to his legs a little too well.

You closed the door and followed him into the room. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, looking around like he was taking in your space again. He glanced at the small candle flickering on the shelf, the books stacked on your desk, the mug of tea you hadn’t finished.

He looked at you.

“You changed the slippers,” he murmured.

You laughed. “Figured I should look like a professional, at least once a week.”

Joel’s mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. Almost.

Once he was seated, you grabbed your notebook and sat across from him, legs crossed at the knee—but not as carelessly as last time. Still, his eyes caught the movement. You felt it. That flicker of awareness. That quiet hum beneath the surface.

“So,” you started, clicking your pen open, “two sessions in two days… should I be flattered?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. “Didn’t have much else to do,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a glowing review of my therapeutic technique.”

His lips curved slightly. “You’re better than you think.” Your cheeks warmed, and not from the candlelight.

As the session began, it felt… different. More open. Joel still spoke in fragments, in low tones and unfinished sentences, but he let himself be a little more present. He let you ask more. He even answered a few things without looking away.

You talked about routine. About Jackson. About Ellie, vaguely. About the cold. And somewhere in there, between the casual and the careful, you realized you liked having him there. You liked the sound of his voice when it got quiet. You liked the way he sat—arms loose, legs apart, so confidently in his own skin.

And you hated how aware you were of it.

You were his therapist.

But he was… him.

A man who looked at you like he wanted to figure you out just as badly as you wanted to peel away his walls.

You didn’t let your mind wander too far. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on your hands. On your lips when you spoke. On the curve of your neck when you leaned over to write.

He wasn’t good at hiding that kind of thing.

And when the session ended, and he stood up again, the air felt heavier. Like something had built between you. Something you were both pretending not to feel.

He said goodbye quietly. Not rushed. Like he wanted to stay. You closed the door behind him. Pressed your back to it. And breathed. This was going to be harder than you thought.

He hadn’t planned it like this. He hadn’t planned on coming every goddamn day.

At first, he told himself it was just necessity. He needed the help. Needed someone to listen. Someone who wasn’t Tommy, who wasn’t Maria, who didn’t already have a whole image of who he was supposed to be.

But deep down, he knew. It wasn’t just about talking. It was about you.

Every morning, he woke up with that same battle inside his chest. Don’t go. She’s too young. She’s too good. You’re just another broken old man.

And yet, by noon, he was knocking on your door.

You never said no. Never even hinted that he was a bother. You smiled every time, led him inside, sat across from him with that soft, warm look that made the walls around him crack just a little more each session.

And somehow, after a week, you had more in your stash of supplies than half of Jackson.

Joel didn’t always have cash, or whatever passed for it these days, but he paid you with what he could. Bottles of whiskey. Extra ammo. A damn nice winter jacket one time.

He wasn’t sure if you actually needed all of it.

But you took it. You smiled. You made him feel like he wasn’t just a burden.

Today, when he knocked, you greeted him in a cozy-looking sweater, leggings, hair tied into bun but with a few strands loose around your face. Casual. Effortless. Dangerous.

He sat down, like he always did, heavy boots thudding against the floor.

He noticed, without meaning to, that he didn’t feel as stiff anymore. His arms weren’t crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw wasn’t clenched into stone.

You smiled, scribbling something into your notebook. “You’re getting more comfortable,” you said, almost like you were thinking out loud.

Joel grunted, not trusting himself to say much more. He knew he was softening around you. He just wasn’t sure if it was a good thing.

You started the session, asking him about his week, about Ellie, about the community. And then, you noticed it, something shifted in his expression. Something dark passed through his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked gently. Joel hesitated.

“It’s stupid,” he muttered finally, shaking his head.

“Nothing’s stupid,” you said. “If it’s bothering you, it matters.”

He leaned back, rubbing his palms over his jeans, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he had.

“It’s just… ain’t easy. Bein’ around people. Even now. After everything. I keep thinkin’ I’m just gonna fuck it all up somehow.”

You nodded, your voice soft and steady. “That’s a very real fear.”

You let that sit for a moment. And then, before you could stop yourself, you asked:

“…Can I ask you something a little more personal?”

Joel’s eyes flicked up, guarded but curious.

“Sure,” he said gruffly.

You cleared your throat. Your fingers tightened just a little around your pen.

“How… how has everything affected your, uh… intimacy? Relationships? Sex life?”

The moment the word sex left your mouth, it was like you set off a bomb in the room.

Joel’s entire body stiffened. He blinked at you like he hadn’t heard right. Like you’d just punched him in the face.

And then, the images hit him so fast he barely had time to react. You. Bent over that little couch. Your soft sweater riding up your hips. His hands all over your skin. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your—

Shit.

His face went red. His leg started bouncing uncontrollably. He scratched the back of his neck, shifted in his seat. He couldn’t even look at you.

You, meanwhile, tried to keep your face professional, casual—but inside, your stomach was flipping over itself. You had asked questions like that a hundred times before. But never like this. Never with him.

“Sorry if that’s too personal,” you said quickly, trying to save him. “It’s a common question in therapy. It’s important.”

Joel finally managed to clear his throat.

“No, it’s… it’s fine. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. He still couldn’t meet your eyes. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to focus. Trying not to imagine what he had imagined when you said that word.

Joel shifted again, the denim of his jeans pulling uncomfortably tight against him. Jesus Christ. He needed to get out of here.

You gave him a way out, changing the subject, making a small note in your notebook without pushing him further. But the damage was done.

When the session ended, Joel stood up a little too quickly, mumbling a goodbye. You watched him go, heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to admit. Joel barely made it down the steps before realizing he was fucking hard.

He cursed under his breath, tugging at his jacket, willing the blood to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. All because you had said one word. One word. And now, he was ruined.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Ever since he’d left your place, he’d been a fucking mess.

The cold air bit at his skin, the crunch of snow under his boots was deafening, but none of it registered. All he could see was you.

The way you’d looked at him when you asked that question. The way your tongue had peeked out just barely to wet your bottom lip. The way your legs had crossed, that slow, lazy move that had damn near stopped his heart.

He felt sick, alive, starving. Every thought in his head was of you—and half of them were so filthy, so wrong, he should’ve been struck down on the spot. Goddamn old man, get a grip. But he couldn’t.

He got home fast, faster than usual. Slammed the door behind him like he could shut the images out.

He tossed his coat onto the nearest chair, paced the room like a caged animal.

Coffee. Maybe coffee would help.

His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the kettle. He poured himself a cup, burned his tongue on the first sip, cursed under his breath.

But the warmth did nothing to calm the fire raging in his blood. Your voice kept replaying in his head.

Sex life. He pictured you whispering it. Moaning it. Screaming it. His cock twitched painfully against the seam of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

He tried sitting. Tried distracting himself, staring at the fire crackling in the hearth. But his mind betrayed him—again and again. He saw you across from him, not in leggings and a sweater, but naked. Skin flushed, eyes heavy, mouth parted.

He imagined his hands on you, calloused fingers sliding up your thighs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin until you begged him—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Joel stood, breathing hard, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans. There was no dignity left. No sense in fighting it.

He staggered to his bedroom, barely managing to shove his jeans down over his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and aching and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a rough hand around himself, the touch making him groan deep in his chest.

Head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, he started stroking. Slow at first. Long, tight pulls, just enough to ease the pressure without giving in fully.

But the images kept flashing behind his eyes. You, straddling his lap, grinding down against him. You, hands twisted in his hair, guiding his mouth wherever you wanted it. You, whimpering his name. His strokes sped up.

His thighs tensed, muscles flexing. His hips jerked up into his hand, chasing the friction. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from making noise—but a few low, broken moans still escaped.

“Fuck… baby…” he growled into the empty room, voice wrecked.

The firelight flickered across his bare chest, highlighting the taut lines of muscle, the sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin. He squeezed tighter, pumping faster, chasing that edge.

His hand was rough, almost punishing, but he didn’t care. He deserved the pain. Deserved the shame. He thought about your soft, warm cunt wrapped around him. Thought about what you’d sound like when he finally pushed inside.

That did it.

Joel’s whole body seized up, a shudder ripped through him as he came, thick ropes spilling over his fist, down his knuckles, onto the floor.

“Goddamn—fuck—” he groaned, riding it out, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He sagged back against the bed, panting, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he just laid there. One arm thrown over his eyes. Breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

The guilt crept in almost immediately. He shouldn’t have done it. Not over you. Not over someone so kind. So pure.

But even as he wiped his hand on a rag and dragged his jeans back up, one thing was terrifyingly clear: He was fucked. And not just because he couldn’t get you out of his head. But because he didn’t want to.

Joel hadn’t even planned on coming to this stupid ‘party’. Truth be told, crowds weren’t his thing anymore—too many people, too many memories.

But Tommy had dragged him out, shoved a drink in his hand, and told him to at least pretend to be part of the community. So there he was, leaning against the wall with a half-empty glass of whiskey, feeling like a damn ghost watching life happen around him.

And then you walked in. Joel’s world fucking stoppe. You were dressed… Shit, he didn’t even have words for it. It wasn’t flashy or revealing. You weren’t even trying. But you were stunning. Soft and effortless and so goddamn beautiful it made his chest ache.

Joel swallowed hard, feeling that familiar pressure start building low in his gut. You spotted them, him and Tommy, and made your way over, a warm, shy smile lighting up your face.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice a little breathless from the cold outside. “I think we’ve met,” you said, nodding toward Tommy. “You welcomed me my first day.”

Tommy grinned wide, gave a little dramatic bow. “That’s me. Jackson’s official welcome wagon.”

You laughed and then turned to Joel.

“And of course,” you added, softer now, “I know Joel. From… work.”

Your eyes flicked to his and something charged the air between you. Joel stiffened. He managed a grunt that was supposed to be a greeting but sounded more like he was choking.

After a beat, too long to be normal, you excused yourself politely, weaving back into the crowd. Joel stared after you like a man who’d just watched salvation walk away.

Tommy elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“You blind, or just stupid?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“She was lookin’ at you like you hung the damn moon, man,” Tommy said, incredulous. “Christ, Joel. She was bitin’ her lip, twiddlin’ her damn fingers, swayin’ like she was hopin’ you’d just throw her over your shoulder right then and there.”

Joel glared at him. “You’re full of shit.”

Tommy just laughed, slapped him on the back. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, old man.”

Joel tried to shake it off. Tried to act like his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. But now he couldn’t stop watching you.

You joined a group of women near one of the tables, smiling, laughing, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way that made his gut twist painfully. Joel sipped his whiskey, pretending not to look.

Failing miserably.

He watched you laugh at something one of the women said, your head tilting back, that smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. Wanted to be the one you looked at with that kind of light in your eyes.

And then, a man joined your group. Joel’s stomach dropped. The guy was young, maybe early thirties. Tall. Smiling too damn wide at you. Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Every time you laughed at something that punk said, Joel’s blood boiled hotter. He gripped his glass tighter, fingers whitening around the rim. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve had some damn self-control. But he couldn’t.

Every move you made, every glance, every soft smile, was a hook digging deeper under his skin. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Across the room, at the bar, Ellie and Dina were getting harassed by some drunk asshole spitting slurs, sneering like a damn fool.

He stiffened, instincts firing before his brain even caught up. Ellie stepped toward the guy, pointing at that man, eyes blazing.

“The fuck did you just say?!” she snapped, voice sharp and cutting. Joel didn’t wait.

His body moved on pure muscle memory. He crossed the floor in a heartbeat, grabbing the guy by the collar and shoving him with brutal force—so hard the bastard hit the ground with a grunt.

The man glared up at Joel from the floor, his face twisted in anger. Joel stared him down, his voice low and lethal: “Get the hell outta here.”

The room was deathly silent now.

Maria helped the guy stand up from the floor, both of them disappearing into the crowd without another word.

Joel finally looked at Ellie. She was standing frozen, blinking like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she barked, voice loud enough to carry. Joel didn’t answer.

His jaw was locked tight, muscles ticking under his skin, and his fingers flexed helplessly at his sides.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

The words hit harder than any punch. He looked around, saw the judgment, the confusion, and then his gaze locked on you.

You were standing frozen by the table, one hand over your mouth, wide-eyed. He hated the look on your face. Hated that he’d been the cause of it.

Joel dropped his eyes, shame burning hot under his skin.

“Right,” he muttered roughly, voice almost breaking, and without another word, he pushed through the crowd and disappeared into the cold night.

You couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t even breathe.

The way Joel had looked at you, like he was breaking apart right in front of you. You whispered a quick apology to the group you were with and slipped out into the cold night after him, heart pounding in your chest.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Didn’t even know if you could fix it. But you had to try. Because somehow, somewhere between those stolen glances and charged silences, Joel Miller had carved out a place inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

You hurried after him, boots crunching over the snow, your breath forming shaky clouds in the freezing air.

“Joel!” you called out, but he didn’t turn.

He just kept walking, his broad shoulders tense, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets.

You picked up your pace, heart pounding—not just from the cold—and finally, when you were close enough, you reached out and touched his shoulder.

Joel flinched. He stopped in his tracks and turned around sharply, his face hard, eyes stormy—

But the moment his gaze landed on you, his expression softened. The anger drained from his face like melting ice.

For a few long seconds, neither of you said a word. The world around you seemed to fall away, swallowed by the soft hiss of falling snow and your own uneven breathing.

Finally, you found your voice, small and uncertain:

“Are you… okay?”

Joel exhaled a heavy breath, visible in the cold, and gave a stiff nod. That was all he could manage.

You shuffled your boots awkwardly in the snow, feeling stupid, feeling young in a way you never had before.

Like your presence was supposed to fix something—but you had no idea how.

Still… just standing there next to him, it somehow made things a little less heavy. A little warmer, despite the biting air.

Joel looked at you again, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You cold?” he asked, voice rough.

You shook your head quickly. He nodded once, lips pressing into a thin line. And then he said it, low and reluctant: “I should… head home.”

He was already turning away when your voice stopped him.

“Wait—”

You shifted nervously on your feet, then blurted out before you could second-guess yourself,

“Do you… want some company?”

The moment the words left your mouth, panic bloomed in your chest. Was that weird? Was that unprofessional? Was that even allowed?

Joel froze.

You could almost see the war playing out inside him—the instinct to say no, to stay distant, battling the overwhelming pull he felt toward you.

But in the end, he couldn’t tell you no. He just jerked his head slightly, beckoning you to follow.

Joel unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for you. You slipped in, your fingers already fumbling to untie the soft jacket he’d once traded for his session.

Joel silently helped you, his calloused hands brushing against your arms as he slid the heavy fabric off your shoulders.

You shivered, definitley not from the cold.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both inside a bubble of tense, humming silence. Joel cleared his throat, glancing at you awkwardly.

“Uh… coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” you said quickly, needing something, anything, to do with your hands, your mind, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You sat down carefully at his small, worn kitchen table, feeling absurdly out of place.

The chair creaked under you, the faint smell of coffee and old wood wrapping around you like a too-tight blanket. Joel busied himself at the counter, his broad back facing you.

You watched the way his shoulders moved under his jacket, the way his fingers fumbled slightly with the coffee canister.

He wasn’t as steady as he wanted to seem. And neither were you. For the first time in your life as a therapist, you had no idea what to say.

No idea how to reach the man standing a few feet away without falling headfirst into something neither of you would be able to undo.

Joel was in hell. Not just because of tonight—though that alone had probably shattered what little trust Ellie still had in him, and would no doubt make him a target of whispers in Jackson for weeks—

But because you were here. Sitting in his kitchen. Looking at him with those wide, worried eyes that made him want to fall to his knees.

He clutched the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles whitening. If he made one wrong move, if he let himself feel too much—

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop. And he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

Without saying a word, he grabbed two chipped mugs and poured coffee into each, the rich aroma filling the heavy silence between you.

Once he finished, he shrugged off his jacket, hanging it carefully on the hook right next to yours — so close, almost touching.

Only then did he return, walking back over to where you sat, still quiet, still unsure.

He handed you one of the mugs, and as you reached out to take it, your fingers brushed against his.

The contact was brief, feather-light, but it sent an electric jolt through your body — and clearly through his, too.

Both of you froze for a fraction of a second, your eyes locking, breath caught between you.

It was so quick, so subtle… but so undeniably there.

Joel cleared his throat lowly, trying to brush it off, and finally sat down opposite you, his large hands curling around his mug like it was his only lifeline to reality. The steam rose between you two, swirling in the cold air that seeped through the old house’s walls.

There was a long pause — neither of you seemed to know how to start — until suddenly, both of you spoke at the same time.

You stopped. He stopped.

An awkward, soft laugh escaped you, and Joel gave a small huff of amusement through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“You first,” Joel said eventually, nodding toward you, his voice gruff but surprisingly gentle, always the gentleman, even now.

You shifted slightly in your seat, taking a breath.

“I just… I just want you to know,” you started carefully, your fingers nervously tracing the handle of your mug, “that what you did back there? I get it. You were just trying to protect someone you care about. And… you shouldn’t feel bad for that.” Your voice was soft, earnest.

Joel let out a rough, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to accept your kindness.

“I fucked everythin’ up,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “Don’t even know how to fix it now.”

Then, with a defeated sigh, Joel buried his face in his hands.

The sight made your chest ache — you had to physically stop yourself from reaching out, from covering his rough, work-worn hands with your own.

Not now. Not when he was so vulnerable. You couldn’t cross that line… not yet.

Your heart was pounding painfully against your ribs when you suddenly remembered something. You had brought a little “emergency” with you to the party, just in case, and it seemed like the perfect time for it now.

Without thinking too much, you jumped up from your chair, making Joel lift his head in slight surprise.

You fumbled through the pocket of your jacket, finally pulling out a small bag of weed with a victorious grin.

Joel quirked an eyebrow at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up in faint amusement.

“Seriously?” he asked, voice half incredulous, half fond, when he saw what you were holding.

You nodded enthusiastically, the grin not leaving your face. And for the first time that night, Joel genuinely smiled.

You ended up sitting closer together on the old, battered couch, sharing a joint, letting the slow haze of warmth and laughter ease the tension that had been suffocating both of you all evening.

The conversation flowed easier now, soft jokes and even softer glances exchanged between you two. Joel’s shoulders, always so rigid, finally started to relax. His laugh, low and raspy, filled the room in small bursts.

And you felt a kind of peace you hadn’t known you were missing. For a while, in that little pocket of time, it didn’t matter what had happened at the party. It didn’t matter how badly Joel thought he had ruined everything.

It was just the two of you. Just coffee-stained mugs cooling on the table. The laughter between you faded into a lingering quiet, warm and a little awkward, as if neither of you wanted to be the one to break it.

You leaned forward slightly, reaching for your cup, your fingers brushing the ceramic as you brought it to your lips for a small sip. The coffee had cooled a little, but the warmth still felt good in your hands.

As you set the cup back down, a few loose strands of hair slipped into your face. Before you could lift your hand to brush them away, Joel moved. Quietly, instinctively.

His fingers were rough, calloused from years of work, but the way he touched you was anything but.

He tucked the loose strands gently behind your ear, his knuckles barely grazing your cheek. Your eyes met. Locked.

The air between you turned electric, heavy and trembling like a taut string ready to snap.

Joel’s gaze flickered, your lips, your eyes, your lips again, his breathing shallow, heart thundering so loudly he was sure you could hear it. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His hand lingered, sliding almost hesitantly down, until his palm was resting at the nape of your neck. Large, warm, protective.

Holding you there like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish. Your breath caught in your throat.

Joel swallowed hard. His thumb moved ever so slightly, brushing against your skin, the softest, slowest motion—intimate beyond words.

Every fiber of your being screamed for him to close the distance.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in that fragile space between hesitation and surrender.

And then, Joel leaned in. Slow, deliberate. His forehead almost touched yours. His nose just grazed your cheek. His breath, ragged, fanned over your lips.

He waited, giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

And when your mouth met his, it was soft at first, trembling, full of all the things that had been left unsaid for far too long. It was barely a kiss. Joel’s lips just brushed yours, the softest ghost of a touch, as if he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

The moment he felt your slight intake of breath, your stunned stillness, he immediately pulled back.

His hand left your neck in a flash, and he leaned away, guilt flashing across his features.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pained, his eyes darting away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

But you smiled. A slow, mischievous, almost dangerous curve of your lips. Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was just him—but suddenly you felt bold. Hungry.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping into a teasing murmur, “in therapy, touch is supposed to be strictly off-limits.”

Your eyes glinted, a spark of wickedness dancing there. Joel blinked at you, completely thrown off by your shift, struggling to catch up.

“And yet,” you leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his jaw, “sometimes… rules are made to be broken, aren’t they, Mr. Miller?”

Before he could say anything, before he could ruin it with another apology, you kissed him.

Properly, this time. Your mouth pressed firmly to his, tasting him, demanding him.

Joel groaned against your lips, low and guttural, like something deep inside him finally snapped free.

His hands found your waist, strong fingers digging into your sides, desperate to feel more of you.

You moved instinctively, climbing into his lap, straddling him without even thinking, your thighs bracketing his hips.

The second your body settled over him, he let out another soft, broken sound, and you could feel him, already hard against you, hot and throbbing through his jeans.

You rocked your hips just a little, testing, and his hands clamped down harder, a silent plea for you to stop torturing him.

He was kissing you now like he couldn’t get enough—slow, then deep, then messily hungry, tongues tangling, teeth grazing.

His palms were everywhere: your back, your thighs, your waist, exploring every inch of you like he needed to memorize it.

You felt his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse.

You were both half-wild already, and yet somehow still trying to hold on, trying not to fall into it too fast. But it was no use.

His salt-and-pepper beard scraped deliciously against your mouth, rough and warm, sending little sparks of heat down your spine every time he shifted closer.

You could feel the slight burn of it on your lips, your cheeks, even your jaw, and it made you crave more. More of him, more of this brutal tenderness he gave you without even thinking.

Joel wasn’t letting you breathe. He wasn’t letting you go. His big body caged you in, his strong hands gripping you like he was terrified you might slip away. But the truth was, you didn’t want to go anywhere. You wanted to drown in him.

The coffee still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the deep scent of Joel’s skin—warm, musky, and grounding.

Outside, the snow was falling harder, the soft hiss of it against the windows making everything inside feel even hotter, even heavier.

The world had faded away, leaving only the frantic beat of your hearts crashing together.

You whimpered against his mouth when he kissed you harder, rougher, desperate.

And you were already so wet, feeling the damp heat pooling between your thighs, your soaked panties sticking uncomfortably against you—but it only made you ache for him even more.

Both of you knew this was wrong. You knew there was still time to stop—to pull away, to breathe, to talk. But neither of you even considered it.

You were already too far gone, drunk on him, on the weed, on the days of tension finally snapping like a brittle thread.

Your hands tangled in his greying hair, pulling sharply when he bit at your lower lip, and Joel groaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated right through your core.

He shifted his grip from your face to your hips, hauling you closer against him, grinding your body against his aching hardness.

His palms slid lower, kneading your ass, fingers digging in possessively, making you shudder and moan against him.

Between ragged kisses, he muttered against your lips, voice rough and breaking apart:

“Goddamn… been waitin’ so fuckin’ long for this…”

Another kiss, deeper, hungrier.

“Dreamt about this… ‘bout you…”

Each word hit you like a lightning bolt, setting your whole body on fire.

You answered by kissing him even harder, almost feral now, desperate to feel every inch of him, every ounce of need he poured into you.

The air around you was humid and heavy, thick with the scent of coffee, weed, sweat, and snow-melt leaking from your clothes. It was suffocating in the best way. It smelled like Joel. It smelled like home. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the hard bulge in Joel’s jeans. The friction made your head spin, sparks of unbearable pleasure shooting through your core with every slow roll of your body.

You whimpered into his mouth, feeling the way his whole body stiffened under you—and that was it.

That was all it took to make Joel snap.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, and in the next second, he attacked your neck with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs.

You cried out his name, loud, raw, desperate, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt, digging into the strong muscles of his back.

He didn’t stop, he licked, sucked, bit into the tender skin of your neck like he was branding you, leaving dark, possessive marks that you were going to wear for days.

Your throat, your collarbone, even the top of your chest—he left no space untouched. And all the while, your hips never stopped moving.

Your body was chasing the friction shamelessly, rolling and grinding against him as Joel buried his face in your neck, groaning, losing his fucking mind over the way you felt on top of him.

The air around you turned even thicker, hotter, electrified with raw, animalistic want. Every breath you took was shaky, every sound you made was ripped straight from your chest.

When he finally tore himself away from your neck, both of you stared at each other—wild, disheveled, drowning in need. No words were spoken. They weren’t needed.

Your hands were trembling when you reached for the hem of his shirt, and Joel didn’t even hesitate.

He grabbed the back of it and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room. The sight of his bare chest—broad, scarred, covered in coarse dark hair—made your knees weak.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out, running your hands over his warm, hard skin, feeling the raw strength hidden underneath.

Joel hissed through his teeth when your palms slid over his ribs and up to his chest—but when you brushed your thumbs over his nipples, he growled, low and dangerous, and grabbed you again, desperate and rough.

Now it was his turn.

His fingers tugged at your clothes, fumbling with the buttons, the zippers, the seams—every new inch of bare skin he uncovered made the room spin faster, made his touch rougher, needier. Your shirt fell to the floor. Then your bra.

Joel’s calloused palms immediately covered your breasts, squeezing them, kneading them, making you whimper and arch into his touch.

His eyes were dark, hungry, absolutely wrecked as he stared at you like you were something holy and forbidden all at once.

Each piece of clothing that hit the floor made the air thicken even more, made the space between your bodies buzz like a live wire.

You could feel it with every trembling breath, every desperate glance—the terrifying, undeniable truth: there was no turning back now.

Joel couldn’t keep his hands off you anymore.

He slid his rough palms down your sides, gripping your hips with a strength that made your thighs tremble.

His mouth was all over you—lips, teeth, tongue—claiming every inch he could reach.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low and reverent.

“Could stare at you all damn day… could spend the rest of my life touchin’ you.”

You whimpered at the sound of his praise, your entire body lighting up, clenching with desperate need.

Joel’s hands slid between your thighs and with a sharp tug, he ripped your panties apart like they were made of paper.

“Joel!” you gasped, looking down at the ruined fabric in horror.

“Those were expensive!”

He just chuckled darkly, tossing the torn lace somewhere behind him without a second thought.

“I’ll get ya a whole goddamn drawer full of ‘em,” he said, voice thick with hunger.

“Right now I need you more than I need my next fuckin’ breath.”

You barely had time to recover before he dove between your legs, leaving open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh, growling against your skin.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate, needing to feel all of him.

Joel helped you, cursing under his breath as he shrugged out of his jeans.

What you saw made your heart stutter.

The bulge straining against his underwear was massive. You froze for a second, mouth dry, staring up at him in awe. Joel noticed, of course, and that shit-eating grin he gave you almost made you combust on the spot.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he teased, voice full of wicked amusement.

“Didn’t expect me to be this big?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came out—only a needy whimper. Joel just laughed, low and cocky, and slid his underwear down.

And holy fuck—you weren’t sure if it was the weed still fogging your brain or just the sheer size of him, but the moment his thick, heavy cock sprang free, your mouth watered instantly.

Without even thinking, you slid off his lap and dropped to your knees between his legs. Joel’s eyes widened slightly, his chest heaving.

“Darlin'… you don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft, hungry smile.

“I want to,” you whispered, voice wrecked with need, locking your gaze with his.

You wrapped your hand around his thick shaft, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your palm,

and then you leaned forward, flattening your tongue against the head and swirling it teasingly.

Joel cursed violently, his hands flying to your hair.

“Fuck, baby… that’s it… just like that,” he groaned, threading his fingers into your hair but letting you set the pace.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me… goddamn.”

You bobbed your head slowly at first, taking him deeper inch by inch, feeling the silky skin over the steel hardness underneath.

The salty taste of precum spread across your tongue, making your core clench even harder.

Joel’s thighs tensed on either side of you, his breathing turning ragged. “That’s it, sweetheart… look so pretty with your mouth full of me…”

You hummed around him, sending vibrations up his length, and Joel’s hips jerked involuntarily, forcing a deeper thrust into your mouth.

You moaned in response, the needy, desperate sound vibrating against his cock.

Joel’s fingers tightened in your hair, but he was still careful, letting you control how deep you took him.

The whole room was filled with obscene sounds-wet, messy, desperate. The way you sucked him, the way Joel’s ragged groans filled the heavy, hazy air. It was primal. Raw.

A need that had been building for what felt like a lifetime—and now it was all crashing down in this one electric, filthy moment.

Outside, you could barely hear the wind howling against the windows,

but inside, the only storm was the one raging between you two.

The smell of coffee, sex, and Joel’s own rugged scent filled your lungs with every gasping breath you took.

And Joel couldn’t stop looking at you, couldn’t stop moaning your name in that broken, reverent way that made you feel like the center of his whole goddamn universe.

Your lips wrapped tighter around Joel’s cock, feeling just how massive he really was. Your jaw ached slightly from the stretch, but you didn’t dare stop, didn’t want to stop.

The thick weight of him filled your mouth obscenely, the silky skin sliding against your tongue with every slow, deliberate pull of your lips. The taste of him was salty, heavy, and completely addictive.

Your hands slid up his thighs, feeling the way his muscles were tense, locked tight like he was struggling not to move. His skin was burning hot under your palms, every tiny twitch betraying how close he already was.

Joel was breathing harshly above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. He had one hand still tangled gently but firmly in your hair, letting you take the lead, but the other hand reached down, grabbing your wrist, squeezing it tightly as if to ground himself, to stop himself from losing control.

“Fuck, baby… so good… so fuckin’ good…” he hissed between clenched teeth.

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, feeling the thick, pulsing vein along the underside of his cock drag against your tongue.He was impossibly hard, but his skin was velvety soft, warm, and alive in your mouth.

The weight of him made your lips stretch wide, drool beginning to spill from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural—and threw his head back against the couch, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought the urge to buck his hips into your mouth.

But he couldn’t hold back completely.

Every so often, his hips jerked forward sharply, driving his cock deeper into your throat, and you gagged lightly around him, tears springing to your eyes.

“Shit—sorry, I—” he panted, voice breaking with restraint.

“Can’t fuckin’ help it… you feel too damn good…”

You whimpered around him, the vibrations making him curse again.

Your thighs rubbed together desperately, because the way Joel was falling apart for you was driving you insane. The aching, throbbing need between your legs was unbearable, slick dripping onto the floor beneath you, but you stayed focused, desperate to make him fall apart.

Joel’s hand in your hair tightened just slightly, not forcing, not controlling, but anchoring himself, like he needed you to keep him tethered to this moment.

His balls were heavy, full, drawn up tight against his body.

You could feel the way they shifted as he struggled to hold himself back, his whole body shuddering under your touch. His fingers caressed your wrist, a silent worship, almost trembling with how badly he wanted you.

Joel’s breathing grew heavier, rougher, more desperate by the second.

You could feel it in the way his thighs trembled under your palms, the way his hand in your hair tightened—not rough, but pleading, as if he was begging for release.

His cock twitched against your tongue, swelling even more impossibly thick as his whole body tensed.

“Fuck… gonna—” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken and raw.

You quickened your pace slightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, and that was all it took. With a deep, guttural groan that seemed to tear itself straight from his chest, Joel came.

His hips jerked up uncontrollably, and thick, hot spurts of cum filled your mouth, salty and slightly bitter, coating your tongue and the back of your throat.

You moaned softly at the taste—musky, masculine, entirely him—and swallowed instinctively, wanting to take all of him in.

Joel cursed again, a low, broken “Jesus…” escaping his lips, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

His head fell back, exposing the strong line of his throat, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, trembling under the intensity of his orgasm.

He kept one shaking hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles went white. You pulled back slowly, letting his softening cock slip from your lips with a lewd, wet sound.

A little bit of his release dripped from the corner of your mouth, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand, cheeks burning with heat and pride.

Your eyes met his, Joel’s were dark, wild, overwhelmed, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was his heavy breathing and the distant hum of the night outside.

He reached for you blindly, pulling you up onto his lap, cradling you against his chest as if you were something fragile he needed to protect.

“You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispered against your hair, voice still shaky.

“So damn good…”

You nuzzled into him, heart pounding, still trembling yourself, not from fear or doubt, but from the raw, electric intensity of it all. You had made him come apart at the seams. You had him falling apart for you.

And god, it made the pulsing ache between your thighs almost unbearable. Joel’s hands slid slowly up and down your back, steadying himself as much as you. But you could already feel it: the way his body was starting to react again, the slow, inevitable reignition of need simmering between you both.

He wasn’t done, and neither were you.

Still perched in Joel’s lap, your breathless laughter barely settled from what you just did, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

And in your softest, filthiest voice, you whispered, “You know…I’ve had a lot of clients, but none of them ever came this fast before, Mr. Miller.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt Joel’s whole body stiffen under you, like you’d lit a fuse. A low, almost animalistic growl rumbled deep in his chest.

Without a word, Joel flipped you over in one fluid, controlled movement, so now he was the one kneeling in front of you on the couch.

You gasped, startled, but before you could even think to say anything, Joel shot you a dark, wicked smirk — the kind of look that said you were absolutely, completely fucked — and grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide apart.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before Joel ducked down and devoured you. His tongue was hot and messy and desperate, lapping at your soaked core like he’d been starving for you for years.

The first stroke of his tongue up your slit made your entire body jerk, a strangled, broken moan ripping from your throat.

He groaned against you, the vibrations making your head fall back against the couch, your fingers immediately flying into his hair, grabbing at the silver-streaked strands in pure desperation.

Joel was relentless. His mouth was everywhere—licking, sucking, teasing your clit with maddening circles before sliding lower to dip into your entrance, tasting the very core of you.

You were already dripping, wetness coating his lips, his beard glistening under the soft, golden light of the room. He didn’t care. He wanted it messy. He wanted all of you.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head, but Joel only growled and pulled you even closer, locking his arms around your hips so you couldn’t get away. As if you’d ever want to.

The texture of his tongue was perfect—slightly rough, silky, impossibly skilled as he switched between broad strokes and tight, focused flicks. Your clit was throbbing, every nerve ending on fire, your whole body arching into his mouth.

Joel muttered filthy praises against your pussy between strokes, things like, “Taste so fuckin’ sweet, darlin',” and “Could stay down here forever,” each word sending a new rush of heat through your blood.

You sobbed his name, voice high and cracked, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel felt it, he knew you were close, and with a smug, satisfied hum, he slipped two thick fingers inside your fluttering hole, crooking them just right to hit that sweet, devastating spot.

The combination of his fingers stroking inside you and his mouth sucking mercilessly at your clit had you unraveling, fast.

Your body locked up, muscles spasming uncontrollably, a wild, broken cry tearing out of you as you came harder than you ever had in your life.

Joel didn’t stop, not through your shudders, not through your gasps, he licked and kissed you through every wave of your orgasm, savoring every last drop of your release.

Your wetness coated his chin, his lips, dripping messily onto the couch, onto his hands, but he didn’t fucking care.

You collapsed against the cushions, panting, utterly wrecked, your whole body still twitching from aftershocks.

He lifted his head from between your thighs, his lips glistening with you, and in his eyes burned that unbelievably dark, proud look.

He kept caressing your inner thighs for a moment longer, tracing slow, soothing circles with his fingertips to ease you through the lingering waves of pleasure.

Then he leaned closer and murmured in a rough, praising voice:

“Good girl… You did so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart.”

Your body almost trembled at his words — but both of you knew this was far from over.

Joel gave you a moment to catch your breath, his heavy breathing matching yours in the thick, charged air between you. You were glistening with sweat, skin flushed and trembling slightly, but to him, you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen. His cock, still painfully hard and throbbing, twitched at the sight of you spread out on the couch — all messy and ruined because of him.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

With a deep, desperate grunt, Joel climbed onto the couch, his strong hands sliding under you effortlessly. He shifted your body with ease, guiding you until you were lying flat beneath him. His massive frame hovered above, shadowing you completely, and for a moment, you just stared at each other.

Your glassy, tear-filled eyes met his — his were dark, wild, predatory. Like a starving wolf finally facing the meal he’d been denied for far too long. His broad chest heaved with each ragged breath, muscles taut with restraint.

Before moving further, Joel lowered his head slightly and gave you a subtle nod, silently asking for permission. And with a shy, eager little nod back, you gave it to him.

Joel lined himself up, his thick cock rubbing against your slick folds, and slowly began to push in.

The stretch was intense — he was so damn big that your walls fought to accommodate him, making you hiss sharply through your clenched teeth. Your nails instinctively dug into the hard planes of his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake, but Joel only groaned at the feeling. He welcomed it. He wanted it. Proof of how good he was making you feel.

He paused for a moment, his forehead pressing against yours, whispering a low, gravelly:

“Breathe… I got you…”

Then, with a deep, primal growl, Joel pushed the rest of the way in, bottoming out inside you.

You whimpered at the sudden fullness, your thighs trembling against his hips, but fuck — the feeling of being completely stretched around him, the heavy weight of him deep inside you, was absolutely addictive.

Joel pressed a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead, a shaky attempt to comfort you, to ground you.

And then, he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts at first. He wanted you to feel everything — every ridge, every pulsing vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls.

Each push knocked soft, helpless little whimpers from your throat. Each pull left you feeling devastatingly empty, only for him to fill you up again — harder, deeper, more desperate each time.

Joel kept one hand anchored firmly on your hip, the other sliding up to intertwine with your fingers above your head, pinning you down in the most delicious way.

His lips brushed your temple, whispering words between ragged breaths:

“So tight for me… made just for me, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Your mind was a whirlwind — your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else, your body trembling under the relentless, steady rhythm Joel set.

The sounds between you were filthy: the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of the couch under your shifting bodies, and the desperate, broken moans that neither of you could hold back anymore.

Outside, the night was quiet, the cool breeze whispering against the windows — but inside, the heat between you burned hotter than anything else.

A pulsing tension coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, fueled by Joel’s low growls and the constant, overwhelming friction of him dragging against your most sensitive spots.

He noticed it, of course he did — he could feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to pull him even deeper, to keep him inside forever.

Your second orgasm hit you like a violent, breathtaking wave.

It was louder this time, messier — a raw, guttural scream of Joel’s name tearing from your throat as your body seized and spasmed uncontrollably around him.

The world tilted violently, your vision swimming with stars, a sharp ringing filling your ears.

Your entire body was on fire, but at the same time — cold shivers raced down your spine, leaving you trembling and gasping for air like you’d been dragged under a riptide.

Your nails clawed desperately at Joel’s broad shoulders, leaving red, angry marks in your wake as your orgasm wracked through you.

Joel cursed under his breath, the sound low and almost desperate, as he drove into you a few more brutal, stuttering thrusts.

Then, with a deep, broken groan torn straight from his chest, he buried himself deep inside you one last time, and came hard.

His hips jerked against yours, pushing as deep as he could go while thick, hot pulses of his cum flooded your clenching core.

He couldn’t hold back, filling you up so completely it almost hurt, his whole body trembling with the force of his release.

A strangled, guttural version of your name spilled from his lips as he collapsed forward slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing heavily through his nose.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The world around you was nothing but your heartbeats hammering violently against each other’s skin, the room spinning slightly from the exertion — and from the lingering haze of the weed you’d both smoked earlier.

Joel finally shifted, gently easing out of you, and a messy mix of both of your releases immediately began to leak from between your legs, dripping onto the couch cushions below.

He hissed softly at the oversensitivity but didn’t move far — instead, he gathered you carefully into his arms, pulling you close against his sweaty, trembling chest.

You both collapsed back onto the couch — or what was left of it — tangled together, naked, sticky, sweaty, completely and utterly exhausted.

Joel wasn’t young anymore, and after what felt like an eternity without this kind of raw, consuming sex — it was hitting him hard.

You, overwhelmed from the double orgasm and the intense intimacy, could barely keep your eyes open.

Your head spun lazily, your body still twitching slightly in the aftermath, and the only thing grounding you was the heavy, protective weight of Joel wrapped around you.

There was a slow, sticky warmth still dripping between your legs — the mixture of your own release and Joel’s seed slowly seeping out — but you were both too far gone to care.

Joel’s cock, still slightly leaking, twitched weakly against your thigh as he finally gave in to sleep. You let yourself drift off too, tucked safely in his arms, surrounded by his scent, by the overwhelming sense of safety and belonging that you hadn’t even realized you were craving this badly.

The first thing that woke you up were the warm beams of sunlight slicing through the window, landing right across your closed eyelids.

You groaned softly, stretching out your sore, heavy limbs under the covers — and that’s when you realized…

You were in a bed. Under a blanket wearing a shirt. Your fingers brushed the fabric instinctively, recognizing the slightly worn, soft cotton and — unmistakably — Joel’s scent.

Earthy, musky, with that sharp trace of woodsmoke clinging to him like a second skin. It was his shirt, no doubt. Confused and groggy, you sat up, looking around in slow, cautious movements.

How the hell had you gotten here? As you pieced the memories together, it hit you all at once — like a slap across the face. The night before.

Joel.

The sex.

The weed.

You had slept with your client. Your older, rugged client you’d only known for about a week. You had slept with a man old enough to be your father. And you had gotten high as fuck with him beforehand.

Guilt and panic churned violently inside your gut, making your hands tremble as you dropped your face into your palms, groaning miserably.

What the fuck had you done?

But after a few moments of spiraling self-hatred, you forced yourself to pull it together. You needed your clothes. You needed to leave.

You stood up carefully, the oversized shirt barely covering the tops of your thighs, and looked around the room. Your clothes were nowhere in sight.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs as you tiptoed toward the door. The moment you opened them, the smell hit you. The rich, bitter coffee and Joel.

You froze for a moment before cautiously moving closer to the kitchen.

Joel was there, bustling around, wearing a loose, comfortable T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each small movement.

When he heard the door creak, he immediately turned around, his whole face lighting up with a soft, easy smile.

“Morning,” he drawled, his voice still deliciously rough from sleep.

He gestured to the chair across from him at the small kitchen table.

“Come sit’.”

You hesitated for a split second — your mind still a chaotic mess — but eventually shuffled over and sat down awkwardly.

You were honestly stunned.

Not just because of everything that had happened… But because Joel was still here. He hadn’t run off. He hadn’t left you alone, confused, and abandoned. He stayed. He even made coffee.

The conversation started light, typical morning chatter. He asked how you slept, if you were hungry, if you wanted sugar in your coffee…No mention of last night. No mention of the sex.

Just that soft, lazy morning vibe like you were… normal.

You sipped the rich, hot coffee, smiling shyly at him across the table, and he smiled right back, warm and genuine.

Your eyes eventually flicked to the worn leather watch strapped around his wrist, noticing the bullet hole scar near the band, and then panic suddenly punched you in the gut again.

What time was it? You had work!

You shot up from your chair, mumbling frantically about needing to get dressed, about being late — but Joel just chuckled under his breath, calm as ever.

“Relax,” he said, voice low and reassuring.

“I called Tommy. Told him you’re takin’ the day off. He let all your clients know. You’re good.”

You stared at him, stunned, not quite believing it.

But the way he said it, so confident, so casually protective, eventually made you sink back down into your seat, your heart still racing but slowly beginning to calm. You sipped your coffee again, feeling his steady gaze on you.

The silence that followed was… thick. Not hostile, not cold, just full. Only the quiet clink of a coffee cup being set down or the occasional creak of the wooden chair broke through it.

You both avoided each other’s eyes for a while. It was awkward, in the worst possible way. Because you knew. You knew you couldn’t just ignore last night forever.

So eventually, as a professional, as someone who understood the weight of unspoken tension, you broke the silence. Your voice was low, careful.

“About… last night—”

Joel looked up sharply and lifted a hand, stopping you gently but firmly.

“I get it,” he said, his voice calm, steady.

“We were both high. It just sorta… happened.”

You nodded once, lips pressing into a tight, almost guilty line. He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t exactly right either. The quiet returned for a moment, a little softer this time. Then you cleared your throat.

“Uh… Do you happen to know where my clothes ended up?”

Joel nodded, a low breath left through his nose before he stood up.

“Yeah, I got ‘em.”

He disappeared into the hallway and returned a moment later with your neatly folded clothes. You stood up, took them slowly, your fingers brushing his as you did.

You didn’t look him in the eyes, but you felt his gaze, heavy and lingering, sliding over you like he hadn’t just seen you bare and shaking under him a few hours ago. Then he spoke again, voice softer now.

“Look… if you’re still okay with it, I’d like to keep meetin’. I mean, professionally. I think it’s… helpin’.”

You finally looked at him — really looked at him. There was something behind his words. Something uncertain. But also hopeful.

You nodded, lips curling just barely.

“Sure. We can keep meeting.”

He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. Like something inside him had unclenched.

You turned and headed toward the guest room to change, feeling the heat of his gaze on your back the whole way.

And the irony wasn’t lost on you, how you now moved through this house wearing his scent, still sticky between your thighs, pretending like this was normal.

Like you hadn’t just let him tear you apart with his mouth, his hands, his— You stopped. Breathed. Got dressed.

When you finally came out, dressed, hair tied up, a little more composed, Joel was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee. The silence between you stretched heavy, charged with everything that had happened the night before, and everything neither of you had said yet.

You cleared your throat softly and said, “Well… I guess I should probably go.”

Joel didn’t respond at first. But the way his expression shifted, just slightly, told you everything. Surprise, a flicker of disappointment… maybe even hurt. Like he’d expected you to stay, to share this morning with him. But he didn’t try to stop you. He understood. Maybe you both were still processing what the hell last night even meant.

He simply nodded and walked with you, until you reached the front door. He opened it for you, stepping aside.

You stopped in the doorway, hesitating. Then you turned your head just slightly and said with a soft, knowing smile, “Just so you know… I wasn’t that high.”

Joel froze. You didn’t wait for a response — you just walked off, the sunlight catching your hair as you disappeared down the street.

Joel stood there for a second, the echo of your words still ringing in the air like a shot. Then he let out a low chuckle, shook his head in disbelief, and muttered to himself,

“Goddamn woman…”

Hiii, thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a nice day!

LOVE YA🌸💗

[adelliet]

Harry Castillo x f!reader

WORTH THE RISK

Summary: Your best friend offered you a job at the restaurant she worked at. It was your last chance to climb out of the hole you’d been stuck in for way too long. But along with the new job came someone new.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, age gap, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), nicknames, praise kink, aftercare, prejudices, reader is poor (sorry)

A/n: Hi! So, this is not that long (I hope) than my other fic's, but it's still good, trust me. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

“Can you take that guy’s order?” your friend asked, pointing discreetly at a man sitting alone at a round table draped in a crisp white tablecloth.

You raised an eyebrow, slightly caught off guard by the fact that he was sitting at a table meant for six, completely alone. But hey, this was a fancy place, and he looked like a fancy guy. What did you know about rich people and their habits anyway?

“Sure,” you muttered, grabbing your notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. As you approached, you put on your best customer-service smile, stopping at a polite distance, close enough to hear each other over the background noise, but not so close that it felt inappropriate.

“Good evening. What can I get you?”

The man was still holding the menu, one finger resting against his lips, visibly lost in thought. It took him a second to register your voice. When he did, his eyes flicked to yours, then did a quick double-take.

His pupils dilated slightly. His previously distant expression softened. And then, just the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of his lips.

You wouldn’t call him unattractive. Not at all. His sharp features were framed by a neatly trimmed brown mustache and slightly wavy hair that fell just past his ears. His eyes, deep and warm, like freshly brewed coffee, held a certain weight, an intensity that was hard to ignore. He looked like comfort. Like stability.

But you weren’t about to fall for that.

A man with money was a dangerous thing. You knew that all too well. So you pushed down any flutter of attraction, forced yourself to focus on what mattered.

He was just another customer.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet… Do you have any recommendations? Maybe the most expensive wine on the menu?”

Ah. There it was. The casual flex. You inhaled deeply, suppressing an eye roll.

“Yes, we have a few top selections. There’s the Château Margaux for $1,500, the Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon for $3,000, and—”

Before you could finish, he nodded, already deciding.

“I’ll take the Screaming Eagle.”

Of course he would.

You gave him a polite nod and jotted it down, knowing full well that this wouldn’t be the first or last time someone ordered it. Not because of the taste, but because of the price.

“Anything else?”

“Not for now, thank you.”

You nodded once more before walking away. The second you were out of his sight, you let out a deep breath, pulling a face, something between Are you kidding me? and Of course he did.

By the time you finally had the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine in your hands, you knew you had to be extra careful. One wrong move and you’d be responsible for spilling a small fortune onto the restaurant floor.

In one hand, you held the bottle. In the other, a wine glass, filled just about a quarter of the way, some weird restaurant tradition, offering a ‘preview’ sip before pouring the rest.

Anyways, you weren’t sure what did it.

Maybe it was the chaotic energy of the restaurant, the tension in the air. Maybe it was the way your manager had been snapping at everyone all night, dumping his stress onto the staff. Or maybe, maybe you were just having one of those days.

Either way, the second you opened your mouth to speak, the glass slipped from your fingers. And the wine? Right onto his lap.

“Oh, fuck—” you cursed, immediately realizing your mistake.

Not only had you just sworn, loudly, in a high-end restaurant, but you had also spilled a glass of the most expensive wine on a man who, with one phone call, could probably have you fired and blacklisted from every fine dining establishment in the city.

Oh, you were so getting fired.

“I—I am so sorry!”

In a rush, you set the now-empty glass and the bottle onto the table, grabbing the nearest napkin in sheer panic.

He just chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he said, over and over. But it was definitely not okay.

Before your brain could fully process what you were doing, you had already dropped to your knees in front of him, frantically dabbing at the fabric of his pants with the napkin. It wasn’t until a second later that you realized how it looked.

How bad it looked. How absolutely, utterly humiliatingly wrong it looked. Oh, you were definitely getting fired.

“Sh— I am sorry, I—”

The panic in your voice was impossible to hide. He definitely noticed. But somehow, he didn’t seem the least bit upset. If anything, he looked… amused. Which he shouldn’t be. Not after getting drenched in the most expensive wine on the menu. Not after his server nearly touched his-

Oh god. You wanted to die.

You shot up from your knees so fast, you nearly lost your balance. Your face was burning. Absolutely on fire from the sheer humiliation of it all.

But no. You were not about to let your embarrassment control the situation. It was time to act like a real server. A professional. Definitely not a panicked, flustered mess.

“Sir, I am so, so sorry,” you started, quickly pulling out your notebook and pen, trying desperately to salvage the situation. “As compensation for this incident, you have the right to order anything on the menu, completely free of charge.”

Before you could jot anything down, you suddenly felt his hand on your wrist, stopping you.

“Sweetheart, it’s fine. I don’t want anything.”

He looked like he didn’t want anything. Unlike you, who was still visibly spiraling, he seemed completely unfazed. Relaxed, even.

“Sir, it’s my responsibility to—”

“Really, it’s nothing,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying that effortless confidence. “Money’s not an issue for me.”

Well, that was obvious.

His face held that same unwavering calm, like he could simply talk his way out of this, and honestly? He probably could. But your conscience wouldn’t let you walk away that easily. You had ruined his expensive suit pants. An apology alone didn’t feel like enough.

“Alright, sir, but there must be something I can offer you. I can’t just—”

“You know what? There is something,” he leaned back in his chair, resting his arm on the backrest as a slow, knowing smile curled at his lips. A smile that was dangerous. A smile that could strip a woman down to her lingerie with just a single glance. And god, you were so close to being one of them.

But no, you held your ground. Barely.

“Dinner,” he finally said, his voice smooth as silk. “That’ll make up for it.”

You froze. Like, actually froze. Did you hear him right? You blinked, still frozen. Did you understand him right? But when he kept looking at you with that same flirtatious expression, you realized. Oh, you definitely understood him right.

“Oh—no, no, that’s—”

“It’s the only offer I’ll accept,” he cut in, leaving you zero room to argue. Which made this so much harder. On one hand, this man, this incredibly rich, insanely attractive man, had just asked you out.

On the other hand, he was a customer. A snob. And men with money? They were dangerous. And yet against your better judgment, your head gave the tiniest nod.

“Alright,” you said hesitantly. His eyes lit up. His smile stretched wider. Still confident. Still composed. Still oozing wealth and charm.

“Great. Tomorrow, 8:00 PM. Dinner at this place. Don’t be late.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card, which he handed to you. You took it carefully. It was fancy. Even the texture of it felt expensive. A white business card with bold, black print, the name of a restaurant you had never even heard of.

You stared at it for a second, studying it. Then, finally, you nodded, shifting your eyes back to him.

“Harry, by the way. Harry Castillo,” he introduced himself, offering his hand. You quickly tucked the card, your notepad, and pen into the pocket around your waist before shaking his hand in return. It was more out of politeness than interest.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The moment your hand slipped from his, you practically fled from his presence. And judging by the heat in your cheeks, you were definitely as red as a tomato.

“Hey, what the hell just happened out there?”

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, your friend was on you. She looked way too eager, like she was dying to hear whatever mess you’d gotten yourself into, just so she could laugh in your face. Honestly? You couldn’t even blame her. If the roles were reversed, you’d laugh at her too.

“That guy just asked me out to dinner,” you admitted, breathless but also, exasperated. Your tone completely threw her off.

She glanced back through the small window in the kitchen door, looking at the man in question before turning back to you, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re joking, right?”

You shook your head, leaning back against the nearest table. She let out a short huff, then took a step closer. “Him? He asked you out?” There was a clear emphasis on who asked who, and that, unsettled you.

“I can’t believe it either—”

“So why aren’t you screaming right now?! He’s probably a multimillionaire, and instead of jumping for joy, you’re—what? Having a meltdown?” She grabbed your shoulders, looking way more excited about this than you were.

You just sighed, shaking your head, eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t know… it doesn’t feel real.”

You shrugged, finally meeting her eyes. And she got it. She understood why you weren’t letting yourself be excited. Because you’d been broken one too many times. And if you just expected nothing, you wouldn’t be disappointed.

“I get it,” she said, softer now. “But listen to me-he means it. That guy comes here all the time, and not once has he asked a server out before.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I’m serious!” she insisted, turning you toward the door, both of you peeking through the window. “And, ugh, god, he’s so sexy.”

You nudged her playfully with your shoulder, but deep down? Yeah. You agreed, he was sexy. Maybe a little older than what you’d typically go for, but still, workable.

The two of you watched him, not-so-subtly, until more men approached his table. Black suits. Slicked-back hair. Money so rich you could smell it all the way from the kitchen.

And just like that, the excitement. That tiny flicker of hope. Gone. Your stomach dropped. You turned away immediately. Your friend lingered at the window for a second longer before following after you, now completely confused.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head. Frustrated. “I knew this was bullshit,” you muttered, adjusting your uniform, glancing at her again. But she still didn’t get it.

“The guys sitting with him,” you nodded toward the door. “I guarantee he made a bet with them. A bet to see if he could land the most pathetic desperate whore in the area.”

Your friend’s face went blank before she groaned, rubbing her hands down her face in pure frustration. Then, she fixed you with a deadpan stare. “You cannot be serious right now.”

You stared at the floor, still fussing with your uniform, still seething.

“Oh my god. Do you have to overthink everything? Babe, that definitely didn’t happen—”

“You don’t know that.” You cut her off. She could see how pissed off you were. But more than the anger, it was fear showing in your eyes. Fear of another failure. Another rejection. And whether she believed it or not, you just didn’t have the capacity for that.

Not again.

She sighed, then pulled you into a comforting hug. She didn’t say anything at first. Just held you, tightly. Then, when she finally pulled back, she started speaking.

“Listen. Go to that dinner. Take the opportunity. And if that asshole hurts you in any way? I swear to god, I will break his fucking face.”

You laughed, even though you knew she meant every word.

“Thanks,” you murmured, smiling as the two of you hugged again. And despite the doubt clawing at the back of your mind, despite wanting to pretend like you never even got that stupid little card, you decided to take her advice.

To ‘Take the opportunity’ or however she said it.

The evening air was cool, streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting a warm golden glow over the quiet city. The sky was a deep navy blue, speckled with the first few stars peeking through the clouds. A gentle breeze kissed your skin as you stepped out, the distant hum of traffic blending into the soft rustling of leaves.

You looked breathtaking.

The black dress you wore wasn’t anything extravagant, but god, did it know how to hug your body in all the right places. The way it shaped your waist, the way it flowed down your thighs, teasing just enough skin to be dangerous. Every curve was perfectly framed, every movement of yours had a new level of grace and temptation.

And your makeup? Flawless.

Even after all the failed attempts, the frustrated groans, the “I’m not going!” breakdowns, the questioning-your-entire-life-choices moment, you pulled through. And damn, you looked stunning. Before stepping out, there was one last thing left to do. Selfie, and a private one for your best friend.

Her reply never miss.

A text so filthy you nearly threw your phone across the room. Something about how she’d absolutely devour you if she were into women. You gagged. You laughed. You loved her.

But right now, it was 7:50. According to Google Maps, the restaurant wasn’t too far. Except, you didn’t have a car. And a taxi? With what money? So, your only option was to power-walk like your life depended on it and pray you’d make it in ten minutes.

Even though you felt like every second of running had stripped away another layer of makeup and drained the last bit of life from your body, you made it.

You stood before the entrance. And yes, this was the place. And damn, it looked the part.

Marble stairs. Massive wooden doors that looked like they belonged in a palace. Golden accents along the walls. Flower-shaped lamps. A fountain right at the entrance. It was the kind of detail that made you feel both impressed and slightly terrified.

With a small stumble in your heels, which thankfully, no one seemed to notice, you approached the reception desk.

“Reservation under… Castillo,” you said softly.

The receptionist smiled, as if he’d been expecting you all along.

“Of course. Table fifteen. He’s already here.”

“Thank you,” you murmured before making a sharp turn toward the restroom. A quick pit stop was absolutely necessary.

Facing the mirror, you launched into full recovery mode. Fixing makeup, fluffing your hair, making sure you didn’t look like you had sprinted here. A touch of gloss, a final tug at your dress, and there you were again. Put together. Ready.

Then you stepped inside the dining hall and everything shimmered.

The chandeliers sparkled like frozen light. The pristine white tablecloths, the waiters in their spotless uniforms, the golden silverware—it was overwhelming in the best and worst way. Moving carefully, like someone who both belonged and absolutely did not, you scanned the room. Searching.

And then, there he was. Harry Castillo.

Sitting effortlessly poised, elbow resting on the table, finger near his lips, just like yesterday. He looked composed. Unreadable. Devastatingly attractive. You inhaled deeply and walked toward him.

“Hey! Sorry I hope I’m not late,” you said, voice softer than you intended. It took him a second to register your presence. But when he did…

His entire demeanor shifted.

The moment his gaze landed on you, his thoughts simply ceased to function. That dress. The way it sculpted around your curves. The delicate line of your neck. The subtle, hypnotizing sway of your chest as you moved, yes, he noticed. It was right then that he realized: keeping his thoughts entirely proper tonight? Yeah. Not happening.

Fuck. If this was your backup outfit, he'd kill to see what plan A looked like… without the dress.

“You look stunning,” he murmured, standing immediately like a gentleman from another era. Taking your hand, he pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. A shiver ran down your spine.

For a fraction of a second, you forgot how to breathe, and when you finally managed words, they came out in a breathless, “Thank you.”

You settled into your seat, praying the chair wouldn’t make an awkward screech, and picked up the menu, doing your absolute best to not embarrass yourself in the first five minutes.

“Was it a long trip?” he asked, reaching for his glass of water.

“Uh… no,” you lied smoothly. Absolutely no way you were going to tell him you walked here, face half-melting and muttering curses under your breath.

“And you?” you asked in return.

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Nah, I live just around the corner. I know most of the restaurants around here.”

“I believe that. This place is… a different level.”

He nodded, leaning in just slightly. “Yeah, but you know what? People forget that food is just food. Great company is what makes it unforgettable, even in the smallest, messiest little pizza joint.”

That was surprisingly sweet. And unexpected.

“So you’re telling me you could’ve taken me to a kebab place by the train station?”

“Exactly. And if I’d known you’d show up looking like my most expensive investment, I’d have worn a tux.”

You laughed, glancing down at the menu. The tension in your shoulders was starting to ease. For the first time tonight, you felt… comfortable.

“I swear the food here’s good,” he added. “But if you ever want real pizza—I know a guy. One tooth, slaps the dough with his bare hands.”

“That sounds… hygienic.”

“It’s the best pizza in the city. But yeah, I only take people there if I know they’ve got a strong immune system.”

You laughed again. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel the need to play a role. To impress, to overthink, to be perfect. You just felt like yourself. And that was refreshing in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Have you decided yet?”

You shook your head, lips pressed into a tight line. The menu was a battlefield of options. So many dishes, so many exotic names, and those prices? Just looking at them made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to come across as some broke girl who had no idea what foie gras was, but also not like a high-maintenance snob who’d order truffle oil on a toothpick just to impress.

Making a good first impression was hard, though technically, you already blew it the moment you spilled wine on his very expensive pants and ended up scrubbing his legs like some panicked Cinderella with a death wish.

“I get it,” he said with a slight nod. After a few seconds, you let out a quiet sigh and finally gave up. “Pick for me. I’m sure you know what’s good way better than I do.”

He looked up at you with the sweetest puppy eyes you’d ever seen, and your heart melted.

“Are you sure? It’s only polite to let the lady choose.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Castillo,” you said with a soft smile and a small tilt of your head.

“Well then,” he replied, closing his menu with a confident snap, “let’s hope you won’t regret it.” And just like that, he turned his full attention to you.

The dinner went surprisingly normal. Actually, scratch that—wonderfully.

Harry wasn’t the snob you half expected him to be. He didn’t name-drop luxury brands every two sentences, didn’t mention his bank account once. In fact, he didn’t flaunt anything at all, except maybe the way he actually listened to you.

Of course, you couldn’t tell him everything.

Like the fact that your restaurant job was the only thing keeping you from ending up on the street. Or that your family had basically washed their hands of you. Or that you’d once come dangerously close to selling weed just to afford rent.

Those charming little details didn’t need to make it to the dinner table.

But your favorite color? Rose type? Chocolate preference? You gave him those happily.

By the time you were halfway through your second glass of wine, your tongue was definitely loosening up. Your boldness had grown legs and was strutting confidently across the room.

“Mr. Castillo,” you said, setting your glass down, eyes twinkling. “I have a question for you.”

Harry turned toward you instantly, his posture subtly shifting as if bracing for something wild.

“This…” —you made a slow circle with your finger, gesturing at everything around you— “this whole thing. Is it… a bet?”

He blinked a few times, clearly not expecting that. Then a slow smile curled on his lips. But when he saw how serious your expression was, his smile faded slightly. “No… Why would you think that?”

You hesitated, then shook your head and waved it off. “Never mind, it’s nothing—”

“No, wait. If something made you think that, I want to know.” He wasn’t letting it slide. And honestly? That little fire in his eyes? Kind of hot.

You paused. Should you say it and sound like a complete idiot? The wine in your bloodstream whispered, screw it.

“I saw you yesterday. With a couple of guys. And I just… thought maybe you bet with them about this. About… me.”

Harry laughed. Not just a polite chuckle, he actually laughed. It wasn’t loud, but it was deep, warm, and ridiculously contagious.

You couldn’t help it, you started laughing too. Not at the situation, but because his laugh was so good, it practically reached inside you and pulled it out of you.

“Oh no,” he said, still smiling, “those were some of my coworkers. And I promise you, we don’t do things like that.”

The relief hit you like a wave, and you nodded slowly. Sure, he could be lying. He could be playing a game. But in that moment, you chose to believe him. No overthinking. No spiraling.

Just a beautiful dinner with a man who made you laugh, who looked at you like you mattered, who, somehow, made you feel like the main character in a life that wasn’t always kind.

And tonight? Tonight felt like it was finally giving you a break.

You laughed. You weren’t even sure what at anymore, but laughter had become the most natural reaction to anything that came out of his mouth.

Harry was… different. Unpredictable. Smart. And most of all, he listened. Not the fake ‘I’m nodding but thinking about steak’ kind of listening. No. He actually paid attention. Remembered things. Asked follow-up questions.

And the more you opened up, the easier it felt. Like you didn’t have to be anyone else to be enough.

You laughed at your own awkward moments, told him stories from your childhood, even admitted you used to eat sand when you were little, with chocolate ice cream, of course.

And he listened like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

And one thing you had to admit, throughout the whole dinner, you caught him stealing glances at your chest more than once. At first, he tried to be discreet, quick flicks of the eyes when you were sipping wine or looking at the menu. But later on? Yeah, he didn’t even pretend anymore.

But it wasn’t a gross, sleazy kind of stare. No. It was something else entirely. It was elegant, intense… reverent. Like he admired you, every curve, every breath, the way your collarbones caught the light, the subtle movement of your chest when you laughed.

It didn’t make you shrink. It made you pulse. Around nothing, yet. And if something shifted down there, let’s just say a full-blown waterfall was now a national emergency.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted you gently. “But we’re closing in ten minutes.”

One of the waiters had appeared beside your table. He spoke softly, his voice almost trembling. You didn’t blame him. You were, in a way, just like him, same position, same nervous awe around someone like Harry.

“Oh!” you gasped. “God, we’re so sorry! We totally lost track of time.”

Harry looked at you with a smile. But not the usual charming, practiced one. No, this one was warm. Genuine. The kind that makes your heart flutter… and maybe something else too.

You both started gathering your things. Harry reached into his coat, pulled out a wad of bills and tossed them on the table, no counting, no hesitation.

You almost choked. What you’d give for that amount of money? Better left unsaid.

“Thank you. Keep the change,” Harry said, patting the waiter gently on the shoulder.

You gave the poor guy a quick smile and followed your dinner date like he was leading you into battle… or heaven.

He walked with ease. Command. Confidence. You? You felt like a princess being led by her knight out of the ballroom. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in ages, you actually felt like you yourself.

The moment you stepped outside, cold air slapped your skin.

“Are you cold? Where’s your coat?” Harry asked, brow slightly furrowed.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, unintentionally pushing your boobs up a bit more in the process, bonus points, apparently.

“Oh… I forgot it at home,” you said innocently. Truth was, you didn’t own one. Couldn’t afford it. But he didn’t need to know that.

Harry gave you a look. The kind that didn’t need words. Then, like a man on a mission, he took off his jacket.

“Oh wait, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes I do,” he cut in gently. “Can’t have you freezing, can we?”

Before you could argue, he was already draping the warm fabric over your shoulders. No asking. No drama. Just… doing.

And suddenly, you were warmer. Not just from the jacket, but from the man himself. And yeah, another point for Harry Castillo. And damn, was he stacking them up fast.

You pulled your phone out of your purse, pretending to check the time, but in truth, you were stalling. “I should probably go,” you murmured, still a little breathless from the whole evening.

Harry tilted his head. “Let me take you home. I’ve got a car waiting.”

Shit.

Panic crawled up your spine like a vine. You couldn’t let him see where you lived. It wasn’t horrible, but it also wasn’t this. Not this golden-drenched world of chandeliers and silk napkins. You bit your lip.

“Actually,” you blurted before you could stop yourself, “what if we went to yours instead?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly—just a flicker—but enough for your face to burst into flames.

“Wait, no—I didn’t mean it like that!” you rushed out. “I mean—God, I’m not trying to come off like… like one of those girls. I’m not, I swear, I just…” Your words tangled into a panicked mess. “It’s just complicated. My place is, well, complicated.”

Harry blinked once, then twice, and slowly, smiled. The kind of smile that made your stomach dip and your pulse skip a beat.

“I get it,” he said softly. “Believe me, I’m not one of those guys either. I don’t usually bring someone over after the first night.”

You exhaled in relief, feeling like your entire soul unclenched.

“That’s why,” he continued, stepping closer, “I booked us a suite for the night. Neutral territory.”

Your heart did a front flip.

It sounded crazy, no, was crazy, but in that moment, it somehow made sense. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way he said it with zero pressure in his tone, like it was just a comfortable, no-expectations solution.

The drive was smooth and silent, your heart hammering against your ribs the closer you got. And then the hotel. Oh. My. God.

From the outside, the hotel didn’t just whisper wealth, it screamed it, elegantly. The building towered above the street, wrapped in sleek black glass that reflected the city lights like diamonds scattered across velvet. The entrance was framed by golden accents that shimmered under the glow of artfully placed spotlights, and a long crimson carpet stretched from the sidewalk all the way to the rotating glass doors, guarded by men in tailored suits and pristine gloves.

It wasn’t just a hotel. It was an experience. And you were suddenly part of it.

As soon as you stepped inside, you were swallowed by soft lighting and opulence. The marble floors gleamed under your heels, catching little stars from the massive crystal chandelier that cascaded from the ceiling like frozen rain. There were velvet armchairs in deep emerald green, tall indoor plants trimmed like they belonged in a palace, and staff that glided across the space like well-trained shadows, every movement graceful and hushed.

The scent of expensive perfume lingered in the air, sweet, musky, seductive. Even the air conditioning felt richer here.

You couldn’t help but glance at Harry, who walked beside you with that calm confidence like he owned the whole damn place. And honestly? He might as well have. And of course, everyone at the front desk knew him. Knew his name, his favorite drink, his room preference. Harry Castillo wasn’t just rich. He was a regular.

When you reached the elevator, the doors opened with a soft chime, revealing an interior wrapped in mirrored gold and black marble. You stepped in first, and the second the doors slid shut, something shifted.

The air between you thickened, like velvet, like smoke, like something unnamed but entirely understood. It was silent, except for the hum of the elevator. And yet your heart beat like a drum.

Harry stood next to you, close but not touching, his cologne crawling over your skin like a secret. His reflection in the mirror caught yours. He smirked slightly, nothing cocky, just that quiet kind of power that says I know exactly what I’m doing to you. You could feel it in your chest, in your stomach, between your thighs.

The elevator didn’t just take you up floors. It lifted something else. Something electric. Something that buzzed under your skin and begged to unravel.

As the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, Harry stepped forward, pulling a sleek black card from his wallet. In one smooth, practiced motion, he swiped it through the lock. There was a quiet click, and the door unlocked.

“Ladies first,” he said, voice low and velvety. You stepped inside and your jaw nearly hit the floor.

The suite was massive. Not just hotel-room massive, penthouse massive. The kind of place you only see in movies or on Instagram when influencers casually spend the night with billionaires.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, revealing the glowing skyline of the city. Thick ivory curtains were pulled back like theater drapes. The bed wasn’t just king-sized—it looked like it belonged in a palace. Silk sheets, a gold-accented headboard, and pillows that probably cost more than your entire rent.

A marble bar gleamed in the corner with tiny gold bottles lined up like jewelry. Plush velvet sofas sat near a sleek fireplace, and a massive flat screen was mounted on the wall. There was even a balcony, shimmering with the reflection of city lights.

Jesus Christ.

You turned slowly, breath caught in your throat. “This place… I don’t think I could afford it even if I lived five lives.”

Harry stepped in behind you, quietly shutting the door. He leaned against it with that signature casual confidence. “Do you like it?” he asked, watching you, not the room.

You turned to face him, still half in disbelief. “I mean, yeah. It’s like stepping into a dream. I didn’t even know places like this existed outside of Pinterest.”

He chuckled, stepping further inside. “I figured if we’re not going home, we might as well do it right.”

You nodded, heart fluttering in your chest like it had a mind of its own. “You really know how to set the mood, Mr. Castillo.”

“Well,” he said, smirking, “I try.”

You both wandered through the space, giggling and pointing at ridiculous features like the heated floors or remote-controlled curtains. He poured you both glasses of champagne from the minibar, something expensive you couldn’t pronounce, and you toasted to, whatever this night had become.

Then it happened.

You turned too quickly mid-laugh, champagne in hand, and your heel caught the edge of the rug. You stumbled, not dramatically, but enough to make your stomach lurch. You gasped and instinctively reached out for balance. Harry was already there.

One hand caught your wrist, the other your champagne glass, and in the span of a breath, your bodies were inches apart. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell his cologne. Your laughter faded.

The air between you thickened. Your heart thudded in your chest as your eyes met his. Time slowed, or maybe just stopped. You weren’t thinking anymore. You weren’t nervous. You weren’t holding back.

You leaned in.

So did he.

The kiss was slow at first, gentle, uncertain. But it deepened quickly, growing warmer, more assured. It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t rushed. It felt like everything that had been building between you had finally reached its breaking point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was release. Tension melting. Electricity sparking. Breath shared between two people who, for some reason neither of you could explain, felt like they needed this moment. And maybe each other.

The kiss deepened with every passing second, slow and simmering, yet charged with a hunger you hadn’t realized was burning under your skin all night. His lips were soft but confident, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had, maybe longer.

His hands slid to your waist, holding you gently but firmly, and yours found their way to the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

There was no fumbling. No rush. Just the smooth, dangerous rhythm of something that felt inevitable.

He pulled you closer, guiding your body against his with a quiet, reverent care. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, or maybe it was your own pulse echoing everywhere, especially in places it had no business being so loud.

It was too much. Too good. Too fast.

You pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, your fingertips pressing lightly against his chest. He looked at you immediately, concerned, respectful, but still burning.

“I—I can’t,” you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. “I mean… I don’t sleep with someone on the first date. That’s not… me.”

His expression didn’t falter. He didn’t pout or try to convince you. Instead, he smiled, a slow, genuine smile that made your knees weak all over again.

“I don’t either,” he said softly. “Which is probably why I don’t go on dates often.”

You let out a breathy laugh, your nerves starting to untangle. Then he leaned in, kissed your forehead gently, and looked into your eyes like he was seeing straight through you.

“But… maybe tonight we both break a rule.”

You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, your hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled him in, youd lips met again, hungrier, messier. Passion had cracked open the surface, and now it poured out like wildfire.

You felt wanted. Desired. Seen. And above all—you felt alive. Tonight wasn’t just a night. It was a beginning you hadn’t expected. And it was burning.

Your heels tapped softly against the polished floor, the long black dress hugging every curve as you let him guide you toward the bedroom. His grip was firm but reverent—like he couldn’t believe you were real, and didn’t want to risk you slipping away.

He guided you backwards, one slow step at a time and you let him lead.

The soft lighting from the minibar flickered behind him as you moved through the luxurious apartment, every step closer to the bedroom thickening the air between you. Your hand slid up to his chest, feeling the warmth through his shirt as your fingers moved to the buttons, undoing them one by one, never breaking the kiss.

One hand tangled in your hair and the other settled firmly on your waist, fingertips pressing into the silk of your dress. You gasped softly, and he took the chance to deepen the kiss, growling just enough against your lips to send a jolt straight through you.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he muttered between kisses. You smiled into his mouth, pulling him closer.

“I could worship this mouth all night,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, “and still not get enough of you.”

With each step back, your bodies collided, heat to heat, and he couldn’t stop touching you. His hand slipped behind you, running down your spine as the zipper of your dress gave way under his fingers.

“You’re stunning,” he breathed, his voice lower now, thicker. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?”

His hand slid down to your hip, gripping it just enough to make you bite your lip, and his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and grazing teeth just enough to pull a shaky moan from you.

“I want to ruin you,” he whispered, “let me take care of you.” Every word made your knees weaker, every kiss made your pulse wilder.

Your dress slipped off one shoulder. His bowtie came undone and fell somewhere behind you. Buttons popped open under your fingers as you walked, kissed, stumbled your way to the bedroom.

And just before the bed, he paused. Pulled back. Looked at you like you were carved out of stardust.

“You have no idea how good you look right now,” he said, his hands gliding down your waist, then gripping your thighs. “So fucking good. Like a dream I didn’t know I had.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he kissed you again and lifted you effortlessly into his arms. The world tilted, and the next second, you landed on the bed in a pool of silk sheets and undone kisses.

Looking up at him, shirt halfway open, hair slightly messed, and desire radiating off his skin, you knew. You weren’t just about to be touched. You were about to be fucked, in the most sweetest way possible.

You still technically had your dress on, but it was a complete mess by now—half-unzipped, one strap hanging loosely off your shoulder. Harry didn’t look much better; his usually perfect hair was tousled, and a few buttons of his shirt had been undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his toned chest.

But what truly caught your attention was the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against the front of his tailored pants. It knocked the air right out of your lungs.

Your pulse stumbled, your breath hitched, and you felt your mouth go dry, yet somehow flood with need at the same time. You tried to say something, anything, but words failed you. You were completely overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

Harry caught your stunned expression and simply smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that made your core pulsating ever more. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he leaned closer, his fingers brushing against your skin as he carefully slipped the rest of your dress down. The fabric pooled silently around your ankles, forgotten.

The moment you laid there, almost fully exposed to him, he dropped to his knees without hesitation. Soft, open-mouthed kisses landed against your legs first—hot, wet, and breathtaking. His lips traveled up slowly, lingering in places that made your whole body shiver and gasp. Some kisses were featherlight and ticklish, others deep and lingering, stealing the breath straight from your lungs.

By the time he reached your hips, your entire body was burning, vibrating with anticipation, and you realized just how desperately you craved every single touch he gave you.

As his mouth traveled over your body, Harry’s hands didn’t stay idle. They roamed your curves with a deliberate, possessive touch, sometimes gliding smoothly, other times gripping firmly enough to make you gasp his name and let out a soft, high-pitched squeal that made him chuckle low in his throat. Every reaction you gave him only seemed to encourage him more, fueling a dark gleam in his eyes.

Every so often, he murmured things against your skin, his voice rough with arousal.

“You’re unbelievable… so damn beautiful,” he whispered into the hollow of your hip, sending shivers rippling up your spine.

“I wanted this the moment I saw you.” His words fell like hot velvet, wrapping around you and making you feel even more helpless under his touch.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing and worshipping your skin with kisses, he leaned in again, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly reached behind you to unhook your bra.

The moment he threw it away, he let out a low, appreciative breath. His hands immediately found your breasts, cupping and caressing them with a mixture of reverence and hunger, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks until you whimpered and arched into him, desperate for more.

Harry took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of you like you were the most exquisite treasure he’d ever laid eyes on. His kisses grew hungrier, his hands a little rougher, but always careful, always worshipful.

When he knelt again to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, his gaze flicked down and caught sight of the wet patch soaking through the delicate fabric. A wicked smirk curled his lips.

“Already this wet for me, darling?” he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn with embarrassment and excitement all at once.

He peeled the panties down torturously slow, making you shudder with anticipation. Once they hit the floor, you were completely bare for him, trembling under the weight of his gaze. Harry looked at you like you were something rare, precious, something he could never get enough of.

And despite how exposed you were, you had never felt more wanted, more craved, than you did in that moment, laying there trembling, your skin marked with his kisses and your heart racing wildly in your chest.

“You have the most beautiful pussy I've ever seen,” Harry’s eyes locked onto yours, dark and molten with desire, as his hands slid slowly up from your ankles, gliding along your calves and thighs. His touch was firm, claiming, yet never rough. When he reached your inner thighs, he gripped them tightly, split them, grounding you, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

It wasn’t painful—far from it. It was commanding, reassuring, a silent way of saying you’re mine right now. Your breath hitched, your body trembling with anticipation. You were already so sensitive, so worked up, that even the brush of his fingers made you whimper.

Soft, desperate sounds slipped from your parted lips almost constantly now, tiny moans and gasps that Harry drank in like a man starved. His smirk deepened, pride flickering in his gaze at just how undone you were under his touch.

He gave you one last, heated look, a look so intense it made your stomach flip, before lowering himself between your thighs, disappearing beneath you with a predatory grace.

The moment his mouth met you, you nearly sobbed. His tongue was hot, deliberate, and devastatingly slow. He tasted you with a reverence that made your head spin, his hands squeezing your thighs tighter whenever you tried to move away from the overwhelming pleasure.

“F-fuck Harry—“ one hand of yours flying to his hair, gripping it as if it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

Harry wasn’t in a hurry. He explored you like he had all the time in the world, dragging his tongue through your folds, pausing only to plant slow, sucking kisses that left you panting his name. When you cried out particularly loud, his hands tightened just a little more, keeping you firmly against his mouth.

His tongue was thorough, not missing a tiny spot, licking all your juices from just the surface of your labia. From time to time, he looked at your expression, at your tightly shut eyes, eyebrows furrowed upwards, how hard you were trying to be quiet by biting your lower lip, and how you were trembling under his touch.

You could feel his pleased growl vibrate against you, the sound shooting straight through your core and making you arch off the bed. The world blurred around you, your only focus the man between your thighs, the relentless, exquisite way he worshipped you with his mouth.

Harry groaned low in his throat as he pressed his mouth harder against you, his tongue slipping inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your entire body jolt.

You let out a desperate, broken moan, as he moved his tongue deep and slow at first, teasing, exploring, savoring every reaction he dragged out of you.

Every time he curled his tongue just right, your hips bucked involuntarily against his mouth. His hands on your thighs tightened their hold, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, utterly at his mercy.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against you between strokes of his tongue, the vibration of his voice sending new waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. “You’re doing so fucking good for me. Tasting so sweet…”

You couldn’t even form words. Only desperate whimpers and high, keening moans fell from your lips, one after another, growing louder the deeper he went. Your whole body trembled beneath him, your fingers tugging harder at his hair in a silent plea for more, for everything.

Harry’s cock strained painfully against his trousers, throbbing with need, but he didn’t stop. No, he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. Watching you fall apart under him, hearing those beautiful sounds pouring from your mouth, feeling the way you clenched around his tongue—it was better than any release he could imagine.

His tongue moved faster now, plunging and flicking, occasionally circling your clit just to hear the wrecked cries it tore from you.

“Fuck, you’re so good, you know that?” he panted between kisses, his voice rough with hunger and awe. “So fucking perfect for me, angel. Look at you…”

You glanced down through heavy, lidded eyes and the sight of him between your thighs—his dark hair tousled, his lips slick and red, his eyes burning with adoration and hunger—nearly broke you.

The pressure in your core tightened unbearably. Every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth against your sensitive skin, every whispered praise in that low, sinful voice pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Your moans turned into cries, your body tensing, hips rocking against his face as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, until you were right there, teetering on the brink, completely and utterly lost in him.

It was messy. It was wet. It was dizzyingly perfect. And Harry seemed addicted to every second of it.

Your body was trembling uncontrollably, every muscle tight, every nerve alight with pure, overwhelming pleasure. With a final, deep stroke of his tongue, Harry sent you flying over the edge.

You cried out his name, back arching off the bed, fingers tangling in his hair. Waves of ecstasy crashed through you, one after another, leaving you gasping, moaning, trembling beneath him.

Harry didn’t stop. He slowed, soothing you through the aftershocks with soft kisses and gentle strokes of his hands along your thighs, grounding you, worshipping you.

“There you go, beautiful,” he whispered, voice wrecked but so full of love. “Tasted even better than I though… fuck, you’re everything.”

You could barely catch your breath, your entire body humming, still quivering. Harry pressed a few more soft kisses to your thighs before slowly rising, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

It was only then that he began undoing the rest of his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders with slow, deliberate movements. His skin was flushed, muscles flexing under the low light, and you couldn’t look away.

When he kicked off his pants too, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, the sight of him nearly made your heart stop. Something primal lit up inside you.

The exhaustion from before was gone, replaced with a burning need so fierce you didn’t even recognize yourself. Hormones raged through you, clouding every thought except for him.

When he crawled on top of you, you barely gave him a chance to react before you grabbed him and flipped him onto his back, your body moving on pure instinct.

Harry let out a surprised, delighted laugh. “Oh, so I’ve got a little dragoness here, huh?”

You just smirked down at him, your eyes dark with lust, and then you began your own form of sweet revenge.

You kissed down his chest slowly, teasingly, making sure your lips barely brushed his skin, feeling him shiver under you. You trailed even lower, biting gently at his hipbone, smiling when he let out a low, desperate groan.

His hands fisted the sheets, muscles straining as he tried to keep himself still for you.

“Tease,” he rasped, but there was nothing but pure worship in his voice. “Fuck, you’re driving me insane, baby.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, painfuly slow. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed and so ready for you, making your mouth water.

You took your time, pressing soft kisses along his thighs first, deliberately avoiding where he needed you most. He kept murmuring under his breath, calling you “so good,” “so beautiful,” “my perfect girl,” between ragged breaths.

Finally, finally, you let your mouth wrap around him, slow and deep. But only at his pink tip, already leaking with pre-cum.

Harry threw his head back with a broken moan, one hand flying to your hair but not forcing, just holding, like he needed you to stay connected.

Then you went deeper, making him hissed and jolt. You moved at your own pace, swirling your tongue, hollowing your cheeks, occasionally pulling off just to tease him with slow licks along his length. Every time you did, he cursed under his breath, voice rough and needy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart… fuck, keep going,” he gasped, hips trembling as he fought not to thrust into your mouth.

You loved it. How undone he was for you, how he melted under your touch, how every sound he made was raw and real and just for you. The more you moved, the louder his breathing grew, the more his thighs tensed under your hands. His praise became broken, desperate:

“So good… my good girl… my sweet, sweet girl—ah, fuck—don’t stop—”

You could feel him getting closer, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a bowstring, his dick twitching inside your spongy mouth. His hands gripped you tighter, his voice wrecked and pleading.

“D-darlin' I am gonna cu—“ but before he could finish his warning, he threw his head all the way back and with every force in his body he tried not to move his hips upwards and pushed himself deeper into your mouth.

When he finally came, it was with a loud, wrecked cry of your name, his whole body shuddering violently beneath you.

It was messy and hot and overwhelming, and you didn’t mind it one bit. You stayed there, swallowing every bit of him. He tasted sweet yet bitterly, but the combination itself was tasty. You felt his fingers stroke through your hair in shaky, adoring motions as he tried to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ, baby…” he panted when he finally managed words, looking down at you with a gaze so full of love and awe it made your heart ache. “You were absolutely insane…” you chuckled, before pulling him out of your mouth, slowly, but he still groans. The sudden cold air touching his swollen tip, it's always a shock.

You slowly licked your lips and fingers clean, tasting him, savoring the salty, intoxicating flavor of him. Harry’s gaze darkened instantly. He looked absolutely wrecked, completely undone by the sight of you. Wild, messy, glistening just for him.

Without warning, he couldn't help himself and he surged forward, grabbing your face and kissing you hard.

The kiss was filthy and desperate, your mouths colliding, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you both tasted each other fully, the unique mixture of your essences fueling the fire even higher.

Harry groaned low in his chest, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough. His dominance returned in full force, his hands strong and sure as he rolled you onto your back, covering your body with his own.

His eyes locked with yours, burning with love and raw hunger. He cupped your cheek, breathing heavily, giving you a moment.

“Are you ready, beautiful?” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough. “You’re doing so good for me. I'm so proud of you.”

You nodded breathlessly, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. He kissed you once more, softer now, full of unspoken promises, before positioning himself carefully at your entrance.

His tip brushed youe folds, your juices served as a natural lubricant, so it wasn't really hard for Harry to go in. The first push was slow, cautious, his body trembling with restraint. You whimpered at the initial stretch, clinging to his shoulders.

Harry immediately started stroking your cheek, murmuring against your skin. “That’s it, sweetheart. Doing so good for me. Let me in, yeah? Breathe, baby… I’ve got you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, from the intensity, from the overwhelming feeling of being so close to him. He moved slowly, giving you time, whispering soft encouragements, letting you adjust to the fullness of him.

You felt like he was endless. He kept pushing deeper and deeper, reaching places you could only dream of, stretching you out so much, that he left no room for anything else, barely for air.

When he was fully inside, he stilled, pressing kisses along your jaw and neck, both of you panting heavily, your bodies trembling from the connection. For a moment, it was pure intimacy, your bodies fitting together perfectly, hearts beating wildly against each other, soft whimpers escaping both your mouths.

Harry rocked into you with slow, shallow thrusts, just enough to keep you connected, to let you feel every inch of him.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re mine.”

But as the minutes passed and your body relaxed around him, the pace shifted.

Harry’s movements became deeper, stronger, pulling moans from your throat you couldn’t have held back if you tried. The bed began to creak with the force of his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room alongside your gasps and desperate cries.

Harry didn’t let up with the sweet words. If anything, he poured them over you even more, his voice hoarse and wrecked with feeling.

“My beautiful girl… so tight, so good for me… fuck, taking me so well.”

Inside, you felt completely lost—lost in him, in the pleasure, in the overwhelming love radiating from every touch, every thrust. You clung to him like a lifeline, nails digging into his back, head thrown back in ecstasy as he hit deeper, harder, dragging whimpers and desperate moans from you.

Then, just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, Harry shifted one hand between your bodies, expertly finding your clit with his fingers. You gasped, your body jolting under him, the added stimulation sending electric shocks of pleasure through your entire being.

“That’s it, baby… let go for me,” he murmured against your neck, his voice shaking with how close he was too. You were spiraling fast, the pleasure building higher and higher, unstoppable.

But then Harry suddenly slowed, breathing heavily, and with a gentle grip on your hips, he flipped you over onto him, guiding you into his lap.

“You’re so amazing,” he said, smiling up at you, still breathless. “Ride me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You were shaky, overwhelmed, but Harry’s hands on your hips steadied you, supporting you as you sank down onto him again.

The new angle was deeper, more intense, and when he reached down and found your clit again with his fingers, you nearly sobbed from how good it felt. He was doing regular circles, at the same speed as you were bouncing on him, creating a perfect balance that won't hold you back for too long.

You moved together, messy and desperate, the sounds of wet skin and desperate gasps filling the room. Harry’s praises continued, slurred and broken with pleasure:

“So good… so fucking beautiful… look at you, riding me like a goddess.”

You clung to him, barely able to keep moving as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Your nails dug deeply into his shoulders, definitely leaving a bruise there, but he didn't care. He takes it as a souvenir from this night. You screamed so loudly, your core clenching around his twitching dick, every muscle, every nerve in your body tensed and you swear in one particular moment, you saw white stars.

When you finally came, your entire body locked up as you shattered around him. The clenching of your walls around him pulled Harry over the edge right after, his hips jerking up into you, his arms wrapping tightly around your trembling form. He buried his head in your shoulder and growled loudly, his voice stammering and jerky.

He held you close in a bear hug, not letting go, grounding you as you both rode out the aftershocks together. Breathless, sweaty and completely ruined.

Your body feels like it’s melting into his. The aftershocks are still rippling through you both, and neither of you moves for a long moment. Harry’s chest rises and falls against yours, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breathing uneven.

Slowly, he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are soft, a little dazed, full of something so raw it makes your heart ache.

“Hi,” he whispers, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. You laugh quietly, feeling shy and overwhelmed all at once. You reach up and brush a strand of hair off his forehead.

Harry kisses your fingers and then, with a soft grunt, carefully pulls out of you, making sure he’s gentle, murmuring soft apologies against your skin when you wince at the sensitivity.

Before you can even blink, he’s scooping you up into his arms, carrying you like a princess, strong and secure. You squeal softly, burying your face against his neck, and he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest.

The bathroom is warm and steamy within seconds. You step into the shower together, the hot water raining down, and he pulls you back against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He treats you like you’re made of glass, tender, slow, patient.

Neither of you says much.

It’s just quiet touches, soft kisses along your damp skin, the shared breaths between you. He washes you gently, his hands steady, his touch reverent. You tilt your head back against him, letting your eyes close, feeling completely weightless in his care.

Every once in a while, he whispers something into your ear. Sweet things, praises, promises you can barely catch over the sound of the water. You feel worshipped. Safe.

When you’re both clean, Harry grabs a towel and dries you off himself, smiling softly the entire time like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Without a word, he lifts you into his arms again, carrying you back to the bed.

He lays you down gently, crawling in next to you immediately, not letting you go for even a second. He pulls the covers over both of you, wrapping himself around you like a protective shield.

Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat, feeling your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Harry’s fingers trace lazy patterns along your back.

“I’ve got you.” he whispers against your hair and without minutes, you fall asleep wrapped in him, both naked, both tired but both happy.

The morning sun beamed into your room, which still smelled like sex. It hit you right in the face, so you had no choice but to wake up. You opened your eyes, sunlight spills across the room, highlighting every little detail: Harry’s messy hair, his relaxed face, the way he’s still smiling even in sleep.

And suddenly, the guilt hits you like a tidal wave and you can't breath. You slept with him. On the first night. Harry Castillo.

He belongs to a different world—wealth, fame, endless connections—and you’re barely scraping by, struggling just to keep up with bills. What if he wakes up and realizes? What if he thinks you used him?

Your chest tightens painfully. You need to leave. Before you ruin everything. Slowly, carefully, you begin to untangle yourself from his arms. The cool air prickles against your bare skin as you quietly pick up your clothes from the floor, trying not to make a sound.

Just as you slip into your dress, you hear his sleepy voice behind you:

“Where are you going?”

You freeze. Turning around, you see him blinking up at you, completely disheveled and adorably confused, reaching out a hand to pull you back into bed.

“I… I have to go,” you whisper.

He frowns, sitting up, the blanket pooling around his waist. His bare chest is bathed in the soft morning light, and he looks almost too good to be real.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. “Just stay…”

You want to. God, you want to. But the guilt is too heavy. It weighs down your every breath.

“I… I have to,” you say again, voice shaking. You grab your heels with trembling fingers, your heart breaking with every step away from him. But Harry is already getting out of bed. He walks straight to you, no hesitation, and cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Tears well up in your eyes before you can stop them.

“I feel awful,” you manage to say. “I feel like… like I used you. I don’t want you to think I’m only here because of who you are, because of your money, your name, your connections. I don’t want to be that person.”

For a long, terrifying second, he says nothing. And then Harry smiles. A soft, heart-melting smile.

“I would never think that about you,” he murmurs. “Not for a second.” His thumbs brush away your tears, his touch achingly tender.

“From the moment I saw you — messy apron, tired smile, kind eyes — I knew you were different. I knew you were good. You have no idea how rare that is.”

He pulls you into his arms again, holding you tightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I’m not letting you go just because you’re scared,” he says quietly, meaning every word. And this time, you let yourself stay. You bury your face into his warm skin, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, and you finally allow yourself to exhale, to trust.

When he finally pulls back a little, his smile is soft and teasing.

“You’re not seriously thinking about sleeping in that, are you?” he says, glancing pointedly at your half-buttoned shirt and crumpled jeans.

You let out a breathy laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “No,” you murmur.

“Good,” he grins as you drop your things on the floor, not caring where they land. Holding intense eye contact, you start removing your dress.

He helps you, his face once again filled with surprise as he sees you bare—like it’s the very first time all over again.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whimpers, brushing his nose against your neck and making you laugh.

Before you can even catch your breath, he lifts you up and throws you both back onto the bed, your laughter echoing through the room.

When you wake up, again, you blink sleepily and stretch, only to find Harry already awake, propped up on one elbow, smiling down at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, voice still rough from sleep. You can’t help but smile back. He leans down and kisses you, slow and sweet.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head. “I’m making you breakfast.”

You pad after him into the kitchen, wrapped in nothing but his white shirt, that hangs down to your thighs. Harry looks completely at home, hair messy, only wearing boxers, barefoot on the cool floor.

He moves around the kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times, making pancakes from scratch, humming under his breath. Every so often he steals a glance at you and smirks when he catches you staring. You sit on the counter, legs swinging, watching him.

And somehow, sitting there in his kitchen, wearing his clothes, laughing with him like you’ve known him forever, you realize you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.

Hi!! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! This was my very first fic about Harry Castillo and I’m absolutely freaking out because he’s just so RAAA. Anyway, if you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day,

Love ya🦋🩵

[adelliet]

PEDRO PASCAL Jimmy Kimmel Live! | March 24, 2025

[adelliet]

OH LORD

I NEED TO SIT IN HIS LAP DESPERATELY OMFG

[adelliet]

Flex | Your Favorite Pedro Boy x F!Reader | ~2.3k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI. | ACCOMPANYING ART BY @/KING-SIMP

Summary: Hooking up with the guy you picked up at a party.

Tags: smut, pwp, pussy eating, face riding, dirty talk, bicep/arm worship, cum eating, lots of kissing, a good time all around, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, no physical descriptions, barely beta'd/edited so any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: we're all going feral over pedro's biceps so i had to write this. for the culture. i couldn't decide which character of his to write it about, so i tried to write this as ambiguous as possible so that the majority could delude alongside me 🙂‍↕️ (for me, it's our beloved general marcus a because oof the brainrot for that man is real asf) thank you to everyone who has been horny about this with me today, i am so glad we are all on the same page🖤 i hope you guys like it and as always, please let me know what you think and which p-boy you imagined, hehe enjoy cariños. 🖤

“C’mon, I can feel you holding back.” 

Your hips keep their steady rhythm, grinding against his face, his tongue relentless against your clit while his nose presses deep inside you. The curve of it sends shockwaves through your body, your eyes rolling back as you ride his mouth.

He's right—you are holding back. Not because you want to, but because you're afraid of what will happen if you let go completely.

“Feels s-so good just like this,” you whimper, nails digging into the firm muscle of his thighs. His cock, flushed and leaking, rests on his stomach, aching for attention. But he told you not to worry about him—that his pleasure comes from making you fall apart on his tongue, from turning your brain into nothing but static and heat.

And while you are tempted to lower your face, wrap your lips around his swollen, red tip and suck the soul right out of his cock, you really cannot function straight with how expertly he is working your cunt.

“I want more.” He growls, the bite of his grip into your supple skin making you hiss in pain then moan in bliss when he picks up the intensity and pace of his mouth, forcing you to move the way he wants you to.

You let it happen.

The sounds spilling from your lips fill the dimly lit room, the glow from the bedside lamp casting everything in a warm, filthy haze. You keep going, ecstasy cresting higher and higher, until sobs rip from your throat and your body convulses, shaking in his grasp. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t slow down—just keeps that perfect pace until tears slip from your eyes and drip onto his thighs. He’s wrung you out completely.

“Mmmm, you taste so good, baby.”

His voice is thick with satisfaction, but you barely register it. All you can focus on is the slow drag of his calloused hands over your skin as he shifts you off his face, rolling you onto your back. You stare dazedly at the ceiling fan, watching its lazy rotations while you try to remember how to breathe.

He grunts, sitting up, licking his lips and wiping his nose of your essence before he crawls over you, bracing himself on his strong forearms. Even through the haze, you take a moment to admire his handsome features—the sharp curve of his jaw, his facial hair, those beautiful brown eyes that had stolen your breath the moment they locked onto yours.

“You are the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss you passionately, slipping his tongue in your mouth and you moan at the taste of your pussy on his lips, mingling with his spit.

“And you’re so fucking pretty.”

Your cheeks heat, skin still buzzing, a smile tugging at your lips as you try to hide your gleeful expression from this man you only met this afternoon at a mutual friend’s party. 

You turn your head, gaze sweeping over his exposed arms. The dim light casts deep shadows, accentuating every carved muscle, the sinewy stretch of tendons beneath his tanned skin. His biceps flex subtly as he holds himself above you, powerful yet controlled, his weight perfectly balanced as he lowers himself to your neck. His lips press hot and teasing against your throat, the rough graze of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine.

His body fits effortlessly between your thighs, and when the thick underside of his cock glides against your used, aching pussy, a fresh wave of lust crashes over you. 

Your hands move before your mind catches up, fingers sliding over his arms, claiming each one. You trace the dips and ridges, marveling at the warmth of his skin, the scattering of freckles dotting his forearms, the small scars and imperfections that tell stories you want to hear later—much later while wrapped in his embrace. Right now, all you care about is how impossibly good he feels beneath your fingertips, how every flex and twitch makes your cunt clench around nothing.

You’re so lost in your worship of him that you barely register the words murmured against your neck, his breath hot and teasing while you grind against each other.

“What’s got you so distracted?” He rasps a bit tauntingly, licking the shell of your ear before nipping at your lobe, pulling back and following your gaze.

“These arms…” you moan, arching into him, your breasts pressing against the hard planes of his chest as you tilt closer to the one nearest you. Your lips part, kissing the inside of his wrist, mouth open and wanting.

“Yeah?” His tone is dripping with cocky satisfaction. You ignore it, too lost in the pulse beating beneath your tongue, the intoxicating mix of salt and skin as you bite down just enough to make him grunt.

“Fucking hell, just look at you,” he tuts, his eyes dark with hunger. His hips roll, grinding his cock against your slick folds, but you’re too enraptured with his arms to care. Your other hand strokes the length of his opposite bicep, fingers squeezing, feeling the tension coiled within. You moan softly, delirious, rubbing your cheek against him like you could somehow get closer.

“All fucked out and slobbering all over my wrist.”

His words make your stomach tighten, exhilaration coiling deep, and you don’t even try to stop yourself when you turn your attention to his other arm, kissing, sucking, worshiping. He watches, letting you indulge, letting you lose yourself in the way his body makes you fall apart without him even trying. He’s amused by it, his expression equal parts fondness and possessive satisfaction.

You’re riding the high of being under one of the sexiest men to ever grace this fucking planet.

When you finally pull back, a thin string of spit trailing between your lips and his skin, you look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a slow, sultry smile curving your mouth. It sparks something in him—an idea.

“I know what I want you to do next.”

Your brow lifts slightly in curiosity. He leans in, brushing a kiss over the tip of your nose, soft, deceptively sweet, before pulling away entirely. The loss of his warmth makes you pout.

Then he settles back against the pillows, getting comfortable—purposefully flexing his arms, making every muscle ripple beneath his skin. Your breath catches, heart pounding, thighs clenching involuntarily. He sees it. Smirks.

“C’mere.” He beckons.

Like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill, you crawl toward him, heart-eyed and desperate, ready to sink down on his cock and ride him until either of you can breathe. But he stops you.

“Not there, baby. Up here.” He flicks his chin towards his left bicep and you look at him quizzically despite the intrigue that beats at your pussy. 

“What—”

“Now.”

A command, rough and final.

You moan, nodding, unbothered by how desperate you must look as you reposition yourself, thighs bracketing his thick arm. He helps you adjust until everything aligns just right, until your drenched pussy hovers over the sculpted muscle, the heat of his skin radiating and caressing your swollen clit.

“Get yourself off on it.”

His free hand drifts down, wrapping around his cock, fingers tightening around the thick shaft. His fat thumb circles the swollen head, smearing precum in slow, teasing strokes. 

This is the hottest thing you've ever experienced. There's no way this is real.

But you don’t waste time questioning it—not when you’re in the middle of the filthiest, most intoxicating hook-up of your life.

Bracing yourself with one hand on his broad shoulder, the other groping your breast, you lower yourself onto his bicep. The first grind against the smooth heat of his skin is heavenly.

“Oh my fucking god—”

Your moan is wrecked, unabashedly obscene, your nails digging into his shoulder as your slick coats his arm, making it easier to rock against him. Each movement sends a fresh pulse of pleasure shooting through your body, your swollen clit dragging over the hard, flexing muscle.

He groans, low and appreciative, before letting go of his cock and bringing his palm up to your lips, lust darkened eyes boring into yours. A silent request.

You lazily smile, licking your lips before gathering saliva in your mouth. Then, deliberately, you spit into his open palm, watching as his expression flares with hunger. You wink, but before you can fully revel in your power over him, his bicep twitches—his arm bending at the elbow as his fingers tighten around your ass.

“Oh!” A sharp yelp escapes you, thighs squeezing involuntarily at the sudden jolt of sensation.

He smirks at your reaction, smug and thoroughly entertained, his wet hand returning to his cock. And then he starts stroking himself.

The lewd sounds of slicked skin meeting skin fill the room, each pump of his fist producing an obscene slap against his pelvis. You watch, transfixed, as his other arm flexes, veins and tendons bulging with every controlled stroke.

His bicep expands and contracts beneath you, a living, breathing thing you can't stop grinding against. His balls jiggle slightly from the sheer intensity of his motions, his whole body a display of primal, uninhibited rhapsody.

You pinch your nipple, humping his leg and wailing out like a pussy in heat, the visual of him fucking his fist enough to send you over but you want to continue to enjoy this because fuck—is it so hot.

And then there’s the feel of his other hand gripping your ass, the flesh spilling through the divots of his knuckles. His breath is ragged, brows furrowed, a thin bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and those pretty brown eyes are locked on you, watching the way you’re going feral on him.

“I’m, oh fuck me,” you break out into a litany of curses before you’re able to fucking think. “I’m so close— ohmygodI’mgonnacome.” Your words run together, spine pulling taught as your orgasm possesses your body.

He laughs, deep and throaty, the sound tapering into a drawn-out groan as his own release lingers on the precipice. His jaw clenches, his body coiling tight.

“Go on,” he growls. “Make a fucking mess.”

And that’s all it takes for you to free fall.

Your thighs clamp around his arm and the motherfucker flexes his bicep again, dragging out your pleasure until you’re nearly delirious. Your hips jerk, fingers yanking at your nipple, riding the euphoric wave until every ounce of bliss is wrung from your body. Your nails rake down his shoulder and across his collarbone, leaving angry red streaks against his brown skin.

“Fuck—” His own release follows, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as hot ropes of cum spill onto his stomach, coating his happy trail, dripping into the dark curls at the base of his cock. His strokes turn brutal, merciless, chasing the last shudders of his orgasm as his grip tightens on your ass, fingers digging deep enough to leave sore spots in the shape of his fingers.

The roaring in your ears dulls, the aftershocks making your limbs tremble. It takes you a moment to realize your eyes had shut completely, the intensity too much to bear. When you finally blink them open, the world is a blur, dark spots dancing in your vision as you struggle to catch your breath.

And when your gaze finally finds his, he’s already watching you—sated, wrecked, and smug as hell.

“Holy shit.”

“That just about sums it up.” His voice is deeper now, having been dragged through the same pleasure-drenched haze as you. You tilt your head, looking down at him, his handsome face making your heart flutter.

“How’re you feeling, baby?”

“Real good.” You giggle, voice airy, light—completely fucked out. You don’t even try to hide it.

He smirks, ego soaring, as it should be. He watches as you shift, your spent body moving off his bicep, your clit still pulsing, raw from how desperately you’d used him. You’re ready to collapse, to melt into the sheets and revel in the afterglow, but then—

Whistle.

A sharp, commanding sound, followed by a tilt of his head toward his arm. Like you’re a pet he’s calling back to heel.

“Can’t just leave it like that.” His tone is lazy, laced with amusement. He wipes the remnants of his release from his hand onto the comforter, utterly unbothered, then reaches for you. His fingers cup the back of your neck, firm yet gentle as he tugs you down, guiding you nose-first into the mess you’d left behind.

“Clean it up.”

And just as you’ve done all night, you obey.

Your tongue flicks out, kitten-licking at his skin, tasting the remnants of your pleasure. The sharp, musky tang floods your senses, making you moan softly as you lap it up, savoring the proof of your own ruin.

“Good girl.” His voice is pure indulgence, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against the back of your neck as you work.

Once he’s satisfied, his grip shifts, applying just enough pressure to guide you lower, down his torso, toward the mess he left on himself.

You don’t hesitate.

Your tongue flattens against his stomach, dragging through his release, collecting every drop. You hum at the taste—salt, sweat, and something distinctly him. The coarse hair of his happy trail tickles your lips as you clean him up, the rise and fall of his stomach twitching beneath your touch.

Then, just as you reach his softening cock, you pause—just for a second—before pressing a slow, filthy kiss to the head. A final, lingering seal to your work.

He inhales sharply.

Satisfied, you begin your way back up, lips trailing over his body, over the ridges of muscle, the dip of his collarbone, up the strong column of his throat, until you finally reach his mouth.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, all tongue and warmth, swapping spit and cum like it’s second nature. Swollen lips on swollen lips, bodies still buzzing in the aftershock.

When you finally pull apart, eyes locked, your mouth curls into a flirty smirk.

“What was your name again?”

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @ovaryacted . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7. @syd-djarin . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @biapascal . @mandaloriankait .

[adelliet]

THIS IS SO GOOD WHAT?!

Team Jackson, Choose your fighter.