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Mmwhahaha REQUESTS YES. So jealous joel is my all-time crush, men being jealous is so damn hot. I'm picturing age gap, friends with Tommy, so she's come over for like a BBQ or something, and one of his friends is flirting and being touchy. Incomes jealous joel. I'll leave the creatives to you! Points for a short sundress and tipsy drunk sex later.

|| smut MDNI 18+, no outbreak, size difference (joel is big and hulking obvi, no reader description), pinv quickie, lots of heavy kissing, jealous!joel, maybe a little mean!joel, dirty talk, creampie ||

a/n: heyyyyy I may have gotten a little carried away hehehe tysm for the request!! (left joel pic is from @iamasaddie)

The air was hot and thick with the smell of Frank’s famous ribs on the barbeque that late Saturday afternoon, the sun still beating down despite the hour. Joel’s hand stung from the cold bite of the ice that floated in the cooler as he fished around for a beer, hoping it’d take the edge off the heat, and maybe the company, too.

He was only half listening to the conversation near the tables, the scrape of tongs on the grill, the low hum of voices rising every so often in laughter as the guys hovered around Frank like he was running a damn cooking show. Most of them were well past their drink limit already, and none of them seemed to be slowing down.

It was one of those casual get-togethers Tommy liked to throw now and then. They pulled in the whole damn crew from the job site, a few neighbors, and the usual handful of buddies Tommy had collected through the VA or just from being more sociable than his older brother had ever been.

Joel normally showed up late and dipped out early. But this time, he’d been here since setup. Grunted through the small talk, nodded through the backslaps and the bullshit, even ignored the flirty eyes and lingering hands from some of the wives who’d had one too many.

He was just cracking the tab on his beer when he heard Marcus ask, “Now where’s that cute little thing you always got hangin’ around you these days?”

Joel’s head snapped up before he could stop himself, eyes cutting to his brother like a reflex.

Tommy’s grin widened bashfully, cheeks coloring under the weight of Marcus’s arm slung around his shoulders.

The guys burst into laughter, light punches landing against Tommy’s chest and arms, jabbing at him like boys in a locker room. Joel didn’t laugh, instead, he felt his jaw tighten.

He didn’t really know you. The real estate girl Tommy had gotten friendly with, now that he was helping out more regularly with Miller Contracting. You’d become part of the routine, almost part of the company entirely if Tommy had his way. You were slowly turning into the face of the pitch, the one always talking to buyers with your bright voice and glossy folders and those heels that somehow never sank into the grass.

Truth be told, Joel thought you were actually pretty damn good at your job. You never over-promised. Never made excuses. You just smiled at the impatient homeowners and smoothed things over with that voice of yours, always steady, always sweet.

No worries, Mrs. Smith, the boys are workin’ hard, and your granite countertops should be done real soon. What’s that? You need it finished in two weeks? Don’t worry, I’ll ask ‘em to crank up the Constructo-Meter and work double-time.

Joel had to force himself not to smile the first time you pulled that one out.

Because you were a pain in his ass. Always wedging yourself into their business, always making friendly chatter with the guys—it drove him mad.

But still, that never seemed stop him from thinking about the way those little black skirts and low cut blouses hugged your curves, how your voice went syrupy when you talked on the phone, how your perfume lingered long after you’d left the site.

And it sure didn’t stop the way his blood started to run a little hotter now, just hearing other men talk about you like that.

And speaking of the devil in heels, there you were, the back door sliding open and your bright smile shining across the yard. But you weren’t in your usual business attire. Long gone was the little black pencil skirt, you had sandals instead of kitten heels, and instead of your clipboard tucked under your chest, you held a dish covered in a tea towel.

Instead, you wore a simple little sundress. Light fabric, floral print, the kind that clung just enough to your waist before fluttering out around your thighs. It moved with every step you took, catching the breeze as if made for days just like this.

Your legs were bare, glowing in the bright sunlight, long and smooth and dusted with the faint shimmer of the afternoon heat. You walked slow, easy, like you didn’t feel a dozen sets of eyes turn toward you all at once.

“There she is!” Marcus called, loud and eager, already moving to greet you like a dog off-leash. He bulldozed his way across the lawn, nearly knocking over someone’s lawn chair to get to you first. Joel watched as you smiled politely, extending your hand. You let Marcus take it, let him rest his palm on your shoulder like he’d known you more than a couple weeks. He led you into the yard like you were the goddamn guest of honor. 

But had Joel blinked just then, he would’ve missed the way your eyes flitted to him across the lawn, almost in a silent plea. What was it you were asking of him? To pull you away from Marcus’s grip? To save you from the onslaught of attention? Joel told himself he was overthinking it. You only glanced at him, anyway. It was only a second, quick and barely there, but he felt his ears go red. 

Then you were pulled right into the thick of it. The circle of men and smoke and beer breath and loud talk surrounded you and Joel’s eyes narrowed when you leaned up and kissed Tommy on the cheek in greeting.

What the hell?

Joel’s mind scrambled for any semblance of conversation he had with his brother about you recently. As far as he knew, you weren’t seeing each other, or else he knew Tommy would be bragging from the rooftops about it. So why were you kissing him on the cheek, and why in God’s name was his brother looking so damn pleased with himself?

The guys hooted, elbowing Tommy again, shouting some nonsense about keeping secrets and "oughta let the rest of us have a chance." You laughed. That easy, breezy kind of laugh Joel had only ever heard you use with clients. It was sweet and polished and meant to keep things light.

“You’re bad,” you said to Marcus as he playfully tugged at the edge of your dish towel-covered plate. “I brought peach cobbler. Hands off till it’s on the table.”

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he grinned, “Don’t tell me you just came here to tease us like that.”

Joel clenched his jaw so hard his molars ached.

They fawned over you for a little longer, offering you a drink, asking about your week, making you promise you’d be at the site tomorrow. You laughed and nodded and let them talk at you while you balanced the covered dish in your hands.

Finally, someone called for plates and food, and the group began to break apart. You used the chance to step away, heading toward the folding table to set the dish down, hands smoothing the towel flat once you uncovered the cobbler.

Joel dropped his gaze down to the cooler as you approached, hyper aware of every footfall he heard of yours, the slapping of your fancy looking sandals. He could feel your approach, his nerves fraying the closer you got.

“You gonna guard that cooler all night, Mr. Miller?”

His jaw flexed again.

He could see your painted toes in his periphery, the slender straps of your sandals peeking through the grass as you stood beside him now, arms crossed loosely as you probably were eyeing the cooler. Joel didn’t answer at first, but he reached back into the ice and grabbed another beer. He knew which kind you liked. He offered it to you all the while barely looking at you. 

“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him and flipping the tab. “Didn’t realize it came with a side of brooding.”

His eyes finally flicked to your face, but you were already turning and walking away. 

Pain in his ass.

The fire pit was burning high, crackling steady in the pit as the night settled in thick and warm. Most of the crowd had cleared out by now, just a small group lingering in mismatched chairs and folding camp seats around the orange glow. Tommy was strumming his guitar across the fire from Joel, and someone had pulled out the s’mores kit, and now half-melted chocolate wrappers and graham cracker crumbs littered the little side table.

You were perched on the edge of a faded Adirondack chair, legs tucked under you, a roasting stick gripped delicately between your fingers. A single marshmallow dangled above the flame, the bottom already blistering black while the top sagged from the heat.

Joel watched you, his umpteenth beer in hand, his skin flushed and brow glowering at you across the fire beside his brother. But you hadn’t paid much mind to him all day. 

The thought of that being the exact reason he was glowering flitted across his mind before he shook it away with another swig.

He told himself he was only watching you because you were reckless with the fire. That someone needed to keep an eye on you before you set yourself or the whole damn yard ablaze. But even as the thought passed through, it felt thin.

“Uh-oh,” someone murmured, pointing at your marshmallow.

You lifted it too slowly, distracted mid-conversation, and by the time you noticed, it was already half-melted, sagging off the stick. But you just laughed, grinning as you brought it straight to your lips anyway.

It hit your mouth in a gooey, half-scalding mess. A smear of white stuck to the corner of your lip, the rest slipping down your chin in a slow drip before you caught it with your finger.

“Shit,” you said, laughing again, swiping at the melted mess before licking your finger clean with a soft, exaggerated pop. “Too hot.”

One of the women next to you snorted, covering her mouth. Another chimed in, “Girl, you’re gonna burn your tongue off.”

But the men… they were all silent, frozen, staring in awe as you finished off the white sugary syrup that dripped down your finger.

Joel’s pulse kicked hard in his neck, the bottle slick in his hand. His eyes narrowed across the flames, locked on you like you were a match yourself. He didn’t know what pissed him off more—how you didn’t seem to notice the reaction around the firepit, or how maybe the fact that you very much knew exactly what you were doing.

You were glowing in the firelight, hair messy and cheeks flushed, lips still sticky with sugar and heat. And you weren’t even looking at him. You were laughing with the others like you hadn’t just made every man in the circle forget what they were saying mid-sentence.

He hated it.

Absolutely fucking hated it.

He stood up suddenly, the legs of his chair scraping loud against the concrete.

Your eyes flicked over to him, a little startled. 

Joel didn’t say much as he stalked off, only muttering something about needing to take a piss as he moved off toward the house, shoulders tight and eyes storm-dark.

Pain in his ass.

The house was quiet in the way that always made Joel feel like he could finally breathe. Music still played low from the guitar in Tommy’s lap, something twangy and slow, and the hum of conversation from outside was muffled by the closed door. He stood in the kitchen with his back to the room, hands braced against the counter, head bowed. His beer sat half-finished beside the sink, piss warm by now.

He hated this.

He hated the way his stomach twisted every time you laughed at someone else’s joke. He hated how the sound of his own brother’s name on your lips made his shoulders tense or how you floated through the yard like you didn’t even notice the way people watched you.

And worse, hated how badly he wanted you to look at him.

He didn’t want to be that kind of man. The kind that glared at his own brother like a dog guarding a bone. The kind that let a little sugar-slick smile get under his skin. But here he was. Stuck in it. Damn near drowning in it. A grown man stewing in the dark over a girl that wasn’t even his.

Joel kept reminding himself that he barely knew you. Just a few months of day in and day out visits to the sites, or meeting him and his brother on new projects. Joel and you mostly only talked business, maybe a few jokes here and there if he was in a good enough mood. Sometimes you brought him coffee when you knew it’d be a long day. You’d learned how he’d liked it. He was kicking himself for never being all that nice to you. But it surely wasn’t enough to justify this ugly thing crawling up his spine every time you touched Tommy’s arm or shared a smile with one of the other guys.

If anyone deserved you, it was probably Tommy. He was good with people, charming and light on his feet and always seemed to know what to say. If you were gonna fall for someone, Joel figured it would be him. Maybe you already had.

But none of that stopped the way Joel’s blood ran hot just at the thought of it.

No. Joel wanted you.

And he wanted you bad.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying to settle the mess churning in his chest. He hated the way he got around you, how quick his temper flared, how easily his thoughts tangled. The jealousy slipped in quiet at first, but it had since settled deep, coiling tight in his gut until everything felt too hot. And beneath it, there was the want. Hot and blood boiling, it was impossible to ignore. It clung to him in moments like this, too loud for the quiet kind of life he told himself he wanted now.

And just as he was pulling himself together, the back door creaked open behind him.

He turned halfway, startled.

You stepped inside, lit from behind by the porch light, brows pinched and lip tucked between your teeth. You didn’t see him at first, just cradled your hand in front of you and headed for the cabinets.

“Can’t believe I actually burned myself,” you muttered, yanking one open and rummaging through it.

Joel blinked. “The hell you doin’?”

You jumped slightly, eyes snapping to him. “Jesus—I didn’t know you were in here.”

“Clearly,” he snapped, but then his gaze dropped to the way your fingers curled protectively around your hand. He let out a sigh, quieter this time. “Sit. I’ll get the kit.”

You hesitated, then nodded and moved toward the counter. Joel disappeared down the hall and came back a moment later with the first aid kit, clicking it open as you settled on the edge of the counter. Your bare feet dangled above the floor, knees drawn in slightly like you were trying to take up less space.

“I feel so stupid,” you muttered with a breathy little laugh, trying to break the silence.

“Yeah, well,” Joel grumbled, “shouldn’t’ve been playin’ in fire.”

“I wasn’t playing,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I dropped my marshmallow.”

Joel didn’t respond. He let the quiet settle again as he took your hand in his. He hadn’t noticed before how small it was. How his palm all but swallowed yours. You were so warm, so close. Closer than he’d ever been, really.

After a moment, you tilted your head, frowning at him. “What’s been your deal today?”

He didn’t answer, just dabbed on the burn cream. You winced, and he almost felt bad.

“You’ve been acting… weird,” you said softly.

“Weird?” he echoed, even though he knew exactly what you meant. He had been acting like an asshole, there was no doubt about it. 

“You’ve been…distant. All broody and quiet.”

He finally looked up at you under his brows. “I don’t brood.”

Your lips curved, amused in spite of yourself. “Joel Miller, you are the definition of brooding. What’s going on with you?”

He paused, focusing on wrapping the bandage like it was the most important thing in the world. He didn’t know if he was going to answer. Didn’t know if he should.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?” he said finally.

You blinked. “Realize what?”

He glanced at you, frowning. “The way you act out there with them. Letting ‘em fawn all over you. Laughin’, lickin’ marshmallow off your damn fingers like you don’t know what that looks like.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“Maybe you don’t realize it. Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the whole thing. Part of your little game.”

“I don’t play games, Mr. Miller,” you said sharply, jerking your hand from his. You stood abruptly, the scrape of your feet on the tile loud in the silence. Joel was already kicking himself for being such an asshole.

“And if you’re so mad about them lookin’ at me, you sure as hell don’t seem to care enough to do anything about it.”

His blood ran hot under your glare. You tipped your chin up at him, eyes sparking now, fire in them even here, far away from the pit.

“And what the hell do you want me to do about it, huh?” he seethed.

And that’s when he saw your eyes flitting to his mouth.

The air between you burned, thick and charged, like static right before a storm. You didn’t back down. You stood there, chest rising fast, glaring up at him like you dared him to move. Joel towered over you, the low kitchen light behind him casting his shadow across your whole body.

You were breathing hard, and he swore he could see your pulse pounding in your neck, right at the base of your throat. He wanted to touch it. Press his fingers there just to feel it.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you and my brother?” he asked, the words coming sharp, cut straight from the mess in his chest. It had been stuck in his head all night—that kiss on the cheek, the way you trailed after Tommy, how you sat beside him through dinner, through the firepit, stuck to him like glue.

Your head jerked slightly like you couldn’t believe the question. “Seriously?”

“You’ve been followin’ him around like a little puppy all damn day. Kissed him on the cheek when you got here,” Joel said, like that explained everything.

“It was a greeting, Joel,” you shot back. “You do realize people are allowed to be nice to each other, right? There’s nothing going on with me and Tommy.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You’d know that if you actually talked to me instead of just staring all day like you’re allergic to conversation.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. His hands curled into fists at his sides. But you weren’t done.

“He’s my friend. That’s it. Tommy’s easy to be around. He laughs at my dumb jokes. He introduces me to people like he’s proud I’m there.”

Joel looked away, the weight of that last sentence heavy in his chest.

You watched him, breath tight in your chest. Then you shook your head and took a step back.

“Besides,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him, “he’s not the Miller I’m interested in.”

He stood suddenly frozen in place. He stared at you like the words didn’t compute. Like maybe he hadn’t heard you right. Like his brain refused to accept it.

You turned, trying to slip past him, trying to put this whole thing behind you, but his arm came out fast. His hand landed flat on the counter beside you, cutting off your escape. The movement wasn’t violent, but it was firm.

You jumped back, breath catching as you looked back up at him.

“Say that again,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard. “You heard me.”

“I wanna hear you say it again.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and unrelenting.

And then, quieter, but no less certain, you said it again.

“I want you, Joel.” you said, and then breathing in deep as if gathering the courage, you added: “You’re just too dumb to see it.”

The words hit him like a slap to the face, and something in him broke loose.

He didn’t let himself think about it too long, didn’t give himself any time to talk himself out of it. He pushed forward, hands sliding to your ribcage, and lifting you effortlessly to the counter. You gasped at the cool tile under your legs, your dress hiking further up as he set you down. 

Then his mouth was on yours. And he wasn’t soft or gentle or even slow.

It was all heat and teeth and months of want compressed into a single kiss. His lips crashed against yours, greedy and rough, his stubble scraping your skin as his hands held you tight, thumbs digging into your waist like he was afraid you might take it back if he let go.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed it whole, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, hot and slick and searching. He kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he could bury all the confusion and jealousy and ache in your mouth and come out clean on the other side.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, fisting the fabric and he could feel the way your knees hiked up around him, legs tightening to keep him close as your ankles crossed behind his back. His hips slotted between your legs, fitting there like he belonged, like this was where he’d been meant to be all damn day.

He groaned low in his throat when your teeth scraped his bottom lip. His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed wide, dragging you closer as his other hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you harder. Deeper. Dirtier.

There was nothing careful about it.

You kissed him back like you’d been waiting for this too, like you were just as pissed off, just as tired of pretending there was nothing between you. Your lips were swollen, slick with spit and sugar, and when you broke away to breathe for half a second, Joel followed you right back in, mouths colliding again, sloppy and hot and wild.

Joel didn’t think he could get enough of you.

Every time you kissed him back, every breathy sound that slipped past your lips, it lit him up from the inside. His hands moved without thinking, one sliding down your thigh, fingers curling under the hem of that soft little dress.

You didn’t stop him, if anything–you leaned into it.

He dragged you closer, hands gripping the back of your thighs as he pulled you toward the edge of the counter. The slide of you against the cool counter top made you gasp but then he was there, pressing himself even harder between your legs, solid and heavy and wanting. 

His hands slid up, dragging the fabric with them until he had you bunched up around your hips, until he could feel the heat of you radiating right through the thin scrap of fabric between your legs. It made him groan, low and guttural, forehead pressed to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his voice rough, nearly shaking. "You're fuckin' burnin' up."

Your hands were in his hair now, tugging gently at the strands as your hips rolled forward, slow and seeking. His grip tightened, and he pulled you flush against him, grinding the hard line of his cock up into your center. He could feel everything—the softness of your inner thighs, the damp heat of you through your panties, the way your body arched into him like you couldn’t stand being separate another second.

You whimpered against his mouth, fingers threading deeper into his hair. He kissed you again, this time slower but no less intense, tongues sliding together, teeth clashing a little when neither of you could stop chasing the other.

Joel broke away, just long enough to press his mouth to the curve of your jaw, then your neck, dragging his lips down to the spot just under your ear where your pulse jumped against his tongue.

“Want you, Joel,” you sighed, tilting your head back to give him more access to your throat which he gladly took, teeth and lips and tongue all dragging across your warm skin, “Want you right here.”

"I know, baby," he rasped, grinding up into you again, slow and deliberate this time, letting you feel every inch of him. "This what you wanted all night, huh? Wanted me to take you in my brother’s kitchen like this?”

Your breath hitched. Your nails scraped against his scalp.

"Yes," you whispered.

He could feel how soaked you were, how hot and needy. The ache in his gut tightened, like he was right on the edge of losing whatever restraint he had left. His hand slid up your side, curved around your ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath the swell of your breast.

You were trembling now. Chest rising in sharp little bursts. Your legs wrapped tighter around his hips, like you were trying to fuse the two of you together.

“Then let me in, pretty girl,” he groaned, his voice shredded with restraint.

Hands reached between your bodies, his fingers dragged up the length of your clothed heat, barely brushing where you needed him most. Then he hooked his fingers around your panties and tugged them down, rough and quick, letting them fall to the floor.

He didn’t waste time.

His hand went to his jeans, undoing them with one hand, hissing low through his teeth as he freed himself, hard and already slick at the tip. He lined up with no finesse, not bothering to say more. Just pressed forward and buried himself in you with one deep, desperate thrust.

You cried out, head falling back against the cabinet, legs tightening around him even more.

“Fuck,” he gritted, voice strained and guttural. “This what you needed, baby? All those fuckers flirtin’ with you and touchin’ you, but this is who you wanted, huh? This cock right here?”

You whimpered something that might’ve been his name.

He snapped his hips forward again, harder, driving into you like he needed to stake a claim.

“That’s right, take it. So—Jesus, so goddamn tight. And all them think they might’ve had a chance but now look at you—stuffed full of cock like you’re made for it.”

Your fingers clawed into his back as he rutted into you, the edge of the counter digging into your ass, his body flush against yours. His mouth found your neck again, biting at the skin there, hands gripping your hips so hard you’d have bruises in the morning.

“You feel that?” he growled, thrusting up harder, rougher. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine now. You gonna walk back out there drippin’ with me?”

You moaned, hips rolling helplessly against him, eyes glazed and lips parted.

“God, I fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered against your throat. “Knew you’d be a perfect little slut for me. Knew you’d let me ruin you the second I got you alone.”

He was so deep inside you, every stroke sharp and punishing, dragging the sounds out of you, making you clamp down tighter around him like your body didn’t know what to do with all of him.

“Come on then,” he rasped. “You gonna come on my cock like a good girl, or you want me to talk you through it?”

Your hands shot up, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking him down into a kiss that was all teeth and need. You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed every bit of it, lips dragging across yours before he nipped at your bottom lip.

Joel groaned desperately into your mouth, the sound escaping from deep in his chest. He could feel the way you fluttered around him, could tell you were getting close. 

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, one hand still gripping your hip, the other sliding down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit in seconds, slick and swollen and begging for attention.

“Ohhh, there she is,” he breathed with a dark little grin, rubbing slow, lazy circles that made you twitch. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

“Joel,” you gasped, eyes rolling, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s it. Say my name again,” he muttered, thrusting up into you, rough and steady, fingers never stopping. “You gettin’ close, sweetheart?”

You nodded, panting, body arching into him.

“Tell me,” he said, voice wrecked but firm. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

You choked out a laugh between moans, half-drunk on it. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grinned. “Really shouldn’t be sayin that while I’m rearranging your guts, baby girl.”

“You smug bastard,” you gasped, rocking down on him, chasing every stroke.

“Aw, I know,” he cooed with an evil, teasing lilt, and then he was kissing you again, deep and filthy, fingers moving faster now, hips snapping hard against you. “Now come on. Let go for me. Wanna feel ‘er squeeze the fuck outta my cock.”

Your head dropped back, eyes rolling up, thighs trembling around his hips.

“That’s it,” he growled. “There she is. Come for me, baby. Make a mess. I fuckin’ dare you.”

And just like that, you broke. Your body seized around him, jaw slackened with a cry as you came hard, clenching tight around him.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re perfect. Fuckin’ perfect.” he kept saying over and over again as he was spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, hips pressed flush to yours as he pulsed inside, thick and hot and perfect.

He stayed like that for a moment, both of you tangled together, panting against each other’s mouths. The only sound was your breathing, the faint music still playing from outside, the thud of Joel’s heart trying to calm down.

Slowly, he pulled back. His cock slipped from you, still thick and wet with both of you. You squirmed slightly at the loss, but Joel didn’t let you go far.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, leaning down to reach between your thighs once he tucked himself away.

You gasped when his fingers slid back inside you, two thick digits pushing his cum back in with slow, easy strokes.

“Just cleanin’ you up,” he said, voice too soft to match the filth of what he was doing. “Can’t have it all drip out too fast. Not yet.”

You huffed a disbelieving laugh, but you still pulled one leg up to sit your bare foot on the counter, giving him more access.

“Want you walkin’ out there feelin’ it,” he whispered. “Want you sittin’ there all sweet while Tommy plays his little guitar and you’re sittin’ full of me. Warm and messy. Gonna keep my come inside you all night, pretty girl.”

You moaned under your breath, shivering again as he eased his fingers out.

Joel reached down and grabbed your panties from the floor. He slid them back up your legs, slow and careful, tugging them snug over your soaked center with a quiet, satisfied hum.

Then he leaned in again, kissed you on the lips, slower this time, no fire, just something warm and heavy and full of something more than the lust that was slowly dissipating from his blood.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

And when you smiled up at him, all wicked with flushed cheeks and kiss-bitten lips, he knew this wasn’t going to be the last time.

I saw this the other day and am in love lolol hope you enjoyed!!!

[archive-of-ink]

Cupid's Chokehold — part two!

PEARL NECKLACE

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summary: Uncle Tommy gives you everything you want for your twenty first birthday.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap (reader is 21, Tommy in his mid thirties), size difference, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, begging, dom/sub undertones, tommy yearns bad in this one, a bit of angst mixed in, alcohol overconsumption, reader is made uncomfortable by someone at a bar, references to being drugged (but doesn't actually happen), allusions to addiction, reader gets a facial

note: if you haven't heard yet, i'm turning this into a little mini series!! you can let me know here if you'd like to be added to the taglist. thank you to everyone for the support on this one, I'm so glad you all love uncle tommy as much as i do. let me know what you think of this chapter, i love love love talking to you guys and i promise there's more to come!

wc: 10.8k

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Tommy Miller is a high functioning addict.

Self aware enough to admit it, hedonistic enough to only manage it. Has been that way for as long as he can remember.

He likes the head buzz of nicotine and the dizziness of liquor and the adrenaline rush of a real bad decision. His favorite high, though, is you. His favorite sound, his favorite taste, his favorite sight. 

His favorite girl.

After that fateful night in his apartment, the two of you get good at the balancing act. The push and pull. You ride the line of too much and not enough religiously. Have gotten it down to a goddamn science.

But the problem is that an addict never knows when to quit.

He does well for a while. Truly. Learns that it’s a whole lot easier to manage his longing with witnesses around, and goes out of his way to avoid being in an empty house with you. He interlocks his fingers together and squeezes when the urge rises in him to touch you. To cradle your pretty face, to run his thumb over your mouth when you make some filthy joke and smile up at him. He bites the inside of his cheek when you’re sitting beside one another and turn to whisper something in sync, bringing you face to face, so overwhelmed with a craving for the taste of your tongue that his heart hammers against his sternum.

For what it’s worth, Tommy tries. Loses sleep over it, even. Stares up at his ceiling for hours, warring with what he wants and what he knows is right. 

The right thing would be to wean himself off of you. Cut back a little at a time. Day by day, until eventually the thought of you becomes less persistent. Until he stops smelling the faintest trace of your shampoo in his sheets, until he stops transferring that half-smoked cigarette with cherry lip gloss on the filter from pack to pack.

But then, sometimes, he catches this look in your eye when you’re listening to him speak. He could be talking about something shitty that happened at work or telling you about a song he heard on the radio that he thinks you’d like, and you just stare at him like he hung the moon in the sky.

He’s important to you, and you make him feel it. And it’s this, this that he can’t give up. The way you trust him so completely, the way you love him without a trace of doubt. 

You say it once, in passing. Everyone’s sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard, enjoying the nice weather before the rainstorm moving in from the west hits. You’re sitting next to Sarah, but your feet are resting in Tommy’s lap.

Sarah’s talking animatedly, telling everyone about her college English professor and how they’ve been playing matchmaker all semester. On three separate occasions, they’ve paired groups together, and couples have emerged from them. Sarah thinks it’s intentional, but your mom and Joel aren’t so sure.

Tommy stays quiet for most of the conversation. But then he says, “Definitely a little weird. But, uh…anyway, I wanted to let everyone know I’m a changed man. Dropping the whole blue collar act and going back to school to study English.”

Everyone laughs, and you kick the side of his thigh lightly with a shake of your head. Through your giggles you say, “I fucking love you,” and it fills him with so much warmth he’s overflowing with it.

He rides that high for days. Gives you shit for it, even. 

When he steals your half finished slice of pizza right out of your hands and you call him a dickhead with a smile on your face he says, “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

You don’t deny it, and even that makes him feel special. Tommy takes every crumb of affection you throw at him and eats it up with a fork and knife like it’s the most delectable meal he’s ever had. Consumes your sweet words and your closeness so thoroughly, it’s almost comical. Like he’s a dog with a bone, desperate for it, because he is.

He stays balanced, though. Never lets it go too far. Can feel right when his desire begins to cloud his judgment and knows when to call it. 

But things change one night at the dining room table.

You and Joel sit beside each other. He‘s in front of that shitty laptop he bought decades ago, trying to write an email that sounds both professional and assertive without using the words asshole or fucking idiot.

He’s grumbling and typing with his two pointer fingers and a single thumb on the keyboard, shaking his head as you explain, “You have to capitalize her name, Joel. You’re not sending an email to your friend, she’s a CEO.”

“Yeah, well, capital letters are meant for people. Not for corporate lizards trying to fuck with my company.”

You catch Tommy’s gaze from across the table, making you both snort and fall into rambunctious laughter, earning you a glare.

“It’s not funny,” Joel says sharply. “Stupid I even have to do this. I don’t know why people don’t just leave well enough alone.”

“Everyone wants a piece of the pie,” you explain. “You’re making good money doing good things, and she wants to be a part of it. You guys keep taking on more projects this year, and inquiries like this are just the beginning.” 

“It’s a good thing, ain’t it?” Tommy shrugs. “Means you’re doing somethin’ right.”

“Exactly,” you agree. You lean across the table and swipe the glass bottle from his hands to take a sip. 

Tommy knows you don’t like beer and isn’t surprised when you cringe at the hoppy flavor, wrinkling your nose at him. He thinks maybe you drink it anyway not for the alcohol, but to put your lips to the same place his were seconds ago. He tries not to let the warmth that idea elicits in his chest spread too far. 

“Well, I don’t need some uppity lady who works in an office telling me how to do my damn job,” Joel adds.

“So say that,” you tell him. He starts typing on the keyboard again, so you lean in close, peering over his shoulder. “Oh my God. Not word for word. You have to paraphrase.”

Joel throws his hands up in the air and groans in frustration. “How do I say fuck off in a nice way?”

You and Tommy both laugh again, which only serves to piss Joel off even further. It’s not funny, not really; it’s just the dramatics of it all. And, truthfully, Tommy finds everything funny when he's with you.

“You write it,” Joel says, pushing the laptop towards you. 

“That’s not gonna solve anything,” you say, shaking your head. 

“What if I pay you?”

“Then you’ll be in the same situation next time. You’re gonna have to learn how to be a business owner, Joel. Not just a contractor.”

“Okay, so make it permanent, then,” Joel says, shrugging. “Like a…a receptionist. Come work for me and quit that coffee place. They don’t even offer health insurance.” He says it with such disdain, and Tommy knows exactly why.

They’d discussed it on the way home from work one afternoon. Too god damn smart for a place like that, Joel had said, and Tommy could do nothing but agree.

“I can’t quit my job to write your emails for you,” you argue.

“Not just that,” he says. “Can be in charge of payroll and schedules and the licensing bullshit. All the things I’m bad at. Weekends off, whatever hours you wanna work. I’ll pay you double what you’re makin’ now, and you get health insurance.”

Hesitation shows on your face. Tommy knows his brother means what he says, and he thinks you know it, too. But it’s a lot to consider. A big change.

“You’re good at talkin’ to people,” Joel continues, closing the laptop. “An’ it would mean a lot to me.”

That’s what does you in, Tommy knows. The nail in the coffin. He sees it in the way your shoulders drop and your eyes soften. Selfless girl, he thinks. Always taking care of the people you love. “What if I don’t like it?”

“You will,” Tommy answers. Because he knows Joel will take care of you, too. Make sure you have everything you might need. But more importantly, Tommy knows you. And even though he can sense the way it threatens his balance on that already thin line between safe and depraved, he knows you’ll enjoy it.

And he’s proven correct on that very first day.

Joel sets you up in the air-conditioned trailer they haul from job site to job site. Mostly, they use it to cool off during lunch, everyone piling into the small space for half an hour before going back out into the Texas heat.

The two of you spend most of the day going over all the contacts Joel’s acquired over the years, and how to schedule a consultation, and where to order materials. He gives you all of his passwords and clears off the cluttered desk that never gets used. 

Everyone on the team is awfully eager to meet you, and Tommy’s no fucking idiot. He knows exactly what goes through their heads as they shake your hand and introduce themselves and stare a little too hard at the shadow of red lace beneath your thin white top.

They conveniently wait until Joel’s out of earshot before the comments start pouring out of their foul mouths.

Pretty little thing, ain’t she?

Joel’s got that livin’ under his roof? Christ. Poor old man.

You see the way those jeans fit her?

Is it too early to start callin’ Joel ‘pops’?

Tommy wonders briefly why they feel so comfortable saying shit like this in front of him, knowing who he is to you, but then realizes he’s said far worse in the past about girls half as pretty. They feel comfortable because in any other situation, he would be joining right in.

Noah’s the worst of it. Takes things a little too far when he says, “Stepdaughter videos ain’t number one on the hub for nothin’.” 

Tommy clenches his teeth. Keeps his head down. Tries and fails to fight his smug ass smirk when you come grab his truck keys a little after four and return to the trailer wearing his Carhartt hoodie, the one he’d left in the back seat a couple days ago.

Later that night, Tommy follows you up to your room. Door wide open, with Sarah just across the hall and Joel and your mom downstairs. Not that he has any intentions other than checking in after your first day. It’s just…precautionary—an added layer of security to prevent a backslide.

He flops back in your unmade bed, hands folded behind his head, and watches a little too closely as you bend over to unlace your sneakers. “Well?”

You unclasp your necklace and drop it into a ceramic bowl on your dresser. “I loved it,” you admit. “It was a little stressful, but…I don’t know. I liked feeling like I could make a difference. Like I’m not just going in there to do my job and go home, I felt like I was being productive. It was nice.”

Tommy’s pleased to hear it. Loves the way your voice sounds in his ears. Happy, satisfied. He knows right then and there that he needs to set a firm boundary with Noah because you’re never going back to that coffee place, and Noah’s not going anywhere near you. “Said you’d like it, didn’t I?”

With a roll of your eyes, you sit beside him and pull your legs close to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees. “Joel’s kind of a hard ass.”

It makes him laugh because it’s true. Can’t count on both his hands just how many times his brother has nitpicked the way things are done. He can only imagine the pressure you'd felt in that trailer, likely being told how to talk to this person or that one. “Only the beginning, darlin’,” Tommy says. 

The sunlight leaks in through your bedroom window, sheer lace curtains casting rays of gold over your skin. You’re beautiful, Tommy thinks. Painfully so. Sometimes he’ll catch you at a certain angle, just like this one, and it makes his heart rate stutter.

In another world, Tommy wouldn’t let you out of sight fucking ever. Would accompany you whether you were going to a nightclub or if you were just going to the corner store. Because he knows from experience that all it would take for a man to fall to his knees before you is a single look from those pretty eyes. In another world, one where he wasn’t your Uncle Tommy, one where he could just be yours, he’d make damn sure you’d never need anything from another man. 

Never need a door opened for you, never need to pay for a meal, never need to confide in anyone else. He’d take care of you. Do it all. Satisfy you in every way of the word because it’s what you deserve. He wants to take care of you, wants to be a provider. 

Tommy supposes it’s what he’s always wanted, despite his actions reflecting the opposite. He wonders if maybe he’s just been waiting for you this whole time.

You ask, “What are you thinking about?” 

And he doesn’t lie. “You.”

With a scoff, you playfully pinch his side. A sliver of his abdomen is exposed where his t-shirt has ridden up, and feeling you there is a shock to his nervous system. 

And when your touch lingers, his body tingles, and his brain becomes foggy. Tommy Miller has never wanted anyone the way he wants you. Is reduced to the simplest, most carnally driven man just at the feel of your delicate fingertips on his skin.

Your attention is centered on your hand as you slowly move it across his soft belly, eyes hooded and filled with desire. 

Tommy knows that look now. Knows the filthy thoughts invading your brain, knows exactly what you’re reminiscing about. He knows, too, that the balance is skewed. The longer he lies here with you, the closer he comes to caving. “Your turn,” he says. “Spill your guts.”

When you speak, your voice is quiet. A barely-there whisper. “It would be so easy, you know.” 

He does. Has rolled the idea over in his head a million fucking times. “S’the problem,” Tommy explains. “Can’t stop myself twice.” 

“Then don’t,” you say simply, continuing to run your fingers over his skin. He sees his favorite troublesome smirk begin to form on your sweet mouth and has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from finding too much joy in it. “Could do it right here. Bet they’d never know.”

The edge of your pinky finger dips just below the waistband of his jeans. Barely there, but Tommy notices everything you do, and this is no exception, hyper aware of your every movement. He lets out a slow, shaking breath and swallows hard. He can’t bring himself to move or push you away like he knows he should. All he manages are two, hesitant words. “Ain’t right.”

Your response is quick. Honest and true. “I don’t care.”

It only makes his will to abstain that much harder. Knowing he isn’t alone in his longing, knowing you’re suffering in such a similar way…it hurts him just to think of it. But it’s different for you. Easier. Because you’re just at the beginning of your life, while he’s nearly halfway through his.

You have time to bounce back from this. To choose someone your age who’s a lot less twisted. Someone you don’t have to hide from the people closest to you, who you can kiss out in the open without shame.

And Tommy’s…well, Tommy knows there will never be anyone else for him. Has sat with that fact for quite some time. Accepted it by now, and considers himself lucky just to have had that one, stolen night.

Slowly, you move further down the mattress. The same one he once slept on that now belongs solely to you. You slot yourself between his strong thighs and his cock swells as you look up at him through your lashes.

There’s an experiment here, Tommy knows. The two of you are just alike. So similar that sometimes it frightens him. He can see the challenge in your eyes, testing the waters, seeing how far you can go before he pulls you back. 

You lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his hips. And when you press your lips to the bulge in his jeans, Tommy bites back a moan. 

This is too far, he knows. Way too fucking far.

His heart hammers in his chest. The door is still wide open, and everyone is home. All it would take is one person to walk down the hallway, and it would all be over. 

But it would be easy. Quick, too—Tommy’s never had much control when it comes to you.

With a quick flick of your thumb, you pop open the silver button. Saliva gathers between your parted lips, mouth watering for a taste of him. 

Tommy Miller is weak. Corrupted. Sick and twisted and perverted and— “Beautiful, baby,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking…Christ. You got any idea how fuckin’ pretty you are?”

He gently strokes your hair, and when you smile up at him, he grins right back. His cock is already hard but then you pull his zipper down with your teeth and Tommy thinks he might die without relief.

Sarah calls your name from across the hall.

You scramble away from each other, sitting at opposite ends of the bed seconds before she rounds the corner. 

“Do you remember Summer? That girl from my biology class?” Sarah pays Tommy no mind as she sits beside you.

It’s not out of the ordinary for him to be in your room, after all. He’s the first to lend a helping hand when you get the urge to move your furniture around and has carried up your laundry from the basement countless times.

“Yeah, of course,” you say. “The one you…”

Sarah flushes a deep crimson. Her eyes flicker between your face and Tommy’s, and he’s smart enough to read the room.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he says, standing from the bed, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.

You grab his hand as he walks past. Just briefly, but it turns his insides molten. One more lingering touch before he leaves. A way of saying, I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to.

Once out in the hallway, Tommy zips up his jeans and takes a few long, deep breaths before he goes downstairs to say goodbye to your mom and Joel. The two of them talk briefly, and Joel asks how you felt after your first day.

He says, “An’ I know you know that girl like the back of your hand, so don’t lie. She like it or not?”

Tommy isn’t quite sure why the words leave him feeling dizzy, but they do. He likes that he knows you so well and likes even more that the closeness you share is so visible. If he can’t outwardly call you his, if he can’t outwardly be yours, then he’ll take whatever this is. “She likes it.”

Joel’s shoulders sag in relief. “Good, cause she’ll make my life a hell of a lot easier.”

The next morning, Tommy stops by at seven to pick you and Joel up before heading to the job site. You carry a steaming travel mug in each hand, and before you climb into the back seat, you poke your head through the open driver's side window. “Just milk and sugar,” you say. “Right?”

He doesn’t know why you ask when you know the answer. “You didn’t have to do that, darlin’,” he says. But he happily takes the coffee anyway and takes a careful sip. It’s the perfect ratio. Tommy’s not surprised. 

There’s a playful lilt to your voice as you say, “I usually take mine with cream, but we were all out. Thought maybe you could supply me with some.”

He laughs hard and shakes his head. “Un-fuckin’-believable,” he says through his mirth. He glances over the top of your head to see Joel locking the front door behind him.

You uncap the lid. “Well?”

His face burns, but Tommy thinks he’s never had such a perfect start to his day. “Get in the truck before you start somethin’ you can’t finish.”

“But that’s my favorite thing to do,” you whine, pushing your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. You listen, though. Replace the lid and climb into the back seat behind him.

Tommy scoffs and says with a grin, “Don’t I know it.”

It doesn’t take long for you to get awfully good at your job. That first week alone, you manage to slice their payment for materials in half just by haggling with the lumber mill Joel’s bought wood from since the nineties. You accompany him to a handful of consultations, learning what to look for in a client and how to pick and choose which jobs are worth taking.

You convince Joel to buy a mini fridge for the trailer that you keep fully stocked with bottles of water. And when you bring in those electrolyte drink mixes, it’s all anyone talks about for days.

Noah says, “The peach one is my favorite. Wanna taste hers next.”

Everyone finds humor in it but Tommy.

The words come out sharper than intended. “Quit sayin’ shit like that, man.”

Noah laughs. Like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t want a piece of that ass?”

“What I’m telling you is to shut your goddamn mouth,” Tommy answers. He stops digging through the sand they’ve been moving for the last hour, left hand squeezed tightly around the red handle of his shovel.

“It was a joke, Tommy. Lighten up.”

“Don’t care what it was,” he says, staring Noah in the eye. “I hear some shit like that again and I’ll fuck you up. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Noah sizes him up, and for a split second Tommy thinks he just might be brave enough to step. But Noah just sneers and returns to the task at hand, an awkward silence lingering between the group of them.

But Tommy doesn’t care. Sits in that silence happily knowing he won’t have to listen to anyone speak about you like that anymore.

Joel cares, though. And on the way home, he says, “Mike told me about you giving Noah a hard time today. You two gonna have a problem?”

“Wait, what happened with Noah?” You slide to the center of the leather seat in the back of the cab.

“Nothing,” Tommy lies. “Ain’t gonna have a problem.”

Joel narrows his eyes in warning. “Good. 'Cause that’s the last thing we need right now. Behind enough as it is.”

He thinks that’s the end of it.

But then you say softly, “He asked me out the other day.”

“He what?” Tommy and Joel say it in perfect unison. Equally floored and equally irate.

Joel turns almost completely around in the passenger seat.

You raise your hands in surrender and look at Tommy through the rearview mirror. “Said he wanted to take me to dinner, and I told him I’d rather starve.”

“Listen to me,” Joel says with that stern, no bullshit dad voice he sometimes still uses on Sarah. “I don’t want you anywhere near those boys. Ain’t a single one worth a damn. Liars and cheaters and fucking criminals. All of ‘em.”

A crease forms between your brows. “So why the fuck did you hire them?”

“Cause they’re good at what they do,” Joel explains. “But that don’t make them good. Deserve better than that. You hear me, kid?”

“Yeah, I hear you. Keep it professional with everyone,” you say. “Except for Uncle Tommy.”

He chokes. Tries to cover it up with a cough, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. His hands pale around the steering wheel.

“Exactly,” Joel says.

Later that night, Tommy is smoking on the back porch when you step outside to join him. It’s the first moment he’s had alone with you all day. “You tryin’ to get me killed or somethin’?”

“Or something.” You lean back against the siding and shrug. “Kinda sounded like Joel’s blessing to me.”

“You’re fuckin’ trouble, girl.” Tommy chuckles and passes you his lit cigarette when you reach for it. “Joel wasted all that breath warnin’ you about those boys when he should be warnin’ them about you.”

“Yeah, probably. But you love it.” 

Tommy can do nothing but agree because it’s the truest thing he’s ever heard. “Your birthday’s comin’ up soon,” he says, watching as you take the nicotine deep into your lungs. “Twenty-one. Anything you want?”

That too familiar smirk forms on your face, and Tommy knows what you’re going to say before you even open your mouth. Can see all those filthy thoughts behind your eyes, can almost hear whatever dirty joke you’ve got locked and loaded on the tip of your tongue.

“Don’t even fuckin’ start with me,” he warns, a playfulness to his voice. But there’s no weight to it. Your inability to take anything seriously is one of his favorite things about you. 

Your lips part in a mockery of surprise. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, plucking the cigarette from between your fingers. “Give me something realistic.”

“Okay…” You tap your index finger against your chin, contemplating. “What about…a pearl necklace,” you say with the sweetest, most innocent smile.

Tommy laughs. Can’t help himself. “Alright, you know what? I take it back. You only get gifts if you’re good.”

He thinks the sound of your giggling might be the only thing that’s ever truly brought him peace. Finds comfort in your joy, in knowing you’re happy. But when your laughter dies down, there’s a sad sort of look in your eye. A melancholic longing. 

Then you quietly say, “I just want you.” And Tommy’s ears ring.

This is what hurts him the most. The heavy truth of it. 

He’d known that taking your closeness to new heights would change him in irreparable ways. Known that nothing would ever compare, and he was ready and willing to live the rest of his life with that dull ache in his chest. Welcomed the haunting of emptiness with open arms because it was you and it was him and that one fucking night was yours.

But Tommy wasn’t the only one who’d been changed by it. Wasn’t the only one to suffer in the aftermath. 

He wants to comfort you. Wants to take your hands in his and kiss each of your knuckles until his lips turn blue. He doesn’t move, though. Not even an inch. Because he’s never felt nearer to a relapse than he does when you look at him like that. Like you see him. Like he’s all you see.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Always will be.”

Tommy means it. He thinks he would follow you anywhere just to feel the faintest warmth of your affection.

It seems to satisfy you. For now, at least. You give him the tiniest smile, a half effort, but it soothes the sting for him, too. Just a little. 

Your birthday falls on a Friday. Tommy gets up early and stops at a bakery before heading to Joel’s, and is pleased when he uses the key under the mat to find that the house is quiet. Still.

He creeps up the stairs and slips soundlessly into your room. The day is just beginning, and the light of dawn spills through your cracked window. Tommy sits on the edge of your bed and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

When he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, you stir and stretch out your limbs. Your voice is tired and filled with sleep as you ask, “Uncle Tommy?”

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he whispers. He cradles your face in his hands and strokes your cheek with his thumb as clarity slowly finds you.

You smile up at him with starry eyes, and Tommy’s stomach flips. You’re so good, so perfect that sometimes he wonders how the fuck you’re even real.

“C’mon,” he says. “Sit up for me. Got you somethin’.”

Tommy holds your hands when you reach for him and pulls you forward. You push yourself up the rest of the way and fold your legs over one another beneath the blankets.

It’s only at that precise moment that Tommy realizes you’re wearing one of his t-shirts and the sight of it steals the air right from him. He likes it—loves it. Loves that a piece of him lives here with you. In your closet, in your room, in your sheets.

He’s not quite sure how you ended up with it, though. Thinks he might’ve left it on a lawn chair after spending an afternoon in Joel’s pool, or missed it in the dryer when the ones at his apartment were out of order.

But then you say, reading his every thought, “I stole it.”

Tommy laughs. “Think you’re supposed to ask before you take things that aren’t yours.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You lean forward, lips an inch away from his ear. “And I know I’m not the only one with sticky fingers, Uncle Tommy.”

His face burns. He thinks of your cherry lip gloss on his bathroom sink and your tank top on the right side of his bed and your lace panties in his nightstand. Tommy thinks he should know better than to hide things from you anymore. You’re too close, too similar. “Caught me,” Tommy mutters.

And then he digs his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and lights the ten cent candle he’d found at the back of Joel’s junk drawer. He sticks it into the center of the cupcake he’d picked out just for you—lemon flavored, with vanilla frosting and lime colored sprinkles. 

He holds it between you and says, “Make a wish, birthday girl.”

The flame flickers as your gaze darts between Tommy’s eyes and his mouth. You smile widely, and he can’t resist mirroring your joy. Feels it as thoroughly as if it were his own. Tommy’s never cared much for his birthday, but he feels overwhelmed with gratitude for yours. Thankful.

You close your eyes, make your silent wish, and then blow out the candle. He unwraps the wax paper for you, crumbs sticking to his fingers, and laughs when you take a bite and let out a blissful moan. “Holy shit,” you say.

Tommy feels pride bloom in his chest. Thinks pleasing you might be his favorite thing on the planet. “S’good?”

“It’s fucking amazing,” you answer. And then you turn the cupcake towards him. “I’m not kidding. Try it.”

He does. Leans forward and takes a careful bite right from your hands. You’re not wrong, either. The lemon is refreshing, and the vanilla buttercream is the perfect sweetness. Tommy nods as you take another bite. “Christ,” he says. “Worth every damn penny.”

You touch your thumb to the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got frosting on your face,” you say with a teasing grin.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I get it?”

“More to the left,” you instruct. But when he tries again, Tommy knows it’s still there when you hold in your laughter. And then you say, “Can I…?”

Tommy doesn’t understand right away why you even ask. You’re always laying your head on his shoulder or draping your legs over his or running your hands through his hair. This is no different, nothing out of the ordinary. 

But when he nods, you lean forward and lick the frosting off his bottom lip. 

It freezes him in time. Seconds feel like minutes as they tick by. He can feel the wetness of your tongue on his mouth, and you linger. Close enough that he can taste the sugar on your breath.

His morals hang in the balance. Sobriety threatened. Tommy Miller wants you so badly that he starts to wonder if you’re some fucked up form of punishment. Karmic justice for all those hearts he’s broken in his youth, just to be denied the one woman he’s ever truly wanted.

When you speak, it’s breathless. Nearly inaudible. “Kiss me.”

It is your birthday, after all. 

He fights the intensity that batters against his every impulse and instead presses his mouth to yours gently. Unhurried. So much different than the first kiss you’d shared. Your lips move against his in sync, one soul split into two bodies, whole again for the first time in months. 

Tommy thinks it’s just instinct when his tongue meets yours. You taste just as he remembers. A little warm and a little honeyed and a little like opium.

When you pull away, he feels the loss like a knife.

But then you cover your mouth with your hand and laugh, elation spilling through your fingers, and it’s like a balm to his heart.

Around another mouthful of confectionery, you insist, “Here. Have some more.”

Tommy sits there with you, waiting for the sun to rise, and the two of you share your birthday cupcake before the rest of the world wakes. You close your eyes and drop your shoulders as if it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten, giggling between each bite.

It’s such a soft, quiet moment. Only the two of you. For just a little while, you have nowhere to be, no one to perform for. It’s just you, and it’s just him, and when you take the last bite, Tommy licks the frosting from your fingertips.

Joel’s alarm echoes down the hallway, and Tommy taps the tip of your nose, delighting in the pretty way it scrunches in response. “I’ll see you outside,” he says. “Happy birthday, darlin’.”

On the way to work, Joel asks about your plans for the weekend, and you tell him about how your friends are taking you to that new bar that just opened up downtown. He warns you to be careful, tells you it’s been packed full of people every time he’s driven by it, and says to call if you need anything.

You promise you will. 

For dinner, your mom makes all your favorite foods, and Sarah gifts you a handmade pony bead bracelet. She wears a matching one on her wrist with the colors inverted, and they both say 4EVER in little black letters.

When Tommy returns to his empty apartment that night, it’s with a deep sadness. He tries to drown it out. Showers off the sweat of the day and watches something mind-numbing on television. But the main character in the sitcom rerun makes a dirty joke, and he can almost hear you laughing at it beside him. 

Everything reminds him of you.

He thinks about calling one of the women he’s hooked up with on and off throughout the years, but the problem is that Tommy knows how that ends. Knows he’ll ask them to leave halfway through, and he’ll lie there, unsatisfied and painfully in love with a girl he can never have.

His longing chokes him until he’s devoid of breath, of life. Just a shell of a man without you. 

This is the wretched low he pays for those highs, Tommy knows. And he pays it without complaint because the highs are heavenly. Fucking spiritual.

He goes to sleep every night without regret. This emptiness is oppressive, but his love for you is transcendent.

His phone rings a little after one in the morning.

Your voice is slurred when you speak. “Uncle Tommy?”

Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Can hear it in your voice. “Where are you?”

There’s faint music in the background. “That new bar on Sixth Street. Can you…I’m sorry. Can you come get me?”

He’s out of bed and pulling on his jeans before you finish asking. “I’m on my way, baby. What happened?”

You say, “I’m not…I’m not sure,” and Tommy’s heart sinks.

Because whatever it is is bad. Can feel it in his fucking bones. “Are you alone? Who’s with you, sweetheart? Where are your friends?”

“No, I…I’m just really—I had too much to drink, I think. There’s just so many people and I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

The new bar is halfway across town, but Tommy makes it in six minutes. It’s at capacity, just as he’d anticipated, all the townsfolk trying to see for themselves what all the hype is about. Tommy might recognize a few faces if he gave anyone but you half a second of thought, but he doesn’t.

He makes a beeline for the women's restroom at the back of the bar and ignores the scowls he receives from the two girls touching up their makeup in the mirror. He calls your name and finds you in the very last stall, sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your legs.

Tommy breathes a little easier when he sees you. Knows that with him, you’ll be safe. He kneels at your side and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You let out the softest whimper. “Uncle Tommy,” you say, voice filled with affection. “You came.”

“Course I did. S’alright. C’mon.” He tucks his arms beneath you and pulls you to your feet. Supports your weight almost entirely as he leads you out of the crowded bar and back to his truck.

When he leans over your slumped frame to try and buckle your seatbelt, you start peppering the side of his face with sloppy kisses.

He says, “Okay, alright一would you just一sit still一”

But he doesn’t mean it. Not really. You’re a giggly mess of a girl, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and sliding your cold hands over his too-warm skin. “You’re just.” Kiss. “So.” Kiss. “Fucking cute.” Kiss.

Tommy’s smiling hard, but pushes you away as much as he hates to. “Cute, huh? Don’t know about all that, sweet girl.” He finally latches your seatbelt and quickly rounds the truck to the driver's side.

You're reaching for him the moment you can, arms outstretched and fingers grabbing for him. “Hold my hand,” you say, and of course he does. Kisses your knuckles as the engine roars to life.

Tommy says, “Let’s get you home.”

And you respond sleepily, “You’re my home.”

He tries not to read too much into it. Knows you’re just sappy and drunk. You don’t mean it. Not really. Tommy’s seen you trashed before. Has covered for you countless times and has all those drunken texts you’ve sent him memorized. You’re always like this. Loving and overly affectionate, a happy drunk to your core.

But you’ve never said anything that moved him quite this much.

Home.

What a perfect way to describe it.

But he just shakes his head. “How much have you had, kid?”

You toss your head back and laugh like it’s the silliest question he ever could’ve asked. “Too much! That’s why I called!”

Still holding tight to his hand, you roll down your window all the way. The air is cold but fresh, filling the cab of his truck with the scent of the early morning dew. You lean your head against the leather frame and close your eyes.

Tommy’s not quite sure when you fall asleep because your hand remains in his, squeezing tight even in your unconsciousness. He checks on you every couple of seconds, monitoring your breathing and the soft, slumbering noises you make.

He hates to wake you, but does it anyway when he returns to his apartment. You groan in defiance when he makes you stand, and it takes everything in him not to give in and carry you. 

“I know, baby, I know. But I need you awake for a little while longer,” he says. “Gotta get some food and water in you first, okay?”

You fight him each step of the way. Defy Tommy’s every instruction, once bubbly demeanor now replaced with agitation. But once he’s got you inside, he lets out a sigh of relief. He lays you on the couch and disappears into the kitchen for only long enough to make some toast and fill a tall glass with icy water. 

He holds your head up with one hand and tilts the cup against your mouth with the other, doing everything for you apart from the actual hydrating. You eat the toast slowly and argue between each bite, but he persists.

While you sleep, Tommy sits on the floor beside you. Half monitoring, half admiring.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a single second. Even though exhaustion weighs down his limbs, Tommy is more concerned about you than he is about himself. He spends the night stroking your hair and making you drink a little more water each time you stir in your sleep.

A few times, you wake up completely, turning over to try and find comfort. You whine and sniffle, and Tommy repeats the same tender words until you fall back asleep. “You’re alright. I’m still right here. Uncle Tommy’s got you.”

It’s late by the time you sober up, almost noon. Tommy’s back aches from sitting on the hardwood for so long, and he needs a coffee or a nap or both—but the important thing is you. Always you.

You smile when you see him, and it’s so warm. A kindness that he’s only ever received from you.

It’s a visceral reaction, his mouth pulling up at the corners. Like he just can’t help it. He sees your happiness and feels it, too. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi,” you say. And then you grab his big hand and press it against the side of your face. Tommy can feel your joy, can feel the way the muscles strain as you fight off your sleepy giggles.

He runs the pad of his thumb gently over your cheekbone. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like my head’s going to explode,” you say, voice filled with so much faux cheer that it’s comical. 

Tommy chuckles and stands to his feet, knees cracking. “Let me get you some aspirin.”

He’s not at all surprised when you follow him to the bathroom, never far for very long. While he sifts through his medicine cabinet, you sit on the edge of the tub. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always,” Tommy promises. He dumps two aspirin into his palm and hands them to you.

It takes a second before you speak. You turn the little pink tablets over and over in your hand, eyes downcast. And then you say, “I was too drunk and overwhelmed last night, but that isn’t what scared me. Noah was there.”

Tommy’s heart sinks to his feet. His jaw clenches, his knuckles turn white. 

“He kept…I don’t know. He wanted to take me home, and I was dodging him all night, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Followed me for an hour, trying to change my mind. He didn’t…didn’t do anything, but it freaked me out.”

Tommy thinks he’s never wanted to hurt another man so badly in his life. He takes a deep breath, makes sure his rage isn’t fueled by any rash decision. And then he leaves the bathroom and finds his shoes. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Wait—Tommy, please don’t.” You follow, clawing at the back of his t-shirt. “Please.”

The fear in your voice stops him. He thinks maybe you don’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, so he tries to explain. “Can’t let this one go,” he says, shaking his head. “Not—Christ. Not this. He doesn’t get to make you that uncomfortable and get away with it. Fuck no.”

“I love that job,” you reason. “And I promised Joel—!”

“He’ll be just as pissed when he finds out—”

“I don’t want him to find out. Please, don’t.”

Tommy takes your hands between his. “Do you understand how much worse it could have been?” Tommy feels sick, thinking back on all those times Noah had made jokes about roofies and Tommy had just discounted it as dark humor. “Ruined your fuckin’ birthday,” he grumbles. 

You say, “He didn't ruin it. I got to spend it with you, didn’t I? That’s all I wanted.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Tommy can’t hear such sweet words when he’s like this—hot and angry and murderous. “No.” He shakes his head. “He doesn’t get to—”

“If Joel fires me for this, I will never forgive you,” you suddenly say, voice holding a cutting edge.

Tommy doesn’t understand. “What? Sweetheart, he’s not going to be mad at you, okay? You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. Joel will understand why I have to do this. He’s going to be mad at Noah, baby, not you.”

“Who I swore not to cause issues with!” Tears well in your wide eyes, and Tommy feels something inside his chest crack wide open. He’s never seen you cry before, not like this.

He pulls you into an embrace. Holds you tight against his chest, arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hands shake, unable to get a handle on either his anger or his despair.

Against his shoulder blade, you murmur, “Promise me you won’t tell Joel.”

And Tommy does. Swears to keep this as far away from you as possible. He refuses to make matters worse for you and, Christ, the sight of you crying makes him fucking miserable. He’s never hated anything more.

Once you sniffles subside, you lift your head and say, “I smell fucking awful.”

Tommy laughs, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Go shower. I’ll find you some clothes.”

He picks out an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, sets them on the bathroom sink and decides to make you breakfast. But Tommy notices quickly that his eggs are expired, and the box of cereal on top of the fridge has gone stale. He has nothing to offer you, and he’s not sure why, but the realization leaves him feeling hollow. 

Eternal bachelor with nothing to his name. You can never be his, and Tommy knows this, but he thinks maybe if he were…better, somehow, that maybe you could be. But you’re too good for him. Too sweet, too lovely, too you.

And Tommy’s…well. He’s Tommy. And just because you look at him like he puts the stars in the sky doesn’t mean he actually does. He’s not like Joel, never has been. Has always gotten into trouble, doing things he knows he shouldn’t. Fighting or drinking or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tommy’s never had his shit together a day in his life, and you deserve someone who can take care of you. Someone less disappointing.

Someone who can make you breakfast, for fucks sake. 

He feels you before he sees you一your warmth at his back. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed when you slip your arms around his waist and lay your head in the space between his broad shoulders. 

You say, “Thank you for always keeping me safe,” and Tommy wonders how the fuck you always know exactly what to say. Like you’re in his brain, somehow—a sixth sense finely tuned precisely to him. 

Emotion bubbles up in his throat. Thick and smothering. He loves you, Tommy knows. Has never and will never love anyone like this again.

“You make me so happy.” There’s a tenderness in your words, soothing his every ache. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

Tommy turns in your embrace. Cradles your face in both hands and promises, “You’ll never have to find out. M’always gonna be here for you.”

You kiss him, and Tommy lets you, even knowing he shouldn’t. It’s a little different than the one you’d shared at dawn in your bedroom. A little more heated, filled with clear intent.

He can sense it. Feel it in your every movement. Knows just what you want, what you need, and slips his tongue into your mouth when your lips part anyway. Let's you tilt your hips against his, feeling the growing hardness there, and swallows up your moan as he slots his knee between your legs. 

His breath comes fast, and he’s aware of just how wrong it is, but you make him feel so important. Like you really, truly want him. Not for the things he does but just for him—flaws and disappointments and all.

An addict who always craves your fix.

You rock your hips against his knee and breathe a sigh of relief into his mouth. Tommy helps you, grabbing at your soft thighs and pulling you back and forth to increase the friction. 

It’s too much. Too far.

This isn’t a drunken night. It’s the morning after. Stone cold sober, inexcusable.

“We should stop.”

“I know,” you say. But neither of you takes your own advice. He only kisses you harder, soaking up all of your benevolence for as long as he can. You slide your hand between your bodies and palm his cock through his jeans.

The surety of your touch is dizzying. You want him. It’s clear as day, but he wants to hear you. “Say it.”

You don’t hesitate, reading him like an open book. Tommy suppose, for you, he is. With sugary sweet words, you admit, “I need you, Uncle Tommy.”

He’s never been good at denying you anything. “I know, baby.” In one swift movement, he lifts you off your feet, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. He kneels down and lays you back, right there on the kitchen floor, and tugs your borrowed sweatpants down your thighs.

You kick them out of the way, and he pushes your t-shirt up over your breasts. “Touch me,” you sigh.

Tommy presses his mouth to the center of your chest. Inhales deeply, taking the familiar scent of you into his lungs. He cups your breasts in his big hands, the rough pads of his thumbs grazing over the peaks of your nipples.

He kisses and licks and bites down the center of your belly, leaving shallow indentations in the shape of his teeth on each of your hips. When he presses his mouth to your pubic bone, Tommy leans back just enough to get a full look at you. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

A soft flush crawls up your cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much,” you say.

Tommy understands. Even though he’s been right here, right by your side, he hasn’t been completely honest until this very moment. Not with you, and not with himself, and not since that night in his bed.

It’s like being unclothed. Bare boned. You both know the truth of it, know that he’s your Uncle Tommy and that it’s corrupt and perverted for him to be here, kneeling between your legs. But he’s here anyway, and his mouth is watering, and he fucking loves the sounds you make when his slides his tongue through your slit.

He licks up the wetness that has gathered, groaning at the heady taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair when he circles your clit with a pointed tongue, drooling down his chin. 

With one arm wrapped tightly around your thigh, keeping you in place, Tommy uses the other to gently press his two middle fingers into you. The sight of your arched back is extraordinary; the kind of goddess-like beauty the poets write about. Your pussy clenches around his fingers when he twists them inside of you and pushes firmly against that spot that has you writhing.

“That’s so一” You inhale sharply. “Fuck, it’s so good.”

It pleases him to hear it. Loves knowing that in this, he can never fail you. Tommy sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerves, and thrusts his fingers a little faster. He thinks he’ll never grow tired of this. Of the way you taste, the way you sound, the way you call his name.

“Oh, God. Please don’t stop, please.” He wouldn’t dream of it. Your body shakes beneath him, thighs trembling in the grip of his rough palm. He can feel your walls pulse around his fingers, and Tommy knows you’re close. 

When he pulls his mouth away, he slides his thumb easily through your folds to swipe it over your clit. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your soft belly. “Your pretty pussy always get this messy?”

You shake your head and say brokenly, “No, it’s just…just for—hmm—just—oh my God—”

“Shh,” he coos, chuckling lowly. “S’okay. I know it’s just for me. I know how much she likes it when Uncle Tommy kisses her like this.” He angles his hand and pushes it deeper inside of you, cock throbbing at the way you soak his fingers. “Give it to me.”

With a stuttering breath, you let out a salacious moan and your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands tug at the curling strands of his hair, your every muscle tenses, and your spine bends off the linoleum. His name falls so fucking beautifully from your sweet mouth, and Tommy wants to taste it. 

So he does. Slides up your body and presses a kiss to your lips. You whimper into his mouth and he swallows down the sounds of your bliss like fine wine. “There you go,” he whispers tenderly. His thumb on your clit doesn’t slow until he’s sure he’s pulled every last drop out of you. “S’that feel better, sweetheart?” 

You nod and giggle softly, a wide grin stretched across your face. The moment is filled with such happiness that it warms him from the inside out. 

And even though his cock aches, Tommy thinks this alone is enough to satiate him. Enough to curb that craving, just seeing your pupils blown wide and the pretty flush on your face. Knowing you’re fulfilled and content and that he’s the one who’d brought you to that high does wonders for his confidence. 

“You’re so good at that,” you say, and it makes him laugh. 

“Can’t get enough of you,” he explains, kissing you hard. “Could eat you all fuckin’ day and still feel hungry.”

Tommy laughs when you turn your head to press your face into your shoulder, hiding the way your nervous smile grows. 

“Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, pressing his stubbled cheek to the side of your throat. He presses his lips to the curve of your jaw and grins when goosebumps form on the back of your neck. “Uncle tommy just had your pretty pussy in his mouth. Least you can do is look him in the eye when he tells you how fuckin’ good it tastes.”

He can feel the way your spine bends, pressing your body firmly against his. But you’re a giggling mess beneath him, squealing at his filthy words as if worse hasn’t come out of your mouth.

“S’alright if you ain’t got nothin’ more to say,” Tommy tells you. “Gonna have to start from the beginning ‘til you learn to use your words again.” His mouth moves down the column of your throat, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone.

He’s slow in his pursuit, listening to the way your breaths become shallower and shallower as he lowers his head to the valley between your breasts. When he makes it to that sweet spot just below your navel, he stops.

“Wait,” you say, and he does. “I want…more.”

Tommy knows. He knows, and yet still, he urges, “Tell me, baby.”

“I want you.”

He thinks suddenly about the conversation you’d had on Joel’s back porch. The last time you’d admitted that you wanted him, that he’s all you wanted. Tommy doesn’t understand it, in truth. Will never understand what the fuck you see in him or why you not only give him the time of day but why you seek him out.

But what he does understand is this.

Tommy sees your need and matches it. Exceeds it.

You slide your hand down your body, fingers slipping through the wetness between your thighs. “Want you here,” you say. “I need it, Uncle Tommy.”

He knows he shouldn’t.

But you want him. And that’s the best high of all. 

“M’comin, sweet girl,” he promises. He leans back on his knees and grabs his shirt by the back of the collar, pulling it over his head. You watch him with half-lidded eyes as he undoes the button of his jeans and pulls down his zipper, and Tommy watches you. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, shoving the denim down around his hips just enough to take his heavy cock out. 

You take him in your delicate hand and press his tip to your clit, sliding it slowly through your slick folds. Such a gentle movement, but it has his breath stuttering already, and Tommy has no fucking idea how he’s going to make this last. “Go slow,” you say. “Wanna feel every inch.”

Tommy notches himself at your entrance and does just as you ask. Pushes into you so carefully it’s almost painful. His every instinct urges him to surge forward, to split you open and bury himself inside of you. But the whimpers you make as you adjust to the stretch he creates keep his head on straight.

It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever seen, watching your sweet pussy greedily swallow up his cock. You’re so wet, dripping for him, and it makes these obscene sounds with each pressing inch that has Tommy’s heart beating hard against his sternum.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You feel so good, baby.” Once he’s fully seated inside you, his waist pressed against yours, Tommy rolls his hips, and the movement has you gasping. He can feel your walls clamp down around him, and it only spurs him on more. He does it again, a gentle pressure at the deepest part of you he can reach.

“It’s so—so big,” you whine, fingernails clawing at the back of his shoulders.

Tommy only smiles. Kisses your mouth tenderly and says, “You can take it. Hm? My perfect girl. Made just for me.”

One of his hands slide up the back of your thigh, hooking your leg around his waist, while the other comes to circle your clit. He can feel your body’s reaction, can feel the way you squeeze tight around his cock.

You nod frantically, the beginnings of tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You breathe out the word, “Yours,” and he feels his orgasm threatening already, building at the base of his spine. “I’m all yours.”

Tommy circles your clit and sets a steady pace. Fucks you slow, fucks you deep. Just how you need it, delighting in your moans. He presses his mouth softly to your temple, your cheek, and spends a little extra time with his teeth at that spot just behind your ear. “Look at me, baby,” he says, nudging his nose against yours.

When you do, your eyes are all starry in that way he loves, filled with awe. You’re the only person to ever look at him like that, with not an ounce of disappointment. It’s like you’re just happy he exists, and Tommy feels emotion build in his throat. 

“Don’t stop,” you say, and so he quickens his pace, circling your clit faster. “Don’t stop, God, I’ve—I’ve missed you so bad, Uncle Tommy.”

It’s the most dizzying thing he’s ever heard. It nearly tips him over that edge. But he needs to feel you first, needs to make sure you get everything you need. “Yeah, I know it,” he says tenderly, thrusting in deep. “Missed my baby, too.”

He thinks it’s an understatement. Feels wrong, saying he’s only missed you when he’s thought of nothing else.

Tommy knows you’re close, can feel the way you pulse around him, breathe stuttering. “That’s it,” he mutters. “You gonna cum for your Uncle Tommy? Hm?”

“Fuck, fuck, I’m—”

“S’good, baby,” he whispers against your mouth, keeping his rhythm. “So fucking good for me.”

Your moans echo off the walls as you reach that peak, thighs trembling around his hips. He can feel a rush of moisture against his cock and he tears a low sound from somehwere deep in his chest.

He doesn’t stop, chasing his own high, even when you start to squirm beneath him. His fingers stay circling your pretty clit, ratcheting the pleasure higher and higher until—

“My face,” you suddenly say. “Want you to cum on my face.”

Tommy thinks you’re going to be the death of him.

Perfect, filthy girl. 

He pulls out of you quickly, orgasm dangerously near. You prop yourself up, palms against the kitchen floor behind you, while Tommy takes his cock in his hand and squeezes. “Goddamn,” he groans. “Ask me nice.”

With the prettiest, most innocent smile, you say, “Cum on my face, Uncle Tommy. Please, please, please.” You stick out your tongue and look up at him, and that’s what does him in. The fucking love in your eyes.

Tommy cums hard, stroking his cock over top of you. Sticky, white ropes of his release coat your face, leaving splotches on your cheeks, your chin, down your chest. It’s disgusting. Easily the worst thing he’s ever done in all his life.

But when he’s finished and his cock begins to soften, you swipe the mess off your chin and push it onto your tongue and moan. Like it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. And any remorse he once had vanishes into thin air because how can he be sorry when you look so happy?

You giggle and say, “Guess I got that pearl necklace after all,” and Tommy has to look away to keep from laughing too hard.

He cleans you up with a hand towel and water from the kitchen sink, shoulders a little lighter. And once you’ve got his borrowed clothes back on, Tommy watches with reverence as you move around his kitchen as if you belong in it. 

You open the freezer and go right for the half empty carton of mint chip ice cream. It’s your first choice. Not expired eggs or stale cereal. 

Seeing it gives him a flicker of false hope. 

Because he knows he can’t be what you need forever. Knows he won’t keep you in the end, knows that whatever this is isn’t sustainable. But maybe he can just…keep you happy to the best of his ability. Just for now.

You only grab one spoon but offer him the first bite. “Mint chip is the best flavor by a fucking mile,” you say. “And anyone who says otherwise is delusional.”

“Keep that up when Sarah finds out it’s your favorite,” Tommy insists. “Cause she’ll fuckin’ tear you apart. Believe me, I know from experience.”

Laughter falls from your lips when he hands you the spoon. “Oh, I know. Was a victim of her chocolate chip cookie dough defense monologue, too.”

Tommy’s phone rings on the kitchen counter, and he swallows hard when he sees Joel’s name flash across the screen. When he answers, there’s a trace of alarm in Joel’s voice as he asks if he’s seen you. “Just a little concerned is all. Figured her phone’s dead or somethin’ but…haven’t heard back since last night. Just wanted to make sure she got somewhere safe.”

He’s never lied to Joel in all his life, and Tommy knows he would sense it the minute he tried. So he tells as much of the truth as he can. “Yeah, she uh…called me early this morning. Picked her up from that bar an’ let her crash on the couch. I’ll be bringin’ her home in a minute.”

You gather your things, and Tommy tries not to let that sliver of emptiness trickle in too fast. You’re still here, still with him, and this moment still belongs to you even at its close.

Like always, you sense his gloom before it’s even fully hit. And when he pulls into Joel’s driveway, you thread your fingers through his and say, “Stay for dinner. I miss you already.”

Tommy knows he shouldn’t. Knows that feeling lightheaded just from your words alone is a real problem for him.

But he’s never been good at telling you no.

taglist; @theretrofuturista @chuutu @gabymalikk @nana90azevedo @alidiggory92 @marisemonteiroo @ivyinthesun @hollowgracie @moyavsemoya @madadadison @polkadotsocks1993

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

[archive-of-ink]

this was adorable holy shit

making forts under covers

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

word count: ~2k

summary: You and Joel wake up to a gloomy fall morning and all you want to do is drink your morning coffee and stay in bed.

warnings/tags: post outbreak, jackson!joel, fluff, unprotected p in v, fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, so many pet names, Joel is a menace, tiny hints of dom!Joel but he's very very soft, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, this is very much a fix-it fic, nothing bad happened to him ever

rating: explicit 18+ content, MDNI!

a/n: this is the first joel that i've ever written, back in 2023, so if any of this sounds familiar, that's probably why. i have been thinking about these two lately, and because i'm not thaaat happy with my writing from two years ago, i thought i'd rewrite it. also, given that today was probably the last time that we'll ever see him on screen, it feels very fitting to say goodbye to him with this <3 (i'm not crying, you're crying)

find my full masterlist here & follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for updates! :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Your eyes blink open slowly. The light that’s filtering into the room is gloomy, accompanied with the sound of rain pattering against the window. The bedroom air is chilly where it hits your bare skin and you burrow deeper under the covers. 

Joel is still asleep, laying on his side turned towards you. His body is warm, calling to you to move closer. 

You marvel at the sight of his handsome face. Relaxed, for once, his brow unfurrowed and his breath going slowly. It’s rare that you see him like this; usually he rises before you do, waking you up with a cup of steaming coffee and a soft kiss to your forehead, a “Good morning” mumbled into your hair. 

You like sleeping over at his place, like the routines that are slowly forming between you two, a feeling of familiarity that makes you feel like you belong. That makes you feel safe. 

You take in his face for a few more moments, a small smile tugging at your lips. Then, you quietly slip out of bed. Goosebumps erupt over your skin and you suppress a shiver before tugging on the flannel that Joel discarded on the chair in the corner last night. His scent clings to the soft fabric, engulfing you with the phantom of him. 

You pad down the stairs to the kitchen and busy yourself with preparing coffee for the both of you, then wander into the living room while it's brewing. Stopping in front of his bookshelf, you run your hand over the figure of an owl carved from wood that you’ve admired several times before. You picture Joel, his large, strong hands, crafting something this delicate, adding all the intricate details, transforming a simple piece of wood to this. The thought makes you smile. 

The smell of coffee, strong in your nose when you fill two cups, brings you a sense of comfort that you revel in. When you carry the cups back to the bedroom, Joel is still asleep. You set one on his nightstand, take a sip from your own coffee and slip back under the sheets to snuggle up to Joel. You nuzzle your face into his bare chest, inhaling his scent and enjoying the warmth that is radiating from his body. Joel grumbles and wraps one arm around you, encompassing you further in his body heat and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he mutters, his voice still heavy with sleep, the words bleeding together. 

“Hi,” you smile, your eyes tracing over the mess of his hair and the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles back at you. You love seeing him like this, all soft and gentle, not shielded by the rough exterior that he builds up around himself. Stretching up in his arms, you reach his mouth with your lips. The kiss is languid, unhurried, moving slowly but deepening as his grip around your waist tightens. His fingers hit a ticklish spot and you giggle into his mouth, pecking his lips once more before pulling back. 

“I brought you coffee for once.”

Joel’s eyebrows rise, the corners of his lips pulling up when his eyes find the cup on the nightstand. He sits up against the headboard, pulling you with him until your back is leaning against his chest. His arm is slung around your shoulder while he picks up the coffee with his free hand and lets you do the same. 

“Thank you, darling,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. 

You both sip on your coffees for a few minutes, enjoying the peacefulness of the quiet morning. His fingers draw lazy circles on your arm and shoulder, his eyes falling down to the flannel that's halfway slipped off. 

“Nice shirt,” his low voice floats into your ear and you giggle.

��Thanks, I stole it.” 

He chuckles and tugs you closer as he finishes off his coffee, placing both of your cups on the nightstand. Carefully, he cups your face, tilting your chin up to kiss your mouth. The feeling of his big roughened palm against your cheek, combined with the gentle pressure of his touch and the warmth of it sinking into your skin has butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Joel deepens the kiss, his tongue dipping out and licking over your bottom lip. You whimper softly and open your mouth for him, meeting his tongue with your own. His mustache scratches against your upper lip and heat starts pooling inside of you. 

“C’mere, darling,” his voice rumbles straight from his mouth into yours and he pulls you on top of him. 

Straddling his thighs, you melt into him as his arms wrap around you, pressing yourself against him. His scent engulfs you as he's running his hands down your sides, leaving a trail of heat over your body. Joel slides the flannel completely off of you and dips his hands under the tank top that you slept in. His touch on your bare skin makes you writhe in his lap, desperate for more, desperate to be closer. Your lips connect again and you mewl into his mouth, your hips grinding down on him and his hold tightens around your waist, pressing you onto his growing hardness.

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmurs as his mouth moves down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the delicate skin there, causing you to shudder and sink your nails into his bare shoulders. He separates his lips from your skin to push the tank top up and off your body, revealing your breasts and your already pebbled nipples. He groans softly and leans forward to suck on your sensitive peaks, your back arching and pushing yourself closer to him.

“Joel, please—” you whine, “I need—”

He leans back, his hands on your sides again, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts with a featherlight touch.

“Yeah? What do you need, baby?”

You rock your hips against him, feeling his bulge press against your panties and another whimper falls from your lips.

“Need you, Joel, please—”

It's almost embarrassing, how quickly he gets you to this point, how little effort it takes. but you can't bring yourself to care, not when he's this close, with his hands all over your body and his achingly handsome face right in front of you.

He smiles and pulls you into him again, murmuring, “Need you, too,” before he seals his lips back over yours. Joel kisses you until you're breathless and squirming on top of him before he flips you over, his face hovering above yours. His hand travels down to your panties and dips beneath the fabric, finding you already slick and swollen with need. He circles your clit slowly, making you gasp and buck your hips up against his hand.

“You're so pretty like this. Just ready and waiting for me, aren't you?”

His hand trails down further, one finger dipping into your entrance.

“Yes, need you so badly, please Joel—”

Smirking, he adds a second finger and slowly pumps them into you. Your hips meet his rhythm instantly.

“I know, baby. Don't you worry, I'll take care of you. Being so good for me.”

The praise makes you keen, the fact that this usually so stoically quiet man can't stop running his mouth when you're together like this. All while he's reducing you to an incoherent mess that can barely get any words out.

You eagerly slip your hand into his underwear, wrapping your fingers around him, making him hiss and thrust his fingers particularly hard into you. You grab at his briefs, pulling them down his hips, wanting him as close as possible. He chuckles at your impatience but indulges you, his dark eyes betraying his own impatience and desperation for you.

Joel grabs his hard length and slides it through your folds, his precum mixing with your wetness. He nudges your clit teasingly with the head of his cock, causing you to moan and arch your hips up into his touch. Leaning down to kiss you again, his cock stretching your entrance wide, he whispers, “You want it, sweetheart?”, to which you respond with an eager nod. He tuts, cupping your face in his large hand.

“Words, baby. Tell me. Tell me what you want, how much you need it.”

You whine, your cheeks heating at the thought of putting your desire into words.

“I— I need it so much, Joel. Please?”

You bite your lip and he groans softly, murmuring, “So fucking good,” against your mouth as he pushes into you in one hard thrust, filling you up.

You cry out as your walls clench around him, trying to adjust to the sudden intrusion, to the way he always feels so big inside of you. The exquisite bliss that only Joel can bring you is taking over your body. Your hands grab at his shoulders, your nails digging into the skin and moans of his name falling from your lips as he pounds into you with long, deep movements. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking hard and biting down on your skin, before soothing the sting with his tongue.

His arms wrap around you and he holds you close while he keeps thrusting into you, whispering into your ear.

“Fuck, you're such a dream... So wet. Feels good, yeah? This what you wanted?”

You nod frantically, one of your hands scratching down his back while the other grabs at the curls on his neck as you're barely able to form words.

“S—so good Joel, fuck, 's perfect...”

He hums in smug agreement, his thrusts becoming even deeper and his fingers sliding between your bodies to toy with your clit. The heat inside your body threatens to spill over at his touch and you moan loudly, your earlier inhibitions about voicing your needs wiped from your mind.

“Yes! Just there, please— please don’t stop, oh God...”

He's drawing precise circles on your clit, keeping his gaze on your face as your eyes glaze over, your moans growing even louder.

“That's it. So tight around me, fuck... Show me how pretty you come for me, go on. I know you can.”

Your jaw falls slack and your whole body trembles, your walls clenching rhythmically around him and soaking him in your wetness as your orgasm washes over you. He growls at the feeling of you pulsing around his cock and pounds into you a few more times before he pulls out and spills himself over your stomach.

He stills, his head forward, both of you panting hard and not moving for a few moments. He leans forward to kiss your cheek, smiling at your blissed out expression, before he gets up from the bed and pads to the bathroom. He returns with a washcloth and cleans you up, gently stroking your sides with his fingertips and making you hum happily. Your whole body feels warm, sated, like you’re floating on a cloud. 

When Joel's finished, he collapses back beside you on the bed, a deep grunt in his throat. You turn around, wrapping the both of you up in his blanket and pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. 

“Good morning indeed,” you grin and he huffs a laugh, pulling you tighter into his embrace.

“You got anything planned today?” he asks after a moment of peaceful silence and you shake your head.

“Nope, I'm all yours.”

“Good,” he smiles, letting your head rest on his chest and pulling the blanket up to your chin, so that you're entirely shielded from the slight chill in the air. Gloomy light filters into the room and you can still hear the rain splattering against the window. Joel kisses your forehead softly.

“Let's just stay in bed, then.”

thank you for reading ♥️ reblogs and comments are love!

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request: Hi lovely person ! Could I request an angst to fluff piece with Joel miller? So I was thinking.. we always see Dbf! Joel smut, but I would really like something angsty with that trope. Maybe something along the lines of the reader and Joel being together in secret because you know being scared of judgment because of the age gap and stuff and not the father finding out. But then there's this woman, more to Joel's age coming into the picture, making reader insecure thinking she's not enough and too young and naive but in the end all turns out good? I'm a sucker for angst loll" word count: 1,2k warnings: cursing!

you were supposed to be past this by now. the self-doubt. the little pinpricks of anxiety you never used to feel before joel. the kind that bloom right in your chest; it hadn’t always been this bad. at the start, it had been electric—hiding, sneaking, the way his hands used to shake the first time he touched you like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. what you were letting him do.

but that was when it was new. now it’s just uncertain.

you came home early. you tell yourself you’re doing it to surprise him, but deep down, it’s selfish. you missed him, wanted to see him and hear that voice all rough and possessive. you were gonna kiss his neck and make him groan like he always does when you wrap your arms around his middle from behind.

but, once you get there, the front door’s already open. maybe he forgot to close it all the way? no way not joel.

within that small moment of you questioning why the door was open, you hear his sweet laugh and a woman’s voice.

you freeze in the entryway, sneakers still on, keys tight in your hand. you see them before they see you.

he was in the kitchen, leaning on the island like he lives here. it’s an image you always love—him comfortable in your house. like it’s his too. but next to him is her. she’s got one elbow on the counter, her whole body tilted toward him, her legs crossed while she’s laughing at something he just said, flipping her shiny brown hair off her shoulder with practiced ease.

your throat goes dry seeing him grin widely at her..he was yours for fucks sake.

your feet move before your brain decides where to go. you make a little too much noise, keys clattering on the hallway table, and the door clicks harder behind you than it should. you know you should smile. a joke, maybe? just say something.

joel turns around fast at the sound.

“hey, baby,” he says, but it’s careful, like he’s trying to read your mood before you’ve even said a word. he straightens up, steps away from the island.

the woman turns to you too. she’s prettier up close, older too. just right..like if he wasn’t with you, she’d be the natural fit. not your frayed little heart that’s too young to have any right wanting something this serious.

“hi,” you say, and it’s clipped and fake.

you try not to look at him. because you know if you do, it’ll all show. how suddenly, irrationally fucking insane your brain’s gotten.

joel must see it anyway, because his eyes narrow, not angry. just—watching, somewhat worried. the older woman pushes off the counter, smoothly. “i should head out,” she says, glancing at joel. “thanks for the help. you’re a lifesaver.”

joel nods, kind of tight-lipped now. “no problem. let me know if it doesn’t start again.” she smiles at you on the way past. you can’t bring yourself to return it. your face feels frozen in place.

joel waits until the door clicks behind her before he speaks.

“you good?” you’re still standing by the entryway, arms crossed like you were cold.

“who was that?” you ask, and it comes out cooler than you meant.

he runs a hand through his hair, sighs, steps toward you, rushing out the words. “her name’s elena. neighbor’s cousin. she’s in town for a bit; had some car trouble.”

you blink at his simple explanation. “oh.”

he studies you. “okay darlin', what’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

you almost laugh—but it’s bitter and sharp in your throat.

you walk past him toward the living room, not sure what you’re doing. you feel stupid, childish, pathetic. and still—you can’t stop. it’s gnawing at you. inside your chest, inside your bones.

you don’t sit down, just turn to face him.

“nothing. just…she’s pretty and normal. and probably not some big secret.”

he flinches. “what the hell does that mean?”

you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “you know what it means. i’m the one you sneak around with. the one you don’t talk about. and then i walk in and you’re laughing with her like..like you’re not ashamed to be seen with her.”

his jaw works, tightens, then softens again.

“ashamed?” he echoes, incredulous. “is that what you think this is?”

you don’t answer. you just keep going because now that you’ve started it, it’s like you can’t stop. every thought you’ve shoved down in the last few months starts rising like bile in your throat.

“sometimes i just wonder how long this’ll last, you know? how long before you realize i’m too much or not enough. that this is all some dumb phase and you’re just waiting for a reason to bail. like maybe you wake up one day and look at me and wonder what the fuck you’re doing wasting time with some girl barely out of college who still calls her dad to ask how to fix her tires.”

joel walks to you, leans over you in an endearing manner. “hey..hey..look at me.”

you don’t want to. your eyes are wet and you feel like an idiot. but he cups your face in both hands, rough thumbs brushing your cheeks, and you have no choice.

he leans down, rests his forehead against yours.

“i love you,” he says. “i’m not goin’ anywhere. and don’t you ever—ever—talk about yourself like that again.”

your lip trembles as his grip tightens.

“you think i don’t wish i could take you everywhere? shout it from the rooftops that you’re mine? i do, baby. every fuckin’ day. i just…” he sighs, jaw clenching again. “i worry, alright? i know how people see me. old enough to know better. and you? you’re this bright, gotdamn beautiful thing, and i don’t wanna drag you down into all my mess.”

you shake your head, fast, angry now. “you don’t get to decide that for me, joel.”

he smiles fondly, even with the tension thick between you.

“i know. you keep remindin’ me. but this? this ain’t a fling. you’re not some secret i’m ashamed of. you’re the best thing in my life, i swear.”

you swallow. “then why does it feel like you’re always waiting for it to fall apart?”

he pulls you in—both arms around you, holding you so tight it aches. his lips press to your hair.

“’cause i don’t deserve you. but i’m selfish enough to keep you anyway.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face in his chest.

his voice rumbles in your ear. “you’re not too young. you’re not too much. you’re not anything but exactly what i want. every second. every day.”

you’re quiet a long time. his hand strokes your back comforting you.

“you smiled at her,” you whisper. “like it was easy to do.”

he leans back, just enough to look at you. “and you smile at bartenders when they spell your name right on your smoothies. doesn’t mean you wanna fuck ‘em.”

you snort against your will.

he grins. “see? there she is.”

you wrap your arms around his waist and hold on tight.

“i hate how much i love you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“nah,” he mutters, kissing your temple. “you love how much you love me.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t let go. and never will.

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @lowrisemiller

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this was hot?? like really hot??

hi! i just found your account and i’m obsessed with your writing

can you do a fic or one shot of joel being obsessed w eating you out?😩

Omg thank you, anon! I absolutely loved this idea and decided to write something filthy for you, enjoy xx

Where His Mouth Belongs

dbf!joel x fem!reader

Summary: Joel loves to eat you out. That's it. Word Count: 1.2K Warnings: obsession, oral fixation, age gap (reader is early 20s / Joel is late 40s to 50s), morally gray!joel, ellie’s friend!reader, secret relationship, dubcon-adjacent (reader consents but situation is messy), power imbalance, dirty talk, Joel treating pussy like a lifeline, unprotected oral (obviously), unhealthy emotional dynamics,, dark smut with emotional tension.

You were just crashing for the night.

Ellie said it was fine. She offered you the couch after patrol ran late, and Joel didn’t argue. Just gave you one of those gruff, unreadable nods and handed you a blanket.

You’d known Joel for a while now. Through Ellie. Through shared dinners and the occasional awkward conversation. He was always polite, if distant. Watched you more than he spoke to you. But nothing weird. Nothing wrong.

Until that one night.

You woke up in the dark, heart kicking for a second, unsure what had stirred you. The house was quiet. The only sound was the soft creak of floorboards. Then weight at the edge of the couch. Heavy. Solid.

And hands.

Your eyes blinked open, confused, groggy—until you felt it: warm breath ghosting over your thighs. The blanket had been pulled up. Your sleep shorts tugged down.

You gasped, tried to sit up—but his hand was already on your stomach, firm, grounding you.

“Shhh. Don’t,” Joel whispered. Low. Raspy. “Just—lemme have this. Been good too long.”

His mouth was on you before you could form a protest. One long, slow drag of his tongue that made your hips buck and your thoughts shatter. You should’ve stopped him. Said something. Pushed him off.

But you didn’t.

Because your body betrayed you.

Because his tongue moved like he knew you. Like he’d imagined this a thousand times, memorized how you’d taste, sound, twitch. And fuck—he had.

He’d thought about it for months.

Every time you laughed at Ellie’s jokes. Every time you bent over to tie your boots. Every time he caught the scent of your shampoo on a borrowed hoodie. Joel knew he was too old, too broken, too everything—but none of it mattered when he closed his eyes and pictured himself between your legs.

The first taste unhinged him. You were soft and soaked and perfect. He growled into you, a low, guttural sound like he was finally getting what he was owed. It wasn’t just eating you out—it was claiming you. His mouth worked in slow circles, tongue slipping deep, lips wrapped around your clit like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And you came for him. Loud. Shaking. Your hand in his hair before you even knew what you were doing.

And when you finally whispered, “Joel—what the fuck—” he didn’t apologize.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked up at you, lips shiny, eyes blown black with obsession, and said:

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

That was weeks ago.

You never told Ellie. Never confronted Joel. But you came back.

One excuse, then another. More sleepovers. More moments alone. And now, he’s unhinged.

Joel doesn’t care where you are—bed, couch, kitchen counter—he finds you. Kneels for you like it’s worship. Some days he barely lets you speak. Just shoves his face between your thighs and moans like he’s starved.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he pants into you, beard slick, voice wrecked. “Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you taste, how you shake on my tongue. You were made for this. For me.”

He doesn’t even fuck you most nights.

Just mouths at you until you’re crying. Until your legs won’t stop shaking and you beg him to stop—and he doesn’t. Says he needs it. That he’d die without it.

And maybe you believe him.

Because somewhere along the line, you stopped knowing where the limits were. When it turned from a one-time mistake into something more. Something twisted. Something daily.

You're not sure when the line stopped existing.

Maybe it was never there in the first place.

At first, it was just those nights—quiet, secret, drenched in sweat and guilt. Joel on his knees, tongue desperate, greedy—like your cunt was the only thing tethering him to the earth. He didn’t touch you anywhere else. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t hold you after.

Just left you ruined, wet, shaking.

And always, always came back for more.

He got used to getting what he wanted and leaving you ruined and aching.

But now it’s bleeding into everything.

He starts watching you in front of Ellie.

When you laugh too hard at one of her jokes, Joel’s jaw twitches. When you wear shorts to dinner, his eyes linger too long. He starts asking you weird questions—who you’re seeing, what you wear to bed, whether you’ve ever thought about moving in somewhere closer.

And then it happens.

You go on patrol with Ellie. A dumb run. Nothing dangerous. You’re riding back in the dark, joking, when Ellie smirks and says:

“Dude, Joel is obsessed with you.”

You freeze.

She doesn’t notice.

“He always asks when you’re coming over. Offered to fix your watch for free. I caught him staring at your ass once, swear to God.”

You laugh it off—awkward, cold—but your stomach is ice. Because you know. He’s not even hiding it anymore.

And the thought of your best friend knowing what you're up to with him turns your gut sour.

Yet, that night, you show up at his door.

He doesn’t say a word. Just yanks you inside, locks it behind you, and backs you against the wall.

“You tell her?” he growls.

“No.” Ellie must've teased him too if he was already this pent up.

“You gonna?”

You stare up at him. His chest is heaving. Eyes wild. And he’s hard—already—just from the thought of you being close.

“I should,” you whisper. “This is fucked.”

Joel’s hand grabs your jaw, not rough but not gentle either. He leans down, breath hot against your mouth, and says:

“You think I give a single fuck?”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s the first time he’s ever kissed you.

It’s not sweet.

It’s ownership.

And you let him.

Ten minutes later, you’re on the floor. Shirt bunched under your back, legs hanging over his shoulder. Joel’s got your thighs pushed open like he’s dissecting you—like he’s studying the way you fall apart under his tongue.

He eats like a starving man. Big, messy licks. Grunting against your cunt while he jerks himself with his free hand. He’s obsessed. Animal. Moaning like he’s getting off just from how wet you are.

“You don’t get it,” he pants between sucks. “Nothin’ ever felt this good. Not once in my goddamn life.”

You cum once. Then again.

Then he pins your thighs to the floor and keeps going.

You’re sobbing. Begging. Twisting your fingers in his hair to pull him off—but he won’t budge.

“You’re mine,” he says into you, almost slurring it. “Mine now. Don’t care what she thinks. Don’t care if you say stop—I know what you fuckin’ need.”

Your body’s a wreck. Dripping. Oversensitive. You cum a third time, legs locking around his head, crying out something that’s not even words.

And Joel smiles.

Because that’s all he’s ever wanted.

To make you break.

To taste it.

To know that you’ll always come back to him.

[archive-of-ink]

PEDRO PASCAL Cannes on Saturday promoting his new film Eddington, directed by Ari Aster.

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unfriendly reminder that character ai bots are still generative ai. quit ruining the earth to talk to a fucking mannequin with your blorbos face taped on it and go find an rp group like a real fan

[archive-of-ink]

this was so cute omg

I know || Joel Miller x f! reader (+18)

Summary: He isn't good at communication but he tries his best to show you he cares

Warnings: mentions of viagra (HE'S AN OLD MAAAAN) age gap (30's-60's) , established relationship, p-in-v, cunnilingus, one shot.

"Joel"

"Mhm"

"Joel"

"What?" He grumbles husky murmur below his breath as he crane his neck, directing his good ear to you.

"About the ring"

"What about it?"

Silence

"Why did you gave it to me?"

Silence. A sigh fall from his lips and he let his head drop back on his pillow. One hand drives back to your hip and pats it over the duvet.

"Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow"

"I want to know now. You don't take a ring out of nowhere, put it in my finger without saying a word and expect me to act all normal." your voice comes out a bit harsh, but you're not actually mad, you're confused.

Does he want to settle down? Is this not gonna be a touch and go anymore? Or maybe he found it in a patrol, he liked it and brought it for you but means no hard feelings? Your mind had become a mess the last four hours and your eyelids haven't gave a way for sleep to ease your mind.

"If you start arguing with me I swear I'll go home.." He murmur rubbing his rough pads against his closed eyes, grunting something below his breath.

"Don't threaten with running away when is something y'do all the freakin' time" you say with a bit of anger this time.

And then he yank the covers open, swinging his legs over the edge and taking his jeans from the floor. "That's it." He murmur and slide his legs into the denims, pulling them up as he stands.

"Don't be an asshole, get back here" you scramble out of bed as he walks around to get his jacket and walk to the door that leads to the hallway. Your hand curl around his elbow. "Stop. I'm not trying to argue." The cold metal of the ring he gave you presses against the inner skin of his elbow, making his eyes look down for a moment and settle back on your eyes. "I jus' want an explanation"

He doesn't answer for a moment. You come to make peace with the idea that maybe he won't explain a thing to you so you let your hand drop on your side. Your hands move to massage your temples like you usually do when he's being this hard to reach. It makes your head throb.

"What's wrong?" He asks lowly and reaches taking your wrist gently "Migraines again?"

"You're giving me a headache again, Joel. You're too difficult sometimes and over nothing"

"Over nothing? Does the ring mean nothing t'ya?"

Your eyes snap up, your mouth agape. The audacity.

"That's what I'm fucking talkin' about. You expect me to read between lines and it's fucking confusing, Joel. I'm not a damn psychic. You be clear or we will argue the whole damn night" Your eyebrows pinch, tiredness taking over your spine. Arguing with Joel can be a whole piece of exercise.

"What does this ring mean for you?" You ask, finally.

He looks like he's about to grab his stuff and leave, or maybe look at you up and down like he does sometimes, with a small hint of disgust by your attitude. But neither of that happens.

He takes your hand, caress the back of your hand as his fingertips trail down your skin until they reach the gold band. His eyes look up slowly to your waiting eyes.

"I'm afraid if I say it, everything will disappear." He says with a vulnerability that clamp your heart and squeezes it tight. "I jus' want you to understand it, like you've been understanding everythin' so far. The gazes, the gestures that led me to your bed that night." His hand slides up your arm to gently cradle the back of your head, sliding his thick fingers through your hair and tilting your head a bit up.

"Please, don't make me say it. I know you understand what this means" He whispers, almost inaudible, almost like a scared boy. Almost like a man whose heart you can reach with your bare hands.

There's still debris of fear in the back of his head. Even after all the reassurance you could have gave him, he still thinks you someday will 'snap out of the haze' and walk out the door.

Is not your job anymore to make him understand. Some day he'll get it. Maybe not soon, but he will wrap his mind around it.

Or maybe this is the time.

"Okay." And you settle. For that. 'for less' your mom would say if she were there. But it's Joel, and you made a work through patience to understand what many tag as a 'brooding and unreachable man'.

"You do understand what this means?"

"I do. I do and I want to be your w-"

His hand cover your mouth and looks at you almost scared. As if you saying that out loud would shatter the reality to tiny little pieces that would slip through his fingers. That you would slip through his fingers.

Your hand curl around his wrist gently and move it off you. The smile that draws on your lips is almost a melted kind of expression, and his shoulder seem to ease by that. He leans and smooches your lips, kisses you after what felt an eternity. After being put through weeks and weeks of an endless loop.

Dinner, VHS, bed, breakfast. Dinner, VHS, bed, breakfast. No kisses or sex in the middle. You sometimes hate how intimacy for him is 'not that necessary'.

You can understand. He's tired. He's way older. He's almost sixty.

But you're not tired, and you're not that old. You're thirty.

"Calm down" He murmur between your lips. The way you had open your mouth to let him in made his breath set a different rhythm you can't begin to name. Is not normal in him. Like a bit of choppiness cut by low grunts.

As if something is bothering him.

You.

"I said calm down" He cradle your face and pulls back a bit. "We're not doing this."

"And why is that?"

"I don't have my pills with me"

Silence.

"It'll take an eternity, you will get mad and it will be fuckin' embarrassing" He walks around you rubbing his face. The dry sound of his palms brushing his face fill the silence until he sit back down on the bed, the mattress springs complain under his weight.

"I never got mad by you not getting hard" The comment made him grimace lightly at your crudeness.

"But I do."

"Don't you think that if I'm going to be your wife, there's things I will go through with you, like it or not"

He sighs, closing his eyes as if he heard a bomb in his head.

"Don't say it out loud"

Your legs bring you to him and you crouch between his manspread thighs. Your hands settle on his knees, eyes on his tired face.

"I won't go anywhere"

Joel looks at your expression and wants to believe it. His mind wrestle with the scenarios of you crossing that door, of you dying, of you disappearing and taking everything of him with you. What's left of him.

Your hands slide to his crotch, the zipper still open and the belt waiting to be buckled since he didn't left after all. Hands about to cup his member through the fabric are stopped by his own large hands. The heat of them doesn't go unnoticed.

"You won't rub me like a magic lamp until I finally get hard" Joel stands up, making you get back on your feet again. His hands slide down to your waist and gently but firmly pick you up, leaving you over the mattress on your back.

When you think he's about to leave you there, he set his hands on your knees and spread your thighs open. He never speaks neither lets you know his next movement, maybe that's the thrill that always run through you whenever this rare moment finally happens.

There's even a small imperceptible curl on his mouth, a smirk. Joel's fingers push your shirt up, bunching it up below your armpits and discovering your breasts. He leans down, kneading them gently while his mouth attaches to one. He even closes his eyes as if he's getting mouthfuls of his favorite food.

His tongue swirls around your nipple. Gives open mouthed kisses and sucks the skin letting it go with hollow pops. The long stream that escapes from your cunt makes you blush embarrassed. Is so weird how he can do a few little things and already have you sopping like a damn twenty something.

"You're n-not getting anything... Ah.. Let me.. Let me blow you.." You murmur the words that your fried brain let you form. Joel's tongue flicks over one nipple and moves to the other, biting gently and groaning.

"I'm gettin' a lot, don't worry" He murmurs between sucks. His mouth goes down your torso, kisses your navel and bites your abdomen. Your hands drive to his shoulders but stop mid way. By some strange reason, you never let yourself touch him too much while having sex. Scared that maybe one day you'll make one wrong move and he will walk out the door.

So you place your hands below your hips.

Joel's hands curl around the waistband of your sweatpants and takes them off without any kind of grace. The panties, he leaves them for a moment more certainly to have his fun. You try to have a sight of his jeans, if they're straining or bulging, but you see nothing in the dark, less by his gut.

"Are you hard alre- Oh, fu-fuck" The sudden jolt of your body takes you by surprise and your teeth sink on your lower lip, sending you quiet. His mouth, open against the fabric that cover the mess you are right now. His hands kneading your ass and bringing you to him.

He draws figures over the fabric, laps at the throbbing bundle over it, sucks it one, two, three times and even presses his nose, smelling you. Your stomach does that weird jump and he notices it, also notices the embarrassment on your face.

"You gon' hurt your lip, mama... Let those sounds reach me" Joel murmurs against your pelvis while holding your gaze. His mouth bites your inner thigh and that gives way for your mouth to fall open, letting out sounds you save for him. Not the high pitched kind of messy porn star stuff but the raw ones, from the deep of your throat ones.

His eyes watch his fingers rub you through the panties, spread the slickness that seeps through, smooch the nub, and murmur in between grumbles that you can't decipher but he surely is saying the most lewd stuff he only says in those stolen moments.

"Say that to me.." You say half voiced, your sanity hanging from a thread. "Tell me what your murmuring..."

He only set his eyes on you. And the mess he had made of you. His hand then takes the panties and tear them off your skin, throwing them somewhere. You see they fall over his jacket over the vanity but your eyes are yanked back to his grayish hair and he buries his tongue in the seam of your pussy, gathering the wetness in his unapologetic tongue.

Then your hands have mind of their own because his hair calls you to hold from him. Your fingers try not to be too desperate, they bury between his grayish tousled curls and take a handful. Your hips roll into his mouth, his beard feels funny, but you don't linger on that feeling but the one that wins over.

And the slurping begins.

It surprises you. The sound you just made, that breathy kind of melted groan as your back arch off the bed while his lips slurp your clit and swirls it in his mouth. Like a bare nerve end being played with.

"Fuck... It's working..." Joel murmurs muffled, almost a growl against your pussy. You can feel the movement of his jaw as he devours you, his hands holding your thighs over his shoulders.

For a moment, you ask yourself what is working. Your touch? Your taste? Your moans getting him hard? That's another thought he doesn't let you linger on, not when he pulls back suddenly, sitting on his calves. He takes off his plaid and the shirt beneath while holding your gaze. Then he kicks off his jeans and you see it.

He's leaking.

"Oh Jes-"

His mouth captures your moving lips and his hand grab a fistful of your hair, tilting you back to ravage your mouth properly. Joel's tongue is everywhere. Teeth, cheeks, palate, your own tongue.

You hear a snap of elastic and there he is, heavy over your stomach, beads of precum nestling on your navel. Your mouth slides off his a bit to look between you and him. A beautiful sight to have him palpitating over you. His other hand is holding him of crushing you, the one on your hair slides out of your locks and wrap his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly.

"You make me feel so weird..." He whispers against your neck.

Weird how? Ashamed? Horny? Exposed? Nervous?

"You make me feel amazing..." You say. He pull his head back a few inches and smooches your lips.

"Fuck, my arms are hurting..." He murmurs looking down between you two.

"Let me ride you" His eyes snap up to you. "C'mon, lay down."

Joel follows, for the first time, he doesn't argue like the stubborn prick he sometimes is. He lays on his back and you find your way to him easily, removing your shirt in the way.

"You're too fucking beautiful..." He says letting his hands caress your hips up to your waist as you sit over his shaft, sliding it between your pussy lips back and forth. Your whole body twitches a little, the veins like a textured kind of toy that send small shoots of dopamine through you.

"You say too as if it was a bad thing" You hold from his chest, hands trembling over his broad pecs.

He rumble a laugh that doesn't show his teeth. Only shakes his head.

"I say too meaning that I'm not that worthy of this much beau-"

"You shut up or I will leave you like this and I will sleep on the couch"

His mouth falls shut. Then he says.

"Ride me, mama. Let's stop wasting time."

You smile, genuinely smile. Because it sounds so natural rolling down his tongue, and so arousing with that hint of his drawl.

You let him guide himself, and the stretching is majestic. Your breath halt for the time it takes him to bottom you out, then, you both exhale and lock eyes. His brows are lightly pinched when you look at him, as if he was pleading for you to do something to take him out of that strained feeling of needing more.

Your hand wipes the sweat off Joel's forehead and your hips begin to move slowly. Up and down, back and forth. His head falls back on the mattress and he closes his eyes while letting out a long and deep "Oh, fuuuuck"

His hands find yours over his chest and interlock them together, giving you leverage for you to move firmly. The slickness between his thighs and your ass makes that lewd soapy sound that you both find so hot, like your bodies doing music you could get off to. His body below yours is also a symphony. Sweaty, vulnerable. The slickness between you and him dampening his dark happy trail.

"Oh my god... That's it... Look at you, conquering the damn world..." Joel caress your hands with his thumbs while his hoody eyes swallow you whole. You feel hot on the face, and your lower stomach do small flips. The girl in you kick her feet, the grown woman on the other hand feels seen.

"Your world?"

"Yes, darlin'... My world, my whole world" He nods sitting up and his hands splay over your shoulder blades, pulling you closer to kiss you. His kiss, this time, is slow. He takes his time to savor each of your lips. To slide his tongue over them and slurp them gently.

And then, the bite.

Both of your breaths quicken, again. That small urgency in the back of your throat coming out with every thrust. The 'Mh.. Mh.. Mh..' and Joel's 'Oh.. Mmhg...'.

"Can I come inside?" He asks against your mouth. You try hard not to let the horniness win over and you shake your head. "It's fine." He nods and his hands curl around your hips, guiding you way more quickly.

The grunts increase, your breaths are messier. The cold in the bottom of your spine send that funny shiver that pools in your belly and constrict your muscles. He groans again, he feels you become liquid of pleasure around him and he withdraws before he makes a mess inside you.

"Oh... Nngh.. Fuck" Joel looks at his cock spitting over your stomach and his. His eyes look up at you and find you smiling softly, breathy. His hands move to your nape and kiss you again, bringing you down, laying over his broad body.

"My husband" You murmur against his lips and he shoot you a glare.

"Don't sa-"

"My husband" You repeat with a smile.

"Stop sa-"

"My husband. My husband. Mine, mine, mine" Your lips smooch his face all over, his hands just lay on the arch of your back and you hear him sigh, defeated.

"My wife." Joel finally says.

I'm always grateful with those who like and repost 💜💜💜💜💜🙂‍↔️

[archive-of-ink]

life is so much better when you have a work of fiction to obsess over

[archive-of-ink]

oh how i want to bite this man

Bite Me

You learn two things on a particularly boring patrol shift - Joel loves to bite and you love to be bitten (5.3k)

Tags - 18+, smut, bite kink, lots and lots of biting, spitting, joel eats you out from behind because he's just in that kind of mood, brief ass eating, anything one can do with their mouth joel does to you, unprotected piv, creampie, not? gentle? sex, little dubcon bc joel is a maniac, little bit of blood, one (1) dad joke, skin tone is not described but bites and bruises in reader's skin are mentioned. Fic help - @noxturnalpascal for editing and @endlessthxxghts and @beefrobeefcal for encouraging this!! i love you all! A/N - thanks for your patience! I’m working on bigger things that are out of my comfort zone so enjoy this snack sized fic until dinner’s ready. I wrote this with my heart but most importantly my pussy, I hope that translates.

You and Joel are on patrol together at your usual post, an old two story house about an hour’s ride outside of Jackson. It’s early July, which usually means there’s more activity to keep an eye on as the summer warms; raiders, infected, strangers and the like. But not lately - there haven’t been any major threats, nothing to make your patrol shifts daunting like they usually are. It’s just been quiet and peaceful.

Boring.

So. Fucking Boring.

You’ve picked through everything in this house several times over and never found much. There’s no food or tools or anything useful, but there’s not even anything particularly interesting either. No paintings on the walls, no photo albums of old families to flip through as you like to do. There’s no books in the house either, apart from a few damaged by water and with torn pages, rendering them unreadable. 

Joel used to get on your case about this, gruffly telling you to ‘Quit fuckin’ around’ and ‘Should be payin’ attention to your surroundings, not snoopin’ through shit that ain’t there’. But eventually, he got bored too. The surroundings never change, not much to really pay attention to, even for Joel. 

There was one time Joel didn’t yell at you as you wandered off, and when you came back upstairs you found him sitting on a couch in the room with a big window, hunched over a coffee table, picking up and laying down playing cards. Solitaire. 

You leaned over the back of the couch and tapped him on the shoulder, “Aren’t we supposed to be keeping watch?” you asked, teasing.

Joel turned over his shoulder and glanced at you, then turned back to his cards and continued playing. “Smartass,” he mumbled. “You gonna rat on me?”

 “No. As long as you know you’re a hypocrite,”  you replied before rounding the side of the old couch and sitting next to him. You watched him as he flipped through the deck a couple times over, then he sighed in defeat. “Did you lose?”

“Yup,” he answered, gathering the cards and shuffling them a couple of times. “You’re losin’ next, though. You’re gonna play with me.”

“I don’t know any card games.”

Joel looked at you incredulously, “Bullshit,”  he said. A deck of cards was one of the most valuable things one could own post-apocalypse. Endless games for solo play and small groups of people alike. Not much else to do to pass the time, but then again, people stay busy in Jackson.

“Oh wait - yeah, I do know one. I know Go Fish. Do you wanna play that one?”

“Pass,” he answered. “I’d rather play nothin’ at all if that’s our only game. You know Crazy 8’s, don’t you? Gin Rummy?” 

“Nope.”

“I’m gonna rectify that, then. C’mere.”

Joel taught you three games that night. The first being War, because it’s easy and luck based - something for you to dip your toes into. The next was Crazy 8’s and then finally, Gin Rummy. 

You weren’t lying when you told Joel you didn’t know any card games, but only because you could never learn. You didn’t like the pressure of learning in groups, didn’t like the vague instructions being shouted at you. Euchre was particularly awful to learn, you were holding back tears trying to get through that game. But Joel taught you differently, he was gentle and patient and calm with an open hand of cards. He’d play fairly and wouldn’t take advantage of your inexperience. His patience paid off - after some time, he had a consistent opponent for card games and your patrols together became a lot less boring. Now Joel never has to play another lonely game of solitaire again. You play with him just about every shift now, when it’s quiet and there’s nothing going on. Your favorite games to play are Crazy 8’s and War, not much strategy involved in those but Joel enjoys them anyway. 

After taking your usual spots together on the couch, Joel reaches into a pocket of his backpack, the one on the inside that fits his deck of cards like a glove. “Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. 

“What’s the matter?”

“No cards,” he murmurs, feeling around through his items and coming up empty. “Must’ve left ‘em at Tommy’s.” Tommy and Maria recently hosted a game night and invited a couple of people, Joel being one of them. And then Joel brought you along to be his partner in group games. Playing with him one on one made you feel special, but you liked that he took you along as his date of-sorts. He shot you secret little winks from across the table before clearing his throat and furrowing his eyebrows as he examined his hand. 

“Oh,” you say. “So I guess we’re actually patrolling tonight, then.”

“‘Bout time,” Joel replies with a soft chuckle. “Maybe somethin’ of interest will happen, finally.”

“Oh god, don’t say that. I really hope not.”

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, “Me neither.”

It’s nice to watch the sunset through the big window, very relaxing and beautiful. As the light disappears, the color in the room begins to fade and looks like television in black and white. Joel looks like one of those old-timey movie stars, he has the face for it. He stares out the window and twists the end of his mustache and you think that could play the criminally handsome villain. All dark and mysterious, with his sharp nose and inky eyes. 

“Whatcha’ lookin’ at?”

Oops. Busted. “Nothing,” you lie. You don’t catch Joel’s smirk as you excuse yourself to go look through the house for the millionth time. Maybe there’s something to do around here that you’ve not seen before. Or a book, you’ll read anything - an instruction manual to a vacuum cleaner or a Cuisinart food processor even. Anything. 

But there’s nothing new, nothing’s changed. Your fingerprints on cabinets and drawers from months and months before still sit in the dust. This place is fair and squarely empty. You sigh deeply before you return to Joel upstairs. “I’m bored,” you whine in his direction.

“Hi bored, I’m Joel.”

You could make waves with the power of your eye roll. “Are you sure you don’t have your cards?”

Joel rifles through his belongings once more and sighs. “Nope. Definitely at Tommy’s. God bless it.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “We’ll live.”

You don’t know that you will live, though. Death by boredom feels more likely. The minutes pass, but they feel like hours in the deafening silence. Joel makes no effort at conversation, which is very true to himself. He’s not much of a talker anyway, but leave it to Joel to sit in silence when even light smalltalk would make a world of difference in making this a less boring night. 

Some minutes pass and you’re starting to get fidgety. You crack the knuckles in your hand, one by one by one which garners a look from Joel. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he murmurs. 

You pick at your nails next, trying to even out some jagged and split edges. Joel looks at you again, glaring as you pick and pick. He fucking hates that sound. His chemistry teacher in high school used to pick at her fingernails during tests and it always made this awful, high pitched click, which was especially grating in the silence. The noise drives him crazy, like nails on a chalkboard. “I’d appreciate it if you’d quit pickin’ at your nails, hon, that noise makes my teeth hurt.”

“What do you mean, ‘makes your teeth hurt’?” you ask, still picking at your nails. You’ve almost got that one hangnail.

“Gives me the heebie jeebies, I don’t know–” Click. You got the nail. Joel shivers while gritting his teeth and groaning. “Knock it off,” he hisses.  

“Okay, sorry,” you say. “I’m done.”

“Thank you.”

Peace and quiet once more. Joel’s bored too, but he doesn’t mind the insipidity of the evening as much as you do. He likes having the time to reflect, to slow down and collect his thoughts. He’s thinking about his day off tomorrow, what he’s gonna do. Probably harvest some vegetables from his garden, do a load of laundry and–

Click.

“What’d I just ask?”

You freeze where you’re at, the nail of one of your thumbs picking at the other, you’re caught red handed. “Shit. Sorry, Joel.” 

“Uh-huh. Sit on your hands,” he commands. 

“What?”

“You heard me. Sit on ‘em.” You roll your eyes as you wedge both of your hands under your thighs just like Joel asked and he nods in approval. “There. F’you can sit still for twenty minutes, you can have your hand privileges back.”

“You can’t take away my hand privileges, Joel. They’re hands. They’re attached to me.”

“I can, indeed. If ya do it again, you’re losin’ a finger.”

A baseless threat, but you know Joel means business so you do your best to sit still. Surely he doesn’t actually expect you to not move at all. You’re allowed to adjust, move yourself into a more comfortable position so you do, and then you feel the corner of your nail get stuck on a thread of your jeans. You pull your hand from under yourself to examine it, feel the irregularity. You’re trying to ignore it but you just can’t. 

Pick pick pick.

Joel turns to your direction and in a swift movement, grabs both of your hands in his and squeezes, shaking you gently. “Enough,” he fumes, frustration in his voice. He loosens his grip slightly and you pull your hands away before you really do lose a finger, you fear that his threat did in fact hold water. “Hey,” Joel says, his voice softened. “That’s somethin’ we could do.”

“What’s something we can do?”

“Slap jack,” he answers plainly, nodding his head like he’s waiting for you to tell him you understand. You don’t. 

“What’s slap jack?” 

“You don’t know slap jack?” he asks. You shake your head, no. “You don’t know much, do you?”

“Hey,” you complain. Rude. 

“Relax, I’m teasin’,” he says, “You know you’re a smartass. Now give me your hands.” Cautiously, you extend your hands towards Joel and he takes them gently in his own, “Flatten ‘em,” he says, “Like this.” maneuvering your hands into place so that your palms are facing the ground. He places his hands underneath yours, his palms facing the ceiling. “Ready?”

“I guess?”

Bam. Joel flips his hands on top of yours and slaps the back of your hands. “Joel!” you shriek. “That hurt.” 

“Well don’t let me hit you, then,” he smirks. “That’s the game. You gotta move your hands before I getcha.”

You giggle. And Joel really didn’t hit you hard, you were just startled. The prospect of the game excites you. “Again,” you say. 

You lay your hands out flat, Joel holds his underneath yours. He uses his fingers to tease your palms, tapping and tracing along your skin. Smack. Back in the same position once more, with your hands on top of Joel’s. He doesn’t tease this time, just smacks you again. A third time you lay your palms on his, and he teases again - fingers creeping on your skin, tickling and thrilling you. With every minor movement of Joel’s hands, you pull your hands back. “You’re flinchin’ an awful lot,” he teases. “S’usually against the rules, but I’m bein’ nice.”

“You’re gonna hit me!” 

Joel shakes his head. “I’m not gonna hit you, sweetheart. Why would I do that?” Smack. You gasp and rub the backs of your hands, smiling at Joel with an open mouth. He beat you again. “You’re terrible at this,” he says.

“It’s my turn,” you decide, laying your hands out with your palms facing up. Joel places his hands on top of yours just like how the game goes. You flip your hands to slap his and hit nothing but air. He’s too quick. Settling back into place, you try again and Joel pulls away too quickly for you to slap him. It’s the same thing over and over again until you decide you're done playing. Offense and defense, you never win, only lose.

“You’re a sore loser, you know that? Card games too, you do not like to lose, do you?”

“I don’t - you’re just–”

“Just what?”

You’re not answering that. You know what the answer is, that he’s too good at these games and you’re not but you don’t need to tell him that, inflate his ego even more. “I wanna pick a game.”

“Be my guest. One that you can win, right?” You couldn’t slap Joel’s hands but you’re sure you could slap that stupid shit-eating grin off right off of his face right now. You just take Joel’s left hand and offer him yours. “What game’s this?”

You’re retaliating. He didn’t hit you hard at any point, but you’re gonna get him back. There’s not really a name for this game, it’s just something you used to  play when you were a teenager. It’s on par with those other stupid teenager games, truth or dare and spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven.

“I don’t know,” you answer. “It’s the biting game.”

“Biting?” Joel looks at you incredulously.

“Yeah, biting. I bite your hand, you bite mine. See who can take it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very nice game,” Joel says.

“Well it’s fitting then, because you’re not a very nice man.”

Joel smirks,  “No, ‘spose I’m not.”

“So, do you wanna play?”

You don’t even let him answer before bringing his hand to your mouth,  fitting your teeth over the fleshy part of it - right in between his thumb and forefinger, where his unique bullseye tattoo sits. Joel follows suit, placing his teeth over your hand and letting them rest there. You feel the heat from his mouth, the softness of his lips. His teeth are blunt, threatening to sink into you and tickling your skin as he waits for the game to begin. “Ready?” you ask, your voice muffled by his hand. Joel nods, his big brown eyes sparkling in the low light. “Okay.” 

 You bite Joel, holding his gaze. His skin is salty and warm. Joel bites with you and you’re both rather tentative at first, biting the other gently. You take the initiative to bite him harder, “Mm,” he mumbles, surprised by the pain yet won’t go further.  

“That's all you got?”

Joel raises his eyebrows at your challenge. He squeezes his eyes shut as he bites down, hard. In turn, you squeal and pull back, and Joel releases your hand in an instant. You shake your hand and rub the mark he left, laughing. “Motherfucker,” you gasp.

Joel turns on a lantern on the coffee table and takes your hand back to inspect it. “You okay?” he asks, tracing the marks in your skin. “You don’t have much of a pain tolerance.”

“It’s a sensitive spot,” you reply. 

He makes an amused sort of expression at that, still rubbing your hand as he nods in response. The closeness in proximity, the peculiar intimacy of the game you and Joel have just played - it feels like something in the atmosphere changes, charged, the way the air feels before a storm. 

Joel breaks the silence, “Bet you’re sensitive like that everywhere,” he whispers. “Should grow some thicker skin.”

“Joel–”

He takes your hand again, this time skipping that fleshy spot on your palm and instead bringing your wrist to his mouth. His mustache is prickly on your skin. Joel bites your wrist, and you can’t help but let out a little gasp, even though he’s gentle just like before. He increases pressure until you’re yelping again, but this time he doesn’t let you go. He watches you squirm, catching your lip in your own teeth as you writhe in pain. You exhale in relief when he loosens his bite, then shiver as he drags his teeth along your forearm and bites you there next, then moves up to your bicep. Each bite is harder than the last, including when he pulls the collar of your top away and bites your neck. The skin is tender and thin and it hurts, really fucking hurts as you whine in pain. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” you gasp. 

Joel soothes the bite mark with his tongue which startles you perhaps more than his teeth did. “You can take it,” he whispers against your skin before searching for another part of your neck to bite. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts it to the side, allowing himself access to you. You feel him open his mouth and bite down, but this time it feels good. Joel notices your reaction, feeling the vibration of your moan with his mouth against your neck. “You liked that,” he says, it’s not a question. 

You’re at a loss for words. Breathing heavily, you pant, “Fu - Joel…”

“It’s okay. You can admit it.” Joel likes it too - all that flesh between his teeth. The marks of his teeth he leaves in your skin, the bruising that surrounds them - it’s his artwork, unable to be replicated. Nobody else has his teeth and nobody else has your skin. He’s not broken skin yet but he imagines the faint taste of your blood on his tongue, tangy and metallic mixed with the sweetness of your skin. Fuck, he could eat you whole. Make you hurt, oh, he’ll make you fucking hurt. He softly bites your earlobe next, “Feels good to hurt sometimes,” he purrs in your ear. The heat of his breath sends a shiver down your spine. “So I’m gonna keep bitin’, then. And you’re not gonna quit on me like last time. Are you?”

Despite the pain, the way it sort of intimidates you, you find yourself complying, nodding. You feel his mustache before his lips, his lips before his teeth, and finally his tongue, hot and wet. It’s unlike anything you’ve experienced - salacious and erotic, frightening and tormenting, all at the same time.  You feel Joel everywhere, in places he’s not even bitten or kissed or touched yet. God, you hope he touches you there.  

Joel pushes your shirt up your body, his fingers brushing over you as he reaches behind you to unclip your bra. He pushes the straps off your shoulders, you watch as the undergarment falls into your lap. Joel taps your jaw twice, “Tilt your head back for me,” he instructs. He nips at your neck and collarbones before gently pushing you down on the couch, pulling your pants and underwear down in one movement before situating himself between your legs. You’re laid out for him, bare. His canvas to paint as he pleases. With darkened eyes, Joel pores over your body - he’ll hurt you here, pleasure you there, tease you somewhere else - the horizon is endless. 

He begins with kisses down the column of your throat, cascading down your sternum. He moves over to one of your breasts and you know it’s coming, but it startles you anyway. He bites hard on such a sensitive part of you, “Shhh,” he coos, quieting you. With a strong, masculine hand on your other breast, he finds your nipple and flicks it, drags his thumb over it until it pebbles beneath his touch, effectively soothing your cries of pain and turning them into noises of pleasure. 

“Joel,” you whine. “Fuck, Joel.”

“You’re doin’ good,” he tells you. “Doin’ just fine.”

You gasp when you feel his teeth around your hardened nipple, threatening to clamp down. He bites you gently, oh so gently, just enough to secure the bud in place for him to roll between his teeth. He brings his tongue into play then, swiping it over your nipple and circling it. After repeating the action with your other breast, his head travels lower, lower. Biting at whatever he pleases, kissing when he feels like it. He bites your hips - a sharp pain, and then your thighs - dull. 

You can’t help yourself as your fingers find your sex, already so wet. You circle your clit a couple of times before Joel pulls your hand away, biting and sucking your arousal off your fingers. He replaces your fingers with his own, pushing two of his thick fingers inside you as he bites and nips at your thighs, sucking at your skin as well. His teeth, his fingers, all where you need Joel the very most - it all feels so good, so intense, you don’t quite know where pain ends and pleasure begins as he works his fingers inside you.You don’t know if he’ll bite you hard or soft, a small bite or a big mouthful of your flesh and you can only imagine the marks he’s made on your skin. He alternates between biting, sucking, kissing, licking you, using his tongue and lips and teeth to drive you wild, have you writhing and melting under him.

 Joel pulls his fingers from your core and brings them to your mouth, pushing them past your lips. “Suck,” he says, and you do, tasting the tanginess of your own arousal on your tongue. Joel takes your hips in his strong hands and flips you over on your stomach, then sits back on his knees. You hear the quiet rustling of his clothes, that discernable sound of his zipper being undone before his clothes are tossed on the ground. He bends one of your legs and leans over you to kiss and nip at your ankle, then the other, biting up your calves. He traces his tongue over the backs of your knees before he bites you gingerly, the action has you gasping and moaning. Joel chuckles against your skin. “Knew you were sensitive,” he murmurs. He kisses his way up your thighs, kisses your ass cheeks and bites where they meet your thigh. “Up, lift up, sweetheart,” he speaks softly, urging you to lift your hips. He finds his pile of clothes and bunches them beneath your hips, propping you up for him. 

Joel parts your lips with his thumbs, spreading your sick folds for easier access. You feel his hot breath on your heat and you’re nervous, anticipating that blunt feeling of his teeth on your most sensitive place, but it never comes. Instead, his nose - aquiline and perfect, tracing up your clit, your flesh until he finds your hole, his nose buried in your most private place. He spreads your cheeks and spits between them, the saliva drips down, down. He traces you with his tongue, circling clockwise, then counter. “Fuck,” you whimper, pushing your hips back into his face as your nerves tingle. He kisses the sensitive area before traveling lower, his lips finally meeting you where you need them most. “Oh god,” you whine. 

Joel dips his tongue into you, humming in pleasure as he does - he fucking loves it, the heat of your cunt and your sweet arousal soaking his face, and he knows that hours later he’ll still be able to smell you. He pumps his tongue in and out, delving into you. He drags the muscle through your folds, all wet and sticky with your slick before he finds your clit to lick and suck at that sensitive part of you. 

He eats you voraciously like he loves it, passionate and determined as he savors you. The way Joel’s lips wrap around your clit, his nose in the space he just fucked, on his knees - this is what he’s meant for, what you’re meant for too. It’s obsession. He’s all fingertips bruising into your skin under his crushing hold, his tongue a relentless assault on your sex. You feel his salt and peppery scruff scratching your inner thighs and rubbing you raw. In the coming days you'll still feel him, skin burning as the hot water of your shower runs down your legs. You love it now, and you’ll love it then. 

You’re moaning, babbling Joel’s name, begging him but you don’t know what for - For him to make you come and then to stop, because it’s too much. Begging him for more and less, the push and pull of it all. Joel smirks against your cunt, proud of the delirium he’s brought you to using just his mouth. His grip is still ironclad despite all of your grinding and wriggling, trying to right yourself like an insect on its back. He listens intently to your body and all the different noises you’re making, broken moans and those sticky, obscene sounds of your cunt being sucked and licked and lapped. When your thighs begin to twitch, your breaths become sharp and unsteady with your impending release, he doubles down on his efforts until you’re coming all over him, soaking him wet. 

You’re a mess of hazy thoughts, barely aware as he’s pulling your hips back, pushing your chest down. With one hand, he rubs soothing circles on your lower back as he holds the other in front of his face and spits into it before wrapping his palm around his cock, throbbing and angry. He pumps himself a couple of times, the leaking tip rubbing against your ass. When he’s ready, he reaches for your neck with the hand previously rubbing your backside and forces you up. He bites your ear first, then fits the head of his cock into your entrance. 

Joel offers no warning before burying himself into you inch by inch, splitting you in two. You whine as he fills you up, stretches and hurts you so nicely, he bites you harder the deeper he pushes into you. He doesn’t take time to let you get used to the ache, he knows you’ve come to love the pain he gives to you, because that’s what he’s made you do. Joel pulls out of you all the way and pushes himself right back in, harder and faster than before. “Know it hurts,” he says with your earlobe between his teeth, “But you gotta take all of it.”

Joel fucks you quickly at first, having already found the right pace and the right angle to make you squirm in pleasure. He wraps his arm around your torso and nudges your head to the side so he can bite into your neck again. You’re flush against his torso. He fucks you steadily - in, out, in, out. You keen into the sensation, losing yourself in it all - he’s hot and clammy behind you, his tuft of unruly pubic hair rubbing against you. You reach behind yourself and touch the side of Joel’s face where his graying curls are muttered against his skin, dampened with his sweat. Joel turns his head and bites into the fleshy part of your thumb. He’s a mess of curses and praises, telling you what a good girl you are between heavy breaths and sharp inhales, whispering fuck and Christ, sweetheart. 

Without a warning, he pulls out of you and falls back on the couch, grabs you roughly by your arm and sits you on top of him. You’re face to face with him now, staring into his dark, hungry eyes as he pulls you down on his cock, fucking you apart. He eyes you up and down, and then his lips curl into a crooked smile. “Look at you,” he whispers, tilting your head down to look at your body. “You’re all marked up, sweetheart. What a goddamn mess. Tried to tell ya this wasn’t a nice game.” 

He’s right. You look down to see your breasts covered in bites and dark bruises, the marks dotting your torso in the dim light. Some are swollen and angry, others not quite so. You see a bruise on your shoulder and think about what you can’t see, the bites on your neck and collarbones. “Let’s count ‘em together,” he purrs in a low tone. He fucks up into you, “One,” he grunts, “Two, three. Four. Jesus, sweetheart, you’re fuckin’ covered. But I ain’t done with you yet.”

Joel pulls you close to him, your chest against his as he thrusts into you. He brings his teeth to that place where your shoulder meets your neck and bites hard, harder than he has before. It hurts, truly fucking hurts and you cry out loudly, a choked sob escaping your throat. He’s broken skin. “Quit squirmin’, be still f’me. Breathe through it,” he instructs, finally tasting your coppery blood on his tongue. With each thrust he moans against you and his teeth sink deeper and deeper, but it feels worse than it is. You won’t scar, but he’ll be lucky if you do. “You’re doin’ so good. Know it’s a lot, I know. I know…”

He licks over the damage and brings his thumb to your clit as he does, pushing you back to examine your face. He wipes away the tears he expected you’d cry as he paints tight, steady circles into your clit, knowing it won’t be hard to bring you to the edge. He reaches up, pulls you close to his face and kisses you gently, tangling his tongue with your own in a way that makes you dizzy. “I gotcha,” he says, “Come for me.” 

You’re right fucking there, aching for release as he rounds your clit with his thumb and rolls his hips into yours. Your breaths are shallow, your moans are broken and you’re squirming - so fucking close. Joel seems to know just what you need: he sinks his teeth into your plump, swollen bottom lip as he works you with those tight, steadied circles, all the while he fucks you deeply. And then you’re there, and god is it intense, the pleasure and pain. You taste your own blood as you come, breaking into pieces in Joel’s arms as powerful waves pleasure wash over you, rough and unrelenting like the sea during a storm.

Joel comes undone with you, loudly, with grunts and groans and other noises of pleasure. With wild thrusts, he paints your insides with his hot come before he slows to a still. You climb off of him and his come spills out of you and onto the old upholstery of the couch. Joel’s breathing heavily next to you, and when he catches his breath he looks at you with relaxed eyes, eyes that go wide when he looks at what he’s done to you. “Fuck,” he mumbles, pulling his shirt from under you and wetting it with water from his canteen. You catch your reflection in the mirror and see some of the bruises and bites he’s left on you, then you look down at the rest of your body. This time, with the light in front of you, you can see it all. Marks on your wrists, your arms, your chest and your hips and your thighs. You smile. He’s added so much color to you, his very own temporary tattoos. “I don’t know what came over me,” he says. He dabs the wet shirt over your bloodied lips and then your neck, his big dark eyes full of worry as he holds one of your hands. He rests it loosely on top of yours, sort of like that game from before. He doesn’t notice you begin to wriggle yours from beneath his. “Gotta get back and clean you up, bandage you and–”

SMACK. You hit his hand, hard. Joel looks flummoxed. 

“Got you.”

When he realizes the game you’re playing, he rolls his eyes and smiles. “Nice one, smartass.” Joel lifts the shirt and examines the bite on your neck a little closer. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you too bad?”

You shake your head no. “I got you,” you repeat, smirking.

“Yeah, whatever. You got me.”

If you enjoyed, please reblog <3 i would appreciate an ask too, just tell me something good <3

[archive-of-ink]

Yes, and?

[archive-of-ink]

Goodnight Kiss

You can't sleep - all you want is a goodnight kiss.

under the cut: heavy daddy kink, oral sex, very very gentle dubcon, rough fuck, forced orgasm kind of, pet names.

🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑

A quick glance at the clock has Joel groaning, barely moving his head to crack an eye at you hovering in his goddamn doorway. You stand there like a ghost, silent, shifting from one foot to another in your long shirt - long enough to barely keep you modest, but not long enough that he can’t idly glance at the shape of your thighs underneath, silhouetted so softly by the dim light coming in from the open doorway. 

“What?” His voice is sandy with sleep, even deeper than it normally is. 

“Um,” you say, and then there’s a pause. More shifting - he can hear your damn fingers on the doorknob, a chipped, chintzy thing that’s barely hanging on these days. Joel sighs impatiently and lifts up on one elbow, regarding you with a grumpy, squinted glare.

“C’mon, kid. It’s fuckin’ two in the morning. The hell you need?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“So lay down longer.”

“Well I’m… having nightmares.”

Joel fully twists his body and rises up on both elbows, the thin sheet falling away from his body a little more as he lifts up. As the darkness of the room adjusts, you can make out the way it outlines his body underneath, how more of his chest is visible, smooth and broad.

“How n’the fuck you gettin’ nightmares when you can’t get to sleep?” Joel wipes a hand over his face and groans again; the longer you stand there and stall, the more sleep falls away from him. “Why don’t you just fuckin’ tell me what you want?”

You sigh and brace yourself a little, wringing your fingers together. 

“I thought… or - well, can I maybe… sleep in your bed tonight?”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Joel is sitting all the way up now, hunching over himself to grumble into his hands as he rubs his face with both of them, trying to control how fucking irritated he is, how tired. “Too old to be pulling this shit, seriously.”

“Please?” You ask softly, venturing a few steps closer. You test your luck with each step, like approaching a wild animal. “…Daddy?”

Joel straightens up and he points a stern finger at you. 

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do… what?”

“Oh, you know goddamn well what.” Joel sighs and shifts in bed, and in the barest hint of light, you can make out the shape of his pinched brow, the curve of his lips. The gorgeous line of his nose. “Go back t’fuckin’ bed.”

“But -”

The sound that comes out of Joel freezes you in place. It’s not a growl - it’s more a sound borne of pure, impatient anger, a sound that sets your nerves on edge. 

“But nothing,” he grits out. “Go th’fuck back to bed. Now.”

“Please —” Oh, god, you sound so fucking pathetic. “Please?” 

“You’re fuckin’ trouble,” he says plainly, glaring at you through all that dark. He eyes you a long moment, makes you nervous - there you are, shifting in your fuckin’ little shirt. Nothing but a skimpy pair of panties underneath - oh, yeah. He knows. He fucking knows. There’s a moment there where he makes you wait, makes you sweat like that, foot to foot, eyebrows all drawn up. Worried. Fuck… oh, fuck, you’re not good for him. He groans and rolls over onto his side, ignoring your pleading stare, your delicious legs. “C’mere.”

You go to him like a ghost, gliding on all that quiet dark, slipping into his bed so quietly, so gently. He can almost pretend he didn’t ask you, that your warm body isn’t sidling up against his. 

“Joel…”

You sigh into his shoulder blade from behind, so gentle, so fucking sweet. He closes his eyes against it. God, he doesn’t need this. He doesn’t want this, can’t handle it… but. But—

Can’t he? When’s the last time he… enjoyed something as a man? As a human being, and what with you sneaking in, crawling against him like that - don’t you know what you’re doing? You have to, right?

He rolls to his back, turning to look at you through the dark. You look so pretty in the shadows, so soft and sweet, your gentle smile. Just an edge of coy to it - sneaky little thing. He reaches over and runs the calloused pad of his thumb over your cheek, over your lips. You give his thumb a little kiss, tease it with a nip of your teeth. 

“What’re you doin’ to me, kid?”

Emboldened by his apparent defeat, you slide up over him, over his strong, broad frame, hands planted on his shoulders as you slide up to straddle his pelvis. He’s barely dressed - just his skivvies. He’s so thick inside them, the shape of his cock nestled underneath you. Only two thin scraps of material keeping you from each other. He hardens against your warm, soft cunt, helped along by the sweet little way you rock your hips to hump against it, just a little, just a bit of friction to stoke the growing tingle between your thighs. 

But it’s not his cock you want - not right now. You lean down and press a chaste kiss against his lips and he hums. God, he’s warm. You crawl up over his ribs, smiling as you lift up onto your knees and snap the band of your panties. 

“Help me. Need ‘em off, Daddy.”

Joel groans, complying with your request as he hooks his fingers into the material and helps you to pull them down, dick throbbing with each breathy little giggle you do as it becomes a clumsy dance of working them off, one leg and then the other, and it takes zero thought on his part before he presses the warm fabric up to his nose and inhales your scent. God, so private and sweet and you. 

One moment he’s smelling your panties, and the next you’re hovering over his face, shirt tossed to the floor. He stares up at you, all of you, a plush, beautiful oasis of flesh for the taking. The look on his face makes you throb a little, your heartbeat felt in every secret place inside of you. You reach down between your thighs and give yourself a gentle stroke, barely rubbing your clit. 

“Need a kiss. Wanna kiss me right… here…?”

Joel’s big, strong hands are on your body in an instant, pulling you down against his mouth. You steady yourself with one hand against the wall as he drags his tongue over your folds, your clit, kissing your pussy with his sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The sounds of him eating you make you blush in all that dark, glowing. 

Joel’s lips and tongue settle into a rhythm, a familiar one that has you rocking your hips, thighs shaking. God, he feels good. A quick glance behind treats you to Joel’s straining erection, his big, thick cock twitching in his briefs. He rocks his hips, too, seeking any kind of stimulation. Poor neglected Daddy. He laps and sucks gently at you and savors it, eats your pussy like it’s the most delicious thing that’s ever graced his talented tongue. His nose rests at the apex of your slit, against the soft mound of flesh, there, and his eyes are closed. You enjoy looking down at him, enjoy when he skates his hands over your ass cheeks and squeezes them. 

Soon enough, the molten coil of tension and ache and pressure build inside of you. It’s hard to hold out like this - he’s so gorgeous. So talented with your body. 

“Daddy - m’gunna cum,” you moan, and oh, the sound of your soft, whiny voice has him thrust his hips up into the air, has him moaning against you. It almost fucking hurts. 

Joel says nothing, does nothing to change how he eats you - he focuses, fingers digging into your flesh as your hips rock a little more urgently, til you’re fucking his mouth and making those shaky gasps he loves so much. Coming apart for him, his baby girl, all undone and fuck-stupid and reduced to the hot wave of pleasure about to crash through your body. 

The delicious pull takes your breath away. The fall over the edge, and the debilitating crash afterward, and there it is - your voice comes back in the loud, keening wails and moans, the way Joel pulls you impossibly closer. He could drown in your cunt, could stay there forever, lapping at your clit until you cry and struggle. God, he could. Hold you down and kiss your pretty little pussy until you kick and scream and beg. He can feel himself making a wet spot in his underwear, grinding against it while you cum on his tongue. Fuck.

He guides you through those waves, the tidal push and pull, until all those hard spasms slow to these sweet little aftershocks and you start relaxing your body. He presses kiss after kiss against you until you’re pushing off of him, protesting in your way. 

“S-stop, Daddy. Too much.” You sigh and crawl back down his body, feeling so warm and tired and fuzzy inside. 

“Where you goin’, sugar?” 

Joel’s fast. He’s got his cock freed and jutting proudly up into the air and before you can think, he’s fastening those hands on your hips again, bruising your soft skin there. He yanks you over his pelvis and you can make out his smirk in the dark. 

“Can’t leave your Daddy high and dry, can ya? I know you got more manners’n that.”

“But - but I’m too –”

“Mm-mmh, sweetheart. No excuses. Ain’t polite to leave a man wantin’.”

He lines his cock up to your slippery, tight cunt and pushes himself inside, fucking it into you quick, hard, needing to be sheathed in all that velvety, hot muscle and clench. You cry out and struggle a little, fingernails making little moons in his skin as you dig into his chest. 

“Too much, too much,” you babble, trying to pull up a little. Joel hums and keeps you flush against him, rocking up into you to nudge his cockhead up against your cervix. He knows exactly how it must hurt you, how he’s filling you up so much you’re tearing up and hyperventilating. Panting above him like that, quivering. Sweet little thing. God, you really don’t know what you do to him, do you, honey?

“C’n take it, darlin’. Yeah, you can take it. Take all'a your Daddy, now –” Joel grunts and moves his hips, moves you on top of them, and soon he’s fucking you open on his cock. Guiding and using you like a fuckdoll. His pretty girl, his cute little cumdump. The slap of your bodies is obscene. “Suuuch a good girl, fuuuuck. You didn’t really think you were gunna get yours and leave, did ya?”

“N-no,” you whine. Lie.

“You’re goddamn right. You want Daddy to fill you up? Want all of me, babygirl?”

“Yes, Daddy.” You moan and grind against the soft thatch of graying pubic hair at the base of his cock, using the pain, the deep, warm pressure to hump your clit down while he forces you to ride him. It hurts. It’s sore, it’s so much inside of you, but all that sharpness feels like electricity. You’re going to cum again. “Mm - wait, wait–”

Joel’s already two steps ahead of you. He uses those big hands of his to rock you against him, following your motions, thrusting into you slowly, deeply, rolling his hips to maximize the pleasure. Your second orgasm hits you and takes your moans away, whiting out behind the eyes as it washes over you. Joel gasps and pulls one of your hands to his face, kissing your palm as he moans and sinks his cock inside as deep as you can take it, pulsing, shooting his cum right up against the tender curve of your cervix. He’s slow as he drains his balls into you, his lips wet and warm as he kisses your fingertips, your wrist, moaning your name, cursing under his shuddering breaths. 

Climbing off of him leaves you with an aching sort of sadness - you want to keep him inside like that forever. Just exist in a secret pocket of your own, the two of you existing outside of time, just roiling sparks of heat and climax.

It’s easy to cuddle up to him. He even pulls your panties back up your legs for you, smiling when you yawn. 

“Bet you’re tired now, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, scooting to lay your head on his broad chest. He smells so good as he wraps an arm around you and kisses the crown of your head. “Real tired.”

Joel hums and pulls the worn, cozy blanket over the both of you, tickling his fingertips along the ball of your shoulder. 

“Goodnight, sweet thing.”

[archive-of-ink]

this was beautiful?? omg??

Everytime

QZ!Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel needs to use you sometimes. Sometimes.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected piv, creampie, anal, and a bad understanding of anal prep, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), spanking, choking, fucking everything, loving sex is a warning in this too, mean joel but reader can handle it, he doesnt mean it guys hes a loverboy :(

i'm suffering horrifically from writers block so this is my way of writing like 4 smut oneshots in one lol. end of the semester is kicking my ass

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

He only brings you here when it gets bad.

Not bad like blood-in-the-streets bad, not even when deals go sideways or when FEDRA gets too close. Not because it’s safe, though it is. No—Joel brings you here when he’s bad. When he’s seconds from cracking. When the city feels too tight, and he needs something real to hold on to. Something that reminds him he’s still alive.

And more and more lately, that something has been you.

Inside the city, he keeps his voice low and his hands to himself. Tess gives him side-eyes when you’re around, and everyone else knows better than to ask what you are to each other, knows better than to give you any trouble. But out here? Past the fences, past the dead brush and the broken steps?

Out here, he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t want you.

The safehouse is a crumbling old farmhouse outside the QZ perimeter, long abandoned and half-swallowed by the forest. It looks like nothing. That’s the point.

Clean sheets. Wood stove. Whiskey. A real bed. You and Joel.

He slams the door shut behind you with one hand and has the other already on your waistband, fingers digging into the worn fabric of your jeans.

“Clothes. Off. Now.”

You don’t ask, you never do. You know this version of him. Wild-eyed and breath hot against your neck as he crowds you backwards, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

“You gonna say hello first?” you tease, already peeling off your jacket. The fabric rasps against your skin as you shrug it off, the chill of the room prickling your arms.

He grabs your chin, tilts your face up, calloused fingers pressing just shy of bruising. His eyes burn into yours, dark and hungry, pupils swallowing the hazel.

“Keep talkin’ and I’ll give you something to say.”

You grin, even as your heart thuds heavy in your chest, pulse jumping under his grip. “Promise?”

And just like that—he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and desperation, lips rough from the cold, tongue sliding against yours with a possessive growl. His hands are everywhere—yanking your shirt over your head, the drag of fabric sending sparks across your skin, then palming your waist, your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. The scrape of his stubble burns your chin, the bite of it sharp and sweet.

The back of your knees hit the bed, and you drop with a gasp, legs falling open, welcoming him in. The mattress groans beneath you, the sheets cool against your now feverish skin.

“Fuck.” Joel mutters to himself as he slides a hand down, pressing between your thighs, fingers slicking through your arousal with a satisfied hum. “Already so fuckin’ wet.”

His touch is electric, rough pads of his fingers circling your clit just once, just enough to make your hips jerk.

“You miss me, Miller?” you breathe, grinding into his palm, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

He doesn’t answer. Just presses his forehead to yours, jaw clenched, breath ragged. His fingers slide lower, dipping inside you with a slow, deliberate curl that punches a moan from your throat.

“You gonna keep talkin’,” he murmurs, voice thick, “or you gonna let me shut you up?”

“I like it when you try,” you whisper, biting back another moan as his thumb finds your clit again, pressing just hard enough to make your vision blur.

He slips two fingers in, thick and unrelenting, the stretch burning and spreading fire through your limbs. Your head falls back, a broken sound ripping from your throat as he crooks them just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

“Jesus—”

“Say my name.”

“Joel.”

He growls low in his throat and kisses you hard, swallowing your gasp and working you open with brutal efficiency. His free hand fists in your hair, tugging just enough to sting, his mouth moving to your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point.

When you finally reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, his breath hitches. The leather slides free with a sharp hiss, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room. You yank his jeans down, freeing him, his cock heavy and hot in your hand.

He groans against your skin, hips jerking into your grip.

“You think you can handle me like this?” he mutters, voice wrecked.

You wrap a leg around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back.

“Prove I can’t.”

He pushes in with a groan, one slow, steady thrust, stretching you full until you gasp. His hands are planted on either side of your head, muscles trembling with restraint as he holds himself still—just long enough for you to feel every inch of him, the heat of you wrapped around him, the way your body clenches instinctively.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasps. “Always so tight for me.”

Then he moves, slow and deep. Every drag of his cock inside you is maddening, the fullness unbearable. His hips roll against yours, grinding just right, drawing out your pleasure until you’re writhing beneath him, nails biting into his shoulders.

He watches your face, drinks in every twitch, every bitten-off moan.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “Actin’ like you don’t beg for this every time I call you out here.”

You claw at him, pulling him down to kiss you, your teeth dragging over his bottom lip.

“Only ‘cause I know you can take it.”

He growls, hips snapping harder now, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs. The bedframe rattles against the wall, the headboard thudding in time with his pace.

“Fuckin’ right I can.”

His hand finds your throat; possessive, anchoring. Yours goes to his jaw, thumb brushing the scar that cuts through his temple, feeling the flex of his teeth as he grits them.

There’s nothing but heat between you. The wet sound of skin on skin, his ragged breaths mingling with yours, the creak of the bed beneath you. Your voice breaks around his name, whispering it like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word left in the world.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You can feel it before he even speaks.

Joel’s pissed. Not the quiet, simmering kind from before, but something sharper. Bleeding off him in waves as he yanks the safehouse door shut behind him, the wood groaning under the force.

You barely get a word out before he’s on you.

His hands slam against the wall on either side of your head, the impact vibrating through the plaster. His breath is ragged, uneven—hot against your cheek. Clothes still soaked from the storm outside, the fabric cold where it brushes your skin. Blood streaks his sleeve. Not his.

“Joel—”

“Don’t.”

His voice is low, dangerous. Not like before. This isn’t foreplay.

You press your back to the wall, chin lifted, eyes locked on his. The flicker of the oil lamp paints shadows across his face, deepening the lines of tension in his jaw.

“What the fuck happened out there?”

He doesn’t answer. His teeth grind, the muscle in his cheek jumping. Eyes won’t meet yours.

“Was it Tess?” You reach out, fingers skimming the soaked leather of his jacket. Cold. Stiff with rainwater.

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes finally snap to yours. And it hits you—whatever it was, it rattled him.

“Almost didn’t make it back.”

You inhale slowly, the air thick with the smell of him—sweat, whiskey, the iron tang of blood. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

For a second, the tension is quiet.

Then suddenly, Joel grabs your waist, yanks you toward him, and slams his mouth against yours like it’s the only way to make the world shut up. His tongue is rough, tasting of salt and smoke, and you whimper when his teeth catch your lip.

You break it, panting.

“What the fuck is this, huh? You almost die and now I’m just—what? Your therapy?”

“No.” He pulls you closer, “You’re mine.”

You barely make it to the bed.

He tears your shirt over your head, the fabric ripping at the seams. Pushes your pants down with one hand, growling when they catch around your knees. His fingers dig into your thighs, callouses scraping skin as he spreads you open. You’re wet already—because of course you are—and he knows it. Smirks when he drags his fingers through your slick, then brings them to his mouth.

“Always ready for me, aren’t you?”

You moan, grinding back against him.

“Maybe I like it when you lose your shit.”

He drags his mouth down your neck, biting at your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Yeah? You like makin’ me crazy?”

You arch into him, gasping.

“Love it.”

That’s all he needs.

He flips you onto your stomach, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels behind you. His cock drags between your thighs, hot and heavy, smearing your wetness against your skin.

Then his fingers press against your ass, testing, circling.

“This what you want?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

You push back into his touch with a grin. “Fucking try.”

He spits, the sound obscene in the quiet room, then works a thick finger into you, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitches, muscles fluttering around the intrusion.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, curling his finger just right. “Take it.”

A second joins the first. You bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whimper as he scissors you open.

Then his fingers are gone, replaced by the blunt press of his cock.

“Breathe,” he orders, and pushes in.

The stretch is brutal, exquisite. You gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets as he sinks deeper, inch by relentless inch. His grip on your hips is iron, holding you still as he works himself inside, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Fuck—Joel—”

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about it. His palm rubs slow circles over your lower back. “Just relax, baby. Let me in.”

When he’s fully seated, he stills, letting you adjust. Sweat drips from his brow onto your spine, his breath hot against your shoulder.

Then he pulls out almost all the way—and slams back in.

You cry out, the sound punched out of you as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the air from your lungs. The bed creaks under the force, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“That’s it,” he growls, fingers digging into your flesh. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Every stroke is a claim. You’re here. You’re both alive. You’re his.

His hand slides around your front, fingers finding your clit. Rubbing hard. Fast.

“Come on, baby. Gimme one.”

Your mouth falls open. Eyes squeeze shut. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you fuckin’ can.” His voice is rough, possessive. “This body’s mine. You come when I say.”

You shatter with a broken scream, clenching around him so hard he curses, hips stuttering.

He groans and comes inside you with a final, deep thrust, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You collapse. Boneless. Breathing like you’ve run ten miles.

Joel stays on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, one arm curled under your body like he can’t let you go just yet. His lips brush your shoulder, the touch almost tender.

“Mine,” he murmurs again.

And god help you—you are.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You should’ve kept your head down.

You know that. Joel told you—explicitly—to let him do the talking. Just like he always does when you’re dealing with FEDRA.

But the guy was being a prick. All attitude and a swinging rifle. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was reckless, but you couldn’t help it.

Joel didn’t say a word at the time. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t flinch.

Just handed over the rations, gripped your arm a little too tight—his fingers digging in like a warning—and steered you out of there before the guard could decide to make an example out of you.

The walk back is silent.

He doesn’t say a damn thing until the safehouse door slams shut behind you—and even then, it’s not words. Not really.

It’s the click of the lock sliding home. The thud of his bag hitting the floor. The way his boots scrape against wood as he turns, slow and deliberate.

His eyes track you—dark and furious, jaw tight enough to crack.

You feel it before he touches you. The heat. The pressure. The way the room seems to shrink until it’s just the two of you, the tension coiling tighter with every second.

Joel stalks forward, slow and deliberate, until your back hits the wall. He braces one hand beside your head, leaning in close. His breath is warm against your lips and his eyes search yours like they’re trying to burn the lesson into your brain.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” he says, low and dark.

You swallow hard. Try to keep your voice steady. “He was a dick.”

Joel’s nostrils flare. His jaw ticks.

“You think that matters? You think they need a reason to put a bullet in your head?”

“He wasn’t gonna shoot me—”

“You don’t know that!” His voice rises, sharp and ragged, cutting through the quiet like a whip. “You don’t know what they’ll do, you don’t know what line you’re walkin’, and you sure as fuck don’t get to decide when to run your mouth.”

His hands are trembling. Just barely. But they are.

You stare up at him, chest heaving, mouth dry.

“You gonna hit me?” you ask, soft but sharp.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he growls.

“Then what?” you whisper, stepping in close, chest brushing his.

His expression flickers—something feral and frustrated flashing through before it all slams back into place. That mask he wears so well.

He grabs your chin, thumb pressing against your lower lip, eyes locked to yours like he’s daring you to speak again.

“You think this is a game?”

You smirk, licking the pad of his thumb, slow and deliberate.

“I think you like it when I piss you off.”

There’s a second, only one, then he snaps. Grabs your waist, spins you around, and pulls you over his knee before you can even blink. The sudden shift knocks the breath from your lungs, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against your thighs as he pins you in place.

“Since words don’t seem to sink in,” he mutters, voice rough, “maybe this will.”

The first slap lands hard, his palm connecting with a sting that makes you gasp. The heat blooms instantly, sharp and bright, and you squirm, but his arm locks around your waist, holding you still.

“You don’t get to gamble with your life,” he growls, delivering another sharp smack, then another, each one landing with punishing precision. “Not in there. Not ever.”

You bite your lip, trying not to whimper, but the sting is relentless, the ache spreading with every strike. Your skin flushes hot under his hand, the sound of each slap echoing in the quiet room.

Finally, he stops, his palm resting possessively on your reddened flesh.

“Still think it’s funny?” he asks, voice dangerously soft.

You swallow, thighs pressing together, the throbbing heat between them impossible to ignore.

“No,” you admit, breathless.

He hums, fingers tracing the curve of your ass, then sliding lower, teasing.

“Good.”

Then he flips you onto your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he unbuckles his belt. The leather slides free with a whisper, the metal clinking as he tosses it aside. His fingers grip your hair, tilting your head back.

“Open.”

You do, and he guides himself between your lips, the thick heat of him heavy on your tongue. The taste of him fills your mouth as he pushes in, groaning when your lips stretch around him.

“That’s it,” he growls, fingers tightening in your hair. “Take it. Every inch.”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard, your tongue working the underside as he thrusts deeper. His breath comes rougher, his hips jerking when you hum around him.

“Fuck—” His voice is ragged. “You’re gonna learn your lesson one way or another.”

He fucks your mouth with slow, punishing strokes, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat until tears prick your eyes. You gag, but he doesn’t let up, his grip unrelenting as he watches you struggle to take him.

“Should’ve thought about this before you ran your mouth,” he mutters, dragging himself out just enough to let you gasp for air before shoving back in.

When he finally pulls free, your lips are swollen, your chin wet. He drags his thumb over your mouth, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Now,” he says, flipping you onto your hands and knees, “let’s make sure you remember.”

His hand grips your hip, and then he’s pushing inside you in one brutal thrust. You cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he sets a relentless pace, each snap of his hips driving the point home.

“This is what happens,” he growls, teeth scraping your shoulder. “You don’t listen? You get punished.”

You whimper, the pleasure and pain blurring together as he fucks you raw, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

You shatter with a sob, your body clamping around him as the orgasm rips through you. He follows with a groan, spilling deep, his hips grinding into you as he rides it out.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice rough, “you keep your damn mouth shut.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You were only supposed to stay the night. Just one.

Tess had taken a bullet on a bad run, nothing fatal, but she needed time to recover. Joel didn’t want you on the street alone. Didn’t trust anyone else to watch your back. So he’d handed you a key without looking at you and muttered something like, “Just until she’s back on her feet.”

You thought maybe he meant to sleep on the couch.

The room’s dim. Just a sliver of golden light leaking through the curtain from the streetlamp outside. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his shirts. It’s soft and faded, hangs loose over your thighs. Joel’s across the room, stripping down in silence. His movements are slower than usual. No tension. No frenzy.

You watch him undo each button, eyes trailing over the strong lines of his body—broad shoulders, the cut of muscle under worn skin, the trail of hair down his stomach that disappears beneath his waistband.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just folds his shirt and sets it on the chair like he’s buying himself time.

When he finally turns, the look in his eyes steals your breath.

It’s not lust, not really. Not only. It’s want, yes—but it’s wrapped in something deeper. Something unspoken. Something aching.

You slide back beneath the blankets and hold them open for him.

“Joel,” you say, soft.

He gets in beside you without a word. The bed dips with his weight, and his arm immediately comes around you, pulling you in like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You settle into his chest, fingers tracing slow circles across his skin.

“You ever done this before?” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Had sex?”

You glance up at him with a crooked smile. “No. Had someone in your bed. Like this.”

His face shifts. “No,” he says quietly. “Not in a long time.”

You nod. You knew the answer before he said it.

Joel’s hand finds your jaw, tilting your face to his. His thumb strokes your cheek, slow and reverent, like he’s still not sure you’re real.

“I want this to be different,” he murmurs.

You lean into his touch.

“It already is.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Careful. Like he’s trying not to break you. His lips linger, his breath warm against your skin. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world.

Your hands drift to his body—familiar and unfamiliar at once. You’ve touched him before, felt him everywhere, but not like this. Not when there’s no fire to put out. No edge to ride.

Just him. Just you.

He slides the shirt off your shoulders, slow as molasses, like he’s unwrapping something delicate. Like the heat between you needs to simmer tonight.

“Want you,” you whisper, tugging him closer. “All of you.”

“You got me,” he says, voice hoarse.

Joel kisses you like it’s the first time all over again. Slow, aching, unhurried. His hands explore every inch of you like a man trying to memorize something fleeting.

And then he starts trailing down—kisses ghosting over your jaw, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He pauses to mouth at one, sucking softly, tongue flicking over your nipple until your back arches. His hand massages the other, fingers pinching just enough to draw a whimper from you.

“Joel,” you breathe, your voice already wrecked.

“I got you,” he murmurs against your skin.

You feel him shift lower. His kisses follow a path down your ribs, over your stomach, reverent and slow. He’s in no rush—he’s savoring. And when he settles between your legs, spreading you open with calloused hands, it’s with a look that’s nothing short of worship.

You’re already dripping for him, aching, and he just stares for a second—eyes dark, mouth parted slightly.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

You reach for him, fingers threading into his hair, but he gently presses your hips down, keeping you still.

“Let me.”

He lowers his head, and the first drag of his tongue over you nearly breaks you.

Soft. Wet. Slow.

He hums against you like he’s tasting honey, and you can feel the sound in your spine.

He flattens his tongue and licks a long, slow stripe up your center, then does it again, lips wrapping around your clit with practiced care. He sucks gently—just enough to make you gasp—then releases with a soft pop before diving back in, tongue circling and teasing, building you slow.

“Jesus, Joel—”

Your hips buck, but his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Lemme take care of you.”

And he does.

He devours you like it’s the only thing he wants in the world. Like your pleasure is something sacred. His tongue moves in perfect rhythm—languid, focused—while one of his hands slides up your thigh, then down, two thick fingers easing into you as he keeps his mouth on your clit.

You keen at the stretch, hips grinding against his face now, too far gone to care.

Your hands fist the sheets. Your thighs tremble.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he murmurs into your skin. “Come on, sweetheart. I know you can. Just let go.”

You fall apart with his name on your lips, coming hard against his mouth, thighs clenching around his head as he groans like he’s the one being wrecked.

He doesn’t stop right away. Keeps licking you through it, tongue gentle now, coaxing you down from the edge like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

When he finally comes up, his mouth is glistening, beard wet with you, and his eyes are dark—wrecked—like the sight of you falling apart has undone him completely.

You tug him up by the shoulders, breathless and shaking, pulling him into a messy, deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into his mouth, hips already rolling against him again.

Joel grins into the kiss, rough thumb brushing your cheek.

“Didn’t know you could sound like that,” he murmurs.

“Neither did I,” you say, still dazed, still breathless.

He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving.

“Wanna hear it again.”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s like exhaling after holding your breath too long. No rush. Just the warmth of him, stretching you full, grounding you to the mattress like he’s pressing you into something sacred.

His forehead rests against yours, and he groans—quiet, almost pained.

“Jesus, baby…”

You wrap your legs around his waist, hands tangled in his hair, holding him impossibly close.

He starts to move, slow and steady, each thrust purposeful and deep.

Your fingers drift over his back, nails tracing lazy lines into his skin. His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper—no begging this time, no teasing.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low. “Wanna see those eyes.”

You do. And what he sees there makes his rhythm stutter. He’s not used to softness like this. Not used to being allowed to want without fear.

You touch his face, thumb tracing the crease of that familiar scar.

“I’m here,” you whisper.

“I know.”

Joel’s hand finds yours and threads your fingers together, pressing them into the pillow beside your head. You don’t say anything else. The way he moves inside you—slow, aching and reverent—says everything.

He kisses you through it. Again and again. Mouth gentle, tongue soft. When you finally come, it’s quiet and full-body, radiating out until your fingers curl tight around his.

He follows close behind, hips grinding deep as he buries himself with a low groan, your name on his tongue like it’s holy.

After, he doesn’t let go.

Just holds you to him like something he’s afraid to lose.

You curl into his side, lips brushing his chest.

“Feels real,” you whisper, afraid to break it.

Joel kisses the top of your head, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders.

“That’s ‘cause it is.”

[archive-of-ink]

buffy summers was such an intense case of an only child with eldest daughter syndrome, she manifested herself a little sis out of thin air

[archive-of-ink]

The Heat of the Thermae | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader | ~4.2k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You’re not alone tonight at your favorite bathhouse.

Tags: smut, kat can’t not dress the scene, unprotected p in v, creampie kink is not explicitly stated but he does finish inside sooo, marcus is strong enough to fuck you standing up, lil bit of dirty talk, spanking, tit slapping, marcus loves tits, some latin terms of endearment, praise praise praise, probably not historically accurate we're just vibing here, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, reader is described to have a curvy figure, barely beta’d, sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: hi, i was not expecting to write something for the general again so soon but @ovaryacted is the queen of feeding into my delusions so this one is for you, primita 🖤 shoutout to @mandaloriankait for holding me accountable and cheering me on to finish this lol. as always let me know what you think and thanks for reading! 🖤

You slip through the quiet streets of the city, the woven handle of your basket looped gently over your arm. A soft hum escapes your lips, a tune only the night seems to know. The stones beneath your sandals are warm from the day’s heat, still radiating the sun’s memory as the hush of night begins to settle. Crickets and cicadas sing from dark corners, their chorus delicate, like lace threaded through the silence.

Rome is quieter at this hour. Not silent, never truly, but quieter. As if the mighty heart of the empire has finally begun to slow, to exhale.

You reach the thermae just before the moon crests its highest point. The structure stands like a temple in the dark, torchlight flickering along carved pillars and smooth marble that glows golden. Steam curls up from within the stone walls, thick and inviting, drifting like silk into the air. You slip through the arched threshold, and the warm, mineral-scented breath of the springs embraces you.

It’s nearly silent. Just the soft bubbling of water, the occasional drip of condensation down stone, the rustle of a breeze stirring one of the hanging silken banners overhead. This thermae has always been your favorite— nestled against a quiet hill on the edge of the city, tucked away behind a grove of flowering laurel and cypress. Fewer people frequent it. Too far, they say. But for you, it’s perfect.

You step onto the cool, patterned floor, marveling, as you always do, at the opulence. Intricate mosaics of Apollo and Venus glimmer beneath your feet, their mythic beauty frozen in tile. Wreaths of fragrant flowers wind up around the sculpted columns, fresh and damp with dew. The stone arches above are carved so finely that your eyes often lose themselves in the details: curling vines, the faces of nymphs, the wings of eagles, all staring down in solemn witness.

The water beckons beyond, a mirror of mist and light. Before you slip into it, you settle onto one of the marbled benches. It’s cool against your thighs, smooth beneath your fingers. You untie your sandals slowly, enjoying the rhythm of the ritual. The city feels so far away here. Its roar, its politics, its bloodstained spectacles —all of it muffled by marble, steam, and solitude.

You breathe in deeply. The air is rich with heat and something sweeter — honeysuckle, perhaps, or the lingering smoke of sandalwood incense still clinging to the stones. Your fingers drift to the lip of your basket. Oils, cloth, a small jar of fig balm. Enough to make the next hour utterly yours.

You do not hear him at first. Just the shift of shadows behind one of the larger columns across the way. A footfall, soft yet heavy.

And it is not until he steps into the light: scarred, sharp-eyed, leonine in profile, that your breath catches in your throat.

General Acacius.

You turn away before your gazes can meet. The water between you becomes a kind of sanctuary, veiling you in ripples and warmth, a safe expanse separating your solitude from his gravity. He remains on the opposite end of the thermae, partially obscured by a column and the rising curtain of steam—but even half-hidden, he draws the eye. This is the first time you’ve ever seen the general alone.

Usually, he is trailed by a flock of senators and sycophants, his path cleared by his loyal soldiers. Or he’s perched high above the chaos of the colosseum, cast in gold and shadow as blood paints the sand below.

Up close, in silence, without armor or ceremony, he is something else entirely.

The rumors are true. He is devastatingly handsome. A mix of the delicate beauty of poetry or painted heroes and the kind carved into marble— stark, masculine, impossible to ignore but made to admire. His frame is massive, the breadth of his shoulders a thing that demands reverence, the curve of his jaw like it was drawn with a honeyed blade. Even now, without the bronze of war adorning him, he carries himself with an authority that stirs something in you.

It is no wonder women speak of him with flushed cheeks and eager lips. Nor is it a wonder he remains unattached. No woman, no man, no lover could compete with the hunger in his eyes for conquest. War has claimed him, become his mistress. And yet… you find yourself wondering, perhaps foolishly, what it might be like to be taken with that same possession.

You keep your gaze averted as you reach into your basket, fingers finding the familiar pieces of your nightly ritual. You remove your jewelry then slowly peel the fabric from your body, exposing skin to the open air, to the eyes of gods and men alike.

You try not to think of whether he’s watching. You try.

Your foot touches the water first, heat curling up your calf, then your thigh, until you are swallowed by it. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips, a breathy moan that seems to echo louder than you intended in the stillness of the summer night.

You glide further in, deeper, until the water kisses just below your collarbones. You find your place, easing against the stone, eyes fluttering shut—but not for long. Curiosity, wicked and warm, coaxes them open again. And this time, you let them wander.

He is still turned away, his broad back like something from a myth, all sculpted muscle and roughened skin. The light of the moon and torches play against him, catching on every ridge, every scar, every flex and pull as he shifts to undress. Sweat clings to him, glistening down his spine, mixing with the dirt of training or battle, a sheen that only makes him more savage, more real, more desirable.

He bends slightly to unfasten his remaining garment, and when the cloth falls, your tongue twitches in your mouth.

His ass is nothing short of divine. Round, tight, perfect in its symmetry, in the way it moves as he steps out of the tunic. Your teeth find your lower lip and stay there, pressing hard. 

He turns and suddenly, the air shifts. Heat blooms low in your stomach, tender, slow.

Hazelnut eyes lock with yours—not passive, not startled, but piercing. Like he’s known all along you were there, and now he’s choosing to look. Choosing to see you. The connection is immediate, tangible, a pull so intense you feel it in your pussy, in the tips of your fingers beneath the water. His gaze does not waver. It devours.

Then, languidly, his eyes drag down your form. Over your bare shoulders, your collarbone, your breasts rising from beneath the water with each breath. He lingers there. Long enough for your nipples to harden. You can’t help the way your chest arches forward, as if offering him more of your full tits.

He notices. You see it in the slight lift of his brow, the shadow of something dangerous and amused that curls his lip.

You match his look without thinking, lips parting just enough to draw in breath as your gaze drops between his legs. And gods—there he is. Thick even while soft, his cock hangs heavy between his thighs, nestled in a thatch of dark curls that look fucking edible. Your thighs press together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing as heat flashes in your gut like it’s trying to eat you alive.

It shouldn’t look that good. Not at rest. But it does. Your mouth waters, lips buzzing, and your fingers twitch at your sides like they don’t know why they aren’t already wrapped around him.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring until he moves.

No words. Just that quiet, lethal stillness breaking as he steps into the water with the weight of a predator deciding when to strike. You don’t know if he’s doing it for you or simply because that’s just how he moves, but when his body sinks into the pool, muscles flexing, steam licking up his sides, it feels like something carnal crackles in the space between your bodies, more ancient than language, more honest than names.

He disappears beneath the surface, the water rippling out toward you like the heat radiating off your skin, and the soft splash of it yanks you back to yourself. Barely.

You sit up straighter, hand reaching for your cloth and small vial of oil, your pulse beating wild behind your ribs. Your fingers tremble, though you pretend otherwise, smoothing the perfumed mixture over your skin in slow circles. Sensual. Like you’re bathing for an audience… because you are.

When he rises again, your eyes snap to him like they’ve been chained there since the moment he arrived.

His hair is plastered back, dripping. Water runs down his face, clings to his thick lashes, trails over the angles of his jaw and beautiful nose. He’s fucking gorgeous—soaked and gleaming and massive. Your eyes drag lower, over his chest, watching the droplets race across his pecs and down his stomach. The line of hair that starts beneath his sternum and leads right down into the water makes your whole body ache to see more. To touch. To taste.

“Are you here often?” He asks, voice low and rough like gravel worn smooth by time.

You blink at him, a little slow, and answer as best you can with a dry throat. “Almost every night.”

Acacius hums. A sound that seems to rumble from his chest rather than his throat. He reaches for his own items and begins to tend to himself with a practiced efficiency that only deepens your curiosity. He has no servant with him, no one waiting nearby with fresh linens or scented oils. For a man of his station, that’s rare.

His big hands slide over his own scarred chest like he’s used to being looked at. Used to being wanted.

And fuck, do you want him.

He’s here. Naked, alone, reciprocating this unspoken lust in your favorite bathhouse. With you. It feels impossible. Like a gift from the gods. Or maybe a test.

You don’t care which.

The silence that follows is far from empty. It brims with energy, charged and volatile. You bathe yourself in the same slow rhythm, cloth gliding across slick skin, never breaking eye contact for long. You keep looking. So does he. And every time your eyes meet, it’s like a match is struck right at your core.

There’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

The space between you shortens with every breath. Neither of you says a word about it. You just move. Drawn. Like animals circling closer. The scent of oil and flowers in the steam is thick as incense—sticky sweet, dizzying. Your nipples are hard, peaked above the surface, aching for attention, and his gaze drops there more than once.

There is desire. There is certainty. And you will not waste this night.

Your fingers brush under the water, barely, but the jolt of contact sends a spark straight to your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand turns, clasping around your wrist and tugging you towards him, just enough to let you know what he wants.

What you want. You meet him halfway.

The water barely muffles the slap of your bodies meeting, chest to chest. You’re not shy about it. There’s no point pretending. You want all of him. When he reaches down and cups your jaw with one large, dripping hand, the roughness of his touch makes your pussy clench tight.

Acacius doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He kisses you like it’s owed. Like it’s overdue. His mouth slants over yours, fervent, lips parted before they even meet. It’s filthy and deep. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting you. Your fingers fist in his hair, still damp from the bath, nails scraping his scalp as you pull him closer, desperate to keep your mouth sealed to his.

His hands roam with no restraint. One grabs your ass, squeezing and savoring the plumpness in his grasp, while the other palms your tit, big fingers curling around the soft flesh, thumb flicking over your nipple as you curve into him.

You clutch at his broad shoulders, his back, the muscles shifting beneath your hands like carved stone come alive. He’s so solid, every inch of him hard and smoldering and built for war. You do a little jump then wrap your legs around his waist without even thinking, gyrating your hips against him in a silent, burning plea for friction.

His hand immediately go to cup the back of your thighs, strong enough to keep you sturdy against him as his dick slips between your slippery folds.

“Fuck…” you gasp when he breaks the kiss, head tipping back as your mouth falls open with a desperate whine, his lips dragging wetly down your throat. “Please do not stop…”

“Was not planning to,” he growls, teeth grazing your skin, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of heat that makes your pussy throb. You can feel his shaft thickening beneath you, half-submerged in the water, heavy and hard right between your legs. You grind down on it without thinking, your clit brushing along his length, desperate for more.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked, “and sweet. Gods…”

Your only answer is a shuddered moan as his mouth trails lower, nipping your collarbone, dragging his tongue along the curve of your breast before he captures your nipple between his full lips. He groans like he’s been starving for it, like your taste is better than any wine in Rome. He nips at the sensitive bud—just enough to make you twitch—and then his tongue soothes, circles, sucks.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. Your legs tighten around his waist as you continue to grind against him. The water sloshes and ripples between you, the scent of oil and sweat and arousal heavy in the steam.

You’ve never felt so thoroughly handled—his big, calloused hands roaming every inch of you, gripping, groping, pulling you apart and putting you back together. His body is a weapon, and right now it’s being wielded for you, on you.

“Please, Acacius… fuck me.”

Your voice breaks on the plea, the words melting into a high, desperate whine as he sinks his teeth into your nipple. The sharp bite makes your back arch with a moan, the sting blooming at your chest just as he pulls off with a lewd pop.

He licks up your neck, tongue moving slow and shameless over your pulse. “Marcus,” he sneers against your mouth, his breath warm, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. “That is what I want you to cry while I am splitting this tight little cunt open on my cock.”

You barely manage a gasp before he seals your mouth with his again, tongue plunging past your lips with a hearty groan.

Then his hand moves—leaves your ass to wrap thick fingers around the base of his cock. And gods, you feel it, the weight of him pressing against your slick, aching entrance. Hot as sin.

You barely have time to breathe as he pushes in deep.

You let out a ragged sob, mouth falling open as your walls stretch around his fat shaft, the burn sharp and sweet all at once. Your nails claw into the hard, oiled up muscle of his shoulders while your pussy tries to take him. Inch by inch, he feeds himself to you until he’s buried balls deep inside your clenching sex.

“F-fuck—oh Marcus—”

His intimate name rips out of your throat in a needy wail as your head tips back, spine bowing, offering him everything.

He snarls, low and brutal, muttering curses in his native tongue under his breath. You barely have time to recover before he shifts, hoists you higher and hooks the backs of your knees over the bends of his elbows.

He fucks into you savagely, like he’s meant to be deep inside you every night until the gods have to intervene and pull him from you. The power in his body is insane, thrusting into you while standing, while holding your curvy and heavier figure, every stroke punching up into your guts with obscene, wet sounds that echo off the marble.

The water thrashes around you, splashing wildly with every slam of his hips. Your tits bounce, nipples raw and exposed, while your ass claps against his thighs with every impassioned thrust. His cock is merciless, thick veins dragging against your fluttering walls, the fat head hammering that spongy spot deep inside you until you’re choking on every moan.

“Fucking… tight…” he spits between grunts, “had I known a praecantrix with a body like this was here every night aching for cock,” he pants, “I would have abandoned my duties and been buried in this sweet cunt instead.”

You clench hard at his words and he feels it, groaning through gritted teeth while your fingers twist in his damp greying curls as you tug his mouth back to yours.

You kiss him filthy, open-mouthed, tongues tangled, spit dripping between you. It feels so good knowing you’ve got one of the strongest men in Rome between your thighs. His beard scrapes your chin, making your skin curl in the best way, and you moan into his mouth when he sucks your tongue like he wants to devour it.

Your orgasm is coming fast. Titillating and climbing and climbing and climbing—

“Harder,” you gasp against his lips, nails sinking into his scalp. “Marcus, please.”

The salacious symphony of your fucking is beautiful, and Marcus gives you what you asked for, plowing into you with a force that knocks every breath out of your lungs and thought out of your head. 

You don’t even notice when he begins to move, strong arms locking beneath your thighs as he shifts, never once pulling out. He carries you backward, step by careful step, until he lowers himself onto one of the submerged stone steps, the heat of the water sloshing around your waist. You’re now straddling him, perched in his lap, knees spread wide on the slick surface. His cock stays buried to the root, making you keen.

You can feel everything. Every vein, every ridge, every throb. He leans back slightly, giving you space, giving you control—and gods, he looks bewitching. Half-lidded eyes drink you in, crooked scars slicing across his cheek and nose, only enhancing his brutal allure. Steam helixes around the angles of his face, water dripping down the hard lines of his chest, down his stomach, disappearing between your bodies where you’re still joined.

His hands find your breasts again, greedy and reverent all at once. Your skin is slick with water and oil, and he groans at the way your tits spill into his palms, nipples pebbling against his calloused fingers.

You start to move, slow at first, grinding down into him with insatiable want. Your clit presses into the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every drag sending white-hot sparks all over. The stretch of him inside you is overwhelming, the ache delicious. With every swivel at your waist, your slick spreads between you, smearing over his thighs.

Acacius watches you with worship and gluttony in equal measure, hands never leaving your skin, guiding your rhythm with subtle tilt of his hips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, the reverence in it making your thighs tremble harder. “So divine like this.” He studies you, head cocked with a fascination and you can’t help but perform for him, willing your body to imprint on his memory as surely as he’s etched on your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls, large palm smacking against your ass, making it ripple and sting as your thighs tremble from the force. You scream out his name, hands finding purchase on his shoulders again. “Ride it. Use me, carissime.”

The term of endearment does it for you, spurring you to fuck him like he’s never been fucked before, grinding harder, rolling your hips, chasing the rising wave of release that corkscrews at the base of your spine. The slap of your bodies grows louder as you bounce in his lap. Your tits jiggle with every thrust and he’s mesmerized, the repeated crack of his palm smacking your chest making your toes curl and your cunt pulsate around his meaty cock.

You bury your fingers in his curls as you clutch him close, your mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and passion. His tongue tangles with yours, and when you moan into him, he groans deep and animalistic, like he can feel it in his bones.

“What a perfect cunt,” he mutters against your lips. “Taking it all. Men go to and die in war for pussy like this.”

His praise sends another shock of bliss through you, and your pace falters as your legs begin to shake. Yet he doesn’t let up. His hands grip your ass, helping you move, pulling you down harder, deeper, each thrust sending his cock punching up into that devastating spot inside you. You cry out, clinging to him.

“Are you going to come for me?” he taunts raggedly against your throat. “Soak my cock like the desperate thing you are?”

“Yes—yes, Marcus—fuck, yes!” The words spill from you in a delirious rush, your pitch climbing higher as you ride him with reckless desire. Every drag of your soaked cunt around his thick shaft sends another jolt up your spine. You know you’ll feel this for days; every step, every shift in your body will echo with the memory of his ruin. The sheer power of straddling a man like him and breaking apart on his cock.

Then his mouth is on your breast, downright ravenous. He devours you with ardent, open-mouthed kisses, lips sealing tight around your nipple as he sucks hard, his tongue flicking rapidly before his teeth sink in just enough to make you mewl out in gratification. His attention shifts from one bouncing mound to the other, spit-slick and gleaming in the moonlight, the sting of his teeth making your walls clamp down around him.

“Marcus!” You come apart with his name tearing from your throat. Your climax hits like lightning, sharp and blinding. Your vision splinters, black spots dancing at the edges as ecstasy rips through body locking down, muscles seizing as your pussy quivers around his cock, dragging a primal sound from his chest. Every part of you is slick—sweat, oil, steam, and arousal mingling on your skin as your orgasm wrings you out.

The tight squeeze of your pussy has him snarling, losing the last thread of control. He wrenches his mouth from your tits and sinks his teeth into your neck, spitting curses as he fucks up into you with brutal, punishing thrusts. His fingers dig into your ass, holding you down as he drives into your spent cunt.

“Fucking take it,” he grits. “All of it.”

You feel the heat of him flooding you, dick twitching deep inside as he spills into you with a low, lecherous moan, biting down harder as he rides it out, making you wince. He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t move, just holds you flush against him, chest to chest, your body trembling as his seed fills you.

There’s no pause for breath, only the ragged, desperate sound of two bodies ruined by pleasure, locked together in the heat of the bath, gods watching from marble pedestals as if in envy.

Acacius still holds you, his strong arms wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you to him like he never wants to let go. His cock remains buried deep inside you, softening slowly, the warmth of his release cradled within.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and then another to the hollow of your throat, working his way down with lazy affection. His hands roam your body, no longer rough and demanding, but tender and adoring. Fingertips graze the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your thighs; learning every inch of you like a man starved for closeness.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, catching the scent of warm skin, salt, and the faint hint of sandalwood oil still clinging to him. You lean in, lips brushing his, and he meets you with a kiss so slow you feel like you’re floating.

When you pull back, you pause to look at him—really look at him. His dark curls cling damply to his forehead, drops of water trailing down his neck. His eyes, deep and glistening brown, are locked onto yours, hungry still, but softened by something far more dangerous than lust. Something like longing.

“Marcus,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

His lips pull, slow and knowing. “Say it again.”

You smile, fucked out entirely. “Marcus.”

His arms tighten around you, and the two of you sit there in the warmth of the water, wrapped around each other. The steam coils around your bodies, carrying with it the heady scent of oils and sex. Neither of you rushes to speak again. There’s no need.

This night will linger in more than just muscle memory. It will haunt your thoughts. It will live in his hands.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7 . @clubsoft . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @angiewatson .

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gimme names 💋

i’m so tired of the racists in this fandom can we start @ing them fr bc yall get away with entirely too much

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If I ask nicely who will rb this telling me what is the last song u listened to 🥺