deardev0teddelicate

[deardev0teddelicate]

i am kicking and giggling and blushing ,, this was beautiful

bed chem

dr robby x r4/fellow!reader

a fellowship application and a shared cigarette lead to a friendship, a situationship, a relationship with dr. robby.

how you pick me up, pull 'em down, turn me 'round /oh, it just makes sense/how you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things/that's bed chem

cw 18+ mdni. song fic. strangers to friends to long-distance something to lovers. porn with way more plot than originally intended. fingering, handjobs, squirting, oral (f & m receiving), a lil 69, unprotectedish piv. reader calls robby different first names as flirting. sharin’ ciggies. a lil angst as a treat. implied sexting/phone sex. goes a little off song but oh well. they’re in love and it’s disgusting. medical inaccuracies. kingdon for a second if you read between the lines. author knows nothing of lake erie & real trauma center locations, and chooses to ignore how fellows are assigned shhhh

wc: 10.8k (5.2k is just smut i have no excuse)

———

the heat of late summer in pittsburgh sends beads of sweat down your spine, the satin material of your dress clinging to you beneath your blazer, the september breeze doing little to help.

stepping out of the restaurant, you pull a cigarette and lighter out of your purse, shrugging off your jacket and throwing it over your bag.

you peek back through the window at the dinner still going on—what kind of hospital, supposedly financially unable to keep entire floors staffed, shells out the funds to host fourth year residents from all over the county for a weekend of wining and dining, trying to entice that year’s best and brightest into applying for available fellowship and attending slots?

the night’s dinner was the last hurrah, preluded with tours of the pittsburgh trauma medical center, shadowing of cases from each department, a luncheon conference with presentations by each department chief waxing poetic about their stats and advantages and research—some doctors notably less into it than others.

while they had reached out to you willingly, their emergency medicine fellowship was one you’d been eyeing since your time as an r2, and your application submitted soon after applications opened a month ago. hell, you had applied for a residency slot at ptmc, only letting yourself be disappointed in secret when you didn’t match. no sane person accepted into one of the most prestigious emergency medicine programs on the west coast should feel bad about missing out on a struggling hospital in almost-nowhere pennsylvania—that’s what you told yourself at least.

trying to light your cigarette with your dying bic, you hear a voice next to you.

“those things’ll kill you, y’know,” the man says.

cigarette still between your lips, you reply with a sarcastic, “never heard that one before—oh! dr. robinavitch, sorry, i didn’t realize it was you,” quickly pulling the unlit cigarette from you lips and hiding it behind your back when you turn to him.

“relax, kid. i’m just giving you shit,” he chuckles. “but really, quit while you’re young. trying and failing to every three months when you get old isn’t fun,” he says, contradictorily pulling a lighter out of his own pocket. he holds it up behind a large palm and lights, nodding down to your poorly hidden hand.

you bring the cigarette back to your lips, your hand cupping against his as you inhale, mumbling a thanks as you hold the smoke in your chest.

“i’m planning on quitting by end of residency, trying to ween myself off,” you add as you exhale. you hold the cigarette out to him, an offer, “you smoke half and it’ll only kill us half as quick, dr. robinavitch. for our health.”

he smirks but takes it, fingers brushing yours. as he lifts it to his mouth, he says, “robby.”

“what?”

“you can call me robby,” he says on exhale, smoke billowing from his nose.

“your parents named you robby robinavitch? wow, they musta hated you,” you tease dryly.

giving you a look and passing the cigarette back, he answers, “they named me michael. med school pedes rotations and a residency in the deep south named me robby.”

he begins rolling up the sleeves of his green button down, fighting off the humid breeze, revealing his forearms—hairy, thick, the kind you’d like to wear as a necklace.

quickly taking another drag, you shake that thought from you mind.

“so i gotta ask,” robby says, turning to lean one shoulder against the brick of the building, “why the hell did you apply for my fellowship?”

a cough of smoke came from your lungs, “excuse me?!”

robby reaches his hand back out for the cigarette, casual, and shrugs, “i saw your application. your transcripts, the letters of recommendation, it’s impressive. the research you’ve been doing more so. you could land an attending spot anywhere, somewhere that could actually afford to help fund your research. so yeah, why a fellowship in the pitt?”

he had called the emergency department “the pitt” in his presentation the day prior, too—overcrowded, understaffed, located in the basement of the hospital—a member of the admin staff had audibly groaned at that.

he finally took a long inhale of the cigarette before passing it back.

you took one last drag before throwing it to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of your heels.

“when i was in high school, my family took a vacation to lake erie. my dad and i were on a jet ski that got capsized while driving under a bridge, and we ran into a pillar,” you began. it wasn’t your favorite thing to recount, but it was what made you want to be a doctor.

“we got life-flighted to ptmc. my dad was driving and took the brunt of the impact. compound fracture of the ulna and severance of the nerve, broken clavicle, skull and rib fractures. a punctured lung. they had to shock and intubate him in the helicopter.

“when we got in, i was taken one way and dad the other. i don’t remember who treated me, i just had a gnarly broken ankle,” you lift your leg up, showing off the scar adorning the side of your fibula.

“but my dad,” you continue, “he had people all over his room. they spent an hour stabilizing him before he got carted off to surgery. thought he hit an artery the way he was bleeding internally. his doctor, dr. adamson, came in after and sat with me until my mom and brother arrived.” you saw robby shift out the corner of your eye, standing straighter. “i asked him all kinds of questions about what happened and he happily answered. i always kinda wanted to be a doctor, but dr. adamson made me want to be an er one,” you finish with a small smile, turning back to face robby from where your back was leaned against the wall.

you were surprised to find his eyes a little watery, but with a small smiled of his own.

“woah, did i say something wrong? i know i rambled a little there but—“

you were cut off my a shake of his head. “no,” he let out a breath, “i just…didn’t expect to ever hear someone say adamson inspired them again. it’s been a while.” he had a distant look in his eyes, an almost bittersweet smile.

you furrow your brow slightly, “really? i mean i figured he’d be at least semi-retired by now, but still working.”

robby looks back to you, back into the here and now. “he, uh, he passed away back in 2020. covid.”

“oh…oh, i’m so sorry. i didn’t know…” you want to say more, to offer some comfort, to say you understood, but you didn’t, not truly.

you’d only been in your first year of medical school in 2020. never experienced the chaos that haunted the hospital, the specter of death lessening, but never quite disappearing from the shoulders of those who had.

and you could tell robby didn’t want to speak about it, how his demeanor had shifted from curious and playful, to something sorrowful.

after a beat, you decide to redirect, not quite ready to break the conversation, finding yourself enjoying it despite the sudden shift.

“y’know,” you said, leaning over toward him, “i’ve read a lot of your publications. i really liked the op-ed about the treatment of homelessness in the ed from a few years ago. it ruffled quite a few feathers in my hospital. imagine, treating the unhoused like people. the gall!” you end sarcastically, him finally looking back to you with nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

“yeah, that wasn’t universally well-received. it did get us some grant money for our street team though, so i—wait, if you’ve read my stuff then you knew my name wasn’t fuckin’ robby robinavitch,” the playful tone returning.

the banter continues, you both not disengaging until the sound of people leaving the restaurant breaks the bubble, fellow residents and ptmc staff filing out.

“oh shit, looks like party’s over,” you say. you hadn’t realized you’d been standing outside with robby for so long, only meaning to have gone out for a smoke. but something in a distant part of your lizard brain liked that you had taken up so much of his attention.

after calling an uber, you take your blazer from your purse, pushing it into robby’s arms with a hold this—that earned you a small chuckle.

digging through your purse, you produced a pen. taking your jacket again, you spun so you were between robby’s arms, right shoulder briefly bumping his chest in the movement, before grabbing his exposed right forearm.

“here,” you say as you begin writing your phone number just above the tattoo on his wrist. “text me sometime—i won’t pick up if you call until i have your number.”

clicking the pen closed, you turn back to him with an impish smile, “about doctoring, of course.”

he pauses, then, “about…doctoring?”

grin growing, “y’know, research and science. or a cat you saw or…whatever.” anything, everything, nothing—just keep talking to me.

your uber chose then to arrive. turning and walking backward, you say, “goodnight, robert!” before climbing into the car.

robby doesn’t get a chance to reply, just shakes his head with a incredulous smile, watching until the car is out of sight.

———

it’s been nearly five weeks since you left pittsburgh. five weeks of balancing senior residency, attending and fellowship interviews, your roommate breaking up with their girlfriend again—five weeks with a schedule filled to the brim. so why was your first thought always on the fact that robby hadn’t reached out?

you thought you had gotten along well, really well. you hadn’t meant giving him your number in a flirtatious way—okay, maybe not only in a flirtatious way. but you had genuinely enjoyed talking with robby that night, him meeting your wit and sarcasm without missing a beat.

you almost gave up hope of ever hearing from him as week six drew near, but then—

unknown number:

saw this article and thought about your research.[link attached]

this is robby by the way.

you:

well hello robert long time no speak

robby robinavitch:

still not my name.

it starts slow, a text here and there. an article from him, an interesting case from you—doctoring. never more than a few moments of time, but you begin to cherish those moments.

texts about clinical work turn into strange patients, funny moments in the chaos of your respective ers. talk of work turn into tidbits from your daily lives, a new fancy restaurant you tried and hated, the cat he walks by every morning on the way to work—he actually sent you a picture of a cat.

you:

roberto look at this pile’o’seals i saw on my hot girl walk [photo attached]

robby robinavitch:

what the hell is a hot girl walk?

as the texts grew more frequent, they became phone calls, easier on his old man eyes and arthritic fingers, you would joke.

“ohhoho you just think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” he asks on the other side of the line.

“the pinnacle of comedy,” you reply. “hey, guess what kind of halloween lawn prop i pulled outta guy today.”

“halloween lawn prop? it’s almost thanksgiving…”

you took to calling each other a few times a week, usually during your commute home, the time difference typically having him home and getting ready for bed by then. every so often if your schedules aligned, you spend your days off talking for hours—about anything, everything, nothing. it quickly becomes something you treasure.

you:

guess who got their interview date for a certain fellowship at a certain hospital?

robby robinavitch:

about time, that was emailed hours ago.

you:

5am pacific time is far too early for emails rupert

robby robinavitch:

are these even actual variations of robert at this point?

effortless, innate, like you’d known the other forever, instead of only three months.

you:

happy holidays, bobbie

robby robinavitch:

happy holidays.

brat.

like maybe it wasn’t all in your head.

———

as the new year comes and goes, pittsburgh welcomes you back with a slap of bitter january air, sweetened with the prospects of your fellowship interview—and maybe a little a lot of seeing robby again.

returning to ptmc, you ascend the elevator to the administrative floor—the ivory tower, robby had called it. isengard, you’d suggested. he called you a nerd with a laugh.

other candidates sat on the benches lining the hall of the 12th floor, waiting for their own interviews in one of the many conference rooms. checking in, you joined them, foot bouncing with nerves—robby had refused to help you practice for your interview, even just as a sounding board offering no real feedback, said it wouldn’t be fair as he’d be on the selection committee, leaving you to rely on your own attendings and colleagues for help. it was fair, smart even, you knew that, but you couldn’t help but crave the feedback, to be told you did good, from someone you’d grown so close to.

the fellowship selection committee consisted of the program director, a couple of administrators, a board member, the current fellow, another senior ed attending, and robby, chief of emergency medicine.

over the next hour, your nerves dissipate, the interview going better than you could have hoped. your cv spoke for itself, but your personality keeps everyone’s attention. you even managed a laugh, quickly disguised as a cough, from the other attending, dr. abbot, when an honest answer seemed to peeve the board member. the current fellow, dr. ellis, was mostly on night shift with him, would stay there for her second fellowship year, leaving the dayshift spot open.

once the interview finished, after shaking everyone’s hands, you quickly got a text.

robby robinavitch:

you were our last interview before lunch. wait for me in the lobby.

you:

aye aye boris 🫡

after ten minutes of waiting in the marbled first floor, robby finally appeares.

“hey, sorry about that,” he says, arms beginning to raise, before he shoves them into the pockets of his fleece—was he about to go in for a hug?—“apparently lunch was code for having a meeting while eating lunch, so i gotta head back up.”

you hadn’t thought he wanted to take his lunch with you, not that you would have minded, figured it was just going to be a informal hello.

“no problem, dr. robinavitch,” you reply.

“back to formal titles, are we? i was starting to think you’d actually forgotten my name,” he smiles back, “so maybe—“

the elevator dings open, dr. abbot stepping halfway out, “robby, gloria requests your presence.” robby turns and gave a quick god, one second, before quickly looking back to you.

“i’m off at 7, meet me at o’donnell’s on middle st. 8:30? we’ll catch up then?” he asks, slowly walking away backward toward the elevator.

was your friend slash possible future attending slash crush asking you for drinks? or drink drinks? only one way to find out. “it’s a date,” you smiled back at him, “just don’t bring saruman.”

that earned you a loud ha!, followed by a very fond, “you fuckin’ nerd.”

“you love it!” you stage whispered as he entered the elevator, you both still smiling, neither noticing dr. abbot’s eyebrows raised practically off his forehead.

———

you arrive at o’donnell’s right at 8:30, stepping into the warmth of the pub, shrugging off your jacket which did little to cut the cold pennsylvania night. while smoothing down your powdery blue blouse—still in the outfit from your interview, you had only packed it and comfy travel clothing, not expecting to be invited out—you look around the bar, no robby yet.

after ordering a drink, you find a square high top table out of the way, taking a sip of the cocktail—a little liquid courage, more of a placebo with as small of a drink you took.

after a few minutes, the pub’s door opens once more, letting in a small burst of chilly air—and robby. looking around, he spots you, and walks to the table smiling, removing his carhatt.

“hey.”

“hello again, reuben,” you reply, smiling with the cocktail straw between your teeth.

“do you just carry a list of these names around?” robby chuckles. you didn’t expect him to rub one hand across your back, shoulder to shoulder, giving the far one a squeeze, before sliding back off the other—not really a hug, but the most physical contact you two ever shared. it makes you dizzier than any alcohol you had drank could.

“sooo,” you start, “how’d the rest of the interviews go?”

moving the other chair from across the table to directly next to you, robby replies, “now you know damn well i can’t answer that.”

you put on a fake pout, “come on! who am i gonna tell?”

he turns to a waiter walking by and orders bottle of beer before looking back to you, miming turning a lock over his lips, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder.

you let out a huff with a roll of your eyes, “fine. but now i’ll just have to recount the thrilling tale of the old woman i sat next to on my flight. so she—“

you two spent the next two and a half hours together, bantering, catching up, much like your long calls, but so much better. hearing robby through the phone was one thing, but sitting next to him, close enough to count his freckles, smell is cologne, notice every curl of his lips, crinkle of his eyes—an easy camaraderie, intrinsic—was intoxicating.

you want him to ask you home, you realize, you unable to blame the alcohol for your thought. you’d spent more time chewing at the cocktail straw than drinking, robby’s own beer just halfway gone.

seemingly reading your thoughts, robby flags down the waiter to pay the bill—my treat he said when you tried to pull out cash—adding that he had to work in the morning.

stepping back out into the night, the air didn’t seem as sharp, a warmth in your chest you couldn’t cite to your cocktail spreading to your belly.

“your hotel far?” he asks, watching as you pull out a cigarette and lighter from your bag.

“nope,” you answer after taking a drag, “just a couple of blocks.” you hold the cigarette out to him, much like the first time, the only time, you had shared one.

“not even a month in and you’re tryna make me break my new year’s resolution,” he mock scolds, taking it in hand. “i’ll walk you back. for safety,” he continues with a nod, signaling you to lead the way.

you roll you eyes, “drunk ciggies don’t count, rochambeau. that’s all i’m smoking nowadays, anyway.”

he huffs out a incredulous rochambeau? as he exhales, before coming to a stop, “wait are you drunk?”

“not even buzzed,” you answer—a half truth, you were buzzing, but not from the alcohol. “you?”

“nope,” he answers.

you walk in silence back to your hotel, breaths coming out in puffs of air from the cold and puffs of smoke from the shared cigarette. after crossing a street, robby maneuvers you to the inside of the sidewalk with a large hand on the small of your back—he leaves it there for the remainder of the walk, feels scalding even through your jacket.

“this is me,” you say as you stop in front of the hotel, rocking back on your heels. robby only nods, looking up at the brick facade and ornate windows, hands in his pockets.

feeling brave, feeling the lingering heat from his palm on your back, the taste of your indirect kiss, you ask, “you…wanna come up?”

he turns back to you and says, “yes.”

———

your back hit the hotel room door with a thud the second it was closed, robby’s large hands on either side of your face, lips crashing into yours. the kiss wasn’t messy, it wasn’t necessarily chaste, but it was deep, full of longing, full of months—god it’s only been months of knowing each other—of unspoken truths, slowly circling around the feelings you both shared.

unzipping his coat, you reach up his stomach to his shoulders, pushing it off, causing his hands to fall from your face. he uses them then to push off your own jacket, reaching back out with one hand around your waist, the other to the side of your neck, to lead you further into the room, lips never parting until you where fully inside.

as you kick off your shoes, you flick on the bedside lamp, filling the room with a soft warm glow. in the dim light, you could see robby’s cheeks glow warm, him struggling to kick off his final boot. cute, you think.

meeting each other’s gaze again, he stood back to full height, stepping closer to you, chest to chest, mouths not touching, but close enough to share air.

he hesitates, hands hovering at the side of your waist. “tell me you want this,” he rumbles, his gaze moving between your eyes and lips.

you inch closer, lips brushing, and whisper, “i want this.”

that’s all it took to make his crash back into you, hands gripping tightly to your waist, rucking your blouse up from out of your slacks, your palms gripping at his solid chest. he begins blindly unbuttoning the top, quickly get frustrated with the delicate buttons.

“don’t rip it, i stole it from my roommate’s girlfriend,” you say against his mouth, replacing his hands to make swift work of the buttons.

“i thought you said they broke up,” he says, now mouthing at your neck. you wondered what his beard would feel like between your thighs.

“they’re in the on-again era,” you say breathily, shrugging off the top, suddenly realizing you’re wearing an old bralette—pink and lacy, but visibly well worn, not doing much more than a sports bra for your tits. robby didn’t seem to mind though, mouth trailing lower to bite at the top of each breast.

pulling his head back up for a kiss, his hands glide up from your waist, finders brushing up under the band of your bralette, one thumb swiping gently at the fullness. he then moves the bralette up, revealing your tits, before pulling it over your head, your raised arms landing on the tops of his wide shoulders.

robby takes half a step back, taking in the view—soft and supple, goosebumps rising where his fingers skim over the swell of one breast, nipples hardening in the exposed air. he bends down again, palming at one boob, mouth latching onto the other, sucking hard at your nipple.

you let out a gasp at his ministrations continue, tongue swirling around the nipple in this mouth, fingers tweaking the other.

“alright, alright,” you let out a breathy laugh, tapping at his arm. “your turn, big guy. tit-for-tat. get this off,” you joke, reaching down at the hem of his shirt, knuckles brushing over the coarse hairs trailing down his belly.

he stands up with amusement in his eyes before pulling the back of his henley up over his head in one smooth movement.

now it was your turn to stare. wide shoulders connect to thick arms and a solid chest, dark hair dusting his pecs, a gold chain with a star of david pendant lays between them. the hair trails further down to his soft stomach, hair thickening under his belly button, leading down into his waistband. you want to eat him alive—so you try. you step forward and bite at the meat of a pec, nails sinking into the softness of his belly, scratching up and down, fingertips just barley dipping into his pants.

“this is what gets you goin’, huh?” he chuckles, the baritone vibrations rattle your teeth.

you release your mouth, laving your tongue over the intentions your teeth left, sealing it with a kiss in the middle. “you have no idea,” you smile back up, your pupils blown wide, shining in the dim light.

robby brings you in for another kiss, this one now messy, desperate, tongue reaching into your mouth to lick every inch. his hands reach for your slacks, undoing the clasps, you helping him shimmy them down your legs. large palms squeeze at the meat of your ass, kneading and pulling hard enough to leave bruises where his fingertips lay.

breaking the kiss to look down at you, he chuckles, “these are cute,” before reaching his index finger into one leg hole and snapping the elastic. you look down—oh god, simple cotton bikini briefs, green with a little ladybug pattern.

“oh my god!” you say half embarrassed, half amused, “they’re comfy, okay! it’s not like i planned on anyone seeing them, otherwise i woulda packed something sexy.”

he brought his hands back down to your ass, sliding below to your thighs, before picking you up. your legs wrap around his waist as you let your a surprised squeal.

walking to the bed he sits at the head, bringing you down with him to straddle his lap. “mmm? these are sexy,” he chuckles, thumbs trailing underneath the leg seams again.

“this what gets you goin’?” you shoot his earlier words back to him.

leaning forward with a smile, he mumbles, “you have no idea,” before capturing your mouth again.

as your tongues meet, you begin grinding your hips down on to his, his hardness evident even though his jeans. you fumble with his belt and button, reaching your hand into his jeans, palming him through his boxers. you stand up suddenly, breaking your kissing, with a take ‘em off. you get an amused yes, ma’am in return.

robby sits fully back down on the bed with his back up against the headboard, reaching a hand out to you, pulling you back on top of him by your hips. a wet spot appears at the top of his cock, where he’s pushing hard against the fabric of his grey briefs.

you continue your ministrations, hands tugging at the hairs at the back of his neck, dry humping like a couple of teenagers, but god it felt too perfect to stop.

pulling out of the kiss, robby moves his mouth down your jaw, sucking and biting at your pulse.

you breath out, “i don’t have any condoms, you?”

robby slows momentarily, before replying, “wasn’t plannin’ on doing anything we’d need protection for,” before reattaching his mouth to your throat. as much as you were enjoying this, you wondered what he meant. yeah, maybe responsible doctors shouldn’t fuck raw on the first date—date? you’d never actually confirmed that’s what this is—but how far was he actually wanting to take this?

“i can hear you thinking,” he say, eyes returning to yours, hands solid on your hips. “i just wanna make you feel good, yeah?” he reaches up to one of your hands at his shoulder, lacing your fingers together, pressing a kiss to your palm.

you nod, taken a little aback by the sweet and intimate gesture.

he smiles then, “turn over, back against me,” he punctuates with a painless smack to your butt.

you shoot him a warning look, less threatening with the smile accompanying it, but oblige. he pulls your ass flush against his cock, one palm moves to your chest to get you to lean fully into him. as he kisses at the back of your neck, the hand not groping your breast trails down your stomach, fingertips ghosting over your skin. when he reaches your panties, he cups your cunt with large his hand.

“je-esus,” he groans into your ear, giving the shell a bite. “already soaked through. you’re drownin’ the poor ladybugs,” he adds with a teasing tone.

you slap a hairy thigh bracketing your own, ready to bite back, but are stopped with his fingers press down, hard, against your clit. your back arches and legs try closing tighter, letting out a small moan, but robby gives a quick uh-uh in your ear. he tugs at the waist of your panties, pushing them down as far as he could from behind you, you kicking them off the rest of the way.

leaning back you can feel the wetness on his underwear pressing against your ass, giving it small grind. pulling you back into his chest, robby throws his left leg over yours, pulling in back, exposing more of your dripping cunt to the air. the opposite leg bends away, his hand on your inner thigh, guiding it to rest along side his.

hand trailing down, he finally touches were you need him, fingers gliding against you slit, collecting the wetness. you try arching up again, but robby’s left forearm moves and locks around your waist, pinning you to him.

“be good and hold still, sweetheart. i’ll make you feel good, i promise,” he whispers in your ear.

sliding his wet fingers back up, he teases circles around your clit, brushes against the slides of the nub with a feather light touch, never making full contact.

a whine escapes you, nails of your left hand digging into the meat of the forearm around you. “please,” you breath, “i’ll be good, just touch me, please.”

“well when you ask so nice,” biting at the side of your neck, he obliges you. fingers finally making contact with your clit. he rubs steady circles around the nub, his thumb reaching up to your mound to pull up the hood, fully exposing it.

“ah—“ you give a shout, his fingers swiping across your exposed clit sending shocks through you. you could feel yourself grow close already. no one’s ever been to get you there that quickly, a testament to his skill or your feelings for him making you desperate, you didn’t care right now, not with the feeling of your slick running down your ass to the bedspread below.

“please, just like that i’m so close,” you pant, head thrown back against his left shoulder, moans escaping between breaths.

leaving an sloppy kiss to you jaw, robby speeds his fingers, adding pressure, grunting praise into your ear—y’sound so pretty, so beautiful, c’mon, come f’r me, such a good girl.

“oooh, michael—“ you come with a moan, toes curling, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing.

robby continues his pace, his left arm coming off your waist to shuffle your head on his right shoulder. his left hand squeezes around your cheeks, forcing you to meet his gaze, eyes bouncing back and forth between your two. his pupils blown wide, he tells you, “say it again, say my name.”

you give the best smile you could with his hands gripping your cheeks, “michael.”

that’s all it took for his to crash his mouth into yours, all tongue and spit and groans and beard burn.

the hand between your legs moves from your overstimulated clit to your slit, plunging two thick fingers into you without resistance, the aftershocks of orgasm still making you flutter. you moan into his mouth as he curls his fingers up, hitting the spongy spot inside you.

releasing you from the messy kiss, he groans into your mouth, “y’hear that? hear how wet you are f’r me? s’good.” he emphasizes by driving his hand harder against your cunt, squelches becoming louder. the heel of his palm presses down against your sensitive clit, his fingers rubbing at your g-spot.

you pant out, “michael—fuck, please, ah, i need more, add another one.”

he leans away from your face a little, locking eyes, seeing nothing but blown pupils and sweaty baby hairs, brows raised in the middle, mouth open trying to chase his—fucking perfect.

you move your own hand down between your legs to rest over his, pressing against the knuckle of his index finger, urging him to add it along side his middle and ring fingers. the stretch rips a moan out of your chest, open mouthed against robby’s bearded cheek, the fullness tugging at something else beyond your orgasm.

your hand moves atop his, bracing against the bend of his wrist. you use the flat of your fingers to angle his hand how you want, making the heel of his palm press firmer on to your clit. with added pressure, you begin grinding your cunt against his palm, his fingers curling up inside you simultaneously. robby can only look down at you with wide eyes, the movements of your grinding adding an extra pressure to his clothed cocked between you—he was fully going to come in his pants if you kept this up.

focusing his attention back to you, he sat up slightly, setting a brutal pace against your walls, more pressure from his palm.

“c’mon, you got one more, don’tcha? need you t’come for me, baby,” robby breathes into your ear, hot pants joined by hot tongue.

your second orgasm quickly approaching, you feel another pressure rush ahead. “mi—mmmichael, wait i’m gonna—“

“do it, let go,” he cuts you off.

you feel hot liquid gush out of you, around his fingers, down your thighs and ass, your orgasm rushing quickly behind. you see stars behind your eyelids, hearing only the blood rushing through your ears, the unbelievable release of pressure from your belly.

you come to with robby slowly pulling his fingers from your used cunt, the other hand smoothing softly down the side of your head.

“i think you vagled there for a sec,” robby chuckles when your eyes open to meet his. you lean up and give him a soft kiss, sweet, chaste in every way compared to what just happened. he hums in to the kiss, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek.

after a few moments, he pulls away. “c’mon, you need a shower,” he says softly.

having regained the ability to speak and sit up, you turn to face him. “but you’re still hard,” you say, palm sliding up his inner thigh.

his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you before you even reach the leg of his briefs.

“this isn’t about me,” he says. “i wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

you meet his eyes with a small pout, “you did. i do. but i also really wanna make you feel good.” you shift closer, fingers gently curled into the fabric on this thigh. “please?”

he looks up to the ceiling, blowing a long breath out of his mouth. he starts, “i just…i don’t want you to think…” you gently reach at his bearded jaw, moving his head so he’s looking into your eyes again, waiting for him to continue. “i don’t want you to think i’m some dirty old man pressuring you into getting him off so he’ll give the the fellowship,” he lets out in a breath, eyes glancing away self consciously.

you take a beat—you don’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.

“hey,” you lean your head to chase his gaze. “michael,” that gets his attention—until tonight you had never called him that, you barely called him robby—his eyes rejoining yours.

“is this about whether or not i get the fellowship?” you ask bluntly.

he hurriedly sits up more, “no! no, of course not! that’s what—“ he’s cut off by a peck on his lips.

“i know. it’s not about that for me either,” you reassure him, fingers scratching through his beard. “i like you, really like you. so if that’s your only reservation, then i’d really like to get you off,” you end with a playful smirk.

robby huffs out a laugh, but looks back at you with a soft fondness, “yeah? okay then.”

you bring him back in for a kiss, you both palming at his underwear to pull them down and off his legs. now, finally, completely bare, you look to take him in. he’s flushed red down his chest, body hair curled and matted down with sweat all the way down, down to his leaking cock. long and thick like the rest of him, flushed as red as his face under your focus, tip a painful shade of maroon, pool of precum beading at the tip—your mouth waters. balls lay heavy beneath his cock, hairy and full. you start to bend forward to take him into your mouth, but robby stops you.

“if you even breath on me right now i am going to come,” he says.

you smile impishly, “mmm? that so? well—“ you move to straddle one of his thighs, “i won’t breath on ya, then.” lifting yourself slightly, you run the length of your hand through the slick mess between your thighs, gathering your wetness. you bring your glossy hand to robby’s cock, slowly gliding your slick up and down his aching length, mixing with the beads of precum previously fallen.

“jesus fucking christ, you’re gonna kill me,” he chokes out, eyes locked on your movements.

“but whatta way to go,” you smile, sitting back down against his thigh, the coarse hairs rubbing against your overstimulated cunt, leaving him covered in slick.

you incrementally increase the pressure of your fist, the speed of your wrist. watching his chest rise and fall, his brows furrow up, eyes close in pleasure.

panting now, robby pulls you in by the back of your neck, mouths once again meeting, kisses interrupted by his moans.

“thought you’d come if i breathed on ya,” you tease.

“close,” is all he manages to reply.

kissing the corner of his mouth, you reach your other hand down to fondle his balls, feeling them tighten up in his impending orgasm. “michael, baby, then come for me,” you speak into his mouth. and he does. ropes of cum spray up his stomach and chest, down your fist still working him through it. once his orgasm subsides, you two stay there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, sharing air.

“now we both need a shower,” he breaks the moment with.

you giggle, opening your eyes to meet his, already looking softly at you, “and a new comforter.”

looking over your shoulder, he flushes that the sight of the wet material.

you give him a peck, “you start the shower, i’ll call down to the front desk about that bedspread.”

you two make quick work in the shower—“no funny business,” he said, “i am not going to the er with a skull fracture from shower sex.”

the hotel clerk delivers the new comforter—“so sorry! i spilled pop all over mine,” you lie lyingly like a liar, “i’ll pay for the cleaning!”— just after you both are dried off, you into your baggy pj shirt, robby with a towel hanging low on his hips.

robby helps you strip the soiled bedding and remake the bed, before reaching down for his jeans.

“stay,” you say quickly, afraid he’s about to get dressed and leave. “i know you have to be up in a few hours, but…stay, please.”

he walks to you and drops a kiss to your forehead, “i was just grabbing my phone to set an earlier alarm. i’m staying.”

laying in bed—head on robby’s chest, hand playing with his chest hair and chain, legs tangled together, sleep pulling at your eyes—you ask, “you promise this really won’t affect my application, good or bad?”

he exhales a mmm from his chest, “no. i don’t get final say anyway and the program director doesn’t listen t’me,” he pulls you in closer sleepily. “besides, the interview was just a formality. you had the slot before applications were even closed.”

“what!?”

———

you didn’t receive your formal offer letter from ptmc until the beginning of march. you had received other offers prior to its arrival, attending and fellowship slots alike, from some of the best facilities in the country.

robby couldn’t understand why you’d still be considering his dumb fellowship—his words—with what you were being offered.

your normal—and now flirty, occasionally explicit—texts and calls turning more into debates and arguments

“the research grants they can provide, i mean, christ! you could publish before you’ve even been there a year! fast track to a lasker award,” he argued to you one night during your phone call.

“yeah, it’d be great on the research side, but it’d only be research! i want to practice medicine! i want to help people, materially, not just in some hypothetical future innovation way!” you argued back. and after a beat, added softly, “besides, you’re not there.”

“honey, please,” he said, a soft desperation in his voice, “you cannot base your future on me. i can’t let you hold yourself back just to be near me, i wouldn’t forgive myself. adamson was the reason ptmc is even on your radar, but he’s gone.”

you blinked back tears, suddenly glad you were on the other side of the county, not looking into his eyes. “and he left the best parts of himself within you,” you said hanging up the call.

you and robby didn’t speak for two weeks, the longest you’d gone since the first time he texted you.

deep down you knew the point he was making was right, but you also knew what you wanted, what kind of doctor you wanted to be—not sitting in a lab for the rest of your career; not buying your third vacation home and spending your afternoons golfing, willfully ignorant to the plights of the sick; but the kind that sits and explains procedures to terrified but curious teenagers; the kind that treats unhoused patients willingly, fully, and tells the whole medical world they should too.

you tell robby as much when he calls you at the end of those two silent weeks, an abnormal facetime call coming through. he looks miserable, says he feels just as well, his therapist having himself kicking his own ass up and down the street. what he didn’t tell you, though, was about the session that truly shook him—him, ranting at his therapist, “i mean, yeah i’d love for her to be here, not only as a doctor, but…here, with me! but i can’t! if you love something, let it go—“ yeah, he realized then, slapped with the obviousness of it, i love her.

things got better then, slowly, you both realizing in the other’s absence that it really does make the heart grow fonder.

in mid april, you accept the fellowship position at ptmc; robby understanding now that it was truly the place you wished to be—and having some old man eye candy was just a bonus, you joked.

you:

robinette guess what i’m doing to celebrate my acceptance?

robby robinavitch:

bungee jumping.

what are actually you doing?

you:

enjoying my empty apartment

just me

and my ladybug panties

and some goodies from my bedside drawer

[photo attached]

suddenly, an incoming call from robby robinavitch comes through—contact photo the selfie he sent you back in february, all awkward angled and big grinned, with the beautiful view from his cabin behind him; you loved it.

“miiichael,” you answer, coy and falsely nonchalant, hands already trailing down your torso.

“sweetheart,” he warns, exhaling.

that night you two had another abnormal facetime call, one that ended in sticky sheets and heaving chests and a quiet i wish you were here.

———

ending your residency at the end of may and starting your fellowship on july 1st, you had decided to dedicate the month of june to your move to pittsburgh. time enough to pack and drive the thousands of miles across the county to your new home—miles and miles and miles through desert and mountains and so many cornfields—

robby robinavitch:

please just let me hire movers and buy you a plane ticket, sweetheart.

i don’t like the idea of you driving cross county alone in a u-haul.

you:

i’ve done it before rasputin

three times!!!

the ominous hell is real signs thrill me

robby robinavitch:

that one’s just not even fair.

send me pictures.

“there’s no robert at your new hospital, not in the er at least,” your roommate said, making you look up from your phone.

you step into your closet where they were supposed to be helping to box up your clothes, instead finding them on the floor, on your laptop, scrolling the ptmc staff page.

“i wanna see the boyfriend. it’s only fair, you’re leaving me for him,” they say peering up with an exaggerated pout.

“he’s not—“ my boyfriend, you start. you knew you were ass over elbow in love with robby, but you two had never actually labeled anything, never used the l-word—it’s on the move-in checklist: number 7, the what are we? talk. “he’s not a robert,” you say instead, “i’ve told you it’s a joke. his last name is robinavitch.”

as you step back into your bedroom, you hear them shout, “dr. daddy boba eyes over here? okay, girl. and gasp! chief of emergency medicine, you dirty minx!”

———

knocking at the front door interrupts your unpacking with a start. glancing at the clock on the stove, you were tempted to grab your cast iron skillet as a weapon, but made your way toward the door empty handed. robby had told you this was a good apartment in a safe neighborhood when he helped you house hunt, but who the hell would be knocking at your door at 9:57 at night if not an ax murderer?

slowly peering through the peephole, you see who—robby, one hand on the strap of his backpack, the other holding a plastic takeout bag, rocking back and forth on his heels.

you fling the door open. “sorry sir, i’ve already witnessed jehovah and he got a restraining order,” you deadpan.

“so sorry, ma’am. i’ll just take this food and be on my way,” he jests back, turning to leave. before he makes it a full step, you grab him by the front of his shirt and yank him into you for a bruising kiss. he quickly drops the bags to the ground, wrapping his arms around your middle, lifting you off your feet.

“hi,” he says once you break the kiss for air, smiling.

“hi,” you reply as he sets you back down and kicks the door shut, a small smile joining his. six months with only phone calls and facetimes and texts, you didn’t realize you missed him this much, not until he was standing in front of you, despite you talking nearly every day.

feeling tears sting in your eyes, you bury your face in his chest—still solid, still warm—wrapping your arms tightly around his middle—still soft, still biteable. he wraps his arms around you then, cheek resting atop your head.

“i missed you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“i missed you, too. i brought food,” he says, neither of you moving from your position.

“thought you were an ax murderer,” you add.

he chuckles—still rumbles deep in his chest where your head lays, “why the hell would an ax murderer knock and politely wait for you to answer the door?”

you pinch at his love handle, earning you a laugh. “for the element of surprise,” you step back to look at him again, “who the hell doesn’t text before showing up to a lady’s house in the middle of the night?”

he chuckles at the scowl on your face, reaching up to smooth the furrow between your brows with his thumb. “it’s 10,” he starts, hands moving to rest on your jaw, thumbing at the apples of your cheek. “and a guy whose shift ran over, showered at the hospital, sped to the restaurant to pick up food before they closed, and forgot to text because he was so embarrassingly excited to see his beautiful girlfriend who he hasn’t gotten to touch in six months, that’s who.”

you felt your cheeks heat—girlfriend. “that’s not playing fair, michael,” you whine, grabbing each of his wrists in your hands, tearing your gaze from his.

“ohhoho, you callin’ me michael before we’ve eaten dinner? that’s not playing fair, sweetheart,” he teases, head tilting to meet your eyes again.

when he does, you confess, “you called me your girlfriend. i didn’t—you’ve never done that.”

“is that…not what we’ve been doing? is that not what you want?” you feel his hands start to retreat.

“no!” you say, keeping his hands on your cheeks with your grip on his wrist. “i mean, yes! yes, that’s what i want. we just never talked about it and i didn’t want to assume but i also figured—“ you cut your own rambling.

robby’s eyes soften, pulling your forehead to his. “i will never understand modern dating etiquette,” he chuckles.

“times have changed since the paleolithic era, old man, get used to it,” you tease, finally releasing your grip on this wrists.

“i think you’re gonna have to get used to it,” he says, hands moving to your waist, kissing your forehead, “because you’re mine,” your eyelid, “i’m yours,” your cheek, “we’re together,” your jaw, “so you’re stuck with me,” ending on your mouth, just a soft press of his lips to yours.

———

a trail discarded of clothing leads from the front door, down the hall, and into your bedroom—the only thing set up being your bed, still pulling clean clothes from boxes in the corner. the moonlight streaming in from the large windows is the only source of light as you lead robby backward to the bed.

the backs of his knees hitting the side, robby sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you into his lap, mouths never parting. you hold him by his shoulders, lips trailing down his beard to his neck, licking and biting in their wake. you slide off his lap, nipping at his collarbone, his nipple, his lower belly, before landing on your knees on the floor below him. your mouth moves to his thick thighs, peppering slippery kisses as you move from knee to groin, biting at the flesh at his inner thigh, soothing the sting with your tongue after his flinches.

looking up at robby, you ask, “can i use my mouth?”

robby, ruddy-cheeked even in the pale light, gives a quick nod accompanied by a shaky exhale.

hand wrapping the base of his cock—still long and thick, still flushing hot in your hand—you gather saliva in our mouth. not breaking eye contact, you let the glob of spit fall from your lips, landing at the tip of robby’s cock, hand working his length to coat it. a grunted fucking hell escaping robby’s lips.

coated to your satisfaction, you lean in to kitten lick the tip, swirling your tongue slowly around his head before pushing it into his slit. bringing robby into your mouth, suckling the head, you look back up at him with wide eyes, his mouth pressed tightly shut as to not let any noise escape.

pulling off his cock, you say, “don’t be quiet. please, let me hear you.” not a demand, but not a request either. robby thinks this may be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—you, wide-eyed with spit-slicked lips, bathed in silvery moonlight, sweet voice like a melody in his ears.

sinking back down around him, you take robby as far into your mouth as you can, hand wrapping around what you can’t. hollowing your cheeks, you slowly, tortuously slow, pull up his length, the vacuum heat of your mouth causing robby to finally let out a chesty groan. repeating the ministration a few more times, you feel robby’s hand on your head. but instead of guiding your head down around his cock, he grabs your hair and pulls you up and off of him.

“i was doin’ somethin’ here,” you say.

you get a filthy kiss in return, hand still knotted in your hair. “wanna taste you,” robby grunts. his hands move under your armpits to guide you to stand, spinning you to lay further up the bed.

settling on his stomach, he begins kissing up your thighs—beard burning just as deliciously as you’d imagined. looking up at you with a mischievous look in his eye, he takes the fat of your inner thigh and sucks a biting bruise into it—fair, you think as you yelp.

throwing one of your thighs over his shoulder, finally, finally, his focus turns to you aching cunt, hot and wet and dripping for his attention. closing his eyes, robby puts his nose against your slit, inhaling your scent—it was filthy and only make you slicker.

the flat of his tongue runs slow from your hole to your clit, swirling his tongue around the nub once he reaches it.

“michael, please,” you gasp, hips grinding into his mouth.

he splays one large hand over your lower belly, steadying you, the other against the inner thigh of the leg not around his neck, holding you open.

robby eats you like a man possessed, like he’s drinking the nectar of the gods, like he could do this forever and never tire of it. he alternates steady licks with powerful sucks to your clit, nose rubbing the at nub when he dips to fuck your hole with his tongue.

eventually you feel your belly grow tight, unabashed moans escaping your mouth. you reach to intertwine your fingers with robby’s on your belly. “clo-close,” is all you manage to pant out. looking down at him, you can see his hips moving, grinding down into the mattress—hot, you think.

looking up at you, he lets out a mmm that vibrates through you. he speeds the licking at your clit, pulling you impossibly closer. holding your gaze, he sucks hard at you, sending your orgasm crashing though your body. you’re unable to hold his gaze as your back arches off the mattress, head thrown back with a shout.

robby’s licking never stops, only slows, working you through your orgasm and the aftershocks. the heat of his tongue and scratch of his beard boarder on painful in your overstimulation.

sitting up slightly you reach your hand into his hair and tug, him pulling his mouth off you. he looks up at you, beard soaked with your slick, pussy-drunk smile on his face. you can’t help but smile back. he leans down to reattach his lips to your cunt, but you pull his hair again, harder, keeping him from where he wants to go.

“‘m not finished,” he grunts, if not pouts.

you blow out a shaky laugh. “well you interrupted me earlier. let me suck you off, michael,” shoot back.

he concedes, placing a kiss to your hip, “well since you asked so nicely.” he moves up to hover his body over yours, leaning in for a sloppy kiss, all tongue and his spit and your slick. he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes and says, “but only if you sit on my face while you do it.”

blood instantly rushes to your face at his words, at how casually he said them. you were no blushing virgin, but him wanting that made you dizzy.

sensing your hesitation, he spoke softly, “hey, you don’t have to—“

you cut him off with a fierce shake of your head, eyes starting up into his. “nope, my soul just left my body for a minute, i’m all good now.”

he chuckles with a shake of his head and rolls over, laying flat on his back, head on your pillow. following his movements, you turn, looking back as you swing one leg over his head, caging him in. you hesitate to do more than hover over him, but robby pulls you down onto him with two large hands gripped into the meat of your ass. you let out a gasp, catching yourself with a hand braces against robby’s stomach as you jerk forward.

robby keeps his grip on you tight as he begins devouring you once more, sloppy and filthy, grunting into your cunt.

as you bend down to take his cock in your hand, you nuzzle against his pubes, rubbing your cheek against the coarse hair like a cat. trailing open mouthed kisses up his length, wetting him once more, you gently suckle at his cock. the moans he pulls from you while licking into your slit cause vibrations to wrap around him in your mouth, precum and drool leaking from the corner. you increase your suction, hand jerking steadily at what you haven’t swallowed.

you feel robby pull his mouth from your cunt. “baby,” he pants, hand sliding as far as it could up your hip from his position to get your attention, “if you want me to fuck you, you’re gonna have to stop that.”

pulling off him with a pop, you place a final peck to his tip before turning around to face him.

smiling down at him, you tease, “gettin’ tired, old man?” it comes out sweeter than planned, the softness in your eyes matching robby’s own.

sitting up against the headboard, he reaches to grip your hips, pulling you in to straddle him once more. “don’t wanna come until i’m inside your pussy,” he answers, expression too fond for words so vulgar.

you smile again, kissing him passionately, trying to say what little was left unsaid between you two.

reaching down between you, you grab robby’s cock, swiping the head through your slick folds, and begin to line him up with your cunt. robby interrupts the kiss, “wait, baby, condom,” holding you by your hips to keep you from moving.

opening and closing your mouth once, you ask, “you’re clean, right?” he nods. ���i’m clean. i’ve got an iud. i want…i just want to feel as close to you as i can. i want to feel all of you, michael.” i want to crawl into your skin and live there, you think.

robby reaches one hand to your face, brushing a rouge hair from your forehead. “i want to feel all of you, too,” he punctuates with a kiss below your eye. “just didn’t wanna be presumptuous,” he adds, teasing.

“you callin’ me presumptuous, you dirty old man?” you shoot back. “wantin’ to fill me up, fuck me raw on the second date?” you add, lining robby up to you once more.

he barks out a laugh that turns into a moan as you sink down onto him. the stretch, eased by your previous orgasm and robby’s tongue, still burned, splitting you open and reshaping you perfect for just him.

fully seated, you and robby pant into each other’s mouths, eyes pinched shut, foreheads touching. finally, you began to move, rolling your hips against his, feeling his fullness suffocate you.

speeding, you felt robby’s hands return to your hips, fingertips leaving bruises in your flesh, assisting the movement of your hips. opening your eyes, you saw him already looking at you, cheeks flushed, sweat beading down his temple. you leaned forward and lick it, kissing his cheekbone, under his eye, across his nose.

robby pants your name like it was holy, one hand moving down your body, thumb finding your clit, making you cry out.

neither of you were going to last, both close to the edge before even starting, desperate to feel the other completely.

hand gripping tightly to your hip, thumb working fast at your clit, robby grunts out, “where do you want it?”

“inside michael, shit— inside, please please, inside,” you whine, orgasm closing in.

robby chokes out a fuck, before moving the hand from you hip to the bed, using it as leverage to fuck up into you from below. “fuck, baby, i’m close, shit! god, i lo—“ robby shuts his lips tight, breathes coming heavier from his nose. did he just— was he about to—

you reach both hands to his beard, tugging so you can lock your gaze with his. “what were you going to say? please, say it,” you keen, so close now.

he releases the seal on his mouth with a heavy exhale, “i love you. i—fuck, shit— i love you so fucking much.”

that’s enough to send you over the finish line, cunt clamping down hard on robby’s length, thighs trembling from exertion and ecstasy. one hand falling down to robby’s still playing with your clit, nails biting into his wrist—to keep him going or to stop him, you didn’t know, brain foggy with overstimulation and oxytocin.

the hand still in his beard tugs at the short hairs, eyes opening again to meet his. “i love you too, michael. so fucking much, i love you,” crashing your lips back into his.

a few more thrusts and he’s coming, hot ropes of cum filling every inch of you, marking you as his, his rumbling moan spilling down your throat.

you two bask in the afterglow, trading breathless laughter and panting i love yous as the moon drifted further into the sky. kissing forming bruises and soothing over lingering scratches. drifting to sleep in a tangle of sheets and sweat and limbs, content now having the other in arm’s reach.

———

as june came to a close, filled with unpacking, exploring, and making up for six months of distance, july 1st quickly arrives, time for your fellowship to begin.

arriving at ptmc, you make your way to the ed—the pitt—arriving half an hour early, determined to both settle into your locker and settle your nerves before shift change at 7. you manage to find the staff area without being stopped, everyone seemingly too tired to notice the unfamiliar face in familiar black scrubs.

exiting the break room, a gruff voice comes from the north nurse’s station. “you’re here early,” the voice says.

“oh! hi dr. abbott,” you say once you turn. never listen to jack, robby had joked. “just didn’t wanna be late on my first day, y’know. how are you?”

ignoring your question, dr. abbot asks his own, “robby here, too?”

keeping your best poker face—it’s bad—you reply, “what? oh! uh, i don’t—i wouldn’t—“

dr. abbot continues his staring, unimpressed or unbelieving, you couldn’t deduce.

“i, uh, haven’t seen him! but i’ll let him know you’re looking for him if i do!” you end with a fake cheer.

face unchanged, dr. abbot huffs out his nose, “got me excited, thought i was gonna get outta here before 8 today.” he looks up with a smirk, “next time just come in together, save me the heartbreak.”

never listen to jack. always listen to dr. abbot, but never jack.

laughing nervously, you gave a small gotta go do something before walking away. not a complete lie.

you had briefly seen the memorial wall during your tour all those months ago, photos of ptmc staff who had passed. it was the second place you wanted to to visit before the start of your first day. looking up at dr. adamson’s photo, you smile as if he was actually here, seeing the curious teen now grown into a real doctor.

making your way toward the main nurses station, you see an excited doctor talking animatedly with her hands—something about an amazing! case the evening before—to a prettyboy doctor, who had a smitten look on his face, seeming to be hanging on her every word.

two more doctors walk in from the ambulance bay then. the woman one smirks at the pretty boy and says getta room! with a teasing tone. prettyboy just flips her off, attention never straying from excited girl. the victorian orphan looking boy just pushes sarcastic girl further into the pitt as she cackles.

leaning against the counter, you hear footsteps stop next to you. “doctor,” the voice—robby—says in faux seriousness.

“doctor,” you echo.

as senior doctors gather at the nurses station, introductions are made by robby—you can’t remember another time he’d ever called you by your title and full name.

“you remember dr. abbot and dr. ellis from your interview,” dr. ellis gives a up-nod, dr. abbot an all-knowing half-smile. robby introduces two senior residents, one being sarcastic girl—dr. santos. “and our junior attending, dr. langdon, who isn’t scheduled til noon, yet is already here,” robby ends, turning his attention to dr. langdon—prettyboy.

he shrugs, “had to switch out cars, figured i’d stay. i’ll survive.”

“say that to shen in 18 hours,” dr. abbot smirks.

the day proceeds quickly. a thorough tour, more introductions, a few traumas. it was overwhelming and exciting and real—didn’t hurt that your tour guide was your piece of old man eye candy.

midafternoon, the announcement of an incoming multi-car, multi-trauma pileup rang through the intercom.

“from downtown,” the charge nurse, dana, added off-speaker.

“okay, y’all, how many furries?” one of the med assistants asked loudly. post-it notes and cash flew his way between staff setting up for protocol.

“furries?” you ask putting on your trauma gown.

“furries,” dr. whitaker—victorian orphan—confirms. “there’s a convention every fourth of july weekend and we always end up with at least a dozen of ‘em. some bet on how many, what reason, how wild,” he ends up a shrug.

you just nod, a little confused but hey, every hospital has their thing—the pitt’s seemed to be betting on anything.

you worked the trauma event with efficiency and precision, leading some cases with junior residents, working other cases along side robby or dr. langdon. the cases with robby were something else; a choreographed dance neither of you knew you had learned, an easy rhythm uninterrupted by the urgency of the situation, the other right where they were needed when they were needed.

as the final patient was stabilized and wheeled off to surgery, you pushed your disheveled hair out of your face, giving an amazed laugh to robby from across the trauma bay. he returned the smile with a soft good job, closer now, audible only to anyone actively trying to listen in.

(there were 11 furries in a 15-passenger van. one threatened to sue as his fur suit was cut off. a nurse named jesse won the pool.)

as the shift drew to a close, you sat at central finishing your charting. from the corner of your eye, you saw two nurses—princess and perlah—turned toward you, talking openly in tagalog? you’re pretty sure? smiling nervously as you turn to look at them, they smile back, giving small waves.

“they’re talking about you, you know?” dr. santos says as she leans across from you, elbows on the counter, hands clasped together loosely.

looking from the nurses, you joke, “only scandalous things, i hope.”

dr. santos smirks, “they’re plotting to start a betting pool. how long before you and robby start fucking and or dating each other?” you let out an incredulous breath before she continues, “my bet is that you already are. am i close? i need a win, i lost a lotta money today.”

if it were about anything else—anybody else—you would have laughed it up with dr. santos. instead, you felt your hands grow sweaty and face hot, fumbling out, “i don’t know what—i mean—nooo…robby? noooo.”

“‘noooo robby,’ what?” the man asks himself, walking up to return a tablet. dr. santos excuses herself with a light oh, nothing.

robby turns to you with raised brows.

“your staff is betting on when we’ll get together, michael,” you answer. the hr papers were already turned in. technically it was out there. just needed the right question to be asked to the right admin staffer by the right person.

robby leans on the counter, mirroring dr. santos’ previous stance. “well then, would you like to go to dinner sometime?”

you smile rolling your eyes.

“are you free next week?”

———

and then princess and perlah my chismosa queens overheard and rigged the bet and won so much money amen

also no one cares but i know ellis would be 2 not 1 year post residency and mel 1 year with this timeline but i wanted them in here so pretend they did/are doing a 5th year as chief resident or s/t shhhh also i fully believe langdon and santos will eventually end up being bickering-siblings-coded in canon thank you goodnight

[deardev0teddelicate]

Maldives; The Land of Chaos / M. Robinavitch

Summary: you planned this trip a year ago when you had no idea you’ll go to it as exes, especially not after the nasty breakup you experienced.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smutttt, angst, exes to lovers, angry!robby and equally angry!reader, TENSION, jealousy, alcohol consumption, oh but there’s only one bed:(, pining and yearning cause they’re not done yet oops, unprotected sex, breeding ofc, mean!robby a little, fingering, oral(F!), English isn’t my first language<3

Word count: 7.3k+

an: this is my piece of work for the Fun In The Sun collab by @robbyology ! Hope y’all enjoy this fic🤭 Comments and reblogs are always appreciated💕 and a very special thank you to my babe @m-robinavitch for brainstorming with meeeeee<3333322

Fuck.

  Yes, fuck is right, so is any other curse word you can think of, as you thank the lady and grab your plane ticket to read it. Fuck. Your seat is next to him, right next to him. If you weren’t so pissed at him, if you made it to this trip as a couple, you would have been overjoyed.

  Not now, though, not when you remember how happily you reserved these seats so you would sit next to each other all throughout the flight. But you weren’t exes back then, and you didn’t experience one of the nastiest breakups of your life.

  “Fuck,” Robby sighs, scratching his chin as he looks down at his own ticket, shaking his head as he walks back to the lady behind the counter, “Listen, Ma’am, can you please check if there are any seats available–“

  “Sir, I’ve checked it for the lady next to you and gave her the same answer: no. Your seats were booked under your name, and the flight is full. We can’t change your seats, I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck,” he groans this time, throwing his head back as he tries not to look so miserable, but you can see it in the way he scrunches his face and runs a hand through his hair. 

  “Move, man, we wanna get our tickets too,” someone nudges Robby gently, and you roll your eyes at the interaction before walking away, hearing a quick ‘sorry’ and a string of curses as he tries to catch up with you.

  “Why are you following me?” You turn around abruptly, making him crash into your chest, but you are lucky he is fast enough to grab you by his arm around your waist and stop you from hitting the ground, “Watch out, grandpa.”

  “I’m not following you, kid,” he lets go of you immediately — as if your skin burned his hand — before he puts some distance between you. “Don’t get your hopes up, this is just a trip.”

  “Yeah? Then why are you following me around with your tail between your legs, Robby?” You glare at him, scoffing when he rolls his eyes and runs a hand over his face, “Don’t do that, it makes you look like you are a breath away from cardiac arrest.”

  “You might send me to one if you keep talking to me like that,” he sighs, his eyes meeting yours, gaze hardening when he sees your smug smirk, “I’m not following you, don’t flatter yourself, kid. Our seats are next to each other, it’s best if we board the plane together.”

  “I thought we were on this trip on our own, Robby,” you cross your arms over your chest, biting your cheek in annoyance, “You do remember that we broke up, right? Maybe the old age is getting to you finally.”

  “Very funny, sweetheart, but the only thing that’s getting to me is your insufferable attitude,” he says, walking past you with an innocent-looking grin, but you know him better than this, “And it wasn’t a we decision, you broke up with me.”

  “Don’t fucking start,” you grumble behind him, grabbing your suitcase and bolting past him towards the chairs without sparing him a single glance, sitting down on the only chair available in the row you saw him going to, “Oh, so sorry. You wanted to sit here?”

  “Forget about it,” he snaps at you, giving you an annoyed smile as he stands next to the seat, looking out of the big window, watching the planes land one by one. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his worn-out jeans — jeans, yes, because it’s Robby and he can’t wear something a bit comfortable even for a flight.

  You sigh and throw your head back against the edge of the chair, looking up at the high ceiling while you count the lights slowly. By accident, of course, you glance at Robby. It would be a lie if you said he didn’t look good. He does look good, straight out of your favorite fairytales, looking good, and it makes you anxious.

  He’s always had that power over you, and he knows it, or perhaps knew, given how shitty your relationship turned during the last few months of it. He knew he could consume your mind all day, making your brain shut down with full trust and simple words when he was around you, having you tremble with pleasure in many different ways.

  You take another look at him, noticing the twitch in his fingers before he buries them in the hair at the back of his head, scratching his scalp and taking a deep breath while you are busy eyeing him up and down.

  “You’re staring.” He announces, turning his head slightly to catch your eyes, the ghost of a smug smirk forming on his face already. You don’t shy away from his gaze, especially not when he notices you pulling on the skin of your lips, watching him closely as his grin widens, “Oh, you are, sweetheart.”

  “I am not,” you hiss, frowning as he shakes his head and leans down to be face to face with you, raising his eyebrow at you when you bite your lip and give him a daring look, “I’m not staring.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  It’s his time to stare at you, watching the quiver of your lips closely and the twitch of your eyelid. There is something hidden behind his big brown eyes, a longing perhaps, or a resentment he’s developed for you.

  “Sir, take my seat,” the old man next to you says, giving the two of you a disgusted look as he shakes his head, “You have a lot to talk about, it seems.”

  “Um, no—“

  “Sit down, don’t make a scene.”

  Robby thanks the guy and sits down immediately, not really wishing to sour his mood more than it already is. He spreads his thighs, his jeans grazing your pants, making you shudder at the barest contact.

  “Do we really have a lot to talk about?” He nudges your knee with his, trying to lighten your mood even though he hates to be here — or so you think.

  “No, we don’t.” You shift your knees to the side, crossing your arms over your chest, squeezing your eyes shut when you feel him let out an annoyed sigh. You do have a lot to talk about. There are many, many things you should talk about, like how his jealousy would piss you off, and he would leave for the night when you confronted him about it. Yeah, you definitely have a lot to talk about, but you don’t want to. Not now. “What are you doing here, Robby?”

  “Going on a trip I’ve paid for?”

  “I had to beg you to pay for your half because you thought we should relax and enjoy our time in the house, yet here you are dragging your ass all the way over to the Maldives.”

  “What is your point, kid?” He turns around fully in his seat to look at you, the lighthearted intentions gone as his tone drops, “I’m here now, you can’t get rid of me, I’m going on this trip.”

  “Don’t call me kid, Robby, I fucking hate it.” You don’t, you just hate how many memories it brings back. “And that’s my point! Why are you going? It’s not like you’re dying to experience this. So? Are you here just to make my life hell?”

  “I deserve this break as much as you do, if not more, kid.” You roll your eyes as he leans on the back of his chair, looking forward, “Not everything is about you.”

  “Oh, hahaha, of course it isn’t.” You sound just like him, and you know it irks him; he has rubbed his personality all over you, and it isn’t a good thing. “But this time it is, isn’t it, Robby? You always say you are too tired, that nothing can ever be good enough to leave the town for a break, but you are here.”

  “I won’t leave because you’re bitching in my ear, I won’t. We will go there and you’ll see me every fucking hour for four days. Get ready for it, sweetheart.”

  “I fucking hate you.”

  “No, you don’t,” he smirks at you, side eyeing you, watching how you seethe silently, “You actually love me, which is really embarrassing for someone who tries to act tough all the time.”

  “I only act like that around you ‘cause you hurt me, asshole,” you spit the words out, throwing one leg over the other, knocking his knee harshly, giving him a fake pitiful look, “Oh, no, sorry, did I hurt you? Boo-fucking-hoo, Robby. I don’t care, just like how you didn’t care.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he says, clutching his knees, rubbing his palm over the place you just hit, inhaling deeply, “Your efforts are in vain, kid. Good luck.”

  “Fuck you,” you hiss, standing up to grab your suitcase when you hear your boarding announcement start through the speakers, “I’m gonna make this trip hell for you.”

  “I would like to see you try.”

  •••

  “Ma’am, I need you to check the villas again. I’m sure there is at least one villa with two bedrooms. I’m begging you, please.”

  “Look, Mrs. Robinavitch—“ you glare at her so hard you are sure your eyes are about to pop out of your skull, but she isn’t phased, she only keeps talking, “We are fully booked, meaning there is no other option for you other than the villa you chose a year ago. Okay? Please enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you,” Robby cuts you off before you start begging the receptionist more than you already have, grabbing the key cards and pointing at the driver who is waiting for you to get in the cart to take you to your villa.

  Robby extends his hand to you after you thank the lady and walk away, but you slap it away and get in the cart without glancing at him, hearing his sharp laughter as he takes the seat next to you, grabbing the front seat when the driver starts taking you to your assigned spot.

  “So I was thinking—“

  “We’re fucked already—“

  “Can you listen for a second? You’ve become so miserable since you started your senior year,” Robby says, looking at you from beneath his lashes, “I was wondering if we could still do—“

  “I’ve always been miserable, and no, we can’t do the shit we booked a year ago when we were too gooey for each other. I’m not gonna go on a date on the beach with you.”

  “We paid… two thousand dollars for that one—“

  “We did?!” You gasp, hiding your face in your hands when Robby nods, “We can’t go.”

  “We have to—“

  “We don’t! We can just… go our separate ways! We don’t need to do anything together—“

  “This is your villa, Mr. Robinavitch.” The cart stops in front of a deluxe over-water villa, and you are reminded by how real this trip actually is, “I’ll bring in your stuff, please, enjoy.”

  You jump down instantly, snatching the key cards from Robby before marching towards the door, swiping the card, and entering the villa; it’s huge. There is a full-length mirror in the hallway, one bathroom on your left, and a few steps to reach the bedroom.

  “Robby?”

  You stand there, in the middle of the room with a defeated look on your face, hands on your hips as you stare at the California King bed right in front of you — huge, blindingly white, clean and ready to be used.

  You could have gotten the best dick of your life if you hadn’t broken up with the man behind you.

  “You’re taking the couch,” you point at the foot of the bed, walking on the patio that connects to the ocean with a staircase, “Ooo, lovely.”

  “I’m not taking the couch,” he follows you, sitting on the said couch, putting his ankle on his knee as he spreads his arms over the back of the cushions, looking at you while you have your back to him. If only he could do it without being reminded of how you weren’t his anymore.

  “Yes, you are, it’s not up for debate.” You turn around, leaning back on the railing, mimicking Robby’s smile, “The bed’s mine after the shit you put me through, so—“

  “The bed is big enough for five grown adults; you don’t need all that space for yourself.”

  “Yes, I do. You sleep on the couch.”

  “Nope,” he shakes his head, walking toward you, standing in front of you, close enough that you can smell his cologne, “I’ll sleep right next to you.”

  “I hate you,” you grin at him, puffing out your chest and taking a step closer to him, his tummy barely brushing against yours, but you can feel the warmth of his body already.

  “I hate you more, sweetheart.”

  •••

  You take off your clothes the moment Robby slips inside the shower, tiptoeing toward the outside pool you have on the patio next to the staircase leading into the ocean.

  Robby being here won’t change your plans. You wanted to skinny dip in a clean pool and watch the sunset a year ago, and you still do. So, without caring about Robby — you definitely care, it’s kind of a show now — you slip into the warm water, sighing at the feeling enveloping your body.

  You lean on the edge of the pool, resting your head on your forearms while you watch the clouds change colors as they move in the sky. This is exactly why you planned this trip a year ago. The calmness, the silence, the soft breeze, and the smell of the ocean. And a smoking hot ex in the shower.

  Yup. Totally how you imagined it.

  You hear his footsteps: slow, deliberate, and determined. There it is, the beating of your heart and the hope that turns into reality when he approaches the patio. You have set up the steps for him to follow, and he does.

  “Enjoying the view?” He asks, joining you in the pool, but he doesn’t swim to your side; instead, he mimics his earlier pose, leaning on his elbows on the edge of the pool.

  “Yeah, until you came and ruined my moment of peace.” 

  Big mistake, you shouldn’t have turned around to look at him. Fuck, fuuuuuuck, he looks good. Naked as the day he was born, his lower body is covered by the water, his broad chest catching the peachy hues of the sunset, and his eyes twinkle as he stares at you.

  “You’re staring,” he says, running a hand through his hair — still damp from his shower, and fucking hell, the few strands that cling to his forehead are driving you nuts — before his eyes drop to your collarbones and lower, catching the sight of your tits under the water.

  “You wish,” you reply quietly, not knowing how to mask your emotions while he is only two meters away from you — fully naked by the way — and looking at you like you are the reason the sun goes down and the moon comes up, “I’m just enjoying my pool.”

  “So am I,” he shrugs, still not looking into your eyes, running his tongue over his teeth — you can follow the movement even though his mouth is closed, “By staring at you.”

  “Keep looking and I’ll bite you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a threat,” he smiles at you, watching as you scoff and shake your head, swimming to his side before dragging a nail down his chest, then digging it in his skin, making him hiss, “Oof, kid, you’re down the wrong path.”

  “Good, whatever keeps you away from me,” you smile back sarcastically, patting his chest before putting your palms on the patio, pulling your body out of the water, rolling your eyes when he lets out a low whistle and eyes you up and down, “Pervert.”

  “You love it.”

  “Fuck no.” Fuck yes, but he doesn’t need to know that. You walk away from him, water dripping from your limbs, and he nearly breaks his neck to try and stare at your thighs. “Enjoy the sunset.”

  “I already am.”

  •••

  “Is it too late to walk back to the villa?” You ask, tapping your foot on the soft sand as the two of you stare at the large table and two fluffy cushions on each side, while the waiters place different dishes for you.

  “Yup,” Robby smiles back awkwardly when the waiters stand on the side and wait for him to ask if you need anything else, “No, everything is perfect, thank you.”

  “Fuck, is that lobster? Robby, we paid for a fucking lobster?” You kneel on one of the cushions, examining the dinner table, “Were we fucking crazy?”

  “Not just one, but three because we thought we wouldn’t be full by the end of the date,” he scratches his beard, walking through the sand to reach his cushion, taking off his sandals to sit cross-legged, scanning the table, “Okay, fuck, did we just— order oysters? We never fucking eat these things!”

  “What were we thinking, Robby? This is insane! Can we, like— send them back or something? Thank the chef and write a gratitude letter, and ask for a steak or hell, even a pizza?” You bring an oyster to your nose, smelling it before gagging and putting it down, “Fuck no, I can’t eat this shit.”

  “I mean, at least we’ve got a– what is this?” He turns the golden bottle around, squinting his eyes to read the label before doing a dramatic fall on his back, his head hitting the soft sand, “We’re fucked, sweetheart.”

  “What? What is it?” You reach across the table to grab the bottle, faking a cry as you read the words, “Moet & Chandon Rose Imperial, Case of 24 with Gold Sippers. Robby, you need to fucking talk before I scream.”

  “I don’t have any words to say–“

  “You spent over $500 on a fucking champagne, not just you but me as well. Were we preparing for you to propose to me or something?” You shriek, placing the bottle back on the table, throwing your head back as soon as you feel the evening breeze hit your neck.

  “I mean… yeah, I ordered this with buying a ring in mind…” he groans, sitting up, shaking off the sand from his hair, giving you a bashful smile, “Can’t fault a man for wanting to do you good, can you?”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not together, so I’m not sure how good you did me,” you sigh, before scooting closer to Robby, dusting off the sand from his sky blue shirt, “We’ve paid for everything, might as well enjoy it.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, I just—“

  “You couldn’t have known, Robby.” You lean your head on his shoulder, watching as the hot balloons go up in the sky and the sun lowers slowly on the horizon, “Let’s just have a civil dinner for everyone’s sake. The mashed potatoes look delicious.”

  “Yeah, and the little bowls of pasta too,” he nods, kissing the top of your head before you have the chance to move away, and he looks down at his hands when you pat his shoulder and move to sit on your cushion again, “So, champagne to celebrate my failed proposal?”

  “Absolutely,” you grin, watching him while he tries to open the bottle, grabbing the knife nearby before he smashes the top of the bottle, making you scream and hand him a glass, giggling as he pours you the drink while some of the liquid spills on the sand, “You’re fucking messy.”

  “Yeah, well, one of us has to be entertaining!” He smiles fondly. For the first time in months, you are laughing at something he does, not out of sarcasm, anger, or frustration. It’s genuine, out of pure heart, and it sounds all too familiar.

  He’s missed this sound more than he likes to admit.

  “Can we eat the pasta and sneak out of here?” You ask, giving him a shy look, “Take the lobsters and champagne and order a cheap pizza while we drink in the ocean?”

  “Do you have a bag? We should also take the wine—“

  “Oh my god, are you seriously agreeing with this? No complaints, no lectures about how it’s a waste of money–“

  “Nope, nothing,” he shrugs, placing the bottle on the table before he grabs his glass, “Well, cheers to our failed relationship.”

  “Don’t say that! You make it sound like we were a mistake, but we weren’t! You were just controlling—“

  “I wasn’t!” He scoffs, clinking his glass to yours before he drowns the golden liquid, “I just didn’t like seeing men ogle my girlfriend. I don't think it was a bad thing.”

  “Oh, were you now–you know what? Let’s just stop right there. I’m quite enjoying this moment. Don’t fucking ruin it,” you tip your glass toward him, huffing out an exaggerated breath when he only looks at you as if he isn’t saying anything wrong, “don’t do that. I hate when you act like I’m crazy.”

  “Do what? I’m just looking at my girlfriend—“

  “Ex-girlfriend, Robby,” you say through gritted teeth, drowning the rest of your champagne before grabbing one of the pastas and stuffing your mouth with it, talking with a full mouth, “You do that stare thing when you think I’m in the wrong, which I rarely am by the way.”

  “Right, I’m not gonna talk about it anymore,” he sighs and stands up, offering his hand to you, and you look at it for a good minute. For a second, he thinks you are about to push it away, but he is relieved when you place your hand in his palm gently, letting him pull you to your feet without a fuss: “Grab whatever you want, we’re going back to the villa.”

  “Fuck, yes!” You take the champagne bottle after letting his hand fall and give the wine to Robby, picking up the lobster plate as you watch him put his sandals on, “You know, this would have been amazing if we had some music.”

  “I’ll play something on my phone when we get back to our room,” he says, following you out of the area the waiters cleared out for the date, walking shoulder to shoulder with you over the wooden bridge that leads to the overwater villas, “Look.”

  You follow his gaze, watching the sky turn into a bright shade of orange and pink, the image of the sunset falling over the ocean. It’s beautiful, it could have been more beautiful if you could hold his hand, but you have to enjoy the sight for now, with or without him.

  “It’s beautiful,” you say, taking a long sip from the bottle, walking ahead of him toward the villa.

  Robby stays behind for a second, his eyes trailing after you, following every step you take. It is pathetic, it really is, to look at you with heart eyes even though he was the one who caused the downfall of your relationship. If only he had worked on himself back then and regulated his insecurities, maybe you would have given him another chance.

  He takes a good look at you; you are wearing a floral dress that reaches your mid-thighs, clinging to the curves of your body just the right way, and the sight makes him dizzy, reminding him how much of an idiot he actually is.

  He comes inside the villa quickly, finding you on the patio, putting the bottle and the plate on the table before taking off your shoes, walking down the staircase that leads to the ocean, sitting on one of the stairs with your feet in the cool, clear water.

  “Hey, come join me!” You smile, kicking your feet in the water gently, “Bring the champagne too.”

  “Sure,” Robby smiles back and joins you, his large body occupying most of the space, his thighs grazing yours as he drinks from the bottle before handing it to you, his hazy brown eyes watching you closely, “You look beautiful.

  “Thanks,” you reply, suddenly feeling shy at how intense his gaze is. You used to love how he looked at you; so full of love and adoration, like somehow you were the center of his world, and anything other than you was irrelevant. Tonight, he seems like the Robby you love, the one who would feel so comfortable and happy around you, not the one with destructive thoughts that eventually pushed you over the edge.

  “Nothing to thank me for,” he wiggles his toes in the water, pouting a little, “I mean it.”

  “I bought it for tonight, you know? The dress, I mean,” You shrug, taking a swig of the champagne before you give him the bottle, leaning back on your elbow on the upper stair, “I went out a few days after we booked everything, saw the dress and thought you’d like it.”

  “I do, a lot actually,” he grins at you, his wrinkles deepening when you chuckle and shake your head, “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I do, I do! But,” you scrunch up your nose a little, “I didn’t buy it just for dinner. I thought you’d go crazy over it and we’d have some fun after that.”

  “You’re lucky we’re not together, cause that dress would have been on the floor the moment I saw you in it,” he tells you so casually you think you are hallucinating. His eyes are darker than usual as he rakes them down all over your body, from your toes to your lips, “If only we were together.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do,” he looks away for a second, running a hand down his neck, “I’d have turned into a beast, you know me better than that, sweetheart.”

  “Well, lucky me,” you stand up, approaching the table before you grab a fork and bring the lobster to your mouth, humming at the taste, “I’d have hated you for ruining my vacation by fucking me.”

  “Yeah, lucky you,” he stands up as well, walking past you into the villa and towards the bathroom, “I’ll take the couch tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “'Cause I can’t trust my self-control to keep my hands to myself.”

  And that leaves you breathless.

  •••

  It’s stupid, you tell yourself, it’s probably nothing. You told him you were on this trip as two individuals, not as a couple, not as anything other than two exes. But last night changed everything for you, and you thought he felt the same. But he has been gone the whole day, the clothes he had on yesterday are on the couch, and his phone is on the coffee table. 

  “Don’t,” you whisper to yourself as you put your perfume on. Fine, if he wants to get lost, so can you. You spotted a beach bar this morning, and now, you are determined to go and have some fun because Robby can’t ruin this trip for you; you refuse to let him do that.

  There is a lingering thought in the back of your head, and it is making you anxious. Everything was going so well last night, what changed? Why did he leave without a word before you woke up? And more importantly, why did he say those things if he wanted to disappear a few hours later?

  Doesn’t matter anymore, you walk to the beach bar, white sundress falling on your upper thighs, and your sandals catching some of the sand in them as you make your way further into the area.

  The hotel has done a wonderful job in making the atmosphere welcoming, and as much as you like to enjoy your surroundings, you can’t. Not when you notice Robby laughing at another girl, flashing her that sickeningly charming grin.

  It feels as if someone’s dumped an entire bucket of ice on you. Of course, he would go around and have fun, of course he would enjoy his vacation to full potential, of course, you were being delusional about making progress with him, and hoping for another chance.

  You walk a bit closer, taking a good look at both of them; he is leaning into her, and so is she. She looks older than you, probably mid-forties, and fuck, she is beautiful, and definitely Robby’s type.

  You feel sick to your stomach, and each quick and shallow breath you take in doesn’t help because your heart is racing a mile. You can’t do anything but watch her raise her hand and rest it on his biceps. He glances down at where she is touching him, looking up and giving her a very soft smile.

  You look away instantly, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you start to taste the metal. You need to get away from the scene as soon as you can, so with shaky legs, you take long strides to go to the other side of the bar.

  Sitting on a stool, you wait for the bartender to come and ask for your order. You wish he would come sooner because, unfortunately, you are sitting where you can see them laughing and chatting.

  “What can I get ya?”

  “Gin Tonic with a twist, make it two,” you say, tapping your fingers on the countertop while you try to take your eyes off the scene in front of you. It’s impossible, even though the bar is crowded and music fills the space, you can still hear Robby’s rich laughter across you.

  What you wouldn’t do to make him laugh like that, but someone has already taken your place, it seems.

  “Is this seat taken?” a man a few years older than you asks you, waiting for you to reply, and when you shake your head no, he sits down and rests his forearms on the countertop. “It sucks to be alone in this place.”

  “Tell me about it…” You agree, thanking the bartender when he brings your drinks, gulping down one so fast you feel your throat burning for a good few minutes, face twisting, and eyes squeezed shut, “Fuck!”

  “Rough night?” The man next to you chuckles awkwardly, sipping on his drink while he looks at you with an amused expression.

  “Yeah, unfortunately,” you take a good look at him, and you’d be lying if you said he wasn’t handsome. He is tall, muscular, with curly brunette hair and flushed cheeks. He is a beautiful guy, pleasant to the eyes, but no one compares to the man you have in mind.

  You glance across the bar, finding Robby already looking at you curiously, his fingers wrapped around his glass while the woman sitting next to him keeps talking. You turn your attention back to the man next to you, smiling softly at him before you start nursing your second glass.

  “I’m not really alone, you know,” you sigh and resume talking, “I’m here with my ex, actually. This was supposed to be our dream trip, but meh, nothing is going the way we thought it would.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Oh god, no please, don’t pity me—”

  “It’s not pity! I’m sorry he was that undeserving of you,”  he shrugs, grinning when you hit his arm playfully, “I’m serious! You’re so beautiful, I had to leave my sister alone just to shoot my shot.”

  “You are here with your sister?” you ask, turning fully toward him, suddenly feeling the burning sensation of a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. “Why would you come on a trip like this with your sister?”

  “It’s her honeymoon, and I don’t know, somehow her husband had a spare ticket, and here I am!”

  “You’re not here to ruin her honeymoon, are you?”

  “I won’t as long as you let me buy you a drink.”

  “Oooo, okay, I mean, it’s better than sharing a room with your—”

  “Sweetheart?”

  Speaking of exes, there he is — Robby with a smile that can kill a man from ten miles away, standing behind you, hands pushed into the pockets of his beige linen shorts. If he didn’t look too good, you would have slapped him across the face. You might do it anyway because he looks down at the man next to you like he wants him dead.

  “That’s your ex—”

  “Boyfriend, actually!” Robby beats you to it: “Should we leave now?”

  “No, we were talking,” you hiss at him, turning back to the man in front of you. Two can play this game, Robby. “I’m so sorry, he has always been like this.”

  “Get up, sweetheart, we had plans for the night.” he glares at you, and you glare back, standing up, but before he can hold your hand, you grab your glass and throw your drink on him, soaking his shirt completely.

  “Fuck you, Robby,” you march past him, not bothering to check and see if he is following you, but you are sure he is with how heavy his footsteps fill the open air, “I can’t believe you! How much of a fucking asshole you have to be to ruin my night like that?”

  “I didn’t ruin anything—”

  “You’re a fucking hypocrite! You can go and flirt with every woman you can get your hands on, but the second someone shows interest in me, you are scaring them away!” you scream, swiping your key card before pushing the door of the villa open, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, pacing the space around the bed, “What do you want from me, Robby?”

  “I’m not gonna watch someone else flirt with you—”

  “Robby! Oh my fucking god, do you hear yourself?” You cry out, “You can’t let others flirt with me, but you also get insecure because someone is nice enough to approach me! ‘I don’t deserve you, kid.’ Yeah, you fucking don’t because you can’t get it into your thick fucking head that maybe, just maybe I want you and nobody else! That I have never led them on, and it was you who couldn’t see my efforts.”

  He doesn’t say anything, he just stares at you with teary eyes, his lips trembling as he watches you walk around the room, rubbing your arms to soothe yourself. He takes a step closer, speechless and shocked.

  “I saw you with her, someone closer to your age, someone who isn’t like me, Robby, and you looked happy! And I understand why you’d get jealous because fuck, I wanted to throw up when I saw the way she looked at you,” you heave, wiping your tears away, “And I thought, was I so neglectful that I couldn’t make him feel secure in our relationship? Did I not show how much he meant to me—hmmm!”

  Robby kisses you so hard that you stumble back, clinging to him to keep yourself steady while you try to kiss him back. There is nothing sweet in the way he moves his lips against yours; it’s forceful, full of unresolved emotions, pent-up anger, and passion.

  You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly close while he leads you toward the bed, his hands roaming your body with one thought in mind — he has to make it up to you.

  “You’re such a hypocrite,” you mumble against his lips as he trails his kisses down to your neck, grabbing the hem of your dress and pulling it off, your bra and panties following it closely — too fast, you don’t even have time to react because he is so desperate for you.

  “You can cuss me out as long as I get to eat your pussy,” he says and grabs the back of your thighs and drops you on the bed, pulling off his shirt as soon as he can before he crawls on top of you and begins to kiss a path down from your belly button.

  “I hate you—” you gasp when he bites your inner thigh, throwing your knees over his shoulders while he nibbles at your flesh, making his way to your aching pussy.

  “Yeah, I know, sweetheart.” And with that, his mouth engulfs your cunt, tongue flat against your wet folds as he drags the thick muscle up and down, enjoying how you buck your hips and grab his head.

  There is not a single thought in Robby’s head, not one, and it shows by how he is eating you out like a man starved. Months without getting to touch you, days spent together in the Pitt, yet you have been too far away from him, and now he finally has you where he wants you, where you want to be too.

  “Fuck, Robby!” you let out a shaky breath when he wraps his lips around your buzzing clit, humming as he starts hollowing his cheeks, his beard burning your skin as he feasts on you. You pull on his hair, thrusting your hips up, whining when he pushes you down with his forearm on your lower abdomen, “You’re such a loser.”

  “Oh, yeah? Tell me more, sweetheart,” he dives back in, flickering his tongue over your sensitive bud while he brings his fingers to your fluttering hole, circling the entrance with the tip of his finger before he pushes in, making you hum and go rigid in his hold.

  “Fucking pathetic,” you moan out, digging your nails into the back of his neck, “Thinking I wanted other men— ah, Roh-bbyy– I can never do that to you.”

  He adds another finger, stretching you open, relishing in every sound you make as he scissors you open with his digits, listening to the way your breath hitches when he curls his fingers inside you while his tongue does wonders on your clit.

  You can’t hold back anymore, your orgasm crashes into your body like a truck, leaving you a moaning mess under Robby’s touch. Your legs shake on his shoulders, your release coating his face as he pulls his fingers out immediately and shoves his tongue inside you, drinking you up as best as he can.

  You lie on the bed, breathless and shaky, when he gets rid of his shorts and crawls on top of you, dragging his teeth on your skin until he reaches your open mouth, pushing his tongue into the cavity and humming when you start sucking on it, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him locked to your body, tasting yourself on his tongue.

  “Still think I’m a loser?” he asks, pressing his forehead to yours, staring into your eyes as he reaches between your bodies to grab hold of his throbbing cock, stroking himself a few times.

  “I’ll always think you’re a loser,” you peck the corner of his lips, arching your back when you feel him running the tip of his cock between your drenched folds, tapping your clit a few times with his member before he lines it up with your hole.

  “Well, this loser is about to fuck you.”

  “Good, just do it fa-aah!” You can’t finish your sentence because he bottoms out in one swift thrust, feeding you all his cock in a single move, punching the air out of your lungs, “Robby!”

  “I should have fucked you in front of him,” he groans into your ear, his larger body covering yours entirely as he picks up his pace, driving his dick in and out over and over, “Pretty boy thinking he’s got a chance with you.”

  It’s been quite a while since the last time you slept with anyone, and the last time was with him anyway. He is stretching you out deliciously, making your eyes roll to the back of your head with each thrust. He is pouring everything he’s felt during the past few months into fucking you, and boy, is he doing a great job.

  You claw at his back, wailing out his name in pleasure. It should feel wrong; he is your ex, and yet, you’ve never felt closer to him than you are now. You throw your head back, spine arching off the bed as the fat tip of his cock hits your cervix repeatedly, making your body pulse in delight.

  You can’t fight off your climax, nor can he. It’s kind of ironic how you both come at the same time, as if your bodies are synced even after a breakup.

  You gush around him with a moan of his name, head buried in his neck, and teeth sinking into his flesh while he groans into your hair, movements faltering as he comes deep inside you, pushing his hips into yours roughly, making sure you take everything he is giving you.

  “You are a real loser for coming so fast.”

  “Says the one who came twice in twenty minutes.”

  •••

  You toss and turn on the bed, reaching mindlessly for Robby, but you are only met with his empty space. Sitting up slowly, you spot him on the patio, sitting on one of the chairs, staring off into the horizon. You stand up, grabbing the cover and wrapping it around your naked body before approaching him.

  “Hi,” you say, smiling gently at him, and he returns it without a second thought, his grin reaching his eyes — it’s been a while since you were the reason for his smile, and it feels great to do it again.

  “Hey, c’mere,” he spreads his legs a bit, pulling you on top of him gently, and you take your time to cover his naked body, except for his boxers. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Wanted to ask you the same thing,” you mumble, laying your head between his neck and shoulder, enjoying the warmth his body provides. “You were gone, I thought you might have ditched me again like yesterday.”

  “Sorry about that, sweetheart,” he says, squeezing your hips, resting his head on top of yours, “I was craving a cigarette so bad, I had to distract myself.”

  “Good,” you nuzzle your face in his neck completely, kissing his pulse point quickly, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “You wanted to skin me alive a few days ago,” he chuckles at your groan, holding you tighter against him.

  “Yeah, well, I still wanna do that, so you're treading on thin ice, mister,” you tell him, wrapping one arm around him, gently scratching the nape of his neck, knowing how he calms down immediately, “You shouldn’t have done that last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” He sighs, “I just… sometimes I can’t control my thoughts, it’s fucked up, I know that, but… I keep thinking about how someone your age could treat you better, someone who doesn’t come with a heavy emotional baggage—”

  “Robby, look at me.” You cup his cheek, forcing him to listen to you, “If I wanted someone like that, I’d be with him. But I don’t want that, I want you, with all your stupidity and your jealousy to some extent, because when we were together… it would get out of hand sometimes.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry about that. I’m trying, I’m really fucking trying.”

  “That’s amazing, and we will talk about it later when we get back to Pittsburgh, okay? Let’s just enjoy our time for now.” You kiss him softly, and he reciprocates without hesitation, but the moment is cut short when Robby pulls back suddenly.

  “We have to go out in a few hours.”

  “Why?” you ask, kissing his cheek down to his jaw, enjoying how his beard scratches your face.

  “Because I just remembered we’ve booked two jet skis for an hour—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? How the fuck are we gonna— you’re not serious, are you?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately, I am, and we paid for it.”

  “This has to be our last vacation for a while,” you poke his chest, giggling when he brings the finger up to his mouth and bites it gently, “Only road trips from now on, at least they are less chaotic.”

[deardev0teddelicate]

Since y’all know I’m a sucker for Robby and his breeding kink

—

Robby pulls out every time. Finishing on your stomach, in your mouth, on your face, on your chest. There’s only one place that hasn’t been marked by him.

And you’ve finally had enough. Especially after the way he cradled and hummed to an infant patient today while the mother took a desperately needed break to the cafeteria. The timbre of Robby’s baritone soothed the baby, and she played contently with the strings of his hoodie. Robby smiled at the infant, crinkling around his eyes. He was meant to be a dad.

The sight alone almost brought you to tears. It awoke something in you, no matter how early it might be for those feelings to surface.

Like usual, Robby coaxes you onto his lap on the couch after showering together at the end of the day. The TV plays a rerun of a Penguins game, but you both know it’s for background noise only. His large hands guide your hips over his thick cock until the tip is aligned with your entrance. The blissful sting of being so stretched out never gets old. Robby groans into your mouth as he starts to rock you against him.

It’s slow and lazy at first, most nights are like this. Exhausted from the twelve hour shift, soaking in the warmth of each other after maintaining a professional distance all day, whispering sweet nothings with heavy lidded eyes. And usually, it’s Robby who picks up the pace to reach the finish line.

But not tonight.

You begin bouncing on his cock, rising to your knees and falling back down with a swiftness he’s never seen from any woman. He’s too flustered and pussy whipped to protest that you haven’t come yet, lemme take care of you first. His orgasm is approaching much quicker than usual, and his fingers dig into your plush thighs.

“Where-ah, fuck, baby girl…where do you want me?” He grunts barely break through the wet sounds of your pussy sliding on his length.

You don’t answer him because, well, you’re embarrassed now. Too shy to say it out loud. Too timid to beg for it. So you just keep riding him, harder now. Robby drops his head on the back of the couch, the muscles tensing in his throat underneath his beard.

“‘M so close, gotta tell me.” He nearly whimpers.

You grip his shoulders harder to keep your balance, and the burn of your thighs is getting to be too much. You have to answer him. “Inside.”

Robby snaps his head up, brown eyes blown wide. Not so much with surprise. It was something deeper than that, something more primitive.

“Inside?” He parrots. “You’re not on birth control.”

You moan when you feel his cock twitch inside you, prepping for his release. “I know.”

“Are you gonna take a Plan B?”

The question hangs in the air, and your hips slow just slightly. Your eyes are locked on his, and his stare is intense enough to rip out your answer.

“No.”

No.

Just one word.

It’s a word that people don’t like to hear.

But it makes Michael Robinavitch grin ear to ear, his pupils blowing dangerously wide, like he’d been given the keys to the kingdom. “S’that right?” He hums, and he readjusts his grip on your thighs. “What’s it you want, sweet girl? You want a baby? You want my baby?”

When you nod shyly, he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’ll give you a baby.” His hips begin to buck faster, and his fingers are digging bruises into your skin. “I’ll give you five of ‘em. Have our own basketball team. How’s that sound?”

If you weren’t being fucked into oblivion, you’d agree to every word he whispered against your ear. “Mmmmichael…” You whimper into his sweat-slick shoulder.

“I hear ya, kid. Almost there.” He groans into your ear. And with a few final snaps of his hips, he empties into you. The hot sensation of his cum spreading inside you then dripping out around the base of his cock to make room for more is overwhelming. Your body trembles in his arms, gasping with every deep twitch of his cock.

Robby keeps you close, chest heaving as he comes down from his high. “You’ll be a pretty momma.” He hums as he drapes a throw blanket over your frame, sheltering your body with warmth.

You grin against the skin of his neck and press a sloppy kiss against the roughness of his beard. “Think it’ll work this time?” You ask, even though you knew the answer.

He runs a soothing hand against your scalp, patting down the fly aways. “Might. But there’s no harm in trying again. Ya know…just in case.”

[deardev0teddelicate]

Okay but Robby with a younger hypersexual girlfriend is sooooo good because he gets pulled randomly into a supply closet and has to fuck his girl because she stared at his hands a second too long now she needs to come

[deardev0teddelicate]

five stars or bust

a neighbor's suspicion forces you and hotch to step up your undercover performance.

pairing: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader warnings: fem!reader, power dynamics, fake marriage, voyeurism via surveillance? sexual tension, making out that violates the MPAA guidelines, reader feeding hotch a strawberry prompt: here wc: 0.8k

Pretend.

Could there be a duller word? It sounds like something you outgrew along with plastic tiaras and tea parties.

You would much rather consider this artistically enhanced realism. That feels classy. Elevated, even. Very premium-cable-drama of you, complete with a star-studded cast featuring your favorite male lead, Hotch. 

Right now, your subscription includes the exclusive scene of you dangling a strawberry under his perfectly sculpted nose.

Did you mention perfectly sculpted?

To his eternal credit, he’s doing that adorable marble-statue thing he always does, one eyebrow cocked so high it might actually detach and float off his face if he pushes it any further.

And if that cocked eyebrow could talk, it’d probably mutter, please for the love of God, stop terrorizing me, woman, I beg you. 

Fat chance.

An unappreciative viewer is watching somewhere, critically reviewing your matrimonial character, typing furiously on some serial killer Yelp Review. “Chemistry is severely lacking.”

And you abhor mediocrity. Five stars or bust, baby.

This all, naturally, is the entire reason you’re sharing a romantic backyard dinner with Mr. Aaron Hotchner, who happens to be your very real boss playing your very fake husband.

Surveillance had tipped him off to a neighbor who’s sniffing around, waiting to catch the smallest crack in your idyllic facade. 

Hence, tonight’s performance of We Are Definitely In Love, Thanks For Asking, brought to you by cozy hedges, perfect moonlight with enough visibility to satisfy your hidden viewers, but just the right dose of privacy to sell it.

You want to take it a step further.

So blame it on your subconscious deciding to misbehave or your clumsy hand, but the next thing you know, you’re pushing that strawberry past Hotch’s lips, feeding him.

He reacts before he can overthink it, biting down on the sweet, decadent fruit, gently capturing your fingers for a breathless second. 

Suddenly fantasy jumps head-first into reality, becoming a spectacular, stucky, cocoa-covered car crash of impulsivity.

For a second, you forget your own name, never mind your fake one, your mental capacity suddenly limited to processing exactly three things — lick, kiss, bite — and precisely zero ideas on how to implement any of them.

What you do know for sure is that this whole pretending to be in love is becoming a full-on occupational hazard.

A drop of chocolate slides down his cheekbone. There’s a bit of stubble growing in.

You instinctively move to swipe it away, but your hand is caught halfway there, halted mid-air by warm, steady fingers wrapped around your wrist.

“You’re pushing it.”

He’d be more convincing if he wasn’t pressing a sticky kiss to the center of your palm.

He wipes the remnants with the cloth from his lap. His hand stays clasped around yours, parking them squarely on the table. Probably for the unsub’s benefit, though your ego would love to beg to differ.

“Sorry,” you whisper back lightly, leaning a fraction closer. “I must’ve missed the memo about keeping things strictly PG.”

He narrows his eyes at that, all stern and disapproving. “Actually, you were at the briefing where we explicitly discussed that point. Twice, in fact. You took notes.”

“Oh, you’re right,” you admit breezily. “But see, my interpretation of PG might’ve gotten slightly lost in translation. Maybe next time, you could personally clarify for me.”

Hotch’s eyes snap to attention, something clearly catching his gaze behind your shoulder.

You barely register the shift before an arm is wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you into his lap in a motion so smooth you’d give him a standing ovation if you weren’t currently sitting on him. 

You bite down a squeak of surprise, thighs draped across him, acutely aware of the warmth radiating off his body.

“We have an audience,” he whispers, his thumb stroking an idle pattern over your hip. “Let’s take this opportunity to revisit the PG guidelines.”

His hand finds yours again.

“Hand-holding is very PG.”

Then he releases. You try not to visibly mourn the loss. Those same fingers of his rise in slow increments, threading into your hair. Freshly washed, you thank the gods above.

“Still PG.”

He gently tilts your chin upward, thumb brushing softly under your jaw.

“And this…”

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s gentle. Maybe a little too gentle. You know he’s probably making sure you have room to back out. But backing out has left the vicinity, replaced by a single, enthusiastic yes, more please.

Your own hands are quick to react, mirroring to slide up his neck and into his hair. You feel the need to anchor yourself against him because, let’s face it, your legs are basically marshmallow fluff at this point.

You’ve imagined kissing him a truly unhealthy amount of times. At your desk, during meetings, pretty much every time you got a good look at his ridiculously kissable (this might be subjective, you don’t care) mouth.

And yet somehow, reality is ten — no, a thousand — times better.

You briefly wonder how you’re supposed to go back to spreadsheets and coffee runs after this.

He pulls back first, leaving you leaning forward, your lips chasing his, a small needy sound escaping your throat. 

“...is acceptable, as long as it stays exactly like this.”

He says this, but draws a quiet, uneven breath at the same time, chest rising a little faster, eyes a little brighter.

You try not to revel at the fact.

Instead you offer your most innocent smile. “If that’s your version of PG, Agent Hotchner, I’m very interested to see how you define R-rated.”

“Well, I imagine my R-rated involves significantly less —”

You don’t let him finish. You’re not a fool contrary to popular belief.

You replace his next thought with your lips, this time leaving no room for hesitation or breathing, for that matter.

It’s deeper. Hungrier. Soft hands taking over his shoulders, crowding yourself closer with a desperate, reckless sort of abandon.

Hotch goes rigid for approximately half a second, probably debating something overly noble, but when your tongue brushes his lip, begging for permission he caves faster than a badly made souffle. His grip becomes ironclad on your waist, fingertips pressing firmly as he pulls you in closer than close, kissing you so deeply you wonder if oxygen might actually be overrated. 

Your mind buzzes pleasantly blank, your universe contracting to the sweet, fiery heat of his mouth on yours. 

When you finally part again, gasping softly, breath mingling unevenly between you, your eyes flick instinctively toward your supposed watcher’s vantage point.

“Um, are they — are they still watching?”

“No,” he says. “I think they’ve gotten their answer.”

And apparently so have you.

[deardev0teddelicate]

Sex as Friends — Joel Miller x Reader cw: MDNI, friends with benefits, smut, argument, porn with plot, doggy, use of ‘good girl’ and some good ol fashioned ‘baby’, Joel is a cocky fucker but he’s sooo hot

“Darlin’, m’sorry if you can’t handle me talkin’ to another woman, but we ain’t never been exclusive. That isn’t what we agreed on.” Joel’s voice carried through the house as you stormed down the stairs, doing up the final buttons on your flannel.

He followed after you, his hand sliding along the curve of the wooden railing, the metronome of his feet hitting each step matching the pounding of your heart. You couldn’t believe it. Sure, the girls in Jackson had warned you that Joel was a player, but you’d allowed yourself to get so caught up in his goddamn wandering hands that you’d gone and got hurt. Damn it.

“We also agreed not to be assholes about this.” You mumbled, crossing the hall to angrily pull your boots and jacket on. Joel stopped you immediately, his hair scruffy from your earlier make-out session-turned-argument.

He’d been stupid enough to ask you if you’d ‘been with any good guys lately’, expecting something of an ego boost from your pretty lips against his; ‘no-ones as good as you, Joel’- only to be met with confusion. You weren’t seeing other people too? He was shocked.

He grabbed you by the arm, spinning you back into his chest. “C’mon baby, you don’t wanna have sex as friends no more?” He smirked, in that cocky way that made you want to rip your hair out and simultaneously, all at once, ride him until dawn.

You huffed, you arms held up awkwardly as he wrapped his around your waist, head dipping into your neck to press a kiss there. You didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, too stubborn to hold him back, but too lost in his attention to ever pull away. You were a hypocrite, and you knew it.

Joel was your kryptonite, your one weakness. You just couldn’t hold yourself back when it came to him. Sure, you’d made a whole show of storming yourself out of his bedroom and buttoning your shirt back up, but now that you were back in his arms again, you just couldn’t force yourself out the front door. Why did he have to be so damn inviting?

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, arms draping over the taught fabric of his shirt, eyes falling shut. He hummed out a soft chuckle, salt and pepper beard brushing against your sensitive spots as he mouthed his way up to your pulse point.

He’s nothin’ but a smart mouth and a big cock. Your friend Kaylee had told you after patrol one day. Her and Joel had hooked up before, but of course, instead of heeding her warning, you brushed it off.

He dragged his jaw up to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You felt alight with each goosebump prickling your limbs, his thick fingers brushing up to move your hair out of the way. “Be a good girl f’me and shut up.”

You opened your mouth to reply with something clever and snarky before he was pulling back, giving you a look and that goddamn smirk. You stayed quiet.

My brother’s many things, but he ain’t the settle down, white-picket fence type. You be careful there. Tommy warned you one night in the Tipsy Bison. And still, you went running back. Because he wasn’t just a good lay, he was addictive. The look in his eye as he went in for more made you feel like you were special, like he didn’t do this on the regular and you were the only one. And whatever sad lonely part of you was utterly invested in his touch, like you needed him to breathe. It was unhealthy, you knew that, Kaylee knew it, Joel knew it. But you couldn’t stop. And he wouldn’t ever expect you to.

“That’s right. You gonna let me fuck you?” Joel was pulling at your earlobe between his teeth. You gasped, arms tightening around his neck. He took that as a yes, reaching down to grab your thighs and pick you up.

You moved your hands to his face, thumbs rubbing through the grey stubble at his jaw as he walked you through the house, into the living room. You pressed your lips to his as he set you down on the couch, crawling over your body with no time to waste.

It was messy, his tongue against yours, mouth sucking on your bottom lip, the grind of his hard cock in his jeans against you. You could hardly breathe, kissing him like he was your only source of oxygen, of life.

His hands worked eagerly, no time to prepare you like he usually would. He was sure you were used to his thick, hairy shaft by now, and in his sick, desperate old mind, he thought he had at-least a ten minute window before you packed up and realised you were too good for him. He had to convince you now.

He undid the button of your jeans, pulling them down your hips with a quick pat at your waist, silently telling you to lift up f’me, pretty girl.

You glanced down, lips pulling away from his as you helped him with your jeans — it was a little tricky. You flipped over, onto all fours, leaning your ass back into him with a playful grin.

Joel chuckled behind you, pulling your jeans down the curve of your ass and thighs to press a few kisses against your skin, his tongue sliding over the lace of your panties. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” He mumbled.

It was easier like this, he thought. It broke the attachment. He didn’t have to watch your lips curve as those pretty fucking moans left your mouth, gorgeous expressions of pleasure he swore he’d seen in a porno mag before the outbreak. You were his star, perfect and completely fuckable. He just didn’t get this from anyone else — all the other girls in Jackson were boring pillow princesses. You, however…

As you wiggled those hips, he lost all hope of pulling the denim away completely, abandoning your jeans at your knees to work on unbuckling his belt. His thick fingers worked deftly as he tried to push away the memory of the crafty girl that had gifted him that belt buckle; right before he broke her heart, of course.

“C’mon.” You whined impatiently, hooking a thumb into the waistband of your panties, glancing over your shoulder to watch his eyelids flutter as you pulled them down your thighs, revealing that perfect soaked pussy that he’d missed so much.

“Patient, baby.” He cooed, pulling his jeans down along with his underwear, stroking his cock as it sprung free. His free hand grabbed at your hip, pulling you back into him.

He clicked his tongue, tossing a couch cushion under your head as he dragged the blushing mushroom tip of his cock through your needy folds. “Relax.” He whispered as he pushed your head down, big hand wrapped around the back of your neck, forcing you into a perfect cat-like arch for his own viewing pleasure.

“Shhh.” He soothed you as you whined, pushing into you ever-so-slightly. “C’mon, you can take it. Where’s that smile, huh? My little pornstar?” He thrust into you all at once, accentuating the end of his sentence with a breathless chuckle, watching with some sadistic sort of pleasure as he watched your face contort at the feeling of being so full.

“There she is.” He smirked, watching half-lidded as he took the moment to let you adjust. “F-fuck, Joel-“

He cut you off, fingers digging into the plush of your hips. “Shhh, just listen.” He whispered. You could hardly think. Was it possible for his cock to reach your brain? You didn’t think so, but it sure felt like it.

He pulled out of you at least halfway, your eyes slamming shut, hands gripping the edges of the couch. The room filled with the obscene sound of your wet folds as he bullied his way through your hole. He loved that fucking sound, the unique melody only your pussy could make.

In, out, hips slamming against your ass. Joel grunted with every thrust, bringing a foot up onto the couch to get a better angle. “Oh my god.” You turned your face into the cushion beneath your head, hugging the thing tight as Joel fucked you, muffling your moans into the fabric. You were sure he’d probably fucked a million other girls on this very same leather, but you didn’t care. Not when it was so mind-numbing.

You didn’t need therapy, or Eugene’s weed. You just needed a good fuck from Joel Miller.

“That’s it baby- fucking- take it.” His voice melted at the end of his sentence, even he was unable to hide how your perfect tight pussy affected him.

You were sure you wouldn’t last long, your mind scrambled into mush, the only thought being him and how you couldn’t wait to come back tomorrow. But Joel wasn’t done with you yet, and he’d be damned if he let you come before he got to have his fun.

Your walls fluttered around him, and Joel reached over, grabbing you by the waist to pull you back into his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you, his breath heavy into the curve of your neck, blowing your hair in light gusts as he stilled you on his cock. You whined, head falling back against his shoulder with tired disappointment.

It was hot, the air in the room thick. He began unbuttoning your shirt, his fingers working fast to rip the flannel off of you, skin glistening with sweat. He reached up to cup your tits in his hands, licking a stripe along your shoulder to get a taste of you. Fuck, he’d take a bite if he wasn’t so intent on filling you with his cum instead of cannibalising you.

You couldn’t speak, your throat spilling with moans as Joel rolled your nipples between his fingers, slowly dragging his hips in small circles, thrusting up into you. Pushing past your cervix, reaching that cushiony spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head.

“Joel- fuck, gonna cum-“ You babbled, slumped boneless against him, arms wrapping around his neck behind you.

“You can do it, good girl- that’s it-“ He felt your gummy walls tighten, abandoning one of your breasts to reach down and rub quick circles against your clit, and what you were too cockdrunk to notice — the name ‘Miller’ in all caps, spelled out against your bundle of nerves. Branding you as his. Beautiful and loyal, he liked not sharing for once. He enjoyed having a pretty plaything reserved all for him.

You felt the pleasure crash over you all at once as you came on Joel’s cock, walls pulsing with the intensity of your release. Joel followed soon after, breathing out a shaky, “oh, baby..” into your neck as he spurted out hot ropes of cum inside of your womb, hips stuttering in the air. He settled down with you in his lap.

Your head lolled forward as his hold on you tightened, kissing his way up the column of your neck, he dragged a hand up to cradle your jaw, holding you upright with his cock still inside you.

Breathing in time with Joel, back arched against his chest, “I think…” You panted.

“I think we should keep…having sex as friends.” You told him, patting his thigh beneath you.

Thankyou for reading lovelies!! I had ‘best friends’ by the weeknd stuck in my head all day, so this happened — lmk how you like it!

To be added to the Joel Miller taglist, drop a comment <3

— anna

[deardev0teddelicate]

Birds & Bees

Pairing: Sex Ed!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel explains how babies are made.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body parts—don’t like, don’t read.

Note: “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” is a song by Journey 🕺🏻

Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.

Word count: 18.0k

Surely, it hurt.

It had to.

Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didn’t sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabin’s walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.

“Tommy.” The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. “Pleeease!”

It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Miller’s voice rejoin in turn:

“You fuckin’ love it, don’t ya, baby?”

No, clearly, your wife is in pain.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasn’t all that often you got to see Joel’s only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didn’t get very much of that with Joel.

He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.

Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, it’d been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a ward—you weren’t totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though you’d never been anything to any man before.

That was one of the drawbacks to being born and raised in the remote, post-apocalyptic world as you were: pure naïveté. Not knowing one thing by way of societal norms.

You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:

“Joel!”

The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.

Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.

And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didn’t think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.

Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.

“Fuckin’ sh—” he started, voice thick with sleep.

“Joel, hurry!” you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. “T-Tommy’s hurtin’ Maria! We need to help.”

A low groan sounded in Joel’s throat—not entirely unlike the one that you’d heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a moment—and shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.

And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.

“Just listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-I’m serious.”

You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.

Honestly, you probably didn’t even need to do that—the room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joel’s breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, then—

“Ohhhh, fuck me! Tommy, it’s—shit!” Maria whimpered.

“You asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundin’ ya, huh?”

Tommy’s words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.

“See?! He—He’s hittin’ her! We gotta g—”

Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.

You hadn’t realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joel’s, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you could’ve sworn you felt a…lump?

“Fuck,” Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.

“What—” he panted, “—are ya talkin’ about, darlin’?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

You blinked.

“So…go!”

“What?”

“Stop ‘em.”

“From what?”

“Fightin’, Joel!”

Now, it was his turn to blink.

He waited several seconds, then continued.

“Babygirl, Tommy and Maria ain’t…ain’t havin’ no fight.”

For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.

The ride home was awkward.

Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.

What he had come to suspect for the longest time—and what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul you’d known all your life until him had been your grandmother—was true. You didn’t know what sex was, or what it did.

Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. You’d been cross with him all that day.

“Venison and cornbread for supper. How ‘bout it?” He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.

Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.

You shrugged against him.

“Fine by me.”

Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldn’t see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.

He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that you’d been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.

He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.

Then you turned to face him.

The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seen—hell, it’d been years since anybody, but this…this was even worse, more jarring than he ever…

He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.

“Sweetie,” Joel started, low. “I think your, uh—”

“Will you just tell me?” you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. “Whatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think I’m…I’m…young, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!” Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joel’s resolve. “Ain’t like it’s my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.”

You were right.

Joel shouldn’t have been so narrow-minded.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you could’ve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.

He must’ve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew he’d never seen this…thing once before.

Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.

“Well?” you said.

“Well,” Joel repeated, still floundering for words. “Wh—Well, y’know, I…see, I’ve—I’ve been…‘S’always been…”

Shit.

He was tongue-tied.

More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.

And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeans—even though, at his age, Joel couldn’t get bricked that quick if his life depended on it—he shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldn’t interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.

“I’ll…I’ll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?”

“Alright.” You started trailing behind him slowly.

You didn’t sound convinced. Joel wasn’t remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didn’t seem to see it.

You were as innocent and clueless as the moment you’d bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, ‘If they ain’t fightin’, what are they doin’?’

“Who gave you that dress, anyway?”

Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients you’d need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt

“Maria,” you answered, simply. “She let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. ‘S’nice, ain’t it?”

“It looks like something you’d wear on your honeymoon.”

After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.

Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:

“What’s a honeymoon?”

Joel couldn’t help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.

Innocence, too.

“Just a, uh…trip that folks would take right after their wedding,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Vacation.”

“Oh.”

For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realization—what the world was like before it all splintered apart—and neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.

Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.

“So this is what I’d be wearin’ after gettin’ hitched? Like…like Tommy and Maria did?” You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.

“Yeah. I mean…”

Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.

“…not immediately.”

When he had, you were right back beside him.

“Doin’ whatever we heard this morning, you think?”

The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.

Having sex, of course.

Why the hell hadn’t your grandma bothered to tell you?

“Yes,” Joel replied, stiff as anything. “That’s…part of it.”

“How much of it?”

“Well—”

“And why’d it sound like Maria was in pain?”

“Baby, that—that ain’t any real pain, I pr—”

“She was screamin’, Joel! Really hollerin’.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He absolutely hated this.

With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thought—‘I promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like this’—he balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.

Your brows pinched.

“So then, what were they—”

“—can’t do this right now, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naïve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.

“We can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.” Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didn’t slow.

And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.

“Whatever, Joel.”

Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.

Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age won’t be such prudes!”

It was the closest you’d ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.

He dropped whatever he was holding then.

With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words you’d just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.

“Darlin’.”

He wouldn’t get angry.

“Sweetheart. Sw—Hey. Look at me.”

That simply wasn’t in his nature. He loved you too much.

You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didn’t feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.

So what if he couldn’t be with you how he wanted?

He could teach you, and that would be enough.

Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.

“Fine. You wanna learn about sex?”

As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.

How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.

You didn’t even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.

It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.

“I, um…”

Huh.

“What?”

“It’s just…” you went on, sounding uncertain.

“Baby, if you can’t even stomach the word, I’d say we’d be better off saving this conversation for another day.”

That made you tense up again.

As if he’d just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.

Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.

“Joel, I—I want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.”

Well, shit.

Joel reckoned that had ‘pretty please’ beat all to hell.

Your words damn near knocked him sideways.

It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spot—he had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.

“And just where did you learn that word, young lady?”

Paternal condescension came too easy to him.

Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.

You shrugged before him. Hummed back.

“Dunno. ‘S’what Maria said, right?” you replied, eyes locking with his. “Moanin’, ‘Fuck me, Tommy, pleee—’”

“That’s enough.” Joel held his hand up to stop you.

What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.

“If I’m teachin’ you a thing…” he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. “I mean one thing, sugar, we’re only using the clinical terms, y’hear?”

Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew he’d need to keep some…distance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.

“Alright,” you said, tucking your legs underneath you.

Another beat of silence.

Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.

“OK…” Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. “Has anyone talked to you about the, uh…birds and the bees?”

“You mean dicks and vaginas?”

“Hey.”

Joel choked.

His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.

Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.

“Sorry. Penises and vaginas,” you corrected yourself.

Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: ‘Thin ice, kid.’

You weren’t going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.

So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:

“Yes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.”

You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.

“Pole goes in the hole, and—”

“How’s it fit?” you cut in.

“What?”

Joel’s frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.

“I mean…every time I’ve seen one, it’s, um…wormy.”

Wormy?

“Wormy?” Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.

And he couldn’t contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: “You’ve—You’ve seen a dick before?”

“Penis, Joel.”

“Penis.”

He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.

You peered up at him.

“Just yours,” you said. A little sheepish. “Once or twice.”

Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.

“You’ve—” Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, you’d caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.

Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.

“OK, well, what’s…what the hell’s ‘wormy’ mean?”

“I dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.”

“That’s—” Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. “Well, hon, it doesn’t stay like that. It…It gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.”

Not terrible.

Not perfect, but not terrible.

You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him

Damn that smile of yours.

Damn those gleaming eyes.

“Can you show me how?” you asked softly.

Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.

‘That ain’t right,’ was Joel’s first instinct, which he said.

Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didn’t seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.

“How come?” you asked. “It’s just teachin’, Joel.”

Too easy.

Joel swallowed and shook his head.

“No. Sweetheart, teachin’s a whole other beast from…from me showin’ you what I mean. You gotta know that.”

Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.

You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.

As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldn’t bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why he’d need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasn’t remotely prepared for what you ventured next.

You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.

Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.

Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruise—which you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attention—you said:

“Joel, look.”

He did.

He almost had to.

Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldn’t keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal

Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.

“How ‘bout me? Can you show it on me?” you whispered.

Joel didn’t have the bandwidth to mince words right now

Teachin’, touchin’, lovin’, squeezin’—he had that craving.

One look between your legs and the man would’ve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.

Your fingers wavered a little when you didn’t hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.

“Wait.” Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. “Sorry. I mean. You…you want me to show ya, sweetie?”

Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.

You were watching him closely.

“If that’s…OK,” you said.

Well, shit.

Nothing would make him happier.

Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.

Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:

“Is that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?”

Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.

You nodded.

You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.

Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didn’t give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.

“Right here?” he breathed, now level with your heat.

Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.

You didn’t know what you were doing then.

By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.

He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dress’s hem for him.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academic was what this would be.

“Anyone ever teach you about her?” Joel asked gently.

A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him he’d have to take this slow.

“Her?” you murmured.

“Yeah. Her.”

Joel wished his hands weren’t so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefully—cautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him forever—and then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.

Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.

You spread your thighs a little more.

“Private parts have…pronouns?”

That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.

“‘S’called a ‘vulva,’ baby.” Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. “This whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, y’know? But can you repeat that word for me?”

“Vulva.”

The word was foreign on your tongue. You didn’t seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.

“Just like that, baby. Good. Reckon it’s best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.” Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. “Now what’s this called? You already said it.”

“The…um, vagina.” With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for it: two tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.

You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.

“Joel.”

Then it felt like you were pulling back.

“What’s’a matter, baby. Everything alright?”

Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. I just feel…”

A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words

“Is it normal? I feel a little…weird, and…and…”

Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.

“Yeah, darlin’? What feels weird? Talk to me.”

At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.

A sigh escaped you.

“Joel, I’m…I’m just…sticky down there.”

You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.

Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.

Instead, he nodded up at you.

With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over him—towering, compared to his obeisant kneeling—Joel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.

“Yeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?”

It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasn’t something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.

“Means she’s happy,” Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties down—very nearly hearing the tacky sound.

Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.

Clinical.

Educational.

Fucking academ—

“It hurts, Joel,” you said.

“Hurts?” Joel blinked once. “Where’s it—”

Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joel’s eyes widened.

“Right—Right here. It aches. Make it go away, please.”

“Baby—”

“Please, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?”

He did, of course.

He just never thought it’d include touching you half-nude

Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasn’t decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.

His lips were the first to give way.

They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your own—lower, and wetter, but still your lips all the same—and they didn’t hesitate. They formed an ‘o’ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.

Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.

The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joel’s salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.

‘Joel,’ you whined.

‘Joel,’ you pleaded.

‘Joel’ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.

Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didn’t waste time.

“That’s your clitoris, sweetheart.” Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. “Sensitive, ain’t she? Say ‘clit’ for me.”

Your jaw was slack.

Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:

“Joel…oh…oh…”

“‘Clit,’ baby. Say it back.”

Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.

Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.

He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.

“How’s about it? Got lots more ground to cover.”

You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.

“Cl—Clit. Can you kiss it again, please?”

And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didn’t make use of that mouth of his, fast.

He kissed your clit like he’d done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it up—to really hit your pleasure point and make you squirm—when another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition

“Ever heard of a thing called a ‘g-spot,’ baby?” Joel said.

You shook your head no.

With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadn’t slid down much since you’d let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.

“Watch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?”

“Where?”

“Inside you.”

“But I—why?”

“Feels good, trust me.”

Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didn’t press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legs—completely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps you’d hoped to replicate the sensation he’d given you, too, or you wouldn’t have moved so quickly.

Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldn’t feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.

“In here?” Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.

“Right there, baby. Push it in f’me if you can, alright?”

When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.

“It’s tight,” you whimpered.

“I know, honey, I kn—”

“I don’t like it.”

Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, you’d evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didn’t even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.

It hurts, you’d whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.

Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance then—even when you grimaced and groaned.

“You’re OK,” Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. “You’re alright, just stings a little bein’ stretched, huh?”

“Y-You said it would feel good,” you keened, mournful.

Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.

You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didn’t need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sitting—straddling—that spot. Joel stepped even closer.

His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied

“I said, I don’t—” you started, sharp.

“—know where it is. Lemme help you.”

Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly weren’t a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. He’d have to be quick.

So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared you’d had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.

It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give

Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.

Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.

“Oh, baby,” Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? That’s that special spot, there.”

Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.

It was like you weren’t quite sure how to answer for it—your body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.

Clearly, this wasn’t a pained hug. You wanted more.

“Remember what we call this spot, sweetheart?”

Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didn’t refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.

That wasn’t an answer, unfortunately.

Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.

“C’mon, darlin’, I know you ain’t forgot it already.”

Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.

Joel wasn’t letting you off that easy, though.

Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:

“Is this what we call your…clit, honey? Is that what it is?”

Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.

“N-N-No, this—this is it,” you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waiting—wanting to show him what you’d learned, as well—you were keen. “This is my clit.”

Pleasure must’ve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: ‘See? I’m really learning, Joel.’

A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldn’t contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.

Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he could’ve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lips—that was how thoroughly you’d softened him already. He loved it.

“Very good, baby, that’s your clit.” His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. “And what’s this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?”

Your brow furrowed.

Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.

“It’s…It’s my g-spot, right?” you ventured softly.

“Exactly right,” Joel cooed in your ear.

As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.

Joel was certain he’d never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.

He nuzzled your cheek.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

Another clench.

“Daddy’s girl.”

And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.

“Wh-What?” you stammered.

One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze

You were close.

Joel could hear it.

“Daddy?” you repeated, breaths ragged.

Of course, you’d never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in it—that feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.

He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.

Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: “Yeah. ‘M’not your old man, but that’s another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then that’s all it’s gotta be. Our own little special thing.”

Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldn’t control it.

Joel foresaw the question before it even arose.

“You doin’ OK, sweetheart? Feelin’ alright?”

“I—I don’t know. It kinda…sorta feels…”

“What? You got a funny feelin’, baby?”

You nodded.

His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around him—it didn’t surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didn’t even know what it was.

“That’s an orgasm, honey. ‘S’a good thing. Real good feelin’, if you just let it build and build for a little bit lo—”

“Wanna stop,” you hiccuped. “Feels like I’m gonna pee.”

Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than he’d ever known himself to be. You weren’t pushing him away; he wouldn’t force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.

Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.

“You’re not gonna pee,” Joel assured you gently. “Even if you did, I wouldn’t care. You know your pleasure’s the most important thing, right? ‘S’why I’m here, baby.”

It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.

“That’s makin’ love, y’know? Takin’ somebody’s pleasure into your hands and treatin’ them right. Makin’ it…good.”

“Makin’ love,” you repeated, just like you’d done for every other term he’d taught you that day. You drew in a breath

And, at the same time that Joel’s movements slowed with his speech—fingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feel—something stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement he’d had in ages.

Decades, maybe.

Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadn’t had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. He’d figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.

Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?

“Daddy,” you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. “Faster, please. I—I think that feels even better f’me.”

Joel couldn’t have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldn’t allow that. This wasn’t about him getting off.

He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after you’d taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.

That’s it.

This is for you.

“Daddy’s gonna take real good care of her,” Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. “You just lie back an’ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?”

And you did.

When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, ‘What’s the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?’, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.

“Smart girl,” Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. “And what’s this little button called, baby? It feel good?”

You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:

“My clit. It—It feels so good when you do that, Daddy.”

“When Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?”

“Gives me that…funny feelin’ all over again.”

Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubt—that old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.

He tried to ignore it.

He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.

“And this?” he asked.

You told him.

He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:

“Th-That one’s my g-spot, Daddy. That’s—That’s—”

Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.

“That feels good, Daddy, please.”

Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.

He was much, much too old for you.

This was just a learning experience.

One measly orgasm and then he’d—

“Faster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.”

Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.

“Let it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,” he beckoned.

“Come? Where?”

“Here.”

And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didn’t squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hair—as if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while

Pretty girl.

Precious girl.

Daddy’s girl—you were everything, everything to him.

Heat flooded his jeans, and he didn’t even realize it.

It took him more than a couple seconds; he’d just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.

The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.

Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.

Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.

He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.

Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.

“Daddy.”

It sounded so sweet—still as innocent as ever.

You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.

He really, really needed to go.

“Are we gonna make love now?” Your smile was crooked.

Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.

He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.

“No. We aren’t,” he answered, pushing to stand.

He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:

“Lesson’s over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.”

The look you gave him then could’ve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.

“But—”

“Don’t talk back to me, neither,” Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. “Whatever happened today was teachin’, remember?”

You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.

You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.

“B-But, Daddy, I—I thought—”

His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.

“Ain’t nothing, honey.” He shook his head against the lie. “This was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine ‘bout it, best head into your room, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it.”

That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.

You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.

And, though he tried moving fast—pretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happened—he evidently couldn’t make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.

Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.

That hurt just about as bad as anything he’d ever felt.

He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:

“Daddy, please come back.”

Your body was abuzz from head to toe.

Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was another—both feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.

Though, really, you didn’t hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little ‘lesson’ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.

One moment being the most precious thing in a person’s eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you weren’t. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didn’t feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.

You wanted to hate him more than anything else.

You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when you’d sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hours—he’d offered to take you fishing that day, and you’d declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping you’d locate one that smelled the most like him.

One you could get off with, maybe.

“Ow,” you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.

You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps you’d been replicating since That Day—seeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each time—you stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.

Good girl.

Daddy’s girl.

‘S’what you are, right? All mi—

You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words he’d spoken to you just days ago? It wasn’t like you were wailing for the guy’s attention.

That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her life—weepy and needy wasn’t what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.

You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldn’t have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.

This wasn’t working.

After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didn’t feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” You tugged Joel’s shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.

Your eyes scanned the room—for what, you weren’t sure.

You’d been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joel’s laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that should’ve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.

Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.

This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.

You rose from the bed and walked to it.

Maybe—most likely—you were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldn’t reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didn’t know what to touch.

What if you just…

Your brain didn’t get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.

Before you knew it—and damn, were you so, so stupid—you had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea you’d had in your life, then took it again.

You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.

It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadn’t the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for a…substitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joel’s worn, buttoned shirt.

You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.

But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldn’t budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.

“Just…go…inside,” you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joel’s thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasn’t such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.

“Hey, sweetheart?”

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.

Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.

A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.

You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.

Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.

For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.

Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadn’t gone near him in days, and the last things you’d said to him, apart from, ‘No, thanks’ when he’d asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, ‘Whatever’ and ‘Leave me alone.’

You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?

Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that he’d caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished you’d been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.

“Sittin’ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see ‘em,” Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. “Lupines, just like you like.”

You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.

“Thank you, Joel. I appreciate that.”

And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cagey—maybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouraged—Joel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.

“I’ll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, I’ll show you how to whittle. How’s that sound?” The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.

You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.

With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:

“I wanna try learnin’ on my own first. That’s what I’ve been doing, sittin’ here and admiring your handiwork.”

Lie.

“Get started in the kitchen, and I’ll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, um…push-cut technique I read about.”

Whatever that fucking means.

You’d heard Joel mention it maybe once.

In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldn’t notice that you weren’t wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.

“Well, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.”

Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife

If looks could kill, the man would’ve dropped on the spot.

Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldn’t budge an inch.

Joel held his project up to the light.

“See…whatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.” He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. “Wrist is always steady.”

Just shoot you in the head.

Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.

Then nothing.

‘This was wrong.’

“Wanna try it out yourself?”

Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.

Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.

“Gonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why don’t you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?” he pressed. He didn’t blink.

For a second, your world stood still.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Meanwhile, Joel’s was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a ‘give it’ motion.

You didn’t think—probably couldn’t have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.

You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.

Joel’s expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that you’d retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.

Amused, even.

“I’m sorry,” you spit out. “It’s…It’s gross, I know. I’m—”

“—not mad at you, darlin’. Ain’t a thing to be sorry for.”

Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.

His expression softened even more, if that were possible.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, darlin’. This is my fault.”

You stood.

You didn’t wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.

Pleading with you gently.

“Baby—”

“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, all rancor and heat. “Quit callin’ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlin’, and whatever other name you think’ll make this all OK again.”

You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: “Wouldn’t hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!”

Joel’s expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind it—he wanted to reach out and touch you—but he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.

“Wasn’t nothin’…nothin’ wrong that you did,” he croaked.

“Was it?” you said, voice cracking in the same way. “Because you haven’t been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.”

“‘Cause I was in the wrong. I shouldn’t have done any of those things and…and stolen your innocence from you.”

“But I asked you to!”

“Don’t make no difference. ‘M’too old, and I shouldn’t—”

“—leave me to feel like I’m an idiot!”

“You’re not—”

“Like I’m broken and useless and stupid.”

You probably could’ve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joel’s expression only would’ve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.

He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.

“Baby, you gotta…” He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. “Believe me, ain’t none of that true. Wasn’t nothin’ you did—and you shouldn’t feel like you need to be usin’ my woodworking tools, neither…Should be somethin’…real.”

You couldn’t read his expression at the last.

Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.

“So show me,” you said. “Teach me.”

Your voice was weak. His lowered.

“You know why I can’t do that.”

Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a father’s, and didn’t budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.

And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:

“I stopped into town. Got you this.”

A little hand-held mirror.

You took it.

What for?

And you asked him that.

Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.

The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.

You took a seat on the bed.

Joel’s bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didn’t have to think about it.

“Like this?” you asked him.

Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bed—facing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered then—he scrubbed a hand down his beard.

He stared no lower than your collarbone.

You sat the mirror between your legs.

“Not here,” Joel said, jaw clenched.

The glass was rounded with a handle.

Perfect for holding it an inch away from—

“Baby,” Joel cut in, a little more choked. “I meant alone.”

“Then go.”

You were tired of feeling spineless—something naïve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didn’t change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didn’t want to see this, so be it.

You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.

The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.

She was pretty. Plush. Simple.

You’d never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had power—real, tangible power—inside it.

Joel’s mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.

His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.

Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.

For yourself, you corrected.

Your pleasure came first.

“Baby…” Joel trailed off.

He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.

Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.

“Darlin’—”

“What did I say about names, Daddy?” you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. “Don’t talk sweet if you’re not gonna treat me like it.”

You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that he’d be stood at the foot of the bed.

“‘M’always sweet on you,” he mumbled. “…ain’t I?”

“Maybe when you feel like it,” you countered.

You made a messy circle with your fingers.

Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.

“When you need it,” Joel rebutted once more.

His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.

Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.

Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you would’ve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.

A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after you’d seen it.

But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joel’s gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.

There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.

“Want Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?”

The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.

One inch.

One measly inch, and then they stopped.

That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.

“Daddy, ‘s’too tight. Can’t go any deeper.”

“An’ what did I teach you ‘bout squeezin’? ‘Bout keepin’ her nice an’ wet so the stretch ain’t so painful goin’ in?”

That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.

You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers you’d tried to push in wriggled

Joel grabbed the mirror.

“What’s this for?”

With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joel’s eyes slid up.

“Well?”

So this was a review, apparently.

You babbled, “My clit’s for—for makin’ me feel good.”

“An’ where else can you do that?”

“Here.”

Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didn’t have the grit to get it in.

“Here?”

So Joel did it for you.

With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.

He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no one’s surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joel’s was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.

And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.

With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joel’s finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping ‘o’ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.

He’d done this before, but it was your first time watching

You loved it.

You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. ‘Missed her Daddy, didn’t she?’ and ‘That’s it, open f’me’ made you dizziest.

Then Joel told you to strip down.

Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirt—luckily, you’d only done three or four—and you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.

It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, ‘Daddy, please,’ you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.

The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.

“This is…another spot,” he managed raggedly.

Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.

Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned

Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.

And what a gift it was to be told—shown—where to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasn’t so much a loss of control on Joel’s part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didn’t feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.

A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone

Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joel’s fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.

A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joel’s fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.

You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.

“M-More, Daddy,” you whimpered, greedy. “Please.”

No making sense of it then: you were desperate.

Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.

You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.

He was doing it again.

“Joel—” you tried his name, gentle.

“I—I can’t.” He shook his head. “We gotta stop.”

“But you don’t wanna. You’re just sayin’ that now.”

You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.

The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like he’d witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.

Groaned.

You must’ve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently

Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.

That hadn’t been your intention. You’d meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldn’t be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You weren’t sure what this meant, but you couldn’t help but recall the noise he’d made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommy’s place. It sounded eerily familiar—and you really hoped you hadn’t fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.

“I’m sorry!” you squeaked, yanking your hand back. “I’m— I— I didn’t mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?”

“Go—” Joel swallowed. Turned. “Go to your room, baby.”

Your heart sank.

You’d run him off again.

How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?

You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.

His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.

Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.

Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.

“Daddy!” you cried.

Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, ‘Are you alright?’ and, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

Something poked your stomach.

The reason that you weren’t able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joel’s lower half.

You pulled back. You stared.

Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.

He must’ve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that he’d been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you weren’t allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.

For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.

“Daddy?” And it was more a breath than a question.

Joel’s expression hardened, same as it had earlier—only this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.

“Darlin’,” he said, stern. “This is a grown man problem. Don’t want you havin’ to deal with none of it f’me, OK?”

“But I’m grown, too.”

You said it without thinking.

It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.

Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.

“Sweetheart—” he started to warn.

“Can I touch him? Just…just a little.”

Your voice was soft as you asked him.

Your movements were slow as you approached—you didn’t touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.

“One touch an’ you’re done. Y’hear that, honey?”

It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.

And it wouldn’t work—you were reaching out.

Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: this…thing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.

It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldn’t even reach your middle finger to your thumb—that was how thick he was. You probably should’ve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.

Joel let out another rumbling sound.

He pried you off by your wrist.

“There. You touched ‘im.”

“Daddy’s…penis, right?”

You knew that he’d taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.

And, sure enough, Joel’s irises were swallowed up.

His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.

“Yeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of ‘im.”

He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didn’t follow at first.

You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.

A grown man’s problem.

Not yours. Not now.

“Can’t even stay hard,” Joel said suddenly. Humorless. “Takes me more’n an hour on a good day. That’s why I say it’s a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.”

That made you bristle.

You stepped closer. “‘Little thing’?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t got nothin’ to do with your bein’ a full adult—which you are—but your experience. Years you got under your belt.” And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.

Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you little…

You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.

“That wasn’t no invitation, sweetheart—”

“I want you to treat me like I’m grown.”

And really, that was all you could say.

No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, ‘Treat me as an equal, Joel’ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.

For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.

Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.

“That what you want?” Thumbing at your cheek.

You nodded. You softened under that touch.

“C’mere, baby.”

C’mere.

Come to daddy.

The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.

Smiling.

“‘S’what I wanted to do this whole time,” he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. “Should’ve been the first thing I did—that’s how real folks do it.”

Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.

You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.

“Now where’s my sweet girl?”

That you could answer without words. So you did.

Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.

Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.

Gaping.

“Y’know what made him so hard, baby?” Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. “Tell Daddy.”

So he was still in teaching mode.

Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.

“A-Arousal,” you stammered. Swallowing. “Your penis gets big whenever you’re aroused, uh, seein’ something.”

“And what did Daddy see?”

Your face heated.

“Well…”

Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.

“You can tell me, darlin’.”

Another beat.

“Me?”

Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.

“That’s right. You made Daddy so hard,” he murmured.

Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joel’s lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.

In his fist, Joel’s length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.

“I’m an old man,” he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. “He don’t…stay hard for very long.”

You swallowed.

You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.

“Daddy…” you whined. You didn’t like to see him sad.

“Couple kisses from your pretty lips might wake ‘im up, though. Could ya…Could ya do that f’me, hon? Kiss ‘im?”

You didn’t think twice—you treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.

Joel groaned.

He cursed again.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised you, voice strained.

You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of pain—or what sounded like them to your ears—were really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, ‘That feel OK, Daddy? That…better?’

“Ten times better,” Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. “That—That’s what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?”

You cocked a brow at him.

Joel chuckled, “‘S’what it’s like, right? Lickin’ a lollipop.”

Hearing that, you couldn’t keep your lips from twitching.

Okay. Lollipop.

That made it more fun.

When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.

And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s a good fuckin’ girl.”

You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joel’s hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.

Your old man.

You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldn’t begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.

Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.

He twitched in your palm.

“Baby, how ‘bout you put Daddy’s penis in your mouth?”

He said it so soft—so ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of it—that you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.

“Like…Like this?” you stammered. Lowering.

You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.

You expected Joel to be put off—irritated, even.

But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as ever—his member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneously—he watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath

And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain

“Honey…” Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. “Darlin’, I’m—I’m— I can’t last.”

You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joel’s other hand was moving, too.

This one reached lower.

It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.

More squishy stuff.

It wasn’t…part of Joel’s dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.

“Y’know what’s in there, baby?” Joel murmured.

You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.

That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.

A soft chuckle, “Guess we never got to that part, huh?”

For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You might’ve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.

You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before you’d even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.

He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didn’t unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.

“Baby.”

You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.

He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.

“Yeah? What is it, Da—”

“We don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do, OK?” Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. “Hell, we can stop this right now. Save your—your, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you in—”

Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.

“If you say ‘age’ one more goddamn time, Joel…”

And it made you giggle, partly because you weren’t often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joel’s whole face as you said it: the guilt.

You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldn’t close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he looked…

“—scared,” you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. “Isn’t it my job to be freaking out? This thing’s colossal.”

You’d helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.

What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?

Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.

“Hey!” you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.

“That’s a big word,” Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. “‘Colossal.’”

“You’ve got a big dick.”

“Baby.”

“Sorry. Penis, I mean.”

Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his nose—with his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.

Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.

His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldn’t be outstripped by anything, it seemed.

Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.

“Y’know…” he trailed off, low. “Y’know how this goes?”

You did, sort of.

Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joel’s fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.

Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.

Not even just the tip.

“All of it goes in?” you asked him, gaze flickering up.

“All of it.”

Joel’s hips canted once forward, then once going back.

Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.

“Daddy goes in…” Another undulation. “…an’ out.”

Over the course of all your time observing Joel, you’d come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.

You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.

“‘Fore he can…‘fore he can move, or anything, Daddy’s gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.”

“Like you did with your fingers?” you supplied helpfully.

Joel winced.

“Well, a—a little like that.” And he paused to consider his words. “Except, uh…Daddy’s gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he might…well, there’s this stretch of skin he might…rip.”

“Rip?” You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.

Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.

“Ain’t that bad, I-I don’t think. You might not even have it. There’s just this thing inside of some women—a little tissue, I s’pose—called a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, and—and with everything else… stretchin’, y’know, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?”

You nodded, “OK.”

Joel lined himself up.

He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.

Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiver—was this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as you’d ever been.

You wanted to get the hurt over with.

“Put it in,” you urged, soft. “Go on.”

Joel’s lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.

“Ain’t that simple,” he mumbled back. “It ain’t…polite.”

For what?

You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directly—poking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.

Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head again—gentle, but insistent—and sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.

“That’s why, darlin’,” Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. “Only polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.”

And if you weren’t almost shaking in fear, you wouldn’t have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, y’know that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.

You trusted him.

Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.

Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.

“Just look at me,” Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. “Look at Daddy now, alright, baby?”

You did.

You nodded.

Joel pressed his hips forward, and—

“Fuck!” You swore under your breath.

It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joel’s length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.

“Keep going. Please,” you begged him.

Joel groaned. His whole body shook.

“Baby, this pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”

You must’ve felt like a fist to him—whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the man’s mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldn’t bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed

“Oh…oh, honey. Can’t hurt ya, little one,” he said, choked

“You won’t. I want it,” you murmured back.

As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.

Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought he’d never looked sweeter. Or needier.

You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joel’s most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongue—feel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.

“Right here, Daddy,” you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. “Show—Show me where it goes.”

You should’ve known that tapping into Joel’s pedagogical side would’ve stopped him on a dime.

And it did.

He blinked.

Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.

“Y-Yeah?” He leaned closer and blanketed your body.

You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.

“Please, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.”

Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.

He liked that a lot.

He’d give you exactly what you needed now.

And, in short order, that was what he did—lowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.

“Open for Daddy,” he said, without pretense or pause.

No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldn’t sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, ‘This is where Daddy belongs.’

“In—In my tummy, Daddy. Can feel ‘im in my tummy.”

“Yeah? Show me where.”

Joel’s hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.

You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.

“See Daddy there? All up in your guts?”

You did. You whimpered, “Uh-huh.”

Then, somehow, the man sank even deeper—what once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.

Joel let out a strangled sound.

“Feel—Feel Daddy here?”

As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way you’d felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.

You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.

Something more significant lurked under the surface.

“Your cervix,” Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.

Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasure—silly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joel’s neck and nodded your head, ‘Cer-vix.’

“You know where…babies come from, right, hon?”

That question stumped you for a second.

Slowly, you shook your head at him.

And, like the time not long ago when you’d told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.

“Well, this—this is what I was gettin’ at, darlin’.”

Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.

Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:

“The birds and the bees, I mean. This is…it. This is…”

Making love.

Making…

Joel didn’t even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.

“In here, ‘s’where a man stores semen. That’s—”

“The stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?”

The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, ‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s just what Daddy likes. Keep goin’,’ it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.

Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:

“Want it in me, Daddy.”

Joel choked.

Oh.

At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t name it.

You couldn’t place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joel’s body responded in kind, and he groaned.

“‘M’sorry, Daddy,” you squeaked. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?”

Joel’s mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.

This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day he’d entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.

“Don’t—Don’t answer that,” he rejoined, hoarse.

“Please, Daddy. Please,” you whimpered back.

In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldn’t get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.

You didn’t need to ask. Joel didn’t need to speak again.

But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug him—tug him in, both between your arms and your thighs—it became readily apparent his resolve was shot.

His hips drew back and rocked forward.

His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.

No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldn’t take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always ‘my girl,’ ‘my darlin’,’ or ‘my sweet, precious baby’ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.

Joel’s did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed after—ropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.

How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyone’s guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak out—and, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face.

Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“So, that’s how you do it.”

[deardev0teddelicate]

“can you sit on my face while i jerk off” and the heavens opened up and angels began to sing amen

[deardev0teddelicate]

wedding night robby

i haven’t written anything since the early 2010s bandom hellscape possessed this site, but @oldermenfucker post inspired me to send an ask, which sent me into a writing spiral i haven’t had since i was like 17. shout out @aryacoulson also for inspiring me, too 🤘🏼 just had to get this outta my system

robby would have married you any time, any place—at the local courthouse with just your closest friends & family, a party later to celebrate with everyone else; eloping across the boarder to ohio where there’s no waiting period for a license, with only your witnesses in tow, returning to work the next day like nothing happened; religious, secular, big, small, anything—as long as he could call you mrs. robinavitch at the end of it.

but what you two ended up with—at the botanical gardens, surrounded by friends and family (and maybe more residents than he’d imagined, but hey, they’re your friends and his work children as you teasingly called them)—was perfect. almost as perfect as the sight above him now. you, smiling down at him, in nothing but lace and satin and pearls and fuck—

“you doin’ okay down there, mr. robinavitch?” you asked teasingly, rolling your hips, matching the blissed-out, in-love expression on his face.

“perfect, mrs. robinavitch.”

you lean forward to give him a kiss that ends up being more like something between a laugh and moan as he thrusts up into you.

robby reaches up to put his hands on your hips, sliding up, or trying, to slip under the corset you’d been painstakingly laced into with the help of trinity and samira sometime between the reception and the car ride to the hotel. letting out a frustrated grunt, you felt him grip the silky material and start to pull, a few seams beginning to pop.

you sit up and slap his hands away, “uh-uh, big boy. you already tore my panties to shreds. leave it.”

“they were in the way,” he mumbles, looking between your eyes and his hands on the hem of your corset, like he was still contemplating tearing you out of it.

you grab his wrists and move them up, up your waist to set them on your breasts, threatening to spill out the bust as it (really, trin & mira shoved you into this thing like miracle-working, sexy-time elves, he was gonna have to deal with it). “just enjoy your wedding present, mr. robinavitch. just let me look pretty for you,” you say sweetly, as you begin rolling your hips again.

robby listens, ending his vendetta against your lingerie. he moves one hand up you chest slowly, thumb carefully running under the dainty string of pearls around your neck—“something new,” he had said when he gifted them to you a few months back, shrugging to look more nonchalant than he felt, the red staining his cheeks giving him away. “and something old,” as he presented a similar pair of pearl earrings. “these were my grandmother’s, i’m sure she’d have loved you and-and if they don’t go with your dress, i understand, you don’t have to wear them but…you…yeah,” he finished flustered, but you’d only kissed him and said, “of course i’ll wear them, they’re perfect.”

the thumb gently swiping at the hollow of your throat moves up, his big hand curling around your neck, not squeezing, just holding steady. robby’s other hand comes down to to hold your ass as he sits up. the new angle allowing him to hit a new spot inside you, his pubes to rub against your clit, adding delicious friction.

robby caught the whine that escapes your throat in his mouth, you both not kissing, but lips brushing together, sharing pants and moans and smiles, tongues occasionally swiping at the other’s, teeth occasionally nipping at the other’s lips.

“baby, i need more,” you eventually whine, eyebrows now furrowed in concentration.

robby gives you a quick peck before flipping you over onto your hands and knees, you quickly settling down to rest your head and chest on the fluffy hotel duvet, ass still in the air. robby settles himself behind you, your legs spread wide around his. he enters you again in one agonizingly slow thrust—you mumbling a hurry up—bending down to kiss between your sweaty shoulder blades, then delivering a playful swat to your ass, making you yelp and giggle.

hands grip tight to the meat of your hips as he begins thrusting into you slowly and deeply at first, lovingly. but as your moans and keening grow louder, desperate, he drove into you harder, more passionately.

“please, baby, touchmetouchmetouchme,” you moan.

robby lands another smack to your other cheek. “but i am touching you, sweetheart,” he teases.

you whine and kick at the side of his leg with your foot. receiving your message with a chuckle, he obliges, reaching one hand—his left hand, newly adorned with a gold band—around your throat, pulling you up to him, back flush with his chest. the other hand snakes around you to rub at your clit, still soaked with your slick and his spit from him eating you out after tearing—again, literally, rude—you out of your lacy white thong.

continuing to pound into you, he adds pressure to his grip around you throat, contrasting him speaking softly into your ear, “my beautiful wife…all needy and perfect for me…taking me so well…how’d i ever get so lucky?” punctuating each sentence with a kiss to your ear, your cheek, your neck—the hand between your legs moving faster, the hand around your neck gripping ever so tighter.

you feel the ache in your belly grow taut, the heat where your bodies meet between your thighs hotter, slicker. reaching up to grip the back of his hair, you turn your head to whine into his mouth, “please, i’m so close, michael, please.“

he licks behind your upper teeth, squeezing at your neck and whispers, “then come for me, mrs. robinavitch.”

he releases the pressure on your neck, oxygen rushing back into your brain. you come with a cry, thighs trying to squeeze close, stopped by your husband’s thick legs between them, whispering i love you, i love you, i love yous into his mouth. the hand around your neck releases you completely and you collapse forward into the bed.

you’re panting and sweaty, eyes closed, head to the side—nose against the side of your left hand, the one long adorning your engagement ring, now joined by your dainty wedding band—allowing robby to see the blissed out smile on your face. beautiful, he thinks. the new angle also lets him see the intricate lacing that runs up the spine of your corset.

robby slows his thrusts almost completely to a stop, thick cock still hard inside you. his hand, moving from your sensitive clit, palm gliding up your shaking thigh, the swell of you ass, to the base of your spine. he pulls at the ends of the bow at the base of your corset, untying the knot. one large hand shoving beneath the fabric, pushing up to loosen the lacing.

“h-hey,” you pant, weakly reaching around to blindly swat at his hand, missing entirely, fingertips just brushing against his thigh.

“shh,” he chuckles lowly, “let me unwrap my wedding present, mrs. robinavitch.”

[deardev0teddelicate]

[deardev0teddelicate]

somewhere I have never traveled

summary: i do not know what it is about you that closes / and opens; only something in me understands / the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses (or: one afternoon on patrol, your friendship with Joel tips into something else) || SMUT MDNI 18+ little angst, little fluff, its got it all, baby! please! read! all! tags! friends to lovers, joel is touch starved, jackson!joel, soft!!!!!!joel, joel is bad at feelings, im so fucking in love w him, anxious!joel, << ive loved discovering this part of him lately, lonely feelings and thoughts, existential thoughts, 1 mention of an age gap, joel feelin guilty whats new, reader feels inept, but reader is capable!, independent!reader, strong!reader, and there was only one bed sleeping bag!, kissing, intimacy, pinv, uhh slightly animalistic moments of smut, praise kink as always cw: animal death (very brief), some dialogue reflective of self destructive tendencies, reader feels very alone || a/n: title is from a poem / yr honor I literally love this man down bad ok? / originally named “joel miller actually likes you” in my docs if that gives you any idea of what this entails wc: 8k

Joel Miller didn’t really do friendship.

And it could’ve been a symptom of twenty years of the world turning neighbor against neighbor or perhaps he’d just always been wired that way. An introvert with a streak of cantankerousness that flared, especially on the wrong day.  He knew the folks of Jackson liked him enough to call him over to fix their things, to offer coffee beans or a cold beer or a slice of pie in return for the work he did. He liked doing it. Afterall, he liked being useful. It gave him a quiet satisfaction of knowing he was part of a community, even if he didn’t have what most people would call friends. He was aware that he was no ray of sunshine, and maybe a bit irritable. And when the job was done, people didn’t usually ask him to stick around, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t sure what he’d have to say, anyway.

But there was one exception.

One person—besides Tommy and Ellie—whose name he didn’t mind hearing when patrol assignments went out. One he didn’t meet with a groan or an eye-roll. The rare soul he could spend a long stretch of miles beside without feeling the itch to fill any silences.

You were different from most of the people that Joel had met in his fifty something years. Independent and tough skinned but kind to the bone. You didn’t talk much, which suited him fine, but when you did, you were… hell, you were funny. You caught his awful dad jokes and lobbed better ones back when the mood allowed. You liked to learn, took pointers without bristling—though you rarely needed them. And when he offered a tip, whether it was coaxing a stubborn fire to life or stripping a rifle, he could tell you appreciated it. You could shoot straight, move quick, scavenge smart. You were steady in a panic and didn’t fold in a fight.

It was strange— enjoying someone’s company the way he did yours. Strange enough that Joel sometimes caught himself wondering if you felt the same.

This summer had been the nastiest so far in Jackson. The heat blazed during the day, pressing against the mountains until the nights split open with storms, leaving behind a heavy, lingering damp that clung to the air in a way the northwest rarely did. It turned the woods thick with biting insects, the trails slow and mud-ridden, and the nights long and restless. 

You were moving slower than usual, trailing behind Joel as you rode toward an abandoned lookout the patrol log had marked to make usable again for training new members of the community. Both of you knew it would take the better part of the day, and you’d packed in case it took longer: a sleeping bag rolled tight behind your saddle, extra rations stowed away. The dark clouds that were stacking over the far mountain range promised a storm you didn’t want to be caught in unawares.

He couldn’t say exactly what it was, but something about you felt…off that day. You were quiet, which wasn’t anything new, but the air around you carried a kind of unease he couldn’t place. For one, you hadn’t laughed at his god awful joke twenty minutes ago.

How you like your eggs? ‘Cause it’s hot enough I could damn near fry ‘em on my back right now.

Wasn’t his best work by any means, but he’d only said it to crack a smile on your face, but nothing ever came of it. He was almost certain you hadn’t even heard him, your mind a thousand acres away while your horse kept close behind his.

Joel slowed, reining in his steed until you drew up beside him. Ahead, the field opened into low brush, not tall enough to hide the cabin on its stilts. A weathered A-frame, the kind that had once been rented out for weeks at a time to families looking for mountain air in summer, or skiers in winter. Back when the world still turned like it should.

“What d’you say we run a perimeter check? I’ll take south, you take north. Meet in the middle. Blow the whistle if—”

But you were already nodding, turning your horse to the right and breaking off without a word.

Joel’s eyes stayed on you as you rode away, his stare heavy between your shoulder blades. Something about you was wrong today in a way he couldn’t shrug off. You weren’t just quiet. It was like you were somewhere else entirely, moving like the work in front of you barely registered. Normally, you’d meet his eye before splitting up, maybe toss him some dry comment to show you’d heard him, double check he had ammo in his gun or water in his canteen. Now there was nothing.

He didn’t like not knowing what was going on in your head. Not out here.

Still, he turned his horse toward the south side of the ridge, keeping his rifle close, boots shifting against the stirrups as he started down the slope. The air felt thick enough to press against his skin, and every sound—or lack of one—seemed louder for it. He kept his eyes moving, ears tuned to the treeline. For a while it stayed still and empty, the kind of quiet that made a man think that, just maybe, it’d be an easy sweep. He could picture the rest of the evening like this, eventually getting to the cabin and filling the log book with no sightings to report, working through a few repairs the rest of the day before splitting rations and building a low fire inside with you. It was almost enough to let himself breathe.

But then came the shrill of your whistle.

Cutting through the mountain air, all thoughts of finding you and splitting a strip of jerky over a well-earned cup of coffee went out of his head faster than a landslide. His horse, trained to react, lunged forward, ears pinned, muscles coiled and driving hard toward the sound. Joel leaned into the motion, tightening his grip on the reins as the world narrowed to a tunnel of wind and pounding hooves. His heart climbed high into his throat, his stomach dropping hollow beneath it, and still he forced the air steady through his lungs, urging the animal faster, faster, until the ground blurred beneath them.

North of the cabin now, his eyes raked the tree line, desperate for a glimpse of you. What he found instead made the blood in his veins turn heavy—your horse, crumpled in the grass, flank torn, eyes blank and lifeless, a knot of runners hunched over it, feeding. They didn’t look up, he was no use to them now. 

Your scream cracked the air, and Joel yanked the reins hard, swinging the horse toward the sound. You came into view in a break between the trees, boots sliding in the mud, shotgun bucking in your hands as you fired into the group closing in on you. They were too many, shadows spilling from the undergrowth, and still you fought, the wild light of survival blazing in your eyes.

Joel fired his gun into the mass as he closed the distance, each shot punching a hole in the tide until he was on you. His arm shot out, grabbing you at the elbow, yanking you forward in one hard pull that hauled you up and across the saddle behind him. 

He heard the breath knock out of you, but you managed to haul yourself up, seated behind him, your arms securely around his waist as the horse tore through the trees. Branches whipped past, the infected howls fading behind you but never enough to ease the knot in his chest. You were pressed tight against him, your breaths ragged and hot in the heavy summer air, and Joel kept his eyes on the path ahead, willing the trail to hold until they had four walls between you and the world.

When he finally made it to the safety of the A-frame, Joel didn’t waste a second. He turned toward the oncoming hoard that followed, yanked the lighter from his pocket, and set the rag of his Molotov ablaze. In one smooth motion, he hurled it at the advancing infected. The bottle burst in a roar of fire, and the snarls and shrieks of the fungal creatures were swallowed by the crackle of burning flesh.

Finally inside, he let you down from his horse in the stale basement garage. The air was full of breath; the horse’s throaty heaves, Joel’s bullish breathing, and your short, panicked lungfuls. Sweat dripped from every pore in the room, dripping to the floor as Joel hefted himself down to the ground, staying by the horse’s saddle for his canteen. He threw it to you, and you caught it, unscrewing the cap and sipping slowly. 

Your eyes stayed wide, fixed on nothing, like the last ten minutes were playing over and over in some loop you couldn’t step out of.

“What happened?” he asked finally, voice low, his own breathing still heavy but beginning to steady. He worked at the tack while he waited, pulling the straps loose, setting the weight down in the corner.

“I…” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “I thought it was fine. Jasper was—he knew something was there, and I didn’t listen to him. Oh god, Jasper—”

The words broke apart and you sucked in air too fast, your mouth opening in a soundless, gaping cry before it collapsed into sobs. You folded in on yourself, shoulders drawn up, forehead bent toward your knees.

“Hey, hey,” Joel murmured, stepping closer. “S’alright, you didn’t know. I shouldn’t have let you go alone, I should’ve helped—”

“i don’t need your help, Joel.” The snap in your voice was sudden, sharp, cutting between you like a knife. Your teary face turned up to him, eyes narrowed, cheeks hot and wet with anger.

Joel felt the sting of it in his chest, his head drawing back as if you’d struck him. You’d never spoken to him that way before. Never once had you been cruel to him, not even in jest.

“What the hell’s gotten into you today, girl?” His tone sharpened, though he hated himself for it, the old reflex of defense coming too easy. He could feel his temper straining at the leash, the collar of it cinched tight around his throat. Always there, always needing to be held short. With you, it usually heeled: quiet, watchful, content to sit at his side like a domesticated dog. And maybe your outburst had startled the beast, yanking the chain from his grip before he could close his fist around it.

“You should’ve left me out there, asshole. I had it.”

“S’that why you blew the whistle then?” His voice climbed with the words, “Sure didn’t look like you had it.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered! No one—” Your chest was rising too quick, too shallow, and he knew that sound, that pace, that look. He’d worn it himself, alone in the dark, waking from dreams that clung like a second skin, haunted by the things he could never take back and the ones he knew were still coming, no matter how hard he fought.

“Hey—” He said again, leaning down toward you, hands reaching.

“Don’t!” you cried, jerking back. “Don’t you hear me? It wouldn’t have fucking mattered. No one gives a shit, no one cares. No one even likes me. I have no one, Joel. If I didn’t make it back, no one—n-no—” your words punched into sobs, your fingers pushing into your eyes as if to stop the tears from falling.

The words landed heavy, his jaw tightening against the ache. “That ain’t true, darlin’—”

“You’re the only—” You cut yourself off, as if the words caught on your tongue, your mouth stitched closed for a heartbeat. Your breathing came hard and uneven, tumbling over itself. “You’re my only friend. And you don’t even trust me to handle my own shit. I’m useless. I’m useless.”

“You’re not—” He stopped, his throat locking around the rest. God, he was so bad at this. Watching you split open in front of him was like watching his own reflection splinter, all those same cracks he carried, all the same thoughts he’d fought down for years. This independent, capable, stubborn person—someone who could hold their own in a fight, who people relied on—sitting here convinced she had nothing to offer. It was baffling. And it made sense in a way he hated, because he’d known that angry, digging feeling all the same.

And now here you were, the one person he’d trusted, the only person he had left, looking at yourself the way he’d looked at himself for years. It was breaking his fucking heart.

He wanted to tell you everything he saw in you: your grit, your quickness, the way you made his worst days bearable. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was kneel there, feeling as useless as you swore you were, wishing he knew how to make you believe otherwise.

You hid your face in your hands and sobbed harder, the sound tearing through the quiet. Joel only knew one thing for sure, and that was to sit down beside you against the wall and wrap his arms around you. He pulled you in, and you let him—thank God. He wasn’t sure he’d survive another lashing of rejection from you. 

Your head found his chest, fingers clutched in his shirt. His hand settled over the crown of your head, stroking gently as you buried your face against him. You were still streaked with blood and mud, but he didn’t give two shits. This, he could offer, and so he gave it.

Eventually, your sobs ebbed to uneven sniffles, to a cough, to steadier breaths. You looked up at him from the concrete floor of the stupid A-frame’s basement, and Joel felt things he’d told himself long ago he’d never feel again. 

Because yes, you were his friend, he thought—through and through, the only person he could stand to be around outside of his family, both blood and chosen. But in moments like this, when the fight had gone out of you and you let yourself lean into him, there was something else stirring in him. He found himself looking at you longer than he should, noticing the curve of your cheek where it pressed into him, the way your lashes clung together in damp points. You, the sure-footed girl who maybe wasn’t so sure of her place after all, and yet to him you had never seemed more certain, more unshakable. He felt it like a pull, the quiet realization that somewhere along the way, he’d stopped seeing you as just someone to watch his back. And now he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He smoothed your tear-stained wet hair back behind your ear, letting you sink deeper against him until your head rested in his lap, your body curled on the floor beside him. He kept his hand moving through your hair, eyes on your face.

“Somethin’ happened before we left, huh?” he asked quietly. 

Your lip quivered, and you nodded.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head quickly, then stopped, rubbing your eyes with a groan. “It’s so… so stupid.”

Joel stayed quiet, still combing his fingers through your hair.

“I was gonna watch a movie last night with Ellie and Dina, and… they never came to get me. This morning I heard them laughing about the actors. I guess they’d watched it together. Didn’t bother to tell me where they were meeting, didn’t check in—nothing. I don’t know if they just didn’t want me there, or if they forgot about me, and…I can’t decide which feels worse.”

Joel couldn’t help it, he chuckled.

“Don’t be an asshole,” you snapped, “Just cause she’s your kid doesn’t mean—”

“No, no, it ain’t that,” he said, a laugh tugging at his voice as you swatted his chest. “They like each other, darlin’. I think it was—”

“Yeah, I like them too. I thought they liked—”

“No, I mean… Baby, they’re datin’. I think it was a date.”

You froze mid-shove. So did he, though not for the same reason. He probably shouldn’t have told you Ellie’s business at all, but he’d wanted that look off your face. The one you’d worn when you thought they’d left you behind. But that thought barely got half formed before the other one shoved it aside—he’d called you baby. It had come too easy, too natural, like it had been waiting there for years, lodged behind his teeth. And now it was hanging in the air between you, and all he could think about was whether you’d noticed, whether you’d say something, whether he wanted you to.

“They… oh,” you breathed, stuffing your fingers in your mouth as you stared up at the ceiling.

Mmhmm Joel hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching.

He let you turn it over for a while, watching as exhaustion softened the sharp edge in your eyes. The glossy look no longer from tears but from your mind going far away again. 

Then, quietly, before he could stop himself, he said quieter than anything, “You’re my only friend too, you know that?”

Your gaze found his. He pushed past the instinct to shut up. He had to tell you. Had to.

“Only person I like bein’ around, really,” he admitted.

He watched your eyes search his, catching the way the dark light around you softened their edges and pulled out every shade. The only sound in the room came from the horse in the far corner, shifting its weight and tearing quietly at the weeds sprouting through the cracks in the foundation. Joel’s hand stilled in your hair, his palm resting warm against the back of your head as he watched your reaction. 

“You’re the only person I like being around too,” you whispered. 

Joel felt something shift in him then, small but deep, like a weight sliding into place where it didn’t belong but somehow fit too well. He didn’t know what to do with this…awareness of you that went beyond the easy camaraderie you’d built, beyond the trust earned on patrols and quiet rides. It wasn’t even sudden or new to him. More like noticing a trail he’d been walking for a while without ever looking down at his feet. He’d told himself you were his friend, his only friend, and that was true. But here you were, looking at him like you meant it when you said you liked being around him, and he felt… seen. In a way he didn’t often let himself be.

It stirred things he wasn’t sure he wanted stirred—things he thought had no place in him anymore. Affection that ran warmer than he knew how to name. A pull toward you that was as much about the way you laughed at his worst jokes as it was about the way you were looking at him now, open and unguarded.

Your hand came up suddenly, fingers brushing through his beard. You shifted, propping yourself on your palm resting on the far side of his thigh as you looked up at him. There was something in your eyes that set his pulse knocking harder against his throat.

Your hand lingered in his beard, thumb brushing slow over his jaw, and Joel fought the old, bone-deep urge to pull away the way he would have with anyone else in the world. That instinct had been carved into him over twenty years. But he wanted to stay still for you, let you explore, let you rediscover him. He was human, after all, though the act of being touched for anything beyond survival felt so foreign it left him almost dizzy, a kind of nausea born from hunger gone on too long. The feeling of someone reaching for him, wanting to map out the planes of him, wanting to know him. 

You moved again, only a fraction, leaning in just enough that he felt the change in the air between you. His breath caught, but he didn’t move—afraid to spook whatever moment was blooming here, afraid he’d shatter it by reaching back. You whispered something, your sweet breath feathering over his lips, curling under his nose until he found himself breathing it in, drawing in the warmth you exhaled.

He blinked when you pulled back the smallest inch, realizing you just asked him something. Hm? he murmured, his voice catching on the sound.

“You…only like me…” you tilted your head, tongue dipping out to moisten your bottom lip and oh, you were teasing him— “as your friend?”

His throat worked, and your hand trailed down his jaw, lingering along the scruffy line of it before sliding to the column of his throat. You let your fingers rest on the rise and fall of his adam’s apple, the shift beneath your touch as it moved down in one measured glide.

“What do you think?” he said, voice rough as if he’d been screaming.

Mmm you hummed, eyes downcast, lashes fluttering as they lowered. Your gaze settled on his mouth, fingertip rising again to trace lightly along the curve of his lips, brushing the place where they parted under your touch. His heart was hammering now, wild and unsteady, like he was sixteen again, green and made anew by you. 

Then, his mind suddenly made of cotton and clouds, you leaned in and touched your lips to his. The faintest, most careful press, warm and tentative, as though you were asking him a question without words. 

His hand lifted of its own accord, settling against the back of your head again, holding you there, keeping you. He kissed you back, just a little deeper, but he let you guide it, his heart pounding so hard he was certain you could feel it where your palm rested on his thigh.

Joel thought he might’ve been going insane. So many big, scary feelings colliding in his head, so many thoughts that made his chest feel tight, that he’d spent decades keeping at arm’s length. What this meant, what you meant, what this would all be. It was terrifying to even look straight at, because if he did, he might see the whole truth laid out and there’d be no taking it back. He’d wanted this, wanted you. Longer than he’d let himself believe. And fuck, he was so scared. Scared of reaching for it. Scared of letting himself want it. Terrified that the wrong move would spook you, the one person he felt really knew him.

Then you moved, crawling into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, fingers sliding into his hair as your mouth found his again and all rational thought slipped from him for the moment. This kiss was hotter, more urgent, your tongue gliding against his, and Joel couldn’t hold back the rough, needy sounds that rose from his throat. He ate at your mouth, hungrier than he’d ever been in twenty years, all tongue and teeth and need. Spit slicked your lips, the sweet salt of it clinging to his tongue as your mouths met again and again, each kiss landing with wet, messy sounds that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

He tore back, gasping, eyes locked on your shining, kiss bitten mouth, fighting the near uncontrollable urge to devour you whole. “C’mon,” he rasped, trying to find reason in the fog. “Let’s get settled in, we need to do a sweep and—”

You were already pressing kisses into his beard, catching the corner of his mouth.

“Baby,” he said, voice straining as he tried to keep his head, “we gotta make sure everything’s safe. Then we can have some dinner, make a fire.”

Mmhmm, you agreed, catching his bottom lip between yours, sucking lightly, and it sent heat rushing down his spine. Joel groaned, his hands gripping your hips in the desperation to keep his head on straight.

He gathered you up in his arms and stood, lifting you easily, his knees protesting as he carried you through the dim room beneath the house. The stairs groaned under his boots as he ascended, sunlight spilling above through the cabin’s wide windows as he made his way up into the main area, setting you down on what had once been a kitchen counter. Then he stepped back, pointing a finger at you like you were a wild thing he couldn’t trust to—

—“Stay,” he said. 

You crossed your arms, kicking your legs idly.

“I’ll be back,” he warned, turning away. Before he’d made it two steps, he spun back, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you deep, getting one last taste before facing his tasks.

“We’re gonna eat,” he murmured between quick, greedy kisses. “We’re gonna set up for the night,” another kiss, slower this time, “and then we’ll finish this.”

“Promise?” you giggled.

His mouth curved, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I always keep my word.”

“I know,” you said softly, biting your finger as you looked at him.

And that made his heart thump hard enough he swore you could hear it in the space between you.

Eventually, Joel made his way back after sweeping the cabin and checking the exits, finding you in the kitchen, unpacked and bent over a fresh log book. His sleeping bag was already unrolled from the saddle, backpacks open with gear and food laid out in neat piles, a small fire in the old, dusty hearth with a covered pot above the embers. He stepped in behind you, leaning just enough to glance over your shoulder at the page.

Horse lost. Infected in woods around. Cabin swept and safe.

A soft, heavy sigh slipped from his chest before he could stop it. He pressed a kiss into your hair, the scent of smoke and summer still clinging to you. “M’sorry about Jasper.”

You nodded, gripping the pen a little tighter before turning toward him. His hands came up to your arms, thumbs stroking slow, the golden-pink sunset spilling through the windows and painting the room in a warm blush.

“I, uh… got the can of pork beans cooked. Apples aren’t too bruised. Coffee’s on.”

“Music to my ears,” he grumbled, pulling you gently against him. “You okay?”

You nodded again, but still didn’t meet his eyes, and it made his heart constrict. He reached up, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face until your gaze met his. And God, you were so damn pretty it almost knocked the thoughts from his head—the way your skin still seemed to glow even after the tears, the way your eyes caught the last of the light, bright and alive.

“People do like you,” he murmured. “They like you a lot.”

“People, or just you?” you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, “Both.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, sliding your arms up around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair. 

“You did a good job today,” he said, his eyes glued to yours so he knew for a fact you heard him. And when you tried to pull your chin away, your eyes moving across the room, he pulled you back. He leaned down and pressed a slow, tender kiss to your lips, breathing you in like he’d been holding it all day. You hummed softly at the feel of him, fingers curling into the hair at his nape and giving the slightest tug. When he drew back, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, savoring the warmth he left behind.

“I promised we’d eat first,” he murmured.

“Then hurry up and eat, old man,” you teased, the smile in your voice tugging a matching one from him.

For the rest of the meal, he felt your eyes on him. Every bite he took, you watched, your fingertips sometimes drifting along his jaw while he chewed. He watched you back, the familiar lines of you somehow new again—reborn before him. A reflection of himself in so many ways, yet so different. Stronger. Able to keep going, to shoulder what felt impossible, and somehow still meet his gaze with that spark that made him wonder how you carried so much without breaking.

The sun eventually sank behind the ridgeline, leaving the cabin wrapped in shadow. The only glow came from the hearth, the fire low but steady, its light breathing over the walls in slow, uneven pulses. Outside, rain began to fall in a steady curtain, the sound filling the quiet between you. Every so often, lightning split the dark, a stark, silver flash that lit your face for an instant before the thunder rolled in, low and deep enough to stir the floorboards.

At some point, the meal had gone untouched, mugs cooling on the table. Whatever small tasks there had been to keep hands busy were left where they were, and you found yourselves simply… watching each other. The stillness between you felt heavy, charged.

Joel had your hand in his now, his thumb working slow circles into the back of your palm, as if feeling for something beneath the skin, and you let him. You were quiet, steady under his touch, letting him explore the rough ridges of your knuckles, the way they gave way to the delicate skin of your wrist. His fingers moved gently, almost reverently, and the longer he looked the more he realized how little of you he’d really touched before now.

It was odd. Part of him thought, yes, this was it. A natural progression of things between two people who respected each other, who knew each other better than anyone at the bottom of the mountains behind those big fences. Two people who trusted each other, who looked after each other for this long. 

And yet, the other part of him recoiled at the thought—who did he think he was, taking advantage of your trust like this? You were younger, thrown with him on a patrol by nothing more than chance long ago. You trusted him, and now he was thinking about how it would taste in his mouth. 

It was as if you could hear the clanging of it all in his head—the rusted gears grinding against one another after too many years without oil, a machine long unused and suddenly put to work again.

You took his hand in yours now, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing the pad of his thumb, your eyes steady on his. “What’s goin’ on in that big head, hm?” you asked, the words quiet, almost coaxing, before you pressed another kiss to the tip of his index finger.

He shook his head.

“You trust me?” you asked.

“With my life.”

It was the plain truth, he barely had to think on it.

“Then trust me to know what I want—who I want—regardless of anything trying to tell you otherwise.”

“How did—”

“I know you, Joel Miller,” you said, almost with a sigh. “Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.” You kissed his palm, your mouth warm against the worn skin, and traced along the lines carved into him, your lips following the curves as though you were reading him. He wondered, briefly, what you might find there. If the notches in the lines gave away the years he’d spent half alive, hollowed from the inside, wearing the shape of the person he’d long lost hold of. He wondered if you’d notice where the course shifted, where the tide had turned. How much of him had been remade because of you—your steadiness, your light. A friend, a truth teller. Someone who saw him as he was, and somehow, still wanted to look. 

“Yeah, I reckon you do,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, “I…I feel the same. About you.”

“Then you know I’d never lie to you.”

He nodded, still trying to wrestle the thought down his throat. A long pause rented the room, only the cracks of embers and the rain on the roof filling it. 

“Think it’s time for bed, don’t you?” he said at last, his voice a touch rough, like he wasn’t quite sure how to bridge the space between what had just passed and whatever came next.

Your eyes lifted to his, and for a heartbeat he was certain you saw more than he’d ever meant to let slip. More than he’d ever wanted anyone to see—but then again, you were the only person he’d want to see him like that. As he was.

“I think so.” you whispered back. 

He moved around slowly, as if cautioned by some nervous creature in his midst, to the open sleeping bag you’d laid out in the hours before. You both seemed to hesitate as he knelt onto the plush padding above the floorboards, the wood creaking in complaint, not unlike his joints. Something about it felt like a threshold—this shared bed, this shared space. It was stepping into the unknown, a closeness neither of you had crossed before. 

You followed him, equal in your nervousness but far more graceful, easing yourself down as the firelight painted your face in amber. Joel lowered himself beside you with the stiffness of a man too aware of the nearness, lying there in a strange stillness, eyes to the ceiling. Shadows fluttered in and out across the beams above, stirred by the dance of the fire. 

“Joel,” you finally said quietly. The sound of it sent his heart pouncing into his throat.

Mm? He couldn’t form words just yet, your arm much too close to his.

“What do you think happens when we die?”

His head turned toward you sharply, the swish of the sleeping bag loud in his ears as he found your profile, half outlined in pale moonlight and half blazing in the fire.

“Why you askin’ that kinda thing?”

You turned your head to look at him, his mirror, your eyes as curious and forlorn as he felt. Like the dawn after a storm.

“I don’t believe in heaven.” you began, just a whisper, “or hell.” 

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, testing the taste of a confession he knew was on the tip of your tongue. Joel wished, more than ever before, that he could read your mind now. That he could slip inside your thoughts, see the landscape of them for himself. To settle them, quiet their worrying. 

“But…” You gnawed your lip now, nerves and some quiet ache knitting themselves into your brow, and Joel turned onto his side to face you fully. His hand came up, thumb coaxing your lip free, brushing the line of your chin as though he might smooth the uncertainty from you. 

Your fingers came up to his wrist, delicately holding him in place, tying him to you, “But when I’m with you…it’s the closest thing I’ve ever come to believing in something after all of this. A quiet, some sort of… of peace. And sometimes I wonder…” You closed your eyes briefly, gathering yourself, before finding him again with a gaze soft enough to unmake him. “like maybe I died a long time ago, and no one told me. And this is where I was sent. To be beside you.”

Something in his chest pulled so hard he thought it might tear him in two. He didn’t trust his voice to survive the weight of what he wanted to say, so instead of saying anything at all, he crushed your lips to his. You responded with equal fervor, your eyes screwing shut, brows threading, the look he knew he mirrored in his own features.

You opened for him, mouth parting and tongue reaching, and he swallowed the gift of it. His hands framed your face, calloused palms spanning your cheeks as he tipped your chin higher, taking more of you, drawing you deeper into him. He was so hungry—God, he was starved— for this, his gut rolling with the ache of it, all heat and reverence a tsunami in him now. Your soft, breathless sounds filled his ears and lodged somewhere in his chest, determined to pull more from you. He shifted enough to lay over you, and you cradled him between your legs, wrapping around him.

His mouth broke from yours only to map your skin with open, wet kisses at the hinge of your jaw, the warm slope beneath your ear, his tongue tasting the quick thrum of your pulse. You dragged your fingers into his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan. Yes, yes, mark me. Make me yours.

His hands roamed with greed of something long denied, gripping your ribs and pressing your hips to his, squeezing the flesh that shown from your shirt riding up. He tugged it higher, then stripped it away entirely, throwing it aside before bending to take your breast in his mouth. Lips latched with a hunger that only that wanton creature in him knew—not with anger now, but hunger. He wasn’t sure how much chain to give it, how much slack on the leash. It had been so long, so long since he’d let it feast like this. Years of pacing behind his ribs, gaunt and bone thin from neglect, now fed and watered in the sanctuary of you.

Your gasp sharpened into a moan when he moved across your chest, kissing and biting the soft valley between before taking your other breast, teasing the peaked bud with his teeth. Your fingers curled deeper in his hair, and his eyes, surely black with need, met yours.

“I love you,” you whispered suddenly, your jaw slack, eyes glazed in heat.

He paused, only for a moment, because yes, yes. It was all so clear. That was what it was, what it had always been, seeded quietly between you and now breaking open to bloom.

He kissed up your neck, nibbled your chin, and pressed his lips to yours gently before opening his mouth and letting the whole of him pour out as he said:

“I love you.”

You kissed him harder, the sound of lips and spit and moans filling his ears in ecstacy, your voice breaking between, “Say it again,”

He chuckled, all throaty and broken, hands smoothing down your body to grip the meat of you, pulling into him, “I love you,” he said, “‘Course I do,” 

“Again,” you chanted, breath hitching when he grinded his throbbing lap against yours. 

“I love you, baby,” he said, teeth and lips moving to your neck again, fumbling with his belt, your pants, his zipper. 

Soon, the absence of clothing made everything heightened and so fucking needy. Every place his skin met yours felt electric, like sparks leaping from one body to the other. He was determined to open you, to split you around him, his cock now aching with the mere thought of you, thick and heavy between his thighs as he pulled your legs up the expanse of his body, feet dangling over his shoulders, hugging your knees to his chest while you lay back, breathless and heated.

You breathed in, hiccuping softly, hands traveling up the length of his arms, over the thickness  of his fingers where he held you, finally reaching for his face. He leaned in, desperate for the touch, your delicate fingers tracing the slick, sweat damp skin there as if memorizing him in the dark. Every ridge of cheekbone, every rough line carved by years.

“Please,” you whispered.

He nodded, kissing your limbs. His mouth lingered at the side of your knee, lips brushing over the tense muscle before moving higher. Up to your calf, the scrape of his stubble leaving a faint burn in its wake, then to your ankle, his mouth pressed warm against the delicate bone there.

When he reached the instep of your bare foot, he kissed it as though it were as sacred as your mouth, a quiet hum leaving him as he nipped gently. His hands slid down the front of your thighs, pulling you open wider. One stayed on you, hugging the tops of your legs to his body, the other moving to wrap around himself, sliding gently against your glossy folds. You were pooling with want, the shlick of arousal a symphony to his ears with your pleas and mewling below him. He breathed you in, hot and ragged, and throbbed against you, circling the head of his cock on your bundle of nerves before moving lower. 

He looked up at you, the sharp gasp he pulled from your lungs was enough to make the beast in him strain harder against the leash. 

“Just the tip for now, baby,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Just to get you ready for me.”

You shook your head quickly, words tumbling out in broken breaths. “Wan-want it all.”

“I know you do, sweet girl. Gotta take our time, don’t wanna hurt you.”

You whined and thrashed a bit, needy and pettish, the wriggle of your hips almost enough to undo him then and there.

He tsk’d softly, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him, and he pressed another kiss to the side of your leg before pushing just barely inside. Your hands gripped his forearm where it still clasped your knees to his chest, nails dragging over the coarse hair there. He eased another inch in, pulled back, then rocked forward again—gentle, testing, opening you up. He should have taken more time. Should have eaten you first, worked you open with his fingers until you were ready for him. But the want was too loud now, too deep in his marrow. He was half-man, half that chained beast in his mind, behind his ribs— crazed by your need, by the tight pull of you already wrapping around him.

“Please, Joel… I’m ready,” you whispered, a moan slipping out as his hips rolled once more.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!” you squealed, talons sinking into the meat of his arm.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded.

He wrapped his arms tighter around your legs, locking you in place as his hips surged forward. The stretch tore a strangled sound from both of you, and he swore he could feel the mouth of your womb kiss the tip of his cock. Your walls hugged him, pulling him in deeper as he rested there. He dug his teeth gently into your calf as he watched your face, your features twisted with strain and bliss.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he rasped, kissing your bitten flesh, unable to stop the words from pouring out of him, his mouth slack and brain gone to the fog of arousal. His syllables slurred past his mouth before he could catch them, “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, prettiest fuckin’ pussy too.”

“J-Jooooel,” you mewled, hands scrambling for something to hold. He dropped one of his hands to catch them, threading his fingers through yours and bringing your joined hands to his lips as he leaned forward. He pushed down, bending you in half, knees to chest, kissing your fingers where they held his broad palm between them. He set an easy pace, enough to keep him tethered to reality for a bit longer. A gentle push and pull, your walls hugging him, demanding to keep him in deeper.

“How you feelin’ sweetheart, hm? How’s that feel?”

“So—oh godddd,” you moaned, “so full, Joel,”

“I know, I know… doin’ so good for me. My good girl,” he cooed, watching your brow pinch, your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your eyes threatened to roll back.

“Focus. Right here—eyes on me, baby.”

You forced them open, only for them to widen when he pushed in harder, deeper, a deliberate thrust that made you squeal and clutch at him: one hand still trapped in his grip, the other clawing at his arm, his neck, the rough of his beard.

“Tell me how good of a girl you are," he demanded voice nothing more than a growl, “tell me,”

“I’m…I’m…”

“‘I’m a good girl’,” he practiced, "ain't you, baby? Repeat it.”

“I’m your good girl.”

How could one fucking word completely undo him?

“That’s right, honey. That’s it.” He continued a rhythm that had you keening, your legs tightening around his neck as your voice climbed. Yours, yours, yours, you breathed, eyes rolling, your heat fluttering around him. He pushed in harder, deeper, peppering kisses along your fingers and the round bones of your knuckles, his beard scratching just enough to make you shiver.

“Love you so much, sweet girl,” he murmured into your skin. “Come on, come for me now, be my good girl.”

You shook your head, a whine catching in your throat as your hips rolled to meet his, your fingers tightening in his grip.

“No?” Joel questioned, a breathless laugh pushing out of his lungs. 

“Wanna—” you swallowed another moan as he drove into you, still pushing your knees tight against your chest. His mouth hovered so close to yours that he could have stolen the breath straight from you if he leaned in just a little further.

“Wanna come with you,” you mewled, hands slipping from his to tangle in his hair, both of them dragging him down until his mouth hovered over yours. One lean, one slip of his tongue across your lower lip, and he’d have you. But then, your voice was soft, pleading, begging as your lips brushed his, moving around the words: “Let go for me, Joel… give me everything.”

And he knew, knew you saw every part of him, every piece he kept buried— and that you knew him better than anyone had ever known him. A mirror, a reflection. Like staring into still water and not just seeing himself, but the thing that he’d been missing all along. All this time, he thought he was the one with his fist around the chain of the dog that paced in his chest, but it was you. And you were unleashing him now, taking off the prong, the muzzle, setting him free. 

He drove into you hard, letting your legs fall to hook around his hips, sinking into the cradle of you. His hands found your head, the back of your skull fitting into the breadth of his palms, it belonged there, and then he took you, giving you everything he had. Skin slapping skin, mouths colliding, teeth catching, breath tangling— he fucked you as your head tipped back, eyes gone white, cresting and crashing and falling apart around him, your voice a raw cry of his name. And he followed, spilling into you with the same sweet abandon you’d pulled from him, every last shred of restraint gone.

The room was steeped in breath and sweat, the air still trembling from the rampage of Joel’s heart against his ribs. Only, this time, the feeling that followed was a quiet, reverent solace, a sort of beauty in its newness. He lifted his head from where it had fallen in the crook of your shoulder, tracing a path of soft, long, wet kisses to your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose. You hummed, the sound lush and frayed, your voice rasping with the aftermath of his name.

“You are everything,” he whispered, soul bared now, holding the mirror to you. Look, look, see where we are the same.

Your eyes opened, only slivers of color, the light of the moon and dying embers catching in them and returning to him. You kissed him softly, your mouth finding the bristle of his beard, the ridge of his cheek. You drew his head lower, brushing your lips over the delicate flutter of his lashes, the slash across his nose.

“And you…” your voice broke, reformed into something raw, “you’ve always been there, haven't you? Like calls to like.” You searched his face as if the truth might try to hide from you now. But he couldn’t. You saw him now, and there was nothing left for him to hide. And, as if reading his mind, you said:

“We are the same, aren’t we, Joel?”

The rain answered first, slowing against the roof, the roll of thunder climbing further away and over the mountains. Somewhere outside, a branch scraped against the siding in the wind, a faint, rhythmic sound that kept time with the pounding in his chest.

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

listen idk what happened to me during this I feel like I was in another dimmension with all the shit I was throwing in here. hope you enjoyed :'')

thank you my loves @dixonsdarkelf & @dixons-sunshine for giving this a read before it was anywhere close to ready! love you!!!

[deardev0teddelicate]

shut the fuck UP

[deardev0teddelicate]

Wedding Date

you need a date to a wedding. Tommy Miller walks into a bar.

Tommy Miller x Female Reader

wc: 6.6k

all content warnings (nsfw included): reader has a dad and brother, reader wears dresses, reader drinks, minimal age gap (mid-late 20s/early 30s), retired playboy Tommy, heavy Tommy POV, a little bit of both? Plot with porn, Tommy takes you out on dates, reader is in graduate school, i write a lot of plot… im mediocre at porn, brief men being men, your brother loves you! his fiance/wife Doesn’t, she’s irrelevant, Tommy uses a lot of nicknames (I lost track) Pretty, Pretty lady, Little Lady (because he’s just. a Texas polite whore), Mama, maybe… a slut or two, dirty girl! Cowboy hat rule. Tommy Miller and the Panty Thief! oral (f! rec) (2x), fingering, dirty talk, creampie! unprotected p-in-v! mutual dubious consent? (they’re intoxicated!), riding, Tommy’s a moaner and a groaner, Tommy has a little tummy on him, and a happy trail, praise the happy trail!, reader rides the happy trail a little, (cock:pussy) SIZE KINK, public sex, outdoor sex, in the bed of his truck, view point outdoor sex, parking lot outdoor sex, probably would cry too if you did enough, breast play, titty suckin’

so many warnings. I don’t think I gave reader body descriptions, but lmk.

I’m posting this for my birthday so let’s be nice 😊 (I have another Tommy post coming next week! I’m starting an all works tag list so, check my pinned!)

——

Tommy Miller was always a player. Bars every Friday, Saturday, and if he decided to play with the wraith known as Joel Miller, Sunday’s too. Every bar in Travis County knew Tommy Miller. Every bar also knew Joel Miller on speed dial if they knew what was good for them.

Even as he got up into his 30s he was slinking around bars. Everyone knew Tommy and Tommy knew a couple of faces. Almost every night Tommy always took someone home that night too, but remembering their name was up for debate.

So, when you, a 20-something-year-old with bright eyes and a bushy tail, new to town, came into the bar with a couple of friends, Tommy approached. You had the look of needing to get absolutely wasted, and was proved right when you mentioned a terrible romantic talking stage with a Hinge Match only a few weeks ago.

“You from Austin?”

“Nah, those two are getting married next week,” you pointed to a couple dancing in the center of the dance floor. The girl blond, the man looking similar in facial features to you slightly. They danced poorly, as most drunkards would. “Sister-in-law and my brother.”

“Why're you all on your lonesome? There were more people you came here with?”

“I’m the groom’s half sister. The uhm ‘Charlie bring your sister out with your friends,’ classic,” you snorted. Your tongue caught the two black skinny straws of your cocktail and drained the cup.

“Oh, it was me draggin’ my older brother around,” Tommy laughed.

“You the sociable one?”

“Enough,” Tommy grinned at the thought of his brother even being social, it would never happen. Joel was a home probably already in bed or watching a movie with Sarah. In time, Tommy took a seat, his dark blue jeans hugging him tightly as he spread his knees. If he did notice, he didn’t say anything as your eyes rolled down the fly of his jeans. A cold beer nursed in his hand as he looked back at you. “So why the Texas wedding?”

“Our dad, he’s from Austin and if he couldn’t raise us Texan, then he was gettin’ a Texas wedding from my brother or me.”

Tommy watched you speak like you were explaining the multiverse to him, in awe and complete encapsulation. “Ohhh, so you got dragged out from..?”

“Palos Verde, California.”

Tommy hissed through his teeth, before taking a swift swig from his beer. He clicked his tongue softly, “I think the Texas sun is better.”

“I think our beaches are better, at least we have them,” you snickered. Tommy gasped and threw his free hand up. “You got me there, hm, Little Lady?”

The two talked more, their drinks didn’t stop coming. Their drunken haze wasn’t past overly drunk or even near black out. You teetered between buzzed and drunk as you laughed a little too hard, smiled widely with no concern. Tommy was a certified party animal, so he was fine, buzzing and smiling at every giggle and wide grin from you. He wasn’t drunk on the liquor or beers, mostly just you and your enticing personality.

For once, the bartender wasn’t reaching for the phone by 1:28 AM for either 9-1-1 or Joel. It pleasantly surprised the bartenders on shift that Tommy looked tame for once. That and he wasn’t sloppy all over you, kissing, mouthing, whispering god knows what into your ears. You and Tommy had a real cohesive conversation, and Tommy was eating it up. You honestly thought Tommy was an average guy, not someone who was rolling home with a girl on his arm every weekend.

Tommy excused himself, needing to use the restroom. After a flushed look in his face, he stared back in the mirror like it wasn’t even him. Truly, it didn’t feel like him, the flush was either from his 6th beer or from the way you patted his thigh when he made a bad joke and you genuinely laughed like he was the best comedian ever.

On his return, he looked through the crowds, missing a certain man and woman who were once dancing together. Rather than take his seat, he leaned against the bar beside you.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, lil lady, but ‘seems like your brother is gone,” Tommy said as he peered out into the crowd. You spun around in your chair, standing with a wobble causing Tommy to steady you with his hand. Your eyes scanned the crowds, the tables, the boothes. Nothing but stupid college kids who were grinding and dry humping on the dance floor.

“Fucking assholes,” you mumbled. You shelled out your phone. 5 missed calls, and at least 10 texts. Tapping one open, your brother and his fiance.

Charlie & Cecilia

Where the fuck are you?

We’re gonna leave now

Jesus christ

Text me when you see these

Uber home we took the car

That last one made you grind your teeth together, maybe rip out your future sister-in-laws throat. Not because you hated her for taking your brother, for them not even trying to find you and her outright callous. Tommy tried not to look, but he couldn’t help himself when he saw the way your jaw tensed and your eyes bore glares into the screen.

You looked at one more text string from your brother.

Hey, seriously text me. I would’ve went to go look for you but she was getting antsy and she took an edible so she’s all kinds of paranoid.

Text me call me

Please be safe

Make good choices.

Love you

Instead of violence towards the blond brat with an even worse attitude problem than you, you opened it. I’m fine. Love you too. Then set the phone down back into your bag with a sigh.

“You alright there?” Tommy asked. He lowered you down into your seat and waved for water with a polite, thank you sir.

“They fuckin’ left an hour ago,” you answered. He took another straw from behind the bar and tossed it into your drink. Tommy whistled, “I’m sorry little lady, so why don’t we get you back home then?”

“Fuck no, I hate them,” you answered hotly. Still tipsy and upset, you had no desire to see nor hear your sister-in-law. Maybe from rage or drunken displaced emotions, you just glared into the floor for a second before looking up. Then you looked back at Tommy. Clean shaven, but no weird shadow from any incoming facial hair. Pretty eyes, real polite Texan man with a cute smile. He even sat up straight when he sat down. Fuck it.

“Whatcha doing next Friday?”

“Bar hopping?”

“Wanna get wasted at a wedding? Open bar, paid for by her daddy,” you referenced the bride.

“Free booze and a free meal? What do I gotta do?”

“Just be my date. I’m sick of her shit,” you said grunted.

Tommy took his phone out and offered the phone to you with the contact screen open. “And even if you don’t need me as a date no more, I’m glad to have a pretty ladies number.”

“That line work on a lot of people?” You asked while typing your number and name into his phone.

Tommy smiled and shook his head. “You finish that water, I’ll drive you back.”

“You’re drunk as I am,” you glared.

“Okay fine, I’ll call my brother to pick us up,” Tommy snickered as he grabbed his phone back. He raised his phone up, camera for a contact picture.

With a click, your eyes shot up at him. A flash came and went and Tommy was saving your new contact picture.

“Tommy—”

“You look real pretty, don’t worry. Do you really want a ride home? I’ll call my brother right now,” Tommy offered.

You weighed your options. Going home now means 1) meeting Joel Miller aka Tommy’s big brother. As much as you liked Tommy, you don’t know if you could meet the ‘stoic sonovabitch who got an attitude past 7pm’ while you were still intoxicated without laughing in his face. 2) it means seeing bitch face and her snobby friends.

Clearly, you had a different option in mind.

“Nah… can we just sober up and you drive me back?”

Tommy grinned at her, “Don’t wanna leave me just yet? Okay, then let’s order up some food for ya, hm? Whatcha want, on me.”

“On you? Expensive bar food? Are you already in love with me, Tommy?”

Yes.

“You never have a Texas gentleman? Good thing you met me, eh? We can let this be a date.” His smile was intoxicating. Like you never wanted it to leave his face.

“Sure, it’s a date,” you declared. Tommy lit up, grabbing your hand and kissing it.

“It’s a date.” Tommy leaned over the bar again, grabbing the menu and slipped it to you. He kept his hand steady on yours as you read it. You got two things. “You okay with sharing?”

“You? Absolutely not,” Tommy flirted. He knew what he meant, but didn’t care.

“The food, Tommy,” you smiled at him. You couldn’t stop saying his name, it was so fitting to him. The name seemed so kiddish, but it worked because he was playful, all smiles.

“Oh, of course I am darlin’” Tommy nodded.

Normally bar food was terrible but when you’re 6-7 drinks in on a semi-empty stomach, hot food that crunched at 1:45 AM was beyond perfect.

The food was piping hot, but that didn’t stop Tommy from grabbing the chicken tenders and splitting them in halves to cool them faster. Tommy pointed across the bar at an emptying booth for you to steal.

When the two of you settled in, Tommy wiped his fingers clean and let you eat first. Fries chewed, swallowed and you looked at the Texan, “Your full name Tommy?”

“Maybe,” Tommy smiled behind his hand. Your drunkenness was no fan of his little jokes, and he knew that because of the stare you gave him. “My daddy wasn’t that kind—givin’ me just Tommy while my brother is Joel huh?”

“Not all that kind indeed,” you replied.

“It’s okay, you got a pretty name so if we end up tackin’ Miller at the end, it only gets prettier,” Tommy winked. You blushed but paid no mind to it, still drunk and red was passable rather than blushing. “Shut up,” you glared.

“Shuttin’ up.”

After a little bit more eating, and a lot more sobering, You spoke in turn, “Okay, permission restored. You got a suit for this kinda thing?”

“Never been to a wedding really,” Tommy answered after setting his water down.

“You need one or? I can ask my dad what he’s planning on wearing, he got that whole cowboy thing goin’ on still. Think he’s reliving his glory days.”

“Probably, but no worries there, my brother and I just finished a big job. But if you can find out what else, it would be appreciated,” Tommy reassured. You nodded, grabbing your phone to text your dad as a Send Later at 9 in the morning so you don’t forget. Also another text to your brother, is that spot for my alleged date still available?

“What do you two do?”

“Construction, we’re contractors,” Tommy nodded.

“Oh, good,” you said. You pulled your phone out and slid across the screen before giving him the phone.

“I’m actually moving out here for work,” you started. “The housing market is crazy cheap here, and I came out here a week early to look for somewhere to live.”

“Oh? You're gonna be a Texas girl?” Tommy asked with a smile.

“Unfortunately so,” you sighed dramatically.

Tommy snickered and looked at the saved houses you had. “I can’t say much from pictures, we would needa go in person.”

“Then, are you free another day this week? Come judge houses with me. I’ll do it based on interior design and their decisions to use carpets. You can do it based on their structural integrity?”

“You wanna take me on another date?” Tommy smirked as he looked up from the phone.

“House hunting as a date? God, at least propose or somethin’” You joked back as you took the phone back. “Maybe I’ll just ask Joel,” You taunted.

Tommy pouted his pretty pink lips. You almost grabbed the cowboy by his collar and kissed him right then and there. “Awh, don’t do me like that, Pretty.”

“Do you wanna or nah?” You asked again.

“Joel’s doing a buncha walkthroughs this week, so I’m mostly free,” Tommy said leaning back in his chair. He slung an arm on the booth top behind him and tilted his head. “You got no fancy wedding preparing to do?”

“No, I don’t care enough to help the witch.”

He snorted and took a bite from one of the fries in the basket. “What are you coming out here for?”

“Technically work and school,” you answered. “I’m in my PhD program for History, I’m studying American Activism with a focus in Chicane history specifically. I’m at UT Austin, so I’ll be teaching simultaneously.”

“You a smart girl?”

“Yessir,” you nodded. Tommy hummed in satisfaction and pushed more food towards you.

By the time you two finished the food it was just past 2, but time didn’t matter as you two kept talking. An hour later, you two are walking out of the bar sober as you two came in. “Where yall stayin’ anyway?”

“An AirBnB like 15 minutes from the Venue,” you answered as you opened your phone.

Clicking his contact, you sent a couple of messages.

You like pretty girls right?

XXXX E 49 ½ Street

Tommy chuckled as he saw the notification, and looked up at you. “You eager? Let’s get you back home.”

Tommy opened the car door for you, holding your hand as you lifted into his truck. It makes your heart squeeze and speed up. He shut the door and rounded to join in the driver's seat.

The drive is easy, Tommy driving around and pointing places out for you to try or avoid.

“Best donuts is right there,” he notes. “And they’re open 24 hours.” He kept going as he drove, everything a tip or where to avoid. “Coffee here is okay, they’re open super early if that’s something you need,” he says on another street. Then he’s pulling up to the house, the porch lights off, in fact all of the lights are off.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Tommy said as he put the car in park and poked the hazard button. He rounded, then opened the door for you again. Crickets rubbed their legs quietly, the porch light flickered a warm yellow light. Tommy walked you with his hand on your mid back. At the door, Tommy smiled, leaning against the doorway.

“You have fun tonight?”

“More than I thought,” you nodded. Tommy grinned and nodded at you. His eyes lowered lazily to your lips, something you easily caught on to. He had been doing it all night but never made the move. “You want a kiss, Tommy?”

“Maybe.”

Pressing your finger against the keypad, the door unlocked. “Well, if it’s a maybe, then maybe I’ll give it to you when you help me house hunt,” you said coyly. You kissed his cheek and opened the door.

“Goodnight, Tommy.” You shut the door behind you with a wink.

“Goodnight, Pretty,” Tommy said fondly as you closed it. He leaned off the door, shaking his head with a big ol’ smile, hopping back into his truck and driving back home.

He was barely past the door of his apartment when he texted you.

Tommy: You’re a tease

Tommy: I’m free monday and wednesday

Tommy: please say both days pretty

Tommy: I might have a heart attack if I don’t see you soon

yearning this early is crazy

i’ve only just gotten into bed

Tommy: Don’t say that.

Tommy: Please.

Tommy: Or I’ll need a 15 minute break.

you’re funny too

god did i hit the jackpot

Tommy: I walked up to you though little lady

Tommy: I think I won the whole damn casino

maybe i was doing magic to lure you over to me.

Tommy wouldn’t put it past you. He remembered exactly what you looked like at that bar even after all the beers and a few shots. In a pretty flowy dress brushing your knees. The pretty gold jewelry that hung off your neck and wrists, the bright jewel tones that set in the rings you wore. The kicker was those cute cowboy boots that don’t look brand-spanking new, but not nearly as worn as his old boots.

Tommy: I’m glad you did. Keep me under your spell.

Monday?

pick me up?

Tommy: Anytime pretty.

12.

Tommy: What color are you wearing for the wedding?

green. I’ll send a picture in the morning.

Tommy: In the dress? 🤨

You want that, cowboy?

Tommy: Oh you know it, Pretty.

alright then.

i’m gonna go to sleep.

Seconds later, a large box sent. White recording lines with a play button.

There was a little bit of rustling in the background of the audio, the bedsheets she lied in. He could hear her lips part just to say, “Goodnight again, Cowboy.”

Tommy scrambled to sit up in his bed. The hell was that feature, he may be young but he rarely even looked at the updates notes. But he did know how to send videos. Tommy smirked and clicked the camera instead.

The dark room is illuminated by a dimmed night lamp and his phone screen. He cleared his throat before hitting the record and sent it, “G’night Pretty Lady. Sleep well.”

You threw your phone into your bedsheets and nearly took your panties off right then and there and looped the video. He wasn’t wearing a fucking shirt. Not even a wife pleaser. Just tanned freckled skin you could barely make out in the dark of his room.

You hearted the video and fell asleep, but not without rewatching the video another three times.

__

After two days of texting, Monday came. You were shaking with excitement. You woke up early, 9:30. Made tea instead of coffee because coffee would give you even more shakes.

You spent what felt like forever in the shower. By the time you were out, you had your teeth brushed, face washed, body exfoliated, clean shaven, and then lathering your body with lotion and a citrus scented body oil.

It was a date.

You hadn’t been on a date with someone this interesting and this interested in more than your tits in a while. It was refreshing, and refreshing deserved an Everything Shower.

Your makeup was easy, with just a glowy foundation, your cheeks flushed a pretty color, your lips plump and painted pink. No eyemake up, that’s too much. Not that the Everything Shower was too little or anything, but just in case.

At 11:30 Tommy said he was on the way. You stepped into your boots and waited.

Your dad’s picture of what he wore matched your brother’s suit well, a little more Southern style, but Tommy could pull it off better. You sent it last night to Tommy and he gave a big thumbs up and I got this. Don’t you worry, Pretty. I’ll look spick and span for you.

Tommy: 11:58, Outside, Pretty. Take your time.

You were ready 10 minutes, the anxiety running in you as you waited. You had touched your makeup up a few times, fixed your hair, and double checked your bag to just be safe.

Opening the door you jumped in shock, seeing Tommy already standing there, bouquet in hand and his bright smile.

“You’re a speedy one, huh?” Tommy asked.

“Yes, I am,” you nodded.

“I got you flowers, thought you would appreciate them,” he said softly as he held them to you. You thanked him, and let him come in real quick.

“I’ll find a vase, put it in my room and we can go,” you said softly. “No worries.”

Steps came running down the stairs, your name leaving the bride's lips in exhaust. “You’re being real loud for it not even being 12pm yet,” she complained.

“Sorry, Cecilia,” you apologized. “This is Tommy, the guy I’m takin’ to your wedding. Tommy this is Cecilia, the bride and my future Sister-in-law,” you said with a bitter smile.

Cecilia sized Tommy up. You did the same, but looked for more of his body rather than judge him, his posture and toned biceps in his cut off button up. Cecilia nodded and looked back. Noticing you two dressed up, ready to go out she just replied, “Whatever, Hi, Tommy. Glad she’s bringing a stranger, Bye.”

You put away your vase of flowers and joined Tommy out front to his car. He shut your door, back around to the driver side and began driving to the first place.

You two called last night, picking out a few places within your price range near the university. Tommy gave you all information about each area, how good they are, what she should look out for, and where she shouldn’t live on her own.

You set up the walkthroughs and Tommy promised to get you everywhere and then some.

“I’ll pay for lunch and dinner,” you said as Tommy pulled into the first one.

“No can do, Pretty. On me,” Tommy said as he opened your door.

4 hours, a lunch break, and five houses later, Tommy only approved of one and a half. The structures are bad in most, older everything, all shoddy jobs in the two newer places. The last one Tommy actually laughed at, and the third one was Tommy’s winner by 4:38.

“Number three was reworked by Joel and I,” he noted. He shifted in the driver's seat to face you better, and you mimicked his movements. “It fits you too, I think. It’s got a certain kind of whimsy that you got going for you.”

“I’m whimsy?”

“Whimsy, Pretty,” he nodded straight. That stupid smile as bright as the Texas sun flashing you too.

“Do you wanna get dinner with me?”

“Absolutely,” Tommy agreed. Shifting the car into drive, he was driving with a place in mind.

Dinner went better than expected. Splitting a bottle of wine over some of the cutest fine dining was the last thing you would’ve expected. Tommy made a reservation, flashing a wink at you when the hostess said “You can follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Miller.”

Tommy drove you to one last spot, rather than go home. A pretty cliff point. It was out of sorts, the stars being Tommy’s main attraction. It was prettier in Texas than it was in PV, where the sky overclouded with industrial pollution and LA smog. You two sat there together in the back of his truck. Your feet swung off the bed while Tommy lied back, hands cradling his head.

You two barely talked, just admired the sky above you guys.

“You havin’ fun, Pretty?”

“A lot,” you nodded. He sat up, leaned on an elbow and gestured you down.

“I would like to preface,” Tommy started. “I think you’re a whole lot prettier than you should be, and that I am no match for you.”

“Tommy?”

“I wanna take you on another date, a real one. Anytime you want, before or after that wedding,” Tommy whispered to you softly. His hand moved up, gently grasping your jaw and brushing his thumb against your cheek.

“I think these dates suffice—”

“Suffice and I shall never” he pointed a finger at your nose, “be in one same contextual sentence.”

Tommy tapped his finger against your nose before letting his hand rest in front of him. “Can I take you out on a date, Pretty?”

“You wanna go the whole nine yards?” You asked shyly.

“Little Lady, I want to go to the ends of the Earth for you,” he answered naturally—like he’s been thinking about that line for days at every hour and minute he could. Tommy could barely recognize himself. Whipped out of his mind, in love, and like a puppy. Never in his life has his stomach felt so welted with this full-yet-sickening feeling. God, Tommy a week ago wouldn’t recognize Tommy. Joel laughed at him when he told him he met the girl of his dreams, and Sarah begged for pictures and begged to meet her. At least Sarah believed in him.

“I wanna go on a date with you too, Tommy,” you agreed quietly. Before Tommy could roll onto his back to shout in pride you grasped his face this time. “And I wanna kiss you. Badly.”

“Ohhh, you evil temptress,” Tommy laughed under his breath. “You can also read minds.”

His lips slotted against yours quickly, like it was meant to happen even without permission. You were already swinging your leg over his thighs and leaning into everything he had to give. His hands left your face, grabbing your waist and dragging his hands up your torso. Mumbling against your lips like he was drunk out of his mind, he resorting to smile against your lips when his mind couldn’t think no more.

The fabric of your dress was thin. As soon as his hands dipped too low on your hips, he felt it. The lace fabric beneath your dress, and he moaned into your mouth as he taunted it off your body.

He leaned up, kissing you simultaneously and gently flipped you two. His hands are against your back, lowering you down further into the bed of his truck. Tommy kissed you one more time before hovering over your lips. “You gotta say no, Pretty or I’ll do somethin’ bad,” he grinned.

“Does yes mean do it,” you asked in a murmur. Chasing his lips he snickered before granting you one last kiss, humming positively to your question.

“Then yes.”

Tommy looked back at you, his eyes shot and his hands on your thighs under your dress. You nodded and he lowered his face, kissing your neck, your collarbones. His fingertips pushed higher, and higher until he met the lace again and he groaned into your chest. Lifting your dress with one hand, he almost bit down onto your sternum.

“Blue? For’me?” Tommy asked.

“Yes, Tommy, for you.”

He snickered and let his left hand move the gusset aside, not that it hid a lot. A pretty string rested right above your cunt, and Tommy dragged his rough fingers up and down it. Smiling to himself he looked up.

“All wet f’me too?”

“So help me, God, Tommy please,” you quietly begged.

“As the lady wishes,” Tommy said politely before he dove in. His tongue was lethal, each pass of it made your hand tighten on the back of his head like it was the only thing grounding you.

His right hand scooted beneath him. At the same time he licked up and in his tongues' wake, his finger slid inside. You cried out, arching into his mouth. “Mhm, mama, you taste fantastic,” he complimented.

“G’on, fuck my mouth, mama,” Tommy slurred as his tongue swiped circles over your clit. As your hips grinded up into him, your head hit the truck bed with a cry.

“Oh, god…” you moaned under him as he slid another finger and dragged it against your velvet walls. His fingers picked up speed, his lips sucked harder, and you squeezed around him like he was all you needed.

“Tell me baby, you feel good?”

“Feel so fucking good,” you moaned brokenly back. “A…all I need—oh..fuck…”

Tommy laughed at you as he kept humming and eating you like he was your last meal. Pulling off you, he marveled at your cunt as his fingers fucked into you. A loud gathering in his mouth until he spit right on your clit. The cold dribbled down with, mixing you with his saliva.

When Tommy found it, he used and abused that gushy spot while you writhed under him.

You were seeing stars as he played around with you, not only the stars overhead, but the spots in your vision. His fingers pumped in, suddenly it was too much. The squeeze of your stomach too much. Tommy was doing too much. “Tommy—I, oh fuck, fuck— stop-stop stop, I’m gonna-”

You tried to pull his head off you, off your cunt, but he was drunk. Tommy refused to let go of you and your cunt, there was no way he would stop now.

“No, no, no, Mama,” Tommy said tauntingly. He grabbed your hips and pulled you into him. You cried as you came around his fingers with a rush to your head and your legs trembling softly.

You fell limply into the bed, your head against the bed and your elbows holding you up.

“You’re a messy one,” Tommy said as he leaned up from your thighs. Under the moonlight was his shining smile with your arousal all over his mouth. With a quick lick across his lips he kissed your thigh, “That’s okay, I like messy.”

“Fuck,” you sighed as you laid to complete rest.

“Not today, Pretty lady,” Tommy said with a huff and smile. He lied beside you, his face more on par to your torso than your face.

“Wait let me—”

“I’m all good, Pretty,” Tommy stopped you. He readjusted his jeans, still a clear large bulge in his jeans. “I can wait for you, just wanted to say my thanks for saying yes to a date.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you sighed with a limp smile.

“I’ve been called worse.”

—

The next time you got to see Tommy was the day of your brother’s wedding. You two didn’t stop texting, but both agreed a date would schedule better when you were back in August to move in for school.

Tommy sent his suit, a new bolo tie with a gold crest around the green jewel that matched your dress and jewelry perfectly. The suit was a basic black and white with the bolo rather than a tie.

Tommy: You still wanna meet at the venue?

Yes please!

My dad wants to drive with me and my brother.

he’s excited to meet you

is it weird you’re meeting my dad bf we’ve gone on that date?

Tommy: maybe

Tommy: But do you mind?

with you?

never

Tommy: Cheeky.

Tommy: I’m gonna head out, gotta see Joel and his girl before.

Tommy: Can’t wait to see you gorgeous.

Bye Tommy

Drive safe

Tommy: Thank you kindly

Tommy: You be safe

Tommy arrived for the ceremony, sitting beside you behind your father. He sat kindly, clapped when needed, and stood for the bride. Throwing in a few cheers for the clearly in love couple.

And during the cocktail hour, Tommy was a hit with your dad. Not one issue, just jokes and Texan jokes you barely understood. A few old friends you knew from your brother's high school days hung around you, a little flirty for your liking, but nothing you couldn’t handle truly.

“Dad, Tommy, I’ma grab some drinks. Want anything?”

“Baby, no I got it—” Tommy said trying to stand before you. You settled your hand on his shoulder and shook your head.

“Go on and entertain my dad, I’ll be all good,” you reassured.

“Baby, you know I want a Miller,” your dad said. You and Tommy snorted.

“You can’t have no Millers,” you said with a pointed frown. Tommy wrapped his hand around your waist. “There’s enough of me to go around, Pretty, don’t you worry.”

“Oh you two know what I mean,” your dad huffed.

“No kissing Tommy while I’m gone,” you pointed before leaving. Your dad cackled and knocked his hand into Tommy’s shoulder. The bartenders were busy, your forearms pressed against the bar-top while you waited.

“Is that really you?” Someone said from behind. Your cheek turned slightly. Your brothers friend, a loser, not close enough to make it into the wedding party, fake enough to be condemned by a Barbie doll. He sauntered over with a beer in his hand. It was warm but barely drank through, so also a poser still.

“Yes, it is,” you dully said as the bartenders rushed around. Maybe they did need that third bartender.

The friend kept talking to you, but you didn’t even remember his name. You dropped a twenty into the bartender’s tip jar right as he served the Corona, Miller, and fruity cocktail. You walked away, two beer bottle necks between your fingers and your cocktail in your hand.

To your dismay, he followed, “You come with a date by chance?”

Before your mouth even opened, Tommy was next to you. Bright smile, eyes like the devil though. “Hiya, Pretty, need help?”

“Yes, baby, I do,” you replied.

Tommy damn near flew into the air and exploded as you called him baby, but instead he just nodded and took the two beers. “Who’re you?” Tommy asked the friend.

“Lucas, friend of her bro’s,” he said coolly.

“Cool, I’m her boyfriend. Bye,” he said with a fake smile before tugging you back to your dad.

Your dad just chortled when he saw Lucas stalk away unhappily. “You read my mind Miller, hated that boy when he came ‘round my house.”

Tommy just laughed it off, and when he looked back at you, his eyes still deeper than the devil’s lair. Leaning into your ear, he whispered his apology. “You’re not be my girlfriend yet, sorry, Pretty. Didn’t like how he hovered.”

Your dad left, leaving the two of you. Setting a hand on his jacket lapel, you smoothed it out. You shook your head and smiled, “All good, Tommy.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Let me know if I needa make it up to you, now why don’t we go dance hm?”

But you don’t know how you got here. You were dancing, teaching you the line dances, swaying, teaching you poorly how to bachata. Then you were drunkenly whispering something into an equally drunken Tommy.

Walking out the venue, you took his hat in a taunt.

Now, you’re outside. Outside and in the bed of Tommy’s car, parked far enough from the wedding reception. He attacked you, the two of you making out like horny teenagers.

His fingers dragged up your thighs and back to your panties, another pretty blue pair. Lighter, still lacy at the trim but that’s it. “You only got blue panties, Pretty?”

“I guess I’m 2 for 2 right now,” you whispered.

Tommy slid them off, discarding them to somewhere you didn’t see [his pockets.] His lips hot on your skin, the low cut v of your dress that hung off you like a Goddesses’ toga wraps. Tommy couldn’t help himself but to suck marks into your skin as best he could.

He glanced up at you, his hat hanging on your head loosely. Tommy pushed your dress skirt up just to part your thighs for him to rest in. His fingers slid in, scissoring away to loosen you any amount. “My pretty lady, soakin’ wet for me.”

“G’na have you sit on me, n’ use me til your shakin’” Tommy said into your pussy before spitting again and licking it up your cunt. “Love this pretty cunt, matches you.”

It wasn’t long until you fell apart on his fingers with a cry. Every word he said dripped in sex, his presence between your thighs made you weak already, and you were sure your make up was long gone and a mess. With a stuttering grind into his face, “Tommy, wanna,” you panted softly before taking a deep breath.

Again, Tommy watched you like you were everything he needed. “Tell me.”

“Wanna ride you,” you quietly whispered. Tommy tucked the hat onto your head to solidify its spot and nodded. “Y’wanna ride the cowboy?” He smirked as he rolled onto his back. You nodded excitedly, arching your thigh over him and leaning down to kiss his lips.

He moaned at the idea of tasting yourself in the kiss, open mouthed and messy. Your hands snaked down, unbuckling that large brass and turquoise buckle, that shit made me drool. Lowering the jeans and his briefs down. Tommy unbuttoned his shirt, no tank top underneath. Just a pretty happy trail and a little pudge but tanned with pretty sun spots and a few moles.

A loud slap sounded against his stomach sounded and you rolled your hips instinctively, “Fuck,” you panted as you looked at it.

Thick, red, a little longer than average, thick. Gonna be a bitch to sit on. You felt yourself clench around nothing before you leaned onto your knees and looked down at him.

Your dripping cunt rolled over his hardness, his cock thick and long enough to reach his happy trail. Your bare cunt ground down, right onto the cute slightly tamed trail of hair to his cock. A slow moan left your lips while Tommy’s head thunked back into the trunk bed. “G’nna kill me little girl… playing with me like that.”

Tommy smiled at the sight of you. The moon illuminated you perfectly, the dress pooled perfectly until he glided his hands up your thighs and held himself up. “Need help, Pretty?”

With a flushed nod, Tommy groaned as he felt his head brush against your wetness. When the tip caught, you moaned with your head tossed back. You couldn’t look him in the eye, it was too much again.

“God, your little fuckin’ cunt taking my cock, huh? He too big for that little thing?”

Tommy just exhaled into the warm Texan air. Tommy grinded up and lodged himself, his hands dragging you down onto him. You fell forward with a cry as he stretched you open.

Your hands against the hot skin of his chest. You rolled your hips, eliciting the prettiest moan you’ve ever heard from a man. His eyes were hazy as he looked at you.

You looked like God, the way you allure him, the moon behind you illuminating your figure, and the way you look perfect in every way to Tommy. Through gritted teeth and a few pathetic rolls of his hips, “Pretty, I need you to move ‘for I do it myself.”

Lifting off, you raised just high enough for the tip to stay inside, and you slammed down. Then you did it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Tommy grunted every time, a little less air between them each and his hips eagerly meeting yours. The callouses on his hands scratched your skin lightly every time. As you rode him to hell, his hands stayed there, keeping your dress kicked up above your hips.

Then it clicked for you, Tommy was watching you fuck him. Watching the way your cunt ate his cock up like your pussy needed to be fed. With a tight squeeze around him, he fell his head back and slowly rolled his hips into you.

The rhythm you two had didn’t match, didn’t matter to you either. As long as Tommy just kept fucking into you, you don’t care.

The skin slapping was ludicrous, the sticky sensation between the two of you, then his stupid fat thumb started teasing, circling, and playing with your clit in the tiniest sharp circles that made you cry again.

“Oh god,” you mumbled. Tommy bit through his moan, making the executive decision to lean up and push your dress top down. Instead of his fingers, the course pubes on his mound grinded into your clit, arguably worse than his fingers for you. Sure, he sacrificed the sexiest sight of watching you and him fuck, but these pretty tits are worth it.

Tommy mouthed at your tits like it was his business. Simultaneously, his hands made contact with the front clasp of your bra and in one swift single motion, it snapped away from each other.

Tommy groaned against you, licking and sucking, fucking into you like you were the last person on Earth. His hands held your back as he fucked you. “Such a pretty fucking lady, aren’t ya?”

“Pretty fucking slut,” he growled as he watched you from blow, watched you while he sucked your tit for you, fucked yoh for you.

You squeezed around him as he degraded you, something in your chest exploding. “Hm? Like that dirty girl? Fuckin’ knew you were nasty,” Tommy growled against your nipple. One hand left your back and tweaked at your hardened nipple.

His teeth grazed and sent a shock down your spine, jerking your hips into his harder this time.

“God, fucking feel like heaven.”

“Needa fill you up, hm? Bet a needy slut would want it, huh? Make you into the prettiest mama?”

“Fuck, your cunt feels so good. Gonna make it mine.”

“Wanna cum, Pretty? Wanna show me your cummin’ face?”

You nodded helplessly, the hat fell to the side, and Tommy grabbed your jaw. “You can cum, I know you wanna, dirty girl.”

“Gonna make me cum in you too?”

“Yes, fuck! Please, Tommy, please cum inside,” you panted pathetically. “On the pill,” you frantically said.

You tried to keep a steady pace, and when you couldn’t, Tommy did. Then he grabbed your hips and pulled you onto his cock, moving you like you were no more than a sex sleeve.

He hit the spot countless times and you squeezed endlessly. “Come on,” he egged on.

You toss an arm on his shoulder to stabilize yourself and while you feel it all at once. A squeeze and a cry and you were cumming all over Tommy’s cock.

That squeeze sent Tommy over, shooting straight into you, pumping it all inside. Keeping it all inside.

Tommy lowered himself back, pulling your torso with him to lie down.

“Fuck,” Tommy panted. He wished Texas summer nights were colder, his skin was sticky and his cock still softening inside you.

“You fuck good,” you mumbled into his neck. Tommy laughed as he brought a hand to your back and rubbed soothing circles around.

“Do I?”

“Yes. I can’t believe you let me hold out on that.”

“I don’t plan on holding out on you ever again, Pretty,” Tommy assured with a heavy breath.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and back to that wedding.”

“Oh fuck we’re at a wedding,” you realized as Tommy shed his jacket.

He sat you down on the inside of it, not caring for what remains of their sex dripped onto his new suit jacket.

“I got water I think… and probably some fuckin’ napkins… gimme a sec, Pretty,” Tommy grumbled. He tucked himself away and headed for the truck head and found what he needed.

Tommy was gentle, especially after you jerked your hips into his hands after the first pass to clean your thighs. He kissed everywhere to calm you; even your clit with a teasing wink.

“Alright, Pretty lady, ready?” Tommy asked as he tucked your skirt back down. He hauled you to the edge of the truck bed and offered his hand to help you down.

“Where did my panties go?” You hazily asked. You took it, Tommy grabbed your waist to lower you to the ground rather than hop off.

Tommy shrugged. “Couldn’t find ‘em anywhere. Come on, I’ll walk you back in and we can pretend like you didn’t ride me into the sunset.”

Tommy wasn’t giving those panties back, no way.

“Our next date is you pick me up from the airport, fuck me, then we do a date,” you declared before you walked back in.

“Alright, Pretty Lady. I’ll write it down.”

[deardev0teddelicate]

joel miller core .. harry castillo core .. the list could go on

[deardev0teddelicate]

Against the Wall

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader

Summary: The hunt for Escobar leaves Peña frustrated, and you’re the one who catches the heat. Words turn into violence, and violence into sex - hard, merciless, and on his terms only

Warnings: 🔞 explicit sexual content, fingering, rough sex, no kissing/no foreplay, domination, physical force (grabbing, pinning, bruising), dirty talk, vulgar language, mentions of sex work, comeplay (external ejaculation)

Notes: Listen… I know I usually treat Javi like the love of my life (bc he is! 🫠), but sometimes the muse says: “make him a bastard” and apparently I obey?? 😏💀 hope y’all enjoy unhinged feral Peña bc he’s not coming back soft in this one

Words count: ~ 2.9k

“Fuckin’ hell. Goddamn it.” Peña kicks a chair by the table, papers flying everywhere. The whole room reeks like a goddamn cookhouse, stench soaked right into the walls. Well. It was a lab. DEA, Medellín team, had the tip. But by the time the fucking search bloc got their heads outta their asses, Escobar’s people moved the shit. Nothing left but stink. Just the two of you here now; Trujillo and Murphy already bailed once they saw it was empty.

“Fuck! This was supposed to be a sure thing. And it would’ve been, if they moved their asses.” Peña’s pacing, mad as hell, doesn’t even look at you. Figures. Lately he’s been wound up all the time. Used to be Murphy blowing up, now it’s Peña. Keeps ranting about how there’s gotta be another way besides the search bloc… Ever since Carrillo died, it’s like he’s lost his grip. Blames himself, yeah, but what the fuck does he think he’s gonna do? You don’t know what way he means, and you don’t give a shit. What pisses you off is watching him lose it like this. What the fuck’s he think he’s gonna fix?!

“Hey, calm the fuck down. You knew this could happen,” you throw at him. You know what’s coming.

“Calm down?!” He whirls on you, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead, jeans plastered to his legs. “You don’t fuckin’ get it! This is shit. We ain’t ever gonna catch that bastard Escobar. Not with the fuckin’ search bloc up our asses.” He slams a hand down on the table, beige shirt stretching across his shoulders.

And fuck, you feel it low in your gut. Hate how this asshole can look that good when he’s pissed. He’s got a shit reputation, only sticks his dick in brothel trash, and still - sometimes the thought creeps in. What if…

Your train of thought gets cut off by his voice. “We gotta do this different. This shit ain’t working anymore…”

“Oh yeah? And how the fuck, huh?” you snap back, your patience with his bullshit wearing thin. What the fuck’s he even talking about? As DEA you’re here to represent the U.S., but you’ve got no real say in what the Colombian cops decide. “You keep running your mouth about some other way. How? How, genius? We don’t have another way. What, you gonna just wander the streets on your own, knock on every door and ask if Pablo’s sicarios live there?” You laugh, sharp and ugly.

And instantly regret it. Peña storms over and looms above you. Suddenly you feel small, not just in height compared to him. Instinctively you step back, but all you meet is the cold wall behind you. Nowhere to go, and his stare pins you in place. He scans your face, eyes burning into yours, and you can’t look away. Your head’s pounding like a whole damn orchestra.

He plants his left hand on the wall next to your head. “You know what your problem is?” His voice drops low, eyes gone dark. “You’re a fuckin’ rookie. You don’t get what we’ve been trying to do here for years. You don’t get what every failure means. Every chance we blew, every lead we lost - you don’t understand the kind of frustration that comes with that. For you it’s just a fuckin’ job. You go home every night to your cute little apartment, put on some cheesy-ass romance movie on cable, cry your eyes out and eat your goddamn ice cream. Don’t tell me you don’t. Truth is, you don’t give a fuck about this work. You’re here ‘cause you made it through Quantico, maybe got pulled here ‘cause you got friends in the right places. But you’re not all in. You’re not invested. I see it. I feel it.”

His eyes drill into yours as he leans in closer, close enough you can feel his breath hot against your face. “So you don’t get to ask me what the fuck I’m planning, or how. You don’t get to question my methods. Even if those methods are walking door to door in this goddamn city. You hear me?!”

Rage spikes through you. No way he’s talking to you like that. Like you’re some pathetic bitch stuffing her face with ice cream in front of a TV.

“Yeah, I hear you,” you snap. “You’re just some pissed-off guy playing big-shot agent, ‘cause anywhere else no one would give a shit about you.”

For a split second, you see it flash in his eyes. The hand braced against the wall drops, his fingers digging hard into your arm until it hurts. He slams you even tighter against the cold wall.

“The fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me,” you shoot back, voice cracking but your eyes never leaving his. “I’m not some whore from a brothel you get to dump your trauma on.” It’s like you slapped him. The air between you thickens, suffocating. Peña’s stare burns into you, and you know it’s not just anger anymore.

And somehow… it turns you on. The way he’s this close. The way his grip crushes your arm. Your heart’s pounding out of your chest. You can feel yourself getting wet. Christ. This bastard has that kind of power over you. Fuck.

“No, you’re not some whore from a brothel, you’re right about that,” he growls, loosening his grip just a fraction; enough to let blood rush back, but you know damn well you’ll be wearing a bruise tomorrow. “You’re worse. You’re that fuckin’ princess type who doesn’t know a goddamn thing about what’s really going on here. Maybe you should just pack your shit and go home - you’d be a lot more useful there.” He scoffs, but his eyes never leave you. His breath fans hot across your face.

You’re surrounded by him; cigarettes, stale detergent, sweat, some cheap-ass deodorant. It shouldn’t get to you, but it does. It fucks with your head. Because this son of a bitch has humiliated you at least twice in the last five minutes, and you’re still staring at his mouth like it’s salvation.

“Does it make you feel good? Putting me down?” you hiss, trying to sound harder than you feel, even though your guts are twisting up small inside you. Still, you spit the words out: “Does it turn you on? You get hard from it?!” And the second it leaves your mouth - you regret it.

Peña freezes for a second. His eyes go darker, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “No,” he grits out, pressing in even closer, so close you swear you can feel everything. There’s barely a few inches of space between you. “Not from that.” His lip curls. “But from you fighting me like this… yeah. That gets me hard as fuck.”

You don’t even have time to process what he just said. The hand still clamped on your arm loosens, slides down to your wrist. He yanks it up and slams it against the wall over your head. His other hand grabs your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks until you’re forced to look at him.

“I know damn well how you look at me,” he hisses. “You think you’re hiding it, but I fuckin’ see it. Every look, every time you act pissed when I say some shit you don’t like and meanwhile you’d rather just–” He cuts himself off before finishing, but the weight of his body crushing against yours says it all. You can feel him. That bastard’s hard.

Jesus Christ…!

You want your brain to scream ‘scandal, gross, what the fuck is happening’, but all you feel is heat burning through you. You’ve lost count of how many times your stomach dropped straight into your cunt tonight. Your panties are soaked. And fuck… you want it. You want him to do whatever the hell he wants with you. Deep down, you know it; those thoughts have snuck in before. But you’re not giving it up that easy.

“Let me go,” you grind out through your teeth, your voice shaking with rage.

“No,” he shoots back instantly, releasing your face but still holding your wrist pinned high against the wall. His stare keeps you pinned just as much as his grip. “Not until you prove you’re not just some scared little rookie crying over her romance bullshit at night.”

What the fuck?! Your breath catches in your throat. You want him, but right now you fucking hate him. You don’t even know how the hell it escalated this far. “At least I don’t crawl into bed with a bottle every night and pay for cheap whores just to get laid,” you spit in his face, your voice vibrating with fury. You know it’s a low blow and that’s exactly why you say it.

The light in his eyes dies instantly. No words, no warning, just a violent move. He rips your wrist free and before you can even react, he spins you around and slams you chest-first into the wall so hard it nearly knocks the air out of you. Both arms wrenched behind your back, his body pressing you flat to the cold concrete. You feel the hard length of him against your ass.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls in your ear as his knee shoves your legs apart.

You stop thinking. The fight drains right out of you. All you want is to turn, to see his face but he’s holding you down, pinning you with brute strength.

His knee grinds rough between your thighs, merciless, and you rub against it without even meaning to. Eyes squeeze shut, you try to resist but a soft sound slips out of you anyway. A moan. And that’s it, because he fucking heard it.

“Fuck,” he chuckles low. “You want this… you want me to fuck your brains out.” The hand holding your wrists finally lets go. “Be a good girl,” he breathes against your ear.

You don’t feel like fighting anymore. Not really. But there’s still that voice in the back of your head - you don’t want to give it to him that easy.

You feel his hand slide down the front of your pants. He’s searching by memory, you can tell. There’s nothing gentle in it; the second he finds the button, he yanks it open. Doesn’t bother with the zipper, just rips your pants down in one rough motion, holding you pinned to the wall by your hip with his other hand.

“I hate you,” you grind out through your teeth, but your voice shakes and you know it’s the last flicker of resistance. You’re wet. Your panties are completely soaked. He shoves your pants halfway down your thighs in one go, dragging your panties with them.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, moving the hand from your hip to grab your bare ass, squeezing hard enough to make you yelp. “You can hate me after.” With that, the hand that stripped your pants slides forward, pressing against your pussy for a brief second - almost gentle - before he shoves two fingers inside you without warning. Hard, sudden, like he’s making a point: you don’t get a say in what happens.

You’re so wet it’s easy. You feel him everywhere; his fingers are long, hitting exactly where they should, curling and circling inside you in that rhythm your body craves. A sharp thought cuts through - you know these fingers have probably been in half the whores in Colombia, and right now you’re no different. Because… you like it.

Your forehead presses into the wall, a moan escaping through your teeth, and he just laughs… that dark, self-satisfied laugh. “Say it,” he rumbles, his body caging you in. “Say you need it.”

“Never,” you gasp, already gone in your head, trying to twist around but his grip keeps you pinned to the wall like a vice. His other hand lets go of your ass and braces against the wall right by your head. He leans even harder into you, his cock grinding against your body. Fuck, he’s huge. You can feel it. You’ve always known it. Those tight fucking jeans never left much to the imagination.

You try to shift, to let him know you want to turn around.

The only answer you get is another hard thrust of his fingers inside you; faster this time, deeper, fuck. How the hell is this even possible? Your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand like you’re begging for more. You’re grinding your pussy down on his fingers like it’s the only thing that could save you.

“Fuck, yeah…” he growls, still grinding against you, hard through his jeans. And then, without warning, he pulls his fingers out. You gasp, sharp and desperate. For a second you think he did it just to fuck with you. Leaving you here, strung out, dripping.

But then you hear it - the sound of a zipper behind you. You want to see. You need to see. Slowly, carefully, you glance back over your shoulder. His fly’s open, hand buried in his boxers. He pulls it out; already rock hard, veins standing out, big. Jesus Christ. How the fuck is that supposed to fit? Shit. Not that you’re in the business of judging cocks, but this one - this one’s easily one of the best you’ve ever laid eyes on.

He strokes himself slow, once, twice, no rush. Just the motion, no words, his ragged breath filling the room. And the sight alone has you even more wound up, a quiet whimper slipping past your lips before you can stop it. He hears.

And he smirks… that smug, wicked smirk only he can pull off. Cock still in his hand, he presses back up against you. For a beat, nothing. Just his body caging you in.

Instinct takes over, you arch your ass back, offering him better access to your dripping cunt. And it’s like he was waiting for exactly that because the second you do, he shoves into you. No warning, no easing in. Just hard, merciless, uncompromising.

You cry out, the size of him shocks you. He fills every space, even ones you didn’t know you had. It’s intense, overwhelming. Not pain - you’re too wet for that - but it’s a lot. Too much. A moan rips from your throat.

He starts moving. No words; just hard, steady thrusts, each one so deep you swear he’s splitting you open. Your hips slam into the wall with every drive, his breath scorching your ear, your skin burning under his. He’s huge, and with every movement you feel it more, all of it. Fuck, this is too much. Too intense, too everything. You don’t know what to do with yourself.

Both his hands clamp tight on your hips, holding you in place.

His thrusts are brutal, but not even. Sometimes he pounds into you rough, sharp, making your body smack against the cold wall, then he stops. Just stays buried inside you, stretching you, hard and hot. Your whole body shakes, heartbeat thundering in your throat. You can’t move, his grip on your hips is iron, you know you’ll wear bruises tomorrow.

No words. Just his breathing - short, ragged, harsh. Every push rips another moan out of you, no matter how hard you try to stay quiet. The more you fight it, the louder it gets, the more it takes over. And him too.

And fuck!, it turns you on even more, the thought someone could walk in. Someone from the team. Peña wouldn’t give a shit. You know he’d enjoy it.

And then, with every thrust, every slow pull out and drive back in, the wave hits - sudden, violent. Heat rips through your whole body, your muscles clenching hard around his cock, your breath breaking apart. You come fast, hard, uncontrollably; pinned against that wall, held like a prisoner, with zero control.

And him? He doesn’t let up for a second. He stays inside you, still fucking you like it doesn’t matter you’re shaking apart.

It only drags it out more, your orgasm stretched until it’s unbearable. You’re oversensitive, twitching, your knees ready to give, but he doesn’t give a fuck.

Your release just provokes him; his thrusts get sharper, deeper, dragging you higher on your toes. His body’s trembling, his breath rough and fast, but he’s still in control. He doesn’t stop until you can feel him right on the edge.

And then, in the last second, he yanks out and lets go of your hips. You’re left empty, gasping. Slowly, you glance back over your shoulder. You don’t have the guts yet to turn and face him fully.

His fist tight around the base of his cock, he strokes himself twice, rough, and with a strangled growl he finishes right behind you. Hot cum splatters across your ass, running down your skin.

Even then he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, chest heaving, cock still in his hand. And you know - even though you came first - this whole thing was his. All his. From start to finish. From behind. No foreplay, no kissing, nothing.

You turn to face him fully. He tucks himself back in with one quick motion, zips up. Doesn’t even look at you. Just lights a cigarette, drags deep, and exhales the smoke right in your face. His eyes finally meet yours for only a split second… and there’s not a trace of softness. Just the cold certainty that he took you exactly the way he wanted.

“See? You’re not different from the rest,” he mutters finally, calm, almost detached. Then he turns and walks out.

• thank you for reading!

👉 first time I turned my DEA baby into a heartless bastard… kinda hurts ngl 😭 but also… maybe I wanted it 👀 if you know me from IG you know I usually romanticize him & give him soft vibes, so yeah… this one’s a whole other demon

alsooo… new thing → I started a taglist! if you wanna be tagged in my fics, just drop me a comment or send me a message 💌 if you’d rather not be tagged anymore, also let me know 😁 this is a new system so older fics don’t have it yet, but I’m trying to keep it organized from now on 💚

MORE FICS -> masterlist

@glitterspark @joelmillerswife9 @kirsteng42 @picketniffler @daisypants @whoisjaine @borinquenasoy @daltoncharm @joelmillerpascal @notjaque

[deardev0teddelicate]

Some Older!Joel thoughts bc i am overly✨feraaaaaal✨ today😌

Warnings?: smuuuuut ofc, handsy AND mouthy Joel, he yaps bc he cant move, creampies and therefore unprotected sexy times, the LIGHTEST of mentions of ass play, joel thinking your fucking yourself dumb when its really him; poor guy :((

Masterlist

Older!Joel Miller who's pulled his back working and cant do much but lay there and take it as you fuck him. Who insists hes fine as his soft tummy collides with your pubic bone with each grind of your hips. Your hands anchored between his knees or chest.

Older!Joel Miller who's own hands are everywhere all at once. Large calloused palms filled with doughy flesh; swatting, tugging, gripping. Anywhere from your thighs, tits, hips, waist and ass- his hands are always roaming since he can do little else in this state.

Older!Joel Miller whos hips are desperate to buck up but cant do so properly without putting a strain on the ache in his back. Who grumbles and whos brows pinch with the effort of keeping still as your pace wavers. Who's fists are white knucked in sheets or on skin.

Older!Joel Miller who verbally eggs you on, drawling everything from soft degradation to praise and begging. His voice begining to ho hoarse the long you fuck yourself on his growing spent cock.

"Doin- oh fuck- so good. Feelin b-better already with that pretty pussy wrapped around me"

"All that cock so deep itd emptyin that pretty head huh? I know, my dumb baby- fuckin that brain out"

"Grippin me so- oh god- so tight again sweetheart, you gonna cum? Gonna cum on your old mans cock again?"

"O-oh shit.. babygirl m' not gonna l-last if you keep doin shit like that-"

"F-fuckin milkin me dry sweetheart- oh fuck.. Cant stop fuckin cummin.."

Older!Joel Miller who, when you turn around to ride him in reverse, grips your bouncing cheeks so tightly it leaves marks. Who spreads em wide and uses the creamy wetness of at least two mixed orgasms to slip his thumb gently over your other hole. Not pushing in, just offering a soft pressure against the puckered skin.

Older!Joel Miller who moans deep and gutteral as you fuck him even when his own thighs begin to tremble from the overwhelming pleasure of your pussy wringing orgasm after orgasm out of him. Oversensitive and barley hard anymore, his sounds still rumble. Ragged and rough, low and harsh.

Older!Joel Miller who makes sure his glasses are on as and not fogged up so he can watch his spent, soft cock slip free from your pussy. A soaked squelch filling the bedroom walls as copious amount of creamy cum immediately follows suit to drip across his pubic area and down the seam of his thoroughly emptied balls.

Unrelated but im thinking about writing a unable to get it up/trying to fuck soft cock joel drabble.. What'd we think?

[deardev0teddelicate]

Everytime I look at Joel miller I am reminded of how much I NEED THAT!!!