aliastrinity

[aliastrinity]

Endgame

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your dad knows. Now what?

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Age gap. Daddy kink. Breeding kink. Semi-public sex. Creampie. Squirting. Belly bulge. Drinking and drug use. They’re horny and IN LOVE, your honor. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk!

Note: This is the song I see Tess and Reader dancing to LOL

Word count: 16.5k

dividers by the lovely @saradika 💞

You looked beautiful walking down the aisle.

Really, in this floor-length gown, bouquet poised comfortably in front of you, and your hair styled to perfection, Joel Miller was certain he’d never seen a prettier sight in his life. You were walking to him, smiling.

He stood at the end of that aisle, in front of all your family and friends, sweating bullets and in disbelief.

Now would be a terrible time for his dick to get hard.

What with the way the lace and tulle were hugging your frame and how fitted those fucking black slacks were on the outline of his own lower half, he could probably be fully erect and showing everybody in attendance just how attracted he was to you now, and then what would happen? The wedding would get cancelled? Postponed?

Sorry folks, the man of the hour has a boner the size of Texas tucked under his briefs; can he get a day to relax?

No, he’d need a week for that, at least.

Seven full days of doing nothing but fucking you straight through the mattress could put a dent in the hard-on he was about to be sporting. He was a terrible person for it.

Still, you beamed at him with a look that said you’d love him for the rest of your life, and that was all that mattered in the moment. It was most of what consumed Joel’s thoughts as you made the procession toward him.

For better, for worse.

For richer, for poorer.

In sickness and in health.

To love and to—

“Fuck,” Joel muttered under his breath.

Beside him, his best friend—your father—shot him a look

That gaze told him everything he needed to know. Essentially: ‘Stop eyefucking my kid or I’ll kill you.’

And Joel knew he meant it.

He had the scar on his right temple to prove it. A mostly healed orbital fracture that still gave his old, weathered face a tougher look these days. Bruises gone but not entirely forgotten. The memory of his friend holding his head underwater for at least a minute, maybe longer.

That was after Mark had caught him kissing you once.

The first time he ever came to learn that his friend had been fucking his daughter for the last several months.

Mark had almost murdered him that day.

Now, he was standing beside him on his wedding day.

Joel blinked, and someone was clearing their throat. He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, but he sensed it was probably time for him to grab the rings.

Then hand them over to his friend.

Since, you know, it was Mark’s big day.

Joel was just the best man, and you were one of the bridesmaids now standing across the way from him. Your expression was lax, to the point of looking almost bored, and Joel didn’t miss the way your brows raised slightly while you watched the ring exchange take place in front of you. Slyly, your eyes flitted to his; your lips twitched.

Dad and Helen picked the ugliest fucking bands, huh?

Joel had to bite back a smirk seeing that.

You were right. This was weird: begrudgingly accepting parts in the wedding of your father and his first love-former mistress and pretending like it wasn’t odd.

Given the fact that your dad had very begrudgingly accepted you and Joel as a couple after almost six months together, though, he wasn’t about to complain. No one could have predicted that the man who had beat him mercilessly in the ocean with a travel mug and almost put him in a coma would now have him as his best man and invite him out to dinner on a semi-regular basis. Joel would say this arrangement was just fine.

Ideal, even.

Right up until the time he’d divulge to his friend that he planned on marrying you someday, this would be great.

Mark was open-minded, and he tolerated having Joel around for now dating his only daughter, but that was mostly because you’d refused to see or speak to your dad in the weeks following his little ‘outburst’ in Galveston. After Joel had been concussed and kept in the hospital for close to a week pending a neuro eval, you’d sworn you would never let your father near you until he’d apologized to Joel and ‘calmed the fuck down.’

Joel reckoned that his friend seemed pretty sedate as he kissed his bride and turned toward the crowd, celebrating the vows they’d just taken.

You cheered with them.

You smiled sweetly enough, clapping and looking as breathtaking as he’d ever seen you, and your gaze lingered with them for maybe ten, fifteen seconds.

Then it drifted back to him.

It always went back to him, and Joel would never get used to it for as long as he lived. With a smile that was almost forlorn and fingers that were practically itching to put a ring on yours, he clapped, too, and he watched you.

Before he knew it, the ceremony was over.

The real party didn’t start until ten o’clock.

After a brief intermission spent traveling to the reception hall on the outskirts of Austin and pregaming hard with Tommy and Tess all the way, you feared you might topple over before ever setting foot on the property. You cradled a miniature green BuzzBall in your left hand and a flask of something strong and cheap in your right. Your dad just got married again, and you planned to drink until that stopped feeling weird to say. Just like your father probably thought each time he looked at you and Joel.

Fuck it. That was a problem to consider for another day. Right now, if you could get Joel to quit looking at you so strangely and try to enjoy this completely free boozefest, you’d be much better off. If you could decipher that look, and maybe stop worrying about the way the maid of honor—Helen’s sister—kept ogling him, you’d be set.

Tess hooked an arm around your neck and pulled you close. Her grin was wide and easy, and her eyes were semi-glazed as they scanned your immediate surroundings. You were just strolling in, the rest of the wedding party not too far behind, and music was blaring inside the rustic, spacious barn-turned-reception-venue.

“Odds of me nailing someone tonight…?” she started.

“Did F.E.D.R.A. abstinence camp teach you nothing?”

You made an effort to sound serious, but then the façade cracked in less than a second. Just remembering the time Tommy Miller had shipped you and Joel off to an anti-sex retreat, where you and Tess had met, was enough to send you both giggling your asses off. You had a sneaking suspicion your friend’s laughter was from more than just the booze, though, if you’d had to guess.

“Dude, are you fucking high?” you whispered, shrill.

Tess put a finger to her lips, as if keeping the truth secret, and you shoved her off. Playfully. Begging.

“Coke? Weed? Addy? I need you to share.”

And though you’d been trying to wean yourself off the party drugs before graduating college, tonight was different. You were letting loose more than you normally would, drunk on bottom-shelf spirits and changed into a tight, bright pink bodycon dress you’d recycled from a frat semi-formal years ago. You were teetering on heels.

“I can get y’all weed,” Tommy supplied in a second, sidling up next to you. “Gimme five and we’ll be good.”

You shot him a sidelong look, curious. The man had been livelier and brighter than you’d seen him in years since proposing to Maria a few weeks back. It made sense.

“Yeah, Dad? You got the hookup?” you teased.

“Fuck off,” Tommy chuckled, barely hiding his smirk.

Then he held up his hand, as if to say five minutes, and you believed him. He disappeared somewhere down a nearby hallway, and at the same time, the DJ at the front of the room made a too-smooth transition from one yacht rock classic to another. It reminded you of the time you’d celebrated your dad’s fifty-first birthday on a boat, and absently, you wondered whether Joel might not be available for a repeat partaking in what you did on the bridge deck together. You looked around, gravitating with Tess toward the open dance floor while you did.

Grinding to a Boz Scaggs song while everybody else was just starting to get their bearings arguably wasn’t your hottest look, but right now, neither one of you cared.

You took the center of the room while the rest of the massive group filtered in, both your family and friends and Helen’s all around, and the crowd grew quickly. String lights looped between beams overhead bathed the space in a warm yellow glow, and you knew that you could get used to this scene easily. You liked the music being played, and you loved the feeling coursing gently through your veins. The only thing that would make this moment better is if you could spot the elusive best man.

You’d agreed to keep it lowkey. Try not to make your father’s big day about you and Joel and your no-longer-secret relationship while you celebrated this occasion. But it was hard. You hadn’t been able to help but notice that Joel was treading around you a little differently than before, as if he were being extra careful not to say or do anything that might draw negative attention. That might’ve been because this was your first full-family event since you’d first started dating out in the open, and it was probably freaking Joel out a little. How do you explain dating the groom’s daughter, who also happens to be decades younger than you? What were the rules?

Apparently, Joel’s M.O. had been to stare at you intently for half the wedding ceremony, smiling in a strange and appreciative and partly inscrutable way, and then make himself scarce after. Leading you to wonder if maybe…

No, he was committed.

He was definitely committed.

Your future and his might not have been entirely secure, seeing as you were graduating in less than a month and were still waiting to see if you’d gotten that job in Austin or would have to keep searching—possibly even move out of state if you couldn’t lock down the right position.

It was scary. Growing, moving, changing in ways you couldn’t fully anticipate. Even as you bumped and grinded mindlessly with Tess, shoulders loose and hips swaying without any concern for the people dancing around you, you still worried. You always had that fear.

“I just love him so much,” you mumbled softly into Tess’s ear. The tunes had shifted to something old and country-western, and your heart swelled a little at the sound of it.

“I can tell.” Tess grinned, turning her head.

She didn’t need to say anything beyond that. Your friend clasped your hand in hers and made you do a spin, and without thinking, you did it. It made you kind of woozy.

Maybe weed was off the table.

Maybe you could enjoy this night without a medley of odd intoxicants, and you and Joel could just drive off into the night, head back to his place, and show each other just how much you loved each other, even if the next few months were the furthest thing from decided right now.

You hoped it would be enough; as you drifted toward a buffet table chock-full of hors d’oeuvres and started feasting with Tess, you really hoped that it would last.

With Joel, maybe a future wasn’t impossible. Maybe—

“—these fucking Rice Krispies are insane,” Tess cut in.

You inhaled another big, sugary clump and agreed. Your hands had been in just about every dish on this table, and, not surprisingly, it had been the sweet baked treats that kept your attention. You were devouring the shit, oblivious to any judging looks from the other guests.

Tess stuffed another in her mouth and moaned.

“If I could fuck a baked good…” you trailed off.

At the same time, a new person appeared beside you. Her face was flushed, and she was dressed just as you had been before—wearing a floor-length, mint green frock that sort of reminded you of a dentist’s office—as, apparently, she didn’t mind getting a little bit sweaty in the bridesmaid gown. She looked stunning anyway, and her face was radiant looking over the table. Then at Tess.

Her name was Sue. She was Helen’s cousin and undeniably one of the coolest people in that family.

She fucking hated the rings, too.

And some of the food, apparently.

“The Fettuccine Alfredo tastes like ass,” she remarked as soon as she’d gotten close enough for you and Tess to hear her over the music. “Anything OK to eat over here?”

“Rice Krispies,” Tess answered her through a mouthful.

Then she offered her one, and you got the sense that your friend just might get what she was hoping for earlier. Sue met her gaze with a grin and took the treat.

“Lovely. Thanks.” Then she took a big bite.

You peered curiously over her shoulder, for some reason feeling like something was around, though you weren’t sure what. Call it a sixth sense—or else just paranoia.

“Lucy really wants that guy, I think.”

Sue had just swallowed and was turning away, following your gaze to where it had conveniently landed on her cousin, the MOH. Your stomach churned for no discernible reason when you finally saw Joel beside her.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

He seemed bored to be standing, rolling a shoulder in his taut, precisely-tailored suit jacket and shifting a flute of champagne from one hand into the other. He looked debonair, completely in keeping with his surroundings.

To your dismay, you realized he also looked incredible standing next to Lucy, who was then wearing a long, strapless, cerulean dress and had her gaze latched onto him. Maybe because of this, and wanting to stifle that thought, you replied to Sue as honestly as you could.

“I don’t blame her. Such a hunk, isn’t he?”

That was the understatement of the century.

By the look in Lucy’s eyes, she wanted to eat him alive.

“She’s a matchmaker, I mean. Got this swanky, fun ass job in New York City and is always looking for recruits—even if they’re out here. You’d be amazed how many people would be willing to do long distance for a man like him.” And with a stab of her pointer finger in Joel’s direction, Sue indicated that you had the complete package on your hands. As if you didn’t already know it.

“Oh,” you said, pretending to mull the thought over.

“Well, Joel’s actually her—” Tess started to say.

“Daddy!” you gasped, caught off-guard.

Just then, the groom materialized beside you. Your dad was sweating, toting two beers in one hand and looking like he’d just run a mile. His bow tie was loose, and he had a dazed, sunny expression on his face. He sighed.

“My darlin’ daughter,” he slurred, all tender adulation.

The motherfucker was drunk.

Maybe buzzed off of something else.

“Hi, Dad,” you greeted him. You smothered a smile when he mauled you with a hug and almost dropped his beers.

“Great party, huh? I oughta do this shit more often.”

“Get…married?” Sue replied. Hopefully not again…

“Yeah,” your dad barked a laugh. “‘S’fun, ain’t it?”

“My cousin Lucy makes it happen for a living.”

“No shit!”

And if your skull weren’t throbbing so hard, you probably would’ve paid attention to the rest of that conversation. It went on for another five, ten, maybe even twenty-five minutes before you realized you hadn’t been tuning in. You were too busy watching Joel, seeing him occasionally talk to Lucy and feeling irrationally…off. Not that you suspected the two of anything but that she looked so damn good next to him. She was probably fifteen years older than you and seemed to fit your boyfriend in a way that you never thought possible. As it was, whatever you’d had to drink before seemed to be taking a double effect and then some; your head swam.

It felt like you were starting to float, almost.

You rubbed at your temples and blinked twice.

And, right as you were contemplating taking a step away for a breather of some kind, you heard your dad’s voice loud above all the rest of the crowd and the music then:

“She single herself? She looks to be about…Joel’s age.”

He didn’t even try to hide it.

He was drunk and trying to pawn his friend off—jokingly, of course. Using just enough humor in his tone not to piss you off completely, but you knew that he meant it.

You shook your head. It felt even lighter than it had before, and your fingers had begun to tingle with some discomfort. Venturing a step back, and cocking your head sideways toward the exit as you mapped out your impending escape, you felt a presence behind you.

“Wade!” A grin spread across your father’s face.

You turned and saw him. This wasn’t a complete surprise, as you’d spotted the man at the ceremony before—his family and yours had always been close, and he’d apparently had some spare time to visit—but your body was in shambles. Your heart rate had kicked up.

You weren’t sure what else to do, so you reached for the arm of your old childhood best friend, who was now standing beside you, and you tugged it lightly. Your stomach clenched for reasons unknown to you, and completely unrelated to the man whose elbow you were holding, and then you leaned over. Your voice was low.

“Hey, Wade. Wanna, uh…go outside for a sec?”

Two brows jumped up, and he nodded.

Before long, the two of you were strolling outside the building, through the two huge double doors and then drawing toward the patio in the back. You could only imagine what Tess and your father were thinking, knowing better than anyone else what this looked like.

Right now, it felt like your brain was a big pile of mush.

You just needed a stable body. Someone to lean on as you headed outside and possibly yakked your guts out.

Wade crouched as soon as you did. You took a pit stop right by the closest patio table, and, squatting and squeezing your eyes shut as a light wave of nausea washed over you, you could hear his voice beside you.

“You alright? You—shit, should I go get someone?”

Probably Joel.

If he weren’t currently getting needled into taking some sweet, amazing, age-appropriate woman from NYC out for dinner next week, you’d say you would love to have him here. You were also sincerely hoping your father would shut the fuck up about your relationship and just try to accept that you and Joel were staying together.

Maybe.

For now.

If you ever got this fucking job offe—

“You need a minute? Water or anything?” Wade asked.

With his hand resting on your back and his words wonderfully soft in comparison to the blaring music indoors and the constant ringing in your ears, he was a comfort. You shook your head, and you tried to stand up.

He helped you. You took a seat, gingerly, and breathed in.

The softest, slightest giggle followed it.

“Want me to get your dad?” Wade pressed, sitting too.

Something rich and smooth started to pool in your chest. Your lungs expanded again, and it was like a gust of wind had filled them up with new feeling—a lightness.

Your head quit pulsing as much. In its place, there was a faint spreading of heat, from the base of your skull to the top. You didn’t know what to make of that, except to say:

“Wade?”

“Yeah?”

“Did…Dad ask you to ask me out at any point tonight?”

You met his gaze and tried not to smile. Wade paused.

“Well…” he started.

“Shit.”

“He might’ve mentioned it, like…once,” he went on, a little bit sheepish. “Said you were dating some old guy.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His best friend.

If Joel Miller was such a great guy, why couldn’t he be good for you? Why couldn’t your dad just…move on?

“How old are we talking, anyway?” Wade hummed.

“Almost…Almost as old as my dad. His friend.”

Wade’s eyes widened.

“Well, goddamn. Is it Tommy?”

“Nope. His brother, Joel, actually.”

“That is beekeeping age, dude. Damn.”

And as your friend said it, you noticed that his expression softened. His eyes shone. Your own concealed grin from before snuck in a tiny bit. Your head continued to spin.

Wade grinned, too, and then your resolve evaporated.

You couldn’t help but laugh: “Fuck off. Seriously.”

“You’re the one bangin’ the Crypt Keeper.”

“Say that again and I’ll kill you, Pritchett.”

But you and him both were already dissolving into giggles. Just like when you were kids. It was simple and easy, without a hint of there being anything more to it.

You laughed longer than you probably needed to, but your head and your mind within it were just so light. A heady feeling shrouded your senses, and the evening air around you seemed to prick at your skin. Every inch of moonlight shining down on the patio felt brighter, too.

You sat side-by-side and stared out at the dark, vast expanse of land beyond the yard. The rolling hills. Your mouth was dry, so you tried swallowing a couple times, even licked at your lips once. Wade cleared his throat.

“I should’ve known it was Joel,” he resumed presently. Amusement lingering in his tone. “The way he was staring at you every other second of the ceremony…”

“Like I had a big stain on my dress?” you teased.

“Like he was head over heels in love with you.”

When he said it, Wade’s voice was still light. His words didn’t harbor any particularly heavy feelings, and after you tilted your head to him, you found the man smiling.

“You know I’m right,” he said simply.

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you stayed quiet. Another soft, cooling rush rolled in, and you couldn’t quite tell whether it was a breeze or something deeper, beneath your skin. You’d never had somebody tell you a thing like that; silently, you wondered how obvious it was

And if Joel wasn’t ready to do this openly, in front of everyone you knew, well…what would you do about it?

What could you do if he ended up changing his mind?

You blinked twice and tried to brush those thoughts aside. As if reading your mind, or maybe just wanting to head back into the party, Wade stood. He held out a hand to you, wiggling his fingers in a beckoning gesture.

“Wanna come?”

“I’m alright. Be just a few minutes.”

You didn’t need to communicate that you wanted the alone time; Wade went back in. You were glad of it, no matter how much you enjoyed your friend’s company, and for the first time that night, you really missed Joel. Selfishly, you wanted him all to yourself, and you wanted those other folks inside to know that you were together.

Not just friends. Not just fuckbuddies. Committed.

In love, like Wade had said.

Perched on an old wooden bench as you were, you pulled your knees to your chest. You crossed your ankles, and then you rested your chin on one of your knees, peering out across the broad, darkened, and sweeping horizon. Your vision might’ve undulated a little, and your tongue could’ve felt as dry as crumbling parchment in your mouth, but your overall mood was one of gentle quiescence. You blinked slowly, and you sighed.

Waiting.

Joel wouldn’t waste another second.

He was sick of waiting, tired of having to pretend to give a shit about whatever the person in front of him was saying—most of the time, it had been a relative, a friend of a friend of a friend, or else a woman with a big, hopeful smile, looking to find an opening to give him their number. He wasn’t new to the world of weddings, had been to dozens and dozens over the course of his life, but this time, unlike any other occasion, he’d come with a date. You. The urge to be close again was painful.

Why he’d decided to let you mingle and make rounds on your own in the first place was no mystery to him. Joel saw how happy you looked with Tess, how carefree and full of life you always seemed in environments like these, and then he noticed how many looks you and him had gotten at the wedding. None of them were approving.

Joel didn’t have time to think about that now, though. Even if the faces of the people closest to you, including your own father, still followed him around like a shadow and plagued his every other waking moment, he had made up his mind not to worry again until you were back.

Together.

Touching.

Possibly—

“Fucking—” Tommy paused to catch his breath, falling right into step with Joel before he picked the pace up. “—nuts. This wedding is fucking insane, ain’t it, Joel?”

“I guess.”

His head was thrumming with a strange feeling, as if he couldn’t quite get his bearings like he normally could. About an hour ago, after one glass of champagne, he’d decided to stop drinking. Now he was blinking through a haze and searching the venue desperately for you, with his brother being a pain in the ass trotting alongside him.

“There she is, lovebird,” Tommy said suddenly.

Joel breathed a sigh of relief seeing you in the crowd.

At the center of the dance floor, just parting ways with your dad after what looked to be a quick father-daughter dance, your gait was decided and stiff. Your shoulders were squared, and you moved through the throngs of wedding-goers as if your mind were a hundred miles away. Fortunately, your path led you straight to them.

“Baby,” Joel started, reaching for you.

You paused, as if caught off-guard, then blinked.

“Dad is…such an asshole sometimes,” you said vaguely.

Weakly.

Joel’s chest tightened at the sound, and his fingers threaded through yours instinctively. He wanted to lift your hand to his mouth and press a reassuring kiss there—though, getting the sense it might not go over too well around the present crowd, he didn’t. He tried to speak.

Tommy talked over him, “Your dad bein’ a menace?”

“Spewing absolute fucking nonsense.”

“Like what?”

Those words came from Joel, concerned.

Briefly, your gaze flitted to his, and the mist before his eyes thinned a little. He still felt light-headed, but it was more akin to a need. Desire. Wanting to protect you here.

“Making stupid comments about me and…Joel.” You gestured toward him, movements jerky. “More backhanded bullshit. Jokes. And he is so high.”

Tommy perked up at that.

“But your dad doesn’t smoke.”

“I know! I have no idea how he—”

Shortly, his brother was turning to him.

“Joel, what did you do with the Rice Krispies I gave you?”

Joel frowned. Knit his brows and didn’t have to think.

“I set them out for the other guests to have. I—”

“Fuck!” Tommy swore. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“No. Why?”

“Those were my fuckin’ edibles, man!”

His brother’s whole expression blanched. His eyes all but bulged out of his head, and he turned around quick, probably to find the table where his goods had been stashed. Then, swiftly, he pivoted right back to you.

“You had some, too?” Tommy asked.

“Me, Tess, Sue—” you started.

“I’m gonna shit myself.”

Then he was off.

It had all happened so fast, Joel didn’t know what to say. The weed would certainly explain the haze that had settled over his mind, the uptick of his heart rate, and the heightened degree of panic when it came to hearing about your dad. In a very faint silver lining, at least the reception was adults-only—the youth were in no danger of getting baked, and it looked like the treats had only been passed around your immediate group. It didn’t alleviate every concern, as evidenced by your present expression, but at least you were both OK. For now.

Joel leaned down to press a kiss to your hand like he’d wanted to before, but you constricted your grip before he could. You tugged him sideways, over toward an exit.

“We’re leaving.”

And though that tone seemed to brook no argument, Joel slowed. He let you lead him through the space, out the front doors and into the warm summer night, but when you made it three or four steps outside, he dug his heels into the ground. He squeezed your hand gently.

“Sweet pea…”

“I’m just sick of him, Joel! He said he’d made his peace with this—with us—and like a fucking idiot, I believed him. Now he’s doing what he always does, and he’s going back on his word. Treating us like we’re…we’re…”

“Naïve?” Joel finished for you.

“Like we’re stupid for trying to do this!”

You’d said it with such force, releasing his hand and throwing your own in the air with a helpless, angry look. It was clear that tensions were high; no doubt elevated by the influence of drugs, but also just disgust with your father. The problem went deeper. Joel watched you with a tender gaze, wanting to take that pain away from you.

“Am I stupid?” you asked. “Am I stupid for thinking we—”

“Darlin’, don’t even say that. Please. We’re alright.”

“We can’t even kiss in front of people, Joel!”

Those words were steeped in indignation. For half a second, Joel suspected the feeling might be directed toward him, but then your features softened. Quickly. The anger melded to hurt, and you shook your head.

Your voice was hoarse when you resumed.

“You look better with her. Like you…fit.”

That left Joel gobsmacked for more than just a moment. He couldn’t even process what you’d said, where it had come from, or who on earth you might’ve been talking about then, when you went on, heedless. He swallowed.

“Girls close to your age, like Lucy—”

“Are you serious?”

He blinked.

You were being sincere. His whole body tensed, and in a movement that seemed more autonomic than conscious, he scowled. He straightened up, his suit jacket suddenly feeling three sizes too small, and he shook his head at you. For a moment, he showed his age.

“Now I know you ain’t thinkin’ straight,” he started, voice stern like a father’s. The two of you were buzzed, amped up, angrier than normal, and Joel shortly felt as if it were his job to make things clearer. To show you how he felt. “After everything we’ve been through already, you’re gonna stand there an’ tell me I would be better off with somebody else? Someone a little closer to me in age?”

Your lip trembled, but you nodded your head.

“Y-Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know, it’s just—”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“I’m just saying it might be easier!”

“What, if I loved someone older?

“Dad seems to think it’d be—”

That snapped Joel’s resolve.

Before that, he’d been trying to rein in his frustration, try not to let it break loose on you. But with the mention of your father—the same man you’d just been vilifying left and right—he couldn’t stay silent. He wouldn’t be calm.

The man could do little more than grit his teeth and take your hand. Not pressing too hard, he still led you away, firmly, and his strides didn’t slow until he reached another spot outdoors, closer to the parking lot.

Shortly, you were against a wall. Joel pushed you up and nudged you back, your spine pressed flat to the surface with the sounds of the reception humming behind you.

Your legs didn’t wrap around his waist immediately; instead, they parted, just far enough to allow him between, and you reached up softly to cup his face.

You wanted to kiss him—it was the most natural thing.

Tightening his grip on your hips, Joel edged you further back. You slid into the shadows, away from two wide-open doors, and in this position, he reckoned you could hear him better. He was glad of this when he leaned in.

With a slight sneer in his tone: “Yeah? Dad thinks so?”

“Joel.”

His name was more like a breath. Or a moan. Your legs spread even wider, about to draw him in at any moment.

“Good thing daddy knows better than him. C’mere.”

In a blink, his lips were trailing across your cheek. Grazing your mouth. Feeling you out while you tipped your chin up to him, asking the man wordlessly for more.

Joel knew you well enough to sense when you were needy. It was clear as day when his hands slid up your thighs, taking the material of your hot pink dress with them and pulling tight. He reached between your legs, and your breath audibly hitched. You panted for him.

“Joel. Please.”

“You think someone else would ‘fit’ me better? Hm?” Joel echoed your words from earlier and watched you wince a little. Eager as you were, you didn’t want to fight.

Not anymore.

Joel obliged you, and he tugged your panties to the side.

He undid his belt, buckle, and zip in fewer than five seconds, and then he stepped even closer to you. He didn’t wait for you to try and jump up; he gripped your right leg and nudged it up. He hooked it comfortably around him and held your gaze as he angled himself.

The blunt head of his cock swiped through your heat maybe once or twice, and Joel could feel from those movements alone that you were soaked. Desire dripped from your center and coated him, and he couldn’t help but glance down. He watched your folds flare with each rutting motion, and he could hear it, too. Little whimpers matched the noises of your body meeting his, and Joel decided then that he wouldn’t make you wait any longer.

He sank in.

He didn’t need to be stern; from the way your body was open to him, hole aching and needy and wet, he pressed his hips once and was able to slide his cock in gently. This, contrasted with his words, was something else.

His voice was low and guttural as he murmured:

“I’d say we fit just fine. Don’t you think so?”

And as if to punctuate his remark, he drove in to the hilt. He shoved his cock so deep that he swore you’d be able to feel him in your throat, and then he held it. He looked up from the sight of your cunt getting stuffed with him, and he saw your mouth pop open. A strangled moan succeeded that look, along with a, ‘Fuck me, Joel.’

“That ain’t no answer.”

He withdrew to the tip. Fucked in again.

Your thigh trembled against his side as you reached up and squeezed his shoulder, a deeper moan spilling out. This only propelled Joel to pose his question again, lower

“C’mon. Say it. Ain’t—” A firm withdrawal. A sharp thrust. “—one fuckin’ pussy’ll fit me better’n yours. You know it.”

“B-But—”

“Ain’t just sex, neither. You mean everything to me.”

Joel could see the effect his words were having; in addition to the whimpers and the whines, your gaze was holding his own in the softest, rawest look. Your grip tightened on his white starched collar, and the neediness that Joel had seen before seemed to seep through your fingers. You held him close while he fucked you hard against the wall, and he would be lying if that feeling didn’t drive him insane: knowing that you needed him.

He would make you his wife someday.

That was why what you’d said had thrown him off as much as it did. He wasn’t expecting it—was too busy dreaming up all the different ways you two would be painting your babies’ nursery, taking road trips out to the beach or Santa Fe or any number of your new favorite vacation spots you would no doubt accumulate over the years. He was thinking long-term, and here you were, wondering whether he might not want somebody else.

He would show you what he wanted.

He could feel the way your back started to arch off the warm, wooden wall and how your pussy squeezed him tighter. He could feel each pulse; he relished it, and he fucked you deeper. No doubt, if someone were to walk outside the reception hall, take four or five steps to the left and turn their head, you’d be caught. You’d be entirely fucked, standing with your bodies mashed together and your clothes all thrown askew. Try as he might to have styled his hair that morning and kept it manageable, now, it was disheveled and wild. Damp and dark and gray as it had ever looked, grayer than the first time you’d ever done this. Absently, Joel wondered if you’d still love him after all those hairs had gone white.

As if in reply, you pulled him close for a kiss. You tugged the short, dampened curls at the nape of his neck, and you angled your hips. You accepted each thrust while he mumbled against your mouth, in between sloppy kisses.

“Feel me in here, baby?”

His free hand slid to your belly. The fingers splayed out.

“That’s where I belong.”

Another stroke. A soft and slow circling of his palm.

Faintly, he could feel the outline of his cock beneath your skin, and he knew you felt it, too. He sensed this from the way your eyelids fluttered and your walls clamped tighter around him, as if your cunt were trying to suck him in as deep as he could go. Joel wasn’t so mean as to deny you that feeling, so he went on. Kept talking gently as he did.

Perhaps owing to the high or the anxiety he’d been feeling all evening, the sublime ecstasy of being sheathed so far inside you, or else his most primal instincts kicking in, Joel’s thoughts were unyielding. They refused to be ignored, turning swiftly into words.

“Stay with me.”

The same ones had been plaguing him all day. Watching you walk down the aisle, smile and bat those pretty lashes at him, standing there completely oblivious to how badly he wanted this forever. It overpowered him.

He couldn’t resist the temptation to tell you all the rest.

While his hand traveled from your belly to cup your face, and your own pleasure continued to mount inside you at the steady cadence of his thrusts, Joel leaned in. His nose brushed yours, and he felt your breath hitch.

“Marry me.”

And, as if on cue, a spasm followed it. Not so much a squeeze but a sharp, concerted seizing of muscles more intense than Joel had ever felt it before, and your jaw went lax. Your lips parted just in time for him to kiss you again, work your tongue with his own, and keep mumbling those words over and over and over again.

You let him say it; you didn’t push him away or make fists in his suit jacket, telling him it was too soon, you weren’t ready. The truth was, you probably weren’t right now, but you likely knew that Joel was saying it to let you know. The reassurance was something you needed, and finally, it seemed, you found your voice again. It was soft.

“I—I want to. I want you, Joel.”

Your eyes were glazed, and your expression was strained in the midst of what looked to be the most dizzying climax of your life—Joel could feel the pulses continue to work themselves down his dick as he fucked you through it. Your arms wound around his neck. You nodded slowly.

Salt-and-pepper stubble tickled your cheeks with every movement. Wrinkled, sun-spotted skin made a stark contrast to your own, a belly that was broad and soft and slightly rounded over the place where his belt normally sat rested flush against your front. He’d never felt so close watching your gaze latch onto his. His balls ached.

“I want your babies someday, too,” you whispered softly.

There was a smile in your tone as you said it, and Joel could only groan. Of course you had to tell him that now.

“I’ll give you one right here,” he panted. “Right now.”

“Gotta graduate first. Get a real job,” you giggled.

“You’ll be on maternity leave your whole career.”

Joel didn’t mean it, really—he wanted you to achieve your goals, same as he always did—but the thought of you carrying his kid was tempting. It made his hips rut forward, cockhead nudging your cervix with a question.

A plea.

As fast as this had all played out, it didn’t seem you were keen on keeping him waiting for much longer. Your fingers threaded through his grays and pulled gently again. Your lips grazed his own, and your smile grew.

“C’mon then, old man. Show me.”

And he did.

Feeling maybe fifteen or twenty years younger than he was, and momentarily forgetting that you were the daughter of his best friend—the man whose wedding reception was taking place behind that very wall—he let his mind go blank. He felt his cock seize the reins and then empty himself inside, buried as deep as possible.

Idly, he hoped that it would stick.

Your shared reckless, wanton words may have been partly a product of how needy and horny you both were, but maybe there was more to it. Maybe you wouldn’t ask him to buy a Plan B tomorrow morning and just let it be.

He couldn’t wait for the day you met his gaze with a look of pure excitement, practically overflowing with joy as you told him it worked. Maybe that wouldn’t happen for months, or years, or however long you needed to feel secure in that decision, but Joel knew he’d be patient.

He’d be everything you needed and more. With ropes of his cum painting your insides and his cock pulsing gently, lips caressing you all over, he knew that it was only a matter of time. His friend would come around.

In the meantime, Joel decided he was done hiding.

After you’d adjusted your clothes and proceeded to take up residence at a nearby table, Joel pulling you into his lap and stroking your hair until your breaths had finally quieted against his chest, he led you inside. He held your hand all the way to the center of the room, where the crowd on the dance floor was just then starting to thin. It was clear you’d be visible to everyone there, and he watched your eyes dart left and right before flitting to his

Two big, callused palms held your waist. He moved at an easy pace, falling in time with the few couples that were dancing around you. More than once, he nudged your nose with his own, and his words reached you gently.

Most were notes of reassurance. Others were mumbled ‘I love yous’ and ‘Can you believe this is gonna be us someday, tyin’ the knot in front of all these people?’

That seemed to quiet your anxiety, at least for now. Even when he leaned down to take your lips in a kiss, when his fingers slid down and rested just above your rear end, you didn’t balk. If anything, you leaned closer to him.

The warmth of your body beneath his touch and the love etched in every feature was promise enough; he showed you the same, and when, at length, you decided it was time to call it a night, he didn’t hesitate. He led you off, his brain still buzzing on a high and the taste of your lips.

He didn’t register the look the groom gave him for long.

It might’ve lasted for a second or the whole time he was dancing with you. Leaving with you. He had the sense that that gaze was there, but the realization was as quick as anything to leave him. Joel might’ve decided to leave that well enough alone and simply slide out a side door, but then he remembered that this was his oldest friend. For as long as Joel could remember, Mark was a friend.

The man might’ve tried to drown him at one point, but that was all water under the bridge, both literally and figuratively. Still holding your hand in his, he diverted your course toward your father. He tried forcing a smile.

Your grip tightened on approaching. You frowned a bit.

Joel tried keeping his tone as casual as it could be.

“Hey, man—”

Your daughter calls me daddy, too. My cum is dripping out of her cunt right now, and you don’t even know it.

“—congratulations again. Give my best to Helen.”

After he said it, though, it was almost as if your dad had heard the words that he was thinking in between; his brows drew together, and his expression visibly hardened

Joel stuck out his free hand to him. Mark didn’t take it.

Instead, his friend’s gaze drifted to you beside him.

In the blink of an eye, the words were falling out.

“Are we done here, pumpkin?” he asked you.

And that tone was undeniably calm—so much so that Joel had to do a double take just to make sure that he heard him properly. Your grip constricted even tighter.

“Done?” Your own tone was flat. Puzzled. “With…what?”

Your father gestured between you and Joel, and slowly, his mouth curved into a smile. It was slight and sardonic. Those eyes holding yours were evidently meant to mock.

“This,” Mark answered simply. “Are we done?”

“I don’t—” you started, blinking.

“Mark.”

As soon as Joel spoke, his friend’s gaze—clearly inebriated—darted to him. It seemed more like a snarl.

Then, glancing back at you: “I’d say you’ve punished me more than enough now, sweetheart. You can stop fucking my friend to make me mad. It worked.”

His words were both scathing and reductive.

Summing up your entire relationship to such a sentence as that, including an accusation that you were doing it all just for him, was absurd. The tone of it floored Joel, too.

And yet he couldn’t do a thing, because you were speaking next. Your hand unclasped from his swiftly.

“You don’t even know what the fuck this is,” you spat.

“Oh, don’t I? I was a bad dad, I know that. An absent one. This is your way of showing that, by making sure my life is a living hell as long as you’re here, being used by him!”

And then his friend pointed, so as not to be misunderstood in the slightest. Your eyes widened.

You looked as if you were trapped between fleeing and just shoving the guy off his feet, as hard as you could.

You settled on a simple, scornful, “Fuck you.”

“You know I’m right. You can’t deny it.”

“We love each other, Dad. That’s it.”

And though Joel knew it wasn’t his place—this seemed more like a conversation between father and daughter, not for the boyfriend wanting to prove himself in some way—he tried chiming in anyway. He opened his mouth to speak, and at the same time, he saw your dad sneer.

“And if you believe that, you’re just as dumb as your mother. Nothing better than a stupid fucking slut.”

The next moment escaped him; it all happened so fast.

You grabbed a full, cold drink off the closest table, and you flung it directly in your father’s face. You let the cup jump from your hand and strike his nose in the process.

Then you turned and left.

It was as simple and as ugly as that.

Trailing behind you, briefly casting one stunned look over his shoulder toward his friend, where it seemed everyone else in the reception hall was staring as well, he saw the look on his face. He read the shock and pain clear as day.

Frankly, Joel no longer gave a fuck.

Hours later, your dad’s words still stung to remember.

Days later, they made it a little more difficult to eat.

Weeks later, on the morning that was supposed to mark the culmination of your entire academic career to date, you found yourself slumped on the floor of a bathroom stall, still dressed in your crimson cap and gown, and you wished that you were, for once in your life, able to make a decision that didn’t end up hurting someone. You also sincerely hoped this nausea was just a passing phase.

You got on your knees and threw up in the toilet again.

Outside, a soft voice cut in over the hum of fluorescents.

“You want me to get Joel? He’s been worried about you.”

“No.”

Your reply was almost too quick. You held your hair tight and shook your head, as if your roommate could somehow see it, and then you tried again, quieter.

“I’m—I’m alright. Just give me five minutes.”

As it turned out, you needed twenty.

When you reemerged from the bathroom, expression drained and skin sweating a lot more than it probably should have been, you expected to find Joel chatting with Aly’s parents. Cracking jokes with Dallas. Maybe checking his phone for the time, because your flight back to Austin was leaving that afternoon. You’d barely managed to get your dorm packed up in time, and you felt sick for almost all of it. The graduation ceremony was just the cherry on top. Of course, your dad wasn’t there.

That, you’d anticipated. You told him not to come.

What you weren’t planning to see was Joel standing outside the bathroom with his hands crammed full of pills—DayQuil, Dramamine, Advil, any bottle or brand you could think of, he had. He also wore a wan expression.

It almost matched yours, although you weren’t about to share that the reason for your sickly tinge was due to nonstop vomiting. It seemed you’d been feeling that way ever since your father had kicked you out of your childhood home and told you to live with Joel.

He hadn’t said those words, but ‘stupid fucking slut’ had had all of the same effect. Since then, you’d been scarce.

Sick as a dog and trying to convince yourself that it was simply issues with your old man making you feel like this.

It couldn’t have been anything other than that, because you had just graduated college, were still waiting on not one, but three callbacks for jobs in and around Austin, and your lease at your first apartment started next week. Your life was just beginning to look a little brighter, with Joel by your side and cheering you on every step of the way, and you couldn’t stand the thought of it changing.

You waved the medicine off as soon as you saw it.

“Joel, I’m fine. Really.” You tried forcing a smile.

“I just got it from Aly’s mom and a couple other parents around—had some Advil in my car, and we could go to Walgreens before we hit the airport. Do you need me t—”

“No. I feel much better now. Just had to sit for a little,” you cut him off, standing on tip-toes to kiss his nose.

“We sat for the last two hours,” Joel said, frowning.

Pretending not to hear that last remark, you turned to Aly. You stretched your arms out to your best friend and now former-roommate, and you tried not to look too sad.

You clearly failed miserably at that, because Aly scoffed.

“Don’t gimme that look,” she said, hauling you into the biggest, tightest hug that very nearly reawakened your nausea. “I’m gonna come and visit ‘til you’re sick of me. Seriously. Joel’s just gonna have to suck it up for now.”

“Oh, he will,” you murmured, half-smirking and half-wanting to cry. Everything made you teary these days.

You weren’t ready to say good-bye to anyone. Anything. This period of transition was difficult enough without having to move back home not having your old home, and now parting ways with your closest friend on a random sunny Saturday afternoon like it was nothing.

The waterworks were close, but you managed to keep them at bay through sheer force of will. You drew back.

“Don’t open this until you’re home,” Aly said suddenly.

Then she was pushing a makeup bag in your direction.

It didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary, as simple and nondescript as the little gold pouch happened to be, but you had no idea why she was handing it over to you.

You cocked a brow, accepting it with a puzzled look.

“What’s this f—” you started to say.

“For later. After you’ve settled in, and if things don’t…”

Aly paused, choosing words carefully before going on:

“If another ‘friend’ doesn’t come to visit you in a month.”

And although she was smiling while she said it, the implications were plain as day—and you didn’t like it.

You groaned.

“Aly, I am not—”

“I’m not saying you are! Just to be extra safe.”

“I had my friend two weeks ago. That’s not the problem.”

“You bled for one day. Didn’t even fill a tampon you said.”

“And I took Plan B the last time we…and, I mean, we’ve been using condoms every single time ever since then.”

You hated that this would be your last topic of discussion with your friend. At the same time, you knew that it was entirely true to her always looking out for you. She’d seen you sick as anything these last couple weeks, and it was only natural for her to be concerned. She probably figured that you wouldn’t buy whatever was stashed in this bag yourself, so she went ahead and did it for you.

You hoped you wouldn’t need to use it.

You hugged her again and wanted to stay.

After Dallas had assailed you with a similarly suffocating hug to your first, nearly crushing two ribs in the process, and you’d said your good-byes to the rest of the family and a few other friends, you regrouped with Joel. You headed out to the parking lot with him, taking off your cap and unzipping your gown to reveal a short white dress underneath. The afternoon heat was blistering.

Joel eyed you up and down once.

Twice.

He smiled and pulled you into his side as you walked.

“How’s it feel to be an official college grad, darlin’?”

As soon as his hand landed on your waist and pulled you in—when you felt the warmth of his breath on the top of your head before he placed a soft, affectionate kiss there—you couldn’t help it. The sun was shining too bright, and the stomach that you’d sworn was far too empty by now to heave again evidently had had a mind of its own.

You turned and puked on a Porsche.

Joel never knew fatherhood could be so difficult.

Standing in the old, half-dilapidated kitchen of his grandfather’s home, staring through the screen door leading out to the yard, he looked long and hard at the overgrown child sitting politely on the back porch steps.

Her eyes shone with a sweetness that he couldn’t ignore.

“You ain’t sleepin’ in here. I don’t care what Mama said.”

The big, brown eyes blinked up at him. The head cocked.

“And don’t be actin’ all mopey ‘bout it, neither. We’ve been feedin’ you, keepin’ you clean this whole month, tryin’ to find your real family in the meanwhile, and what’s the thanks we get? A steamin’ pile of shit in the living room. You ain’t spendin’ the night again, capiche?”

The kid scowled. She bared her teeth once in frustration.

Then her tail shortly quit wagging, as if she’d actually understood the meaning of his words, and she slumped.

With her head now resting on her front paws in a patch of grass off to the side, the inky black night beyond consuming everything but the little swath of light emitted from the bulb overhead, she watched him.

She huffed through her nose, clearly annoyed.

“Billie!” a voice sing-songed from inside.

That sound came from behind Joel, somewhere in the bedroom. It made the ears of his yappy, furry friend perk up, and no sooner had it rang out than the dog was padding back up the steps and right to the door.

With an expectant, See?-I’m-Fine look, she peered up.

“Go. Away,” Joel ordered, tone stern and authoritative.

Or at least trying to be. He couldn’t deny those eyes were his fucking kryptonite, and the longer he stood there watching her, the more his will began to crumble.

Then a hip bumped his. A flash of something in his periphery, and suddenly, you were slotted in between him and the door, ogling the ratty ball of fur on the deck.

You swung the door open at once.

“C’mere, sweet girl,” you crooned.

The lab bounded happily inside, sidling right up to you with her head held high. If Joel hadn’t known any better, he could’ve sworn he saw the little beast grin over at him.

Beaming somewhat smugly, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’

“That thing is not sleeping in here,” Joel huffed.

You turned to him, crouched by the dog.

“Says who?” you asked him.

“Says me. Damn dog already pissed and crapped and—”

“She’s just a baby, Joel. We can potty train her.” Then, scratching her behind the ears again. “Right, Billie?”

Joel put his hands on his hips, paternal consternation painted all over his face. He hated having to do this.

“You know we can’t be givin’ her no names, baby. It’ll just make it harder when we gotta give her back to her folks.”

You deflated a little hearing that. Kneeling on linoleum in an oversized gray tee that had once belonged to him, hand stroking over the yellow fur with an almost mournful touch, you chewed your bottom lip.

“Well, what if…what if we were her family?”

It just wasn’t realistic for the time being. You’d be moving into your apartment next week—and of course, the complex had a strict ‘No Pets’ policy—you were still on the hunt for a job, his own workload was getting heavier and heavier by the day, and you both had a busy month ahead. From Tommy and Maria’s destination wedding in just a few short weeks to the Billy Joel concert he’d bought tickets for and a million other things, it wasn’t wise at all to be taking on the responsibility of a pet.

Joel said as much by crouching beside you and the dog and stroking the lab’s back. He tried to use the gentlest tone he could muster up while he looked you in the eye.

“We agreed this was just a temporary thing, sweet pea.”

“You can’t always…plan for this stuff, though, right?”

You peered back up at him, and he sighed.

“No. No, you can’t. But with the place we’re at right now, I don’t think it’d be fair to either of us—or to this sweet little puppy—if we tried growing our home right now. We just don’t have the time to care for a dog. And I know you’d wanna be the best Mama you could possibly be.”

Joel expected that to get an understanding reaction out of you. A slow nod of your head, a little twitch of your lips to say that you saw what he meant and that you agreed with him—a pet just wasn’t in the cards for you right now

Instead, you burst into tears.

You rose to your feet and proceeded to flee the kitchen, hand over your face and sobs quick to rack through you.

Joel sat there, stunned for several seconds before the realization could even fully dawn on him. The dog beside him whined. She tilted her head to the left and watched the door where you’d gone out of, and then she stood up herself, about to follow you out. Joel shortly stopped her.

“Stay,” he commanded.

This time, thankfully, the lab obeyed.

She didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect of missing out on all the action, but she was wise enough not to try any stunts. With a little huff, she plopped down on the floor and watched him leave, same as she had done with you.

Joel’s head was whirring with too many thoughts at once to worry himself with anything else at the moment. He lumbered into the bedroom that he shared with you and looked around—you couldn’t be found on the bed, in the reading nook, packing clothes and going, so he figured…

“Honey?” Joel knocked loudly on the bathroom door.

He waited a second and heard nothing. Instinct told him not to barge in immediately, but curiosity and worry both seized him in a chokehold at once. He put his hand on the doorknob, and, following another brief pause—after calling your name and getting no answer—he walked in.

When he did, you were already turning from the sink.

Your eyes were clear, and your cheeks were dry; all that was left to remind him that you’d just broke down crying in front of him a minute or two ago was a faint ring of pink around your irises. That part you couldn’t mask.

The rest was an uncanny performance, though.

You forced a smile and tried breezing past him in the doorframe. Muttered something about this ‘ridiculous PMS’ and how ‘emotional these hormones make you.’

Joel didn’t believe a syllable of what you said—and even if your outburst were due in part to hormones, he wanted to know how he could help. Make you feel better. He took you by the shoulders before you could pass, and he stopped you in the door. He pressed your back gently to the wooden frame to make you meet his look in turn.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What was that?” He tried making his voice sound as soft and calm as possible.

Then you smiled again. Practically leered in his face.

“I just get in these moods. You know I do. I really—”

“What? You think I’m stupid now or somethin’?”

And Joel didn’t intend for those words to come off so abrasive, but the circumstances—that plastic painted grin twisting so casually at the corners of your lips—had him fit to be tied, and that irritation was only growing by the second. His grip slid down to your upper arms, firm.

He hated being so fatherly, but he knew he had to say it.

“You and me, we’re gonna talk this over like two adults. Only way to work things out is communication. Now s—”

“I might be pregnant.”

You spoke, and in the same instant, his lower back broke.

That was what it felt like, anyway—every time he got a muscle spasm at this age, it felt like someone had taken a cattle prod to his spine and had a field day with it. Like his vertebrae were composed of the same material found in glow sticks, and somebody much, much bigger than him had just snapped that motherfucker in two, it—

“Shiiiiiiit, shit, shit,” Joel cursed over and over.

You froze. Your mouth fell open.

“I knew it. I…fucking knew it.”

That was an accusation.

A charge, more like.

Joel’s eyes widened, both with the pain blossoming from his lower back and the realization that you thought that his reaction stemmed from being disappointed about you possibly having his child. Your eyes welled up with tears all over again, this time shameless and staying put.

You turned and strode off just as he reached for you.

Joel couldn’t move far or fast in his present condition, so he placed a hand on the small of his back and wobbled behind you, wincing a little as he called out your name.

“Baby!”

“Said you wanted a whole brood of kids seconds before shooting your load in me, but the second I mention a pet, suddenly I’m the crazy one. Forget about your baby batter actually fucking doing its job and maybe knock—”

“Sweet pea, listen to me. Please.”

You were throwing clothes into a suitcase. The two of you had only planned to spend the weekend at his granddad’s, so you didn’t have very much to pack.

“I’ve heard enough.” You rubbed your bleary eyes.

Tears were flowing freely down your cheeks now, and Joel was rounding the edge of the bed, pain still radiating up his back and a million emotions coursing through him at once. Almost simultaneously, another spasm hit, and this time, it all but bowled him over.

Joel found himself crouched by the bed where you were busy chucking shirts, skirts, panties, and socks into your bag, and his whole lower back suddenly seized with pain.

Fuck middle age.

“Joel?”

Just as quick, you stopped what you were doing.

“Joel, oh—oh fuck, are you having a stroke?!”

Now it was his turn to feel taken aback.

Gripping the old, flimsy bedspread in one hand and his back in the other, Joel shook his head fiercely. Quickly.

“N-No. No, hon, I’m fine.”

He felt a million years old.

You rushed to his side, not a crack in your joints as you squatted. Your tone changed completely, and your hand started rubbing circles in his back. Thankfully, it wasn’t where he was hurting, and he could manage, hoarsely:

“Just my back. Are—Are we havin’ a baby, darlin’?”

“I have no idea! Are you dying on me, Miller?”

“Not quite—”

“Because if you are, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Those words were harsh, but the voice that spoke them was alarmingly small. Soft. Your eyes were as wide as saucers, and you couldn’t stop touching him the second you suspected that something was amiss. Your anger vanished. Joel took one, long look at you then and almost forgot the agony he was in. His lips twitched.

“Y’ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy. Just…back spasms.”

“What?”

“Happens when you’re over the age of forty and exist.”

“So you should be used to it, after a hundred years?”

Little shit.

You were helping him to his feet. Making him sit on the bed. Joel couldn’t help the little grunt of amusement that pushed out of his chest, but he also wasn’t in the mood to be humorous. His head was still throbbing. Spinning.

“S’why I was cussin’ up a storm right after you told me…it was just my damn back. You know, darlin’, you know…” Now his own voice was failing him. Joel was short of breath and sitting up from the headboard, trying to hold you in some way. Luckily, you let him take your hands. “Ain’t a soul on this earth I’d rather start a family with…”

When he squeezed your palms, you pressed back gently.

You didn’t retreat, but your voice wasn’t quite the same. Your eyes met his, almost hesitating, still glossy and wet.

“But you don’t even want a…a dog together. You said—”

“I know.” Joel winced, now regretting his choice of words earlier. “I know I said that we were busy, and maybe we don’t have all the resources right now to make it…easy.”

He had to pause, and perhaps you thought it was for effect, or because his back was still hurting him some, but the truth was that it had just started to dawn on him. His throat grew tight; he couldn’t swallow, and suddenly, it was his own eyes blinking fast. Stinging with emotion.

“But a baby?”

His voice splintered with that last word. He tried, although he couldn’t bring himself to go on just yet.

“I—I don’t know for sure,” you interjected, hurried. “Haven’t taken a test or anything. It’s just been weeks since I was supposed to have my period, and I’ve felt…”

The two of you were perched on the edge of the bed, and across from him, Joel saw your face looking pensive. His eyes rounded with a realization, memories flooding back.

“At graduation. You were sick,” he murmured. “You…?”

You chewed at the inside of your cheek.

“I’d been sick. Aly bought me a test.”

“But you didn’t take it?”

“No. I was too scared.”

You looked like you might’ve been about to say more, when, at length, your brows pinched, and your whole expression looked like it was about to cave in on itself. Like you couldn’t control the wave of emotion rolling in.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Joel wrapped you in his arms, and you started to sob.

Not like that slight, tight-lipped flow of tears that had started and ended before he could even blink; this one was long and poured straight into his chest, like a weight that was being stripped off of your back brick-by-brick.

You’d talked about babies before. You’d met his gaze with a bright, twinkling look in your own and told him you couldn’t wait. In softer, sensual, at-times spontaneous moments, you had sex and let him finish inside you, and you both went wild at the thought of his seed maybe sticking, but this? The reality was a different thing.

Joel let you cry as long as you needed, and he stroked your hair. He leaned back against the headboard, you safe and secure in his grasp, and he told you the truth.

“I love you,” he said, soft. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, hear?”

You proceeded to sniffle, fisting his shirt, “But you…”

“Want this. Want you. Want the baby. The dog, the house, and the yard with the white picket fence. Everything you can think of, with you, I want.”

Another brief pause, and you peered up.

Joel went on without having to think.

“I only said what I said before ‘cause I thought it was the right thing to do. You’re just startin’ out in life, and I’m old as dirt, itchin’ to settle down and have you all to myself. But I know you’ve got stuff to figure out, like what you wanna be and where you wanna go, and I just want whatever that is to be your decision. Your choice.”

Those last words seemed to leave an impression. You blinked slowly, and then you sniffled again, thinking.

“Whether it’s a baby, this dog, a house, or anything else, you and me have all the time in the world to figure it out.”

Perhaps unconsciously, your hand then drifted to rest on your belly. The sight of it made Joel’s heart not only swell but want to burst in his chest, and he had to rein in his every impulse just to kiss your forehead and stay calm.

It was hard.

You searched his gaze.

“Whatever it is, I want it to be with you, Joel,” you said.

And when you tilted your chin up half a degree to press your lips to his, it was over. He kissed you deeply, with a feeling that would’ve almost surprised him if it weren’t so thoroughly embedded in his body by now. Every inch of him needed you, and every inch of him wanted to protect you, to keep you safe, and make sure that you knew he was ready to take this step. If you were ready.

Staring into your eyes after the two of you had pulled apart, both still sniffling and shedding some tears and laughing every now and then at how insane this was to be going through, Joel hoped that you would be ready.

“I love you, Miller,” you mumbled gently against his lips.

“I love you more,” he muttered back, and he meant it.

He was ready.

It all came down to Boston, the Bronco, and Billy Joel.

The singer’s namesake, a perpetually happy-go-lucky yellow lab, now sat between you and Joel in the front seat of the old car, panting loud. You didn’t blame her.

Currently, it was 103 degrees at the start of another blistering Austin heatwave, and the Bronco’s A/C was shot to shit. Your furry friend was keeping a brave face, but deep down, you knew she was dying inside listening to the Piano Man while waiting for her dad to pick up the pace. You couldn’t deny you were silently missing the winters in Massachusetts and wishing Joel was a little bit quicker with dressing. Beside you and Billie, in the driver’s seat, he was lacing up his left shoe.

He wore loafers, a crisp white polo, and khaki shorts.

The man had never looked more like a dad in his life; later today, you’d be finding out for certain if he was.

Seven days ago, you’d decided to wait a week before taking an at-home pregnancy test. Seven whole days hoping for that bloody chaos you’d come to despise the majority of your life—and still, to the present moment, nothing. You’d just parked outside Tommy and Maria’s house, planning to spend the afternoon celebrating them closing on said house, getting married in less than a month, and Maria landing a big promotion at her job.

You know, adult stuff.

Marriage, home ownership, career success, the whole nine yards. The only place you and Joel might’ve had them beat was a kid, but even that wasn’t a sure thing.

You wouldn’t tell anyone until it was, and once it was—if it was—you reckoned you’d be an absolute fucking mess.

You were already half-insane over the prospect of being a mother, much less learning that you were. At the same time, irrationally, you couldn’t keep your hands off Joel.

It was like the man had become a fucking drug lately.

Your sex drive was already through the roof as it was, and you’d always been wildly attracted to him before, but this was new. It was different. Nothing had ever made you more feral or needy than…whatever the fuck this was.

Presently, Joel hiked up his shorts even higher on one leg and opened the driver’s side door. He propped his foot up, about to try and fix the laces again, when Billie dove across his lap. She tore off down the lawn like her tail was on fire all the way to the backyard, where the sounds of the barbecue could no doubt be heard to her.

“Damn dog,” Joel muttered. He smiled saying it, though.

You were too busy ogling how big his thighs looked straining against cotton, wanting to take a bite out of one

Right as he fixed the wayward loafer laces and turned to say something to the effect of, ‘You ready, sweet pea?’, you reached over him and slammed the car door shut. You pulled—no, wrenched—your panties down your legs from under the hem of your red gingham dress and then straddled Joel’s lap. Then you changed your mind. You pried yourself off the old man and made your way into the backseat, where you two would have some room.

“You comin’?” You pouted up at him in the rearview.

It took Joel a half-second to process. He blinked.

“In…in the driveway?” He looked around briefly.

You knew the question, as well as the momentary bout of bewilderment, was mostly perfunctory; he’d gotten used to you needing him at all hours of the day, in the most unconventional places. This wasn’t the weirdest spot you’d done it by a long shot. Not even in the last week.

“This was the first place we ever had sex, y’know,” you said, batting your lashes at him sweetly. Teasing him. “Back when you defiled me coming home from college.”

“That ain’t how I remember it.” And Joel was already coming after you. Clambering over the front seats.

Then he was under you, lying down a little awkwardly with his gigantic frame taking up most of the space in the backseat. You sat on his belly. Lifted your dress skirt.

“You jumped me, didn’t ya, pretty girl?” Joel smirked.

“Might have. I was horny,” you replied, smiling, too.

Vaguely, you recalled calling him daddy in the lobby of that seedy backcountry motel, and the rest was history.

Now you were undoing his clothes again. Taking him out, same as you’d helped him do on that first night, and the overwhelming heat in the vehicle today hardly bothered you at all. You were reminiscing—brushing his bare tip between your thighs and smearing your wetness with him. You straddled his hips and looked around you both.

“My purse.” You reached over, mumbling, “Condoms.”

Joel grabbed your thighs and nudged you up his body before you could make it far. While fucking with rubbers and having him inside was the first thing on your mind, something else was on his. He angled you over his face.

Feeling stubble on your inner thighs, you whimpered.

“Y’let daddy have a taste first, right?” Joel hummed.

You had.

You and Joel had played a game of ‘Too Hot,’ and he’d topped it off by finishing you off with his lips and tongue. In keeping with tradition, it seemed only fair to give him the chance to do it again, but you were impatient, too.

The headrest beside you got a hard squeeze, shortly. Your fingers curled into the cushion as you grit your teeth together and Joel’s tongue swiped up your slit.

Damn, he felt good.

You hadn’t even needed the foreplay, and here he was, licking through your folds like this was the key to his own happiness. Like nothing would make him more content.

At length, you looked down and watched him do it. You scanned the tanned, weathered plane of Joel’s forehead, every wrinkle and sunspot and sign of aging that you had come to love over the last months, and you whined again

His tongue stroked you methodically and deliberately. He coaxed your clit with just the tip and then sucked the little nub between two soft and plush lips. Everything about the pressure was delectable, from the warmth of his mouth to the way you felt the grays in his stubble tease your skin to how expertly he worked you over. Pleasure mounted, and Joel’s efforts increased, too.

He let you fuck his face. You rode it, basically, but with even more force from how he’d grip the sides of your legs and rut your hips hard over his waiting, open mouth.

Even lying supine under you, Joel was always in control. You loved not having to think a damn thing while he was pleasuring you like this—or in any position, really—and you could just shut off your brain. You’d hold the headrest in one hand and a clump of dark, silver-streaked hair in the other, and simply breathe. Hiccup, moan, curse aloud occasionally, all of it in a good way.

You were a good girl with some raging, yet-unexplained hormones coursing through your body that made you want to scream. So you did. With a thick, damp beard between your thighs and a tongue moving relentlessly through your sensitive heat, big hands leaving imprints on your hips and thighs, and a smirk searing against your center the whole time, you let out a cry that was primal.

Feral.

Your legs trembled against Joel’s face as you came, and your body couldn’t hold you upright for long after it hit. You slumped forward, into the window, and cried again.

Insatiable, too, it seemed.

Body still tight, your hips continued to rut mindlessly as if waiting for something more that you couldn’t decipher.

This time, Joel was moving out from under you. He worked an arm around your front, gently, and then, positioned behind you, slid his fingers inside your pussy.

He pumped his index and middle fingers once, twice, stretching your still-pulsing walls around them before pulling back out. Like he could tell there was something else you needed to release, he pulled you into his lap and had you sit. He repositioned you both to sit facing the front of the car, and your legs draped lazily over his.

He pushed his fingers inside you again.

Still only two, but curving them upward to pet the ridged wall of flesh and get in deeper, he kissed your shoulder. He made a rhythm of it, easily, and worked you back up to a high you didn’t even know that you needed. When you climaxed again, this time over thick, callused fingers, the lightest stream followed it. Joel made you squirt, and he didn’t stop moving his hand until it had all come out.

Then he kissed your shoulder again, lips soft and wet.

“Better?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Boneless as you felt, you still managed to turn around. Your eyes must’ve been glazed, the heady warmth of your first and second orgasms still thrumming through your veins, and you smiled softly at Joel. He smiled back.

Now he’d let you have him.

He was wise like that—old and sage and more experienced in sex than you by decades. You sometimes forgot about that. It was in moments like these that he was able to remind you: fucked out as he had you, needy as you’d been all day, he could show you just what your body could take, and what it might give to him in return.

When he filled you, it felt a little bit like coming home.

Joel must have snagged a Trojan from out of his shorts pocket and put it on while you were coming down from your high, and you didn’t mind at all. Latex-covered or not, every inch of him was precious going in, and you appreciated the consideration for your present state.

Just to be safe.

Unlike the first time you’d done this, up in the front seat of the Bronco, you and Joel were now familiar with each other. His cock stretched your pulsing wet hole, and the only words out of his mouth for the longest time were ‘I love you’ and ‘This feel alright?’ Nothing else was said until Joel felt certain you were comfortable having him there, hands secure around your hips and eyes following your every movement. He watched you hiccup and nod.

“‘M’alright. Start movin’, daddy, please,” you whined.

He knew you, and you knew him, almost too well.

Instead of gratifying you immediately, Joel lifted one broad and callused palm and cradled the back of your head with it. His brown eyes twinkled, and you could see that he was serious about taking care of you. He had to.

“My baby ain’t sore?” he asked, pointedly. “Ain’t hurt?”

“No, sir.”

You saw a flicker of heat leap to his gaze on hearing that. He let you snake your arms around his neck and wriggle your hips a little, taking in his heft and his girth as best you could. Your walls clenched involuntarily, and fuck if it didn’t feel a bit like suffocating. He was always so big.

Joel stretched you, dove to the sweetest depths of your body, and made you full. He only started moving when he saw that you were ready; then it was all soft, gentle thrusts and tender kisses. Digging deep to find that special spot inside you and hitting it repeatedly with the head of his cock. Hypersensitized as you were, it felt like every throbbing inch was in all the way to your lungs, and you couldn’t have been happier. Your head lolled forward into the crook of Joel’s neck then, and you soaked him in

“That’s a good girl,” Joel hummed. Now rubbing your back while he pistoned his cock in and out of you rhythmically. “That’s my girl. Always so sweet f’me.”

You were leaking around him, too.

Slick smeared your groin and Joel’s and made for the most obscene sorts of noises as you fucked. It practically flattened the wiry grays at the base of the old man’s abdomen, making his whole happy trail and thatch of hair beneath it a dampened mess. On top of everything, you and him were sweating. Your mouths were wet with a mix of spit and that same, tangy arousal that Joel had tongued out of your cunt, and you hummed at the taste.

Then he made things even wetter when he licked his thumb. Joel held it up, as if asking you to inspect it.

“Suck.”

The command was simple; you followed it.

While he continued to fuck up into you from below, hips grinding at a steady, gentle cadence, he pressed his thumb into your mouth. You took it in to the knuckle.

From all the months you two had been having sex, you already knew what this was for. You bobbed your head, gaze plastered to his, and you whimpered a little. You licked the warm, ridged skin and curled your tongue.

Joel groaned, and then the thumb was out. He had you leaning back, hands bracing yourself on his meaty thighs, while he lowered his touch to rub your clit.

In contrast to his languid thrusts, the little circles he made on your throbbing bundle of nerves were both fast and tight. Pressing, just like you liked them. Seeing how your head fell back on a long, protracted moan, Joel could no doubt tell that you were almost at your peak.

“C’mon, pretty girl, one more for daddy. Wanna feel it.”

Your legs trembled. Your walls tightened around him.

You were so fucking close to that devastating precipice that all you could do was whimper and whine and rut your hips against the stab of Joel’s impossibly thick cock, wanting release more than the air you breathed.

Then Joel leaned forward.

Tilting your face back up to him, pressing your nose to his nose and fucking so deep in your guts that he was almost touching your cervix, he nodded once. Knowing.

“How’s that feel, mama?”

And his cock sank even deeper.

The response in you was immediate and instinctive.

Overwhelmed as you’d been all this time, agonizing through every waking hour over how a pregnancy would completely upend your life, you felt your walls cling to Joel’s cock and pulse around him. It must have been something primal and senseless inside you, because as soon as he’d said those words, you were reaching climax.

The feeling was deep. Sweet. Dizzying to your every sense as Joel Miller met your gaze in earnest and split you down his big, throbbing cock. His thrusts sped up, and he didn’t hesitate to say it again as you came apart.

“That feel good, mama? This pussy feel nice an’ full?”

“Joel.”

His name crawled through your teeth, choked, and your cunt spasmed again. Your body milked him desperately.

“I bet she does. Loves gettin’ stretched by this cock.”

“Daddy.”

Your gaze was almost pained with how good it all felt. Pulling Joel closer to you, you panted into his mouth.

He grinned.

“Gonna make her real full someday—” he started.

“Today,” you interrupted. Chest heaving. “Now.”

“Wh—”

“Maybe you already made me a mama, Joel.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Joel’s cock throbbed inside you, and his jaw slackened.

Then you felt him twitch again. His grip tightened.

He flipped you onto your back along the seat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathed.

Another jerk. Another shuddering groan.

Without further warning, Joel’s hips stilled in place, and his eyes closed. Your legs wrapped around his lower half and tilted up to give him access, exactly like he deserved. Warmth spread in the next second, filling the latex barrier between your bodies, and you sighed.

You wished it were in you, sticky and wet.

“I—I took a test.”

Joel’s eyes snapped open.

His body lifted from yours immediately, up on his elbows, and his gaze searched your face for a better explanation.

“Four, actually,” you went on, starting to sit up with him.

Joel’s whole expression turned to stone before your eyes. Completely transformed from the strain and the bliss of his last release, the man now looked as if you’d just grown a second head. He was stunned into silence.

Then he was pulling out. Discarding the used rubber. Running fingers through his hair and moving carefully.

“Are…are you…?” he stammered. “Baby, are we…?”

You were about to answer him. You were smoothing down the front of your dress and then trying to tame your hair, but both efforts were futile. Your hands shook.

“Well, I—”

THUMP.

Thump, thump, thump.

“No sex allowed in my driveway!”

Tommy Miller beat on the window directly behind you, and you jumped. Thankfully, Joel had already zipped up.

Still, the older brother groaned.

“Would you give us a minute, dickhead?” he growled.

“No,” Tommy snapped back, tone defiant. Slamming his palm on the pane once more. “I can’t even see inside here ‘cause y’all’ve been steamin’ it up! It’s sickening.”

Gingerly, you turned and rolled the window down—cranking the thing, since Joel’s vehicle was so old.

When you met Tommy’s face, you half-expected a frown. Instead, he had on a triumphant look, like, ‘Ha. Got y’all.’

You could feel Joel’s middle finger itching to flick him off.

Beside Tommy, to your surprise—and embarrassment—you saw Maria. A hint of amusement raised her brows.

“We got a rack of ribs and a couple burgers smothered with pickles, just like you asked for,” she told you sweetly

Your cheeks heated remembering that special request.

Before you could speak, Maria went on, grinning: “Are you sure you’re not pregnant? My sister had the same cravings with her last two. Put pickles on everything.”

Joel might’ve choked on his spit. You heard him cough, right as your own throat tightened to the point of closing.

Tommy took that as his cue to interject.

“Holy shit, y’all are fuckin’ pregnant.”

As he laughed, Joel snapped:

“Don’t even start, Tomm—”

“I’m gonna be an uncle!”

While Tommy turned to shoot a too-smug, beaming look over at Maria, you were already climbing back into the front seat. Joel followed, and his expression was grim.

His brother stuck his head in through the back window.

“Tommy if it’s a boy, Tammy if it’s a girl—how ‘bout it?”

You leaned and reached for your purse. Rifling through it, you could feel Joel’s eyes on you. They were questioning.

More than a little bit scared.

His brother chattered on, oblivious.

“Won’t be long before you gotta buy diapers for the baby and him, I reckon.” Tommy gestured to Joel with a wink.

You said nothing. Your hands were too busy collecting four plastics sticks out of a Ziploc baggie in your tote.

Clearly, the man outside hadn’t had his fill of poking fun at his big brother yet, and was still waiting on a reaction, because he leaned even further into the Bronco, leering.

“What? No comeback?” he goaded you both teasingly.

While you didn’t retrieve your latest find from out of your bag, worried Tommy might see it, you did turn and smile.

This time, you made sure he heard you, loud and clear:

“Tommy, if I wanted my comeback, I would’ve wiped it off your brother’s chin. Now go get me a burger, please.”

Strangely, you’d never felt more certain—or starved for the biggest helping of barbecue, burgers, and pickles—in your life. It almost seemed like the nail in the coffin, this craving, and then Tommy and Maria saying it outright.

You had to be pregnant, surely.

You had to meet Joel’s gaze, hand still inside your purse. His brother laughed like the good sport he was, Maria chuckled and shook her head, and then the two of them were making their way back to the party in the backyard, where you and Joel would no doubt find yourselves later.

After you figured this shit out.

After you shared with Joel what you had already done.

“Darlin’,” Joel started, voice wavering the slightest bit. Then, lowering even more to say it: “Are you pregnant?”

“I don’t know.”

Slowly, you lifted the little plastic bag out of your purse, making sure to keep your grip covering most of it. You didn’t show it to Joel immediately, but his gaze was near.

Brown eyes widened. The lines around his mouth grew more pronounced as he gnawed the inside of his cheek.

“Is that…?”

“I took four tests right before we left. I know you’re supposed to check immediately, and the results might not be accurate anymore, but I…I wanted to wait first,” you said, hold tightening even more. “Didn’t wanna find out until you were there with me. Then I got…distracted, seeing you in your shorts earlier, and…anyway, I bought some others, so we can go inside and take the test ag—”

“Let’s check ‘em anyway. If that—if that’s OK with you.”

Joel sounded so hopeful, blinking a little more quickly.

He wanted to know now, despite being scared as you.

You opened the bag and nodded back at him.

“I didn’t want it to ruin the afternoon…”

You’d just taken the tests out, still holding them low so you couldn’t see them yet, when Joel’s eyes jumped to yours. His hands shortly followed, and before long, he was cupping your cheeks. Holding your gaze intently.

“Y’think findin’ out news like that is gonna ruin my day?” His tone was steeped in disbelief, and he was already shaking his head. “Don’t ever think that, baby. Please.”

And he looked so sure of it. Every worn line in his face, every disheveled salt-and-pepper lock of hair, every soft rise and fall of his chest under that bright, white, sweat-dampened polo—the man seemed secure as anything.

Your bottom lip trembled, and you winced to keep the tears at bay. You really tried, but a few slid out anyway.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“I know.” Joel swiped the moisture with his thumbs, and he drew even closer to kiss your forehead, pressing gently. “It’s OK. This is still your choice, remember?”

You set the tests on the dashboard. You didn’t look over. When Joel lifted his palms to start kissing the tears that had streaked down your face, you only broke down more.

Fucking hormones.

“Either way it goes, I’m gonna be here. No matter what,” Joel assured you. In between soft pecks, he was smiling.

Despite your tears, you tried smiling back.

Choking out a laugh when his stubble tickled your face.

“Baby or no baby?” you sniffled up at him.

“No matter what,” Joel repeated.

“You mean it?”

“Sweet pea, someday soon I’m gonna make you my w—”

Suddenly, another knock interrupted Joel’s speech. It was gentler than the last, though evidently hard enough.

You turned, and it felt like your face went up in flames.

Joel and you weren’t doing anything, and still, a look from that man made it feel like you’d just been caught red-handed, and nothing would likely ever change that.

Your dad had made it that way.

He was standing outside the Bronco on Joel’s side, resting a hand on the roof and leaning into the window.

And though you couldn’t quite read his look through the glare of the midafternoon sun, it was clear he looked like shit. His face was drawn, expression limp, and the eyes that stared into the car were as hollow and desolate as you’d ever seen them. It was like looking down into a pit.

Your stomach turned inside you.

At just the sight of him, you felt nauseous again.

It’d been almost a month since you’d last spoken to your father face-to-face. On that occasion, he’d called you a ‘stupid fucking slut’ and tried carrying on like nothing.

Evidently, the same memory was running through Joel’s head, as he pushed out of the car in the next second. He didn’t hesitate to shove your dad away with the door and meet him head-on, just to force the man backward again

With an expression that was flinty and stern, finger pointed directly at your father’s chest, he spoke low.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Listen, I know—”

“Go home.”

Joel’s words brooked no argument. They didn’t show him to be openly hostile or irate, just steady in his appraisal. Firm in the belief your dad needed to fuck off.

Mark peered around his shoulder anyway.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. For everything.”

Inwardly, you cringed. On the outside, you had to keep up a front like you weren’t about to break down again.

First the pregnancy shit, now back to this.

Would it ever end with him and Joel?

“Dad. Please go,” you choked out.

He only drew closer. That prompted Joel to take a step that way as well, blocking your father from gaining too much on the Bronco. Of course, it wasn’t a perfect wall.

Your dad managed to snake toward the open doorway.

As soon as he did, Joel made sure to spare him no effort: he took hold of the man’s collar, arm hard across his chest, and thrust him up against the side of the car. The motion rattled the whole frame of the old Bronco, and out of habit, you leapt toward it. You stopped halfway across the center console, gaze darting to Joel’s, and your lips parted. You were already shaking your head.

Watching yet another violent scene unfold wasn’t high on your list of priorities. Fortunately, your dad didn’t budge an inch to resist and instead only turned his head.

“Sweetheart,” he tried again, voice a touch more hoarse this time around. Pleading. “I didn’t mean nothin’ I said.”

Joel lowered his arm, but he didn’t release the collar. With a firm grip, he kept your dad pinned to the spot.

“Which part? Those ugly fuckin’ names that you called her, or sayin’ she’d be better off without me?” he pressed

Your father coughed. The force must’ve been a lot.

“I mean, all of it. Really. I regret everything I sai—”

“And you think I’m doing this to piss you off. Like Joel is some sort of ploy to make your life miserable,” you cut in.

“I know he ain’t. Not from the way you two have been…” Your father trailed off, as if the words were too weighty on his tongue. He tore his gaze from you and Joel and opted to stare off someplace else inside the Bronco then. “From how you look at him, and he looks at you, it just…”

Silence. More inarticulable blinks and a heavy swallow.

“You’ll always be my little girl, and it’s just hard seein’…”

At the same time, his gaze landed on one particular spot and froze in place. His body stiffened, and with it, the grip on his collar constricted, too. Joel clearly didn’t notice the path of your dad’s vision, and he frowned.

“Mark—” he started, low.

“What—What the fuck is that?”

Your gaze and Joel’s snapped in time to follow his look.

As soon as you did, your heart plummeted to your feet. Joel was still holding onto your father’s shirt like he could’ve swung at him at any moment, but then it was as if you could feel his whole demeanor shift. You weren’t watching his face, but you could see those eyes widen.

Joel stared, dumbstruck.

Your father raised his voice.

With the attention of everyone now glued to the four tests sitting out on the dash, it rang loud as anything:

“You’re fucking pregnant?!”

Well.

At least the waiting game was over.

[aliastrinity]

[aliastrinity]

Character requests 2/9

misstrinity.jpg

[aliastrinity]

Petty Grievances

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

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

One shot requested by: @ anyomous

wc: 14.4 k

You noticed it in the produce section.

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

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

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

No answer.

“...Joel?”

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

You blinked. “Okay?”

“They’re soft.”

“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”

Joel still didn’t look at you.

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

Nothing.

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

Okay, you thought, weird.

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

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

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

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

You were nervous.

Ridiculously so.

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

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

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

He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”

"Or do you want something else?”

“Nah.”

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

“I said it’s fine.”

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

That was when it really hit you.

He was being weird. Really weird.

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

But today? Nothing.

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

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

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

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

You sighed. Here we go.

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

Quiet.

Tense.

Internalized.

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

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

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

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

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

Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.

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

You didn’t look back.

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked and turned your head slowly.

“You wanna say that again?”

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

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

“You pick.”

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

“I do not fit,” he growled.

You arched a brow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t need anything.

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

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

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

Joel scoffed behind you.

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

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

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

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

Joel gave you a dead stare.

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

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

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

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

Joel didn’t answer.

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

You saw that. You always saw it.

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

You smirked to yourself, just a little.

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

He didn’t respond.

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

So you stepped in close.

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

You lifted your hand and cupped his face.

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

His body went still the second you touched him.

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

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

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

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

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

He still didn’t speak.

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

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

“Truce?” you whispered.

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

“…Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Look at me like that.”

Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.

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

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

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

You stared. “Then what’s the point?”

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

The silence stretched. You stared at him.

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

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

But Joel did.

You reached for his hand.

That was it. That was the end of him.

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

“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

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

“Joel—”

“Please.”

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

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

You stepped back, turned away.

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”

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

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

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

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

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

The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.

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

The boy  immediately blanched.

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

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

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

The kid squeaked.

Literally squeaked.

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

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

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

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

“Hey, baby. Relax.”

Still nothing.

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

Joel’s brow twitched.

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

“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.

“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”

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

You took the bags gently.

“Have a good day,” you said softly.

The kid didn’t reply.

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

You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.

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

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

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

Joel didn’t answer.

“You traumatized the poor boy.”

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

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

“He asked for your number.”

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

Joel didn’t answer.

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

Still nothing.

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

You stared at him for a beat.

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

The truck rumbled to life.

The drive was quiet.

Unbearably quiet.

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

It didn’t.

Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.

Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.

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

You didn’t follow right away.

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

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

Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.

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

And then you let yourself think.

Okay.

What the hell could you have done?

You rewound the day like a cassette tape.

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

But he didn’t even look mad about that.

More like… tense.

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

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

More... personal.

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

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

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

You padded out barefoot.

Joel was in the living room.

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

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.

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

The silence crackled.

You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”

He grunted.

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

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

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

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

Nothing.

You did it again.

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

He swallowed.

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

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

No response.

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

Nothing.

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

Still nothing.

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

His head tilted slightly. Barely.

But you saw it.

And you grinned.

Bingo.

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

Still nothing

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

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

He finally looked at you.

Expression flat. Deadpan.

Eyes dark, unreadable.

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

You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.

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

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

Good.

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

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

“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.

You smiled.

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

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

“I’m fine.”

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

He didn’t respond again.

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

You smirked.

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

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

Joel stayed still.

Stone quiet.

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

Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.

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

Joel blinked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”

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

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

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

You leaned down and kissed it.

Soft and sweet.

You pulled back just an inch.

Then climbed farther into his lap.

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

You kissed his cheek.

His jaw.

The soft curve of his neck again.

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

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

No response.

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

Still nothing.

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

You kissed the edge of his mouth.

Then pulled back and pouted.

Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But not nothing either.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

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

Nothing in his expression changed.

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

You didn’t comment.

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

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

Joel blinked once. Slowly.

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

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

Joel dropped his gaze.

You didn’t stop.

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

That got him.

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

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

Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.

And then his head dropped.

Right onto your shoulder.

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

You froze, heart thudding in your chest.

Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”

He didn’t lift his head.

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

Then, low, gravelly, and rough:

“You really don’t know?”

You blinked. “...Know what?”

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

You waited.

Silence stretched.

Then finally, slowly, he said:

“You were wearin’ that dress.”

You paused. “…What?”

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

You stared at him.

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

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

That quiet, deadpan fury.

That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.

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

You blinked.

Then you bit your lip.

But Joel wasn’t done.

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

You choked.

He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.

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

Your lips parted.

He growled.

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

You opened your mouth to respond.

But nothing came out.

You just stared.

Joel stared back.

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

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

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

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

You blinked.

And then—quietly:

“…You want me to get off you?”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

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

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:

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

Joel scoffed.

But it came out rough.

More breath than sound.

Then, without another word—

He kissed you.

Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel kissed the sound right out of you.

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

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

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

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

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

His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.

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

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

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

He sighed.

And then held you closer.

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

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

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

You giggled again, and he kissed that too.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

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

Your heart cracked open. And that was it.

That was the moment you moved.

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

Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

He just watched you.

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

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

Joel’s jaw clenched.

But he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a move.

So you did.

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

Not sweet this time.

Not soft.

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

He let you lead, just for a moment.

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

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

“Jesus, baby…”

You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.

And did it again.

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

He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.

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

He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t give him time to answer.

Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.

Soft, at first.

Just a brush.

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

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

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

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

One, slow drag.

Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.

Your breath hitched. “Oh—”

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

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

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

You rolled your hips against him again. And again.

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

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

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

He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.

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

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

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

“I was trying to apologize.”

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

You leaned in close again, breath mingling.

“Didn’t I say I was yours?”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

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

That stare.

That devotion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At how fucking much he wanted you.

“Up,” he grunted.

“What?”

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

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

Mouth hot. Open.

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

“Jesus—Joel—”

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

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

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

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.

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

Then thud.

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

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

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

He didn’t even blink.

“Yeah.”

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

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

Joel didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t let you.

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

Then his mouth.

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

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

“Joel—” you gasped.

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

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

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

You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”

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

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

“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.

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

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

“What’s the down?” he asked.

You froze. “What?”

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

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

Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”

His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”

You hesitated. “Maybe?”

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

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

You shook, panting. “Joel—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Possession?”

“Colts,” you gasped.

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

“Nope.”

“What? Joel—!”

“You moved.”

“I twitched.”

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

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

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

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

The next stretch was agony.

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

Then came the questions.

Flag on the play—what for?

Which quarter?

What yard line?

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

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

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

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

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

“Score?”

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

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

“Good girl.”

And then he devoured you.

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

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

And fuck, did he wreck you.

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

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

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

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

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

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

“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”

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

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

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And then you broke.

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

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

And Joel didn’t stop.

Didn’t budge.

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

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

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

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

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

He tilted his head. “More?”

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

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

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

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

You whimpered.

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

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

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

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

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

You whined.

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

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

You did as told. Because how could you not?

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

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

“Please what?”

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

That earned a low hum.

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

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

Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”

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

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

You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.

And that was it. That was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—Joel’s hand again.

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

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

Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.

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

But you couldn’t.

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

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

You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.

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

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

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

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

Your whole body jolted.

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

You came.

So fast, it blindsided you.

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

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

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

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

His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.

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

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

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

Protective.

Sweet.

Possessive.

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

One kiss. Then another.

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

Joel heard it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.

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

“Did good for me,” he murmured.

Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”

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

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

“You gagged me with my own panties.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

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

You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.

“I was desperate.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

He was giving you a break.

Just like he always did.

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

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

Where to push. Where to let you fall.

And right now, he was holding.

Letting you rest.

Even though his body was screaming to take.

That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“I had my break.”

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

Ready.

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

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

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

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

He did it again. Slower this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another slap. Harder this time.

“Goddamn tease.”

You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

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

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

“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.

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

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

His other hand?

Stroking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”

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

“Don’t believe you.”

“Joel—”

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

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

“I liked it too much.”

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

It was enough to make your spine jolt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

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

“I know you are,” he said.

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

And then he paused.

“Say thank you,” he commanded.

You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

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

Your legs shook.

“For—fuck—baby—”

“Say it.”

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

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

But Joel heard it. He always did.

A beat of silence. A low grunt.

He pushed in.

All at once.

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

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

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

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

You reached for it.

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

You didn’t even have to ask.

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

And that’s when he broke.

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

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

You whimpered. “Joel—”

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

He didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow down.

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

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

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

You squeezed his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”

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

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

“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

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

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

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

And God help you, you did.

The orgasm hit like a truck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was still inside you.

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

Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.

A kiss.

Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.

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

“You okay?” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmhm.”

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

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

Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.

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

“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.

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

“Smartass,” he murmured.

Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.

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

And then you felt it.

Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

Carefully.

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

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

And Joel watched.

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

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

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t even like making pasta.”

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

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

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

You covered your face with your hands and groaned.

God, he was impossible.

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

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

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

You peeked over the back of the couch.

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

Your chest squeezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”

“I told you to sit down.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”

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

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

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

“Hey,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.

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

He stilled.

“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.

“Mhm.”

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

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

“Complain?”

“Yep.”

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

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

“I hate mushrooms.”

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

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

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

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

He was quiet for a beat.

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

You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”

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

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

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

But neither of you moved.

Because some grievances could wait.

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

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

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

[aliastrinity]

I’m literally obsessed with this entire press junket - Berlin

[aliastrinity]

I'm obsessed with this entire press junket

[aliastrinity]

In another universe, they're so happy

[aliastrinity]

Borrowed Time

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

notes: Just a quick heads-up—this fic includes themes of infidelity, which I don’t usually write. It fit the emotional chaos of this particular story, but please take care while reading.

tags: no physical description of reader, tension, smut with feelings, a lot of angst, we love pathetic man, drunk! Frankie, drugs mention, infidelity, exes to???, hate sex (kind of), hurt and no comfort

summary: He begged her to come over, and she did—but only to remind him what losing her really felt like.

word count: 2,6 k

He tried every band-aid under the sun.

Cocaine, whiskey, warm bodies in colder beds. Waking up in cities he didn’t remember flying to. Friends who stopped checking in, family who didn’t ask anymore. He tried pretending. He tried forgetting. He tried fucking it out of his system, but no one ever looked at him the way she did—like even his ruins were worth loving.

And none of it worked.

Now, he sat slouched against his kitchen cabinets, back to the cold linoleum, a bottle of something cheap and sharp between his legs. His head hung heavy, curls damp from sweat or the shower he took an hour ago. Maybe yesterday. Time didn’t work right anymore.

His phone blinked beside him. One percent. A last gasp.

He’d already tried calling. Twice, maybe three times. He wasn’t counting anymore. Counting made it real. But he was drunk enough not to care. Or maybe just drunk enough to finally say the things he kept locked behind his teeth.

His thumbs hovered, then tapped out another text. Sloppy, desperate, misspelled.  

He stared at the screen, watched it shift from “Delivered” to “Read.”

Nothing after that.

The silence pressed in around him, thick and suffocating. The kind that echoed. He should’ve smashed the phone. Should’ve thrown it across the room like it could hurt less if it shattered. Instead, he sat in it. In the wreckage of what used to be a life. In the echoes of her voice that wouldn’t shut the fuck up inside his head.

He wanted her out of his system like poison but she’d fused into his blood.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth swig, his head tipped back. The ceiling spun, his throat burned.

She wasn’t coming, he knew that. Knew it deep. Knew it in the way she hadn’t looked back that last time. In the way she let him fall and didn’t try to catch him.

He didn’t blame her. Hell, he wouldn’t come back for him either.

The room pulsed with a dull hum, fridge buzzing, a loose window tapping in the breeze. His phone finally died with a quiet sigh.

Frankie closed his eyes.

Maybe this time, he’d sleep through the ache.

Knock.

His eyes snapped open.

Another knock. Firmer this time, measured.

He blinked, stared at the door in disbelief. No fucking way.

His legs didn’t work right when he tried to stand. The bottle clattered. He reached the door, heartbeat somewhere in his throat, hands trembling—not from the alcohol.

He opened it and there she was.

Hair a mess, hoodie zipped up to her chin. Her eyes glassy and tired and so goddamn her. She didn’t say anything, neither did he.

Because for a second, the whole world stopped and for the first time in months, the void quieted.

—

She didn’t say his name.

Didn’t even look him in the eye at first—just stared past him, jaw tight, mouth pulled into something sharp. Her arms were crossed like armor, and he felt it—like a punch right in the ribs.

Not a hug.

Not Frankie, are you okay?

Not even pity.

Just ice.

And fuck, he deserved it.

But he still drank her in like she was the first hit after days of withdrawal. He couldn’t help it. The slope of her shoulders. The way her hair curled from the damp night air. The smell of her shampoo cutting through the stench of his apartment like a memory he’d tried to drown a hundred times.

He wanted to bury his face in her neck, press his cheek to her stomach.

He wanted to beg.

Instead, she stepped inside and slammed the door behind her.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Her voice cracked—just a little—but she held steady. Like he hadn’t dragged her here through guilt and ghosted memories. Like he wasn’t falling apart just from the sound of her voice.

“I—” His throat closed around the words. Nothing came out but a dry rasp. “I didn’t think. I just—”

“Exactly.” She spun around to face him. “You didn’t think. You never think when you get like this, Francisco. And now I’m here, again, picking through the wreckage you made of yourself.”

He flinched. Couldn’t even look at her—not when she stood there so alive, so steady, even in her fury. God, he’d always loved that fire, even if it burned him. Not when he knew exactly what it felt like to fall asleep with her heartbeat against his back and wake up to sunlight in her laugh.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he mumbled, ashamed of how small his voice sounded.

She laughed, bitter and hollow. “You shouldn’t have called me at all.”

She walked past him, brushing his arm. He inhaled like it might be the last time he ever caught her scent. His knees buckled under the weight of it—her presence, her anger, the absence of warmth.

She looked around the apartment like it disgusted her. The half-eaten takeout, the spilled pills on the counter, the whiskey bottle on its side. Her eyes lingered on his knuckles, red and cracked. Then she looked at him, really looked at him.

“You need help, Frankie. You need someone. But it can’t be me.”

He nodded. He fucking nodded because what else was he supposed to do? Say no, it has to be you? That he’s tried the world and none of it feels like home unless her hand is on the back of his neck and her breath is in his lungs?

Instead, he said, “I know.”

But she didn’t move. She stood there, breathing hard, arms still crossed. Her body pointed toward the door but her eyes stayed locked on him like she was still looking for the man she used to love in the ruins he’d become.

“I hate that you did this,” she whispered.

He took a shaky step forward. “But you came.”

She closed her eyes. For just a second,he saw it—her shaking. That softness she used to give him. That crack in the wall she built.

“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don’t use that voice on me. Don’t look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.”

“I’m not using anything,” he breathed. “I just… I don’t know how to stop missing you.”

She turned her face away, but she didn’t leave. Frankie stepped closer. Just one step, but it felt like crossing a minefield. Her breath hitched. He saw it—felt it—and he latched onto it like a drowning man finding driftwood.

“You’re with someone else.”

His voice was low, raw. Almost reverent. “But you still came.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she snapped, but it cracked at the end.

“It does to me.”

She turned, fast, fury blazing in her eyes. “You think this is what I wanted, Frankie? To find you on the edge again? To get dragged back into your mess when I’ve been clawing my way out of it?”

“I didn’t mean to—” he started, but she was already stepping into his space, shoving her hands into his chest.

“Didn’t mean to?” she laughed, breathless and wild. “You never mean to. But it’s always me who gets the call when you’re breaking. Always me who has to fucking care, even when you stopped giving a shit a long time ago.”

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t even flinch when her hands hit his chest again, harder this time—because underneath the anger, her fingers curled into his shirt, clutching, trembling with emotions too big and too tangled for this fleeting moment to hold.

“Why?” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

He stared at her—messy and furious and beautiful in a way that made his heart split in two—and whispered back, “Because I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

And then she kissed him.

No warning. No lead-up. Just months of silence and ache erupting between their mouths like a spark to gasoline. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and salt and need, his back hitting the wall, her hands tangling in his curls like she hated how much she missed the feel of them.

Frankie gasped against her lips. “Fuck—”

“Don’t,” she hissed, yanking his shirt up, eyes burning. “Don’t say my name. Don’t make this anything.”

“You’re the one who came,” he choked out, helping her tug it over his head, her nails dragging down his chest. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

“And I’ll be the one who leaves,” she said, eyes locking on his like a dare. “So don’t get it twisted.”

But he didn’t fucking care.

Because she was here. She was touching him like her hands remembered the map of his body better than her heart ever wanted to. Like she hated how right it still felt. And when he picked her up, stumbled with her toward the bedroom, she didn’t stop him.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail of regret. Her hoodie, his sweats. She cursed. Shoved him back onto the bed. Climbed onto him like she was trying to erase every second they’d spent apart.

“I hate you for this,” she whispered, breath shaking, guiding him into her like a drug she’d sworn off but couldn’t quit. “I hate that I still want you.”

His hands slid up her thighs, all rough palms against soft skin. “Then don’t say my name when you come.”

She did anyway, more than once.

Her hips rolled slow at first—taunting, punishing—and Frankie gasped like her body was the first real thing he’d felt in months. His hands gripped her thighs like lifelines, eyes wide, chest heaving. She wasn’t soft tonight. She wasn’t his. But she was here, and god, she felt like home in all the worst ways.

“You still fit me like you were made for me,” he rasped, voice thick with reverence and filth, jaw tight beneath her.

“Don’t,” she snapped, but her nails dug into his chest like she didn’t mean it. Like she needed to hurt him just enough to stop herself from falling back in.

“You want this too,” he breathed, one hand sliding up her waist, slow, shaking, reverent. “Tell me you don’t.”

She didn’t because they both knew it would be a lie.

Instead, she leaned forward, hair falling over her face, and tugged at his curls—sharp and mean—and he groaned deep, eyes fluttering shut like the pain was worship. But he didn’t look away for long. When he opened them again, she was right there—all fury and fire and heat, riding him like she was punishing them both.

“Open your eyes,” she hissed, yanking his head back just enough. “You don’t get to pretend I’m someone else.”

Frankie moaned, chest arching into hers, hips lifting to meet her pace. “I could never. No one feels like you.”

Her lip curled. She hated how fast that got to her. “You don’t get to say that,” she whispered, broken now, her voice cracked from holding back everything else. “You had me. And you lost me.”

“I know,” he breathed, hand at the back of her neck, pulling her down until their foreheads touched. “I know, baby, I know. But I still dream about you. I still wake up reaching for you.”

“Shut up.”

Her hips snapped harder. “Shut the fuck up, Frankie.”

He did at her command, but the look in his eyes didn’t. It wrecked her—how he looked at her like she was salvation and sin at once. Like he was memorizing her face for the last time.

He didn’t beg now, not with words. He begged with his body, with the way he let her take control and clung to every inch of her like it was already slipping away. And when she leaned in to kiss him again—open-mouthed, desperate, teeth scraping his bottom lip—he whimpered into it like she’d touched something sacred.

She broke the kiss first, panting, pupils blown wide. “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“I don’t want to fix it,” he murmured, thumbing the corner of her mouth. “I just wanna feel you.”

She pulled his hand away, held it pinned to the mattress.

“Then feel it,” she spat. “Feel every fucking second of what you lost.”

And she moved harder, faster. Her anger blooming into heat, her want tangled in guilt, her breath catching every time he moaned her name like a prayer. Chasing relief.

Frankie’s hands were shaking now, trying to hold on, trying not to come too soon like a teenager overwhelmed by the gravity of her. “I’m not gonna last,” he gritted, forehead pressed to her collarbone, helpless.

“Don’t,” she dared. “Not until I say.”

He choked on a groan, fists balled into the sheets, trying so fucking hard to obey even as his body trembled from restraint.

And when she finally whispered his name—no venom, no fire, just raw, ruined softness—he broke too. Right beneath her where he always had.

—

The room was quiet now.

No moans, no gasps, no breathless curses. Just the sound of their breathing slowly leveling out—hers steady, his still shaking. Frankie lay flat on his back, spent, sweat clinging to his chest, heartbeat loud in his ears.

She stayed on top of him for a moment longer, thighs trembling around his hips, her head bowed like she was praying or trying to hold something in.

He didn’t dare to speak because even now, even with her body still wrapped around him, he felt the weight of her slipping away. Like this was all borrowed time.

Then—softly, like muscle memory—her hand lifted.

Fingers threaded through his curls, slow, tender. Just once. A single drag from his hairline back, the way she used to do when he couldn’t sleep. When she’d lie with him in the dark, calming the war in his head with nothing but her touch.

He closed his eyes.

Don’t do this, he begged silently. Don’t make this harder.

But god, it felt like coming home. Like a lullaby only she knew.

And then she said it. Quiet intp the dark, almost fragile.

“I thought about you last week.”

Frankie’s eyes flew open.

She wasn’t looking at him, just staring somewhere past the wall like the confession hurt more than the sex ever did.

“I was at this lake house with him,” she continued, voice barely a breath. “It was quiet. Too quiet. And I started thinking about the way you talk in your sleep. The way you always pulled me close, even when you were dead tired. I thought about how safe I used to feel, even when everything else was falling apart.”

Frankie didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe.

“I hate you for making me miss that,” she whispered.

He turned his face toward her. “Then stay.”

She met his eyes and for a second—just a second—he thought maybe she would, at least consider it. But she shifted off of him without another word, the loss of her body sending a cold shiver down his spine. harer and sharper than any fall after a high ever did. She found her hoodie on the floor and pulled it on without looking at him.

“Don’t ask me again,” she said as she bent down for her shoes.

“I won’t,” he lied.

She walked to the door, fingers tightening around the knob. Her back to him.

He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, the bed still warm where she’d been. “Did you mean it? What you said about thinking of me?”

She hesitated but then gave the smallest nod and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her. Finality.

Frankie sat in the silence, the sweat on his skin turning cold, the sheets still tangled from where they collided like lightning and loss.The bed smelled like her, it would for days. And he’d lie in it, in that scent—dying a thousand quiet deaths in the ghost of her warmth, in the echo of what could’ve been, what once was, what he’d just lost all over again.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

most recent work

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @sxnnimoon @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[aliastrinity]

Heatwave

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: porn with a little plot , no physical description of reader, tension, all the clichés, unprotected PinV, bad murder jokes, creampie, Frankie being a walking green flag, damsel in distress trope, sweat, stranger danger AU, vulnerable man, smut with feelings, cursing, kissing, soft! Frankie

summary: Stranded in the middle of a relentless heatwave, you take a chance on the quiet stranger who stops to help—and what begins with a broken-down car ends with you asking yourself: what could possibly go wrong getting into a stranger’s home?

notes Obviously, this goes without saying—but don’t go hopping into strangers’ trucks, no matter how hot the heatwave (or the man). This is fiction, babes. Stay safe, stay smart, and let the rest of us make the reckless choices in stories only.

word count: 6,3 k words

read on ao3

It was hot. Like skin-melting-off-your-bones hot. Like the air itself was trying to suffocate you in slow, sticky increments.

You swore the sun had taken it personally when your car stuttered, groaned, and then—just to be dramatic—died on the side of the endless stretch of road that cut through the middle of absolutely nowhere. Great, this was the last thing you needed. 

No service. no shade. No clue what you were supposed to do next.

So when the rumble of an old truck broke through the scorched silence and rolled into view like some dusty mirage, you tensed. Because what kind of story started like this and didn’t end up on a true crime podcast?

The truck slowed. The driver—dark shirt, cap, sunglasses, the whole ex-military drifter vibe—stuck his arm out the window. "You alright?"

You shaded your eyes with your hand, squinting up at him. "Not really. Car just… gave up on life."

He nodded once,didn’t push. “Mind if I take a look?”

You hesitated. His voice was calm, unhurried even. Something about it made you want to trust him, even though every safety podcast you’d ever listened to was screaming don’t.

But then again, the sun was still trying to kill you, and he was the first human being you’d seen in over an hour.

“Yeah, sure,” you said finally, stepping back. “I—I don’t know what happened. I was just driving and then…”

He climbed out of the truck, moving slow and deliberate like he knew you were still sizing him up. Hands where you could see them, keeping distance—polite in a way most men forgot how to be.

“Pop the hood?” he asked.

You did. He leaned in, wiped his brow, muttered something under his breath, which didn’t really sound like English.

“Damn,” he said finally, stepping back. “That thing’s cooked. Radiator’s bone dry and the belt’s shot. She’s not going anywhere.”

You stared at him. “So that’s bad, right?”

“Bad enough you’ll need a tow. And with no bars out here…” He glanced at his phone, confirming the zero-signal reality. “Well. My place is a couple miles down the road. Got AC, cold water, and a landline if you wanna call someone from there.”

You blinked, arms instinctively crossed. “Your place?”

“Yeah. I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Stranger. Truck. Middle of nowhere. Not the best setup. But I swear, I’m not a serial killer. I’m just Frankie.”

“…Frankie,” you echoed.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Yep. And you can ride in the front or the bed of the truck, your call. I won’t be offended.”

—

The interior of his truck was warm, but not boiling—which, at this point, felt like stepping into a luxury spa. The seat clung to the backs of your thighs, your jean shorts and tank top sticking to you in all the wrong places. You probably smelled even worse than you felt. The air conditioning sputtered, coughed once, then kicked in with a groaning hum that might’ve been the sweetest sound you’d heard all day.

Frankie slid behind the wheel, adjusted his cap, and gave you a quick glance. “Seatbelt?”

You clicked it into place. “Don’t wanna die in the truck of a stranger, got it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and pulled onto the road. “I swear, this is not a habit of mine.”

“What isn’t?”

“Picking up women stranded in the desert heat. Feels like a bad plot to a worse movie.”

You tilted your head, watching him. “And what, you’re the misunderstood loner with a heart of gold?”

He smirked. “Something like that. Just didn’t feel right driving past you. That sun was out for blood.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, fanning yourself with one hand. “I was starting to see dead relatives. One of them was offering me a lemonade.”

Frankie chuckled again—soft, almost surprised. “That bad?”

“That hot,” you said, then added, “But yeah. I mean, stranger danger and all, but I figured if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn’t be doing it in broad daylight in a truck that smells faintly like motor oil and McNuggets.”

He grinned at that, a quick flash of teeth. “You’re very trusting.”

“Not really. I took a gamble. Worst case, I jump out the window.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Better than melting into a cautionary tale on the side of the road.”

Frankie shook his head, amused. “Well, I’ll try not to disappoint.”

A few beats passed. Outside, the heat shimmered against the windshield in soft, warping waves. You stole a glance at him—sunglasses still on, one hand resting on the wheel, forearms strong and tanned, dusted with old freckles and faint scars. He was broad. Solid. Definitely too strong to fight off, even if you wanted to. His dark shirt clung to his shoulders and stretched thin over biceps that looked like they’d seen their fair share of work. A few damp curls peeked out from beneath his cap, sticking to his temple and the back of his neck. His skin glistened with sweat, a slow trail likely running down his spine just like it was down yours. You quickly looked away, though a different kind of heat curled up your back—one that had nothing to do with the sun.

“So… what do you do?” you asked, mostly just to break the silence and keep your thoughts from wandering somewhere dangerous.

“I’m a pilot,” he replied without missing a beat.

You raised a brow. “Like, commercial?”

He shook his head. “Choppers. Private mostly. Medical transport sometimes.”

“Well,” you said, blinking, “that’s… cooler than I expected.”

He glanced your way. “What were you expecting?”

You gave a little shrug. “I don’t know. A mechanic. Or like... someone who definitely owns a snake.”

That made him bark a real laugh. “No snakes. Not even a dog. Just a lot of dust and one sad little cactus I keep forgetting to water.”

“I respect that. The bar is low, but you’re clearing it.”

Frankie slowed the truck as a long gravel driveway came into view, flanked by dry grass and a crooked mailbox that had seen better days ‘Home sweet home’.

You studied it—modest, sun-bleached, the kind of place that said I live here quietly and don’t bother anyone. Safe, even. Or maybe that was just him. The way he hadn’t tried to charm you, hadn’t pressed,  just offered help and let you decide.

“You sure you’re not a serial killer?” you asked again, half-teasing as you shut the passenger door with a solid thud.

Frankie opened his own door, glancing at you over the roof of the truck. “Nah,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Those guys usually keep their trucks a lot cleaner.”

You stifled a laugh as you followed him down the narrow path to the weathered veranda, hesitating just slightly as he stepped ahead and pushed the front door open, holding it there with one hand.

“You can stay outside if you still don’t trust me,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, “but there’s no AC.”

You tilted your head, arching a skeptical brow. “I can scream loud.”

Frankie huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “You can try. Nearest neighbors are two miles in the opposite direction. Good luck with that.”

And somehow—maybe it was the heatstroke talking, maybe something else entirely—you stepped past him, brushing close as you crossed the threshold into his home. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just stood there, holding the door open and watching you with that calm, unreadable expression.

The blast of cool air hit you like a wave. You let out a shaky exhale you hadn’t realized you were holding.

It was a modest space—cool, dim, with mismatched furniture and the faint scent of cedar and dust. Lived-in. Quiet. The kind of place that shouldn’t have felt safe but somehow did.

You turned just enough to catch him watching you. Not in a creepy way—nothing leering or obvious. But his gaze flicked downward, slow, lingering for a breath too long before dragging back up. Your flushed cheeks, your throat, the way your damp tank top clung to your skin. You caught the flicker of something in his eyes before he cleared his throat and glanced away, the back of his hand brushing over his jaw.

“I’ve got a landline in the kitchen,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. “You can use it to call a tow. Water’s cold, if you need that first.”

You nodded, unsure if the heat curling in your stomach was from the weather or the way he’d looked at you—like he was trying not to. Like he wasn’t sure if he should.

And maybe you weren’t sure either.

—

The kitchen was simple—faded tile, humming fridge, a fan turning slow in the corner. It smelled faintly like coffee grounds and the ghost of something fried days ago. You leaned against the counter, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe, while Frankie crossed the room, opening a cabinet with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to stare at the way his shoulders moved under that dark shirt.

He grabbed a glass, filled it from the filter jug in the fridge, and turned toward you. And then—because of course—your fingers brushed as he handed it over.

It was nothing. A blink of a moment but it hit like lightning.

You flinched just slightly, not from fear—no, worse—from the jolt of heat that zipped up your spine like your nerve endings had been rewired just for him.

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying not to look at his mouth. Or his hands. Or the tiny bead of sweat trailing down the side of his neck like it had a personal vendetta against your willpower.

“No problem,” he said, but his voice was different now—softer, rougher, like he felt it too. His gaze lingered for half a second too long on your lips before he looked away, scratching at the stubble on his jaw like he was grounding himself.

You gulped the water even though you weren’t really thirsty. Just needed something to do. Something to cool down the low, traitorous ache curling in your belly.

You were in the middle of nowhere. In a stranger’s house. You should be thinking pepper spray, exits, license plate. You should be thinking about true crime documentaries and every warning your mother ever gave you. But all you could think about was how good his voice sounded in that heat-slow drawl. How big his hands were. How close he’d been when you walked past him at the door—and how much closer you suddenly wanted him to be now.

God, where the hell was your survival instinct? What was actually wrong with you?

You set the glass down with more force than necessary, stepping back like that would fix the wild electricity crackling between your bodies.

Frankie’s eyes flicked to yours. “You good?”

No,not even close.

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. “Just... dizzy. Heat, probably.”

He nodded slowly, but the way his jaw ticked said he didn’t quite believe you.

“Phone’s right there,” he said, nodding toward the corner of the kitchen where an old beige landline sat on a small table, next to a pile of unopened mail.

You moved toward it like it was salvation. Like you hadn’t just had a full-blown hormonal short-circuit in front of a stranger who somehow smelled like sweat and soap and the worst idea you’ve ever had.

And you already kind of hated how much you wanted more.

—

You dialed the number slowly, each button click loud in the quiet kitchen. The landline cord curled like a snake between your fingers as you pressed the receiver to your ear, listening to the endless ringing on the other end.

Finally—finally—a crackly voice answered. You gave them your location, your best guess at the mile marker, and explained, as patiently as possible, that your car had chosen the worst time and place to die.

There was a pause. Then: “Yeah, we can send someone, but it’s gonna be a few hours. Maybe three, maybe more. We’ve got another pickup ahead of you and a guy out sick today.”

You blinked. “A few—?”

“I mean, you can wait in the heat if you want, but…”

You glanced toward the hallway, where you could hear the low hum of the fan and the distant squeak of floorboards as Frankie moved. You were still warm, still too aware of your skin and the way the air felt against it, but you weren’t dying anymore. Not of heatstroke, anyway.

“Right,” you said, sighing into the phone. “No, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”

You hung up slower than you meant to. The quiet returned, thick and a little heavy. You stood there for a second, staring at the phone like maybe it would ring again and let you off the hook.

It didn’t.

Footsteps padded back into the kitchen, and Frankie leaned against the doorframe with a bottle of water in his hand. He looked casual, but not quite relaxed—like he was waiting for the verdict.

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “Guess I’ll be around for a while.”

His eyebrows shot up under the visor of his cap. “Yeah?”

But it wasn’t just surprise. There was something else—something quicker and warmer that flickered across his face before he could stop it. Relief, maybe. Or excitement. Whatever it was, it passed too fast to name, but it hit.

He took a slow sip from his water bottle and nodded, trying to play it cool. “Well. Got snacks. Cold drinks. Fan’s got two settings, and I make a mean grilled cheese if you’re hungry.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that your way of saying you’re not going to murder me and bury me in the backyard?”

He smirked. “Nah. I don’t even have a shovel.”

“Good to know,” you said, but your voice came out lighter than before. Easier. Against your better judgment, you started to relax.

Still, some part of your brain—the logical one, the one that hadn’t short-circuited in the kitchen a minute ago—kept whispering: what the hell are you doing? You don’t know this man.

But god help you, you were starting to want to.

—

The grilled cheese sizzled in the pan, golden edges crisping just right as the scent of butter filled the kitchen. Frankie worked quietly, a butter knife in one hand and a casual, easy grace in the way he moved.

You sat on a barstool, watching him from across the counter, occasionally sipping the water he’d refreshed for you. Outside, the heat still pulsed like a warning—but inside, things had cooled. The hum of the fan, the faint clatter of pans, his low chuckle at something you'd said—it all folded into something that felt weirdly good. Too good definitely given the circumstances. 

“So, you do this for all your stranded victims?” you asked, chin propped on your hand. “Cook them grilled cheese, turn the AC on high, lull them into a false sense of security?”

He shot you a sideways glance. “Only the ones who look like they’ll fight back if I try anything.”

You snorted. “You’re damn right.”

He plated the sandwiches and handed you yours, brushing your fingers again, whether on purpose or not, you couldn’t tell. You pretended not to notice the warmth it left behind.

You took a bite—and damn. Buttery. Perfectly crisp. Just the right amount of cheese. You groaned in delight. Groaned.

Frankie laughed, that low rumble again, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You okay over there?” he asked, eyes bright.

“This is stupidly good,” you said with your mouth half full. “If you were trying to win me over with grilled cheese, congratulations you succeeded.”

“Not my worst plan,” he said with a smirk.

And just like that, the conversation slipped into something softer. You talked about the heat, your cursed road trip, his work, how different it must be to fly helicopters compared to being grounded out here. At some point, you mentioned a movie you liked and he lit up—had seen it too, quoted a line that made you laugh until your stomach hurt.

And in that moment, it all felt so light. So easy. You forgot how awful the day had started. Forgot how ridiculous it was to feel this calm in a stranger’s kitchen—and almost forgot that you weren’t supposed to want to stay.

Which is probably why it slipped out, without filter, without warning.

“So… when’s the woman of the house coming home?”

The question hung there for a beat too long.

Frankie didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. But his gaze dropped, mouth twitching slightly like he was thinking of something that still lived behind his ribs.

“There’s none,” he said quietly. “Not anymore at least.”

You didn’t say anything, not right away.

He reached for his glass, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace.

“Too much work being in a relationship with me. Or maybe just… too much of me, period. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Some people are easier to love than others. I don’t think I’m one of them.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. The way he said it—so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t up for debate.

You leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening around your glass.

“I don’t know much about you,” you said, voice quieter now, softer, “but from what I’ve seen so far? You showed up when someone needed help. You kept your distance, asked permission, didn’t push. You made grilled cheese and didn’t even poison it.”

That earned the faintest smile.

You met his eyes. “That doesn’t sound like ‘too much’ to me.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the unexpected kindness. Then he nodded, slowly, and said, “Thanks.”

You both went quiet after that. Not awkward—just still. Like the air between you had shifted somehow and this strange little bubble you’d landed in wasn’t just a passing thing.

—

The sun was setting, bleeding orange and gold across the sky, washing the porch in that soft, late-hour light that made everything look gentler than it really was. The heat had broken, but it still clung in the corners, thick in the air between you.

You sat beside Frankie on the porch steps, a glass of water sweating in your hand, his knee just barely brushing yours every now and then. The cicadas had started their song, the air was still, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

It should’ve felt peaceful, but it didn’t. It felt like waiting.

Frankie leaned back on his palms, head tilted toward the fading light. “Always quiet out here,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “Too quiet, sometimes.”

You glanced over at him. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than his muscles—like someone who didn’t get touched much, didn’t get looked at much, not really. Not the kind of looking that made you feel seen.

“Do you like it?” you asked.

He took a moment before answering. “Some days, yeah. Others…” He shrugged. “Gets lonely.”

Your heart did something stupid at that. The kind of twist that made you shift closer without thinking. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that the weight between you had changed again—heavier now. Magnetic.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His eyes slow and dark and searching, lingering too long on your mouth before he caught himself and looked away. But it was too late. The current had shifted.

You swallowed hard. “Frankie...”

He turned back to you, and something cracked open behind his eyes. Something that looked like hunger. Not the casual kind. The aching kind. And then—like the tension finally snapped—he leaned in to you.

The kiss wasn’t soft, it wasn’t careful.

It was heat and need and the crash of everything you both had been holding back all day. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. And then his mouth was on yours—urgent, desperate, tasting of heat and faint salt and the kind of longing that digs under your ribs and doesn’t let go.

He kissed you like he’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. Like he didn’t believe it until this moment.

And god, you matched it. Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. His other hand slid to your hip, grounding you, holding you like he needed the contact to stay present.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, foreheads brushing, Frankie didn’t say anything for a long moment.

But the look on his face was enough, like he hadn’t expected this. Like maybe, deep down, he’d needed it more than he realized.

“Shit,” he whispered, more to himself than you, his lip twitching into a disbelieving smile.

And all you could do was nod, because same.

You were both breathless, the kind of quiet that only comes after something irreversible.

Frankie’s hand was still on your face, his thumb just barely brushing your cheekbone. His forehead rested against yours, but he didn’t move to kiss you again. Not yet.

Instead, his voice came low. Careful, still catching his breath.

“You okay?”

Those two words—so simple—hit you harder than the kiss. Not because you weren’t. But because in the middle of all this heat, this pull, this insane, reckless moment he still made room for you. Still needed to know you wanted this, too.

And something in you cracked right open.

You didn’t answer with words, you just moved.

One knee between his thighs, then the other, climbing into his lap like gravity had stopped bothering to work. Your glass of water tipped over somewhere in the motion, rolling across the porch with a dull clatter, long forgotten.

Frankie stiffened—just for a second—like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like maybe you’d disappear if he moved too fast. He looked up at you, wide-eyed beneath the shadow of his cap, his hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you again.

But you were already there, thighs bracketing his hips, fingers curled in the soft fabric of his shirt, heart pounding in a rhythm that matched his own. And when his hands finally settled on your waist, it felt less like a choice and more like coming home.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice wrecked.

You nodded, mouth brushing his. “I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His grip tightened—just a little—as he pulled you in, kissed you again like he was falling apart at the seams and you were the only thing holding him together. There was no finesse to it, no practiced rhythm. Just pure, hungry need, all tongue and teeth and quiet groans swallowed between lips.

His hands slid up your sides, fingers dragging slowly along the hem of your top like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. You could feel him breathing harder, his chest rising against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

This wasn’t careful anymore. It was a damn breaking.

But even in the chaos of it—his lips, your fingers in his hair, your hips rocking forward without meaning to—there was that thing about Frankie. That steadiness. That unspoken promise in every kiss and every touch.

His hands gripped your waist like he was still afraid you might vanish—like maybe you were a dream the heat conjured, and any sudden movement would wake him up.

You didn’t stop him.

His lips were rough in the best way, scraping against yours, a scrape that softened when his nose bumped yours, when he paused to kiss your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, the edge of your jaw like he was tracing a map back to something he thought he’d forgotten.

The air had cooled, finally, but your skin was flushed, burning. Goosebumps prickled down your arms and legs, not from cold but from the contrast—his warmth against you, the breeze licking at damp skin.

His fingers slid beneath your top. Just a little. Just enough to touch bare skin, to rest against the dip of your back like he needed to feel you. His hands weren’t greedy, weren’t rushed. They moved slowly and reverently.

And god, that wrecked you.

Because it had been too long since someone touched you like this. Like you were wanted, not just convenient, like you were something to savor.

Frankie kissed you again, slower now, more careful—as if the first round had burned through his restraint and left only truth behind. And that truth was this: he needed this as badly as you did. Maybe more.

You rocked forward in his lap, the friction sending a gasp tumbling from your lips. His head dropped against your shoulder, hands tightening on your hips.

“Jesus,” he breathed, voice wrecked, “you feel so fuckin’ good…”

You arched into him, your hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin—his ribs, his chest, the fine trail of hair leading downward. Every inch of him was solid, trembling under your touch, like this was all unraveling too fast for him to keep up.

“I shouldn’t want this,” you whispered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “We barely know each other…”

His breath hitched. “Doesn’t change how it feels.”

And god—he was right. This wasn’t about logic. This was about need. Two people left out in the heat too long, blistered raw from life, finding something in each other that soothed. That satisfied ,that ached in all the right ways.

You reached for the hem of your top, and he caught your wrists gently, eyes searching yours, checking in.

“Are you really sure?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I want this, want you.”

His restraint shattered at that—something behind his eyes giving way completely. He helped you pull your top over your head, his fingers brushing the curves of your sides as more of you was bared to the open air.

You shivered, and his hands moved instantly—up your arms, across your back—until the pads of his thumbs traced the soft curve beneath your breasts. His eyes followed his hands with a kind of reverent hunger, like he couldn’t decide where to look first, until he dipped his head and began pressing soft, wet kisses across your chest.

First one breast, then the other—slow and unhurried.

His tongue swirled around your nipple before his mouth closed around it, sucking gently, then biting just hard enough to make your breath hitch and your fingers tighten in his curls. His cap was gone now, tossed somewhere across the floorboards, forgotten in the heat of it all.

You let out a sound—obscene, desperate—as he released your nipple with a slick pop, only to move to the other side and give it the same treatment. His mouth worshipped you, his hands grounding you, and the air between you thickened with every ragged breath and needy sound.

More clothes were peeled away in rushed, uneven pulls—breathless and awkward, laughter slipping out when something caught or tangled—until you both were bare. You should’ve felt vulnerable. Embarrassed, maybe. Letting a man you’d only just met see you like this, but you didn’t. Not when his eyes were on you like that.

His mouth was still on you, moving between slow kisses and gentle sucks, like he wasn’t in any rush—like this part, this worship, meant something. You writhed beneath the weight of it, thighs tightening around his hips, your body instinctively pressing down against the growing strain of his arousal beneath you.

Then his lips slowed again. Just for a moment.

He kissed the underside of your breast. The center of your sternum. Up, up, until his mouth was at your throat, his breath fanning over your flushed skin.

And then he whispered it, right there against your pulse, as if the words were too big to look you in the eye while saying them.

"So fuckin’ beautiful..."

It wasn’t flirty or performative; it was real. Like the words had clawed their way up from somewhere deep in his chest and spilled out before he could catch them.

Your breath caught. Not because of his touch—but because of how he said it. Like maybe he hadn’t said it to anyone in a long time, like maybe he hadn’t felt it in a long time.

You pulled his face up to yours, thumb brushing his cheek, your heart clanging in your chest. His pupils were blown wide, his lips kiss-bruised, and you swore he looked almost overwhelmed.

“Frankie,” you whispered, and his name tasted like want and wonder and everything you weren’t supposed to be feeling this fast.

He kissed you again—slower this time. Less frantic. His hands sliding down your body, anchoring at your hips as if grounding himself in the fact that you were really here. That this was really happening.

And god, the way he touched you—like you weren’t just someone he wanted to fuck. You were someone he wanted to remember.  Every sweep of his palms down your thighs, every graze of his knuckles along your waist, felt like it came from someone starved for tenderness. Someone who hadn’t been looked at like this in a long time. Someone who wasn’t used to being touched like he was safe to want.

You rocked your hips against him, and he groaned deep like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good, like he’d been holding back so hard it was physically hurting him.

His head dropped against your shoulder again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, raw and low. “I’ve missed this... being wanted like this. Feeling like this.”

You didn’t have words—not really—so you kissed him instead. Hard and deep. Your hands threading back through his hair, pulling him closer, and he went willingly. Eager, starving.

And when you finally sank down onto him, slow and deep, his body meeting yours like they’d been made to fit—made for this—a curse tumbled from his lips as his eyes squeezed shut.

“Dios… you feel perfect.”

You moaned, unable to hold it back. Your whole body lit up with sensation—his hands, his hips, his lips at your jaw and shoulder, the way he moved inside you like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

This wasn’t just sex. It was something aching and needed and a little terrifying in how fast it settled under your skin.

And through it all, he kept holding you like he meant it. Like he was letting you back into some quiet, hidden part of himself that he thought no one wanted anymore.

You moved with him, slow at first, savoring every stretch, every inch of heat and friction that built between you like a rising tide. Your hands roamed his shoulders, his chest, clinging to the solid strength of him beneath your fingertips. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, guiding your hips, grounding you even as the pleasure started to blur the edges of the world.

Every shift of your body, every rock of your hips, sent sparks racing up your spine. He filled you so perfectly, so deeply, it almost hurt—and yet you never wanted it to stop. The porch creaked beneath you, the air clung to your skin, and somewhere in the distance, the last of the daylight slipped away. But all you could feel was him. The heat of his breath against your throat. The way he whispered your name like a prayer. The desperate restraint in every trembling muscle.

You clenched around him without meaning to, overwhelmed, close—so fucking close.

He groaned low in his chest, jaw tightening as his hands dug into your hips helplessly. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “I can’t—you gotta come first—”

But you were already there.

Your release crashed over you in waves, shattering and radiant, pulling a moan from your lips that was all heat and relief and want. You clung to him as you came, fingers digging into his shoulders, your body shaking as you fluttered around him. 

And that was what broke him.

He let out a guttural sound, deep and raw, his hips stuttering beneath yours as he fought it—fought it like it mattered, like holding out meant something even if it hurt.

“Frankie,” you whispered, pressing your chest to his, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other smoothing over the tense line of his spine. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let go.”

He buried his face against your shoulder with a choked breath, and then he did—his whole body trembling as he came hard inside you, deep and pulsing, his hands holding you tight like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You felt every twitch, every wave of release, his moan muffled in the crook of your neck as he spilled into you, full and warm and real.

You held him through it, breasts pressed against his chest and your mouth brushing his temple as he finally went still.

“…Shit,” he whispered finally, lips curving faintly. 

You laughed—breathless, stunned, heart racing fast. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

The porch was quiet again. The cicadas still hummed. The air still hung heavy around both of you but the silence that followed was warm. Heavy with afterglow and something neither of you had words for yet. You were still tangled together, chest to chest, when Frankie lifted his head, brushing a damp curl from your forehead.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, lips twitching into a soft, tired smile. “Better than okay.”

He let out a small, breathless laugh and pressed a kiss to your temple. “There’s a shower inside, if you want it. I’ll get you a shirt.”

The idea of warm water and clean clothes sounded like heaven.

You followed him inside, still barefoot, still sore in all the best ways. In the bathroom, he handed you a soft, worn t-shirt—faded gray, sleeves a little too long, collar stretched. You swore you could smell him in the fabric: cedar, sweat, and something that felt dangerously close like home.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp and skin warm, he was leaning against the kitchen counter with two bottles of water and his cap back on, like the man who had just undone you on his porch hadn’t ruined you completely an hour ago.

—

He drove you back to the car without saying much. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was full of glances and half-smiles and the hum of something still very alive between you.

When you pulled up, the tow truck was already there—and the driver looked like a walking red flag. Greasy smile, mirrored sunglasses even though the sun was almost gone, and a tone that set your teeth on edge. He barely acknowledged you, speaking only to Frankie as he started hooking up the car.

You stayed close to him, instinctively, and he didn’t move away. His presence alone was enough to keep the guy from saying anything sleazy, though he still looked like someone who probably had zip ties in his glove box.

You nudged Frankie with your elbow, turning to him with a mischievous grin. “Thanks for not murdering me.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, one side of his mouth tugging up into the most boyish, crooked smile you’d seen all day—the kind that undid you a little more, even now.

“Anytime,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But just for the record, I think I came out more vulnerable here.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t still steal your truck,” you teased.

He laughed again, and god, the sound of it stuck to your ribs.

You hesitated. Then reached into your bag, pulled out your phone, and handed it to him silently. No question, no explanation.

Frankie raised an eyebrow, but took it without a word. His fingers tapped against the screen, slow and sure. When he handed it back, he smirked. “Gonna text soon, yeah? Just to make sure you didn’t end up dead.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you slipped the phone into your bag. “If I don’t text, check the backyard for shallow graves.”

He grinned wide, dimples flashing. “Deal.”

The tow truck started pulling away, your car finally in tow. You turned back toward him, unsure what to say, unsure how to say it.

But he just gave you a nod, a little wave, and climbed into his truck. One last glance through the open window.

“Talk soon?” he asked, voice a little softer this time, hopeful.

“Yeah,” you said, holding his gaze. “Talk soon.”

And then he was gone.

—

It wasn’t even an hour later. You were back in a motel, hair still damp from the shower, phone resting on the nightstand. The quiet pressed in around you—cooler now, but lonelier than it had any right to feel after a day like that.

You stared at your phone for a beat too long, debating. Then your fingers moved, and before you could overthink it, you hit send.

You: Sorry, can’t text. Currently busy plotting your murder. Turns out I am the serial killer.

Read.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Frankie: You planning to disappear on me now, or do I get another shot at surviving you?

You smiled, fingers already moving.

You: Depends. You always this charming with strange women who hijack your porch?

Frankie: Only the ones who ruin me a little in the best way. Maybe next time, we can meet somewhere else—if you’re up to it? I can be a gentleman if I want to.

That made you huff a laugh, the sound easing out of you like breath after holding it too long.

You sat with it for a second. Not the question. Not even the suggestion. But the invitation. The hope tucked inside it.

You: Don’t be a gentleman. Just be you. I’ll text you when I get home.

Frankie: Looking forward to it already.

And maybe you were already in too deep. But you didn’t mind, not one bit.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @jolapeno @sxnnimoon @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

[aliastrinity]

"If I ever were to lose you..."

[aliastrinity]

My babies 💕

[aliastrinity]

Chicken Soup

I am horribly sick so naturally, I wrote some comforting Frankie. He’s that guy ™️

pairing: Frankie Morales x gn! reader

tags: loss of a family member, slight mention of grief, soft and caring Frankie, comfort and fluff

word count: 1k

You’re sick. Like, truly miserable. Everything hurts—your skin, your bones, even your teeth feel like they’ve gone on strike. Every time you try to sleep, your body betrays you with a wracking cough that leaves your throat raw and your chest aching. The world is too loud, the light too sharp, and you’ve been surviving on weak tea and self-pity for what feels like years. You’re bundled in your favorite pajamas, half-buried under the covers, surrounded by a battlefield of used tissues and cough drop wrappers.

All you want is comfort. Real comfort. The kind that reaches deep inside you and makes it feel like, just for a moment, everything might be okay. And the only thing your foggy brain can cling to is a memory: your grandma’s chicken soup. Golden, rich, full of love and tiny pasta stars. She used to make it for you when you were sick as a kid, bustling around the kitchen, her hand cool on your forehead, her voice the safest sound in the world. She’s been gone for nine years, but right now, you miss her like she only just left the room.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you answer without checking the name.

“Hello?” you croak, voice hoarse and gravelly.

“Whoa, baby…” Frankie’s voice is a mix of concern and softness, threaded with that quiet intensity he reserves for when he’s worried about you. “You sound like hell.”

You sniff, not even pretending to argue. “Feel worse.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear him moving around on the other end. Probably pacing—he always paces when he’s anxious. “You need anything? I can swing by the store. Soup, meds, more tea?”

You almost say no, almost brush it off like you always do. But something about his tone so gentle, and steady unlocks something in your chest. You sigh, curling deeper under the blanket.

“I just…” Your voice cracks, and you pause. “I’ve been thinking about my grandma’s soup. The chicken one. She used to make it whenever I got sick. I—God, I miss her. She was more of a mom than my actual mom ever was.”

It’s a rare thing, this kind of vulnerability. The words hang in the air like glass, delicate and dangerous.

Frankie doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, his voice is soft but sure. “Alright. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Frankie, you don’t—”

“I want to,” he cuts in gently. “I’ll make you soup. Not your grandma’s, but… my mom used to make a mean one too. I know the recipe by heart. Trust me.”

You don’t argue again. You just let the tears prick your eyes and mumble a raspy, “Okay.”

—

True to his word, he shows up a little under an hour later, balancing a paper bag, a reusable tote, and that damn Coke Zero in a can you’re always teasing him about remembering. You can barely sit up, but from the cocoon of your blanket on the couch, you watch him move through your kitchen like he’s been there a hundred times. Confident, calm, sleeves rolled. He looks good—too good, honestly—and it shouldn’t be allowed how hot someone can look while chopping onions.

It’s not just soup ingredients he brought. There’s your favorite cookies tucked in the bag. More tea. A little tissue box with cartoon ducks on it that makes you laugh even through your misery. And the Coke Zero—you could cry. Maybe you do, a little.

“You didn’t have to bring all that,” you murmur from the couch, voice barely audible.

Frankie glances over, eyes soft but teasing. “I know. I wanted to. Besides, you’re a pain in the ass when you’re sick. I figured I better come prepared.”

The soup simmers, and the whole place starts to smell like home. Real home, not just the place you sleep. And something in you eases, just watching him there—taking care, being present, not asking you to be anything other than what you are right now: sick, sad, soft.

And you realize that maybe this is love. Not the loud kind. Not the fireworks. Just this: showing up. Making soup. Knowing what drink you like best when your throat hurts. Remembering the quiet stories you never thought mattered.

You melt, just a little. Feverish and aching and maybe a little in love, all at once.

—

The soup tastes like warmth and safety and something close to memory. It’s not your grandma’s recipe, no—too much thyme, not enough garlic—but it still hits something in your chest that’s been aching all day. You eat slow, curled up in a blanket on the couch while Frankie sits next to you, one leg tucked under himself, watching you like he’s trying to memorize the way you look even when you’re sick and puffy-eyed and halfway dead.

“Better?” he asks after you set the bowl down, wiping your mouth with a tissue.

You nod, too tired to say much, but your eyes say it all. He smiles—small, proud, stupidly beautiful—and then reaches out, pulling you gently into his chest. You go willingly, your body heavy with exhaustion and fever, your cheek pressed against his shirt.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur.

“I want to,” he says again, simple and firm.

His arm slides around you, and the other hand cradles the back of your head, fingers curling gently in your hair. He smells like cedar and laundry detergent and something that’s just… Frankie. You melt into him. Breathing is hard, your nose is a disaster, and your throat feels like sandpaper—but being in his arms is the first time you’ve felt okay in days.

You shift slightly, tilting your face up toward his. “You’re gonna get sick,” you warn, voice cracked and faint.

He looks down at you, and the edges of his mouth lift, but his eyes are serious. “I know.”

There’s a pause—just enough space for you to pull away, if you wanted. But you don’t. You lean in instead and so does he.

The kiss is soft. Careful, lingering.

Not because it’s a grand moment or some passionate heat-of-the-moment thing, but because it matters. Because you’re letting him close, even when you’re at your weakest. And because he’s letting you take up space in his heart, without asking for anything in return.

—

Three days later when you finally start to feel human again your phone buzzes. 

Frankie: Got it too now 🤧

You smirk, already typing.

You: warned you.

A second later, his reply comes through:

Frankie: worth it.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz

[aliastrinity]

pedro singing future days. i need this to be memorialized on my blog forever

[aliastrinity]

Happy penultimate episode day! Who's excited?

[aliastrinity]

The bee was a paid actor

[aliastrinity]

The Way I See You

This is part 2/2. Part 1 readable here

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: dual POV, slow burn, angst , all the feelings, fluff, vulnerability, push and pull, mention of PTSD & addiction , best friends to lovers, oral (f&m receiving), unprotected PiV, soft! Frankie

summary: A tense, emotional journey of two people navigating their complicated, raw connection. What starts as a push-and-pull dynamic slowly transforms into something deeper, as they learn to open up and face their vulnerabilities.

word count: 7,5 k

read on ao3

Frankie had planned it.

Maybe not perfectly, but with care—the kind of care he rarely let himself show. Dinner at that little Italian place Benny wouldn’t shut up about. A walk by the marina afterward, maybe ice cream if the night went well. It was stupidly romantic, probably too much, but he couldn’t help it. You deserved more than porch lights and half-formed confessions in tents.

[Frankie] So… what if I take you out? Like, really out. A date-date. No tents, no coffee mugs, no Benny jumping in at the worst possible moment.

[You] You trying to prove something, Morales?

[Frankie] That I’m serious about you, yeah.

But now? He stood by his car, jaw locked, watching rain slice sideways across the hood like the sky itself was pissed off.

You laughed, squeezing water out of your hair as you huddled under the awning of the closed ice cream stand. “So much for the marina.”

Frankie ran a hand down his face. “Fuck. This wasn’t how I— I wanted it to be good.”

“It is,” you said simply. “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”

He stared at you, soaked and smiling, looking at him like none of it mattered. Not the storm. Not the car alarm that wouldn’t shut off in the parking lot. Not the stupid vending machine that ate his dollar when he tried to get you a drink. None of it mattered, because you were still here, drenched and laughing like it was the best night of your life.

He didn’t deserve that. Not with everything rattling around inside his head. Not with the cravings that had crawled up his spine the moment things started going wrong—like they always did. The moment his past whispered see? You’re still a mess. You’ll ruin this too.

But then you got in his car, cranked up the heater, and the sound of your laughter filled the space between you like sunlight bleeding through cracks. It wasn’t delicate or hesitant—it was warm and beautiful and by far his favorite sound. 

He turned to look at you, his smile ghosting at the edges of his lips, fleeting even as doubt crept in.

And it hit him.

Like a fist to the ribs, a sudden clarity that made his throat tighten: he was gone for you. Hopelessly, stupidly gone. And that terrified him more than anything.

Because the last time he let himself love like that, it ended in pieces. 

And yet here you were, looking at him like he was someone worth laughing with. Like you saw something in him that wasn’t just damage and regret.

He swallowed hard. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

You tilted your head. “Is that a compliment or are you just in shock I didn’t bolt?”

“Both,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Mostly the first.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “I had fun.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. He was too busy memorizing the way you looked right then—wet hair, flushed cheeks, a laugh still echoing in your throat.

God, he wanted to tell you.

Wanted to tell you he hadn’t felt this safe around someone in years. That your presence calmed the itch in his blood better than any substance ever had. That this thing—whatever it was—scared the hell out of him, but also felt like the only thing real in a world that constantly blurred at the edges.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just looked at you like a man trying to imprint the moment into his bones, storing it for moments the darkness took over again. And in that silence, when you reached across the console to take his hand, he let you.

—

Some time had passed since that rained-out almost-moment. Since the camping trip and the soft kiss in the tent. In the quiet way these things go, you’d started spending more time together—casual dinners, long walks that blurred into longer conversations, nights at your place where Frankie stayed too late, and mornings at his place where you learned how he liked his coffee, black but with sugar, always two spoons.

You’d let your guard down—slowly, hesitantly, but genuinely. Enough to let him see parts of you most people missed. Enough that it surprised you how easy it started to feel. But with every piece of yourself you offered, you noticed how Frankie seemed to step back just slightly. Like your closeness was pushing against something he hadn’t named yet. His walls weren’t obvious, not loud, but you felt them in the pauses that stretched too long, the way he’d sometimes look at you like you were a dream he didn’t quite trust to stay.

Still, it had started like any other movie night—bare feet tucked under throw blankets, an old chick flick humming low from Frankie’s TV, and the smell of kettle corn faint in the air from earlier. He’d let you choose the movie, even though he pretended to grumble about it, and you’d rolled your eyes, pretending not to notice how his gaze had softened every time you laughed.

Now, the room was quiet as the screen faded to black. You’d both drifted sideways on the couch without realizing. His arm had ended up around your shoulders; your cheek eventually found the space just above his ribs. Warm, easy. Like a rhythm you already knew by heart.

You were half-asleep when it started—so subtle at first you weren’t sure you felt it. A twitch. A shift. Then his breath hitched. Sharper this time. His chest rising too fast beneath your hand.

Your eyes blinked open.

“Frankie?” you whispered, voice hoarse from sleep.

No answer.

His jaw was clenched. Face turned away, brow creased tight like it hurt to stay still. His breath came in short bursts now, shallow and panicked. One of his hands fisted into the blanket. The other trembled slightly on his lap, twitching like he was reaching for a thing that wasn’t there.

You sat up carefully, gently pressing your hand to his chest, grounding him.

“Hey,” you said, firmer now. “Frankie—breathe. You’re okay. You’re home. You’re safe.”

He gasped once, sharp and rough, before his eyes finally opened—wild and glassy. It took him a second to focus. And then—

“Oh,” he rasped. “Shit.”

“No,” you murmured, already pulling him close. “You’re okay.”

You didn’t ask what it was, you didn’t have to. You’d seen the way his eyes went distant sometimes, like they were seeing something else he couldn’t outrun.

He tensed for a moment, like his instinct was still to pull back, to apologize, to vanish into himself—but then your arms wrapped tighter and he just gave in. Letting the weight fall against you like he didn’t have the strength to carry it anymore.

You held him through it. His head tucked against your shoulder. One hand still gripping your sleeve like he needed to make sure you were real. He was fragile in a way that contradicted the broad-shouldered, cocky man who wore his humor like armor.

The room was quiet but full—your heartbeat in his ear, your breath anchoring his.

You didn’t say unnecessary, hollow things like ‘you’re strong’ or ‘you’re fine’ or ‘you’ll get through it’. You just stayed and tried to be there for him. 

And slowly his breathing settled again. His hand loosened. His shoulders uncoiled, the tremble fading from his frame as he leaned more of himself into your touch, like something inside him had finally, quietly cracked open.

You smoothed a hand through his curls, feeling them damp at the temples.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t answer with words—just a soft, broken nod against your collarbone that made your heart ache. It was vulnerable in a way that felt natural and delicate, like even the smallest movement might shatter the moment.

And somewhere in the silence that followed, you realized—maybe this was love. Not the loud, cinematic kind, but the quiet decision to stay when things got hard. The kind that held steady in the dark. And Frankie deserved that. He deserved someone choosing him for once, the way he’d always been the steady one for everyone else.

—

You woke to the scent of coffee.

Soft light spilled in through Frankie’s kitchen window, filtering through old curtains, catching on the dust in the air. The TV was off. The blanket from the night before half-slipped to the floor. For a second, you were warm and weightless, still caught in that liminal space between dreaming and memory.

Then you saw him.

He stood in the kitchen, shoulders tight, hands braced on the counter like the silence in the room was too loud to breathe in. His coffee mug sat untouched beside him. He hadn’t noticed you were awake.

You sat up slowly. “Hey.”

He flinched, just a little, voice distant. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

Frankie nodded, not looking at you. A pause stretched between you, thick with whatever was unfolding right now. 

“Frankie…” you started, soft, despite your heart being in your throat from his sudden coldness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, too fast. His voice low and hard. “For last night.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I do.” He finally looked at you. There was a flicker in his eyes that made you feel like you were standing on a cliff edge with him—like he was already backing away. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. It’s not fair to put that on you.”

“I wanted to be there.”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t want that. You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

You stood then, slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “Frankie, I’m not scared of you.”

“Well maybe you should be,” he snapped. And it wasn’t anger—it was fear. Pure and sharp. He swallowed hard, looking away again. “That wasn’t even the worst of it. Sometimes it gets bad. And I don’t sleep for days. And I pick fights I don’t mean to. And I spiral, hide it, pretend I’m fine until I’m not. And the last thing you need is to get caught in that.”

“I’m not just anyone,” you said quietly.

He went still.

You stepped closer, standing in front of him now. His hands were still on the counter, white-knuckled. You laid yours on top of his gently.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you whispered. “Trying to push me out before I can choose to stay.”

Frankie’s throat bobbed. His gaze was somewhere just past your shoulder, jaw clenched like he was holding back the tide.

“I saw you last night,” you said. “I see you, Frankie. Not just the parts you think are acceptable. All of it.”

His eyes finally met yours, and for a second they were glassy again, wide and wounded and scared.

“Don’t do that,” you said softly. “Don’t disappear on me in your own kitchen.”

He cracked then—not loud or dramatic. Just this quiet breath that shook in his chest like it hadn’t been allowed to move in years. He leaned forward slightly, forehead gently pressing to yours.

“I don’t know how to let anyone stay,” he said.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “One morning at a time.”

You stood there for a long while, your hands wrapped around his, the coffee growing cold beside you. And maybe he didn’t say anything else that morning—but his silence wasn’t a wall this time.

It was a beginning.

—

The air felt heavy before the rain even came. Thick with the kind of pressure that settled deep in Frankie’s chest, like the storm had already broken somewhere inside him.

You were walking beside him, close but not touching, shoes scuffing the sidewalk in quiet rhythm. It should’ve been peaceful. It looked peaceful. But Frankie hadn’t known real quiet in days. His head was a mess. Like a dial turned all the way up—cravings humming in his bones, memories pressing in like ghosts. The kind that crept in when he was tired or vulnerable or maybe just too close to anything good. He hadn’t touched anything. Not since you. But the itch was there. Whispering that it would take the edge off. That it would make him feel less.

Or worse—make him feel nothing.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and exhaled through his nose.

“You’re doing it again,” you said softly.

He glanced at you, brow furrowing. “Doing what?”

“Going somewhere in your head without telling me.”

The words struck a chord. So gentle, but they saw him. And he hated how much he needed that. How much he wanted to let you in even though everything inside him screamed not to.

You stopped walking, so did he.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, voice rough. “Being seen like this. Like all of me. It’s not fair to you.”

You just looked at him for a long beat. “You were okay with my mess. So let me be okay with yours.”

Thunder rumbled somewhere behind the clouds, low and distant—but Frankie was sure the louder sound was whatever cracked open in his chest at your words. Steady, certain, unshakable. He’d known you were stubborn, but this was something else entirely— fiercer, more terrifying. That you wanted him not despite the cracks, but with them. This version of him, broken and bruised, the one he tried so hard to keep hidden from the world. And yet, here you were, choosing him anyway. He didn’t know if it made him want to kiss you or run. Maybe both.

He opened his mouth, but then the sky split.

Rain came fast—sheets of it. You both scrambled for cover under a nearby awning, water already dripping from your hair, your clothes sticking to your skin.

You looked at him, eyes bright despite it all, chest rising and falling fast. And for the first time in days, the noise in his head paused just enough. Because there you were. And maybe it was the rain or the look on your face or the way he felt like he’d fall apart if he didn’t touch you right then—but he did.

Frankie’s hands found your waist, pulling you into him like gravity. His mouth crashed against yours—messy, soaked, and real. You melted into him without thinking, like your body had been waiting for this. There had been kisses before, soft hellos and quick goodbyes, but not like this. This was different. This was everything unspoken—emotion, want, and longing—poured into a kiss that felt like a language only the two of you understood.

Clothes tugged, wet fabric shifted. You gasped against his mouth, soft and aching. He swallowed it down like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Your fingers in his hair, his on your hips, your thighs—

And then he stopped. Breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

“Wait,” he rasped. “Fuck—I’m sorry. I just… I can’t. Not like this.”

You nodded immediately, both your chests heaving, soaked and shivering. You didn’t pull away. Just rested your hands against his heart.

By the time you reached his apartment, everything was soaked. Shoes sloshing, clothes clinging, hair dripping in slick strands. The rain had slowed, but it hadn’t let up—not really. It was still there, like a pressure behind glass. Like a metaphor too on-the-nose for the thing inside him that wouldn’t break open.

He unlocked the door with shaking fingers, let you in first. You moved through the space quietly, like you didn’t want to disturb the air between you. Like he might shatter if you did.

Frankie shut the door behind him, leaned against it for a second longer than he meant to.

You stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around yourself—not from the cold, but from a heat that twisted with confusion and a quiet ache he recognized all too well. He grabbed towels, draping one over your shoulders, rough cotton brushing your bare arms.

You gave him a soft, grateful smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Frankie swallowed hard. His clothes were plastered to him, but he didn’t move to change. Didn’t move to touch you again. He couldn’t. Not without risking the whole dam inside him breaking.

You took a slow step toward him.

“Frankie?”

He looked up. And it nearly wrecked him—the way you looked at him. Still open, still there. And he was doing this. Ruining it, again. 

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked.

That hit deeper than any relapse ever had.

“No,” he said quickly, voice too tight, too brittle. “No, it’s not you.”

You frowned, arms dropping to your sides. “Then why do you keep pulling away like I’m going to break you?”

Frankie ran a hand through his wet curls, turned his back for a second just to breathe. Just to not grab your face and kiss you like a drowning man. Just to not fall apart.

“Because I want you,” he admitted, voice rough as gravel. “And that scares the shit out of me.”

He turned, met your eyes again.

“You don’t understand what it’s like… having something good that doesn’t feel like it’s going to be taken away. And if I let myself have it too fast, if I let myself have you like that—I don’t trust myself not to fuck it up.”

You stared at him for a long time. And God, the silence between you hurt more than anything. Because it felt like he’d just cut you open, even if that wasn’t his intent.

Your voice was small. “It kind of feels like you don’t want me at all.”

Frankie’s eyes closed and his jaw locked before he crossed the room in two steps, hands shaking as they caught your face.

“I want you,” he said, forehead pressed to yours. “So bad it fucking hurts.”

You exhaled, trembling. “Then why does it feel like a rejection?”

“Because I’m trying so hard not to ruin this,” he whispered. “Not to ruin you.”

There it was, the raw truth, the thing he didn’t say aloud to anyone else.

His thumb brushed your cheek, tentative, reverent.

“I’m still learning how to be okay,” he murmured. “But if you stay—just stay—I swear I’ll meet you there.”

—

You didn’t mean to hold your breath, but you did. Somewhere between I want you and I’m trying not to ruin you, a part of you curled inward, tight with fear and wanting.

Because he meant it. You knew he meant it, but that didn’t make it hurt less.

The warmth of his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face so gently like you were precious—it should have made you feel wanted. Safe. But it only made the ache more pronounced.

You nodded softly, barely a movement at all.

“Okay,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open, searching yours. Probably hoping for more than just a single world.

But you didn’t give it.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because if you stayed another minute, you were going to fall apart. And you didn’t want him to see that. Didn’t want him to carry your heartbreak too.

So you stepped back.

His hands slipped away from your skin like a question left unanswered.

“I should go,” you said quietly, offering the smallest smile you could manage. “You’ve had a long night.”

Frankie’s brow creased. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently. “But I think I should.”

You reached for your jacket, still damp and wrinkled from the rain, the sleeves sticking to your arms as you pulled it on. You kept your eyes down—less chance of him seeing the flicker behind them.

At the door, you hesitated. Your fingers curled around the handle, and your voice came out before you could second-guess it.

“For what it’s worth,” you said, not looking back, “you wouldn’t ruin me.”

Then you slipped out into the cool night, heart thudding in your chest like a secret you couldn’t bear to say out loud.

—

You didn’t cry until you got home. It wasn’t loud or messy—just that kind of quiet unraveling, like threads tugged loose behind the ribs. The kind that creeps up in the silence after you close the door, when the world feels too still and your skin still remembers the way he touched you.

It wasn’t rejection. You knew that.

But it felt like it.

Felt like the start of something slipping through your fingers before it ever got the chance to land.

You kicked off your shoes and peeled off your damp clothes piece by piece, trading them for an old, oversized t-shirt that offered a strange kind of comfort. Then you curled into bed like you were trying to take up less space—like if you stayed small enough, the ache might shrink too.

He wanted you, you knew he did.

But the caution in his voice, the restraint in his body, the way he looked at you like he was made of jagged edges—it carved a sharp ache into you. Left a hollow place where the heat of his kiss had been.

And worse than that?

You understood why. So you didn’t text him the next day, or the day after that. You gave him space because he needed it—but also because you weren’t sure if he wanted you in it anymore. 

—

He felt like a monster.

That’s the word that kept circling his brain, cruel and familiar. Like it belonged there. Like it fit.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you. Jesus, never that.

But the second your hand slipped out of his, the second you whispered that soft little “Okay” like you were tucking your feelings into a drawer so he wouldn’t have to see them, he knew he’d fucked it all up.

Again.

He’d stood in the rain long after you left, water soaking through his shirt, cooling the heat of your body that still clung to him.

You wouldn’t ruin me.

Your words echoed louder than the storm had. But he didn’t believe them, not really.

Because if you didn’t mean anything to him, it would be easier. He could let it happen. Let you in. Let his hands slip beneath your clothes and pretend it didn’t mean more than it did.

But it did and that terrified him more than anything else.

So he stayed in his apartment, restless, watching the phone like it might forgive him. Like maybe if he stared hard enough, you’d reach out.

But you didn’t.

And part of him knew—you were waiting for him to show up differently, he just wasn’t sure if he knew how.

—

Three days passed. Maybe four. He wasn’t sleeping much, so time got slippery. The throw blanket you’d fallen asleep under still smelled a little like your shampoo— soft and vanilla. The kind of detail that shouldn’t have stuck in his head, but did anyway.

The rain had stopped days ago, but the storm inside him hadn’t.

He stared at his phone until the screen dimmed, then lit it again. Thumb hovering over your name.

Then, finally:

[Frankie] So… you still not sick? Because standing in the rain like that seems like the kind of thing people catch colds from. Just sayin’.

It wasn’t enough. But it was a start. He didn’t expect you to reply right away. But when you did, it was like oxygen after holding his breath too long.

[You] No fever, no cough. Just a lingering ache somewhere between the ribs. Probably weather-related.

He smiled. Actually smiled. It ached in his chest a little.

[Frankie] Should’ve known you’d be the stubborn type who survives a thunderstorm like it’s a spa day.

[You] You were the one dripping all over the sidewalk, Morales. I just happened to walk away faster.

That last line—soft. Unbitter. And it gutted him. Because it told him you were trying too, even now. Even after he’d made you feel small and unwanted in the middle of a moment that had meant everything to both of you.

He stared at your message a long time. Then called you.

You didn’t answer.

But five minutes later, your name lit up his screen.

“Hey,” you said, voice quiet but not cold.

“Hey,” he echoed. “I, uh. I meant to call sooner.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just a breath, maybe two. Then: “I figured you needed time.”

“I did. I do,” he admitted. “But I don’t want space from you. Not like that.”

Something shifted in your silence—barely-there, like the moment a cloud moves off the moon.

“I was scared,” he continued, voice lower now. “Still am. What I felt that night—it wasn’t just about wanting you. It was everything else too. The part that says I’ll ruin it the second it’s good. The part that remembers every time I did.”

You exhaled, not a sigh, more like a quiet surrender. “I know, Frankie.”

And he could hear it in your voice: the ache, the understanding. The hope, too, buried just deep enough to keep you safe.

He wanted to say he was sorry, to explain that he hadn’t touched you like that because you didn’t matter—but because you mattered too much. That he hadn’t stopped because he didn’t want you—but because he wanted everything, and didn’t know how to survive that.

Instead, he just said, “Can I see you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Come over.”

And something in him unclenched.

—- 

The knock was soft.

So soft you almost convinced yourself you imagined it—wishful thinking wrapped in thunderstorm memory.

But your body knew better.

You stood there for a moment with your hand on the doorknob, heart crawling up your throat. You hadn’t heard from him in days. Not since the rain. Not since he kissed you like he needed you and pulled away like he regretted it. And you told yourself you were fine. You told yourself space was good. You didn’t text him. Didn’t call.

But now he was here.

You opened the door, breath tight in your chest.

And there he was—Frankie, with damp hair curling at the edges, shirt clinging to his shoulders, looking like the storm hadn’t left him. Like maybe it had followed him all the way back to your front step.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

But your chest cracked wide open at the sight of him. You’d missed him more than you let yourself feel until now. Missed his stupid soft jokes and the way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention. Missed the steadiness of him, the quiet hum he brought into your space just by being in it.

He stepped inside slowly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. You let your shoulder brush his on the way past him, something quiet and deliberate. He stood still. You could feel the weight of everything in the room with you—the way your skin remembered his, the way your heart still beat a little faster in his presence, the way everything in you wanted to break and reach for him at the same time.

“I haven’t been able to sleep,” he said, voice low and worn.

You turned to face him, arms crossed before you could stop yourself. “Me neither.”

Your voice almost cracked.

And just like that, it broke.

Frankie crossed the space between you before you could think. His hands cupped your face, gentle, reverent. And his mouth met yours like he couldn’t stand another second apart. Like something in him had cracked too.

You kissed him back like it hurt to breathe without him. Like the ache of missing him had curled into your bones and only now could you begin to exhale.

Your fingers dug into the hem of his shirt, desperate for more—more of him, more warmth, more of this thing that had been burning between you since the very beginning. You felt the tremor in his hands, the restraint fighting the want, and it shattered you on the inside.

Because he was still holding back.

He broke the kiss first, panting, eyes half-lidded and dazed. “I don’t wanna stop,” he murmured, voice thick. “But if I don’t, I might not be able to.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you were trying to steady the unraveling inside you.

And then you said it. Quiet, raw, but sure:

“I really don’t want you to stop.”

The words hit him like a wave. You saw it in the way his eyes darkened, in the way his grip on your waist tightened just slightly—like he was torn between crashing into you or holding himself back.

He exhaled a sound that was almost a curse, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, pained. “Not if you mean it like I do.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“I mean it exactly like you do.”

That broke him.

His lips were on yours again before either of you could think, kiss all teeth and desperation, his hands tangled in your shirt, yours pulling him closer, anchoring him to this moment, to you. The tension that had been simmering for weeks snapped like a wire—every soft glance, every near-touch, every silence that held more than words—it all burst open between you.

Your back hit the wall, and you didn’t care. His shirt was bunched between your fingers, your breath catching as his mouth left yours just long enough to find your neck. It was messy. Uncoordinated. Hungry. He groaned—low, rough, like it was torn straight from somewhere deep in his chest.

His mouth found the spot just behind your ear, sucking gently, not knowing it was your weakness—but feeling it anyway. Feeling the way your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, how you tugged with a breathless sound that cracked the last of his restraint. You arched into him, body aflame, every nerve ending reaching for more.

This wasn’t just hunger. It was everything you hadn’t let yourself want—everything that had been simmering under the surface for too long. Now that it was here, now that it was him, you knew you wouldn’t be able to let it go.

One of his hands slipped beneath your shirt, calloused palm dragging heat across your stomach until it hovered just beneath the curve of your breast. His thumb brushed the soft edge of skin there, and you gasped like you felt it in your spine.

“Is it okay if I touch you?” he rasped against your neck, voice wrecked, lips still swollen from where they'd claimed you moments ago.

The question hit you square in the chest—gentle, reverent, undoing.

Of course it was okay. You couldn’t remember a time you’d ever wanted anything more.

Your answer came out a little breathless, barely more than a whisper. “Yes.”

He didn’t wait.

His hand slid up, cupping you fully, like he’d been thinking about the weight of you in his palm for far too long. You moaned into his shoulder, half-embarrassed by how much it undid you—but you couldn’t help it. Not with his knee nudging between your thighs, not with the solid weight of his body pinning you gently to the wall, pressing into every part of you like he couldn’t bear an inch of space.

The friction was maddening.

You ground down on his leg instinctively, and he swore softly against your jaw, dragging his lips back to your mouth like he was starving.

But even in the heat of it—his hands were still careful. His mouth still reverent. Like he wanted to memorize the way you trembled, the way you gasped his name like it meant more than just desire.

Because it did.

It always had.

Frankie kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it, like the days apart had unraveled him thread by thread, and only now—only here—could he start putting himself back together. His hands mapped you like he was trying to memorize you in the dark, fingertips learning your edges, your curves, your quietest reactions.

Your shirt was tugged over your head with a kind of reverence, his gaze trailing the exposed skin like it stunned him, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. His hand stayed on your waist, grounding you, but his eyes flicked up to meet yours—checking, asking.

You nodded before he had to say a word.

He kissed down your neck again, slower now, lips dragging over collarbones as he dropped to his knees in front of you. With uttermost care he helped you out of your legging, followed by your underwear. His hands slid down the backs of your thighs, coaxing them apart, lifting one gently over his shoulder. Your breath caught as he looked up at you, completely focused, like there was no part of you he didn’t want to worship.

“You still sure?” he asked, voice hoarse but hands steady.

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”

The first stroke of his tongue was devastating. You jolted, a soft sound escaping your throat before you could bite it back. He groaned into you, like he felt it just as much as you did. He moved slowly, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world to learn what made you fall apart. And you did fall apart, slowly but surely. The walls, the hesitation, everything crumbled just in this moment. 

Your fingers twisted in his hair, anchoring yourself. And still, he didn’t rush.

He traced you with aching precision, lips and tongue working in tandem, one of his hands splayed against your stomach to hold you steady, the other inching back up to cup your breast again, thumb brushing your nipple until you gasped. The combination stole the breath from your lungs. Pleasure rippled through you in waves—sharp, unbearable, and building.

“Frankie,” you whimpered, thighs trembling around him.

He didn’t stop. He just looked up at you, eyes dark, hungry, and so gentle it nearly broke you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice rough against your skin. “Let me.”

And you did.

You let go.

You came with a broken sound in your throat, back arching, hands gripping him like you’d come apart without the anchor of him, afraid you would break his head with your thighs. 

When he rose again, his mouth was slick with you, he kissed you slow and deep. He held you like you’re sacred, like this was more than just need—like it had always been more.

You buried your face in his shoulder, heart still racing. “Don’t stop,” you whispered again. “Please, Frankie—I really don’t want you to stop.”

His breath stuttered at your words. He nodded against your temple, voice trembling like the rest of him. “I won’t. Not this time.”

You took his hand, guiding him through the soft shadows of your apartment, your lips meeting again and again in hungry, half-breathless kisses. It was clumsy and heated, all hands and urgency, laughter blooming between kisses like it couldn’t help but live there.

You tugged his shirt off as you walked, fingers slipping beneath fabric, while he fumbled with his belt, pausing only to step out of his jeans—one pant leg catching stubbornly around his ankle. He hopped once, muttering a curse, and you laughed—genuine, bright, unguarded. His face lit up with it, eyes crinkling, like the sound of your joy was his reason to be.

By the time you reached the threshold of your bedroom, you were both breathless. He stood in nothing but his boxers, and you—naked, unhidden. Normally you’d hesitate, maybe pull the covers up or reach for a shirt. But the way he looked at you—warm, reverent, like you were something he never thought he’d get to touch—it made you feel bolder than you ever had.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, and reached for him—fingers sliding around his hips, pulling him closer. Your eyes flicked up to meet his as you slowly dragged his boxers down, freeing him. His cock sprang forward, brushing softly against his stomach, and you watched his breath hitch.

One hand went to the back of his neck in that nervous gesture you’d come to recognize—the quiet tell of his vulnerability.

“You really don’t have to do this,” he said softly, voice rough around the edges, uncertain.

You smiled, gentle and sure. “I know. But I want to. You deserve this.”

His expression softened, hands rising to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your lips with aching tenderness. And then you leaned forward.

Your lips pressed a kiss to his tip, slow and deliberate. Then you licked—kitten-soft, teasing. The sound he made was ragged and raw, a deep groan punched straight from his chest, and his fingers found your hair—not pulling, just grounding. Just holding.

You took him into your mouth with care, with hunger, and dangerously close to worship. His hips twitched, a strangled gasp catching in his throat, and you couldn’t help but smile around him, eyes flicking up to watch the way he fell apart.

Frankie was beautiful like this—unguarded, wrecked, his head tilted back and jaw slack, muscles trembling beneath your touch. You moved slowly, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, letting every moan, every breathy curse, settle deep into your skin like a mark only you got to wear.

And he didn’t stop looking at you like maybe you were undoing him in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

You let him go with a soft, wet pop, eyes still fixed on his face. His were shut tight, like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, savor it. When he finally blinked them open, it took a second for him to remember where he was—who he was with. But you were already climbing back onto the bed, settling against the pillows, open to him in every sense of the word. Ready for whatever he would give you next.

You thought he might dive right in, all urgency and want. But he didn’t.

Instead, he hesitated.

He moved slowly, carefully, like this moment meant something he didn’t want to rush. He crawled up over you, bracing himself on his forearms, skin brushing skin, close enough to kiss but not yet taking. His fingers found a loose strand of hair and tucked it behind your ear with aching tenderness, the backs of his knuckles grazing your cheek.

Then he laughed—soft and disbelieving, a puff of breath against your lips. He shook his head, eyes searching yours like he still didn’t trust what he saw there.

“Can’t believe this is real,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “That you really want me… even with all my flaws.”

Your brows pulled together, heart catching in your throat at the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just surprise—it was fear. Like he was waiting for the moment you’d change your mind.

You reached up, hands framing his face with a gentleness that made his breath stutter. Your thumbs traced along his cheekbones, slow and grounding.

“Frankie,” you whispered, like saying his name could steady him. “You’re not perfect. Neither am I. But I want you. All of you.”

His eyes shone with an unspoken weight, old and aching, unhealed. He leaned into your touch like he needed it more than he could admit, pressing a kiss to your palm before resting his head into your hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” you promised, even if it wasn’t a promise either of you could truly make. “Just stay. That’s all I want.”

He nodded, barely, like he was still letting himself believe it. And then he kissed you again—slow this time. Like he was trying to memorize your lips, the taste of your breath, the shape of safety. His body lowered onto yours, warmth sinking into every place you’d been cold for too long. And when he finally pushed inside you, it wasn’t rushed or wild. It was steady and careful. Like he wanted you to feel every inch of how much he meant it.

You wrapped your arms around his back, holding him close like you could keep both of you from falling apart. Like maybe, if you held tight enough, the cracks wouldn't split wide open.

Frankie found a steady rhythm, his body pressed so close to yours you felt like one—like there was no telling where he ended and you began. His hands slid beneath your back, keeping you anchored, as he kissed every inch of you he could reach. His mouth found the crook of your neck, breath hot, lips worshipping your skin while his hips moved with growing purpose. Faster, deeper. Still paying attention to you with every thrust.

He shifted your leg higher around his waist, the new angle sending lightning through your core, a moan tumbling from your lips as stars burst behind your eyes. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh, holding you there, grounding himself. He looked wrecked—face flushed with exertion, a wild curl falling across his forehead, his entire focus narrowed down to you. You’d never seen anything more beautiful than him like this, lost in you.

Your nails dragged down his back as the knot inside you tightened, the pleasure spiraling too quickly to contain. And when it broke, it did so with force—your release washing over you in waves, raw and loud and completely unguarded. He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he buried his face into your shoulder. His arms held you close as he let go, his body trembling with the weight of it, one hand clutching your thigh, the other still braced beside your head. 

It took him a long, breathless moment to find his voice again.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, gently, and it undid you more than anything else ever could.

No one had ever asked before.

You nodded, running your fingers through his damp, beautifully disheveled hair, lips brushing his temple. “More than okay,” you whispered, and it felt like a full-circle moment—back to the tent weeks ago, under that quiet stretch of moonlight, when you kissed for the first time and didn’t yet know what you were starting.

—

Frankie lay there, your head tucked under his chin, your leg still draped over his hip like you didn’t plan on going anywhere. The room smelled like skin and heat and whatever the hell had just passed between you two—wild and soft all at once. A feeling he hadn’t let himself hope for.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the ceiling, grounding himself in the feel of your body pressed against his, your breath warm against his chest, the beat of your heart steady under his hand. Everything in him was quiet for once. Not numb—just still. Like the war inside him had finally gone mute for a minute. You shifted slightly, brushing your nose against his throat, and his arm tightened around you on instinct.

He let out a breath, heavy and half-laughing. “Jesus,” he muttered, voice rough. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

You let out a little laugh, warm and teasing. “That bad, huh?”

He smirked, eyes closed, head sinking into the pillow. “Nah. Just might be too old for this shit.”

That made you laugh for real. The sound was bright and unguarded, your body shaking lightly against his, and God, it hit him like a sucker punch. 

He looked down at you, you were smiling—eyes crinkled, lips soft—and for a moment he just took you in. Not saying anything, just looking at you like he still couldn’t quite believe you were nothing his mind just made up.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and a little wrecked.

You barely had time to react before he kissed you again. Slow at first—deep and familiar, like a language he didn’t know he remembered how to speak. And then it shifted. Got greedy and needy. Like he was already aching for another taste.

You hummed softly against his mouth, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. His body responded before his words could—hips pressing into yours, slow and deliberate, like his need for you hadn’t gone anywhere.

He didn’t say a word.

Just rolled you beneath him again, lips trailing down your neck and across your collarbone, kissing you like he was memorizing you all over again. Like this was a rediscovery.

You made space for him—physically, emotionally—arms open, heart quiet but certain.

And when he sank into you again, it felt like something unspoken was being sealed between you. Too big for words, but demanded to be felt.

This wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just lust or a fleeting need finally satisfied. It was quieter, deeper. A promise made without speaking. A vow written into the space between each breath and each touch.

And he knew—God, he knew—that when you came undone beneath him for the third time that night, soft and wild and entirely his, he’d do anything to keep you close. Even when the darker parts of him flared up, the ones that told him to run before he got hurt. Even when those old instincts screamed at him to push you away, to sabotage what felt too good—he’d fight them. For you.

Because you gave him a home—not just in your bed, not just in your touch—but in your heart, and somehow, in your very bones.

And that was something Frankie never thought he’d have— didn’t even know he was allowed to want.

Not until now.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: (if you don't wanna be tagged anymore, let me know!) @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @jolapeno @whirlwindrider29 @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @pasc4lfuzz

[aliastrinity]

He was going through it but had no idea what was going on 😭