josephquinnswhore

[josephquinnswhore]

Getting Dirty With a DILF

Marcus Moreno x f!reader | WC: 1.8K

Summary: the night before Father's Day you share a little fun with your boyfriend

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, established relationship, bathroom counter sex, fingering, spanking, soft dom!Marcus, daddy kink, fluff, smut, fucking in front of the mirror

Author's Note: of all the daddies in the Pedroverse, I felt like Marcus needed just a little more love and wrote this for him.

MARCUS MORENO MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

Wearing nothing but Marcus Moreno's bedsheet around you, you traipse to the bathroom, playfully glancing behind to see he's catching up to you. Once inside, you pull him in and the sheet falls away from you at the same time that his arms wrap around you from behind as soon as the door shuts. He kisses the back of your shoulder, wearing a little lovestruck smile. "God, I'm crazy about you."

You smile, watching both of you in the mirror, naked. Your body is still flushed pink from the pleasure still coursing through your veins from moments earlier. Saturdays were your date nights, he made sure of that despite his busy schedule and his family life. Tonight you'd have him, and tomorrow he could spend time with his daughter for Father's Day.

"What are you smiling about?" Marcus smirks, nuzzles your cheek with his nose.

"I just.. think we look good together," you smile back, watching his hands roam your body. His arms wrap around you, holding you from behind as he looks at your reflection with you. He pulls you close, pressing your back to his chest.

"I like this view," he murmurs, his large hands cupping your breasts, feeling the heft of them in his palms before gently tweaking your nipples, earning a sweet sigh from you for his efforts. There's a pale ring of color around his left ring finger; he'd stopped wearing his wedding ring when he started dating you, something you would never have asked of him, but his insistence that he could let go of his past while entertaining his future was something that truly touched your heart.

"I like this view a lot," Marcus reiterates, watching your body's response to him. You tell him to keep going, and he kisses the back of your head as his hands gently squeeze your breasts. "Beautiful," he mutters. You bite your lip, savoring his delicate, reverent touch as heat flushes your skin even further. He presses a thigh between your own, separating them a little. He loves how you react to him, how a simple touch from him can make your heart skip a beat and cause goosebumps to rise on your skin. He loves knowing he has that effect on you. His lips wander your neck as he watches your reactions in the mirror, studying the furrowing of your brows, the slackness of your mouth while he kneads your flesh. He whispers into your ear, "Bend over.."

Barely able to suppress a gasp, you do as you're told, leaning over the bathroom counter, bent over in front of him as you watch him with wide eyes through the mirror. He moves forward and angles himself behind you, his hands greedily running from your hips to your thighs, feeling the heat from your drenched pussy.

Oh he needs to see it, craves to see your slippery cunt. Marcus first plants a soft kiss on your shoulder before leaning back to view your heart-shaped ass, your flower-like folds open to him, damp with your dew. He gently traces it with his finger, licking his lips when you mewl softly in want. He presses in with one finger, then two, fucking you slowly.

You move back against him, asking for more, demanding more. He removes his fingers for a moment, nearly growling to feel them covered in your thick slick, and uses them to smooth over your clit, circling and adding pressure before dipping back inside you, fingerfucking you harder than before.

Your cries ring out against the tiles of the room, your neediness almost vulgar, but to him they're the sweetest sounds in the world. "You like that, hermosa?" his voice booms over yours, and you grow even more excited to see this side of him, the beast beneath the man. "Put that pretty mouth to good use and tell me what you want, or I'll stuff it full of my cock," he grunts, slowing his movements to give you a small respite in which to get out of your brain fog.

"I want you to fuck me.." When you say it it almost sounds plaintive, but he's more than happy to oblige you.

"Only because you asked so kindly. Although I didn't hear a 'please' in there." Marcus's hand comes down to land a stinging slap on your ass, leaving a nice pink handprint. You wince, though a little of your come dribbles out, revealing the truth.

"Please!" you gasp. "Please fuck me!"

"That's better." Though he lands another spank just for good measure, and delves his fingers inside you again, leaving you unable to distinguish pleasure from pain. When you're on the verge of coming, he pulls away, giving you his fingers to lick clean. "That's a good girl," he coos, his eyes soft behind his thick square-rimmed glasses.

He lifts one of your legs, bracing it on the counter. You're completely exposed to him, cunt opened wide and absolutely sopping wet. Then he positions himself behind you again. When you try to push your hips back he keeps you in place. "Stop that. Look at me."

His tone leaves you no choice, sending a thrill through you as you gaze at him through the mirror. "Don't you dare close your eyes, mi hermosa.." he warns, and with your eyes on each other's he slides into you just a little at a time.

Marcus never gets tired of that look, the way your eyes open wide, lips parted and full as he slides his cock into you, filling you up and stretching you out. You whimper, pushed forward by the force of his first thrust, and your entire body warms and buzzes with feeling. All concentration is on one area of your body. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes dark as he watches your face, his gaze drifting down to your hands that seek purchase on the countertop, fingers splayed. His grip is on your hips, keeping you steady, using slow and teasing thrusts as his tongue peeks out to slowly lick across his lips.

Each slide in feels like heaven as he slowly draws out your pleasure, teasing and testing you. "Yes..yes!" you moan with each thrust. He picks up the pace, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. "You like that, corazón?"

Both your heart and your stomach flip flop as you exchange glances in the mirror. "Yes.. I love it, daddy."

In response to your pet name his grip on you tightens, a low growl escaping him. He thrusts harder, deeper into you. "You want daddy to give you more?"

Your breath catches in your throat. "God! Yes, daddy!" The sounds you make are absolutely shameless, giving back as good as you get, your flesh colliding in the most profane sound you've ever heard. Marcus loses a modicum of control with each of your sweet, needful moans, your torturously tight pussy. One of his hands lets go of your hip and reaches up, grabbing the back of your neck, bringing your head to the side enough for him to capture your lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. His lips meld against yours, capturing every sound you make. When he pulls back it's only far enough to where he can press another, shorter kiss to your lips. His forehead rests against yours as he presses against that sweet spot inside you he knows makes you see stars.

You whimper, your thighs threatening to buckle beneath the pressure, but he keeps you steady. He holds your face to the mirror so you can see yourself. You're wrecked. Your hair is messy, lips red and swollen from kissing, eyes blown black with desire. Marcus has never seen a prettier sight. He gives another rough snap of his hips, watching your ass cheeks ripple with the force of it. "Fuck, I can't hold on much longer, daddy," you moan.

"Let go for me," he grunts. At his command your self-control melts. A needful cry leaves your lips as your legs quake, your pussy pulsating around him. He almost comes undone right with you, but his hands grip your hips, holding you up as he rails you through your orgasm. "My girl," he says proudly.

You're weak when the pleasure subsides, and Marcus smiles, loving to see you like this, so undone, so satisfied. He gently pulls out of you, wraps an arm around your waist and turns you around, pulling you to his chest. He kisses the top of your head and cradles you against him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you answer, finally catching your breath and breathing deep of his scent. He cradles your face in his hands, leaning gown to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. Then his arms wrap around you, holding you close as he rests his chin on top of your head. "Daddy didn't get to finish, did he?" you ask, taking his length in your hand, still rock hard.

His body stiffens and a hiss of pleasure leaves his lips. "Mm. No, I didn't."

You hop up on the edge of the counter, bracketing his hips with your thighs. "Let me help you with that." You shift your hips, pussy drooling in anticipation as he teases you with the first few inches. "You're such a tease, daddy," you whine.

He leans in close, resting his forehead against yours as he takes hold of your legs, letting them rest over his forearms. "And you're impatient," he says, and sneaks a peek between your bodies, watching as he pushes in, burying himself to the hilt. His heart skips a beat hearing your delicious moan. He cups your face gently, as if caring for something delicate, something precious, and kisses you, softly, deeply, lovingly. "I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too.." your whisper back, body buzzing with heat. "Take me how you want, Marcus."

A switch flips in his brain. You set something off. He pulls back and snaps his hips forward, over and over again. He groans when you dig your nails into his shoulders, your moaning in unison with his. He wants you to leave your marks on him. A claim. Ownership. He uses his height and strength to hold you in place as he fucks you. The sting of your scratches on his skin feels good. Later he'll look in the mirror, satisfied with the marks. He snaps his hips forward, with purpose. Hard. Forceful. Leaving you breathless. He buries his face in the crook of your neck. Each sound you make, he wants to hear forever. "Just like that, just like that," he mutters, feeling you clamp around him, signaling that you're close. "I'm not gonna last much longer.."

"Neither am I," you gasp. "Don't stop.."

His grip on your thighs tightens, knowing he'll probably leave his own marks on you, but he doesn't change his pace. "Come for me, baby," he groans. "Let me feel that tight pussy milking my cock."

"Fuck!!" you shout, body trembling as you come. Marcus follows right after, burying his face in your neck, pressing a messy kiss to your skin as his hips jerk, emptying himself into you. You stay joined for a long while until he finally pulls away, giving your thighs a tender rub.

"Now how about that shower?"

divider by @saradika-graphics 👑

[josephquinnswhore]

a vow — joel miller x reader

𝑅equest: “HI!! Was wondering if you could write something where Joel Miller isn’t big on PDA, or anything really despite reader being in a relationship with him, and after a fight over it with the reader he gets mad that she’s holding hands or something cute with another guy at Tipsy Bison? Followed by some smut/possessive apologetic Joel”

𝒮ummary: After a fight, Joel’s jealousy boils over when he sees you with another man.

𝒲arnings: possessive!joel, hurt, joel and reader fight at the beginning, comfort, age gap, unprotected sex, riding, slaps, idk how to tag anymore

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: well this made me realize that maybe i like to write fights sorry

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 6k

It started in his kitchen.

Where most things did — the fights, the makeups, the silences that said too much.

You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, still in his denim jacket, backpack slung over your shoulder like you weren’t planning on staying. And Joel? He was standing near the sink, jaw tight, hands braced on either side of it like the metal might anchor him.

“You really gonna get mad about this again?” His voice was low. Tired. Irritated in that way that made you want to poke harder.

“Again?” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “I’ve barely said anything about it. But yeah, I’m getting mad — because it’s fucking weird, Joel.”

He looked over at you, eyes flat. “It’s not weird. I just don’t like people bein’ in my business.”

“It’s not just people being in your business!” You threw your hands up, voice rising. “You don’t even look at me when we’re outside. Won’t touch me, won’t talk to me half the time unless no one else is around. It’s like I only exist in your house — or your bed.”

He flinched at that. Just barely. But you caught it.

“And what, that’s not enough for you?” he said sharply. “Me takin’ care of you, keepin’ you here, riskin’—shit I haven’t risked in a long time—for someone? That ain’t worth nothin’ unless I’m makin’ some public show of it?”

You crossed your arms tighter, heat in your chest. “It’s not about some show. I’m not asking you to fuck me in public. I’m asking you to hold my hand when we walk into a bar. To stand next to me like I’m yours instead of some secret you keep in your back pocket.”

He stared at you for a beat, then looked away — jaw flexing hard, that stubborn set to his shoulders that you knew too well by now.

“I don’t do all that cute shit,” he muttered. “I never have.”

You blinked. “Yeah. No kidding. You’re a fucking robot half the time. Meanwhile, I’m out here looking like the stupid girl hanging on the grumpy old man who won’t even admit we’re together.”

Joel’s eyes cut back to you, dark and sharp. “You fucking done?”

You tilted your head, stepping toward him, mouth curling just enough to twist the knife. “Yeah, I’m done. Done trying to get you to act like you give a damn outside your bedroom.”

And with that, you grabbed your bag, turned, and walked out — the screen door slamming behind you hard enough to rattle the frame.

You didn’t expect him to come after you.

And he didn’t.

Which is exactly why, two nights later, you were at the Tipsy Bison wearing your tightest pair of jeans, drink in hand, laughing at something one of the guys across the table said — one hand casually resting on his arm, your smile just a little too sweet.

Joel walked in then.

Big and brooding in that flannel and denim, the weight of him practically sucking the oxygen out of the room. He saw you in less than five seconds. Saw you — and the way that kid leaned toward you like he had a fucking chance.

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Joel Miller jealous.

The Tipsy Bison was louder than usual. But you weren’t listening. Not really.

You were perched on the high stool, drink in hand, legs crossed just right. Laughing at something that wasn’t funny. Smiling at a guy whose name you’d already forgotten.

What was his name again? Tim? Troy?

Didn’t matter. He was sweet enough. A little younger than Joel. Definitely not as interesting — or as dangerous — but that was the point. He was harmless. Just enough to make sure Joel saw.

And oh, he saw.

You could feel it before you even glanced his way — that heavy, unblinking stare from across the bar. He hadn’t come in with anyone. Just walked straight to the far end of the room, sat alone, and ordered a whiskey. Same as always. Except this time, he didn’t look away when your eyes met.

He didn’t even blink.

You let your gaze slide past him, casual, like he was just another stranger. Sipped your drink. Laughed again, brighter this time, fingers brushing the guy’s forearm like he’d said something charming — which he hadn’t. He was boring as fuck, talking about crops or horses or patrol routes. You weren’t listening.

You were acting.

Joel, on the other hand, wasn’t.

He didn’t move. Didn’t drink. Just sat there, watching you like you were something feral he was trying not to chase. One hand clenched around his glass, the other twitching against his thigh like he wanted it somewhere else.

Probably on your waist.

Or your throat.

You smiled wider, legs crossing tighter, leaning forward just a little as the guy beside you asked another question you didn’t hear. You nodded anyway, tilted your head, gave him a look that you knew was dangerous when used correctly.

Joel shifted in his seat.

You saw it.

The flick of his jaw. The slow exhale through his nose. Like he was trying real hard to be civil — and failing. Because Joel Miller didn’t do jealous. He didn’t do soft. And he sure as hell didn’t do being ignored.

But that’s exactly what you were doing. Ignoring him.

Just like he’d ignored you on the street, in the mess hall, at the market — brushing past like you were nobody. Like months of sweat and skin and soft, sleepy mornings meant nothing in daylight.

So now?

He could sit in the dark and watch.

The guy beside you leaned in closer, and you let him. Just enough. You laughed again, letting the sound carry — high and teasing — then finally turned your head to glance at Joel.

Just for a second.

Just to let him see that glint in your eyes.

You’re not the only one who gets to pretend.

Joel didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

But his hand left the glass.

And curled slowly into a fist.

You’d just started tracing the rim of your glass, that little bored swirl of your finger that only showed up when your patience ran thin — which it had. The guy beside you — Troy, you remembered his name now — was halfway through another story about patrol routes and some close call near the fence when you felt it.

A shift in the air.

That slow, unmistakable pull of gravity — like a storm rolling in behind you.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

You felt Joel before you saw him.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Measured.

Then a pause. And his voice, low and sharp as a blade.

“She’s with me.”

It cut clean through the room.

Troy blinked, looking up. Confused. “Sorry, what?”

You finally looked over your shoulder — and there he was.

Joel fucking Miller.

Standing behind you, jaw locked tight, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, heat practically pouring off him. His eyes were pinned to Troy, but his hand was already settling on the back of your stool — not quite touching you, but claiming the space around you like a perimeter.

Joel didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t have to.

The silence around your little corner of the bar stretched tight. Troy glanced at you, uncertain, half-laughing. “Uh—she didn’t mention—”

“I don’t give a shit what she mentioned.” Joel’s voice was flat. Dangerous. “She’s mine.”

Your heart kicked in your chest.

He finally looked at you then — eyes dark, unreadable — and you saw it all written there in the way his jaw twitched, the way his nostrils flared with each breath.

Possession.

Not the sweet, romantic kind.

The raw, territorial kind.

You arched a brow, playing with the rim of your glass again. “Oh, now I’m yours?”

Joel didn’t blink. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your stomach twisted — heat flashing low. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

Troy stood awkwardly, glancing between the two of you like he’d accidentally stepped on a landmine.

“I—I didn’t know, man. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Joel gave a tight nod, still watching you. “Yeah. I know.”

Troy gave you a quick, embarrassed smile. “Uh, thanks for the drink. I’ll, uh—yeah.”

And then he was gone, retreating toward the other side of the bar with a speed that would’ve been funny if your body wasn’t already thrumming with adrenaline.

Joel stayed where he was. Right behind you.

You turned back toward your drink, lifted it halfway to your lips. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know.”

“I do know,” he said, voice low, leaning closer until his breath ghosted against your ear. “But I don’t share.”

Your skin prickled.

He let the silence sit for a second. Just long enough to let that line sink all the way into your bones.

Then his hand finally touched you — not rough, but deliberate. Spreading over your lower back, fingers warm and firm, pulling you just slightly toward him on the stool.

“Get up,” he said quietly.

You turned, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Joel’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Because if you stay on that stool any longer, I’m gonna put you over my knee right here in front of everyone.”

Your breath caught — involuntary — and his lips twitched at the corners.

He saw that.

And he liked it.

“Now,” he said.

And like hell you’d admit how fast you stood.

The air outside was cooler now, wind sneaking between buildings as the two of you made your way through Jackson’s dim, quiet streets. Your boots clicked angrily on the path. Joel’s were silent. You didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

He was a step behind, as always — shadowing you. Not guiding. Not pulling.

Just there.

Like a warning.

You didn’t speak until you were clear of the bar, out where no one else could hear — the hum of the Bison fading behind you, replaced by the crunch of gravel and the soft rustle of trees.

And even then, you didn’t start soft.

“‘She’s with me,’” you mocked, glancing over your shoulder. “That’s the line you go with? Not even a ‘hey, can we talk for a second’? Just full-on caveman.”

Joel said nothing.

His eyes were on you, though — steady, unreadable, jaw tight like he was holding back something vicious. Not anger. Not quite.

Possession.

You kept walking, too fast, but he kept up like it cost him nothing.

“Is that what I am to you?” you snapped, voice sharp, “Some… thing you get to claim when you feel like it?”

Still nothing.

You stopped suddenly, spinning on your heel, forcing him to halt just inches from you. “Seriously, Joel. Say something. You don’t talk when we’re in public. You don’t talk when we fight. You barely talk when I’m in your bed.”

He stared down at you, the lines in his face deepening in the moonlight. Still silent.

You shoved his chest. “What, now you’ve got nothing to say? After you scared that poor guy off like a fucking dog?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. His breath came through his nose — slow, controlled. His hand lifted, catching your wrist in a loose grip before it could push him again.

“I didn’t scare him,” he said finally. His voice was low. Measured. “I told him the truth.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” you hissed, stepping back, trying to break his grip — and failing. “You don’t get to ignore me for weeks in front of everyone and then pull that ‘mine’ shit like you’ve earned it.”

Joel took a slow step toward you. You backed up — only to find your back pressing up against the wood of someone’s fence. The edge of it bit into your spine.

His hand let go of your wrist.

But it didn’t feel like freedom.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

You stared at him. “No. Not even close.”

He stared back. Silent. Waiting.

And it hit you — the restraint. The way he wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t yelling. That he wasn’t cold, not really.

He was simmering.

A pot about to boil, and you were standing too close to the flame.

You scoffed, shaking your head, voice quieter now. “You don’t get to pick when I exist, Joel. Either I’m yours or I’m not. You don’t get to claim me when it’s convenient.”

His eyes darkened, and his silence deepened.

And suddenly, the stillness wasn’t passive.

It was heavy. Intentional.

He wasn’t ignoring you.

He was letting you talk.

Letting you dig the hole. Letting you burn your anger down to ash. Letting you unravel — until there was nothing left but that thin, frayed thread of control keeping you upright.

And when you finally stepped away from the fence, chest rising hard, trying to breathe through it — he reached for you again.

Not rough.

But final.

His hand slid to the back of your neck — warm, firm, unmoving.

Not a pull.

A promise.

You shivered.

And he still hadn’t raised his voice.

“Walk,” he said simply, voice deep and even. “Before I lose whatever’s left of my fuckin’ patience.”

You stared at him, lips parted, heart pounding. Your mouth opened — but nothing came out.

So you turned.

And you walked.

And this time, he stayed close.

One step behind.

Just like a wolf.

The front door shut behind you with a heavy thunk, the lock clicking into place with Joel’s key.

You didn’t move.

You stood there in the middle of his entryway, heart beating too loud in your chest, jacket still on, fingers curled into your palms. The quiet was deafening.

And then—

Boots behind you.

A slow approach.

You felt him before he touched you. The heat of him, the weight of his silence, the barely-contained energy rolling off him in waves. You held your ground, refusing to turn — even as he stepped up behind you, close enough that his chest brushed your back with every breath.

Then his hand slid around your waist.

Not gentle. Not rough.

Just certain.

He pulled you back against him — tight — until you could feel the shape of him, hard and deliberate through his jeans, pressing into the curve of your ass.

He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You wanna know why I didn’t say it before?” he said, voice low, raw, hot enough to melt bone. “Why I kept it quiet?”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His other hand came up, dragging your jacket slowly down your arms, letting it fall to the floor with a whisper of fabric.

“Because I don’t want to share you with this place,” he muttered. “Not the patrols. Not the bar. Not the fuckin’ streets.”

His fingers traced up under your shirt, brushing warm skin, climbing slow — claiming you with nothing but touch.

“I keep it quiet ‘cause when I think about someone else lookin’ at you…” He let out a slow, dark breath. “It makes me want to break things.”

Your breath hitched, and he smiled against your neck. Not sweet.

Predatory.

“Tonight?” he murmured. “You did it on purpose. Sat there touchin’ him, laughin’ like I don’t own every sound that comes out of your mouth.”

His hand slipped up, fingers wrapping gently around your throat — not squeezing. Just there.

A reminder.

“You wanted to make me jealous.”

You swallowed, barely.

Joel hummed low in his chest. “Congratulations, baby. You did.”

Then he finally turned you — slow, controlled — pressing your back to the door, pinning you there with his hips, his hand still at your neck, thumb stroking your pulse.

His eyes locked on yours, and his voice dropped to a gravel-dark promise.

“Now I’m gonna show you exactly what it means to be mine.”

You didn’t argue.

You just let him take.

Your back hit the door, breath shallow in your chest as Joel held you there — not just with the weight of his body, but with everything unspoken finally surfacing behind his eyes.

His hand was still at your throat, thumb tracing your pulse like he needed to feel it, to know you were still here. Still his.

He leaned in, slow, gaze flicking down to your mouth — and then he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not rushed.

Sure.

The kind of kiss that said no one else gets this. That made your knees weaken even as his hand slid to your jaw, holding you steady.

And then, between kisses — mouth brushing yours, breath hot, words like sin wrapped in gravel — he spoke.

“You wanna know the truth?”

You nodded, dazed, lips parted.

He kissed you again. Slower this time. More careful. Like it hurt.

“I don’t show you off because I’m afraid they’ll look at you,” he muttered, voice rough. “Afraid they’ll look at you and wonder why the hell you’re with me.”

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat.

Joel didn’t stop — couldn’t. Not now.

“You’re twenty-something. Young. Beautiful. Got that mouth on you that drives me fuckin’ insane.” His forehead pressed to yours. “And I’m—fuck, baby, I’m not young. Not shiny. Not safe. Not what you’re supposed to end up with.”

You opened your mouth, but he silenced you with another kiss. Harder. Needier.

“I watch you walk through this town, all lit up like you’re made of fire, and every part of me wants to tell the world you’re mine.”

His hand slid down to your waist, gripping tight.

“But another part…” His voice cracked low. “Another part thinks one day you’ll wake up and realize you should’ve picked someone your age. Some kid with soft hands and a nice smile who don’t come with all the damage I carry.”

You stared up at him, chest rising hard, throat tight.

“But I can’t let that happen,” he said, softer now — and somehow darker. “I noticed that tonight.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

“I’m too selfish, baby. I won’t let you go. You’re mine. Always have been.”

Then, quieter — almost like it hurt to say.

“And that ain’t gonna change. Not ever.”

You could feel it in the way he kissed you again — not to claim, but to keep. To beg. To promise. All at once.

There was nothing polished about it. No sweet speech. Just Joel. All cracked pride and brutal honesty and hands that had never learned to let go once they’d held something real.

And you?

You kissed him back like you were never leaving.

Because you weren’t.

You were breathing hard now — lips swollen, chest rising against his, the air between you charged and electric.

Joel’s confession still hung in the air, raw and exposed like something bleeding. His hands gripped your waist like they didn’t know how to let go. Like he couldn’t trust himself to.

You stared up at him, fire still in your eyes, throat tight with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t soften.

So you didn’t soften.

You tilted your head, lips ghosting over his jaw, your voice a rasp against the edge of him.

“I’m still fucking mad at you.”

Joel’s breath hitched — like maybe he’d expected something sweeter. Something forgivable.

But then you grabbed his shirt in both fists, yanked him back to your mouth.

“And I’m still yours,” you growled against his lips.

You kissed him like a weapon — hard, teeth clashing, your body pressed against his with reckless force. Joel grunted into your mouth, one hand sliding down to grab your ass, pulling you into him until you could feel just how far gone he already was.

“You think I need soft?” you breathed, voice ragged, grinding your hips up into his. “You think I want sweet little love taps and quiet words?”

His hands were on your thighs now, lifting, carrying you across the room like nothing weighed anything — until your back hit the wall next to the coat hooks and the picture frame tilted crooked.

“I think you want to get fucked so hard you forget why you were mad,” he growled.

You gasped, laughing breathlessly — head falling back as he pressed kisses to your throat, open-mouthed and bruising.

“Not forget,” you panted, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “Just… punish you for it later.”

Joel’s laugh was low, dangerous. “You wanna punish me?”

“I will,” you hissed, nails dragging up the back of his neck. “After you fuckin’ earn it.”

That was all it took — the line snapping.

His mouth crashed into yours, rough, unrelenting. His hands were everywhere — under your shirt, under your bra, gripping your hips like he was trying to memorize them by touch. You tugged at his belt, cursing under your breath when it didn’t come undone fast enough.

He dropped you down — hard enough to make it creak — and dropped to his knees in front of you, shoving your jeans down, kissing up your thighs, biting just to feel you jolt and curse and grab his hair.

“I want you to remember this,” he muttered, breath hot against your skin. “Every time some other idiot tries to make you laugh — every time you open that smart mouth and test me — I want you to feel what being mine fucking means.”

And when you moaned his name, sharp and ragged, you knew he already had you marked deep.

And he wasn’t even close to finished.

The denim barely hit your knees before his hands were on you — hot, rough, and demanding.

He grabbed your thighs, shoved them open without asking, like the answer had always been yes — like your body was his to position, to spread, to ruin.

"Goddamn," he growled, dropping his head between your legs, breathing you in like he was already drunk on it. "You get this wet for some kid talkin’ about patrol duty?"

You gasped, fingers gripping the edge of the bench.

“Not for him,” you snapped, breathless. “For you, asshole—”

His hand came down, sharp slap to your inner thigh.

"Then act like it."

Before you could snarl something else, his fingers were on you — thick and calloused, slipping between your folds and dragging up through the mess he’d made of you just by looking.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he muttered, shaking his head, voice thick with something darker than lust. "This was mine, the whole time. And you let him sit there thinkin’ he had a shot at my pussy?”

You gasped as he pushed two fingers inside — deep, no warning, curling hard as he filled you with the kind of force that left your mouth hanging open.

"Joel—"

“Quiet,” he snapped, thrusting again, slower now, but brutal in rhythm. “You don’t get to talk back right now. Not when you’ve been actin’ up like this. Not when I own every inch of you, and you’re sittin’ out there touchin’ some guy like I’m not fuckin’ enough.”

His thumb pressed hard to your clit, circling tight, dragging a ragged cry out of your throat. Your hips bucked, but his other hand slammed your thigh back against the wood of the bench, holding you still.

"That’s right," he hissed. "You wanna be a brat, you get used like one."

You tried to move — tried to roll your hips for more, but he held you down, fingers pistoning in and out of you, fucking you with the kind of ruthless focus that made your vision go blurry.

"You belong to me," he muttered. "Say it."

You whimpered, back arching, mouth struggling to form words.

“Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” you gasped.

His fingers pushed deeper, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m yours, Joel—fuck, I’m yours, I’m yours—”

"That’s fuckin’ right," he snarled, mouth hot against your throat now, biting a mark into your skin. "You let anyone else even look at you like that again, and I’ll fuck you right in front of 'em. Make sure they see who this pussy really belongs to."

You were so close now, thighs trembling, nails raking down his arms as your body clenched around his fingers like it didn’t know how to let go.

"Come for me," he growled into your mouth. "Come on my fuckin’ fingers like the needy little mess you are."

And when it hit — it crashed.

You came with a cry that barely sounded human, grinding down against his hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the goddamn earth. He didn’t stop — not right away — just kept working you through it until your voice cracked and your body begged for mercy.

He finally pulled his fingers free, soaked to the knuckles, and dragged them slow across your inner thigh — painting his name into your skin without saying a word.

Then he looked up at you — eyes dark, wild, and full of everything he hadn’t said before tonight.

“You’re not walkin’ tomorrow,” he said.

And you believed him.

You were still trembling when Joel hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you off the bench like you weighed nothing — your jeans kicked off somewhere behind, shirt hiked up just enough for his rough palms to press against bare skin.

“Joel—” you breathed, but he didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His mouth was hard on yours again as he carried you down the hall — bumping into the wall once, not caring, growling low in his throat when you moaned against his lips. His grip tightened around your thighs.

“I told you,” he rasped, pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “You’re not gettin’ away from me. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The room was dark, moonlight cutting across the bed. He dropped you there — not careless, but with the weight of someone who knew exactly how much you could take. You barely had time to blink before he was on you, tearing his shirt off over his head, belt unbuckled and jeans shoved down in seconds.

Then he was pulling you up, flipping you over onto your knees.

“Hands on the headboard.”

Your body jolted — the command hit harder than it should’ve. You hesitated just a second too long.

Joel’s hand came down on your ass, sharp and perfect.

“Now.”

You scrambled forward, gripping the wood at the top of the bed, your cheek against the cool pillow as you felt him move in behind you — heavy, warm, the head of his cock dragging between your thighs, teasing.

And then — he pulled you back.

One strong arm wrapped around your waist, dragging your spine up against his chest. His body was hot, solid behind you, the rough scratch of his chest hair against your bare back, his cock thick and hard, pressed right up against your soaked entrance but not pushing in yet.

His other hand found your neck again — not choking, just there. Just holding.

“You feel that?” he growled into your ear, the head of him nudging against your folds, slick and slow.

You whimpered, nodding.

“That’s mine.”

He thrust in with one brutal stroke.

You cried out, eyes squeezing shut, back arching hard against his chest as he filled you — all the way, no pause, no mercy.

He held you like that — impaled, helpless, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to make your head fall back against his shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he said again, panting now, rolling his hips into you, deep and rough and relentless. “Say it.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours,” you gasped, clinging to the headboard even as your legs shook beneath you.

He slammed into you again, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Joel!”

“Damn right you are.”

He fucked you like he had something to prove — and he did. Every thrust was deep, punishing, his arm like steel around your waist, holding you up, keeping you from falling even as he fucked the fight right out of you.

His mouth was at your ear, teeth grazing your skin.

“You think some dumb kid could make you come like this?” Thrust. “Think he could handle you?” Thrust. “Think he’d still want you after hearing the way you scream for me?”

You were sobbing now — overwhelmed, split open on him, every muscle shaking, his cock hitting that spot so deep and perfect it made your brain go white.

“Tell me no one else gets you.”

“No one—fuck—no one gets me but you!”

Joel groaned against your neck, hips slamming into yours, his hand sliding down from your waist to rub fast, rough circles on your clit.

“Then come for me. Come again, baby, and let this whole fuckin’ town feel it.”

You shattered with a scream, your walls clenching around him like a vice — and that was it. Joel cursed, bit your shoulder.

He didn’t let you go.

Not even then.

He stayed pressed against your back, buried to the hilt, his arm still tight around your middle, his hand still on your neck, pulsing against your skin like another heartbeat.

Breathing ragged. Body trembling.

You were his.

And now the whole fucking world knew it.

You didn’t know how long you lay there together, still pulsing from the high, your body draped against his chest, slick and trembling. But Joel didn’t say anything.

He just ran his hand slowly down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, the barest scratch of his nails making you shiver.

Then—

"Get on top of me."

His voice was low. Commanding. But softer now, more settled — like the edge was still there, just quieter under the skin.

You blinked, lifting your head. “What?”

Joel leaned back, letting his weight sink into the bed, arms folding behind his head. His chest rose slow and steady, eyes dark as he looked at you over his shoulder.

"You heard me. Turn around. I want you to ride me."

He let the pause stretch, let the heat fill it.

“Wanna watch you fall apart on my cock.”

Your breath caught — but you moved. Slowly. Purposefully.

You turned, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his thighs, facing away now. You could feel his eyes dragging over your back, your hips, the way you moved with that subtle soreness from everything he’d already done to you.

You reached down, guiding him back to full hardness with a few slow strokes — which didn’t take much. Joel groaned behind you, head tipping back into the pillow as his hand came up to grip your waist.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You positioned yourself above him, the head of his cock sliding against your entrance, your thighs shaking slightly as you lowered yourself down.

“Shit,” you gasped, head dropping forward as he stretched you open again, inch by inch, all of him thick and deep.

Joel hissed a breath through his teeth. “Goddamn, baby—fuckin’ tight like this.”

You steadied yourself, hands braced on his thighs as you started to move — hips rocking slow, deep, grinding back onto him.

Joel growled, low and wrecked. His hands found your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in with every bounce.

“Fuckin’ love watchin’ you like this,” he said through clenched teeth. “Back arched. Drippin’ down my cock. Look like you belong there.”

You moaned, biting your lip, speeding up just enough to make the sound of your bodies slapping together echo through the room.

Then his hand came down hard — smack.

A sharp slap to your ass, jolting your whole body forward.

You gasped, grinding back into him harder, your moan caught between pleasure and something filthier.

“More,” you whispered, breathless.

Joel chuckled darkly. “You got no shame, huh?”

And then he spanked you again, other hand gripping your hip tighter, guiding your rhythm as you rode him faster.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice rasping. “Bounce on it, baby. Show me how much you need it.”

You were barely holding on, head thrown back, hands slipping down to brace against his knees as you fucked yourself on him, each thrust hitting that perfect spot, each slap of his hand pushing you closer to breaking.

“Whose pussy is this?” he growled.

“Yours,” you gasped, choking on the word. “Joel, it’s yours—”

“Say it louder.”

“It’s yours! Fuck— I’m yours, I’m—fuckin’ yours—”

And when you came, it hit like a wrecking wave — your body locking up, thighs shaking, cunt clenching around him so hard he growled, deep in his chest, and thrust up into you, meeting your movement with wild, desperate rhythm.

Joel came with a rough curse, hands tight on your hips, slamming you down one last time, holding you there as he spilled deep inside you, breathing hard.

You stayed there for a moment — straddling him, spent and shaking, dripping with sweat and his release — your back pressed to his chest now as he sat up slightly, wrapping his arms around your middle.

No words.

Just breath. Touch. The sound of his heartbeat against your spine.

Possession had never felt so good.

Your breathing was still ragged when his arms wrapped around you — strong, steady, grounding — and Joel leaned up just enough to press a kiss to your spine, right between your shoulder blades.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Your thighs were shaking. Your chest was tight. And Joel just held you there, your back to his chest, both of you sunk into the mattress like the world had narrowed to this one room — this one moment.

His lips brushed your skin again, slower this time.

Not lust.

Not claim.

Just Joel.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he muttered against your shoulder.

You didn’t say anything — not right away. You just let your hand find his on your stomach, threading your fingers with his, still catching your breath.

He kissed your shoulder once more, his voice softer now. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like I was hidin’ you.”

You turned your head slightly, cheek brushing against his beard, your voice still raspy. “You kinda did.”

Joel winced. He didn’t try to deny it.

“I know.” His hand tightened gently around yours. “Truth is… I’ve never had anything like this before. Anyone like you. I didn’t know how to—hell, I was scared if I held on too tight, you’d see how much I don’t deserve it.”

You shifted in his arms, your back curving to him like muscle memory. He was always solid, always warm — but now he felt tender, too.

Vulnerable in a way that made your heart twist.

“Joel,” you whispered, glancing up at him, “you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to show up.”

He looked down at you, brow furrowed, like he was still learning how to believe that.

“I don’t talk easy,” he said. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” You gave a soft smile, reaching up to brush a thumb along the line of his jaw. “But when you do… it’s worth it.”

Joel let out a low breath, like maybe that weight on his chest was finally easing up. He kissed your forehead — slow, deliberate, lingering.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For not claimin’ you sooner. For makin’ you feel like you weren’t everything you are to me.”

You curled in closer, letting his arms wrap tighter, your legs tangled with his now, warm under the blankets.

“You’re lucky you fuck like you mean it,” you teased, voice light again, lips grazing his throat.

He huffed a low laugh, fingers brushing through your hair, then down your back.

“Damn right I do.”

You both settled then — the tension melted out of your muscles, the fight long gone.

In the quiet, you felt his hand drift to your hip again — not to grip or guide, but just to hold. To feel you there. Real. Close. His.

And this time, when he whispered, “You’re mine,”

…it wasn’t a threat.

It was a vow.

You woke up to sunlight bleeding through the curtains and the soft drag of Joel’s fingers across your bare back.

He was already awake, propped up on one elbow beside you, hair tousled, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them in the morning light.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still scratchy from sleep and maybe just a little from everything he’d growled the night before.

You smiled, stretching slow, your sore muscles protesting just enough to make you wince.

Joel caught it, smirked. “Told you you wouldn’t be walkin’ right.”

“Smug bastard,” you muttered, curling into him anyway, your face in the warm space between his chest and shoulder. “Don’t get used to being right.”

His arms wrapped around you, his hand slipping into your hair. He didn’t say anything right away — just kissed your forehead like it was instinct.

Then, quietly: “You busy later?”

You blinked. “Uh… no?”

“Good.” He leaned back just enough to look down at you. “I want you to meet Tommy.”

“I already know Tommy, Joel.”

He didn’t respond.

You stared.

Joel watching you, steady, a little nervous behind the eyes — which meant this meant something.

“Wait. You’re introducing me?”

He nodded once. “Figured it’s time he knew the truth.”

“The truth,” you echoed, raising a brow. “And what’s that?”

Joel’s jaw ticked — and then his hand slid up your side, slow, until it rested just over your heart.

“That you’re mine.”

You swallowed.

“That I love you.”

The words were quiet. Unadorned. No theatrics. Just Joel, stripped bare, telling you something he’d carried too long in silence.

Your heart slammed hard against your ribs.

“I love you too,” you said, voice barely there. “Took you long enough.”

Joel chuckled, leaned down, kissed you slow — deep and warm and certain.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your lips. “But now everyone’s gonna know it.”

Later, the sun high in the sky, he kept a hand on your waist as the two of you walked across town. Not just touching — guiding. Showing.

Tommy spotted you both from across the street and waved. When you got close, he grinned. “Well look who finally crawled outta his cave. Joel, who’s—?”

“This’s my girl,” Joel cut in, hand tightening slightly at your hip. “Been meanin’ to bring her by.”

Tommy raised a brow, surprised — maybe even impressed.

Your smile turned sly, but you said nothing, letting Joel say it.

“She’s… important to me,” he added, clearing his throat. “More than that. I love her.”

Tommy blinked. Then laughed, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Well, shit,” he said. “Guess miracles do happen.”

Joel grumbled something under his breath, pulling you in closer like he couldn’t help it. Like it wasn’t just possession anymore — it was pride.

You leaned into his side, kissed his jaw, and whispered where only he could hear:

“Think I like hearing you say that.”

Joel glanced down at you, eyes soft. “Get used to it, sweetheart. I’m done keepin’ quiet.”

[josephquinnswhore]

If you don’t like fat girls, nobody needs to hear your opinion on anything.

[josephquinnswhore]

YES YES YES THE LACK OF LIKES AND REPOSTS DORSNT MEAN ITS BAD I LOVED IT 😭❤️

“no one wants to read this” ok but you do. and that’s enough. and also wrong. i want to read it. hand it over

[josephquinnswhore]

#adhd

"just write a little every day" ok but what if i write nothing for 3 weeks and then suddenly type like i’m being hunted by god

[josephquinnswhore]

big fan of whatever this is

[josephquinnswhore]

wet & willing

pairings ➝ joel miller x f!reader

summary ➝ a "stranger" uses you in the shower and makes sure to record it as a memory.

warnings ➝ dark!fic, explicit smut, cnc, home invasion in the shower, recording kink, fear play, rape fantasy, unprotected vaginal sex, doggy style, a bit of nipple play, rough sex, dominant!joel, submissive!reader, degradation, no outbreak, modern AU, overstimulation, creampie, pet names, aftercare, dirty talk, swearing and explicit language, 18+, MINORS: DO NOT INTERACT.

word count ➝ 740

author's note ➝ hello guys! 💙 i'm back with another dark fic since it seems my imagination runs wild with this stuff lol. this trio of "cnc + shower home invasion + recording kink" has been sitting in my drafts for weeks and i'm happy that i finally got the time to dive into it. i hope this fic is enough to fulfill you while i'm working on ch 5 of caged in silk. enjoy ☺️

do NOT repost, reupload, translate or plagiarize my work.

the sound of the shower running is loud while you gently rub at your scalp with shampoo, enjoying the hot thick steam that fills the bathroom and clouds your vision.

you don't hear the soft click of a tripod leg locking in place behind you. you definitely don't see the red light blinking from the vanity counter.

but he does.

joel's behind the camera first. watching through the screen, cock already straining in his jeans as he sees you: naked, slick, vulnerable. he adjusts the frame, zooms in on your back just a little to accentuate the curve of your hips and the way the water clings to your wet skin.

he moves.

fast.

a hand over your mouth. a hard body pinning you to the glass.

"you like showerin' with the door open, baby?" his voice rasps in your ear. "you wanted someone to come in and take what's theirs?"

you scream. muffled. thrashing.

he makes sure to angle your body towards the lens.

"smile for the camera," he growls. "wanna make sure you remember this."

he bends you over, water still raining down on you both. you catch a glimpse of the blinking red light on the counter and you fucking moan. eyes wide, heart pounding.

"yeah, you see it now," he chuckles, lining up behind you. "gonna play this back and watch you get ruined all over again. like the good fucking slut you are."

he enters your tight hole in one brutal thrust, giving you no time to adjust to his enormous, overwhelming girth. he is so thick you're worried he may split you apart.

but he feels so good. stretching you so painfully addicting, you can't help but replace the screams with pornographic moans and yelps entirely. eyes rolling in the back of your skull as your mind goes blank and all you can do is feel how he is impaling you on his cock from behind.

he fucks you like an animal. each thrust, each slap of skin, each broken sob into the tile meant for the camera. he drags his fingers down your spine.

"look at that arch. all for me. goddamn."

your body's twitching from overstimulation, close to collapse. and he knows it. one hand grabs your boob roughly, pinching the sensitive nipple. the other hand grabs your face and forces you to look toward the lens.

"wanna see what you look like when you come for your attacker, slut? huh? you wanna watch yourself beg? 'cause i wanna hear that pretty throat scream until the neighbours wake up n' call the police on us, sweetheart. so why don't you go ahead and fuckin' beg?"

"please, pretty please, sir, wanna cum so hard! wanna cum on your big fuckin' cock, sir. please let me cum… so good… yes, yes, yes!"

he pounds impossibly harder and faster into you and he is so big you swear you can feel him in your throat as he holds a tight grip over your body while he ocasionally spanks your asscheeks roughly until you come. hard. screaming. legs giving out — and he holds you there, pumping you deep and full of his cum, never once blocking the view of the camera.

when it's over, he kills the scene. pulls out gently, turns off the camera.

and suddenly - it's just joel. your joel. your thoughtful, caring husband wrapping a towel around you and kissing your temple.

"you did so good, baby. 'm so proud of you. you hurt anywhere?" he cooes while cradling your face in his hands.

"i'm good, darling. you were perfect," you say with a smile on your face as you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and place a gentle, loving kiss on his lips.

he carries you to the bed after the dries the both of you up with towels.

but the camera comes too.

he props it on the nightstand while he lays you on the bed. dazed and glowing.

"let's watch," he murmurs, crawling over you. already hard again.

"wanna see how gorgerous you look when you're scared for me."

you whimper as the screen lights up. "joel…"

"shh. round two, baby," he says, dragging your thighs apart. "eyes on her."

he runs two fingers through your puffy folds, a smug smile appearing on his face at your tortured whines filling his ears.

"this time, i want your face in the shot when i cum inside you."

[josephquinnswhore]

come home to me - joel miller x female reader

summary: you’re tired of joel not showing up, but he proves he’s still here.

word count: 4.9k

content warning: emotional neglect, old man joel with glasses RAAAAH, age gap relationship, hurt/comfort, pussy eating/worship, p in v, raw, creampie, reader has a cooch, cum eating, multiple orgasms. Is that it? Prolly not idk.

The worst part was never the cancellation. No.

It was the expectation of it, the anxiety of the anticipation as you hear the clock on the wall ticking, waiting for his truck to pull up out the front.

You sat on the couch, legs curled under you, watching the time blink away on your phone as you mindlessly scroll.

6:52 PM.

“He’ll make it. He’s still got eight minutes,” the pathetic, uncomforting whisper does nothing to soothe your nerves.

You were already dressed up. Hair washed and put up real pretty.

Hell— even spritzed on that perfume he liked. The one that made him murmur things against your neck. The one that made him groan when he was buried inside you praising you about how fucking incredible you smell.

Honestly, you’re hoping to incite the same reaction.

Even with eight minutes until he was supposed to be here..your heart had already settled into that dull, familiar ache.

7:04 PM.

Your phone buzzed.

Joel: Hey sweetheart, I ain’t gonna make it on time tonight.

Joel: Tied up on a site emergency, some asshole poured the concrete on the wrong site. It’s bad. Gonna be here late. I’ll make it up to you.

You read it. Reread it. Blinked at it like maybe you see it wrong. Like maybe there was a different Joel Miller who actually showed up for his girlfriend.

You don’t have the capacity to respond when you read it. The bright screen mocks you as your eyes begin to sting. With frozen fingers hovering over the screen.

Are you kidding me?

Again?

You said you wouldn’t do this shit anymore.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Instead, you set the phone down on the brown leather couch, placed both hands in your lap, fisting the beautiful navy blue dress you’d adorned, and stared at the coffee table like it owed you an apology.

You’d planned this night for days. A proper date. No distractions. Just you and him, finally. Because he was horrible at planning, and he didn’t fucking show up. Not like you showed up for him.

It was a habit of yours to start bringing him hot meals at lunchtime because he would blow you off so often. Even now, you’d quit doing that because nothing had changed.

All the effort, once again.. for naught.

You’d cleaned the entire apartment, shaved every inch of your body, spending an absurd amount of time on detailing the stupid landing strip on your pussy that Joel loved so much.. made lasagna from scratch — even grated the damn cheese by hand like some overachieving housewife.

It was pitiful how desperate you feel just to see him again. Not even sexually, truth be told. Of course you miss sex, but more importantly.. intimacy — just him sitting beside you on the couch, your legs in his lap, his calloused hands on your knees.

It had been weeks since you had that.

Weeks of reschedules. Of promises. Unkept promises of, “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Yet— here you were. Alone. Again.

Your phone lit up once more, distracting you from every ache, every thought of uncertainty and despair that courses through you.

7:32pm.

Joel: You there?

Still, you didn’t respond to him, or the sudden influx of messages that chime through the still open chat on your screen.

Joel: Don’t do this.

Joel: Just talk to me.

Don’t do this? He did this to you!! Maybe that’s when you’ve had enough and decide to reply.

You: what’s the point?

You: we’ve had this same conversation how many times and nothing ever changes.

Joel: It’s work.

Joel: I’m trying to build something here. This company ain’t gonna run itself.

You: I’ve heard it all before Joel. How hard is it for you to show up?

Joel: That’s not fair. You know I’d rather be with you.

You: then be with me

You: show up

You: one night. that’s all I asked

There was a pause. One of those long, heavy ones that stretched out like a held breath because you were anticipating something awful.

Joel: I’m trying.

That was it, the something awful. Because it was a load of fucking shit if you’ve ever heard it.

You stare at the message before reading it aloud. “I’m trying.” The laugh that escapes you is bitter and empty.

Who was the one really trying? When you’d brought him lunches for weeks on end just to see him. Begged and pleaded for date nights? Chased after him like this was some sick, one sided game of cat and mouse.

All your friends had warned you about dating an older man, and maybe you should’ve listened to them.

Joel shows up an hour later, as if there was no hurry to the impending doom you both were about to face.

You don’t answer when he knocked, finishing off your second very full to the brim glass of red wine in the hour since he’d texted you.

“Sweetheart,” he said through the door. “C’mon, don’t shut me out.”

Another three knocks. Firmer this time, demanding.

“Open the door. Please.”

A part of you doesn’t want to open it, to have him outside in the cold for the better part of the evening. But eventually you kick off your heels until you’re bare feet and pad over the cold hardwood and you unlocked it.

Swinging the door open with a frustration he doesn’t seem to pick up on.

He stood there looking like the ghost of himself — dusty boots, stained shirt, sweat clinging to his neck and those reading glasses he wore so often.

So unfairly beautiful.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said.

Without a response from you, he keeps talking.

“You can’t ignore me like that.”

“You ignore me every single day,” you mutter quietly.

Joel stepped through the threshold, his boots tracking shit from the site into your home with carelessness. “Don’t start this shit, sweetheart—”

“No,” you snap, intentionally stepping back to put space between you. “We are starting this. Because if we don’t, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He shuts the door behind him, like he has any right to be here after what he’d done. “I’m exhausted. Can we just—”

“No. You don’t get to be exhausted when I’ve been running on empty for months!”

Joel ran a hand through his outgrown curls. “Christ…”

“I have waited for you over and over again, Joel. You don’t even see it, do you? Every night I watch the clock like some sad little girl hoping her boyfriend will remember she actually exists.”

“That’s not true—”

“Really?” Your voice cracks with a sullen scowl. “When’s the last time you held me? The last time you asked how I’ve been sleeping? If I’ve been eating? If I’m okay?”

Joel’s face tightened. “I didn’t know you weren’t.”

You laughed — small and hollow. “That’s the problem, Joel. You don’t ever bother asking.”

He stepped forward, voice dropping. “Sweetheart. Don’t do this.”

“Why not?” Your voice trembled, but your expression holds nothing short of anger. “Because it’s inconvenient? Because I’m finally saying something instead of just pretending this is okay?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can,” he snapped with a pinch of his brow. “I’m workin’ double shifts, tryin’ to get this company stable, makin’ sure Tommy don’t fuck it up—”

“And I didn’t ask for any of that,” the glasses of wine support your defensive snarl. “I asked for you. For dinner. A fucking movie. Ten minutes where you look at me like I’m yours.”

Joel flinched at your onset outburst.

“I gave you everything,” you whisper bitterly. “Time. Patience. My whole fucking heart. And you give me nothing but a whole heap of excuses.”

“I’m not doin’ this to hurt you, sweetheart—”

“But you are!” Finally, you scream, cheeks burning. “You are hurting me. Every time you say you’ll be here and then you’re not. Every time I wait with food getting cold and candles burning out. Every time I tell myself not to cry because you’re too fucking busy for me!”

Joel just stares at you, chest heaving.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he’s violently snapped back to reality at your barely coherent mutter.

“No.”

“I mean it.”

“No. Don’t say that.” His voice broke. “Don’t you fuckin’ say that.”

“I’m done begging for you. If you wanted me the way I want you, we wouldn’t be doing this.”

He looks like he’d been assaulted, truly. “Don’t say I don’t want you.”

“Prove it.”

Silence barred between you, creating a thick, ugly tension.

“You can’t, because when was the last time you ever fucking showed me you cared beyond a few sparse words, Joel?”

And that’s when it hit him. Right there — the full weight of what he’d done. What he’d failed to do.

It all comes crumbling down in front of you, the expression in his eyes alone. The panic.

Like the earth had just shifted beneath his feet, his entire world.

Joel stepped toward you again, slower this time yet his feet felt so fucking heavy. His voice was low, cracked. “I didn’t know I was losin’ you.”

“Well—now you do.”

The silence after your words was louder than the screaming that had shaken your living room windows.

Joel stood there, jaw clenched so tight it trembled, he ignored the grinding of his top teeth against the silver caps on his bottom molars. His hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for you but knew they’d be swatted away if he tried.

It’s useless to move, you know that, to cry, to plead. You’d done it all before and you’re tired. All you do is stand there, still and heartbreakingly beautiful, and all he could do was stare.

And then—wordlessly he drops to his knees.

Hard. So hard you cringe internally at the noise, the way you knew his knees would ache after the act.

It causes you to physically flinch, the weight of it. He was a big, proud man — now he knelt on the floor at your knees, like something in him had cracked straight down the center.

“Don’t leave me,” he said, voice so rough it could’ve been torn from his throat. Something so agonising tearing him up from the inside.

Freezing suddenly on the spot. “Joel…”

“I know I fucked up.” His hands rested against his thighs, not reaching for you or assuming he could. Just clutching onto the denim of his jeans as if they could ground him. “You waited for me. Every goddamn time. You sat there hopin’ I’d show up. And I kept… I kept choosing work. Over you, an’ us.”

He gazes up at you through his reading glasses, specs of sawdust linger on the frame. His brown eyes seem even bigger and more pleasing when they’re full of unshed tears.

A rare, and unfathomably beautiful sight.

It was a sight to behold — Joel with his glasses. The ones he always wore when he was reading contracts or fixing broken cabinets at your place. Now slid down low on his nose, caught in the overhead light of your living room, making him look devastatingly human and exhausted.

“Twenty years ago,” he murmured, afraid of the admission, “my ex-wife walked out of my life and never looked back. Said I wasn’t present. Said I didn’t know how to show up for someone.”

He swallowed, hard. Knowing once again he was living this failure for a second instance, only this time around it meant a hell of a lot more to him.

“I promised myself I’d never make someone feel like that again.”

As you stare at him, a lump rises thick in your throat.

“And here I am,” he whispers. “Same fuckin’ story, same fuckin’ asshole that never learnt his lesson.”

Your voice is barely audible when you manage to swallow the lump downward. “Why didn’t you fight for me sooner, Joel?”

The desperate man hangs his head. “I thought I had more time. Thought you’d understand, o-or you’d wait. Because I was stupid enough to think I deserved that from you.”

His pleading brown eyes are bloodshot, lashes thick with tears as they finally shed down his cheeks, breathing uneven in an uncomfortable wheeze.

“You didn��t deserve how I handled this,” he whispers painfully. “You deserved me… present. Devoted. Here. Sweetheart you deserve more than what I’ve been givin’ ya.”

“I needed you,” your words choking up. “I needed you and you left me alone, time and time again.”

“I know, sweetheart. Christ, I know.”

A tear slips down your cheek, mirroring his own. He wishes he could wipe it away, curse what he’d done and have you forgive him for being such an asshole. To be able to caress you with such devotion and as tenderly as you deserved.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps.

He seeks comfort from your touch, selfishly, he knows that. Chapped mouth nesting into your palm, pressing a kiss into it like it might absolve him. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything.”

Your gaze looks down at him for a long moment, trying to find an immediate way to forgive him, but you can’t. Your heart is wounded.

“You don’t fix it in one night. You fix it by choosing me. Again and again. Like I’ve chosen you.”

He nodded pathetically against the warmth of your flesh, voice trembling. “I will. I swear, sweetheart. I’ll show you every fuckin’ day from now ‘till I’m buried.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I didn’t mean it like I mean it now. I swear to you, sweetheart, this broke somethin’ in me. Seein’ you ready to walk away? I-I know I don’t deserve forgiveness yet, but I’ll earn it. Just give me a chance to make this right.”

A shaky exhale escapes you, as you begin to waiver, forgiveness washing over you.

The weight of his palms rests just above your knees, feeling the fabric of the beautiful navy dress you’d chosen.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

“I miss you too. Every minute I’m not with you, I feel it. And I ain’t ever lettin’ it happen again.”

He pulls away from your open and willing palm, kissing the thigh above your knee through your dress. Another on your upper thighs. Slow, aching kisses like apologies — pressed into skin instead of spoken.

Action, over words.

“I want to show you,” he pleads, begging softly. “Let me show you how sorry I am. Let me put it all back — piece by piece.”

As your fingers glide through his long grown out curls, he takes that as permission.

He kisses your thighs like a starving man.

Not rushed, or eager. Desperate. His hands carve a path, up and down your thighs as if he’d missed how you felt.

His mouth moves over your warm skin reverently, like he was tasting something he thought he’d lost. When he pulls away, breath ragged, those goddamn reading glasses were still perched on his nose.

The sight alone makes your thighs clench in front of his face. An uncomfortable slick forms between your folds.

“I’m gonna take care of you now,” he whispers in a promising, hoarse voice. “Like I should’ve been this whole time.”

Pleading and dazed, you urge him. “Then do it.”

He doesn’t bother to stand, to take you at his feet, or on the bed. Despite his aching knees, the joints in his ankles.. he stays on his knees, below you, parting your thighs — because that’s where he belonged tonight. At your feet, grovelling for forgiveness.

Joel looks up at you over the rims of his glasses, pupils blown wide. He reaches up underneath your dress, finding your silken panties that you’d planned on surprising him with—and carefully manouvers them down your legs, and shoves them into his back pocket.

“You still want me?” His voice barely above a whisper. “After everything?”

A firm hand grasps his awry curls. “I never stopped wanting you.”

That ignites something in him that work had shunted.

He takes his time with you, folding up your dress until it sat around your hips, inspecting the landing strip you’d carefully articulated. And he groans, something akin to hunger.

And of course he notices the fucking heels, the stunning dress that stuck to your body like a glove. He couldn’t complain though, a small whine escapes him with regret. What he’s missed out on. It’s all his own goddamn fault.

“All this f’me and I fucking cancelled. Don’t ever forgive me, sweetheart.” He chastises with no real bite. Scolding himself.

Joel groaned deep from within his chest, voice muffled against you. “Fuckin’ missed this. Missed you.”

Like worship, he dives into your warmth. And when his mouth finally met the slick of your warm heat, it wasn’t rushed or ravenous — it was repentant.

Soft, tender licks at first, like he was testing if you’d let him stay. Praying you wouldn’t shove him off in some cruel joke. To make a starving man suffer.

Then when he realised you needed this, that’s when he became your servant.. licking deeper, hungrier. He groans deeply against you when your hips rocked up greedily against his tongue, seeking more, silently praising his efforts, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he buries his tongue deep inside of you. They fog up with the heat between your thighs.

His curved nose nudges your swollen clit, emitting a greedy moan from you. “Won’t ever do it again.”

It was maddening — the contrast of his rough stubble against such tender pleasure. His desperate uttering against your pussy of forgiveness are not to be missed. “M sorry.”

He sucks lightly on your clit, and you yelp in pleasure, back arching. “You’re everything.”

He devours you wholly. The sound of him eating you out was obscene—sloppy, greedy, wet. You hear the chesty grunts he makes with each slurp, feel the desperation in every languid thrust of his tongue. When you try to close your thighs around his head, overwhelmed and on the brink of orgasm, he growls.

“Nuh-uh. Let me have it. Don’t run, baby. You fuckin’ deserve this.”

You come hard, for the first time in weeks, all with his name on your lips, hips trembling and rutting into his face, thighs twitching as they clamp around his head as he groaned through it like he was the one unraveling.

As painfully hard as he was, this wasn’t about him.

Joel doesn’t move for a moment, allowing you to ride your high as long as he could make it last — eventually, resting his forehead against your abdomen like a god fearing man begging for mercy.

“I ain’t never gonna stop makin’ this up to you,” he murmurs softly, a wetness to his tone.

Hardly able to think, you run your shaking hands through his hair, holding onto him for support to stand with your quaking legs.

“You better not,” the threat has no real bite.

He pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose as he kisses your stomach. “I’m gonna marry you someday,” he promises quietly in the still air of post euphoria.

That—catches your breath in your lungs.

“After I prove I’m worthy. After I show you every single damn day that you’re it for me.”

Without speaking another word.. you kneel down to him. Finally, caressing his cheeks, wiping your slick into his lips.

“And if you keep this up—I’ll say yes.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upward.

“You still mad at me, sweetheart?”

Brazenly, you blink down at him, flushed and dazed. “A little.”

He kisses the softness of your abdomen, then your sensitive mound. “Good. Gives me more time to make it up to you.”

When you wake, you're aching.

Not just between your legs—though, yeah, there too—but all over. Like your body had unraveled last night and put itself back together again in his arms.

He hadn’t just stopped at one orgasm—no. In true Joel Miller fashion he had to chase more. Eaten you out for hours and fucked you for an hour after that, denying himself the pleasure of cumming to punish himself.

The sheets smell like you and him. A mix of cedarwood, sex, and sawdust. Familiar. Comforting. Sexy in a way that made your chest and pussy ache.

You roll over towards his side of your bed, expecting to find him still asleep. He wasn’t there. Some part of you prays he hasn’t just run straight back to work even though that probably is the case.

What you don’t expect is him, standing in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but his grey sweats and his damn reading glasses as he squinted at the back of the pancake mix box.

Hair still disheveled thanks to your handy work. Back muscles flexing with every flip of the spatula. Humming something under his breath—off-key and soft.

Leaning against the doorframe, nothing but his hoodie wrapped around you, and just watched him for a second in silence.

He looked…peaceful. Like the man you’d longed for, recognised.

Not exhausted from lack of sleep. Not rushing out the door to get to a job site at six in the morning. Just there. In your home, apart of your life again as true presence, not a lingering scent.

Your voice is hoarse when you finally spoke. “You’re still here.”

He turned slowly, eyes softening when they land on you, hair put up messily, wearing his old hoodie. “’Course I am, sweetheart.”

Joel set the spatula down onto your benchtop and walks over to you, hands cradling your waist, tugging you into his bare chest like he couldn’t stand to be apart for another second. You melt into him, forehead pressing to his collarbone.

“You making pancakes?” The soft murmur muffled against his skin.

“I made ‘I’m a fuckin’ idiot and don’t deserve you’ pancakes,” he said gruffly. “Extra maple. Chocolate chips too. Thought it might earn me forgiveness.”

Parting from his warmth to look at him a moment.. “Joel—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he cut you off gently, brushing a loose falling strand of hair behind your ear. “I know I was gone too much. I know I didn’t see how bad you were hurtin’. I just—shit, I was scared.”

You frown at the sudden admission. “Of what?”

“Of this. Of how much I love you. It’s a lot. Too much, sometimes. And I thought if I worked harder, built the business, made somethin’ solid… maybe I’d deserve you.” He shudders uncomfortably. “I got twenty years on you, sweetheart.”

For a silent moment you consider his insecurity. “Joel, I never needed any of that. I just needed you. Forget that, I’m grown. I know what I want and I’ve been fighting for it.”

He clenches his eyes shut, his exhale deep and calculated. “I know, sweetheart. And I swear—I see it now. No more overtime unless you’re beggin’ me to get outta the damn house. I’ll be here. I’ll show up. Every time.”

He pulls you back into him—tighter than before. The curl of his strong arms forces the muscle to flex around you.

His voice was low and rough as he murmurs against your hair, “Mornin’s like this? With you wrapped in my hoodie, kissin’ on me, smellin’ like sleep and sex? This is what I wanna wake up to. Every day.”

You gnaw down onto your bottom lip. “Such a softie at heart.”

He flashes you a crooked grin. “You want me to go back to bein’ a dick? ‘Cause I can bend you over that counter and remind you how hard I can be on ya sweetheart.”

You smack his chest softly with no real intent. He didn’t flinch—just kissed your forehead with a smile so fond it hurts.

“Sit down,” he murmurs, guiding you to the dining room table. “I’ll bring you breakfast. Then we’re watchin’ somethin’ stupid and cuddlin’ for the rest of the damn day.”

“You’re not going to the site?”

“Nope. Told Tommy I’m takin’ a Joel day.”

A snort escapes you in disbelief. “A Joel day?”

“Yeah. Y’know. To stay home. Eat pussy. Rub my girl’s feet. Maybe build a bookshelf later if I’m feelin’ wild.”

With a wide eyed stare you feel overwhelmed, heart full. “Who are you?”

He stands in front of you, hands on your thighs again, and looks up with that same soft heat in his eyes. Glasses still on and voice low.

You barely sit down before he’s clutching onto your wrist, the lingering scent of your perfume infiltrates his senses. His favourite. The sweet vanilla, he inhales deeply against your skin. “Wait a minute, sweet girl.”

With a raised brow, you’re confused. “What? You just told me to sit?”

Joel steps close—too close for you to realise you wouldn’t be eating your pancakes before they turned cold—and tilted his head down until his nose brushes against your own.

You smell too fucking good to pass up.

“I said you were eatin’ breakfast,” he murmurs, lips brushing your warm cheek, “but I didn’t say how I wanted you fed.”

The inhale suddenly caught in your airway.

His warm hand slides downward, lifting up his hoodie to rest on your hip—slow, warm, possessive—gripping your ass underneath the hoodie. He spins you around, facing you away from him, his chest flush to your back, cock already thick and hard, smearing precome on the inside of his grey sweats.

“Joel—”

“No, sweetheart.” His voice drops, rough and reverent. “M still makin’ up for hurtin’ you. Now bend over so I can fuck you like you deserve.”

A soft whimper is shared in the room.

In an instant, he’s guiding you down so that your face, chest and stomach are flat against the dining room table.

“I’ve been patient,” he rasps, tugging the hoodie out of the way to expose your pretty ass and glistening pussy. “Been soft. Gentle. But I need to feel you again. Need to make you come before you touch a single fuckin’ pancake on that plate.”

The feel of him—bare—sliding through your slick folds was something you’d missed so fucking much. A stunned gasp leaves you, burying it into the table, trying to push back into him, but Joel growled and gripped your hips harder, needing the control.

“Stay still,” he orders. “Let me fuckin’ appreciate you.”

Christ—does he ever. He’s missed seeing you bent over, speared on his thick cock.

Slowly he slides into you, inch by inch, stretching you out with his thick cock. He snaps his hips forward with a whine as he sinks so deeply into you, balls flush against you.

At the sensation, you cry out, gripping the edge of the dining table, the force of his thrusts slamming into you force your legs up off the ground. Joel didn’t stop at the sudden shift in position—he set a brutal pace, hands bruising your hips, head falling forward as he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

“This fuckin’ pussy,” he grit out, “Goddamn—never get tired of how perfect you are.”

Every evening and morning you’d woken up without him, you had tried and tried to get yourself off, with your favourite vibrators.. hell you even went out and ordered a dildo. But it lacked compared to Joel.

Only now he was giving back what you’d been missing out on. With every rough thrust. Every ragged groan of your name.

Your own breaths come in shallow gasps against the cold wooden table, fingertips clutching the edge so hard your knuckles turn white. “Joel—I’m—oh my God—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, one hand sneaking around your joint bodies to rub fast, filthy circles on your clit. “Come for me. Cream on this fuckin’ cock. Let me feel it.”

That’s all it took, his demand for your release to shatter you.

With your legs shaking, you manage to bury your face into your arm for all but a moment until he desperately grasps a fistful of hair and pulls your body upright.

“Don’t hide from me,” he growls.

It’s a staggering angle for his thick cock to spear into you, hips jerking back as he fucked you through it—milking every tremble, every aftershock.

You sob out his name like a fucking prayer. His own release follows yours moments after, stilling inside of you as deep as he can manage with your hips squirming against him.

Joel grunts, deep and low, then pulls out with a hiss.

There’s barely enough time to breathe before he knelt down behind you—again spreading your asscheeks apart and diving into your come filled pussy with his tongue.

His mouth devours you, tongue licking his own come from your folds, groaning like it tasted better than any breakfast he’d prepared. You tried to squirm, overstimulated, but he held you down against the table by the hips.

“Don’t run,” he moans against your folds.

A high and broken whine spurs him on—grinding backward helplessly against his mouth. And when your stomach tightens, a scream escapes you as you come again, the sensation wracked so hard you felt tears spring to your eyes and your ears ring.

When he finally let up, he kisses your trembling pussy a final time before standing and kisses your shoulder, breathless.

“Now,” he whispers breathlessly against your ear, kissing your hair, “now you can eat.”

[josephquinnswhore]

Touch and Agree | Charles x Reader

charles smith x f! reader | no warnings | 2.1k | ao3 |

was trying to get back into writing but i was struck with an indescribable sadness once i thought about how useless charles must’ve felt after burning his hand in blackwater. so. i raise you unknowingly touchstarved reader versus Charles™

The horses have slowed to a trot by the time you press your cheek to the frosted window.

You hear Arthur shout some muffled declaration of success as he and Charles’ shadows curl around the front of the stable. The gang is likely aware of their return, senses now heightened by hunger and the frigid winds of Colter. But you feel the need to relay the message to the few still silently huddled in the corners:

“If you’ve been praying, today’s your lucky day.”

Tilly, arms crossed tight over her torso, is the first to pipe up from her spot near the fireplace. “Micah finally saw his sorry behind off the nearest cliffside?”

“Miss Tilly!” Grimshaw hisses, scandalized. The only thing stronger than Grimshaw's personal gripes are the exigencies of the gang. “No more of that. You know we need all the hands we can get.”

Karen, squished next to Mary-beth and a now slumbering Sadie on a wooden bench, scoffs. “Didn’t think we counted meat hooks as hands.”

That gets a snort out of John, who realizes too late that his body isn’t quite healed enough to handle said snort. A flick to the forehead from Abigail quiets him down in his cot before she turns to find you still gazing out the window.

“I’m assimin’ Arthur and Charles are back?”

You nod. “With one…two deer, by the looks of it.”

Your inhale is sharp when Charles pulls his catch over his shoulder with a jerk, beckoning Arthur to follow after him to mask his discomfort. The tension leaves your spine only after the last dregs of his shadow disappear into the stable.

Half-turned to Abigail, you mumble, “Does Charles look a little...off to you, these days?"

"Off," she repeats. The darkness under her eyes colors her words. "Off how?"

"You know," and you make as though to say something of substance before your eyebrows pinch together, "off.”

Abigail looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “If you’re waitin’ on Charles to scream bloody murder, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a burn to do him in.”

Another brick is slotted into a broken wall. 

“I’m just worried.”

“About?”

“Charles. I think his hand is botherin’ him again.”

Abigail’s sigh dusts the cold air with its warmth. “I…suspect most things might look a little off since we've been cooped up like this. But we’ve got O’Driscolls and Pinkertons on the prod." She looks at Jack, now sitting cross legged at her feet and fiddling with the corner of John's blanket. Abigail had given up on herding him toward the fireplace some time ago. She strokes a featherlight hand over his head. "No sense in stressing yourself out over somethin’ Charles would’ve told us ages ago. It's good that he’s up and movin' though, ain't it?"

Your momentum stalls.

It should be. It should be.

Blackwater has left none unchanged. If you weren’t dead, you were shot, and if you weren’t shot, you were waiting for it. Hands bound. Body trammeled by fear and constant surveillance. From anyone else, this haste would be a blessing. A miracle, even, in light of all that'd been lost.

From Charles, it reads more like a warning.

But you don't think your feet have been planted here long enough to question their habits.

You say nothing and return your still numb cheek to the window. Will it always be like this, you wonder? The second guessing. The wary eyes. There’s a certain degree of trust that you aren’t privy to yet. Somehow, it feels worse knowing that everyone is making an effort to be so kind to you despite it. You know plenty who wouldn’t do the same.

Better dead than dead weight. 

The creed still lingers. Subsisting on what little you've gleaned in the short time you've been running with Dutch's group. Perhaps that's the root of this peculiar sense of worry. Of pity. You and Charles don’t speak often—there's a general lack of overlap in duties, for one, and he mostly keeps to himself. But you've always been one for actions over words. Charles was frighteningly capable, and more than willing to prove it time and time again.

To him, the burn he’d suffered may as well have been a bullet to the leg.

Your only issue is that no one else seems to see it.

You’re tracing shapes into the windowpane when movement just outside startles you. Charles, bow in hand, stalks toward one of the smaller cabins before veering off toward the small stream that lies just behind the stables.

You're springing up and stumbling out the front door before your brain has time to temper your heart. Someone shouts after you—likely Grimshaw, from the way it rakes over your ears. But you ignore it in favor of grabbing handfuls of your skirts and pushing through the powdery snow.

When you round the corner of the stables, breath short and chest tight, you find that Charles hasn’t gone very far at all. He's leaning against a crooked tree, face all taut lines as his fingers fumble with the grip on his bow. A frown plays at your lips when you notice the path of his footprints, stretching a few paces farther before it loops back to where he stands.

“Charles?”

You think you hear him exhale through his nose before he meets your gaze with the same smile he usually does. Bright. Unwavering. A little squinty, since the sun is in his eyes. “You good?”

Right. The usual pleasantries. You've conversed with him in your head for much longer than you have in person.

“I’m uh, fine." You blink stupidly. "Are you?"

“Mhm. Right as rain.”

Your eyes can't help but slide to the bow he clutches just out of sight. He doesn’t look ashamed in the slightest.

“…I’m just holding it, for now. Till my hand heals up, at the very least.” Charles holds up the offending appendage. “Not like I have anything better to do."

It's hard to tell if he's intentionally skirting around the point, or if he really does think there aren't any better uses for his time. The frown you'd been fighting off finally gets the better of you once Charles returns to adjusting his injured hand on the bow's grip.

"I don't think you should be doing that," you insist. Because he really shouldn't be. At all.

"Afraid I can't do that," he replies. "I'm one of the few here who can hunt worth a damn in this weather. I get sloppy, we starve.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’s what I know.” He says it with enough certainty to make you almost believe him. “Go back inside and warm yourself up. 'Preciate you checking on me, but if you freeze to death, they’re gonna laugh knowing you came out here without any gloves on.”

You clench your fists. Feel the ice that's settled there begin to splinter under the pressure and breach the thick skin of your palms. Fine, then. You’ll speak to him in a language he can understand.

Though your march over is less than graceful, he parts with the bow with surprising ease. Charles’ warmth, much like the rest of him, is tailored to perfection. Your fingertips graze remnants of the finery on the parts of the parts of the bow that his hands have warmed.

His eyes flick over you. Placid. Confused, too, on account of the ever-tightening grip you have on what you hope isn't a prized possession. His vexation becomes clearer once you step away, full hands now hidden behind your back. You have to take an extra step back for your own peace of mind.

“Charles Smith,” you begin, “I’d like to strike up a deal.”

“A deal.”

“I won’t repeat myself. We’re losin' daylight here.”

Chin tipped upward, you don your favorite facade.

Confidence.

"You focus on takin’ care of that hand, and I won't tell Arthur and Hosea you've been messin' with your bow."

His face belies a slew of unvoiced expletives. But you know Charles to be the—somewhat—gentle sort, so there’s no need to brace yourself. Even if he isn’t entirely convinced, you can at least hope that he’s found a little amusement in all this.

“You said ‘strike a deal,’” he says slowly. “This smells like a threat.”

“Deal, threat, whatever strikes your fancy.” It didn’t matter so long as he stopped stretching himself so thin.

He seems to mull over your words for a bit, no longer leaning up against the tree. There is, however, a small chance that he’s trying to find the right assortment of words to get you off of his back.

“We’ve got two deer.” You continue. “If Pearson is as frugal as I remember, that’ll keep us all for about a week. Should be more than enough time to get your hand back in order, right?”

“Hm.”

There’s a moment where Charles’ uninjured hand begins to stretch towards you. You just barely remember to lean out of the way before he drops his arm with a defeated sigh.

“So no bows—”

“No knives or guns, either. Unless absolutely necessary.”

“—Then how’m I supposed to keep up my strength? Can’t just sit idle, you know. We’ve got people here who need taking care of.” He takes three steps forward, and you take three steps back. “We’ve all got weight to pull out here. I’m of no use to anybody if I’m sitting out over a little burn like this.”

There goes that nasty word again.

Use.

You can joke all you want, but that’s what this boils down to.

“Well, you…just need something to pull on, right? Keep your hands busy?”

You hold out your hand.

The corner of Charles’ lips twitch downward. "I’m keeping my knives on me—"

"Take it."

"…What?"

You laugh. Loud and exaggerated enough to shake the snow off the trees. "Some gentleman you are, lettin’ a lady’s hands grow cold.” You flex your fingers. “My hand. Take it."

You use the awkward silence that follows to explain yourself.

"I figure it's got a little more give than a bow. And it’s got enough resistance to scratch that itch. You ever feel like shooting, ask for me. Hopefully it’ll have you feeling stupid long enough for your hand to heal up."

He brings a hand up to block the sun from his eyes, and you find yourself strangely missing the gold it cast on him. "That's not something I should be asking of you."

"Works out great, don't it? You're not asking, I'm offering, so there's no problem." Or, at least there wouldn't be if things go the way you know they will. It's no well-kept secret that Charles isn't too keen on extra company during his downtime. No one faults him for it, either.

Any chance of him taking you up on your suggestion is slim.

The wind is thunderous where Charles is quiet, snaking through the empty trees.

"Whether you take it or not, I'm walking off with this bow. But I'm not about to let you run yourself into the ground."

You flex your fingers again, and they tremble.

Charles shakes his head, and you're sure you've won—

"Alright. I'll do it."

Well, that's not good.

Violently off track and suddenly very unsure of how to proceed, you drop your hand. Charles, evidently resolute in his decision, says nothing more as he approaches.

You stumble back a bit as his body nears, wishing that the head you house on your shoulders was screwed on a little tighter. You think it's begun to spin when he takes your hand into his own; gently, as if scooping up a wounded bird from the forest floor.

He opens his mouth, then promptly closes it, brows furrowing as he inspects your palm.

Something is loud.

It's your heart, you realize. Stuttering with each squeeze of his bandaged fingers. Consequences are not beneath you, it seems.

You allow him a few more experimental squeezes than you would've liked, but you can't quite shake the strange tremor that races up your throat the longer he holds you.

Nothing is said until he pulls his hand away.

“And I can do this, whenever?”

Your tongue is miles away. “I, uh. No.” Wait. Voice crack. “I mean—yeah. Yes. Whenever.”

Charles makes no note of your vocal blunder, instead taking one last look at the bow you hold before beginning to make his way back to camp.

He taps the hand at your side as he passes. Leans to talk right into your ear. “Keep these wrapped up for me, will you?”

He’s gone before you have a chance to tell him that you would’ve done it without his say-so.

(Damn it, you think. Palm tingling. I’m in some deep shit.)

[josephquinnswhore]

Why couldn’t they just let him drink his little coffee and be old.

[josephquinnswhore]

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction. 

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him—“you’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents in the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. 

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

🏷️: @whaddupbaby, @pedritodowney08, @martuxduckling, @aadhinagony, @lanabobana, @pedr0swh0r3, @romancherry, @strawberriesandhotmen, @streamermattsgf, @bonneyzsk, @worhols, @serendippindots, @paprikainfurs, @lanternnightgarden, @12vamppp, @savvyisss, @umadirectioner, @tinawantstobeadoll, @not-the-teen-witch, @wundagre, @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere, @guelyury, @joelspickle, @callofdiva, @hotnmad, @brightestxxwitch, @pearl-diver-m, @kungfucapslock, @hellokittyyloverrrr, @meganfoxismywife, @natalieispunk, @billionairecowgirl, @my-tearsricochet

[josephquinnswhore]

one more chance - joel miller x female reader x erik miller

summary: you and Joel have been struggling to conceive, his twin brother Erik, makes a proposal to Joel to help.

word count: 5.2k

content warning: angst, age gap, reader mid twenties, Joel mentioned age is 48, infertility, threesome, possessiveness, insecurity, hurt-comfort, creampie, breeding kink, pussy eating, happy ending, pregnancy, Joel and reader are married, Sarah briefly mentioned, drinking problems.

@sunshineispunk 😇

MAY 16TH- MILLER RESIDENCE, SUNDAY MORNING.

You’re anchored with the sound of the faucet dripping, the same faucet that Joel had reassured you a dozen times he’d get around to fixing, spare you the call to the plumber.

Yet.

Drip. Drop.

A quiet, steady plink echoed in the silence of their kitchen. You stand barefoot in one of Joel’s old flannel shirts, arms crossed over your chest, eyes staring blankly at the coffee maker that hadn’t been turned on yet.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting…

Your stomach aches, dull and deep. That unmistakable cramp. The unassuming verdict that had been your reality, month after month.

You don’t need to check the test on the counter. But apart of you wants to, put an end to your internalised agony, squander the hope of a—

What if?

Joel walks in behind you. You don’t hear him, not at first—he was light-footed for a man of his size—but you feel his presence like a beacon inside of your swirling storm of emotion. He stopped in the doorway, gaze dropping to the test you hadn’t touched.

Still unopened.

Still unnecessarily hurting.

“Bad day?” He asks softly, knowing to step lightly when he caught you like this.

Month after month.

You don’t answer.

Joel steps closer, placing a tentative hand on the small of your back. The shirt you wore had been one he had owned for years, soft and worn, the colours faded, smelling faintly of cedar and laundry soap. He buries his face into your hair and sighs.

“Again?” He murmurs, thick with unmistakable disappointment.

You nod, jaw tightening as tears pricked your stinging eyes. You don’t cry—tears stuck in your waterline. A skill you’d learned to hold it in around him. Joel carried enough weight on his shoulders.

He didn’t need yours too.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a crack in your apology.

Joel tilts his head backward, brow inching up his forehead. “What the hell are you apologizin’ for?”

“I just…” you shook your head in disbelief. “I wanted this. We both wanted this.”

Wanted. As if you’d given up. Already given up.

His jaw flexed, a tic you knew all too well. He stepped away, poured water into the coffee maker with a roughness he didn’t mean anything by. “Ain’t your fault.”

You leaned on the counter, arms wrapping around yourself in a pathetic expression of self comfort. “Maybe we should try something different. I can try and track things better, I guess. Or go see someone about pills we can take—“

Joel doesn’t spare you a glance. “We’ve done all that.”

Your throat tightens. “So what, we just keep failing?”

His shoulders stiffened.

Failure. His failure.

It wasn’t anger. It was shame.

Joel turned, mug in hand, eyes dark and tired. “You think I don’t feel useless already?” His voice was low, cracked at the edges. “Every month, watchin’ you break down over it. And I’m the one who—”

“Don’t,” you plea, stepping toward him. “Don’t do that. Don’t put it on yourself.”

“I’m forty-eight, honey.” He said so bitterly, as if his age were a slur. “I can’t give you a baby.”

Your palm caresses his chest, flat over his heart. “You give me everything already.”

He looked down at you, eyes glassy but stubborn. “Not this.”

You both stand in silence for a beat.

Then Joel bent his head and kisses your forehead. Soft. Lingering. His calloused hand cradled the back of your neck at the nape, his thumb rubs against your hairline.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured.

“Like I’m good company right now—,” you murmur, half-crying.

“Don’t give a damn,” he reassures. “Wanna hold you.”

So you follow him, and he did just that—held you like he could keep the world from falling apart if he squeezed hard enough.

But neither of you say it out loud.

You were breaking.

MAY 18TH-ERIK MILLERS RANCH, TUESDAY EVENING.

Erik Miller wasn’t the kind of twin you expected Joel to have. Where Joel was quiet, brooding, slow to anger but quick to judge, Erik was loose-limbed and loud, laughing with too many teeth, always with a beer in hand and no filter to his mouth.

It was odd, how alike and dislike they looked. Erik had many more grey hairs, as if he’d somehow lived ten years more than Joel. His features were smoother, whereas Joel often looked a bit more ruggedly handsome.

Yet—despite their differences and similarities, they balanced each other out.

But when Joel slumped onto the porch of Erik’s ranch house on a Tuesday evening, nursing a bottle of whiskey and wearing the same shirt from yesterday, Erik knew that something was seriously off.

Erik just hands him a glass and sat beside him.

Joel didn’t talk for a long time. Just sat on the old rocking chair on the porch, sipping his whiskey. It wasn’t until the sun dipped behind the trees and the cicadas started singing that he finally spoke.

“We’ve been tryin’ for a year.”

Erik took a sip, nodding like he already knew. “She tells you it’s you?”

Joel shook his head defensively. “She ain’t like that.”

“Then why’re you sittin’ here lookin’ like someone shot your dog?”

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face at his brother’s stupid expression. “Because I know, Erik. I’m the problem. She’s young an’ I’m nearly fuckin’ fifty.”

“Did a doctor say that?”

Joel didn’t answer. It’s a stupid fucking revelation. He should see a professional.

Then what? He’s infertile and he’s ruined your life by marrying you. No.

He couldn’t handle that.

Erik leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, man, you want me to say it’s okay? That it don’t matter? It does. You want a kid. She wants a kid. You love her.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse. “More than anything.”

Erik was quiet a moment.

Then he said it. Despite his better judgement.

“Then let me help.”

Joel looked at him like he’d gone insane, brown eyes suddenly dark with possession. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Erik shrugged as if he didn’t just suggest screwing his twin brother’s fucking wife. “You want a baby. I’m biologically identical. She already loves you. What if… I can help?”

Joel stood, knocking over the empty whiskey bottle onto the wooden porch he and Erik had built by hand. “You’re outta your goddamn mind to say that shit to me.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Joel snarls.

Erik held up his hands. “Hey—wasn’t gonna do nothin’ without you. I ain’t tryna take your girl. Just thinkin’… maybe there’s another way.”

Joel stared at him, breathing hard. “She ain’t some damn breeding mare, Erik. She’s my wife.”

“Then talk to her. See what she says.”

Joel stormed off, furious. Tyres spitting up gravel as he left the ranch. Alcohol fueling his rage. At the thought of Erik knocking you up, fixing his failure.

But..

He didn’t say no. Did he?

18TH MAY- MILLER RESIDENCE, TUESDAY EVENING

The silence between you felt heavier tonight, for some reason. Joel had come home.. a little later than you’d anticipated.

And he’d just been—silent. Distant. Stinking of whiskey.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling half-heartedly on your phone, knowing Joel would come to bed when he felt ready. Joel stood by bedroom window, a bottle of water in one hand in an attempt to drown out the oncoming whiskey induced headache, his gaze lost in the darkness outside.

He hadn’t said much since coming back from Erik’s place.

And you didn’t push.

Until he finally turned to face you.

His eyes found you across the room — warm, tired, searching.

“You still want to try?” He asked, voice low and gravelly.

Surprised, you blink in shock. “You mean tonight?”

Joel nodded slowly. “I know it ain’t ideal timing, but… I need to feel close to you right now. If you want that too.”

Your phone slipped from your sweaty hands onto the nightstand. Uncrossing your legs, you stand up without a word and walk over to him, arms wrapping around his waist.

Disregarding the musk from his second day wearing this shirt, and the whiskey that stuck to his breath.

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it all day. He curled around you instinctively, strong arms pulling you in, face buried in the rosemary scented hair.

“I hate seein’ you cry, baby,” he murmured. “Hate not bein’ enough for you.”

Your hands slide up under his shirt, tracing the warm skin of his back, the divot of his spine especially. “You are enough. More than enough.”

He looked down at you then, something breaking inside of him, so deeply you can see it in his eyes.

“You don’t gotta say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m saying it because it’s the truth,” you whisper.

Joel didn’t respond with words. He kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Like he could climb inside you and hide from the shame he was blatantly running from.

He walks you back toward the bed, fingers tangled in your hair, lips moving against your own with growing hunger.

When you both fell back onto the mattress, Joel hovers over you, hands slipping beneath your thighs to pull you closer, grinding his hips against your own. Desperate to lose himself within you, as if it would fix whatever was broken within him.

“You still sore?” He asked, breath heavy.

He was a little rough a few nights back—desperate to make his come stick.

“A little,” you murmur, reaching for him, needing him closer. “But I don’t care. I want you.”

Joel sat upright, pulling his shirt over his head, then slowly tugged yours off too. Swell nipples already pebbled from the cool air. He bows his head and kissed the valley between them, then lower, trailing down your stomach.

Reverent.

Hungry.

Worshipping the place you both wished so badly would carry life.

His voice rasped against your skin. “Let me try again.”

A sacred prayer that this time—the fucking stars would align or something miraculous would happen to make this work.

Joel took his time with you.

His hands exploring your body like he needed to memorize every soft inch, as if he hadn’t been doing this for years. His mouth dragged slow, wet kisses across your chest, stomach, the inside of your thighs.

A soft moan escapes you when he finally pressed his tongue to your swollen clit, his strong hands pinning your hips down to the mattress when they arched desperately upward, trying to escape the hot coil building in your stomach.

“Don’t run from me,” he growled against your heat. “Let me taste all of you.”

And you do. What a fool you’d be not to let Joel worship your cunt that wept for him.

When he finally pulled himself from between your thighs, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips glistening with your arousal.

He kisses you again, slow and deep, making you taste yourself on his tongue. As he kisses you, he guides himself deep into you—sucking him deeper inside of you—inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t move. Just holds you close, his sweating forehead resting against your own.

“Say you want this,” he murmured with a desperate plea. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you breathe heavily. “Only you.”

That lit something inside him. Something that had reignited the confidence he had been sorely lacking within your dynamic.

Joel started to move — slow thrusts at first, then deeper, harder. The bed creaked beneath you. He grunted low, voice thick with emotion.

“Fuck, baby… I need this. Need to fill you. Need to give you a baby.”

Digging your nails into his bare back, you cry. “Yes, please—Joel, don’t stop—”

He fucks you like a man starved. Like he did every single time. His thrusts turn frantic, hips slamming into yours with sharp slaps. Deep growling emits from his chest as he feels his orgasm looming.

But his eyes never leave yours. Every movement was a promise. A prayer.

That he was worth sticking around for.

His voice broke near the end. “Come for me, baby. Milk it outta me. Let me fill you up.”

You cry out, orgasm hitting fast and hard, spasming walls clenching around him like a silken vice. Joel cursed loudly as he buries himself so deep inside you that it makes you wince, then he stills—his body shuddering as his cock twitches, the brandishing of his come thick and deep inside of you.

Both of you lay there for a long time afterward. Breathing heavy and in sync. His seed still deep inside your womb.

Joel kisses your temple, chest still heaving. “Maybe this time,” he said softly. “Maybe this is it.”

You don’t answer. The feeling in your gut—you knew it wasn’t.

But your arms wrap so tightly around him, and for once… you let him hope.

MAY 19TH-MILLER RESIDENCE, WEDNESDAY MORNING.

The kitchen smells like eggs, toast and freshly brewed coffee — Joel’s peace offerings after a sleepless night. You take a seat at the table in his hoodie, legs tucked underneath your ass, cradling a warm mug as if the heat might thaw whatever tension lingered in the room.

That’s how it had been for months. Tense. Hanging by a thread.

Joel hadn’t said much since you’d woken up. Just kissed the crown of your head, then poured himself a cup of coffee.

But now, as he placed a plate in front of you and sat down with his own coffee, his face looked tight. He’d been thinking about something.

You could only assume it was something bad by the stress lines gathering on his forehead.

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” You ask gently.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tapped his fingers against the mug and exhaled through his nose. Apprehensive about his proposal.

“There’s somethin’ I need to tell you,” he said finally.

Your stomach tightens with anxiety. “Okay…what is it?”

Joel looked up at you then — that raw, open, vulnerable joel kind of look. The one that made your chest hurt because you could see everything he wasn’t saying. All of the doubt, failure.

“I talked to Erik,” he said, voice tight.

That surprised you. Especially regarding the infertility.. “About… us?”

Joel nodded, needing no clarification. “I didn’t plan to. Just came out. I was drinkin’. I felt like shit. I said I think maybe I’m the reason we can’t conceive.”

You reach across the table and squeezed his hand, brows furrowing. “Joel—”

“Lemme finish, baby,” he said, voice cracking. “While I got the guts ‘ta say it.”

You go quiet.

He swallowed hard. “He… offered to help.”

You don’t particularly like the sound of that. “Help how?”

Joel rubbed his jaw, avoiding your eyes now. “Help you get pregnant. He meant it, baby. I mean—actually help us.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your hand slips from his with an anxious tremble.

“You mean—what? Sleep with me?”

Joel flinched. “Not like that. I mean—yeah, technically, but… it wouldn’t be about that. He said he’d do it for us. For me. Said he wouldn’t touch you unless you wanted it.”

You stared at him, stunned that he would even consider this. That Erik was even breathing after suggesting it. “Jesus, Joel.”

“I didn’t say yes!” He defended quickly. “I didn’t agree to nothin’. I just… I didn’t shut it down either.”

Your voice barely a whisper as you trail off. “You’d really let him…?”

He leaned forward, eyes desperate, steely. “Baby, I don’t want to. God knows, the thought of another man touchin’ you, let alone my own goddamn brother makes me want to put a hole in his head.”

“Then why even consider it?”

“Because I love you,” he growled. “Because I’d rather burn in hell than watch you cry every month over something I can’t give you.”

At the revelation, tears well in your waterline. “And what if it worked? What then? I’d be raising your brother’s kid? Your nephew?”

Joel was quiet at your confused muttering.

“I don’t want that, Joel,” you murmur, voice trembling with a plead. “I want you. I want us.”

He reaches out across the table and gently cups your cheek with his hand. “I know. But if I can’t give you a baby—and he can—then maybe that’s enough.”

There’s no way to describe the way your heart fucking aches.

Part of you wanted to scream. Another part… the part deep down in the dark, where your longing and pain festered was curious. A dampened flicker of heat low in your stomach.

The image of Erik — broad-shouldered and softer-spoken, so much like Joel but different in all the wrong and right ways — made the soft pulse thrum with confusion.

Joel must’ve seen the flicker in your eyes, because he leans in, whispering. “Only if you want it. You say the word, and I’ll never bring it up again.”

You bite down on your lower lip, gnawing on the flesh.

“You’d be there, right?”

Joel’s breath caught in his throat. “Yes,” he mutters hoarsely. “If we did this… I wouldn’t leave your side.”

“I’m scared,” you admit, eyes searching his own for some kind of comfort.

Joel kisses your palm, soothingly. “Me too, baby.”

But now, the seed was planted.

And it was growing.

JUNE 7TH- MILLER RESIDENCE, SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

It didn’t happen right away. Not that night. Not a week from then.

Weeks passed. The idea lingered like smoke in the air—thick, hard to breathe, impossible to ignore.

Every time Joel looked at you, how could you not feel it?

It wasn’t a gaze of resentment. No regret. Just… ache. A longing so deep it crawled beneath your skin and lived there.

You talked. Carefully. Honestly.

And when Joel finally texted Erik on a Saturday afternoon—“Come over. Tonight.”

Your heart thundered so fucking hard you felt lightheaded.

Joel didn’t touch you the whole day. Didn’t kiss you like usual, didn’t hold you in the hallway or pull you into his lap. He was coiled tight. Quiet. Like a bomb counting down until it explodes.

That made you on edge too. The pressure.

Unsure, you shower before Erik arrives. Joel picked your clothes, laid them out on the bed when you poke your head out of the shower into the bedroom — a soft grey tank top, and some pyjama pants.

Eventually, you step out of the bedroom and find Joel sitting on the couch with a whiskey in his hand, his eyes dragged down your body like you were some kind of forbidden fruit.

His eyes darken at the thought of his brother touching you—having you.

“You sure about this?” He rasped, not moving.

“No,” you whisper. “But I trust you.”

8:03PM, MILLER RESIDENCE, SATURDAY EVENING.

Erik arrives just after eight.

He looks nervous in comparison to his usual easy going—loud and proud stature. Hair messy. Dressed in jeans and a plain black tee that clung to his chest. He carried nothing to your home. Didn’t even knock—just opened the door and stepped in like this wasn’t the most surreal night of all your lives.

“Hey,” he said, eyes shifting from Joel to you.

“Hey,” you echoed, heart slamming against the stupid right grey tank top that Joel had chosen for you to wear.

Joel stood, setting the glass down onto the coffee table with a sharp thud. He walked to you and kissed your forehead. “Bedroom. Now.”

You obey.

Clearly, this would be orchestrated by Joel, control slipping through his fingers.

He followed close behind, Erik at his heels. The bedroom was dimly lit, sheets still rumpled from this morning. Joel sat on the edge of the bed and manhandled you to stand between his trembling legs.

“I’m gonna watch,” he informs you, voice like thunder under silk. “But if you want me to stop it—if at any point you say no—I will end it. Erik will stop. You hear me?”

Finding yourself speechless, you nod.

Joel’s hands gripped your hips hard enough to shock you into speaking. “Say it.”

“I hear you.”

He kisses you, but it feels different. Hungrier. Desperate.

This was a last resort of a desperate man.

He slid your pyjama pants down slow, exposing your precious cunt to the cool evening air, leaving you in just the strangling tank top. Then he looked at Erik over your shoulder—who stood frozen a foot behind you, unsure if this was really happening.

Joel’s voice was low. Dangerous.

“Touch her.”

Erik stepped forward, hands trembling slightly as he reached out. He was careful. Like you might break. Like Joel might just kill him for actually touching you.

His fingers brush your arm, then slid downward to your waist. He looked at his brother for permission.

“You sure about this?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. “She’s still mine. Don’t forget it.”

You gasp as Erik’s lips nip at your shoulder. He kisses softly along your neck, his warm, large hands sliding up beneath the sheer grey tank. With a gentle whimper your eyes flutter closed.

Joel’s voice echos through the room, reminding you he’s still there. “Be gentle with her.”

Within a few moments, the tank is pulled off of you, lifted off your body, exposing the rest of you to Erik.

Erik’s mouth was on your chest, worshipping every inch while Joel sat back and watched, fists clenched in his lap with an undeniable sense of rage, jealousy. His eyes don’t leave your face.

Erik lowered you to the bed gently beside Joel. Spreading your thighs with his hands, then leaned down to lick a slow, teasing stripe up your cunt.

He wanted to make sure you were wet, Joel had warned him that if he hurt you—well..

With a loud moan, Joel’s breath catches audibly in his throat.

“Goddammit…” Joel muttered, voice strained as he sees the glistening slick pooling between your legs, the lewd sounds of your went cunt loud in the room as Erik sucks on your cunt. “She’s fuckin’ soaked.”

Erik chuckled against you. “You picked a good night.”

Joel’s response was a warning growl. “Stay focused.”

You writh as Erik got back to working you open, unsealing to the tension between Joel and his brother, his warm tongue glides over your swollen clit while two fingers curl inside you. He was skilled—gentler than Joel, less intimate, but thrilling.

As your hips buck upward, Erik allowed you to writhe freely. “You like that, sweetheart?” He murmurs against you.

Joel walked around the bed, leaned down beside your head, and kissing you softly, his rough fingers brushing a few hairs from your face that were stuck with sweat.. “You’re takin’ him so good,” he whispered. “Proud of you, baby.”

You moan into his mouth. “Want you Joel.”

That did it for Joel. The way that you were writhing against his asshole brother but still wanted him?

Joel stripped down in seconds, his cock already hard and thick, cock red and weeping at the sight of you being defiled by his own brother. He climbed onto the bed beside you, pressing kisses down your throat while Erik moved lower, lining himself up to push himself into your tight cunt.

His size was impressive, but not near as perfect for you as Joel. He was uncut—the same as Joel.. but not as thick. And not as long.

“Joel—” you gasp, panicking for a moment. “Are you sure—”

Joel caresses your hand and kisses it, voice hoarse. “Give it to me, baby. Let me watch. Wanna see you take it.”

Like a good girl, you do.

Erik pushed inside of you slowly, making you cry out, overwhelmed with Joel watching, fucking his brother.

Joel cradles your face gently, “Good girl… fuck, look at you.”

Erik grunted loudly, his rhythm steady but reverent. “She’s perfect.”

What he meant was, she’s perfect for you.

Joel reaches down between you and Erik, swirling his finger against your wet, swollen clit while Erik thrust into you deeply, the overstimulation making you squirm. Joel kisses you between every moan, his voice low and shaky as his hand fists his own thick cock, hand sticky with precome.

“You’re gonna take me next time,” he whispered in reverence, licking into your mouth with possessive need to deepen the kiss. “Fill you up so fucking deep. Make sure it sticks.”

The thought of Joel coming inside of you, getting you pregnant after months.. the deep prodding of Erik’s cock and against your soft spongy flesh, and Joel’s expert finger on your clit all played their part in you coming undone—shaking beneath them, crying out.

Joel held you through it, whispering with a strained voice as his own hand stilled, coming from his own hand. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

Erik came moments after grunting loudly, stilling as he pushes himself as deep inside of you as he comes.

Joel was snapping at him in seconds. Not violent, but possessive—grabbing his arm, growling, “You've done your part, now get out of her.”

Erik raised both hands in defence, breathless. “Understood.”

Erik knows not to overstay, and his feet thud out of your bedroom.

“My turn.” Joel growls. “I’m going to make sure it fucking sticks, baby.”

When Joel finally slid into you—slow and deep—you nearly sob with how full you felt. Full of Erik’s still warm come, Joel was determined to fill you up with his own seed until you were overflowing. Until your uterus was swollen, having no choice but to accept the gracious seed.

18TH JULY- MILLER RESIDENCE, SUNDAY MIDDAY.

You decided it would be best for a while to not track your cycle anymore. Not religiously. Not since the constant heartbreak of one test after another coming back negative. The failure of another month of no conception for months on end had you sobbing on the tile floor, all the while Joel felt your failure. Always attempting to comfort you with a, “we’ll keep tryin’ baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It had been almost four weeks.

But now you stand in the bathroom, fingers trembling as you hold the plastic blue and white stick, hardly able to keep a grip on the light item, because it suddenly felt like it weighed a tonne.

You shouldn’t be doing this, you know. But the nausea, the food aversions, it was so unlike you, and it made you wonder.

A flicker of hope and twenty dollars for a test later..

Two lines.

Faint but there. Real.

Pregnant.

At the result you almost collapse to the floor in utter shock, hands over your mouth, tears spilling down your cheeks. There was no screaming in joy. Just shock. Disbelief. Hope so sharp it felt like pain.

And fear.

All loaded with a — what if?

Joel was outside on the back porch, drinking.

He hadn’t had a day drink for months, not since Sarah had gotten a new boyfriend at age eleven, but lately he’d needed something. Ever since that night. The night he watched Erik inside of you. The night he held you, kissed you, came inside of you like it was the only goddamn thing that could make him feel worthy again.

He’d been quieter since then. Still gentle. Still loving. But… off.

When you step outside, barefoot and in his old work hoodie, he turns immediately to face you, sensing your presence, sloshing the hard liquor back down his throat with a thick gulp.

“You okay?” Although a part of him sensed some distress in you, as he felt.

You don’t say anything at first. Just walked to him, holding out the test for him to see, to take from your trembling hand.

Joel stared at it.

Then stared at you.

“Is that—”

Shakily you nod. “Yeah. I’m pregnant.”

Joel’s face didn’t register happiness. Not like he thought he would when they day would come.

His brows drew together. A breath left him in a shattered exhale.

“…It’s got to be his.”

Your chest cracked in two, because you’d known somehow.. it was Joel’s.. “Joel…”

He stepped back, just half a step. But you felt it. The distance. It felt like a mile.

“I need to know,” he said, voice rough. “You were ovulatin’. It could be—”

“It’s not,” came a voice behind them.

You both turned to find Erik standing behind you both at the first step of the front porch, climbing the steps until he stood beside his brother, hands in his jean pockets.

Joel tensed at his brothers sudden intrusion. “You—what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“I came to check on you,” Erik said, calm. “And to tell you something important.”

Joel stepped to move in front of you like instinct. Like you needed protection, Joel didn’t even want Erik looking at you after what he’d done. With a simple touch to his back, you ground him.

“I got a vasectomy ten years ago, Joel. After Anna left. Didn’t want to pass on anything of me to the world.”

Joel blinked at his brothers admission. “You—what?”

“I didn’t say anything before because I figured… maybe you needed to believe there was another way. I was gonna tell you if it worked.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Joel didn’t move even though he wanted to strangle his brother for deceiving the both of you.

“That baby?” Erik nodded at your stomach. “It’s yours, brother. That baby is all you.”

Silence falls between all three of you, in shock.

Without a word, Joel dropped to his knees in front of you. Pleading for forgiveness, the way he’d been so fucking distant and unfair to you.

But sentimental, you.. were carrying his baby. Pregnant. To him.

His hands slide under the hoodie and pressed his palm flat against your not-yet swollen stomach, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“You’re sure you’re pregnant?” He whispers in disbelief.

With a nod, and the sight of him on his knees, as if praying.. you cry. “I’m sure.”

Joel let out a shuddering breath, buried his face in your stomach, and finally — finally — broke.

Not with rage. Not with regret.

With relief.

With joy.

He kissed your stomach over and over, nuzzling into it, mumbling, “Thank you… thank you, baby… we did it… you did it…”

Then he gazes up at you. His eyes were wet. Wide. Ever loving chocolate brown Joel you’d missed so much.

“We’re havin’ a baby,” he croaks, almost like a laugh. “You’re gonna make me a daddy again.”

With a choked sob you run your hands through his grey and brown hair. “We did it.”

[josephquinnswhore]

So long and thanks for all the fish

I don’t really really enjoy goodbye posts, they seem attention-seeking an unnecessary.  But to the people that follow me and my writing, I do believe I owe you one.  

It’s come to my attention that people (as in more than one) are feeding my written work into AI and then passing it off as their own, but denying it (you aren’t slick folks, AI is very easy to spot). They are copying large amounts of my writing, my plot points, my personal imaginings and it’s to the point where I can’t ignore it anymore.

Writing is a sacred thing to share with the world. Its pieces of me in written form and to have someone come along and scoop that up and pretend it’s theirs feels very violating.

That’s on top of the racism and internalized misogyny in this fandom which I can no longer deal with.

People talk about binding my work even though I’ve said I don’t want that. People write horrible things to and about POC here. People write stories with very upsetting themes and don’t tag them correctly. People compete instead of supporting.

SMTL was my gift to the fandom, something I was proud of. But clearly you’re going to use it for AI, you’re going to bind it without permission, you’re going to rape my original ideas and then you’re going to move onto the next poor writer who just wanted to spread some joy and imagination with their writing. I won’t be updating it anymore and I will not be editing it into an e-book. That just makes it easier for people to fuck with it.

I’m sorry to be negative, I have always tried to be a beacon of positivity, to build connection and community, but it’s clear that there’s no space in forums like this for soft hearts. That’s okay, I learned my lesson and this is my swan song.

To the people that supported me, my work and respected what I wanted in regards to that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I have had the most wonderful ride with you. You have made me laugh, cry, smile and you have shared in the journey with me. Without you I never would have made it to 5,000 subscribers here on tumblr and SMTL never would have become as prolific as it has become now.

To the friends I made on here, I’m so glad I found you.

Love, Emma

[josephquinnswhore]

In a constant eternal dilemma of who do I want more. Arthur Morgan or joel miller

[josephquinnswhore]

Jackson's afternoons with Tommy Miller

(I need Gabriel Luna SO bad I'm shaking n crying it's not FAIR)

[josephquinnswhore]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jitterbug, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos, he could put a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.

[josephquinnswhore]

jqw, ello ello

imma ask, 2 and also 4 and also 8 and also 10

THANK YOU FOR SENDING ME AN ASK 🩷

2. A piece you’re proud of and why:

Literally every fic I’ve produced this year I’m proud of. But I would have to say .. somewhere only we know. Absolutely my favourite fic of the year 🩷

4. Creator you’d like to see more from:

My home slice(s) @sunshineispunk & @pedrospookie 🩷

8. Most challenging character to write or draw:

I would probably say either any of the RDR boys, or Pedro’s character Clint from freaky tales.. cause I’m just writing him based off a pic, I don’t know how he speaks or his mannerisms yet I’m just praying for the best LMAOOO??

10. Fandom you’ve created most for this year:

Pedro Pascal & his characters + the last of us (game Joel)