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goaways-stuff · 13 days ago

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Coffee and Quiet Things

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You spend a slow, cozy day with Pedro Pascal, your sweet boyfriend—sharing coffee, walking the dog, cooking dinner, and dancing in the kitchen. Amid soft laughter and quiet confessions, the comfort between you deepens into something lasting: love that feels like home.

Warnings: pure fluff, soft smut (but not that detailed)

You weren’t sure when Pedro’s house started to feel more like home than your own apartment. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, no sudden realization, just a quiet accumulation of little things. Like how your favourite mug had somehow migrated to his kitchen, or how your shampoo was now a permanent resident in his shower. Or the way he left the porch light on every evening, even if he wasn’t home first. Maybe it was the way that his old record player (which he got from his family for one of his birthdays) crackled in the mornings, the scent of that cedarwood candle he always forgot to blow out, earning a stern look from you every time, or how the light hit just right at sunrise in the kitchen, casting honey-coloured lines across the floorboards. It was slow, the way you settled into each other in such a short time. But it was steady. Certain.

It was Saturday morning when the warmth of the sunlight woke you, slanting in through the gauzy curtains Pedro never remembered to close all the way. The scent of fresh linen and cedarwood filled the whole bedroom—his scent, comforting and familiar. He was still asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach with one arm under the pillow and his face buried in the crook of his elbow, hair mussed into curls from the night. You smiled at the sight of him, gently pulled up the blanket to his shoulders, and slipped out of bed as quietly as you could, trying not to wake him up.

You padded barefoot into his kitchen, the hem of his t-shirt—too big for you—brushing your thighs. The faded cotton smelled just like him—cologne, laundry softener, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. You’d stolen it months ago, sneaking it out of his closet. He always said it was “accidental theft,” but you knew he loved seeing you in it. And you’d never admit it out loud, but it had become your favourite things to sleep in.

The whole house was quiet except for the subtle hum of the city outside and the occasional creak of wood adjusting to the warmth of the sun. You moved on instinct: kettle filled, beans ground, coffee steeping in the French press. Humming softly, you reached for your mug from his shelf—one Pedro had once said looked like a grandma’s teacup but had a chip in the handle you liked.

Behind you, you heard the gentle creak of the bedroom door.

Pedro emerged, still soft and blurry with sleep, wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pyjama pants that sat low on his hips. His hair stuck out at unruly angles, the kind of bedhead only he could pull off and no one else. He rubbed a hand over his face as he made his way into the kitchen, stopping only when he was close enough to nudge his nose into your neck.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep.

You tilted your head toward him, smiling as you poured his coffee. “It’s nearly noon.”

“Still too early,” he mumbled, but accepted the mug when you offered it, fingers brushing yours in a quiet good morning.

His free arm wrapped around your waist and tugged you in close until your back was flush to his chest. You leaned into him easily, the way you always did, like your body already knew the shape of his.

“I made your favourite,” you whispered, tilting your head up to look at him.

Pedro hummed, sipping from the mug. “Of course you did. Because you love me.”

You turned in his arms to face him, your fingers looping lightly through the collar of his shirt. “Obviously.”

His smile was lazy, eyes crinkling in the corners, warm and soft just for you. “What did I do to deserve this?”

You leaned up on your toes, brushing a kiss over his jaw. “I’m pretty sure you offered me your croissant that one morning on set.”

He just blinked at you with confusion. “Strange. I remember you stealing my croissant.””

“It was warm. And flaky. And I was weak.”

“And irresistible,” he smirked.

“Mr. Pascal, are we still talking about the croissant?” Pedro kissed you then—slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into him easily, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. The world outside faded into a quiet hum.

——

The morning drifted lazily into early afternoon. You ended up curled on the couch, legs tangled with his, Edgar, his scruffy rescue dog was snoozing on the back of the couch, curled into Pedro’s neck, occasionally twitching in his sleep. Your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath soft cotton. The TV was on, something forgettable, but neither of you paid any attention to it.

His fingers traced patterns on your arm—nonsense shapes and gentle spirals. “We should take Edgar for a walk,” he said eventually, voice still wrapped in sleep.

“He seems perfectly content right where he is,” you murmured.

Pedro slowly turned his head to the side to take a glance at the dog, who was now staring with soulful, imploring eyes. “He’s playing the long game. He’ll start guilt-tripping us is three… two…”

Edgar gave a dramatic sigh, shifting with a pitiful flop of his head, hitting Pedro in the eye with his big ears.

“You see this manipulation?”

You leaned over to scratch behind Edgar’s ear, earning a satisfied sigh from him. “He knows who the real softie is.”

Pedro glanced at you with warm eyes and his mouth slowly turned up into a smile. “He likes you better than me.”

“Obviously.”

——

You hadn’t planned to spend the afternoon out, but the sky was too blue, the breeze too soft, and Pedro’s hand too warm in yours to say no when he asked, “Wanna walk with me a bit?” Edgar’s leash was already in his other hand, the pup trotting ahead with his tail high and his nose to the ground like he was on a mission.

So you wandered through sunlit streets, letting the city hum quietly around you. Pedro wore his usual weekend uniform—sunglasses, soft tee, denim jacket—and every now and then, he’d glance over at you like he still couldn’t believe this was real. Edgar stopped to sniff nearly every tree and lamppost, which Pedro narrated with over-the-top commentary.

“He’s writing his novel,” Pedro said seriously, crouching beside the dog. “Chapter seventy-four. Plot twist: the neighbour’s cat is back.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I can’t believe this is the man whose voice makes people cry in interviews.”

He stood, grinning. “I’m a man of layers.”

Eventually, you stumbled across a quiet corner café tucked behind ivy-covered brick. You'd never been there before, but it looked like something out of a movie—warm wood, soft lighting, the scent of coffee and cinnamon drifting out the door. The outdoor seating was shaded and half-empty, with little metal tables and bowls of water already set out for dogs.

Pedro looked at you, hopeful. “Coffee?”

You nodded. “Only if we let Edgar pick the table.”

Edgar sniffed three of them before flopping down beside one in the far corner, tail thumping. Decision made.

Pedro went inside to order while you sat with Edgar, gently running your hand down his back as he panted happily, head on your foot. The breeze lifted the ends of your hair, and everything felt still. Not boring—just... content.

When Pedro returned with your drinks and pastries, he sat beside you instead of across from you, thigh pressed against yours as he passed you your latte. “The barista gave Edgar a biscuit,” he said, slipping it into the pup’s mouth. “Said he was a regular.”

You raised a brow. “How often do you come here without me?”

Pedro grinned, not even pretending to be sorry. “Gotta keep some mystery alive in the relationship.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You're lucky you're cute.”

He kissed the top of your head, lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “I know.”

The three of you stayed there for a long time—Pedro sipping his coffee, you nibbling your pastry, Edgar lying across both of your feet like a sleepy bridge. Sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. It didn’t matter. The kind of silence you shared was never awkward. It felt like language without words.

At one point, Pedro reached for your hand and laced your fingers with his on the table. “I like this,” he said quietly. “You. Me. Edgar. Coffee. It’s simple. Feels like something that lasts.”

You looked at him, heart full, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Feels like home.”

And maybe it was. A sun-warmed afternoon, a lazy dog at your feet, and a man who looked at you like every little moment was something worth remembering.

——

The afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows in lazy streaks, warming the hardwood floors and casting a golden haze across the living room. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of wood or Edgar’s soft panting from his nap spot near the balcony doors.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping absentmindedly through a worn book Pedro had left on the coffee table. You weren’t even sure what you were reading—something with soft edges and lyrical sentences—but the words felt like background music to the moment more than anything.

Pedro returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, handing you yours with a soft smile before settling beside you. He didn’t sit on the other end of the couch, though. He turned sideways, shoulder against the armrest, one knee bent up, the other leg stretched out just long enough to brush against yours.

“What are you reading?” he asked, his voice low, still a little raspy from the late morning.

You tilted the book to show him the cover. “I think this used to be yours.”

He smiled as he took a sip of tea. “Yeah, that one got me through a lonely season.”

“Feels like a book for soft days,” you said. “Like this one.”

Pedro didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, his eyes thoughtful and full of something quiet and affectionate. Then he set his tea down and reached for a blanket draped over the back of the couch.

“Come here,” he said gently, opening his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You slid toward him, your body curling into his like a puzzle piece falling into place. The blanket wrapped around both of you, warm and heavy, and you settled with your back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. His arms looped around you easily, one hand holding the book, the other resting against your stomach, thumb brushing absent patterns into the fabric of your shirt.

“I’ll read,” he offered.

You didn’t even respond. You just nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he started reading aloud—quietly, without pretense, like it was something he did every Sunday.

His voice was a slow, soothing current, the kind of sound that you didn’t just listen to but felt—in your ribs, in your spine, in the way your breathing synced with his. Every so often, he’d pause and whisper something that wasn’t on the page.

“That part reminds me of you.”

Or, “I used to underline this line. Didn’t know why then, but I think I do now.”

Sometimes he’d get distracted and trail off mid-sentence, his lips pressing softly to the top of your head like punctuation. And when he eventually closed the book, setting it aside on the armrest, neither of you moved to fill the silence. There was no need.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to feel the stubble of his jaw against your temple. “This is nice,” you murmured.

Pedro smiled against your skin. “Yeah. It’s everything.”

And it was. Just sunlight, a shared blanket, his voice, your heartbeat. A moment so quiet it might’ve been missed—if it hadn’t felt like the whole world.

——

Evening settled inquietly, like a soft exhale after a long, beautiful day. Outside, the city began to hush, the sun casting a golden-orange glow across the skyline before dipping beneath it. In the house everything felt suspended in warmth—the kind that lingers not just in the air, but under your skin.

The kitchen glowed with soft light, the overhead bulbs dimmed and two tall candles flickering steadily on the island counter. Pedro insisted on them—not for the aesthetic, he claimed, but because he liked how everything looked softer in candlelight. You knew better. He liked you in candlelight. He said so once with a look that made your whole body buzz.

He was standing in front of the stove now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing that ridiculous apron you’d gotten him as a joke months ago—black with white script: “Kiss the Cook (He’s Sensitive).” The way he wore it, you almost forgot it was meant to be funny.

You leaned against the counter, watching him stir the pan with quiet concentration. “You��re actually kind of hot when you cook.”

“Kind of?” he asked without looking up.

You smirked. “Fine. You’re full-on domestic daddy right now.”

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for the fresh basil. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

You blinked, startled by the ease of the words—how they slipped out like he said them every day. Maybe he would, after this.

He noticed you pause and turned towards you, eyes searching. “That didn’t freak you out, did it?”

“No,” you said quickly, a small smile forming. “Just… you beat me to it.”

Pedro tilted his head, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel before cupping your cheek with his palm. His thumb brushed your skin as he whispered, “Say it anyway.”

You looked up at him, heart full and steady. “I love you.”

Something about the way his face softened in that exact moment—like he’d been waiting to hear those words from you without even realizing it—made your breath catch. He kissed you then. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow. Reverent. His lips moved against yours like a promise.

Dinner turned out better than expected—simple, fresh pasta tossed with tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and a sprinkle of Parmesan. You sat close at the table, knees brushing, sharing bites from each other’s plates like neither of you wanted to miss a thing. The conversation was quiet, easy, full of smiles and glances that lingered a little too long to be casual.

After the dishes were cleaned and Edgar was fed, you both stayed in the kitchen. Pedro dimmed the lights until it was just candlelight and soft jazz coming from the old record player in the corner of the living room. He held out his hand towards you.

“Dance with me.”

You raised a brow at him. “Now?”

“Always.”

You slid your hand into his bigger ones and let him pull you into his arms. There, in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by glowing light and the scent of garlic and wine and candle wax, he held you close, swaying gently to the music. One hand rested on your lower back, the other clasped your hand against his chest. You tucked your face against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss into your hair. Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to. Everything was being said in the way your bodies moved together, in the quiet sighs and soft breaths shared between you.”

“You know,” he said after a long moment, his voice just above a whisper, “this is the part in the movies I never used to believe in.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “What part?”

“This. The kitchen. The dancing. The… peace. I always thought it was made up. Something people wrote into scripts because it sounded pretty.”

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “And now?”

He smiled, eyes boring into yours. “Now I never want it to end.”

You kissed him again, arms wrapping around his neck, and he kissed you back like he meant it—like he was anchoring himself to that moment. To you.

When the record ended, you both stayed there for a beat longer. Then Pedro whispered, “Come to bed with me.”

You didn’t answer. You just took his hand and let him lead you.

——

The rain had started sometime after dinner, soft and steady against the windows, a gentle rhythm that matched the quiet between you and Pedro. The city outside had blurred into a dreamscape—streetlights glowing through raindrops, casting shifting shadows on the bedroom walls. Inside, everything was still.

You were curled up in bed, half-tangled together in the lazy sprawl that only happened after a long, good day. Pedro’s bare chest was warm beneath your cheek, his hand slow and deliberate as it traced lines along your back, trailing up beneath the hem of your shirt just to feel your skin.

“You ever think about how we ended up here?” he murmured, his voice a soft rasp, thick with affection and a hint of sleep.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. “Here in bed, or here in general?”

A sleepy smile tugged at his lips. “Both.”

You smiled too, resting your chin on his chest. “Yeah. Sometimes it feels like a dream.”

His hand moved to your hair, brushing it back behind your ear, then cupping your jaw. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “You feel real to me,” he whispered. “You feel like everything.”

The words landed heavy in the most beautiful way, your heart fluttering like soft wings inside your chest. You leaned up to kiss him, slow and searching, letting yourself sink into him completely. He kissed you back with the kind of gentleness that said I love you without needing the words. His hand slid down your back, fingers skimming over the curve of your waist, until he pulled you over him, your thighs cradling his hips. You moved easily, like you belonged there—because you did.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and a little shaky now, even though you were already pressed so close.

“I want you,” you said simply. “Like this. Slow.”

Pedro exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. He sat up just enough to help you pull your shirt over your head, then leaned in, pressing kisses across your collarbone, your shoulder, the hollow of your throat. His hands traced every inch of your skin as if he was learning you all over again, fingertips reverent, lips following like a prayer.

“You’re everything I never thought I’d have,” he murmured, voice trembling just a little. “And I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls as you kissed him again, deeper this time. You rolled your hips over his slowly, and the way he gasped into your mouth made your whole body ache with need. When he slid your underwear down and you reached for the waistband of his briefs, his hand caught yours for a moment. Not to stop you—just to look at you. Like he needed to make sure you were still there, still his.

“I love you,” he said, rough and unguarded.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “I love you too.”

He helped guide you down over him, breath hitching as he filled you—slow and steady, with a hand braced at your waist and the other holding your cheek like he couldn’t bear to let go. You settled into a rhythm together, bodies moving in a quiet, perfect sync, gasps and sighs filling the room like a song only you two could hear.

His hands never left you—stroking, grounding, worshiping.

Your name fell from his lips again and again, half-whispered, like a mantra. And when you came, you clung to him, mouth open against his shoulder, heart pounding like it might break apart from how full it was. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a broken sound, his whole body shuddering beneath you as he wrapped his arms tight around you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You just stayed wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping at the window, the sheets warm around you, the world outside fading away. Eventually, he kissed your shoulder—soft and slow—and murmured, “You make everything feel quieter. Better. Like I don’t have to run anymore.”

You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple. “You don’t. You’re home now.”

The room was warm. Your bodies were flushed and tired in that perfect way that came from being truly, deeply close. You were just starting to drift off when you heard the soft, familiar click of nails on hardwood.

Then a quiet huff and a very determined thump onto the foot of the bed.

You both looked down to see Edgar wiggling his way onto the mattress like it was his turn now to snuggle with you two. He turned twice in a circle, flopped with all the grace of a bowling ball in a blanket fort, and stared up at you with a grumpy little blink.

Pedro chuckled, voice still hoarse from earlier. “Jealous, buddy?”

Edgar gave one more theatrical sigh and shoved his cold nose against Pedro’s thigh—making him jump slightly—before settling down between your ankles like a stubborn child demanding attention.

You laughed, curling back into Pedro’s chest. “He just wants his spot. We messed up the routine.”

Pedro kissed your temple, pulling the blanket over all three of you. “Fine. He can have his corner. But this”—he pulled you tighter to him— “this is mine.”

You smiled sleepily as Edgar let out one last grunt and settled in with a snore.

The rain had stopped outside. And between Pedro’s arms and Edgar’s soft weight at your feet, everything felt right.

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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thinking about how it would feel to caress joel's body, hand trailing up from his hairy chest down to his happy trail, mapping out every inch of him. the thick, coarse hair contrasts with the softness of your fingers, his skin warm to the touch. he's so big, something that makes your mouth dry every time you think about it. his rough exterior crumbles from your delicate touch, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly as his hazel eyes gaze into yours. he'll never quite understand how gorgeous he really is, how enamoured you are with every part of him— the softness of his stomach, the broadness of his shoulders, the roughness of his muscles. you'd worship him day and night if he’d let you, and you’d still never get enough. he's beautiful.

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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I use tumblr only for the cats AND Pedro Pascal

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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Joel Miller but make it where he’s on his old, arthritic knees begging to eat you out because you “just smell so damn good today” and he pleas “come on baby, just a taste.”

You tell him you’ve got things to do, but really, you’re just as excited as he is. You love to tease him and make him wait.

In the end, he wins. He gets you spread out on the bed, he’s on his stomach between your legs, nose pressed into your pussy. His tongue is dragging up and down your folds as his thumb circles your clit. You cum 4 times before Joel’s jaw locks up and he physically can’t keep going. He makes you cum two more times anyways.

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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NEW OLD JOEL 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

old man!joel x younger!fem!reader

synopsis – after years on the road, you and joel finally settle in jackson and there's nothing you love more than coming back from work to your old man wearing those glasses.

smut. fluff

the last of us masterlist

after traveling what felt like the entire world following joel, you both finally decided to settle down in jackson. it was peaceful, a not so small community anymore where you could breathe again, where you could do more than just survive. eat three meals a day. sleep through the night without one eye open. and with all that peace came space, to feel, to think, to finally let yourself consider what had been quietly building between you and joel all this time.

he was reluctant at first. the age gap weighed on him more than it ever did on you. you’d never brought it up, never even seemed to notice it in the ways he did. but you two had lived too much together since you first started traveling with ellie. that kind of bond didn’t come easily. yet joel didn’t think he had the right to want something as soft, as tender, as the love you showed him. and jackson helped him with that. the town gave him the kind of peace he never thought he’d earn. and slowly, as the years passed, joel softened and started to accept the life he deserved and appreciate the little things.

the way you massaged his shoulders after a long day of work, the way he always made sure you were warm in the mornings when he had to leave early, how you'd wake up tucked beneath an extra blanket. you built a life together made up of shared breakfasts and quiet evenings walking through the snow-covered streets of jackson, of fixing things around the house side by side, of laughter in the kitchen when something burned, and the way he'd kiss your temple like it didn’t matter.

—hi, —you said coming into the house. joel looked up from where he was sitting at the table, glasses low on his nose, hands busy with something that needed to be fixed. his eyes softened the second he saw you.

—hey, darlin’, —he said, —you’re back early.

—yeah, the snow is getting worst, there wasn't much we could do in the garden, —you replied, shrugging off your coat and hanging it up by the door.

joel gave a small nod, eyes following your every move, —i figured, —he said, —how’s the ground looking? any chance we can save anything before the winter really sets in?

you sighed, taking a moment to pull off your gloves and slide them into your pocket. —a few plants are holding up, but it’s mostly the cold that’s making it tough. i’m thinking of giving it another shot in the spring, once everything starts to warm up.

joel hummed. you approached him and hugged him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. his hand, still holding the small tool, paused for a second before he gently placed it down, he took one of your hands in his, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

—how was your day? —you asked.

—good, busy. dina told me the cracked main lines are full of roots. should've checked them but i forgot, —he rubbed his hands over his face, clearly annoyed with himself. you could see how much he cared about getting things right, about showing that he was still capable, still useful. he picked the piece again and fidgeted with it.

—it's okay, you can get it done tomorrow. the main lines aren't going to move, —you reassured him, your voice gentle, as you smoothed your hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm.

—yeah, you’re right. tomorrow’s another day, —the therapy sessions were working, somehow, because never in your life would you have imagined the joel you first met would learn to take things slow.

you kissed his cheek, his beard tickling your lips, as your hand slid slowly over his chest. you couldn't help but smile at how lost he was in the task, not even seeming to notice the way you were touching him. you pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his neck, letting your lips pressed there for just a second before pulling back.

—joel, —you murmured. your fingers brushed against his before you gently took the small tool from him and set it on the table. you moved closer, slipping one knee over his lap, easing yourself down until you were straddling him. —are you planning on working all night?

joel's hands instinctively found your hips, steadying you, surprised but not willing to stop you. —was just about done here, —he said, —then i was gonna give you every bit of my attention. but i see you've got other plans for me.

you loved how he looked with the glasses low on his nose, made him look more domestic, but you gently slid them off, folding them and setting them on the table. his eyes followed the movement, then back up to yours, darker now but entirely focused.

—thought you liked those, —he murmured.

—i do, —you whispered, —but i'm afraid they might get in the way.

he hummed, his eyes fixed on your lips.

you unbuttoned the flannel he wore beneath his jacket. he watched you, barely breathing, his hands still resting on your hips but his thumbs began to trace soft circles through the fabric of your jeans. you sighed softly as the last button came undone, revealing his body. your hand moved over his chest, tracing the old, pale scars that marked his skin. your eyes moved lower, taking in the softness of his belly, the way he relaxed under your gaze instead of tensing. you bit your lower lip, what if you said this was the sexiest he has ever looked?

—i couldn't wait to get back home to you, —you brushed your nose against his, you hips started rolling against his own. joel swallowed, his hands flexed where they held you, fingers tightening just a little.

—yeah? —he asked, his voice low, a little gruff.

you nodded, and your lips finally met his in a kiss that felt like it had been waiting to happen all day. it was desperate, needy, but slow and passionate. your fingers sank into the soft, graying hair at the back of joel’s head, tugging gently, needing him closer. he groaned low in his throat, his hands working hungrily on the zipper of your jeans.

you lifted your hips from his so he could slid your jeans down your legs and immediately after, you straddled him again. as your fingers worked on the buckle of his belt and then unzipped his pants, joel's big hands cupped your ass, pushing you forward and encouraging you to grind against his crotch.

you whined, feeling the rough fabric of his jeans through the thin one of your panties. you pulled down his underwear, just enough for his cock to sprung free. you connected your lips with his again, his hands now on your cheeks as you lowered yourself just enough for his tip to go in. he let out a deep grunt straight from his chest, you let out all the air you had in your lungs in a moan.

you took all of him. joel let his head rest on your shoulder as his hands traveled down your body to your hips. he helped you move, at first just rocking your body back and forth against his. your lips, half parted pressed together, made it easier for your breaths to mingle. then, you lifted your body and then dropped back onto him. you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed his lips while you repeated that same move again and again.

—fuck, yeah, just like that, —joel groaned in your ear.

you tried not to be so loud, you didn't want to attract anyone's attention or cause a scandal. but your cries and his moans eventually echoed on the walls of your living room every time you lifted yourself a bit more and then sucked his cock completely inside you again.

joel rose from the chair in one fluid motion, his strong hands holding your weight. with a sweep of his arm, tools and scraps went to the floor, forgotten. he laid you down on the now-cleared table, the wood cool against your back, contrast to the heat building between you as his cock never left your body.

—did so good for me, now let me take care of you, hm?

he grabbed your thighs with firm hands and guided your legs around his waist so he could go deeper. your heels pressed into his lower back as he leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours. the table cracked with each one of his thrusts and you feared it might break, it wouldn't be the first time joel would need to ask his brother for help in repairing a piece of furniture that you had broken since your arrival in jackson.

one of his hands sneaked in between your bodies and found your clit, his fingers moving fast and with urgency as he felt how you were getting tighter and tighter. you closed your eyes shut, feeling a little dizzy from all the panting as your body jerked and squeezed his own between your legs as you came. after that, he didn't last much longer and released himself inside you.

you both stayed there for a few minute. joel rested on top of you and with your legs still around him, you welcomed the weight of his body pressing you down onto the table. you played with his hair as he finally looked at you. you showed him a little smile and he gave a quick kiss to your lips.

—my body's gonna hurt so much tomorrow from this.

you giggled, —i'll make sure to give you the best massage ever.

you showed him a little smile, and he gave you a quick kiss to your lips. but as you pulled away, both of you noticed the mess of tools and pieces scattered across the floor, the work joel had been focused on before everything had shifted between you.

—i'm afraid you're gonna have to start all over again.

—with that or with you?

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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Okay i remember now

How much booze would it take to make Nathan sit through a Twilight marathon?

-----

Alternative:

You: just take a shot everytime someone is being cringe

Nathan: *shitfaced after 5 minutes*

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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i miss you already, peepaw :(

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goaways-stuff · 14 days ago

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Still cant believe Nathan casually made a whole sentient conscious android woman and based her on some loners porn search history. Whenever I think fanfics make him too petty or convoluted I re-remember this and realise no one can write him crazier than the way he already is.

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goaways-stuff · 15 days ago

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Summary: Joel was a bad man. Perverted, dirty-minded, and old. He couldn’t keep you out of his thoughts no matter how hard he tried. You were the new neighbor across the way, though he’d made sure you’d never spoken. He kept his distance, kept to himself. Until Dina nearly dragged you into his dining area, forcing you to sit with him as he averted his gaze. And just like that, she got up and left—leaving you to whatever quiet little plan she'd already set in motion. || smut MDNI 18+, peepaw!joel, oldman!joel, big ol' girthy age gap (not specified but LEGAL), soft!joel, the man's obsessed, perv!joel, daddy kink, pinv, f!receiving oral, masturbation, << joel watches you, joel mentions reader's body is 'little' but only because he's a big boy, big dick joel miller, idk what else to put here, this fic lives in a world where creampies ≠ pregnancy, this takes place *before Ellie & Dina get together || a/n: couldn't stop thinking about this all damn night. Ok he’s actually an angel but THINKS he’s a bad man

Just focus on the wires, Miller. The wires.

But the zap bit into his fingers the second he looked, eyes drifting up just for a moment, out the window and onto you.

You were kneeling in the garden bed along the edge of the street by your house, wrist-deep in dark soil, the late-spring sunlight gilding your skin like something out of a goddamn dream. Your shirt had ridden up your back as you reached forward, and he caught the bare curve of your spine, the subtle arch of it with every shift of your hips.

He hissed quietly at the sting in his palm, jerking his hand back from the breaker.

He was supposed to be working. Minding his own business. In his own house. At his own dining table. Just tinkering. That was all.

Wasn’t his fault the window faced the street. Wasn’t his fault you were outside in cutoff shorts and a t-shirt, sleeves shoved up as you planted an unruly bramble of something in the dirt.

God bless late spring, he thought. Then immediately cursed himself for it, trying in vain to look away. But you stretched your arms over your head, back arching. Your shirt lifted with the motion, a sliver of skin flashing above your waistband before falling back down.

He blinked, hard, and dropped his head.

The wires. Focus on the wires.

The breaker sat in his palm, cold and sharp-edged. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up his nose, trying to reorient himself with the tangled mass of copper and springs he was meant to be working on. His pliers hovered over the rusted coil, but his mind had already betrayed him.

The air inside felt too still. Dust floated through shafts of sunlight that slanted across the kitchen floorboards. A breeze fluttered the thin curtain over the sink. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. A dog barked. Life, irritatingly, continued.

Then he heard voices. Loud enough to pull him from his head. He looked up.

Dina was out there now, talking to you, animated as ever. You frowned at something she said, then shook your head. He didn’t know why that made his chest ache, but it did.

He wanted to know what she’d asked. Wanted to know what you needed. If you asked, he’d do it. Build it, fix it, find it. He’d do it with no hesitation.

But asking meant talking. Talking meant being near. And Joel didn’t allow himself that kind of luxury with you.

Because if you saw him— really saw him—you’d see right through the practiced nods and gravel-toned grunts. You’d see the way his eyes trailed a second too long, the way his jaw clenched when you laughed at someone else’s joke. You’d catch the heat of it. The filth of it.

And you’d run.

He wouldn’t blame you.

But God, he wasn’t sure he could take it if you did.

And yet… if you hated him, at least you’d be thinking about him.

As he stared out the window, Dina suddenly gestured toward his house, thumb hooked over her shoulder. Then your eyes followed. You looked right at his place. And shrugged.

Shrugged.

He had to sit back for a second, stunned. What the hell did that mean? Were you talking about him? Dina was, clearly. But you…were you indifferent? Unbothered? That hollow thud behind his ribs wasn’t from a breaker.

He told himself he didn’t care. He tried. But then she was dragging you to your feet.

No.

You resisted at first. Body language stiff, reluctant. But Dina…Dina was not the kind of girl to take no for an answer. Joel knew it well, she was Ellie’s closest friend, after all. And now she was dragging you up his walkway.

“Joel?” Dina called out, knocking.

He scrambled to look busy, heart pounding, thoughts buzzing like flies.

“Yeah,” he called, low and even. “Come in.”

The front door creaked open in the corner of his eye, the sound of footsteps soft and careful as they moved closer. And then your legs came into view. Long, bare, sun-warmed. He had to force himself not to look higher, not to follow the shape of you all the way up to that sweet little body wrapped in tiny shorts and a thin tee, practically begging to be devoured.

The wires, Miller.

“Hey,” Dina said cheerfully.

“Howdy,” Joel replied, short and clipped.

“What’re you working on?” she asked, plopping into the chair beside him.

He kept his tone casual. “Old breaker. They were gonna toss it, but it’s just a spring issue.”

She leaned over the table, inspecting it. “Teach me?”

He grunted in what he hoped passed as agreement. Felt the chair next to her shift. Felt your hesitation fill every inch of the room.

There was a beat, some hushed whispers of Dina urging you again, but Joel still kept his eyes down.

Then the chair across from him scraped, and you sat. Tension spiked in his chest.

“Joel,” Dina said sweetly, “have you met my new best friend?”

Joel lifted his head just enough to look at her. “Thought Ellie was your best friend.”

“She’s in the Hall of Fame. But this one—” she beamed at you “—makes the best apple pie in Jackson.”

“I know.”

Ah, shit. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

You gasped. A soft little breath that made his stomach twist. He still didn’t look at you, but now he could picture it perfectly. The way your lips parted. The way your eyebrows probably lifted.

He wasn’t supposed to know.

You’d left it for him on a rainy afternoon. Knocked once, maybe twice, then stood there for a minute like you were trying to decide if you should wait. But when he didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—you turned and walked away, your footsteps soft against the damp porch.

He’d seen you enough around town, neighbors fawning over your story, your smile, your damn cooking. He didn’t want any part of it. Didn’t want to be another man pulled into your orbit just because you were sweet and sunny and made people feel something.

He told himself he wouldn’t touch it. But later, when the sky had gone pink and the house was quiet, he peeled back the foil, took one bite, and almost dropped to his knees.

It was perfect.

The kind of taste that sent him spiraling back through decades. Holidays at his grandmother’s house. His little hands and floured countertops and the sound of laughter he hadn’t heard in years.

He tried to hate it. Hate you for making it.

But Joel Miller was a lot of things. Stubborn, angry, mean when he had to be.

He was not strong enough to hate you.

Not even close.

Dina leaned over the table, elbows planted, chin in hand. “So listen,” she said, flicking a glance toward you before turning back to Joel. “Ellie told me you’ve been fixing up old stuff again. Thought maybe you could take a look at my space heater—it’s making this really weird buzzing sound, and I’m ninety percent sure it’s not supposed to smell like burnt popcorn.”

“What you need that thing for now? S’warm out now,” he grumbled over to her.

Dina’s brow furrowed at him, “My place is freezing!”

Joel rolled his eyes, grunting, eyes back on the breaker. “Probably just dust. I can swing by later.”

“Sweet,” she said, clapping her hands once. “I told Ellie you’d say yes.”

You shifted in your seat, fingers fidgeting in your lap. Joel could see it in the corner of his eye, the way you didn’t quite know where to look. Your gaze darted from the breaker to the worn tabletop to the window. You didn’t want to be here.

Dina, ever the social architect, didn’t miss a beat. “Anyway,” she said, standing suddenly and brushing her hands down her jeans, “I’m gonna run back and check on Ellie. She’s making me a cassette tape in the garage.

You looked up, surprised. “Wait, I thought we were gonna—”

She cut you off with a little wave of her fingers. “You’re fine. Stay. Learn how to fix shit. Or don’t. Flirt awkwardly. Whatever works.”

Joel finally looked up at that, shooting her a warning glare, but she just grinned and backed toward the door.

“Thanks, Joel. You’re the best,” she said sweetly. Then, turning her back to him, shot you a wink.

And just like that, she was gone.

The front door clicked shut behind her, and silence fell over the house again.

Thick as syrup.

You cleared your throat softly, the sound barely audible over the ticking wall clock and the quiet hum of the fan. Outside, the breeze rustled through the garden beds, and you could still hear the soft creak of Dina’s boots fading down the porch.

Joel didn’t move right away. Just let the silence stretch, long and taut, like a wire about to snap.

Then he finally exhaled, “She can be a bit…”

Your eyes lifted to his face, and he had to remind himself to hold your gaze. Don’t be impolite. Don’t be a scrooge. So he looked up a you.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, lips quirking at the sides.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he said, voice low as he looked back at his hands and quickly busying them, placing in a spring to the small breaker.

“I know…” you said, hesitating, and then, sitting straighter, you added, “Actually, I was gonna ask you…think somethin’s wrong with my water heater.”

His gaze snapped up.

Anything you needed.

He’d do it.

Fix it, build it, find it.

God, he was so screwed.

“Been a few days now,” you continued, rushing the words under his stare. “Water’s comin’ out freezin’, and the pressure’s been real weak. Can you come look at it for me?”

Joel paused, the breaker in his hand feeling like a hundred pounds.

Don’t, Miller. He told himself. But his mind, his imagination, the unhelpful bastard that it was, already lept at the thought.

You, naked under a stream of frigid water. Shivering. Nipples tight from the cold. Your fingers rubbing at your arms, slick and bare and goose-pimpled. Hair heavy, dripping, clinging to your collarbones. That soft little sound you might make when the water hit.

He swallowed hard, fighting the flush rising under his collar. He couldn’t have you suffering like that. No man in his right mind would leave you to freeze in your own house.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “Yeah. Sure.”

“How’s tomorrow?”

Joel nodded, quick and clipped. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t already planning it out down to the damn hour. He’d come by early. First thing. Get it done and gone before he did something stupid like linger.

But early meant sleepwear. Meant you might answer the door in those tiny shorts he pretended not to notice through his window.

Afternoon, then.

That’d be safer.

“Just, uh,” he said awkwardly, fingers twitching around the pliers. “Maybe don’t be there when I show up.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, brief and sharp, “In the shower.”

“Oh,” you said quickly, “Right. No—of course. Definitely not.”

But his ears burned. And no matter how hard he tried, the image came back anyway.

You. Cold. Naked. Wet.

He was so fucked.

Joel felt sick to his stomach just crossing the street.

Would you know?

Could you tell he’d spent the whole damn night lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, your tight little body haunting every inch of his imagination as he tugged at his fist beneath the covers?

He felt filthy. Perverted.

Bad.

He was a bad man, and worse, he knew it.

He probably didn’t need that second cup of coffee that morning—his limbs jittery, his hand aching as he lifted the old metal toolbox from the shed beside Ellie’s garage. His knees popped as he straightened, the ache behind his eyes a dull throb. He was too old for this.

Too old to be thinking about you like this til all hours of the night. Like some teenage, horned-up fool.

Still, he made his way over, the weight of the box not half as heavy as the tension in his chest. At his feet, the little garden bed was already blooming—blackberry bushes nestled in the soil and climbing your freshly painted fence. They suited the house. Suited you. Sweet, wild, a little thorny. He wondered what you planned to do with them. Jam, maybe. Pie, if he was lucky. If he was ever lucky again.

He doubted he’d get the chance, not after today.

Not with the thoughts scrambling around in his head, sharp and dirty and desperate to spill out.

He knocked once with his knuckles, quiet, almost hoping you wouldn’t hear.

Maybe you were out—off at the community garden, like he’d seen you some mornings with a basket slung over your arm. Or off sweet-talking the horses, sneaking carrots to your favorites. Maybe you forgot.

But no such luck. The door opened.

“Joel,” you breathed, eyes widening like you hadn’t expected him to actually show. The sound of your voice—saying his name for the first time—ripped something open in his chest.

Say it again, he wanted to beg. Please. Just once more, so I can keep it locked away. So I can die with it in my memory.

You smiled, a little sheepish.

He didn’t smile back. Just kept his brow furrowed, his expression hard. He couldn’t afford to let you get close. Couldn’t let you mistake him for someone safe.

“Hi,” he nodded, voice low.

You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Uh, my shower’s just… in here—”

“Need to take a look at the water heater first,” he cut in.

“Oh,” you blinked, hands still gripping the door and its frame. “Right…”

“Can I come in?” he added, one brow raised. A flicker of something like amusement in his voice. Maybe you were just as nervous as he was.

“Course,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Please.”

He stepped inside.

Into your world.

It smelled like cinnamon. Like apples and woodsmoke and something fresh baked—though he saw no tray of anything waiting on the counter. Just your scent, clinging to the walls. Like you lived here completely. Like you’d settled in, made it your own.

Of course you had.

Fresh flowers sat in a mason jar on the table. Little framed paintings dotted the walls—ones he recognized from the barter-and-trade shop, and a few of horses that made his chest ache. One in particular, just a lone cowboy on a mountainside, was his personal favorite.

“The uh… water heater’s down in the basement,” you said, already walking toward the narrow door at the back of the kitchen.

Joel followed, but when you stayed behind, hovering uncertainly near the top of the stairs, he didn’t protest. It was better that way. He needed to get himself under control.

He ducked into the dark, found the breaker box, and the old water heater behind it. It didn’t take long to spot the issue.

The main switch was off.

Just… flipped off. No blown fuse. No leak. No damage.

He stared at it, confused. Then narrowed his eyes.

No.

No, no, no. That wasn’t right.

Had someone messed with it? Played a prank? Messed with you?

But he’d never seen anyone else go in or out of this house. You lived alone. He was sure of it. Which left only one possibility.

His pulse thumped in his ears.

He flipped the switch. Waited for the hum. Then made his way back upstairs, each step landing heavy beneath his boots.

“You should be all good now,” he said as he reemerged.

“Yeah?” you asked, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “That easy, huh?”

“That easy,” he nodded.

Easy. To get him here. To get him to look. To fix it.

Fix it, build it, find it. He was your man. He wanted to be your man.

“Well,” you said, fidgeting, “you sure you don’t need to check it upstairs?”

Joel moved to the sink instead, turned the handle all the way to hot, and waited. Within seconds, steam curled up from the basin. He held his hand under it, felt the sharp bite of heat.

“Good to go,” he said, glancing at you. He wondered if he would’ve noticed it before, but this time he was certain. You turned a little pink under his gaze, pulled your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Oh,” you murmured. “Good.”

He nodded. “Yup.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave.

He didn’t want to.

Not now that he knew, by some cataclysmic star crossed miracle, you’d brought him here on purpose. That you’d wanted him here. But he wasn’t sure what that meant. What he was supposed to do with it.

Still, you let him make his way to the door. Sweet as anything, practically shoving cookies into his hands as thanks.

He refused, hands up in surrender as he backed toward the entryway.

“Really,” he said, voice lighter now, accent thicker as he let his shoulders relax, “I’m fine, darlin’, please. Just—” his hand found the doorknob, “Just let me know if there’s anythin’ else you need. You just holler, alright?”

You smiled, soft and a little playful. “Alright. Well… thank you.”

But, somehow, your water heater broke again only a few days later.

Then the lights went out in your second bedroom.

And then— his last and final strike—the curtain rod came crashing down from your bedroom window on a Saturday morning.

Joel stood on a small foot ladder beside your bed, boots braced on the tread, hand wrapped around the curtain rod bracket as he tightened the last screw into the wall. The hardware clinked softly against the metal as he adjusted the fit. You sat on the edge of the bed behind him, legs swinging, talking about something—weather, or the community garden, or a dog you’d seen with a lopsided face. He wasn’t really listening.

Not in a rude way. He just liked the sound of your voice more than whatever it was you were actually saying.

He hummed now and then, nodding at the right moments, letting you fill the space. It helped. Gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he was in your bedroom, that even your curtains smelled like you. That your nightstand had a little dish with jewelry in it and a book with a pressed flower between the pages. That your closet door was cracked just enough to show a glimpse of your laundry basket, and his brain, the traitorous thing, kept wondering what might be folded inside.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and gave the bracket one last twist.

“You sure must’ve worked real hard to get this damn thing off the wall,” he said, voice low.

Your words stopped mid-sentence.

He turned his head, just enough to catch the look on your face.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Silent.

Caught.

The silence stretched between you like something taut and dangerous.

Joel straightened up slowly, the curtain rod still in his hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asked, voice gentler than it should’ve been. “Or should I just assume you wanted me back over here so bad, you started pullin’ things off your walls?”

“I—” you choked, voice barely above a whisper, the color draining from your face as the words stuck in your throat.

Joel caught the way your fingers curled against the bedsheet, how your knees shifted slightly, like you might bolt. And God, part of him wanted you to. Part of him needed you to.

But the other part, the selfish part, couldn’t bear the thought.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he said softly. “I like your company too.”

Your eyes lifted to his, wide and searching.

“You… you do?” you asked, like you didn’t believe it. Like no part of you had expected it to be true.

Joel nodded, slow. “Yeah.” The word came out tight. It took effort, like he had to shove it past all the reasons why he shouldn’t say it.

You stared at him, stunned and unmoving. He stood still for a long beat, then finally stepped down from his stool. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed to your bed, each step slower than the last. He moved slower than he really needed to, but it kept him steady, until he finally sat beside you.

Not too close, not touching you, but he could feel the heat of you anyway. He caught the faint trace of your perfume, something soft and warm and inviting, and it nearly knocked him out. He wanted to breathe it in until it lived in his lungs. He wanted it to cling to his shirt, to the collar of his flannel, so he could press his face into it later—alone in the dark—like that might be enough.

Or better, that filthy corner of his brain, the beast that lived inside him wanted you to smell like him. Wanted it clinging to your sheets, your wrists, the hollow of your throat. Wanted people to catch it in passing and wonder why you’d let a man like him get that close.

But he wouldn’t. He was trying to be good, to have restraint.

His hands stayed on his knees, tense, knuckles pale where they pulled against the denim. This was your room, so soft and warm and clean. The kind of place he could get lost in if he wasn’t careful.

“Ain’t a good idea, what you’re doin’,” he murmured, “I’m an old man, honey.”

Your eyes tracked over his face as he looked at you, “I like that you’re older, Joel.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, jaw flexing. Christ. You didn’t know what you were saying.

“I’m old enough to be your daddy, baby,” he whispered. The words came out rougher than he intended.

He heard the way your breath caught. Saw the way your body stilled. Like something inside you had jolted awake.

He should’ve looked away.

Instead, his gaze found yours as he swallowed dryly. When he finally got control of his heavy tongue again, he asked, “That do somethin’ to you, sweetheart?”

You didn’t speak. But the answer was all over your face.

Joel exhaled slowly, leaning back just enough to get a better look at you. Still not touching, but close enough to see the flush rise in your cheeks.

“Gonna answer me?” he asked.

Your voice trembled. “Y-yes.”

His brow lifted slightly.

“Yes, I like… thinking of you that way.”

His stomach turned over. “You think about me, huh?”

You hesitated, lips parting, and for a second he thought maybe you’d lie.

Then your voice hit him square in the chest.

“All the time.”

Joel went still. Your words rang in his head, loud and clear. Like a bell tolling inside his ribs.

Now he knew. You wanted him. You thought about him the same way he thought about you. And if he so much as reached for you, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

So instead, he just looked at you. He let his eyes rake over your face, your body, looking at how your thighs had pressed together. How your breathing had changed. How your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt like you didn’t know what to do with your hands now that the words were out.

And then, his voice came low and steady, like it was coming from somewhere deeper than his own body, “Show me.”

Your brows drew together in confusion, your mouth falling open. “What?”

His eyes locked with yours, and he knew you could see it. The way his pupils had all but swallowed the color from his irises, how tightly he was clinging to the last scrap of control he had left. He could feel the sweat at the back of his neck, the pulse in his throat, the ache in his hands from how hard he was trying not to reach for you. Not to ruin you.

He couldn’t let himself slip. Couldn’t let it crack wide open.

“When you think of me,” he said, quieter now, words coming like gravel dragged behind his teeth, “what do you do?”

You looked away for a second, your gaze dropping to the bed beneath you, cheeks heated and mouth parting like you didn’t know how to answer. But then your eyes found his again—wide and shining, nervous and breathless.

“You want me to… to show you?”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded slowly.

That was all he needed. Just to watch. That was the line. That was what he could live with. He wouldn’t touch you. Wouldn’t lay a single hand on your sweet, perfect, young body. He’d sit still like a good man, like a gentleman, and let it wreck him quietly. He’d carry the memory of it back across the street like a loaded gun and bury it deep where no one would ever find it.

You hesitated, breath shivering, legs pressing together as you sat there, body unsure while your eyes held his like they were searching for something—permission, safety, the truth of how far this would go.

“S’alright,” he said again, his voice soft like velvet, “Just lay back.”

He saw your throat bob, and then, slowly, you leaned back onto your elbows, shifting further onto the bed. The mattress dipped with your weight, the sound of your shorts brushing the sheets too loud in the stillness. He swallowed hard as you arched your back just enough to hook your thumbs in the waistband of those tiny, soft little shorts, sliding them down your hips, exposing the smooth skin beneath inch by inch.

“Slow–” he said, voice rough and wrecked. You paused, and nodded, eyes never leaving his face as you gently brought them down your legs. Your hand quickly and gently let them fall to the floor.

And there you were.

Laid down on your own bed, your legs bending slightly, thighs pressed together, hiding yourself from his fiery gaze. Joel’s knuckles popped with restraint to keep himself from spreading them for himself.

He tried to keep his eyes on your face, so sweet and flushed and burning with heat. You let out a breath, seemingly collecting your courage as you let your thighs fall to the sides. He couldn’t do it anymore, his eyes dropped almost immediately, giving in. Your precious puffy lips were outlined in the panties, light colored enough that he could see the stain of wetness forming in the cotton.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your fingers slid slowly down your stomach, over your panties, pressing lightly between your thighs.

Joel’s lungs locked. His jaw ticked. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as wire.

This is all I get, he told himself. This is enough.

He could feel his pulse hammering behind his eyes. His jeans were too tight, his hands were trembling, and he hadn’t even touched you.

You moved your fingers again, slower this time, dragging them up and over the damp fabric, letting out the softest sound—barely audible, but to Joel it was deafening. It struck him in the chest like a damn hammer.

He was going to die here. He was going to die right here in your bedroom with his boots on the floor and you moaning into your own palm, and he was going to deserve every second of torture.

You didn’t rush.

Joel thought maybe that would save him. That you’d move fast, try to get it over with. But you didn’t. You took your time. You let your fingers glide softly over the front of your underwear, lazy strokes that did more to him than anything explicit could have. Your thighs shifted, knees bending up and falling open a little wider, and Joel could see the heat of you blooming beneath the thin cotton, darkening it, making it cling.

He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, just to breathe. Just to stay sitting where he was and not reach for you, not grab your hips and tear those panties clean off your body. When he opened them again, you were watching him. Watching the way he breathed through his nose, the way his fists stayed locked tight on his legs, the way his gaze kept dropping down no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

You circled yourself again, slower now, the fabric catching slightly, and your breath caught in your throat. Joel’s heart was pounding so hard he thought you must hear it from where you lay.

His voice came out low, nearly wrecked. “Take ’em off.”

You paused, fingers freezing for a moment, your expression flickering with nerves and something else—excitement, anticipation, the realization that this wasn’t just about putting on a show. This was about him needing it. Needing you.

You slid your thumbs under the waistband and raised your hips off the mattress. He watched, helpless, as you peeled them down your legs—slow, hesitant, like maybe you were savoring the tension just as much as he was—and let them join your shorts on the floor.

Laid bare in front of him, thighs parted, glistening, flushed, and so fucking soft-looking it almost hurt to look directly at you, you looked like a god damn angel. Joel swore under his breath and dragged a hand over his mouth again, like it might erase the things he was thinking. It didn’t.

His voice cracked when he spoke. “Touch yourself.”

You nodded, barely, and your hand slipped down again. But this time, there was no fabric in the way. Joel watched your fingers move over your folds, the way your hips tilted up to meet them. He could see everything now, every flicker of pleasure across your face, every little tremble in your legs. When you let out that first real moan—low and quiet, almost like you were trying to stifle it—Joel’s body jolted like he’d been shot.

“Jesus, baby,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

You rubbed slow, steady, getting yourself wet, and his eyes dropped to where your hand moved, slick and glistening, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he wanted to see.

“Put a finger inside,” he said, and it came out lower than he meant it to—rough, almost angry with need.

You looked at him, lips parted, lashes heavy. “Joel…”

“Do it,” he rasped. “Just one, baby. That’s all.”

You hesitated, breath shaking. Then you did it. You brought your fingers lower, traced the slickness, and pushed one inside—slow, stretching, burying it to the knuckle—and Joel’s hands finally left his knees, flying up to rake through his hair as he groaned quietly.

He couldn’t fucking take it.

And neither could you.

Your back arched, mouth falling open with a quiet gasp—daddy—as you moved your finger in and out, your palm pressing down against your clit for more friction. Joel couldn’t even pretend to look away now. He was locked in, watching the way your body responded, the way you started to tremble.

And then he heard your voice again. Small, breathy. Needy.

“Please.”

Joel’s heart stuttered.

“Please, Joel,” you said again, whimpering now, your eyes shining, mouth wet, hips starting to lose their rhythm. “I don’t… I can’t… I need you.”

He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, his whole body bowstring-tense as he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his thighs, fists clenched again, because if he moved even a little further he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Don’t beg me, baby. I can’t—”

But you did. You begged anyway.

“Please touch me,” you said, breathless, desperate, your hand moving faster now, legs trembling under the pressure building in your body. “I want you, Joel. I think about you all the time, and I—fuck—I want it to be you.”

He shook his head again, slower this time, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. But then your leg moved—bare and trembling—and your ankle brushed against the back of his hand where it still rested uselessly on the bed.

And that was it.

That one small touch, like permission and invitation all wrapped into one. He didn’t think. Couldn’t. His fingers wrapped gently around your ankle, warm and steady, and for a second he just held it. The first time he’d touched you. The first contact after all this time spent trying to keep himself in check.

You whimpered under the weight of his touch, a soft, aching sound that nearly unraveled him. His thumb traced a slow, reverent circle against your skin, and his heart beat so hard it was nearly dizzying.

So soft. So warm. So alive.

He bent forward without a word, still clutching your ankle, and pressed a kiss to the inside of it. The smallest kiss. Barely even a breath. But it was everything.

His lips moved again—just a little higher.

Then higher still.

Trailing up your calf, slow and worshipful, his hand shifting to the back of your leg, guiding it gently as your thigh began to tremble. You were still breathing hard, hand stalled now, frozen against your center as you watched him.

He pressed another kiss to the inside of your knee. Then just above it. Each one a little firmer than the last, like he was testing the shape of you with his mouth.

And then, eyes locked on your hand still buried between your legs, he grasped your wrist gently, his touch reverent but sure. He pulled your finger from yourself and brought your hand to his mouth and looked at you like he was asking permission, even now, even on the edge of ruin.

You didn’t stop him.

So he parted his lips and took your finger into his mouth.

His tongue circled it first, slow and wet, curling around the soaked digit, savoring the taste of you, dragging it over the pad with aching, deliberate pressure. He sucked it in deeper, lips wrapping tight as his tongue moved along the underside. You watched, frozen in intense rapture, mouth parted and chest heaving. His eyes never left your face, even as he groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering half shut.

You whimpered his name again—breathless, high, barely held together.

He let your finger go with a wet sound, still panting, his voice hoarse and ruined when he finally spoke.

“So fuckin’ sweet, baby.”

You whimpered his name again, breath catching as he released your hand and kissed higher on your leg, faster now, the heat of his mouth so close to where you wanted him. He nudged your thighs further apart with gentle pressure, his hands firm but trembling slightly as they moved up the backs of your legs, his thumbs dragging over the delicate curve of your inner thighs.

He paused just before reaching you. Breathing heavy. Hovering.

“This is what you wanted?” he asked, barely a whisper. “You want me here?”

“Yes,” you breathed, already breathless, already gone. “Please, Joel.”

That was all he needed.

He dipped his head and finally—finally—dragged his mouth over you, slow and sure, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. His tongue parted you, flat and warm, collecting everything you’d made for him. He moaned low against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open like you were something sacred.

And God, you were.

Joel wasn’t delicate with it. But he was steady, focused. Slow only because he wanted to draw it out. He licked a purposeful stripe up your center, then did it again, dragging his tongue in slow circles over your clit until your back arched off the mattress.

You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting into the graying strands.

Daddy daddy daddy fell from your lips like a prayer, and he groaned into you, tongue pressing deeper, tracing the way you opened for him. He noticed you said it the most when you were falling apart. When your brain was lagging and hazy.

And couldn’t stop thinking—this is what you taste like when you think of me.

He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, just once, firm and slow, and your legs clenched around his shoulders as a broken sound tore from your throat.

He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, beard soaked with you.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh again, slower now, lips softer. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You begged again—don’t stop, please don’t stop—and he didn’t. He buried his mouth back between your legs and gave you everything. He wanted you to come on his tongue. Wanted to feel it. The way your body would tighten, the way your thighs would tremble, the way your breath would stutter in that pretty chest of yours before falling apart completely.

He was going to carry the sound of it for the rest of his life.

And still—he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t grind against the bed or reach for relief. This was for you. All of it.

If he could only have this, this taste, this sound, this moment, he’d take it.

And he’d burn for it later.

Joel’s tongue moved with steady, reverent purpose, his mouth open and hungry against you, like this was the only way he knew how to live anymore, by giving you this. His hands stayed firm, keeping your legs open, thumbs brushing softly against your trembling thighs, grounding you even as he pulled you closer and closer to the edge.

You were panting now, moaning freely, head thrown back against the pillow, your fingers tangled in his hair, his name falling from your mouth like it was the only one you’d ever known. He could feel the way your body was coiling, tightening, the way your hips were starting to stutter beneath him, like you were trying to chase that last bit of pressure before it ripped through you.

He sucked gently around your clit again, tongue flicking against it just right, and that was all it took.

You broke.

Your whole body arched, legs tightening around his shoulders, a sharp cry punching from your chest as you came hard against his mouth, your fingers fisting in his hair, holding him there while you rode it out. Joel groaned low in his throat, the sound dark and satisfied, almost possessive as he kept licking through it, gentle now, working you down slowly, coaxing every last tremble from you with his mouth still warm and wet against your skin.

He felt it, all of it. The way your muscles fluttered and clenched, the way your hands shook where they gripped him, the way your breath hitched as you tried to come back to earth.

And still, he didn’t stop touching you. Not yet. His lips moved lower, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, the crease where leg met pelvis, like he couldn’t stop worshipping you now that he’d started. His beard was damp with you, his mouth swollen, his hands still gentle where they rested at your hips.

But then your hands shifted.

You grabbed the front of his shirt, your fingers curling tight in the collar, and tugged.

“Joel,” you gasped, voice high and breathless, chest heaving as your eyes found his, wild and wanting, “Please.”

He lifted his head, eyes glazed, lips shining, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. “What, baby?” he rasped, even though he already knew. Even though his own body was screaming with the need he’d been trying to bury.

You pulled again, harder this time, dragging him up your body with shaking hands, your mouth still parted, your skin flushed and damp.

“Please,” you whispered, again and again, like you were unraveling, like the word was all you had left, “please, Joel… please, I need you…”

Your legs parted wider beneath him, your hips rising, searching, the fabric of his jeans rough between your thighs as he braced himself over you.

“I can’t—I can’t wait anymore,” you whispered, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, your voice shaking. “Please—I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me, Joel. Please.”

And who was he to deny you?

Hadn’t he said it himself?

Anything you needed. Anything you wanted. He’d be the man for you.

He'd said the words and meant them. Even if they were only in his head, he meant them down to the marrow in his bones. And now, here you were, laid out beneath him, skin flushed, lips parted, pupils wide and pleading as you begged for him. Begged with your hands, your voice, your whole trembling body. And something inside Joel cracked so deep it felt like it might never close again.

He couldn’t stop himself.

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue slipping past your lips so you could taste yourself on him. It was filthy, intimate, perfect. He should’ve been ashamed of how much he needed it, how tender it felt even with the heat still thrumming through him.

He’d always thought that stuff was bullshit—the way books and movies and every sappy romance insisted sparks flew when two people kissed. That it meant something. That it could change you.

But this… this was something else entirely.

This was fire and gravity and truth all wrapped into one aching, perfect moment.

And for a moment, Joel believed every goddamn word.

His hands fumbled with his waistband as his tongue explored your mouth, your sweet cooing noises filling his ears, your breath soft and sweet as honey as you gasped against him. The sound of his belt unbuckling and zipper lowering filled the room, sharp and electric. Finally, he wrapped his hand around himself, freeing his cock as it sprang free, tender, aching, and flushed dark and thick with need. He swore under his breath as the air hit him, the head already leaking for you.

The idea of being a good man was long gone now. Left back on the floor with his restraint, his better judgment, his self-control. All that was left was you. Your scent, your skin, the desperate way you reached for him like you couldn’t bear another second of distance. Your gasp hit his mouth like a spark to gasoline. You moaned into him, hips lifting, thighs spreading wider around his waist as he rocked forward, lining himself up, his cock dragging through your slick folds.

He groaned deep in his chest, the weight of your heat soaking him instantly, the wet glide of your cunt against the underside of him making his whole body jolt.

And then you whimpered.

Joel pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips.

“I know, honey,” he cooed, his voice low and sweet, like a lullaby wrapped in filth. “I know it’s a lot, but you can take it. You can, baby. I know you can.”

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your throat, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious even as his cock pressed closer, sliding lower with each slow grind.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispered, barely able to breathe it out. “Knew you’d be so good, so sweet. Just let me in, honey.”

You whimpered, needy and breaking, and he slid forward again, this time pushing the head of his cock inside, slow and careful, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. You were so warm. So tight. Your walls clenched around him instantly and his head dropped to your shoulder with a strangled groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked, his voice barely holding. “You feel so fuckin’ good, angel.”

You clung to him, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until you were gasping, trembling, completely filled.

Daddy. It was like a siren’s call from your lips.

Joel didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to lose himself too fast.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your skin. “You take me so good. So perfect for me.”

And then, finally, he moved.

Slow at first. Measured. Deep, rolling thrusts that pulled back just far enough to make you whimper before he pushed forward again, thick and steady, dragging every inch through your soaked, desperate cunt. He kissed your shoulder as he rocked into you, his voice hot in your ear.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re doin’ so good.”

You were breathless beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his back, your mouth pressed against his neck as you moaned and gasped and whispered his name like a prayer.

Joel was unraveling with every sound you made, every pulse of your body around his cock. He held your face, kissed your lips, your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. He told you how beautiful you were. How tight. How fucking sweet you felt around him. Told you you were his good girl. His angel. His.

Joel moved inside you like he was trying to memorize every inch—slow, deliberate, reverent. His hands mapped your body like he’d never get the chance again. One gripped the underside of your thigh, keeping your legs spread wide for him, the other braced beside your head, grounding him, holding him back from fucking into you the way his body screamed for.

But he didn’t want to rush this. God, he couldn’t. Not when you felt like this.

So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your cheek, his voice rasped and heavy with worship. “Just like that, sweetheart. Grippin’ my cock so good, angel girl.”

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, your body arching into his with each stroke, and every time your hips rocked up to meet his, he felt it—that trembling pulse in your cunt that told him how close you were.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered, kissing your jaw, then lower. “So goddamn sweet. Feels like you were made for me.”

Your hands slid down his back, clinging, like you couldn’t get close enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice soft and shaking, “You feel so good—I don’t want this to end.”

His heart almost broke right there.

“Baby,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, hips rocking slow and deep, “don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” you whimpered. “I—Joel, I think I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you. I used to dream about this. About you.”

Joel groaned, low and guttural as he kissed you. Not hard or frantic, just deep and warm, letting you feel every bit of how much that meant to him. How much he wanted to give it back.

He rolled his hips slower, deeper, angling just right until he felt your legs tense around his waist again, your body tightening, that little gasp he was starting to crave spilling from your lips as you tipped your head back against the pillow.

“There she is,” he whispered, voice rough and desperate. “You’re gonna come again, ain’t you? Gonna let me feel her squeeze my cock, huh?”

You nodded, mouth open, breath catching on each thrust. “So close—oh my God, daddy, daddy—”

“Come for me, angel,” he said, his voice shaking now. “C’mon, baby girl. Be my good girl and come.”

You cried out as it hit you, body seizing under his, thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses. You clung to him, your fingers locked in his hair, your mouth gasping out his name again and again.

He kept moving, kept fucking you through it, slow and steady, letting you ride it out, watching the way you shattered so beautifully for him. He held you through every wave, every twitch, every soft sob of pleasure.

And then he couldn’t hold it anymore.

Your cunt still fluttering around him, soaked and tight and perfect—Joel’s control finally snapped.

His hips stuttered, breath coming in short, punched-out gasps, and he buried his face in your neck.

“Fuck—oh baby, I’m gonna come—Christ, you feel so good—I can’t—I can’t—”

He gripped your thigh tighter, pulled you flush against him, and thrust deep one final time as his release hit him hard, spilling into you with a broken groan. His whole body shook, teeth gritted, face buried in your skin as he came in long, slow, pulsing waves that left him shaking above you.

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there. Still inside you, just breathing with you. His hand smoothing softly over your ribs, then your belly, then your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered finally, voice barely there.

You nodded, turning your head just enough to kiss his jaw. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, really look. Your skin was warm and glowing, your eyes heavy, dreamy, dazed in the way he hoped he’d be seeing again and again. You looked happy. Content.

He’d wait ‘til tomorrow to let the guilt creep in.

PEEEEEEE PAAWWWWWWWWWW

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goaways-stuff · 15 days ago

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Joel Miller’s gray ass pubes peeking out of his boxers.

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goaways-stuff · 17 days ago

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New EW cover for TLOU with Pedro, Bella, and Kaitlyn

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goaways-stuff · 18 days ago

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“The Moon Haunts You.”

Khonshu baby, the only thing that haunts me is this video. 😭😭😭

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goaways-stuff · 18 days ago

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༺ 🐑 ༻

𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ☼ Rancher!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝑇𝑤𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑜𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠！

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☼ You, a headstrong—bubbly ranch-hand, form a close bond with the reserved ranch-owner, Joel Miller, through two seasons of hard work, warmth, and unspoken longing. You leave to chase your dream, but circumstance brings Joel back into your life. A storm rolls over your land, something between you stirs—unresolved and waiting to burst.

𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☼ a two-part no outbreak au loosely inspired by Far From The Madding Crowd but it’s set in modern day/Texas, rancher!Joel (🥵), protective!Joel, grumpy x sunshine, bad language, light angst, mention of vomit & there’s blood after an incident with a hammer, age gap (reader is in her 20s & Joel is in his 50s), kinda slowburny, unresolved feelings (until they aren’t hehe), yearrrrrning and SMUUUUT so you must be 18+ to read this story‼️

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!) ↯

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨

𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 (???)

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦!

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐎𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭, 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 & 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐨’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! 🫶

༺ 🐑 ༻

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goaways-stuff · 18 days ago

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♡ p!links with the moon boys ♡

18+ NSFW

you love to test jake's patience to see how far you can get before he takes matters into his own hands, giving you the punishment you so desperately need

giving marc a well-deserved handjob

on the off chance when steven gets the chance to finger you, he makes sure to take his time to indulge in the way your cunt takes in his fingers

always acting like a brat with jake gets you some rough pussy slaps when he's getting you off

steven looks forward to the nights where you jack him off and help him forget about everything

marc lives to breed you, making sure to pump you full and fuck his cum deeper into your cunt, hoping to soon see your stomach all plump and round

when jake roughly pounds into your cunt, he gives you the prettiest belly bulge

it's always fun to record yourself sucking off steven to watch him get flustered when you beg him to watch it back with you

marc loves to handcuff you and fuck you stupid

recently the tasks with khonshu have had jake extremely stressed, so you take it upon yourself to let him fuck your throat raw in hopes of giving him some sort of relief

steven's favorite reward is when you tie down his arms and desperately ride his face

a/n : I hope to write something in the future for the moon boys if enough people are interested in this post, hope you all enjoy 🍮

feel free to reblog and leave a comment <3

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goaways-stuff · 18 days ago

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joel miller • be quiet, or i’ll make you

“Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

WARNINGS - smut smut smut mdni, porn with some plot, forced proximity, feral!joel, risky/secret sex, brutal sex, size!kink, dubcon if you squint but mostly a mutual want situation, reader and joel have an unspoken relationship, copious amounts of dirty talk, piv, creampie, daddy dom joel.

The world ended in disaster.

You’ve lived with that knowledge for years now, and you think you’ve finally come to terms with the kind of things you’ll get from it. Pain. Loss. Destruction. The same chaos, day in day out, just in different forms.

You know that at this point you’ll be lucky if you survive until tomorrow; so you take it in stride.

And it’s with that thought that you find yourself following Joel into the city, your steps just as reluctant as he was to agree to this. You don’t particularly want to be out here — and neither does he — but you’ve been wanting to look for more medical supplies for a while now and Joel wasn’t about to let you go alone. Despite how much bitchin’ he did beforehand.

You can’t tell which is more depressing; the streets covered in broken glass and littered with remnants of a life long gone, or the buildings that are nearly crumbling to the ground. Neither are very pleasant to look at, but not many things are these days, so you keep moving. You have a job to do, and you don’t have too much time to do it — the sun won’t be up much longer, and you want to get the fuck out of here before the real dangerous kinds of people come out lookin’ for their next meal.

Or, whatever Joel had said earlier. Mostly just in attempt to scare you.

Minutes feel like hours as you keep your gaze pointed forward, and when you pass a shattered window belonging to some old broken down building, you don’t dare look inside.

You’d rather not know what lingers inside death eaten walls.

But it’s while you’re doing that, keeping your gaze ahead, that you miss the fact that Joel has stopped walking. When it finally registers that the world around you has gotten quieter - and when you finally do turn around - you’re surprised for two reasons.

The first being that he even stopped at all, and the second being the fucking look on his face.

“You alright?” You ask as you edge closer, glancing at the abandoned building that’s in front of him. It doesn’t look like anything remarkable, but there’s definitely something in the way he stares at it. “Joel, you still with me?”

He isn’t saying anything, his expression is rather blank — but you know him well enough to know that he’s not just seeing what’s right in front of him. He’s seeing something else entirely. He snaps back to attention faster than you would have expected at the sound of your voice, and when his eyes land down on yours - there’s something inside them that makes your heart sink.

“Somethin’s wrong.” Is all he says before he’s grabbing your wrist, and yanking you inside.

Your heart starts pounding faster, but you try your best to stay calm. He isn’t the kind of man who would panic without cause, so you know he must have seen something - or heard something - and you’re doing your best not to let that scare you.

“Joel—shit—what the hell—“ you stumble over rubble and pieces of broken furniture. “What’re you—“

He’s pulling you deeper into the building, not giving you a chance to stand still long enough to say more. When you get to a staircase he yanks you down a few steps, waiting for the sound of the door shutting behind you before shoving your shoulders back against the wall.

“You listen to me—“ he’s panting, words spat through grit teeth. “You’re gonna’ shut up, and you’re gonna’ stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

The tone of his voice alone forces you to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from talking. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve seen him this serious. You’d almost forgotten that he was capable of producing this kind of tension - the kind that’s so palpable it could be cut with a knife.

So, you just nod, lips pressed into a thin line, and you hope that it’s enough.

“Alright.” He doesn’t seem certain of your answer, but he nods anyway, reaching for your wrist again and dragging you down the remaining stairs.

When you get to the bottom, he opens the door slowly, eyes darting around until they land on a nearby closet - and it’s only after the first step you take towards it that you hear noises on the floor above you.

Footsteps.

And way too fucking many for you to be comfortable.

The kind of heavy, laden-boot marching you’d dread to hear on good days - nevermind while you’re out in dangerous territory, trying your damnest to flee unseen. It’s only seconds before the steps grow louder, and you can feel your heart rate speeding up again - while Joel is staring at the ceiling with such intensity you think that he might just be able to will it to break if he so much as blinked at it.

Then, in a flash, he snaps out of it - dragging you toward the closet and shoving you inside before you can even think about protesting.

And god, is it fucking cramped.

The closet is small. Small enough that you have to force yourself closer to the wall so that he has space to squeeze inside behind you. And it’s within the first second that he shuts the door, and the darkness swallows you both whole - in which you realize you have a new problem altogether.

“Joel—“ you choke out as a heavy palm snakes around your waist, pressing tight against your belly. He’s a solid wall behind you, his front flush against your back, and all you can fucking feel is his hot breath against your ear - his stubble tickling your cheek. “What’s—“

“No talking.” And then he brings his free hand up to cover your mouth, and you have to stifle a noise that threatens to explode in your chest. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

You take solace in the fact that he can’t see how flushed your face becomes, but your stupid brain is working overtime - overanalyzing the feeling of his calloused palm against your lips, the heat of his mouth way too fucking close to your ear, his free hand that seems to be sliding lower down your abdomen—

“Stop squirming.” He whispers, all heat as his fingers press a little harder against your lower stomach.

You long to bark at him. I can’t control it.

But you can’t. So instead you try to focus on the sounds of the people upstairs. You try to pay more attention to the way your heart is threatening to break free through your sternum. Anything to try and take your mind off of the way he’s touching you - but he makes it so, so hard.

You’re certain you would have a better fighting chance if you were to try and move mountains.

Without even thinking, your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, and it’s then that his lips curve into a smile against your ear. And when the realization comes crashing down - the realization that he’s fully aware of what’s happening to you - you think you may just collapse.

Oh, god, this is torture.

If it were anyone else, you’d think this was a joke. You’d think that perhaps the way he’s touching you was some kind of attempt at making the terrifying just a little more tolerable, a little more exhilarating for different reasons - but this isn’t just anyone. This is Joel. And you know his mind never works like what. Instead, he simply acts on instinct - in ways that usually leave you reeling and your thoughts in a whirlwind.

You’ve been through this a million times with him.

Unsurprisingly, this time is no different.

And as you try to focus on the footsteps above you - desperately searching for a thought, a train of any kind to follow - his hand moves again, fingertips tracing the waistband of your dirt covered cargos - barely dipping between fabric and skin.

It’s slow, teasing, but it’s enough. And you don’t currently have enough control over yourself to stop your back from arching, pressing directly against the bulge in his jeans that’s growing impatiently despite himself.

And it’s the way he exhales in your ear, the way you hear him inhale right after before his nose brushes the shell of your ear — before his hand dips lower to trace the zipper of your fly — that you find yourself fighting for your life to swallow the moan that threatens to spill because the people on the second floor are now shouting and hollering, and the whole floor seems to quake under the force of their heavy boots.

A second passes. Then two, and then ten — there’s silence. You’re pretty sure the steps are now heading away from where you’re hiding, and you think Joel must agree because he slips his hand from your mouth, sliding it down your jaw.

“Joel—“ you choke out, the last syllables of his name sounding desperate. “I-we—“

And yet again, you aren’t able to finish, because he has a habit of taking the words you think you want to say straight from your chest. You aren’t able to process it until a moment later - when his mouth finds your neck, fingers slipping into your now unzipped cargo pants.

This isn’t what you meant.

You don’t have the chance to tell him that. You don’t have the cognitive ability to push the idea that this isn’t the time. You don’t even have enough room in your head to acknowledge how this could go so badly, so quickly. You’re too drunk on the high of his touch to think straight.

And when his fingers drag the lace of your underwear to the side - all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to a God you’re sure you’ve never actually believed in that you’ll survive this without the shame over how fucking soaked you are eating you alive first.

His fingers find your clit, making slow, small circles. Just enough to make you keen. Just enough to make you forget who you are, and what you’re doing. You think if he keeps it up for any longer, the sounds trapped behind your teeth are going to jailbreak before you can get a handle on them. He knows it too - because it’s only a split second after that thought enters your mind, that he whispers gravel in your ear again.

“If y’can’t stay quiet, I’ll make you.” And it’s said with enough sternness to let you know that it isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. “Be good f’me.”

You don’t know if you can. You don’t know if you can possibly keep yourself silent. Not when his lips are teasing your burning flesh, not when his fingers are rolling your clit, not when he’s whispering promises of heaven in your ear.

But it’s then, that you hear the floorboards creak, and you know then, that you have no choice.

Either find a way to stay silent, or throw yourself headfirst into danger.

“Mm.” He hums as his fingers slip lower, sliding along your slit until they find your embarrassingly wet heat - to which you find yourself widening your feet despite yourself.

And this time, the noise that slips isn’t audible. Not to him anyway. But you can feel the sound vibrate the back of your throat. You can feel the way it glides over your tongue - and when you have the wherewithal, you bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it’s almost painful. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you’re glad because you know he’d only find it funny.

He pushes a finger into you, and holy fuck—

“Oh—“ the sound gets out of your mouth before you can stop it, involuntarily defying his direct order to shut the fuck up.

You hope, foolishly, it was quiet enough for him to not hear.

It isn’t, and as a result the hand that had been sitting lazily around your jaw slips firm over your mouth again, yanking your head back against his shoulder. You feel his fingers tighten as if to let you know that it’ll only get harder as his finger pushes deeper, and then retreats, pumping into you slow and steady.

“F-fuck—“ your whine is smothered against his palm, and you somehow have half the mind to realize the footsteps have stopped. Vanished. “J-joel.”

You’re expecting some type of response, some biting be quiet — but instead, all you get is a deep grunt in your ear and a roll of his hips against your ass as he slides another finger into your cunt, thumb brushing your clit.

And there’s almost no fight in you left to resist this - to resist the pleasure he’s pouring into your veins. You’d curse him if you could, if you could put more than four coherent words together to do it - but all there seems to be left in your mind is his name, which he’s using against you like he always does.

“Good girl.” He praises between slow, steady thrusts and you have to wonder what kind of game he’s playing to get you like this - to get you so undone you don’t even remember your own goddamn name.

Then again, you know better than to think there’s a game, at all. There are no games with Joel. He does what he wants and you’re either the benefit of it, or you’re the object of his ire.

But when a third finger slips into you, stretching and stuffing your cunt wider than you were mentally prepared for - you forget about any of that as you bite down on his hand as hard as you dare because it’s just too fucking much.

“J-joel—“ you try again, shaking your head. The footsteps haven’t returned. You have to believe they’re gone. You know Joel knows it too. “P-please—“

And like someone struck a match in a room full of gasoline, he seems to have decided that you’ve waited long enough. In the blink of an eye, you feel his palm leave your mouth, and move to the limited space between you. He’s unbuckling his belt.

“What’s the matter, huh?” He all but growls in your ear, still pumping his fingers deep. “Three too much for you? How d’ya think you’re gonna’ take my cock if you can’t even take my fuckin’ fingers.”

God. His voice is deep, dripping like sin. It goes straight to the center of your chest and you feel like the walls of your rib cage are cracking open. You have no idea how you’re going to be able to take him like this - especially when he’s so far gone it’s like he’s forgotten himself.

“I-I don’t know—“ and it’s the truth. You have no concept of how you’ll take a single drop of him in this state. But he’s already shifted himself free, pulling his fingers out to yank your pants down and slide his throbbing shaft into the slick space between your thighs. “F-fuck. You’re crazy.”

“Worse.” And you already know what he’s going to tell you just by the way the word drips into your ear. “M’insane.”

Truer words.

You never imagined that you’d ever find the thought of Joel Miller going insane so enticing. You imagine all kinds of ways you would have pictured it if someone had told you back when you first met - but somehow, this was never one of the things that came to mind.

“What does that make me?” You hiss as his fingers find your clit again, as he kicks your legs a little wider to slide his leaking tip against your slit.

“A goddamned fool.” He answers as he sinks into you, and there’s never been a more divine connection in the world. He groans into your ear, and you have to bite your lip again until you’re sure you might draw blood. “But you already knew that.”

And somehow, even still - you do.

Yeah. You do. He isn’t the type of man someone can ever know fully. He’s got walls and barriers built high - a fortress, impenetrable and vast - but somehow, you still manage to squeeze your way through it. It isn’t lost on you that you’re the only one who has.

“J-joel—go fuckin’ easy, please—“ you’re grabbing at the wall infront of you as he splits you open without so much as giving you a chance for breath. “It’s—been a while—“

And that stops him for a beat - but not for long, and not long enough. He still doesn’t go easy, still thrusts right to the hilt with the kind of power you’d associate with a man half his age - a man who (if the world hadn’t gone to hell) would be so close to retiring that he could taste the future on the back of his tongue - but you wouldn’t want him to anyway.

“I know, babygirl. I know. Just take it nice n’ deep, f’me. Just take it.”

And then he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you back so he can get even deeper, your spine arching just enough.

Fucking hell.

The sound that’s almost impossible not to make threatens to rip from the pit of your chest, but you bite down in time and it turns into something between a strangled cry and an elongated whimper. You know you’re going to be walking funny tomorrow - but right now, there’s no such thing as being able to imagine tomorrow.

“You—fuck.” It’s a whisper so pained someone might think you’re actually being impaled. In some ways you are. “Oh, god, Joel. Ohmygod you’re deep—“

“There she is.” He all but growls into your ear. “There’s the tough woman I know.” If he wasn’t holding you so tightly you might’d fall at the way he suddenly slams into you. “Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

You almost bite your tongue in half at the very thought of him doing that. Your mind is a wasteland of icoherent thought - and it’s then that you know with all the certainty in the world that you’d been done for the moment he came into your life. He always had a rough edge to him - but back then, when you first met, you thought it was just the product of a shitty life. But now, you know better - now, you know he’s just a good-natured person with an innate drive to protect - and you’d go to your grave knowing that you’d go there loving him for it.

Even though, right now, it feels a lot more like he’s trying to kill you rather than protect you.

“Ohhh, fuck—“ you hiss through grit teeth as he pulls out, dragging slow at tight, wet walls. “M’close to cryin’ now.”

“Mmm.” He all but purrs. “That’ll mean I’m doin’ my job right.” There’s heat in the way he speaks that you swear would burn even the toughest person. But then again, that’s always been something you’d only ever been able to say about Joel. “M’not gonna’ be gentle. You know you ain’t deserving of it right now.”

Another time, you’d tell him he was wrong. Another time, you would have argued that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong - but right now, your thoughts are just as lost as your voice.

Still, you try your best. “W-why? Because I—mmf—dragged you outta’ bed?”

“Wrong.” You can’t see it, but you’re sure there’s a smirk on his face. “You really wanna get into it? Wanna’ make a list?”

You don’t, but you have the horrible feeling that this is going to happen either way.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask with what little breath you can find.

“No.” The word sounds so simple - but in that moment, it might as well have been a dagger. “You don’t.”

He pulls out just so he can drive back into you harder, hand sliding from your hair and back over your mouth.

“First, you dragged me outta’ bed. That right there? Shoulda been spanked for it. Next, you got yourself pinned in a goddamn closet with me after raiders chased us down. Almost got us killed.” Another painfully slow draw out, followed by a hard drive back in - smacking your cervix. “An’ for what? Cause’ you don’t wanna’ listen when I say it’s too dangerous to be out here.”

There are a million retorts you could have - most of them have something to do with you being able to take care of yourself - but none of them even find the beginning of your tongue.

He’ll take that win. Just like he takes everything else.

“Not t’mention you’ve kept this perfect ass from me for far too long.” He’s fucking you hard now, head kissing your cervix with each long thrust and you’re crying out under his palm but the sound doesn’t escape. He makes sure of it. “Mmm, yeah. Far. Too. Long.”

You want to tell him to shut up - that he’s being an ass - but you’re two broken breaths from wailing at the sting on your cervix and the pressure he’s now swirling on your clit. The only thing that’s left for you to do is the only thing you can do.

Take it.

You roll your hips, shoving back against him with every thrust just to have him hit that much deeper - and if he has something to say about it, he doesn’t say it. But he seems satisfied with just that, and suddenly, you think he’s just as close as you are.

“That’s it.” His voice is tight. “Good girl. Just like that.”

His hips snap against your ass so hard you think you might end up bruised tomorrow, but the thought only adds to the haze in your mind.

“Ffffffuck—Joel—“ you mewl, pathetic desperate and needy as a whore, against his palm. His fingers speed up against your clit. “Oh!”

“Take it, baby. Make me fuckin’ proud.” He hisses in your ear, a groan slipping out between it. “So good. Pussy feels so good.”

“Gonna’ make me cum.” You try to speak - maybe another time you’d be embarrassed by how desperate you sound, but this isn’t that time and it’s not the time to be anything other than truthful. “Mmm—gonna cum J-joel—“

“Yeah you are.” He grunts, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttering just a little. “Squeezing my cock so goddamn tight. Fuckin’ cum on it, babygirl. Wanna’ feel you.”

The sound that pushes past his palm at just the last moment doesn’t sound like you - but you know it is. It's the sound of the kind of pleasure that you’ve never experienced before that makes your entire body feel like a rubber band that’s too tight, and you have the vaguest sense of your walls squeezing the life out of him but there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening at all - becuase your climax hits you like a goddamn freight train and its run you over hard.

You think he’s saying something - you know he is - but you can’t hear anything aside from the blood racing in your ears. Even still, you know exactly what happens next, because you’ve experienced it so many times. The way he loses himself, like he forgets every bit of control he prides himself for having and the need to empty himself inside you takes over.

He spills into you hard - and you love every second of it for the simplicity of the comedown.

It’s the kind of feeling that washes you in warmth. It’s the kind of feeling that tells you that the world is going to be okay, so long as you’ve got him and he’s got you. He groans and his hands come out to brace against the wall infront of you to hold himself up as he shoots hot jets of cum deep inside your cunt - and you can’t remember the last time you’d heard him breathe this hard. Though, truth be told, you can’t remember the last time you heard yourself breathe this hard, either.

Your mouth feels dry, your mind feels hazy, and your legs feel weak - and as he leans over you, he can surely tell all three - but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he drags his mouth over your ear with an inhale.

“Mmhmm.” He grumbles as he presses a kiss to your jaw. “Look what you made me to do ya.” Your cheek gets the same treatment, and a breath later as he turns your head slightly, your lips do too. “Gonna’ have my cum leakin’ out of ya all the way back to camp.”

The sound you make doesn’t even seem human, but it’s muffled before it even comes - because he’s kissing you. And it isn’t a hard kiss like you’d expect - it’s slow and steady, and you know he’s doing it in a way to say sorry, as if he realizes he might’ve gone a little too far.

You smile into it, and he does too.

“You really are insane.” You whisper as he pulls back slightly. “My cervix gonna’ need a week vacation after that.”

“M’not a good man, darlin'. If I was, I’d say sorry for that.” He whispers with a small kiss against your lips. “But I ain’t. So, I’ll just tell you I’ll take care of you later as much as you like. That good enough for now?”

There’s only one answer for you. Only one that’s ever been the answer with him.

“Always.” There is a beat of silence, and you smile in the dark. “I love you.”

He pulls out of you, finally, leaving the part of himself behind that tells you how much he loves you too without verbalizing it. Soon as he fixes his jeans, he helps you fix yours.

“And I love you.” He whispers, calloused palm finding your own. “Let’s get outta’ here. The sooner we’re back, the better.”

And that, you can’t agree more with.

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