ninuwrites

[ninuwrites]

He’s a work of art.

[ninuwrites]

Cherry pie

Pairing: Oldman!joel miller x f!reader

Summary: After countless dates with a boy, you know that next time you’re going to sleep with him. But you’re way too inexperienced. So what better way is there than showing up at Joel Miller’s door with cherry pie in hand, and asking if he’s willing to help you out?

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, oldman!joel, dom!joel, both reader and Joel are kinda unhinged, slight pervy!joel, tiny bit of mean!joel but he is a softie, cheating (also not? bc reader is not together with that boy), inexperienced!reader, girthy age gap! (61 and 24), praise kink, slight degradation, breeding kink (?), oral m!receiving, pinv, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, fingering, riding, size kink, outbreak, tiny bit of thigh riding

A/N: oh my gosh that old, dirty man is back at it again. I missed him, I hope yall did too😌

Your fingers tapped nervously on the plate beneath the cherry pie. The sweet scent was almost unbearable, but giving up wasn’t an option—not after that time you spent searching for ingredients outside of Jackson.

The sun dipped low behind the trees and it was nearly evening. The timing was perfect for some pie, and you were sure Joel would love it.

His house sat on the quieter edge of Jackson, marked by a ‘Miller’ mailbox, a wooden porch, and a dried-out garden. (You couldn’t blame him though, he was working way too hard to keep up with his garden.)

Three knocks.

“Hi.” You greeted him, a smile tugging on your lips. His eyebrows quickly furrowed—just as you know him. Joel looked exhausted. His green flannel dirty, hair messy and dirt stained boots. He just came back from work.

“Whatcha doin’, girl?” His voice hoarse, deep. Sending shivers down your spine.

And you knew this was a bad idea. Heck, asking Joel—your mentor, your teacher and someone who took care of you countless times—to show you how to give someone a blowjob was embarrassing.

But you didn’t know how else to learn. You were way too inexperienced—no enough friends to ask, no porn, no education in this town.

And after your last time, having to interrupt a heavy make out session with that one boy who works at the day care, you needed desperate help for next time.

“Bought you cherry pie.”

His eyes lingered over the pie for a moment, then landed on your body—following the curve of your skin up and down, lingering far too long on the red crop top you were wearing.

“Made me pie, eh? It’s cold outside. Come on in.” He opened his door wide, a hand coming to the small of your back and letting you in—lingering a bit longer than usual.

From the inside, his house was cosier—the last bits of sunlight spilling from the windows, painting everything into a golden haze. His furniture, old and rugged like him, was scattered with soft pillows and a few photos here and there. And of course, his beloved wooden carved animals, carefully crafted, sat in every corner, quietly collecting dust.

You carefully place the pie on his kitchen counter, nervously biting the inside of your cheek.

Joel already pulls out two forks, one for you and one for him. “Now what do we have here.”

You knew he adored your pies. Sometimes you’d bake him two or even three, and he’d devour every last bite—but only after he’d done something in return. Whether it was fixing something around your apartment or bringing you something from patrol, there was always a little exchange involved.

“What’s the matter with you? Why the face?” he asks, and your heart leaps, suddenly remembering why you came. He already took a generous bite of cherry pie, a smear of filling resting messily at the corner of his mouth.

“Just—uhm. Can you do me a little favor?”

“A favor? Should’ve known. Y’never bring that old man pie without wanting any favors.”

You giggle quietly, also taking a bite of pie.

“What is it this time, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

The first time he called you that was when you were together on patrol. He taught you how to use a sniper, his hand landing gently on your shoulder, squeezing softly when you did well. Or when you helped him fix your light—tools in your hand, his voice calling you a good girl when you handed him the right ones.

Or when he had you creaming around his fingers. After giving him his pie, quietly, on your couch. Leaving small kisses on your neck, the other hand rubbing your nipples through your shirt, telling you how good you are for him.

And a ‘this can’t happen again.’ leaving you with wanting more.

So, you weren’t sure if you were here because of that boy or because of Joel. Because, admittedly, you have been aching for his touch since then.

“Cat got ya tongue?” He interrupts your thoughts with a quick snap of fingers. “My back is fuckin’ killing me. Let’s sit down on the couch, then you can tell me about that little favour of yours.”

Before you can answer him, he pulls out two plates, carefully puts one slice for you and two slices for himself, and then walks to his living room with them.

You take a deep breath.

Walking into the living room, you see him sitting there—already one of the slices gone—as he starts on the other. You gently make your way to him, sitting down next to him. He takes his fork with pie and brings it to your mouth, making you giggle and take it, a coo leaving his lips.

“C’mon, say it,” he urges, nudging you. Your mind spins with all the ways this could end.

Either he’ll react well—just as you know him—and help you, or he’ll make you leave his house and never contact him again.

You start, “So there is a boy.” And you can see him clenching his jaw tight, fork leaving his hand as his eyebrows furrow.

“That so?”

“Mhm. And I—I don’t know how to ask you this but—“

You look down, your fingers fidgeting with each other, heart thudding in your chest like it’s about to break out.

“Spit it out, kid.” He sighs, sets the plate down, and turns his body toward you—making it now impossibly more difficult for you.

“I—I want to do things with him. But i’m kinda too inexperienced.” Your cheek heat up while you’re talking, your gaze falls down not wanting to look into his disturbed face. The air in the room now feeling impossibly thick.

After an awkward silence you peak up to Joel, who is just looking at you. You can’t tell if it’s disbelief or disgust. Or maybe something in between.

“Jesus christ, girl.” He mutters out. “And what do you want me to do? Hold your hand while you’re getting dicked down?”

Your eyes widen, a gasp leaving your lips at his wording.

“Oh my god—no, no. That’s not what I meant.” Well, what you meant might be just a little bit worse than what he interpreted it as.

“Just—ya know…maybe show me how to give a blo—“

“Nah.” He interrupts you swiftly, shaking his head. “Not happenin’”

You sigh, defeated. Not only did you feel embarrassed, but you probably just ruined your almost perfect relationship with him. Joel took a pillow, mumbling something under his breath, and placed it over his lap. Your eyes perked up at that—he was hard. And he was trying to hide it.

“B-but, you also showed me something else the other time. Wouldn’t be that the same?”

He sighs. “Baby, you ain’t comin’ here dressed like that, bringing me cherry pie and asking me to give you sex ed.”

“Y’know I ain’t got anyone else.” You pout—maybe that’ll help. “And besides, you told me to come to you whenever I needed something right?”

“Christ,” he groans, rubbing his forehead. “Just can tell you how it’s done, yea? Nothin’ more.”

You hesitate. Hearing it out loud would be more awkward than him simply showing you. His eyes leave no room for choice, so you give a small nod.

“Comin’ here asking me how to blow someone.” He shakes his head, in disbelief.

“Heyyy, Joel—I don’t know how else to learn okey? I don��t want to embarrass myself.” You whine.

“S’fine.” He grumbles under his breath, sitting up straight. “Y’start by teasing.”

His eyes land on your tits.

“Show ‘em. Every boy will appreciate it.”

Your cheeks flush red.

“Then you get on those pretty knees. Take it out, give it some love.”

You ask, curious. “How do I give it some love?”

“Can’t serve everything on a silver spoon can I?” Grumpy, annoyed—making you amused. The pout from earlier starts to form again, you give him a pleading look.

He sighs once again. “Give kisses first. From top to bottom. Stroke gently.” And you notice how the tip of his ears are red.

“And the rest is pretty much self explanatory, ain’t it sweetheart?”

You look at him, the curiosity not letting up. As if you had no clue of the world, wanting him to explain it to you in every single detail. And you were so amused at how flushed and annoyed he was getting.

“God damn, girl. Open them lips, wrap them around and go up and down.”

“How fast?”

“Just how fast that person likes.” He shruggs.

“How do I know how fast that person likes it?” And it’s laughable at how dumb you were making yourself seem, but seeing him grip the pillow over his crotch tighter, his cheeks flushed and sweat dripping from his forehead—it was worth every single second.

“I let my girls know when I gather their hair in my palm and push them faster down.”

Your breath hitches, his girls.

“Then I buck my hips into their mouth,” he continues.

All this time, you thought Joel was a miserable, lonely man with no relationships whatsoever. Embarrassment washes over you as you think about how you believed you were the only one he liked—and that when he fingered you, you were special. You came here to get educated—no, you came here to seduce him. And that was the plain truth.

“Got that in your pretty little head?” He asks you, suddenly pinching your chin between his fingers and making you look at him.

You wanted him to push your head down and buck his hips against you.

“Not really.”

“You’re getting on my last nerves.” He grumbles before putting the pillow away and revealing his bulge. Your eyes land on it, as he zips down his pants, looking at you. His eyes darkening.

“C’mon. That brain of yours had to take some sort of information, right?”

His eyes land on your tits.

You quickly nod, pushing your crop top up quicky, revealing your breasts to him. You hear a groan leaving his chest, then a chuckle.

“Good, that’s what I like to see.” His hand finds your chest, fingers squeezing, then pinching your nipple. “Now what do we do?”

“Get on my knees.”

“Atta girl. Get on those knees.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice when you slide down the couch and kneel in front of his bulge. Nodding, he gently pulls his hard one out of his boxers.

You almost start to drool at the sight.

He was so big. And he was pulsing. Red mushroom head, precum dribbling from the slit and decorated with veins from bottom to top.

“Now, what did we say?” He asks, his hand gently pumping himself up and down, while your eyes follow.

“Give it some love.”

Your hands shakily grab his cock, looking small compared to his length. Stroking up and down, looking up to him with doe eyes and placing kisses on every inch while you listen to Joels groans.

“That’s it.” He gathers your hair into his palm, forming a loose ponytail to keep it from falling in your face. “A man should always do this, yea? Not let you do all the work.”

Your cheeks heat up again, his eyes lock into yours as you nod. There was a warmth spreading inside your panties. You had already difficulties taking his fingers last time, you wonder how it’ll be if you took his cock.

“Wanna take him into my mouth.” You mumble.

He coos. “‘course ya do. C’mon then. Show me how good you listened.”

“Up and down.” You nod. “Hm, up and down, that’s right.” He answers.

You open your lips, hand gently stroking up and down his dick. Slowly, you wrap your mouth around his tip, hearing him shudder in response.

You try different things out. Swirling around, getting deeper, pulling out and giving small kitten licks. All the while Joel groans your name, and without noticing, your ponytail wrapped in his fist, he moves your head—slow, deliberate—up and down his length.

“Just like that. Y’learning fast.”

The pleasure in your abdomen getting unbearable. You feel yourself soaking through your panties as you start grinding your hips against the heel of your foot.

“Would ya look at that.” He chuckles, his hand going faster.

And as Joel’s movements get messier, he dives your head down until a gag rises sharp in your throat. You cough, and he pulls out quickly, watching your face closely.

“Deep breaths, deep breaths, baby.” He carefully tries to calm you down, and while you try to breath normal again, he starts apologising: “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That should’ve not happen. Got too lost in the pleasure.”

“S’okey.” You smile lazily to him, drool hanging from the sides of your face, lips swollen red. You looked too beautiful for your own damn good right now. And Joel wants nothing more to take you right then and there.

“I think that’s enough for today. You already learned how to use your mouth. I’m sure you’ll do good.”

Disappointment washes down your face. You sit there looking up to him with pleading eyes. The throbbing in your cunt unbearable and the urge to take care of him way too big.

He slips the edge of his shirt over his thumb and brushes the drool from your mouth, slow and careful.

“Pretty girl. You let that boy treat you well, yea? Or else.” He mumbles, but your eyes are only on his wet, aching cock.

The boy was forgotten, and Joel could see it in your hazy, fucked-out eyes. You were needy—needy to be touched—and he wished he could just take you, right on his couch. But he made that mistake once. He couldn’t let it happen again.

You move before you even realize it, climbing onto his lap and settling on one of his thighs. His hard cock grazes your skin, and he takes his time looking at you—your lips, your tits.

“Oh angel, we can’t.” A breath leaves his mouth.

You lean in and start kissing him—his cheek, his neck—fingers stroking through his hair as you suckle on his collarbones. His hands find your waist, gripping tight. One hand cups your breast, pinching your nipple. And before you even realize it, your hips are grinding against his thigh.

“Why?” You ask, laying your head against his chest, moving your hips in a slow rhythm.

“I would ruin you.” He answers, “And people in this town would kill us.”

“But you’re just teachin’ me something. Nobody has to know.”

A groan leaves his lips when your hands wrap around his cock, gently stroking up and down.

“That so?”

“Hm”, you nod. “Y’still need to teach me how to take cock.”

“Jesus christ, sweetheart. When did ya get so bold, huh?”

And you want to say ‘when you left me with aching for more’ but you don’t. Instead, you focus on the pleasures building in your tummy. Grinding harder against the rough fabric of his jeans, and a whimper slipping from your lips.

Suddenly, Joel mumbles a “fuck it,” then follows with, “Pull your pants and panties down. Now.” He demands it—and you do just that, standing up and tugging everything down.

“But you ain’t gonna complain if it hurts.” His hands pull you back into his lap, making you sit down again. “All this begging and then complaining about it hurting would be pathetic, girl.”

“C’mere. You’re wet enough.” One hand touches your folds, the other holding his cock. You buckle up, his tip gliding over your folds as you release a breath.

You gently and slowly, sink down.

“Easy, easy, babygirl.” He helps you. Squeezing your hips and guiding you through. A cry leaving your lips when you fully sit down. His length stretching you, touching places you’ve never even felt before.

“S’big, yea? That’s a mans cock, baby. Not gonna gave that much satisfaction when you ride that boy.”

Your head falls to his shoulder, biting down, clenching on his cock. “So big.” A whimper falling from your lips.

“Oh I know, I know.” He whispers. “But you’ll take it, baby. Still need to teach you, don’t I?” He says it playfully. Joel knows the boy is long gone from your mind—and that you came here for one thing: to get fucked by him. There’s no denying it.

He shifts underneath you, gripping you by your thighs and thrusts two times up, leaving you breathless.

“Good?”

“Mhm. More.” And he doesn’t need to hear that twice. He starts giving you quick thrusts, altering between deep and slow, while your moans fill the room.

Your hands grip his shirt, looking at him, his eyebrows furrowed, concentrating, rough breaths leaving his mouth. Tits start to bounce up and down, while he pumps in and out of your squelching cunt.

“Ain’t the one I used to be, girl—help that old man, will you? Start moving your hips.” He groans.

Your body almost limb from the pleasure, starts moving at his request. Going up and down, circling. His hands guiding you, helping you. Biting your lips, whines filling the quiet room and as Joels body suddenly shudders, you feel it.

His cum pumping you. Spurt after spurt, filling you to the brim.

You whimper, looking down, seeing drops of cum escaping your pussy.

“Oh, that’s a good girl.” He coos. “Tightest fuckin’ cunt i’ve ever had. Made me cum in no time.”

And you’re still aching for more.

“Could’ve just go to him.” You shrug. “He would’ve at least lasted longer.”

Joel looks at you with widen eyes. The relief after his orgasm completely gone, his cheeks and the tip of his ears flushing red. Not with shame or embarrassment.

But anger.

Without a word, he grabs your hips and forces you down onto the couch beside him. Your eyes widen, hands clutching his neck as he looms over you.

“Joel, what are you doing?” You ask, with no answer. Instead, he spreads your legs and grabs his cock.

He glances down, noticing he’s still soft. After a few frustrated strokes, he mutters, “God dammit.”

You giggle.

“Find that funny, huh?” He asks and you can’t even answer before he fills you with two of his fingers, a yelp leaving your lips. “Still got my fingers, baby.”

“Joel..” You squeeze your eyes shut when he curls them, his thick fingers going in and out of you.

“M’right here, angel. Y’think that boy of yours can reach those spots huh?”

And the spots he reaches are indescribable. Your mouth falls open when he hits your g-spot over and over again. Your legs start to shake, as you feel yourself getting close.

“Look at that, y’let me cum in you so well.” He whispers, looking at the ring of sperm build around his fingers whenever he pulls them out of your cunt.

“Joeljoeljoel.” With that you clench down his fingers, hips bucking, tummy clenching, you come around his fingers with a big cry.

Before you can even come down, he’s filling you again—his cock sliding in. The stretch feels good this time, and you clutch his shoulders as he murmurs your name. Your sensitive walls tighten around him, his length still a bit soft but just firm enough to push deep.

“Takin’ it so so good, baby.” He gently whispers in your ear. His lips latch into your neck, kissing and biting. Your moans start to fill the room again, as his thrusts begin in a quick rhythm.

“Feels good, feels so good.” You whimper, and squirm around. “I know it does, I know. That boy may last longer, but he won’t give you a reason for your pussy to be swollen red.” He looks down at your cunt while saying, a thumb landing on your clit.

You can’t even listen to him as the pleasure grows in your tummy once again. “M’gonna cum, please.”

“Good, c’mon then.”

His thumb speeds up at your clit, your leg falls from the couch because of the hard thrusts. Your hands grip impossibly tight to his shoulders.

“Gonna fill you up again, show this whole town who you belong to, yea?” Your eyes get wide at that, making him chuckle. His thrusts growing sloppier and sloppier.

“Joel, please.”

“Shh, s’okey. Cum with me, baby.” And you do.

You let go. This time, it’s harder than any orgasm you’ve ever had. Your mouth falls open, silent, as Joel gives you two more hard thrusts before spilling inside you—filling you up again, his release dripping onto the couch beneath you.

He kisses your temple, your nose, your forehead while you come down. His breathing is still hard and deep just like yours, softly coming down from the hard orgasms you two just had.

He pulls out, sits up slightly and watches as his cum oozes out of you.

“Christ, all filled up aren’t you?” His fingers wander to your slit, then he gathers the cum that drips out of your hole and pushes it in with two of his fingers.

With all the exhaustion, you can only whimper.

He thrusts them in and out, thumb gently landing on your clit, just slightly grazing it and making you shudder because of the sensitivity.

“No boy, yea? You’re mine. And if that takes, that’ll prove it.” He looks at you, furrowed eyebrows. And you nod your head softly, limbs to weak to function as you lay on his couch filled to the brim while his fingers are still working inside of you.

The next orgasm rolls in quietly, soft and fleeting—just enough to leave you relaxed and sleepy. Joel lets out a quiet chuckle, then pulls you close by the waist and shoulder. You nestle your head against his shoulder, and he kisses your forehead with quiet affection.

“God damn, y’need to bring me more often pie, sweetheart.”

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 just need that old man so bad…

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @lovelystrawberrysblog @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk

[ninuwrites]

Ruin Me

Pairing Joel & F! Reader | One-shot ♡

Warnings: 18+, Oral (f giving), Choking, Joel gets tied up 🙉, Orgasm denial, Not a virgin but first time with Joel, Needy Joel, Rough Joel, Soft Joel, Joel calls himself daddy, P in V, Rough sex, Creampie, Cum eating, Joel worshipping the 😺, King Joel basically 😉

Joel's eyes suddenly flutter open and closed, feeling immense pleasure as beads of sweat trickle down his forehead. A throaty growl escapes him as he thrusts his hips, his cock plunging deeper into your wet, hot mouth. You hum around him, slowly taking every inch, until the tip kisses your throat.

You begin to swallow, your throat contracting around his length so deliciously tight, and this causes him to nearly jump from the mattress. "H-holy fuck.. Right there."

He goes to grab a fistful of your hair, only now becoming fully aware that both of his wrists are tied to the bed frame. He tugs gently, then harder, as you continue swallowing his length, gagging around him. He swears he has died. You keep him there as the tip of your tongue prods between his balls.

His chest begins to heave as he comes undone beneath you. "Baby, baby, baby," he whines, so close to exploding down your throat, but you release him from your mouth right at the very last second.

His eyes squeeze shut, a loud, gutteral groan escaping him, as he is denied his release. You know you got him exactly where you want him; feeling proud and slightly cheeky, your lips form into a wide grin.

He has never looked sexier. His naked body glistens with sweat, making his salt and pepper curls stick to his sunkissed skin. The protruding veins in his neck become more prominent as he continues to catch his breath.

When you finally meet his gaze, his dark eyes are already locked onto yours. They are filled with a mixture of lust.. and anger? It makes your pussy wetter, if that was even possible.

"Untie me, little girl. Right. Fucking. Now," he grunts, yanking his wrists again, as he mumbles curse words under his breath. You can't help but giggle.

"Oh, I don't know, Joel.. You seemed to enjoy it. Surrendering yourself to me, as I take advantage of your long, thick, needy cock.. so desperate to be stuck down my throat as my tongue teases the rest of you. Fuck.. it'd feel even more incredible inside my young, pink, tight little pussy, yeah?" Your eyes never leave his as you whisper those dirty words with newfound confidence.

You haven't fully went all the way with Joel yet, but you both have been dying to. He bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

"Tell me you want it, Joel.. Say the word and I'll take care of you like you deserve. Tell me and I'm all yours."

"God, sweetheart. Y-yes, I want it. I fucking need it, need you.."

It's like something in him flips a switch. Within seconds, the anger you saw in his eyes, completely fades away. You decide to untie one of his hands, since he's being so sweet.

With his free hand, he immediately grabs your chin, pulling you in for a kiss. Your tongues intertwine, both of your mouths are hot and wet with desire. You almost turn into complete mush above him, as he kisses you so delicately. A mixture of your wetness and his precum sticks to your clothed slit as you begin grinding against him. He sticks his tongue out fully, and an animalistic growl escapes his throat as you begin to suck on it.

"Tell me you want me, Joel.. tell me you need me," you whisper, as you take his face into both of your hands and lick a long stripe up his neck.

"Oh, you don't know how badly.. God, please, just give it to me, doll," he shudders, jutting his hips against you, desperate for some friction to relieve his throbbing cock. He reaches for your shirt, and you race him into pulling it off. You bring it over your shoulders, and your head, letting it fall wherever. The perfect swell and bounce of your bare breasts makes his dick twitch, as he swipes his bottom lip with his tongue.

You giggle, giving him a small nod, grab ahold of him and begin to position him at your entrance, pulling your panties to the side with the other. You gather the wetness with his tip, and you slowly slide down, down, down. "Oh, fuuuuuu-," you nearly scream, only having him halfway inside of you. You look down at him, and he reassures you that it's okay and to take your time.

Inside, he's about to break. You are almost painfully tight, he winces at the grip you have on him already. Within a few moments, he is fully inside of you, and you've never felt so overwhelmed. But in the most incredible way. Your warm heat envelopes him so well. He knows he'll never have a better pussy than yours. Not that he ever wants another.

"Baby, you're squeezing me.. f-fuck, you own me. Use me, sweet girl.. Go on." He wiggles his body into a sitting position, as his free hand grips the fat of your ass, giving it a slap. That causes you to yelp and then giggle after realizing how much you loved it.

"O-Oh, my baby liked getting her perfect little ass spanked, fuckin' loved it, yeah?," he smiles, bringing his hand down again, harder this time. "Oh, oh my god.. yes, Joel.. I'm gonna c-cum," you cry.

He gives it one last slap, the sting making you hiss. He then grips your hip, rubbing his thumb against the crease between your thigh and pussy as you continue to grind. He feels how close you are before you're even there. Your walls begin to clamp down on him, violently.

You reach your very first orgasm from his cock, tears of pleasure continuing to pour out of you as you chant "yes, yes, yesss"

You're addicted to the feeling already, addicted to Joel. "That's it, soak my fucking cock. Riding me so goddamn good. Sweet pussy's gonna kill me. F-fuck, he groans.

It takes everything inside of him to not explode inside of your tight, juicy heat. But he is far from finished with you.

After you ride out your release, your upper body slumps against his warm chest. Both of your hearts pound as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear, causing your belly to flutter and wetness to pool between your thighs again. He pulls your earlobe between his teeth, as his cock slowly begins to move inside of you again, and you can't help but giggle and slowly rock against him.

"Wanna give me one more, baby? I'll help you.. just feels so good soaking me. C'mon, I know you wanna be a good girl and make daddy feel good, yeah?", he clicks his tongue.

Your eyes widen as you lean up, meeting his. "Does d-daddy want me to free his other hand?," you whisper, almost too innocently. "Mhm," he groans, nodding as his starving eyes flick between your eyes, to your lips. You're so fucked out, but still so utterly horny for this man, you'll do anything. You untie his other wrist, and he doesn't give you any time before pouncing on you, throwing you onto your back with his cock still inside of you. He tugs at your panties, pulling you against him and ripping them to shreds. Not an ounce of regret for ruining the sexy pair of lace. After all, he finally gets to see you spread bare beneath him.

He widely spreads both of your thighs, spitting a string of saliva onto his cock as he slides in and out of you, his eyes never leaving the sight of your pussy swallowing him whole. "Fuck me..," he groans, harshly inhaling a breathe through his nose when he bottoms out inside of your glistening hole. He slips himself out completely, then without warning, rams his cock inside of you. Filling you to the brim once more.

A harsh gasp escapes your throat, and more tears begin to pool your vision. It knocks the wind out of you. He leans forward, bringing a hand to your throat, squeezing with just enough pressure that won't hurt you, but makes you clench around him immediately, instead. His eyes are looking so deeply into yours now, almost as if he sees into your soul.

You begin to sob as he pounds into your pussy, relentlessly. "Never. Ever. Looked prettier than you do right now, crying on my cock. Take it, baby. Fuckin' take it", he growls, eyebrows furrowed, biting down on his bottom lip when you begin to flutter around him more.

If this is his way of punishing you for denying him an orgasm just a little bit ago, then you want to do it again, and again.

Never in your life have you ever felt so much intense passion and pleasure, it courses through your entire being. It's so overwhelming that all you can do is cry and beg, for more, more, more. You feel Joel everywhere, and you never want it to stop. "J-Joel, daddy-daddy, please..," you moan and sob, uncontrollably. Fucked dumb. He removes his hand from your throat, bringing his thumb to his mouth, then immediately to your clit.

You moan louder, screaming "yes, yes, yes", until your throat is raw. He begins to rub circles around it, as his eyes never leave yours. Your body quivers beneath him and he feels your walls tightening around his dick once more.

"Give it to me. Give daddy what's his. I've got you, let go..," he whispers with a smile.

You pinched your eyes shut as you rode out the wave. He continued to thrust into you at the same vigorous pace, chanting you through it, telling you it's okay. A small laugh escaped his lips as you squirmed beneath him. You have never came so hard in your life."…Fuck, Joel, that was incredible," you whispered, opening your eyes and smiling at him brightly.

"Made a soaking mess of the bed.. was such a good fuckin' girl for me the whole time," he whispers, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing each finger as he remains inside of you. He lets go, bringing one of your legs up to his shoulder, slipping his cock in and out. You hear nothing but the squelch of your pussy, and his pelvis slapping against your skin. He doesn't go as fast, but each thrust is hard, and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your head.

He brings his palm to caress your soft tummy, then the curve of your hips, as he continues to push into you, working his way up to your breasts. He gives one a gentle squeeze, then brings your nipple in between his fingers, rubbing until it hardens. You bring your leg down from his shoulder, and proceed to wrap both legs around him, caging his body against yours.

"F-fuck, baby, I'm close," he whines, as his thrusts get slightly sloppier. "Fill me up. I need it, Joel.. N-need it so bad, need you," you moan, swinging your arms around him, pulling him closer.

"Love this pussy.. l-love you, love all of you, honey," he whines again, slurring his words as his cock continues to stretch and fill you. Your fingernails dig into his back, as your hot breath fans against his neck. Within seconds, he spills into you, groaning as each spurt of his cum paints your walls.

His body gives out, slumping over yours. His cock continues to twitch inside of you, until finally, many moments later, he softens. You hum against him, as your fingers dance into the curls around his neck. He slowly pulls out of you, you whine at the sudden emptiness. He gets down on both knees, bringing his fingers down to your slit, as he gathers the cum that dripped out of you. He pushes one finger inside of you, to the knuckle. Until he feels confident that it will stay buried inside of you. Slowly pulling out, he brings the same finger to his lips, pushing it inside and sucking it completely clean. He brings his lips to yours, sliding his tongue inside after granting access. You've never tasted anything like it, like Joel. You break the kiss, leaving a string of saliva that connects you.. both of you groan with pleasure, and he's nearly ready for another round.

"Joel Miller, you've ruined me for any other man.." 👄

[ninuwrites]

three scenes that changed my life.

[ninuwrites]

summary: you teach joel how to choke you

|| smut MDNI 18+, horny musings, not much plot, choking, pinv, dirty talk (god I love nasty joel! what can I say he gets the mouth of a sailor when he’s turned on), bicep choking!!!!!!!, daddy kink, praise kink, little bit of pussy pronouns, anxious!joel, nervous!joel, sweet!reader, established relationship, jackson!joel, mentions of big scary joel bark bark bark, but actually I just love him so there's also tender fluff in here too. I can't make smut without making it abundantly clear im helplessly in love w him || a/n: oh yeah so I was on vacay this whole week and this was all I thought about. okay maybe one more thing you might see from this week of inspiration but plz enjoy!!! a/n II: thinking about joel's anxiety makes me sad but I feel like it's not written about enough plz don't make me cry anymore wc: 2.2k short and sweet 4 u

You knew your best chance was when he was at his most…pliable.

That slow-breathing, skin-sticky softness that only came in the after. When both of your bodies were loose and lazy with release— oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin still thick in the bloodstream. Joel’s soft hazel eyes were warm and drowsy, blinking slowly beneath the fall of his thick lashes. How unfair, you always thought, that he got to have such astonishingly beautiful lashes. Men often did, didn’t they? His cheeks were still flushed pink, his chest rising steady beside yours. You watched the corner of his mouth lift into a crooked smile as he burrowed into the pillow, a bullish breath releasing from his lungs.

Your hand found his hair, dark and streaked with silver, damp at the nape. You pushed your fingers through it, nails scraping gently as he purred beneath your touch.

He pulled you in, tucking your body against the broad wall of his chest. His chin came to rest at your shoulder, and you felt his breath as it moved across your skin—slow, heavy, hot. You let out a small sigh and traced the length of his arm, following it down to where his fingers splayed wide over your hip. He was still inside out from it all. Both of you warm and bare, still slick with the sheen of sweat and the fading intensity of the post-coitus high. 

You brought his hand up in front of your face, holding it in both of yours like something precious. You traced the creases in his palm, the coarse curls of hair on the back of it. He was such a big man, all of him thick and solid and heavy. You loved it so deeply about him. How he could be so big and scary and yet so tender all at once.

That was the thing about Joel Miller. He was the most dangerous man you'd ever met. But in your home, in your bed, in these quiet moments, he was gentle. So, so gentle.

You made your move.

Guiding his hand slowly, you carefully set it down to your neck. You knew he was watching out of one squinting, peering eye. Always watchful, always aware of your movements.

“What’re you doin’, young lady?” he asked, voice like honey and gravel on asphalt.

You settled his palm against the sensitive flesh of your throat, pulling his thumb to one side and resting his fingers on the other. Just gently letting the broad stretch of his hand rest under your jaw.

God, he was so warm.

And even though his expression had softened in this post coitus high, even though his breath moved gently against your skin, this kind of calm didn’t come easy to him. When he was like this—sated, warm, still wrapped around you—all you could do was hope he’d stay there in it. You hoped he wasn’t going to bark or bristle or retreat behind that rough voice he used when his chest got too tight.

Because Joel’s anxiety didn’t come in skittishness or shaky hands. It was silence, stillness. It was the way he watched everything, how fast he could go from soft to sharp, always ready to protect. Even when there wasn’t a threat. Even when he thought the threat was himself.

You felt him stiffen as he realized what you were doing. 

He tried to pull his hand away, and you let him—again, not wanting to spook the big, terrifying, yet sweet and sorrowful creature you’d come to love. 

“How would you feel if I asked you to choke me?” you asked, voice calm, your tone low and careful. Coaxing the beast within.

His answer came quickly and without hesitation: “Ain’t happenin’.”

Whatever softness had still lingered in him was gone now. His voice was flat, and his whole body had gone still beside you, his heart hammering through his chest and against your skin.

“Joel, baby, I’m sorry—” you whispered, reaching for the calm you’d just shared, trying to soothe what you’d stirred.

“There ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said, and his tone wasn’t cruel, but it was set. Final. He wasn’t angry, he was afraid, you knew that. Knew him. “I just ain’t doin’ that.”

You turned towards him, wrapping your arms around him, nuzzling your nose into the thick, wiry hair of his chest. You waited as his heart settled, kissing his chest, interlaching your fingers behind his back, tracing gentle circles into his damp skin.

And maybe it was because you knew him. Knew how to coax that big, nervous animal in him into gentleness, into calm. Knew how to read the quiet tension in his body, how to recognize the moments when he pulled away. Because he was never angry at you, that you’d come to realize long ago. He was afraid. Full of gut churning fear and worry. He was just a man who had seen too much, done too much, and lost even more. And now, he was trying, so hard, to be good. 

That’s why, when you answered, you didn’t push. You pursed your lips against his thick chest of hair and said, “Okay.”

“I promise you won’t hurt me, baby,” you told him softly, your voice slow with wine and warmth as you laid back on the bedspread, still smelling like smoke and sugar from the community bonfire. You’d been out with Tommy and Maria, drinking too much under the string lights, and Joel had come home handsier than usual—emboldened by the night, maybe, or just finally brave enough to give you the thing you’d been asking for.

He was already hard and thick and stretching you open, your body split in two around his cock, your hips cradling his breadth of a body. Your thighs hooked tight around his waist as you tried to pull him in even deeper, closer than skin would ever allow as his hand rested against your throat.

“Don’t you think it makes a pretty necklace?” you teased, breathless already. Just the weight of his hand there was enough to have your hips rolling up in search of more, desperate for that aching stretch and the sweet pressure you craved.

He hesitated, voice thick and low. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you reached up, took the hand at your throat into both of yours, and guided him to press his digits to your skin. Just his thumb, just the fingers on the other side of your throat.

“Right there, daddy,” you whispered, eyes fluttering. “Just pinch. Don’t push.”

His brow was furrowed, his hazel eyes swallowed up by the black of his arousal. You circled his thick wrist with your nimble fingers, grounding him, showing him how safe he was here. He was always so god damn warm, your personal furnace, all heat and weight and steady flame. The fire in the hearth of your chest, your soul, your heart. His chest pressed down against yours, his cock buried so deep you could feel him in your ribs, your arousal slick and messy, dripping down his shaft and onto the bed beneath you.

You whimpered, high and needy.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

That seemed to loosen the shackles he kept tight around himself. The ones forged in fear, in longing, with a want too big and too dangerous to trust within himself. He exhaled, sharp and tight, and gave the faintest, featherlight squeeze. Not even enough for your head to go light, but enough for your cunt to flutter helplessly around him. He sucked in a tight hiss, the sound breaking in his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” 

His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, blown black and flicking from his hand on your throat to your face and back. Your mouth was slack, your head tilted back, eyes rolling in ecstasy. Your pussy clenched hard around him again and he groaned.

“Again, again, again,” you pleaded, rocking up into him, your hands urging his wrist to hold you tighter.

He did it again.

And your walls seized around him.

“Christ, baby—Jesus fuck,” he choked out. “You’re—she’s— grippin’ me—chokin’ my cock while I hold your pretty little neck—”

And thus, it was the start of something wholly beautiful and euphoric and filthy. 

He had you prone on the bed, your legs spread wide and stretched beneath him, back arched, ass pressing and pushing back greedily into every stroke. His weight draped heavy over your spine, chest slick with sweat as it laid across your back. The room was thick with the sound of skin, the slap of his hips meeting the swell of your ass, again and again and again.

“I love you, baby,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, his voice rough with breath and effort. Every word was broken by a grunt, by the slap of his pelvis slamming into you.

You moaned helplessly, drool slipping from your parted lips, soaking into the thick muscle of his arm where it curved around your throat. Your chin was tucked to his elbow, held snug in the crook of it, his bicep pulsing as he held you close. His forearm pinned you in place, tight and possessive. Your anchor, just how you’d begged for it.

“Got you all cock drunk now, huh?” he muttered, low and smug, the bastard, dragging the words across your skin like velvet. You could hear the grin in it, even feel the curl of his mouth as he pressed a kiss into your ear, “Can’t even talk while I’m fuckin’ you, baby?”

You mewled in response, the only sound you could manage as his thick cock punched into you, each thrust stealing another breath, another thought. He was deep, impossibly deep, stretching you to the edge of your limit and keeping you right there, stuffed full and shaking.

“So pretty like this,” he groaned, voice pitching low in his throat. “Takin’ daddy’s cock so good, princess. So fuckin’ good.”

You tried to answer, tried to give him something back, but what came out was a garbled, wet sound as your tongue dipped out to collect the spit dribbling out on your slack lips. You were trembling beneath him, wrecked and ruined and still asking for more.

“You know,” he rasped, his breath warm against your ear, “I’ve killed men by doin’ this. You know that, right?”

Your eyes rolled back. Your walls fluttered around him, involuntary and tight.

“Oh, yeah, she loves that. Killed ’em easy, baby, just my arm to their neck. Watched their lights go out. That turn you on?” His voice was rougher now, throatier, but still careful, still asking. Still watching you.

You pushed your ass back into him with a sob, wordless, every nerve in your body crying yes.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, thrusts slowing in their tempo. “Tell me. Use your big girl words.”

“I love it,” you cried, the words torn from your throat. “I love it, I love it, I love it—” You were close, almost there, your voice climbing higher with every breath, every roll of his hips, every squeeze of his arm.

“I know, sweet angel,” he groaned, his cock twitching inside you as your walls clenched tighter. “My nasty girl loves when daddy chokes her, huh?”

You could barely nod, could barely think. He just kept fucking into you, the drag of his cock thick and slow, then sharp and deep, until your body curled and tightened beneath him. He was everywhere—his chest on your back, his balls slapping your clit, the heat of his breath against your cheek, your pussy leaking down his shaft and onto the sheets in creamy slick. His weight pressed you into the mattress like he could mold you there and never let you go.

“But I love my girl,” he said, softer now, almost like a confession. Maybe to remind you, to remind himself. “Love her so much. I’d never hurt her, you know that, right?”

You nodded, jaw slack, lips kissing the sweaty skin of his arm as you forced your mind to work, for your tongue to follow orders, “I know d-d-daddy, I know—I love—oh fuck—I love you too…oh oh, ah!…hmmmppphhh—”

“Oh, good girl, that was hard, I know. That’s alright. That’s it. Right there,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, erratic, desperate. “I feel her chokin’ daddy’s cock back. Feel how much she loves it. C’mon, baby girl. Come for me. That’s it. Fuck—”

Your body seized beneath him, a full-body tremor that started at your core and rippled outward, your vision going white as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. You sobbed through it, breath stuttering, your cunt fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses that had him growling through his teeth.

“Good girl,” he grunted, barely hanging on. “That’s my goooood fuckin’ girl.”

He followed you down a moment later, groaning raggedly against your shoulder, his cock twitching deep inside as he spilled into you, thick and hot, his weight sinking heavy over your back. You breathed there together for a long moment, lost in that same fuzzy cotton haze.

And then his arm loosened around your throat, sliding down to your sternum to shift the both of you. His cock slipped out of you with a wet drag, still heavy and shining, your slick clinging to him as your body clenched around the sudden emptiness. The loss made your limbs tremble, thighs twitching where they rested against his. He moved you onto your side, then onto your back and settled beneath you, his own back pressed to the sheets, your spine stretched along his chest.

He sighed in relief before shifting slightly, just enough to reach and press his lips against your temple.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, still catching on the edges of his breath.

You nodded, face softening as you tilted your head toward him. He reached down and kissed you, slow and warm, and you hummed against his mouth.

“Perfect,” you whispered.

You both sighed then, content and drowsy, riding the soft haze of afterglow. The hormones still moved thick through your bodies, warmth blooming in your limbs as you looked up at him. Your fingers slipped into his hair and you held him close.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”

“Don’t need thankin’, honey,” he said, his voice low, eyes soft and steady on yours. “If anything, it’s me who oughta thank you—for keepin’ me here. For trustin’ me.”

“I do trust you. With everything,” you said. “And I love you.”

He kissed you again, and you kept your eyes open, watching the furrow of his brow, watching his mind whirr with the thoughts and big feelings he once was so afraid to say.

“I love you too, baby,” he whispered when he finally released your mouth, voice rough at the edges. “So much.”

“To touch is to be touched” —Hélène Cixous

[ninuwrites]

size kink but reader isn’t actually small. You’re small compared to him.

And it throws you off a little bit, because you know you’re about or above average in height. You have a little weight on you, and it all mixed together with that gorgeous face that makes the man swoon just from eyeing you up across the bar.

It’s maybe your first time dating a man who you really have to look up to. Hes tall, broad shoulders, a large chest and amazing muscles. He’s the type you can easily spot in a crowd, who will take your hand in his large one and lead you through the mess of a busy Sunday market. Loves looking down on you and rubbing at all your curves while hugging you from behind. He’ll whisper it while kissing along your neck.

“So fuckin small, so fuckin pretty.” He grumbles.

But you’re not small, but he makes you feel like it. Everytime he lifts you off your feet you get spooked because he sweeps you off your feel like you weight a crumb. How he towers over you when he flirts or reaches for something past you. His shirts actually going mid thigh and barely coving your ass. How he measures where his cock is gonna reach in your pudgy stomach—

you two play fight a lot because you swear you can take him on. He’s not that much taller than you. Do you end up getting bent in half, knees to your earlobes, like it’s nothing?

Every fucking time.

Everytime he has to break you in like you’re a born again virgin, his large fingers stretching out your dripping tight walls till he smacks his leaking mushroom tip against you, rubbing through your sloppy folds. He slowly ruts himself inside you, with the power of patience, till it feels like hes stuffed you full. It’s almost a disappearing act the way you take his thick veiny cock.

“ Hah- ‘s not all the way there Mama, come on baby, biiig stretch.”

And he fills you to the hilt, till he feels his balls smack against you, covering your body completely, his large weight pressing against you ever to perfectly. your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, letting out a pornographic moan. You clench around him making him his. He presses into your stomach with the bass of his fingers, riiiiight where he can feel his tip kissing your cervix and you cream around him from that alone, sobbing at how big he is, how much he stretches you out.

“That’s my fuckin girl, take my cock so well.”

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Simon, Toji, König, Sukuna, Joel, John, Gojo, Nanami

a/n: for the girls who are 5’8 and above✊🏾 Joel & John 6’2 propaganda? Well, yes!!

[ninuwrites]

Pedro Pascal after the premiere of ‘THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS’

[ninuwrites]

imagine javi comes home grumpy and tired from work, and you decide to make his night a little bit better. by cooking his favorite meal and giving him some good head

Good Enough

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Hi anon! Did you know it has been nearly two months? Well, Hubby has been asleep in my mind but he is finally back. I wrote this over the weekend. Enjoy!

Summary: You turn Javi’s day around, knowing what he needs. Some TLC!

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Domestic, humor, fluff, life with kids, reader is pregnant, hurt/comfort, banter, kisses!!, cuddling, devotion, blowjob, come swallowing, dirty talk, praise kink, whimpering javier needs its own warning 

Word count: 4.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67874396

Good Enough

You know something is wrong when you receive a text from Javier during his lunch hours. He isn’t much of a texter, never has been, except for those first few months when you started dating back in the day and he frantically tried to make himself interesting and available. With defeat, he had admitted that he hates the T9 system, pressing ‘7’ four times just to get a goddamn S, so now texts between you consist mostly of grocery lists, funny things that the kids do, and perhaps a risky one-liner or two. 

You are lounging on the couch with the remote in hand, half-watching TV, distracted by the way your screen lights up. You think through the possible scenarios, but you shopped for dinner yesterday, the oldest kids are at school, Sebastian is coloring in the living room, and it has been a regular morning without much flirtation. 

“Let’s see what Daddy’s rambling about,” you say out loud to Sebastian, unlocking your phone after your eyebrows have risen into your hair at the sight of four unread messages. 

Hubby [11:42 AM]: tell me why milton got the project instead of me today

Hubby [11:42 AM]: Ive been doing the work for three fucking months and this pendejo (loser) gets to be in charge because he wears a necktie better? 

Hubby [11:42 AM]: i feel like shit baby i hope he chokes on his dryass sandwiches

Hubby [11:43 AM]: didn’t even get to kiss you this morning and that’s probably the whole fucking problem

You stare at the screen for a moment, rereading the way he called you ‘baby’ like he needs some tender loving care that he doesn’t quite know how to ask for when he’s downtown at the university. You can feel yourself starting to miss him, can feel yourself yearn to make him feel good. 

“Jesus, Sebby,” you huff out a small laugh in disbelief as you read it a fourth time. You look at your son, your snickers making your pregnant belly jump a little. Sebastian doesn’t put down the crayon to look at you, too concerned about making the sky orange by nearly snapping the coloring pencil in half from the pressure, “Daddy used a whole bunch of adult words in this.”

You ponder a reply just long enough for those three dots that indicate another text is going to pop up at the bottom. You quickly write something back, halting the next rapid-fire texts, not because Javier will have a tantrum if you don’t, but rather because it is clear what kind of day he is having, and you want to be the one who turns things around for him. 

You [11:45 AM]: If Milton ever cured his sandwiches of being dry, he’d have a permanent mustard stain on his necktie. 

Hubby [11:45 AM]: u are an evil woman

Hubby [11:45 AM]: i love you

You [11:46 AM]: I know ;) Let me kiss it all better when you come home. 

Satisfaction rushes through you at the image of him snorting a laugh, his shoulders slumping in relief as he reads your message. You miss your grumpy husband even more now. You call for Sebastian, watching your babbling toddler waddle excitedly towards you and tumbling into your arms with a huge, delighted grin at getting your attention. You kiss his chubby cheeks, earning yourself a high-pitched giggle, and can’t help thinking that Javier always makes beautiful, tiny clones. 

“Do you miss Daddy as much as I?” You ask him in a soft, dreamy sigh when you’ve dragged him into your lap. He smiles a near-toothless smile, reaching for the straps on your dress with a clumsy hand. You press your nose into his fine hair and inhale the familiar smell of baby, doubting if Javier could ever top this one, “Hmhm, of course, you do.”

You sit there for a while, blowing raspberries on Sebastian’s round cheeks while he rests against the twins in your belly. You think about how he must feel right now, unappreciated, inferior, and overlooked, and ponder what to do about his horrible mood. You decide that you will have his favorite food ready for dinner. After all, he’s told you many stories of his mother preaching that good food fixes nearly everything. 

That and something else that isn’t appropriate to think about in the company of your son, something that is ignited in your lower half as you think about the kiss that you owe him. You’ll give him that and more. 

You look at the time on your phone, suddenly realizing that you need to get a move on if you want dinner to be ready on time. You get up from the couch with a grunt, Sebastian on your hip.

“Your Dad’s pissed off, Sebby,” you say in a serious manner, but the playfulness shines through when you can’t help the smile that spreads on your face. Sebastian grins back, “But don’t worry. I’ve got plans.”

—

You make a call that day, but it isn’t for Javier. Instead, you dial Chucho with a special request. His smile is evident from his tone, able to be heard in the way he says your name. 

Later, you place Sebastian in his carrier, strap him to your back, and head out with a grocery list. The day passes quickly with shopping for dinner and packed lunches, conversations with a 1-year-old, and picking up the kids from school. 

By dinner time, the house smells of browned beef, toasted herbs, and the classic mix of sautéed garlic and onion that makes people curiously ask what you are cooking because it smells heavenly. 

On top of it, you’re slow-cooking everything, which means that you have time to make flour tortillas from scratch. It is an easy way to gather the kids around an activity, so when Javier steps inside the house and drops his bag with a relieved sigh, the whole dining table has been turned into a tortilla-making station. A mess, really. 

No one notices him at first, too busy flattening out small pieces of dough or clapping hands together until flour explodes like fireworks before falling like snow. He tiptoes towards the kitchen, catching a glimpse of you all in silence. 

There are specks of bread flour in your hair, dried tortilla dough on your forehead from where you have tried to brush your hair away, and a look of concentration on your face as you try to keep control of the chaos by giving guidance over everyone’s excitement. 

Sebastian is making toy car tracks in a finished tortilla that Inés has stolen from Lucas’ already impressive stack. On her side of the dining table, she has her own stack of finished tortillas, but in a totally different shape than the traditional round ones. 

You gather finished products or flatten out the ones still too thick, occasionally pressing your hand into a surprising kick from the twins. You don’t even hear him either, giggling lovingly as you pull a piece of sticky dough from Seb’s mouth in an echo of ews from his siblings. 

“What’s going on here?” He announces his presence with a grin but, you can see the tiredness in his eyes. 

“Daddy!” Inés registers him immediately. She tenses up in excitement before she leaps off her seat and runs to him, bending her knees to spring into his arms. He catches her with a grunt, settling her on his hip. 

“Papá! Look what I made!” Lucas joins and holds up a perfectly round tortilla with both hands. He grins and runs to him too afterwards, sporting a missing front tooth that he proudly announced he was missing last week. 

“You’ve been busy for dinner,” Javier ruffles his son’s hair as he hugs his side. Your husband smiles at you with all the love he has for this moment, telling you paragraph-long sonnets of affection without even saying anything. He looks calmer already, like the tension is slowly seeping out of him until his shoulders come down completely. 

“Alright, monitos (little monkeys), let mamá and the babies come through,” you cut through the noise of their eager voices. You step forward to place your palms flat on his chest, scratching slightly as you lean in for the long-awaited kiss. 

It’s soft, sweet, and slow, a kiss that drags on a little longer than usual because you both have so much to make up for after the rushing during everyone’s morning ritual. Javier kisses you a second time the moment you try to draw back, hands cupping your waist, and you let him with a surprised snicker. It elicits a loud ’bleurgh’ from your kids, their feet shuffling back to the table where your youngest squeaks happily at seeing them again. 

“This is what I get for throwing a tantrum, huh?” He jokes after you finally pull away, but there's guilt of having complained when he gets to come home to this, and his colleague probably doesn’t.

“Tantrum? This is just what you get for coming home to us,” you tease, but you still mean it. On days like these, Javier needs to know that he doesn’t have to do anything to earn the comfort of home, that if he feels unappreciated at work, he only needs to enter through the front door to know that life will stop moving without him here; the place where everyone is always happy to see him. 

He visibly softens, rewards you with another longing kiss, sliding his hands around your body until they rest on your lower back. The sound of your kids fades into the background, butterflies roaming around in your chest. 

It takes a few more heartbeats before you part. He looks at you, at the tortilla factory, and then at you again for comedic value, “So what’re you making exactly?”

“Carne guisada,” you reply and turn to follow his gaze. Inés is making a flower shape, and Lucas is picking up Seb’s truck after he has dropped it on the table from his highchair, “I called your dad for the recipe.”

Javier’s brows shoot up, “Mom’s?”

“Mhm, and there’s dessert if you’re good,” you reply in a whisper as if it is nothing, leaving him with the same shocked expression to go check on the pot that has been sitting on low heat for an hour. It is bordering on perfection at this point, needing just a little more time for you to be able to cook the tortillas on a skillet pan next to it. 

Javier regains his composure shortly thereafter. He finally walks to say hello to Seb, who flaps his arms excitedly when he is picked up from his high chair. Javier sits by the dining table with his second son in his lap. Life’s good, you think to yourself as he asks the kids about their day. 

—

The second Javier takes his first bite, scooping some of the meat onto a wonky tortilla, his eyes widen slightly, and he lets out a surprised hum.

He chews for barely a second before he takes another bite that makes his eyes roll back into his skull, arms dropping to his side as he slouches back into his chair and groans exaggeratedly. You know this move, know that he does it to make the kids laugh, and sure enough, tiny giggles fill the air as they parrot him by digging into their dinner. 

“I can’t believe Pops gave you the secret ingredient. It tastes just like hers,” Javier says in playful exasperation after everyone has started to eat. 

Inés wolfs down her plate. Lucas tries to copy his father. You help Sebastian tear his tortilla into much smaller chunks, placing them all over the meat and rice on his plate. He curiously grabs whatever he can, gripping his dinner with force, and eating until his face is covered in sauce. 

“I could charm myself to his credit card number,” you tease, wiping sauce from Sebastian’s face with a napkin. You make faces at him as he grins at you, smacking his palms on the table. 

“You probably could,” Javier admits softly and reaches for his glasses of water, speaking around the rim, “He is under your spell too.”

“Mom’s a witch!” Inés exclaims excitedly, proud of her joke. Javier chokes on his water, and you snort, but mostly, both of you are just thankful that the word didn’t start with a B.

However, Lucas looks horrified and nearly drops his tortilla, “You can’t say that! That’s mean!”

“It’s not mean,” Inés retorts matter-of-factly and picks a piece of onion that she thinks is too big off her plate, “They have cats and I want a cat.”

“Only girls who eat their dinner get to be witches,” Javier reaches to tap her plate, “And I know for a fact that this witch is still hungry.”

As Inés starts eating with her hands again, Lucas wipes his fingers on his napkin, “Mom, can I have a fork?”

“Sure, mijo (my son),” you say softly and suppress a small smile, “You don’t like your fingers getting sticky?”

“No, thank you,” he pushes his chair away from the table. You caress his back as he passes you. He steps through to the kitchen, rummages through the utensil drawer, and returns a moment later. 

“Witches are only real in movies,” he argues after sitting down again as if he’s thought about it the whole way, “You can’t just become one.”

Inés is smug with conviction as she holds her glass with both hands, nearly forgetting not to talk while she drinks, “Luke is just scared because I am hexing him first.”

“Mom!” Lucas complains, and Sebastian reacts to the word with a squeal.

“Inés, no hexing your brother at the dinner table,” Javier takes over just when you’re about to say something, giving you a breather after having dealt with them all afternoon. The frown line on Javier’s forehead has faded away since he came home earlier. 

You lean back and watch with a soft expression of gratitude, letting your palm repeatedly skim over the rounding of your pregnant belly. 

—

Close to ten, you step through to the bedroom after a soothing hot bath that Javier told you to take when one of the twins got the hiccups in your stomach. He had completely taken over the winding-down routine; bathed the kids, helped Inés brush her teeth at the back, cuddled and tucked them in, read Buenas Noches, Luna, and kissed the tops of their heads. 

You emerge wrapped in a towel, skin still warm and damp, and find him sitting on the edge of the bed, undoing his wristwatch. He looks tired and ready for bed after the hassle of today, but he’s still only taken off his jeans. 

“You’re still dressed,” you point out. You pass him to get to the dresser and ruffle his hair affectionately. 

He gives you a tiny smile, reaches for his tie after placing the watch next to himself, “Wanted to see you before I fell asleep.”

You guide your hand over the many fabrics and eventually pick out a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. You turn to face him again, dressing as fast as your body allows and steadying yourself against the furniture, “You okay after today? You were grumpy.”

“You should have seen me at the office, mi amor (my love). I was ready to call them fucking idiots to their faces,” Javier snorts a laugh, but he’s clearly still not over it, “Sorry, but it just pissed me off.” 

You walk to stand between his knees and lay your hands on his slumped shoulders, massaging the tension in them absentmindedly while you speak gently, “It’s okay. You can vent, if you need to.”

He looks up at you briefly before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your chest. He sighs, but it is not only from defeat; there’s some contentment in it too, “I was the goddamn sheriff of Laredo for ten years and now I have to get used to not being the boss, living with the fact that other people make stupid fucking decisions, and… I don’t know, maybe I did too when I was in charge, but I would have never let someone like Milton take all the goddamn credit after jumping onto the project last minute. Makes me feel like a failure.”

You lean down to kiss his hair multiple times, forearms on his shoulders, “You’re not a failure, Javi. The project is one of many. You’re still a rookie at the university, and that’s okay. You’ll get your turn.”

He tilts his head backwards until he is staring into your eyes, the hurt of it all evident in his tired gaze, his bruised ego. He is grieving, but it is the loss of the part of himself that was sharp, authoritative, and most importantly, respected. 

“It’s not just about the project, mi vida (my life). It’s like… I know what I’m talking about. I know how to teach but I still feel like a cop playing dress-up, like they’re just waiting for me to slip up so they can say I never belonged in the first place,” he almost looks pleading, like he needs your words and kisses as a balm to his hurt pride, “I’m just the loser guy who used to chase loser guys across rooftops and now uses true crime to get undergrads to care about criminal theory.”

“That’s ridiculous, Javi, baby,” you coo softly like he’s a kid who has scraped his knees. You peck his lips but draw back with a smirk, “You’re so much more than just a loser.”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans and pouts.

“You’re a husband, a father, a friend… a son, but with that, we could argue if you’re a good one,” you kiss his face with each title. A peck to his cheek, to his jawline, the corner of his mouth. It’s the kiss to his lips that makes his hands slide to your hips as it develops into something more, something grateful and hungry. He holds you close afterwards, heavy against your chest as you cradle him gently. 

“You always know how to fix me,” he says softly.

“Yes, if you were broken, I would, but you’re not,” you reply with the same kind of softness, and he responds by kissing you again, words failing him. 

There’s a million thank yous in the way that he kisses you, a million I love yous too. He skims his hands up your arms to cup your face while you work at the buttons of his shirt, quickly undoing them so you can get the collar away from his neck. 

You kiss him featherlight right by where his pulse beats beneath the skin, spoiling him, making him shudder in your arms with a moan. He reaches downwards again, starts pulling at the hem of your top, but you have other plans. Plans of getting him out of his head, treating him, showing him devotion.

You stop him by moving out of reach, slowly sinking to your knees in front of him and sighing as soon as your knees hit the floor. You’ve been cooking all afternoon with a baby on your arm, so this position is your reward. That and getting to spoil your husband, wrap your lips around his cock, and hear him whine. 

Javier says your name, “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you kiss the part of his thighs that are exposed below his briefs, “But I want to give you something that Milton definitely doesn’t get to have.”

“What?” He furrows his brow, still on the brink of another attempt at getting you up from the floor, but you have already spotted how he is half-hard from merely getting his neck kissed. 

You look up at him, grinning mischievously with a stare that means nothing but sex, “Me.”

“Oh fuck,” he groans, composure slipping away as he slowly gives in. He reaches back to rest on his hands, leaning back a little to scoot towards the edge of the bed. 

“And besides,” you continue, hands sliding up his broad thighs until they tense beneath your touch, “I bet dryass Milton doesn’t get head from his wife.”

“That poor fucker,” he chuckles breathlessly in reply, voice strained as you drag his briefs down, “Probably only for his birthday out of pity.”

“If ever,” you say smugly. You tug a little harder at the elastic until it nearly snaps, and he gets the hint, lifts his hips so you can undress him. He’s not just semi-hard anymore, his cock standing at full attention from the anticipation of what is about to happen as it bounces free. 

Your mouth waters at the sight of him so needy for you, the thought of teasing him in the beginning disappearing quickly. Not because he wouldn’t be able to take it, but because you can’t wait to feel the weight of him in your mouth. 

“Listen to me, baby,” you say with your eyes locked on his. You lick your fingers before you wrap your hand around his girth, stroking him a few times before squeezing gently. Javier moans, but he doesn’t look away; you have his attention, “You are worth ten Miltons, okay? And if they can’t see that, that’s not your fault.”

“O-okay,” he groans, mouth falling open in an o-shape when you nose along the length of him, “Jesus.”

“You’re smart, funny, sexy, a damn good dad, and you make me come so fucking hard,” you repeat the act of kissing him after each label but this time, it’s your warm lips that finds all the sensitive spots along the underside of his dick, “Who else can brag about that?”

It feels so good that he starts leaking at the tip, a bead of precome trailing down along one of the veins that you catch with your tongue on your way up again. When you’re at the head, you kiss it with love, but then take it into your mouth without hesitation.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” his head tips back at the feel, his hips twitching, his fingers curling into the sheets, “Didn’t think this was gonna be my end of the day. You are filthy.”

You release him with a pop, still working him with your hand to keep him right where he is. You smile up at him through your lashes, the way his neck muscles flex at the loss of warm, wet heat. 

“You taste so good, baby,” you praise with a needy moan, brushing your lips along the skin not covered by your hand. You kiss his length open-mouthed and hot, “Wanna have you in my mouth all day. You always make me feel so good, wanna return the favor.”

“Yeah?” He pants softly, mouth dropped slightly open, and his eyes fluttering closed. He may not look at you, but his hand finds your hair, sliding through it until he can grip it without being harsh. 

“Yeah,” you reply, swirling your tongue around the head afterwards, teasing the slit that’s still drooling with precome before you swallow him down again. 

You go deeper this time, all the way down to where your fist sits until he reaches the far back of your throat, sliding into the tight space there. Expertly, you breathe deeply through your nose to keep going and block out the signs of your jaw starting to ache. 

He dares look down at you again, but the sight makes him twitch in your mouth, making you gag slightly on his length. He huffs out an apologetic laugh, “Fuck, I’m sorry. You just look so sexy right now, I can’t even think.”

You hum as a thank you, letting him feel the vibrations through his cock. Tears cling to your eyelashes, spit shines along the rim of your mouth, and your lips are puffy from being stretched around him. You’re on a mission, sure that he can see it in your eyes, and you hollow your cheeks as you suck his aching cock a little harder. You don’t have to move with speed. Intensity will get him there, and sure enough, his breathing changes when you drag your lips up and down in this newfound rhythm. 

Just a moment earlier, he was moaning and groaning, but the shift in your pressure and determination makes him whimper for the first time without realizing it, the noise high and airy as it barely fills the room. You moan softly as an encouragement for him to do it again, your cunt clenching in interest at his surrender. 

Your saliva has dribbled down to slick your hand even more, still wrapped around the base of his cock, making it easier to work him as you concentrate on getting him to the point of no return. 

“That’s it. S-shit, that’s it. I’m gonna come for you. It’s yours, baby. It’s fucking yours,” he barely talks anymore, voice breathy and cracking. His eyes burn with desire, his brows furrowed as he nears the edge. You place a hand on his trembling thighs, feeling him shudder as everything climbs. 

It happens a moment after. You know it from the way his breath halts for less than a second and his hand tightens in your hair just to the point of it being painful, almost like he is bracing for impact. Then he whines, teeth gritted, and comes so hard that all tension in him must have evaporated into thin air. 

“I’m coming, baby, oh— fuck, I’m coming,” he whimpers feebly, helplessly. You milk him dry with your hand and keep him in your mouth through it all, savoring each drop of salt like it is your favorite treat and feeling every twitch and tremble of his body beneath your fingertips, hips lifting, stomach jumping. 

After a moment of heavy breathing, his hand falls from your hair. He collapses forward a little, slumps in marvel and exhaustion. You rest your cheek against his thigh and smile affectionately like you haven’t just committed something so sinful, feeling the coarse hairs there against your skin. 

“That was a good one, huh?” You press a kiss against the top of his thigh and rub the other one soothingly while he breathes heavily, “I think you saw God for a sec there.”

“Quizá no fue Dios, pero sí una diosa (Maybe not God but a goddess),” he flirts with a smug look, but it is laced with genuine awe, like you must be a divine and celestial creature. You want to say that maybe you’re just a mother. 

You hide your face, forehead pressed against his thigh, and giggle until your belly jumps. You press a hand against a foot kicking in protest, “Ow.”

“C’mere,” Javier holds his hand out in sympathy. You take it, but only after you receive The Look after a few failed attempts at getting up on your own. 

With a tired groan, you let yourself be hauled off the floor and caught in Javier’s arms, who lets out an ‘oomph’ followed by a breathless chuckle. He is still naked, has used his discarded briefs to wipe himself down, and doesn’t seem bothered to dress himself again. 

In a heartbeat, you would choose to sleep naked with him if everything about your body wasn’t so sensitive and sore. However, it is still nice to feel him like this as you both move towards the headboard and get under the covers together. 

After getting comfortable, you face each other with your hands lying between your heads, close enough to count the other’s eyelashes. You can feel his breath on your cheek, your eyes moving around his face where the gentlest of smiles is displayed. 

“I love you,” you whisper because of the burning intimacy of it all, the small giant truth that feels like it should only belong to you two right now. 

“Te quiero tanto, mi amor (I love you so much, my love)” he whispers back, then after a beat, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you slide your hand into his hand, slip your fingers between his until he responds by squeezing your grip, “Still thinking about el pendejo (the loser)?”

Javier laughs softly, playfully, “Who?”

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[ninuwrites]

thoughts boiling 😵‍💫🥴😵‍💫

[ninuwrites]

bite me, break me

PAIRING: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Joel Miller thinks you’re reckless. You think he’s an asshole. When Tess sends you along as backup on a drop, you decide the best way to stick it to Joel is to make him come… apart.

WARNINGS: 18+, SMUT! porn with slight plot, boston QZ!joel, slight angst, swearing, oral sex(m!recieving), rough oral sex, dirty talk, face fucking, power play + power dynamics, orgasm denial. reader is a bit of a brat+ insinuated brat tamer joel, reader has long enough hair to grab.

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: omgg first joel smut post. idk anything about horses btw, im just horny. (this will make sense. trust)

READ ON AO3

It happens fast. The kind of stupid, impulsive mistake you always seem to make.

You're cornered outside a courtyard, some idiot with a badge pulling you by the collar of your jacket and sneering something about contraband. You don’t have anything on you—you never do—but he's rough anyway, and his buddies look bored and itching for something to do.

"Get your fucking hands off me," you snap, loud enough to draw attention. You twist your arm in his grip, not enough to break it, but enough to piss him off. "You gonna throw me in lockup for walking too fast? That it?"

The guard yanks you closer. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You gonna shoot me for it? You don’t have the balls."

Rage flickers in his eyes and you feel a twitch of his hand. You’re tempting fate— this you know. Not even tempting it, dangling a piece of meat in front of it like a hungry beast. Daring it. Daring him.

“Hey!” You sigh deeply at the sound of Tess’s voice. The sound of boots crunching hard follows. “She’s with me.”

A simple claim. 

The soldiers hesitate, like they’re considering just how much grief Tess Servopoulos is worth, weighing the worth of their bruised ego against the supply chain she represents. Whatever decision they make, it’s in your favor. The man lets go with a shove and a muttered curse. 

It tells you exactly what the dynamic is here— she sells to them, and these pigs don’t want to risk cutting off their supply. You stumble back and Tess grabs your arm, yanking you hard into the alley.

She doesn’t say anything for the first few steps. When she finally stops, she rounds on you.

"What the hell was that?"

You wrench your arm back. "He started it."

"You egged him on. I saw it."

"Yeah, well, if he’s that easy to rile up, maybe he shouldn’t be near a gun."

Tess gives you a look. For a second, you catch a ghost of the woman she used to be. A soft sense of disappointment that was reserved for her son. It dissipates quickly, and a stone expression runs over her.

"You don’t get to mouth off to FEDRA for the fun of it. What are you trying to do, get killed?"

You don’t answer right away. She’s right, in some small way, and you don’t want to admit it. What a cowardly, cowardly confession that would be. "I didn’t ask for your help."

Tess stares at you like you’re being deliberately stupid. "He was ready to put a bullet between your eyes."

You grit your teeth. "Yeah, well—thanks for making sure I owe you now."

She blinks. "Owe me?"

Irritation pricks at the edge of your mind. It bothers you—though you’ve never been able to say exactly why—how easily Tess seems to have accepted who she’s become. Maybe it’s disappointment, that she changed to survive. Or maybe it’s jealousy—that she even wanted to survive in the first place. You aren't like that. You aren't like her.

"That’s how this works, right? You save my ass, and now I’m supposed to pay it back somehow. Be grateful. Grovel. Whatever."

She exhales, low and tired. "Jesus. It wasn’t a debt. We’re family."

“Family.” You bark a laugh. The audacity for Tess to think throwing around that word held any merit. "That’s your sentimental shit. Not mine."

You half expect her to respond. You half hope the words sting, even just a little. It doesn’t make sense—not in your messy, disorganized brain—but you need to know you can still hurt her. That you still matter enough to hit where it counts. She’s your last real tie to the life you had, and somehow, the clearest reminder of everything you lost. 

But she doesn’t. All she offers is a half-committal shrug. "Fine. Then it’s a debt. And I know exactly how you can make it up to me."

You narrow your eyes. She works fast.  "Here we fucking go."

"One run. That’s it. You tag along, keep an eye out. You don’t even have to carry shit. "

You scoff. "Yeah, no. Absolutely not."

She doesn’t budge. In fact, she seems almost amused, like she knows she's succeeded.  "All you gotta do is keep him company."

"Him?"

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

“Like hell I will!”

Joel throws down a box of bullets harder than necessary. “You’ve finally lost it.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Tess mutters, voice dry. “She’s just tagging along. She’s not gonna bite.”

Joel hasn’t felt this level of irritation in a while. Not real rage. Not the kind that curls in his gut and makes him feel something other than the usual empty ache. It should worry him how good it feels. But he buries it. Shoves it down and lets the old standby rise instead—anger. Irritation. Familiar and easy.

Joel lifts his eyes, incredulous. “Tess. You just dragged her out of a FEDRA chokehold two hours ago.”

“Exactly. Which means she owes me. And I’m cashing in.”

He stares at her, jaw clenching. “I ain’t a goddamn babysitter.”

Tess tosses a folded map onto the table and crosses to her pack, checking her supplies. “You’re not babysitting her. She needs something to do.”

Joel barks a laugh. “She needs a fuckin’ leash.”

Tess’s eyes flick up. Joel knows he’s pushing it. But that’s the problem with soft spots. Sooner or later, they rot. 

“She’s not green,” Tess says. “She can shoot. Knows the city better than half the smugglers out there—”

“She’s impulsive,” Joel snaps. “A fuckin’ liability.”

“It’s a milk run.”

“There’s no such thing.”

Tess sighs, loud and long. Joel shakes his head, pacing once across the room.

“This what you do now?” he mutters. “Let her mouth off to armed soldiers for kicks? I’ve seen FEDRA shoot for less.”

“She got cornered. I stepped in.”

“Exactly. You stepped in. Like always. She runs her mouth and you clean it up. What happens when you’re not there next time? What then?”

Tess doesn’t respond right away. Joel studies her. He knows her too well. The way she plants her feet means she’s already decided. No debate, no compromise. He hates when she does that shit. 

“You have your sibling shit,” Tess says, quiet. “I’ve got mine.”

“She ain’t your sister.”

A beat. Something sour flashes across her face.

“She’s close enough.”

“That close enough is gonna get you killed.”

“She’s not gonna get anyone killed.” Tess says, and her voice is softer now. “You just have to lay low there. Keep watch while the drop goes down. Easy. You barely have to look at her.”

That part gets under Joel’s skin more than he wants it to. Because he will look. He always does.

“And why the hell can’t you go?”

“Because I’m making a deal with that piece of shit in sector three,” she snaps. “I can’t be in two places at once.”

Joel doesn’t respond right away. His fingers curl around the edge of the table. He could say no. Should. Walk out, wash his hands of it. But he won’t. She knows that. And he hates her a little for it.

He looks away. Tightens his jaw.

“I’m not running after her if she gets herself killed.”

“You won’t have to,” Tess says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “She won’t give you the satisfaction.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . ��⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

Joel is less than enthusiastic when the time comes for him to move— to drag you to a location halfway across Boston, hole up in some busted house for the night.

He sees you exactly where Tess said you’d be. Joel feels his jaw tick the second your eyes meet his. You look just as unhappy to see him, which should bring him some satisfaction, but it doesn’t. It just annoys the hell out of him more. Arms crossed, hip cocked, expression twisted somewhere between boredom and disdain— no trace of guilt for dragging him into this.

He mutters a curse under his breath and jerks his head for you to follow.

It takes fifteen minutes for Joel to start regretting ever letting Tess Servopoulos into his life—and by extension, you. Fifteen minutes of your boots scraping pavement beside his. Fifteen minutes of tension clawing at the base of his skull, eating into the muscle of his neck like rot.  You’re humming. Humming . He considers shooting out your kneecap, just to get a little silence.

He doesn’t say much as you walk. You fill the air anyway, one smug, sideways comment at a time. You ask if he’s always this cheerful, if the scowl is permanent or if he takes it off before bed. Joel grunts, ignores you, adjusts the weight of his pack and keeps walking. 

To his surprise, you fall quiet a few minutes later. Maybe because this area is too open, too exposed—nobody wants to draw attention out here. Even a reckless brat like you. Joel's grateful for the sudden peace, he truly is. But it doesn’t stop him from thinking about you. Which is worse, somehow. Heat, desire, and irritation all twisting together. 

He thinks about how he hates everything about you — hates the way his eyes keep dragging down the line of your throat, hates the swing of your hips and your goddamn attitude. 

Joel knows it's wrong.

Knows that the stirring in his jeans is a sign he is truly, truly far gone.

There are a lot of things he’d buried after the world fell apart — guilt, grief, the kind of want that used to feel normal. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t even want, really. It was tension, pressure, something boiling slow and dark in his gut.  He doesn't like being around you. You make his skin itch. But he keeps looking anyway.

His wind wanders again. 

Tess. 

Tess has certain… affections toward him. That much has always been clear. What she still sees in him, hell if he knows, but Joel’s not stupid. He is, however, selfish. So when the hunger creeps in, when the cold feels like it might rot him from the inside out, he lets her touch him. Lets her hold him. He takes what she offers and gives back what he can—nothing permanent, never enough.

Whether she’s willing to admit it or not, Tess wants something real. 

And Joel Miller hasn’t felt real in a long time.

He once thought of himself as a gentleman. Rough around the edges, sure, but respectful. He’d seen what the world did to men—turning them animal. Ugly. Violent. He swore he’d never be one of them. Never take without asking. Never lose control. Even now, Joel clings to that threadbare decency like a rope over a pit.

But sex is vulnerable. Intimacy cracks things open. Joel doesn’t want connection—he wants control. He knows himself. Knows what he’s capable of when someone finally gets under his skin.

He thinks, maybe, that’s why Tess could never quite fit. She’d never give it up. Not really. She held the reins as tight as he did.

But you aren’t like her. There is something jagged in you, something feral. It’s foreign and yet too familiar at the same time. It reminds him of himself. Of Tommy. Of who he was before the world took everything.

Joel isn’t sure how you’ve made it this long. Maybe you’re good at talking circles around desperate men. Maybe batting those eyelashes works on lonely bastards.

He casts a look your way as you hop a bit of crumbled curb. You're a liability. Ungrateful. Reckless. You don’t follow orders, and you’re not even trying to hide how little you respect him.

Joel realizes, with a sickening sense of glee, that Tess isn’t around to reel you in. To scold you. To protect you.

For the first time, Joel is alone with the object of his nightmares.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

He’s already annoyed. You can tell that much. Which is funny, because Joel likes to pretend he’s unreadable—bound tight, wrapped up in worn button-ups and cold stares. But you’ve been around long enough to know better. Smuggling peeled people open. You were lucky enough to simply watch from the sidelines.

Joel’s got his arms crossed, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt. He hasn’t said more than two words since you got inside the house.

You kick at a loose piece of wood on the floor. “That good a day, huh?”

No answer. Not even a grunt. Joel stays where he is, flat and disinterested. You wait, like maybe he’s working something out in that thick skull of his, but the silence stretches. He’s not going to respond at all.

You narrow your eyes and push off the wall.  “You want me to do something, or just stand here looking pretty?”

Joel moves around the room without looking at you. He’s checking scanning the windows, counting bullets. A man on a mission—or pretending to be. He stops only when he reaches the edge of the table, where your bag sits unopened.

“You wanna do something?” he says, not even looking at you. “Shut the hell up.”

“Actually, I’ve been uncharacteristically quiet for you.”

His eyes flick to you. You’re not sure what it is, but something about your words seems to gain his attention. 

“Then you could try bein’ useful for once, too.”

You blink. Slowly.

There’s no bite in it. Not like usual. No dry amusement behind the insult.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Shit. Why didn’t you say so? Lemme grab a hammer, redecorate the place. Maybe slap some curtains up while I’m at it.”

You narrow your eyes further, trying to study him. It’s hard to tell when Joel’s brooding and when he’s about to snap. Sometimes it’s both. He’s pacing a little now. Not much, just enough to be noticeable. 

“Alright. What the fuck is your problem today?”

Joel wipes a hand down his face, breathes through his nose. “Do you ever quit runnin’ your mouth?”

He’s staring, waiting for you to say something that’ll let him rip into you.

You don’t like that look. 

There’s nothing indifferent about it. It’s heat, low and ugly. Frustration. Resentment. Hungry and ravenous like a predator looking at its prey. It makes your skin prickle and your mouth go dry. You remind yourself that Joel would never actually hurt you. Tess is your buffer, your tether. Joel wouldn’t cross her for this.

“No,” you reply, slowly. “I don’t.”

“And that’s your problem,” he snaps, stepping forward. “That, and a whole fuckin’ list of others.”

You scoff at the outburst. “And what might those be?”

He stares at you for a second. You can see him weighing something behind his eyes — whatever self-control he’s got left, it’s unraveling one word at a time.  “I think you oughta show Tess a little gratitude.”

You blink. It’s not necessarily the answer you expected. You scoff. “She asked you to defend her honor to me?”

“No,” Joel says, voice tight. “She asked me to stay out of it.”

You tilt your head and give him your most obnoxious smirk.  “Directions get stuck in that thick head of yours?”

Two steps, and he’s right in front of you, just short of getting in your face. “You’re actin’ like a spoiled fuckin’ brat.”

You can smell the grit of old soap and sweat on him. The word rattles around in your head—brat. Brat. Brat. Brat, like a younger sister. Brat, like some ignorant kid.

No. You’re not a brat. You’ve earned this frustration. You own your sharp teeth.

“Funny,” you bite. “Pretty sure I’ve never had the luxury of being spoiled.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. “You’re alive ‘cause of Tess, and all you do is mouth off.”

That actually pisses you off. Deep in your chest. You laugh—mean and bitter. “What, do you think it's time I write her a thank you card?”

“I think it’s ‘bout time you get off that high horse of yours.” His eyes flash. “Deludin’ yourself— thinkin you’re better than Tess. Better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” you say coolly. “I know I am.”

Joel’s face hardens. You keep going. “You and Tess—you're no better than FEDRA. You sell to the same pricks that’d throw a kid in lockup for coughing wrong.”

“That ain’t the same—”

“The fuck it’s not. You bring those assholes their fix, you keep them fed, high, and comfortable. And when those assholes get bored or twitchy, who do you think they take it out on?”

Joel’s mouth sets in a hard line. “We do what we gotta do.”

You shake your head. “No, Joel. You do what benefits you and slap the word ‘survival’ on it so you can sleep. That makes you worse.”

You can feel the air shift. You’ve hit something. And you know it — you know it — but still you stand there, hands on your hips, chest rising and falling. Joel has gone still— a stiff, eerie kind of quiet. 

He’s silent for a second longer. 

“Fireflies ain’t any better,” he finally says. “Bunch o’ terrorists.”

You scowl. “Good thing I’m not a Firefly, then.”

“Yeah,” he drawls. “You just fuck ‘em— ain’t that right?”

You blink. Your face must say it all, because that bastard — that smug, miserable bastard — actually smirks.

“Excuse me?”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he says, shrugging. “Takes a real special kinda idiot to fall for that freedom fighter bullshit. S’pose you’re just their type.”

“Are you fucking following me?”

Joel shrugs again, and this one makes you want to punch him. 

“That is none of your business,” you say, shoving into his chest. “None.” 

Joel’s body doesn’t budge under your touch. You step back, fists clenched at your sides.

“I made it my business.” 

For once, you have nothing to say. Your throat tightens, and you hate how suddenly off-balance you feel. Like something in this moment slipped sideways.

That gut-sick twist of being exposed.

He’s not even trying to pretend. He wants you to know he’s keeping tabs. You wonder, for a brief moment, if this is his way of proving his dominance, of intimidating you into some form of submission. Maybe that would explain how much Tess changed— if Joel, for his thick skull, could control her like this.

You know its not true. But you’ll tell yourself that lie anyways. 

“You’re a piece of shit,” you spit, voice thinner than you want it to be. “God forbid I want to find a way to release some stress.”

Joel barks a short laugh. “Stress?” He echoes. “Stress from what, exactly? You don’t do a damn thing.” 

Your nails dig further into your palm. “You think just because I’m not out there gutting people for ration cards, I don’t get to have problems?” 

“Don’t remember saying all that.”

His answer only fuels your anger.

 “Just because I'm not some soldier or ruthless smuggler doesn’t mean I don’t matter. Being a normal, untrained person is the only thing tying me back to my life.” 

Joel seems to consider this. His gaze runs down your form slowly, like he’s dissecting you thoughtlessly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit.”

Then he turns, dismissing you with his back. No parting words, no effort. Joel has already shown you he’s above the argument. Even without knowing Tommy, you could’ve guessed Joel was an older brother—he carries the same temperament as a parentified sibling. They always win because they get to change the rules.

Your blood boils. Your vision narrows. You stare at his back, the slope of his shoulders, at the anger you swear you can see rolling off him in waves.

“Maybe you need to get your dick wet. Might loosen that stick up your ass.”

He whirls so fast it startles a flinch out of you.

“’Scuse me?” he says slowly. “The hell did you just say to me?”

“I said,” you repeat, crossing your arms and making a show of it.  “You need to get laid.” 

His eyes stay locked on yours. Something flickers in them. Something he’s not proud of. Something hot, caught off-guard. You got him. 

The glee that fills your bloodstream is borderline childlike.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

You tilt your head. “You’re not denying it.”

Joel’s nostrils flare and you catch the smallest twitch of his brow. You bite back a smile.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he mutters. “Ain’t your fuckin’ business.”

“That didn’t stop you, did it?”

Joel’s mouth curls into something halfway between a sneer and a grimace. “Some of us got priorities. Don’t got time to screw around like you do.”

There it is. The jab. Personal. Ugly.

A few minutes ago, that comment would’ve sent you spiraling—ready to toss every insult you’ve ever saved for Joel Miller, call him an asshole and a miserable old man. But now? He seems desperate, trying to piss you off enough so you’ll storm off. That tells you you’re winning.

Truth is, you’re surprised he’s entertained this for as long as he has. Surprised your luck hasn’t run out. Something tells you Joel’s not a man who likes being made fun of—or worse, having someone he hates be right about him. Despite his best efforts to hide it, you know he’s seething.

You pout. “Don’t tell me Tess hasn’t been pulling her weight.”

His whole face changes.

“Keep her name outta your mouth.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That a sore spot?”

“Don’t start.”

“Why? ‘Cause I hit a nerve?”

Joel’s jaw is clenched so hard it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a molar. He fixes you with a glare. His reaction tells you that you’ve hit somewhere strange and powerful—somewhere Joel Miller loses his usual ability to walk away and defuse.

“Interesting,” you murmur. “So that means… you haven’t? Or not recently?”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” you interrupt. “I just don’t care.”

The room feels smaller and it makes you feel good. Excited. So you do what feels right and move forward, slowly drag your feet as you walk over to Joel, to where he’s standing with a clenched jaw and squinted eyes. He watches you approach like you’re a lit match tossed into a dry field. You’re not sure why you’re doing this — boredom, maybe. Curiosity. Or maybe you just like the way he gets angry. 

“You’re tense, Miller.” Your voice is low now. “You miss it? Skin on skin? That kind of release that takes the edge off?”

A muscle twitches in his cheek. How he manages to clench his jaw even harder than before, you can’t say. But honestly, you don’t care. Joel Miller is two steps from ignition—and it’s all because of you.

“Stop talking,” he mutters.

“That a no?”

“Quit fuckin’ talking. I mean it.”

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

You get closer — circle him slowly. Just to see if you want to prod at the bruise again. His whole body’s rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with you this close. You stop near his back to rise up on your toes, voice a whisper now, aimed right at the side of his neck.

“To think,” you murmur, “If you were nice to me, I might have done you a favor.”

You don’t process his movement until your back hits the wall, his firm grip grabbing your arm. Joel leans forward, close enough to see the silver in his beard and the tight pull of his mouth.

“Knock. That. Shit. Off.”

It should scare you. The way he says it. The way he looks at you. But it doesn’t.

What it does is worse.

For whatever fucked reason, it sends a flutter through your stomach. You swallow it down— that strange, excited feeling. You haven’t felt something like this in a while. It makes you feel alive, powerful.  That stupid, reckless thrill. So you don’t back off. You just smile—tight, defiant. Just smug enough to piss him off.

And, like clockwork, it does its job. Joel’s grip doesn’t budge— fingers still curled around your arm— but it shifts. Less brute force, more control. He doesn’t want to hurt you. At least, not yet. He wants control.

“You think you’re real funny, huh?” His voice is low. Dangerous. But there’s something else in it now—strain. 

You tilt your head, letting your eyes drag across his face. “A little, yeah.”

“You really think this is how it’d go?” Joel murmurs. His voice holds a cruel twinge now. “You get to run your mouth, rile me up, and what? I fold for you?”

“Didn’t say that.” 

He lets go — only to brace his hands against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His arm brushes yours. Barely. But it’s enough to make your breath catch. Enough for him to notice.

You’re in unfamiliar terrain now. You should move. Shove him away from your personal bubble. Never in your life have you been this close to Joel Miller— never in your life have you liked something this much. For a fleeting second, it almost makes you disappointed in yourself, embarrassed that your body is reacting so deeply for the man before you. But in the heat of the moment, you don’t care enough. 

Joel’s gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth. It lingers there, shameless, like he’s trying to picture exactly what that favor would’ve looked like. You feel it in your gut. Lower.

“You just felt so bad for poor, uptight Joel, you figured you’d help me unwind?”

Tension coils in your stomach. You shift your weight, like it might shake the feeling loose, but it only makes his mouth twitch—barely noticeable, but there. The bastard likes this.

He likes you like this.

You keep your chin up. Steady. Even as your pulse starts kicking at your throat. “Something like that.”

He chuckles. “Ain’t that sweet.”

You hate how much you feel it. How much of your body is keyed up like it’s waiting for something to happen—something reckless, something sharp. Like if he touched you right now, really touched you, you’d fucking fold.

You glance at his mouth and wish you hadn’t. You clench your jaw and will yourself to look away.

“This how you handle those bugs of yours, too?” he asks, voice flat.  “Can’t say I blame ‘em. You run your mouth like that, someone’s bound to wanna shut it.”

Your eyes snap back to him, where you meet his burning gaze immediately. He’s observing you like a caged animal. 

The truth was you hadn’t touched a Firefly in years. Not since the last few left had lost whatever soul Tommy’s crew used to carry. The ones still standing now were just as grimy as the rest. Same filth, different cause.

But one came back through a few weeks ago. Sam— an old flame, a familiar face. He’d stopped running with the fireflies a few years back. After some shitty liquor, you gave in for a night because your hands were shaking and you couldn’t sleep. That was it.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, voice hoarse.

Joel hums. “You offering now?”

Your heart's still hammering—humiliatingly so—and your throat feels tight. Your voice comes out rough as you say, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You shove his arm off the wall, snapping the cage. It doesn’t take much—he lets it fall, more amused than thwarted—and you slip out from beneath him, crossing the room to your pack slouched on the table. 

Joel’s still behind you somewhere. You hear the faint rustle of his clothes as he moves. You hate that you're standing there, braced for him, hands twitching with leftover adrenaline. You unscrew your canteen and tip it back. 

Don’t look at him.

“You know,” he says quietly, “when I was a kid, my dad’d take me out to help work horses. There was this one mare. Wouldn’t let anyone near her. Wild thing. Real angry.” His tone thickens on the last word. 

You roll your eyes and screw the lid back on, setting the canteen down. “Spare me the cowboy fables, Joel.”

He doesn’t stop. Footsteps creak across the floorboards, and before you realize it, his chest presses against your back.

“One day Tommy gets it in his head he wants to ride her. He’s stubborn like that. So I take him out there, show him how to approach her. Talk quiet. Keep your hands steady.”

His voice slides along the back of your neck like a hand. You grit your teeth, stare harder at the table, but your breathing betrays you—chest rising too fast, jaw tight.

“He nearly broke his neck,” Joel continues, closer now. “That mare—twice the size of him, and every time he got on, she’d buck him clear off.  He called her a strong one.” A pause. Then, quieter, “But it wasn’t strength. It was fear.”

It’s a lazily disguised metaphor—and frankly, you should be offended Joel Miller is probably comparing you to a horse. But you can’t find it in yourself, not with how close he is, the heat of his chest radiating against your back. You try, though—to pretend you’re not fighting the urge to clamp your thighs shut.

 “And let me guess, you tamed her? Good for you. Exhilarating story.”

“Not exactly,” he murmurs. You feel his finger skim the outside of your arm, trailing lazily upward. Light as smoke. “With horses like that, you don’t beat ‘em into trust. That’s what folks gets wrong.”

You let out the quietest breath. That’s all he needs. He leans in further, pressing the full weight of his chest against your back—solid, hot, unignorable. You feel the hard line of him at your lower back, snug through thick denim.

“Tried everything to break her in. Rope, reins, gentler hands. Nothin’ worked. She only trusted you once you got her cornered. Once she knew you could ride her outta that fight.”

You stare straight ahead. At nothing. 

“You give a thing like that room to breathe—and then, one day, she bends.”

You shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t crave the way he cages you in. But your head tips, just slightly—neck arched, slightly bare to him now.

Stupid. So stupid. But you want to hear what comes next.

“After that?” His voice is practically in your neck now, breath following the curve of your throat. “She breaks.”

Your body betrays you once more and your breath hitches.  

“Hard,” Joel adds. “And sweet.”

His hand trails further down your arm and you bite the inside of your cheek.

Your heart jumps when he leans in. You’re ready for it—whatever it is. You turn your head slightly—just enough to see the edge of his mouth. You don’t realize how close you are to kissing him until—

Joel shifts.

Leans forward—

—and grabs your canteen.

You blink, disoriented, and by time you can breathe again, he’s peeling himself away from you.  

You turn.

He’s standing a few feet away now, drinking from your canteen. From your water. Head tipped back, swallowing slow. His other hand on his hip, relaxed. Smug as sin.

He finishes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and tosses the canteen back to you.

You catch it midair, scowling.

Joel raises a brow, all faux innocence.  "You alright there? Lookin’ a little flushed."

The smirk is barely there, but you see it. Bastard doesn’t need to bare his teeth to bite.

Your face burns. Not with shame—never that—but with humiliation. That low, rolling heat behind your eyes, your chest, that prickling, twitching fury. You’d given in— let him toy with you, string you along like some fucking novelty act just for his entertainment.

Joel Miller would never actually fuck you. Not really. You see it now, clear as day. It’s not for a lack of interest, or even restraint—it’s cowardice. Either he’s too chickenshit to admit he wants you, or he’s just waiting for you to stop him. If he never makes a move, he never loses anything.

He gets to edge you close, wind the spring tighter and tighter, just to see what you’ll do. He gets to hide behind all that gruff posturing, all that fuck-off bark, and expect you to do what everyone else does when Joel Miller gets too intense: back off .

But you’re not everyone else.

And that’s when it clicks.

You know how to win.

So you place the canteen back on the table with a hollow, dull thud. 

Joel’s brow furrows as you walk to him, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t say another word. 

And when you’re close enough to smell his scent, to see even his freckles, you drop to your knees in front of him.

His eyes widen, blinking once, then again. “What the hell are you doin—”

You reach for his belt and his voice snags—like it caught on a hook lodged deep in his chest.

You glance up at him. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

He stares. Brow tight, mouth parted. You’ve never seen him look so…off-kilter. So rattled.

"It looks like you've lost your goddamn mind," he growls, but it’s soft. Thin. More warning than conviction.

You hum, fingers working the leather of his belt open. “Does it?” 

The leather slides through the buckle with a sound that makes his breath hitch. You thumb open the button, drag the zipper halfway down. Then you look up again. “You want me to stop?” 

Joel’s jaw flexes and the muscle in his throat jumps. Still, he doesn’t answer. Not verbally, at least. He’s already made the decision but he’s too proud to put it into words. But his hands—those big, calloused hands—hang loose at his sides now. You watch them. Wait for the twitch that tells you he’s not going to stop you.

It comes. He exhales, sharp and short. His hands relax.

“Didn’t think so,” you say and drag the zipper the rest of the way down. 

He’s already hard. And, Christ, he’s big.  Your breath catches, but you don’t show it—won’t give him that. Instead, you lean in and press a kiss low on his abdomen — just above the area he wants you most. Joel lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before. Low and choked and absolutely wrecked. 

You pull him into your palm, stroke once, twice—memorizing the heat of him, the shape. You tuck the image away for a lonely, cold night.  Then you drag your tongue slowly over the head.

“Jesus.” 

You suck a little harder, resting a palm against his denim-clad thigh as you drag your tongue along the underside, working the base of him with your other hand.  

Joel’s hips stutter and his hand shoots out, hovering by your shoulder—like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you back. If your mouth weren’t full of his cock, you’d grin at the meekness. At the uncertainty in his movements.

Spit clings between your lips and the head of his cock as you pull away and reach for his wrist, guiding his hand to the back of your head. His fingers curl instinctively around your ponytail and his gaze darkens. It’s hungry now.

A possessive man.

A man possessed.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans as your mouth slides over him once more. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s a good girl.”

You glance up at him, eyes half-lidded. His jaw is locked, but he’s unraveling fast. It’s enough to push you deeper, until your lips press to the base of him. He shudders. You hum, just to feel him react.

“Shit,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so good on their knees.”

His words energize you. Joel’s hand tightens in your hair as he rocks his hips forward—deep, quickening thrusts that knock the breath from your nose. The praise has teeth now.

“C’mon,” he coos, watching your lips stretch around him. “Know you can do better than that. Pretty little mouth like that—s’what it’s for, huh?”

Joel’s grip tightens as he ruts into your mouth deeper. He lets out a sound of approval when you gag and it shoots straight to your core. You resist the urge to rub your thighs together for a sliver of relief.  

“There you go. Knew you could be good for me.”

It’s messy now—his hips driving into your mouth in fast, rough thrusts. The obscene sounds filling the air only wind the coil in your stomach tighter. You want to say something cocky, remind him who’s really in control— but your mouth is full and your pride is leaking out the corners of your lips.

Every time he fucks into you, he growls something filthy under his breath — good girl , c’mon, don’t quit now , use that mouth like it’s all you’re good for —

There's awe in his face when you glance up at him. A kind of desperation that looks dangerous on a man like Joel. You’ve never been this turned on from giving head. Not once. Not like this.

His words start to crumble and his head falls back. “Shit—keep goin’. You—fuck, baby —gonna make me—”

And just when you feel him pulse, just when you know he’s right at the edge—you pull off completely.

Joel’s eyes snap open, confused. He blinks down at you like someone waking from a dream, the raw, stunned flush still across his face.

You rise to your feet, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and grab your pack from behind you. He’s standing stiff as a board, cock out, hard and glistening.

You’ve seen Joel Miller a lot of ways. Angry. Dismissive. Mean. But this —this is new.

“Past nine,” you say mildly,  gesturing to your watch and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Tess said we’d be free to leave.”

Your eyes drag down again—slow and obvious—to the part of him still exposed. Still aching. You hum, like you’re considering something. 

“Maybe she'll would be willing to do you a favor,” you say with a faux pout. “Since you defended her honor so passionately. ”

You scoff at your own words and the burn in Joel's eyes could level cities. You’ve never seen it before—this kind of fury. Wounded, wanting. It’s a gorgeous thing, really.

Logically, you should be terrified that it’s aimed directly at you. But you can’t be bothered to worry when Joel Miller’s standing there with his cock out and nothing to show for it but the shape of your mouth on his fucking pride.

This image is beautiful.

You turn without waiting for his reply and toss one last line over your shoulder. 

“Thanks for the lame ass storytime, cowboy.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: what if i got real freaky and reader is just pavlov dogged into giving head every time someone mentions a horse metaphor. i mean im not doing that but imagine how funny. maybe when i snort a line and feel extra weird

[ninuwrites]

summary: You didn’t expect to spend your birthday catching your boyfriend cheating in your own bed. You definitely didn’t expect to end the night on your knees for someone else while on the path for revenge. || nsfw (?) MDNI 18+, m!receiving oral, blowjobs, Joel smokes cigs, cheating (not w Joel/reader), annoying ex bf, age gap (15yr gap mentioned but not specified), no outbreak, reader is drinking age, revenge, based off a song but not gonna mention cause singer is a trumper boooooo || a/n: good morning I woke up with the need to blow joel miller like his life depended on it. had this in my docs for a few weeks and decided to finish it up with some goooood ol' smut. enjoy!

Tyler was easy on the eyes. He came from a rich family, always looked put together and had a job at his daddy’s company, but truly… that was about it. He wasn’t clever, or thoughtful, or even remotely romantic or slick. If he had tried to cheat, he didn’t have the brain cells to pull it off. But you weren’t stupid. The scrunchie under your pillow wasn’t yours and the way he started turning his phone screen down whenever you were together wasn’t subtle. You saw it coming.

But you held your tongue, waiting. You gave him rope, a chance to prove that you were wrong.

And then, on your birthday—your fucking birthday!—you walked into your apartment after a long shift, already picturing the glass of wine and that nice dinner he promised he'd made a reservation for. You were halfway to slipping off your shoes when you heard the moaning.

High-pitched, theatric as hell, and coming from your bedroom.

Oh, Tyler!

Yes, Tyler!

It was like nails on a chalkboard.

You stood frozen for a second, your hand on the wall. It felt like something inside you cracked. And then the heat came boiling with rage filling your chest, crawling down your arms.

You crossed the room, your steps marching and purposeful, heart hammering behind your ribs. You didn’t even knock as you slammed open the door.

There she was: naked and sitting square in your bed, bouncing on your boyfriend’s dick like it was a trampoline. She turned at the sound, and her face went pale. Tyler’s too. Like a couple of deer in headlights.

You didn’t flinch. There were no tears.

You looked her dead in the eye and said, calm and flat, “His dick’s not even that good.”

They scrambled, tripping over each other like some half-assed comedy sketch. You just watched, arms crossed, unmoved. Tyler, once she was gone, spent the next hour groveling. Begging, bargaining, spinning his bullshit into excuses—something about how he thought you didn’t care, how you didn’t love him enough, how it was your fault. You let him talk himself in circles until he started getting angry, like his pathetic little tantrum might undo what you’d seen with your own two eyes.

You waited until he shut up, then threw his duffel bag at his chest and said, loud and clear, “Get the fuck out.”

Which brings you to now.

You knew exactly where he’d be on a Friday night. It was with the same group of knuckle-dragging football bros, drinking cheap beer and hollering at whatever game was on. You pulled into the gravel lot and spotted his car instantly. That brand-new black Jetta gleamed under the parking lights like it was proud of itself. Rims all shiny and new, fresh wax job and leather interior. 

You parked a few spaces down and killed the engine. For a second, you just sat there, breathing, fingers curled tight around your steering wheel. Your pulse thudded hot behind your ears.

Then you looked around. The sidewalk was empty, the lot full of cars but no one to be seen. And the nice thing about dive bars was they didn’t give a damn about security, so no cameras that you could see.

Good.

You stepped out, walked up to the Jetta, and just stood there for a moment. The night was quiet, but all you could hear was the roar of your blood in your ears.

 What a stupid fucking idiot. 

You weren’t sure if it was meant for him or you were talking to yourself. Tyler was a dumbass, no question, but you knew what he was before all this. You’d seen the signs, but you ignored them, made excuses for his sorry ass. So what did that make you? 

Still, you shook your head. No. That wasn’t on you.

Any decent person wouldn’t cheat on the girl who stuck by him for five damn years. The one who pulled him through college, helped him look for internships, edited every shitty cover letter he ever wrote before he'd given up and begged his own dad for a job. And not to mention, the girl who gave the best head he’d probably ever get in his sad little life.

Your grip tightened.

You flipped your keys in your palm, pressed one between your fingers, and brought it to the shiny sleek passenger door. You dug it into the steel, and began dragging it nice and slow and deep, carving a line into the shiny paint.

The screech of metal on metal made your jaw clench, but you didn’t stop. Because it was so fucking satisfying too. You moved to the driver’s side, dragging it around to the front, then the other side. One long, continuous line until his car looked like it had been attacked by a wild animal with a grudge.

Maybe that’s what you were, afterall.

You stepped back and admired your work before turning back to your car for the next step.

Next came the knife—his pocket knife. The one he gave you last Christmas because he "forgot to buy a real present in time." You took it from your bag and knelt beside the driver’s side tire and made a clean slash, the hiss of air escaping was music to your ears.

You did all four, each one a little more satisfying than the last. By the time you were done, the car sat sagging on those dumb, overpriced rims, looking completely defeated.

And then you reached for the bat.

A Louisville Slugger. Wood, not aluminum. Shiny and classic. You’d kept it waxed and clean since high school softball. You gripped it with both hands and stepped up to the front of the car, lining up your swing.

Your body tensed, knees bent, and you drew it back.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Your heart kicked up in panic as you spun, bat raised and ready, in case one of Tyler’s meathead friends had stumbled outside to play hero.

But it wasn’t any of them. It wasn’t anyone you recognized at all.

A man stood just beyond the glow of the bar’s neon sign, a cigarette balanced between his fingers as he exhaled smoke into the night. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with messy dark hair and a beard to match. The light above him flickered, buzzing with moths, casting a yellow wash over his face.

You didn’t lower the bat completely, but your grip relaxed just a little.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly, taking another drag. “Nope. I’m good.” He tipped the cigarette with two fingers and gave you a look. “Can’t say the same for you, though.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your back on him, raising the bat again. “Mind your own goddamn business.”

He let out a low whistle. “Now you’re just makin’ me feel bad for the guy.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “He had another girl in our bed just hours ago, wouldn’t feel too sorry for him.”

That shut him up for half a beat. Then he gave a soft laugh behind you. “Shit. Sorry about that. Sounds like a real winner.”

“He’s a piece of shit.”

“I believe you.” He nodded toward the car. “Still wouldn’t do that.”

You swallowed, throat dry, peering back at him, eyes dragging from his dirty boots up to the dark glint in his eye, “You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You could explain away the scratches. The slashed tires, maybe. But bashed in headlights?” He shook his head. “Harder to blame that on a wild animal.”

He dropped the cigarette, pinched it out beneath his boot.

“And for the record,” he added, blowing out the last plume of smoke, “I’ve never cheated. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I wasn’t,” you said, a little too fast.

Silence stretched between you as you felt all the adrenaline, anger, and fire draining from your blood. Your shoulders dropped, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in your chest. Your fingers loosened, the bat slipping from your grip and hitting the ground with a dull thud. You covered your face with your hands, trying to hold back the sting in your throat.

The crunch of footsteps moved toward you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but close. He didn’t touch you, just stood nearby, hovering. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

You shook your head, swiped your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I’m fine, I’m good. I just… I shouldn’t have come here.”

He was quiet for a beat, then said, “Come inside.”

You blinked at him, confused. “He’s in there with his idiot friends.”

“Yeah,” he said. Then he looked at you again, steadier this time. “All the more reason.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying I should…?”

He didn’t finish the thought for you, he didn’t grin or wink or push it. All he did was give a small shrug.

And now that he was closer, you noticed just how big he was. Broad in the shoulders, tall enough to cast a shadow over you even in the low light. He smelled like pine and something woodsy, warm and clean even with the leftover tang of cigarette smell. The scent clung to the cool night air as the breeze passed between you.

You looked up at him, and he met your eyes without flinching. Even in the low light, they held a thousand colors—green and gold and deep, earthy brown, all muddled together in a warm, unreadable hazel.

“I’ll buy your first round,” he said, voice softer now. “If you change your mind.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the bar with that same calm, heavy gait.

The inside of the bar was dim and loud, but not packed. Neon lights flickered above the bar shelves, a pool table clacked somewhere in the back, and country music played just low enough not to drown out conversation. You sat on a high stool, elbows on the bartop, a fresh drink in hand. Joel, you’d learned his name, was next to you, close enough that you couldn’t move an inch without brushing up against him. His legs were spread wide, thighs solid beneath his worn jeans, your knees between his, both turned toward each other in a natural way of things.

There were enough people that you at least were well hidden from Tyler and his friends who packed into a booth at the far end by the jukebox.

And you were two drinks in, starting your third, warm enough to finally feel loose.

“He wore loafers with no socks,” you said, scoffing into your drink. “Like, on purpose. He said it made him ‘look sophisticated’. I told him he looked like a youth pastor.”

Joel gave a low chuckle, eyes fixed on the beer bottle in his hand, but his smile curved deeper when you kept going.

“He couldn’t cook, couldn’t fix anything, couldn’t win an argument without quoting Andrew Tate. I swear to God, if I had to hear about ‘high-value men’ one more time—”

“Jesus,” Joel muttered as his lips met the rim of his drink, shaking his head.

“Yeah, real winner.” You echo his earlier quip, tipping your drink back, then nudged his inner thigh with your knee. “But the real tragedy is he’s never gonna find another girl who gives head like I do.”

Joel choked. Like, spluttering his sip of beer kind of choking.

You watched with satisfaction as he coughed mid sip, nearly slamming his beer down on the bar as he wiped his mouth, eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he rasped, clearing his throat hard, still catching his breath. “Warn a guy first.”

You tried not to grin, but it was impossible. “What? I’m just telling the truth.”

“You can’t just…say shit like that outta nowhere,” he said, still recovering, voice lower now, rougher. He looked over at you, eyes flicking to your mouth, then down to your legs before dragging back up again. “Damn near killed me.”

You smirked into your glass. “You walked up on me with a bat in my hand, remember? I’m not exactly the ‘ease into it’ type.”

Joel laughed, a quiet sound that curled low in his chest. He leaned toward you more fully now, his thighs pressed warm against yours. His eyes twinkled in the dim bar light as his grin settled across his face. He was handsome. Not polished or pretty, but rugged and built like a man who worked with his hands. Masculine in a way that felt rare now, like he was made of dirt and calluses and something heavier. You couldn’t tell exactly how old he was, but he had to be at least fifteen years your senior. And somehow that didn’t bother you. Not one bit.

You were leaning in too, your fingers wrapped around your glass, the condensation slipping over your knuckles as your blood warmed beneath his gaze. The space between you buzzed.

But then, remembering yourself, you looked away and sat back a little more.

“Thank you, by the way,” you said, voice a little softer now.

Joel’s smile faded into something more curious. “For what?”

“For... this. For making it so my birthday didn’t totally suck.”

His brows furrowed, the smile wiping from his face entirely. He was just opening his mouth to say something when he was cut off by the sound of your name beside you.

You turned, and standing there, in all his fuckboy glory, was your ex. 

You rolled your eyes as you set your sight on him, turning away as soon as you could. Joel’s knees still bracketed yours, still facing you, his hand coming down to your thigh to steady you.

“The hell do you want, Tyler?” you asked, voice flat.

You didn’t look to see the expression on his face, and you wondered what the slow cogs in his brain were thinking as he looked between you and the man in the barstool across from you.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, voice pinched and high with something that sounded suspiciously like jealousy.

You took a slow sip of your drink, thinking through how you wanted to go about this. 

You could feel Tyler standing there, stewing, his presence irritating as the whine of a mosquito. Joel didn’t move, didn’t even look his way. He just kept sipping his beer, calm as anything, one hand still resting on your leg.

Tyler finally broke.

“So what—what is this?” His voice was tight, defensive. “You cheating on me now?”

You turned, purposely slow, and looked at him like he’d just said the dumbest thing in the world. Then you laughed. Not a chuckle, a full, disbelieving bark that caught the attention of the bartender and a few people down the bar.

“Cheating on you?” you repeated, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? We’re broken up, you asshole.”

Tyler blinked, thrown off by your tone. “We didn’t break up.”

“Yes,” you said, voice clipped. “We did. You just weren’t listening when I kicked your ass out of the apartment and told you never to speak to me again. You remember? When I came home from work to the sound of you fucking some girl in our bed?”

His face twitched, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that,” you snapped. “You couldn’t even give me one night for my birthday.”

Tyler looked confused, like the words hadn’t registered.

“I was gonna take you somewhere nice,” he said, voice rising as he gestured between you and Joel. “I figured you just needed to cool off. We were gonna go out tomorrow.”

You stared at him open-mouthed. “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I had a whole thing planned.”

“Tyler,” you said, voice flat with exasperation, “my birthday is today.”

He blinked again. It took a second, but then he winced.

You gave a soft, bemused laugh, shaking your head like you couldn’t believe the universe had really let you waste five years of your life on this man.

And then, beside you, Joel started laughing.

Not a big, loud laugh like yours, but just a low, quiet one. A little huff that grew into a full chuckle, deep in his chest. He shook his head, sipping his drink casually.

Tyler’s head whipped toward him.

“The fuck’s so funny?”

Joel didn’t look at him right away. He tipped his beer toward his mouth again, finished the rest in a few slow gulps, then set the bottle down on the bar with a soft clink.

“Just amazed she lasted five years,” he said as if reading your mind and finally glancing over his shoulder. “You make dumb look like a full-time job.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. Joel didn’t so much as blink.

Tyler bristled, standing up straighter. “You don’t even know her.”

Joel shifted beside you, his legs brushing yours as he twisted on the stool, planting one boot firm on the floor. He didn’t look at Tyler, hardly even acknowledged him. Like the kid wasn’t worth the breath it would take to answer.

“Know enough,” he said easily.

Tyler scoffed, puffing his chest like he could make himself bigger. “She’s not some prize, you know. She’s a fucking slut.”

The word hung there for a second. Long enough to feel the floor shift under you.

Joel went still.

Completely still.

His hand left your knee.

He stood and looked down at your ex.

And for the first time, Tyler actually looked nervous.

Joel stepped forward, close enough that Tyler had to tilt his head back just slightly to look him in the eye. Joel didn’t yell, didn’t shove. He didn’t need to.

He just looked at him hard and cold and steady.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, kid.” he said, not blinking, not smiling. “You’re gonna turn around and walk back to your little friends, and you’re gonna keep walking and count yourself lucky, because if you stick around long enough to say one more word to her, you and I are gonna have a different kind of conversation. One that ends with you choking on your teeth.”

Tyler didn’t move at first. He just stood there like he thought he might still be able to win whatever stupid pissing contest was playing in his head.

But Joel didn’t look away. He barely blinked, barely even moved.

And something in Tyler finally folded.

He scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and backed away. His footsteps were loud against the sticky floor as he turned and stalked over to the other end of the room.

You let out a slow breath, heart pounding harder than you’d expected.

Joel turned back to you, his eyes softer now.

“You alright?”

You nodded. Your voice wasn’t quite ready yet.

He sat back down beside you, the warmth of his presence sliding back into place. His legs bracketed yours again, your knees brushing his upper thighs.

“Didn’t mean to make a scene,” he added, picking up his empty bottle and signaling the bartender for another.

You looked over at him, studying the curve of his jaw, the easy set of his shoulders, the slow breath he took like nothing had just happened.

“That was…oddly really hot.” you said, almost before you could stop yourself.

He raised an eyebrow, but his grin tugged wide.

“That right?”

You blushed crimson, feeling the warmth of blood rush to your cheeks, “Don’t let it get to your head.”

He chuckled, soft and pleased, and when the next drink landed in front of him, he slid it your way instead.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

Looking back, you couldn’t exactly say how it happened. 

You remembered following Joel outside for a smoke, the air cooling your flushed, feverish skin. You shared the little white stick between you, the cigarette passing hand to hand, his fingers rough and warm every time they brushed yours. That simple touch felt electric.

You knew it was you who leaned in first. You were the one who grabbed his shirt, pushed him back against the siding, your fingers going straight for the thick hair at the base of his neck.

He smelled so damn good. Beneath the cigarette smoke and cheap beer was something deeper—pine, woodsmoke, a trace of sweat and musk that made your stomach twist with heat. He seemed so masculine and wild and grounding all at once.

His arms wrapped around you fast. One slid down to your lower back, the other tossing the cigarette aside without a second thought before wrapping a fist through your hair. He kissed you back just as hard, tongue sweeping into your mouth, like he’d been waiting all night for you to get the courage.

From there, it all moved very quickly. 

Because now Joel was looking down at you on your knees, the shadows of the side alley carving deep lines across his face. His voice came low and rough, barely more than a breath.

“What was it you said before, huh?” he said as his hand touched your hair, fingers curling around your ear as he tucked some of it back, “About givin’ the best head that prick ever had?”

You looked up at him with a slow, wicked smile, your palms dragging up his legs. You squeezed the thick muscle of his thighs, fingers digging into denim. Your heart thudded with anticipation, your mouth already watering as he cupped your cheek in one hand, thumb brushing your skin.

The other hand went to his belt.

The sound of the buckle unfastening made your breath hitch. The sharp metal clink, the slow drag of the zipper felt like a dare.

Joel’s hand dropped, wrapping around yours. He pulled your fingers from his thigh and placed them right over the hard bulge in his jeans, pressing your palm down slowly.

“Go on then,” he murmured, voice like asphalt, steady despite the heat you could feel radiating off of him. “Show me.”

You lifted your hands to the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down along with the band of his briefs, just far enough to free him.

His cock sprang up in your face, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening for you. It slapped lightly against his stomach, curved upward with a heavy weight before falling back into your eye line—aching, proud, and impossibly hard.

You swallowed.

He was thick from base to tip, the head swollen and flushed a deeper shade of pink, a bead of slick gathering at the slit and catching the low light. His cock twitched once as you stared, greedy for touch, for heat, for your mouth.

You wet your lips with a slow sweep of your tongue, your hand lifting as if drawn there by instinct. Joel hissed softly when your fingers wrapped around him. He was warm, so warm, the weight of him heavy in your palm. The dark, coarse hair at his base tickled your skin as you pressed your hand flush to him, steadying him as your grip tightened.

You glanced up, eyes meeting his.

He was so beautiful like this. Pants half down, jaw tight, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising with a slow, shaky breath. 

And in that moment, you made a decision. You were going to ruin him.

You were going to make him come in your mouth.

His expression told you he already felt it coming. His brows drawn, lips parted, eyes so dark they barely looked human. There was pride in that stare, but something else too. Need, barely held together, a tension you were about to unravel. He knew you’d ruin him too.

Your mouth opened slowly. Your breath stopping as you leaned in, the scent of him thick and heady, musk and skin and arousal coiling low in your gut.

You leaned in and ran your tongue along the slit at the tip of his cock, catching the bead of precum as it touched your tongue. He moaned breathlessly, and the sound went straight to your head, turning your thoughts to static.

You flattened your tongue along the underside, dragging it along the ridge where head met shaft. Then you pressed slow, wet kisses to the bulbous head, your lips soft, your breath warm. You licked and suckled, easing into a rhythm, teasing until his hips gave the slightest jerk.

Joel groaned, his breath hissing through bared teeth as he looked down at you. His gaze was heavy, unblinking, fixed on the sight of you between his legs.

And then, casually, he reached into his jacket and pulled out another cigarette.

You blinked, pulling away slightly to look up at him. “Seriously?”

He just grinned, the cigarette resting between his lips as he cupped the lighter and struck the flame. His eyes never left you, even as he took the first drag, the orange tip flaring in the dark.

You rolled your eyes, but you weren’t laughing. Something about it made your blood run hotter.

You sank down and took him fully into your mouth, lips sealing around the thick heat of him, your tongue flattening to feel every vein and ridge as he slid deeper. He let out a quiet curse under his breath, and his head dropped back against the brick behind him as he exhaled smoke into the night air.

You hated to admit it, but there was something so hot—so unfairly, stupidly hot—about watching him smoke while you blew him.

"You got the prettiest lips, baby," he groaned, "Look so good around my cock."

You pulled back slowly, letting your lips glide over him with just enough pressure to make his stomach flex as you moaned at his praise. Your hand wrapped around the base, slick with your spit, and you stroked him, watching his abdomen tighten with each pass of your warm slick palm.

Then you took him deeper this time, hollowing your cheeks as your tongue traced the underside, catching every pulse of blood in his veins. Your jaw ached almost immediately from the sheer stretch of him, but you didn’t stop. You wanted it to ache, to feel it for days after.

Joel groaned, quiet at first, like he was trying to keep it in. But the longer you worked him, the less restraint he seemed to have. His hips rolled slightly, not enough to choke you, just enough to meet your rhythm. You could hear the drag of his breath between his teeth, the low rumble in his throat as he let out a breathy curse. His free hand slid into your hair, just holding, his fingers curling loosely at your scalp.

His chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves. The glow of the cigarette tip pulsed with each drag, the smoke curling upward and disappearing into the night as he watched you again.

You moved your hand in sync with your mouth, stroking the base as you bobbed slowly, building a rhythm he could sink into. Every time you pulled back, your tongue dragged along his length, warm and wet and unforgiving. You twisted your wrist when your hand met your mouth, just like you knew drove a man insane.

You could feel the tension in his thighs now, in the way his muscles tensed beneath your hand, in the little shudders that ran through him each time you went a little deeper. His groans were getting rougher. Louder.

You pulled back for a second, just long enough to kiss along his shaft, your mouth slick and open, tongue dragging up the side before you sucked his head in again, swirling your tongue in slow, teasing circles.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word barely audible, his voice rough as gravel, "Gonna let me come in your mouth? That what you want?"

You looked up at him, nodding as best you could as you licked at his cock again with eyes wide and doe-like. His head tilted back, lips parted around the cigarette, brows drawn tight. His hand tightened slightly in your hair, and you took that as agreement.

You smiled, slow and smug, and ducked your head again.

This time, you didn’t stop. You let him hit the back of your throat again and again, worked your hand in tandem, made every pull of your mouth feel deliberate. The kind of rhythm that unraveled men. You moaned around him, lost in it too.

You felt him start to shake.

"Oh god, oh god," he chanted.

His thighs were trembling now, the muscles locked tight. His hand fisted in your hair, not to stop you or guide you, but to hold on for dear life.

And when he came, he swore. Loud, rough, his body curling forward over you like the force of it knocked the wind out of him, cigarette burning forgotten on the ground. You hadn’t even noticed when he dropped it.

His cock pulsed in your mouth as thick ropes of his come painted your throat, and you took it all, salty and thick but somehow not entirely unpleasant. You were surprised how easy it was to swallow every drop.

You didn’t move right away. Just rested there, mouth soft around him, lips still closed as he twitched once, twice, breath dragging heavy from his chest. When you finally pulled off, slow and careful, your chin was slick, your mouth swollen, your throat sore in the best way imaginable.

Joel stared down at you, completely undone. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then looked up at him, breathless.

“Told ya,” you said with a sly smile, voice a little hoarse but playful.

He let out a laugh that cracked right down the middle, then leaned back against the wall, head tilted up toward the sky, needing a second to recover before remembering how to speak.

You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your thighs before reaching into your bag for your lip gloss. The little click of the cap echoed in the quiet alley as you twisted it open and ran the wand over your mouth, smoothing it back to its glossy sheen. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the nearby window: hair wild, lips swollen, eyes a little too bright, and gave a small, satisfied smirk.

Joel hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the wall, pants zipped back up, cigarette now completely gone, the filter crushed under the heel of his boot. His chest was still rising and falling like he hadn’t quite gotten a full breath back yet.

“Well,” you said as you tucked the gloss away and gave your jacket a tug into place, “thanks for the fun, Joel. I’ll see you around.”

You turned toward the mouth of the alley, but his voice stopped you before you could take more than two steps.

“Now where do you think you’re goin’?”

You glanced back over your shoulder, brow lifted. “You seem tired, old man. Didn’t think you’d make it to round two is all.”

Joel pushed off the wall with a slow roll of his shoulders, his mouth twitching into something between a grin and a challenge. He stepped toward you, his boots crunching quietly in the gravel.

“You live far from here?” he asked, voice low again, steady and curious like he already knew what answer he wanted.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, lips twitching. “Why?”

Joel stopped just to the side of you, looming close enough that you could smell the last trace of smoke on his breath, the salt of his skin. His hand reached up to push your hair behind your shoulder, and he dipped his head, speaking just beside your neck.

“Because I’d much rather fuck the birthday girl in a bed than in some dirty alley,” he murmured. “Somewhere I can really take my time.”

The goosebumps hit instantly, your lips parting as the space between your legs pulsed with fresh heat.

“Ten minutes,” you managed. “Give or take.”

Joel pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, but his hand moved to rest at your waist.

He looked down at you for a beat, then gave a small shake of his head. “You’ve been drinkin'.”

“So have you.”

“Neither of us should be drivin',” he said, voice still soft but firmer now, threading just enough authority through the warmth. “I’ll call a cab.”

You let out a slow breath, a half smile playing at your lips. “Being responsible is such a buzzkill.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his fingers skimming your side, tracing the curve of your hip, his hand up under your jacket, “but I’d rather make through the night so I can live to hear what you sound like with my cock in you, pretty girl.”

That shut you up.

[ninuwrites]

[ninuwrites]

joel isn’t good at saying “i love you”, but he shows it in ways that words can't express.

he cuts you fresh flowers in the morning from his garden, arranging them in a beige vase on the kitchen table so you can see them when you wake up.

he cleans and laces up your boots for your patrols, making sure they are well kept since you can't care less about maintaining them.

he braids your hair on the porch while you sit in his lap, smiling at the end at how beautiful you look, planting a soft kiss on your temple.

he builds and carves you anything you want even after only mentioning it once, like your rustic vanity and a small deer sculpture that sits on your nightstand.

he gently wipes your tears when you cry, bringing you into his chest as his hand runs down your back, soothing you with his soft voice and warm touch.

he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your body when he notices you’re shivering in the middle of winter.

he calls out of patrol and stays home by your side during your time of the month, knowing you need some extra love and support despite telling him you can take care of yourself.

he gazes at you and listens attentively as you let out all of your problems and worries, his presence providing you comfort when you can't seem to get out of your own head.

he holds you in his big arms until you fall asleep, lightly grazing your soft skin with his fingers. he kisses your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo. upon deafened ears, his voice vulnerable and tender, he musters up the courage to murmur those three little words.

“i love you”

[ninuwrites]

what is it about a man with rolled up sleeves and straight cut jeans that makes me lose my shit

[ninuwrites]

ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴜᴘ ᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴜᴍʙ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴍᴏᴛᴇʟ ʀᴏᴏᴍꜱ ɪ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ

one - shot inspired by ethel cain’s song “thoroughfare”

Joel Miller never planned to take her with him. she was just a hitch in the road, twenty years younger and all bright eyes and soft questions. but somewhere between truck stops, cheap motels, and stolen glances, she became something more. now, a motel bed and a moment of weakness threaten to unravel everything he's been trying not to feel. just two lonely people trying to outrun their pasts—and maybe, finally, running toward something that feels like forever.

based on this ask | masterlist | 7.3k words | mutual pinning & yearning (I can't stop writing art this old man yearning im sorry), age gap (22&45), pov switches, joel being a bit possessive, vaginal sex, light edging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it in fiction only!)

The air was heavy enough to bite.

You’d already tied your hair back twice, but the heat didn’t budge. The pavement outside the diner shimmered like it was trying to disappear, and the cicadas had been singing since dawn. You were clocked out early, an apron slung over your shoulder, a duffel bag kicking at your heels. Not much in it—just a couple changes of clothes, your toothbrush, and your busted-up walkman with the Heaven or Las Vegas cassette still jammed inside. It barely played anymore, but you liked the way it sounded: warped and a little sad.

You’d told your boss you were leaving. She didn’t ask where. You figured she knew the look in your eye—like someone standing too close to the edge of something wide and unknown. The kind of look you get when you’ve finally run out of reasons to stay.

That’s when you heard it. The low, rough growl of an engine that didn’t belong to anyone local.

You looked up just in time to see a pickup roll into the lot, dust curling around the tires. It was all dented metal and sun-bleached paint, and behind the wheel sat Joel Miller—grayer than you remembered, beard thick and eyes squinting behind scratched-up sunglasses. You’d seen him once or twice before. He used to come through town hauling lumber or equipment, maybe something less legal. He always stayed quiet, nodded politely when spoken to, never lingered longer than he had to.

He climbed out, boots hitting the gravel with a thunk, and made a beeline for the diner door.

“You Joel?” you called, before he could reach the porch.

He turned, slow and skeptical.

“Who’s askin’?”

You hooked your thumb toward the truck. “Heard you’re headed west. Texas?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just eyed you the way a man might eye a stray dog—curious, cautious.

“Maybe.”

You stepped forward, your bag swinging. “I need outta here. I got cash. I don’t take up much space, and I won’t ask questions.”

Joel raised a brow. “That so?”

You nodded. “That’s so.”

The wind shifted. A long second passed, like he was waiting for something—maybe for you to flinch, or backpedal, or crack a joke. You didn’t. You just stood there, sweat sticking to your neck, heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted to get in his truck before your body did.

He sighed through his nose, like he already regretted opening his mouth.

“You got anyone who’s gonna be lookin’ for you?”

“No.”

“You in trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

That one made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not yet.

“Alright,” he said, finally. “You ride quietly, you don’t touch the radio, and you pay half for gas.”

You smirked, tossing your bag into the truck bed.

“You got it, cowboy.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Jesus Christ, but he didn’t stop you.

By the time you hit the state line, the sun had dipped low, casting a bruised orange light across the fields. Joel’s hand stayed steady on the wheel, his forearm tanned and strong and marked with little nicks and scars. You didn’t stare, but you didn’t not stare, either.

He didn’t talk much. Not unless he had to.

But when you pointed at the horizon and said, “Never seen it look like that before,” he glanced your way and said, quiet as gravel—

“Stick with me. You’ll see a lotta things you ain’t seen before.”

You didn’t know if it was a promise or a warning.

Either way, you leaned your head against the window and smiled to yourself.

You were finally going.

And Joel Miller—rough, unreadable, too old for you Joel—was the one taking you.

You figured the silence would kill you.

Not the heat. Not the truck’s sticky vinyl seats or the stench of sunbaked roadside motels you’d been passing for hours—but the silence. Joel wasn’t much for small talk. He drove like he was on borrowed time and kept his thoughts zipped up tighter than his duffel. You tried, at first. Pointed out funny signs, asked if he’d ever been to New Mexico, made a comment about the shape of a cloud looking like a middle finger.

Nothing.

Well—maybe not nothing. A grunt here. A look there. You were learning to read them like road signs.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t driving you half mad.

“So,” you said finally, your foot up on the dash despite knowing it annoyed him, “are we ever gonna talk about the fact that we don’t actually know each other’s last names, or are we just gonna die on the highway someday and let the cops guess?”

Joel didn’t look over. Just adjusted the AC vent and muttered, “You talk a lot.”

You smiled, picking at the frayed hem of your shorts. “That wasn’t a no.”

He sighed, like he was tired of pretending to be annoyed. “Miller.”

You blinked. “Like... Joel Miller?”

He cast a sideways glance at you. “You knew that already.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You shrugged. “Nice to hear it from the source.”

He didn’t ask for yours. Just waited.

So you gave it, simple and soft. Your first name, your last. It felt weird, saying it out loud. Like handing someone a piece of yourself that had been boxed up for too long.

“Well,” he said after a beat, “now if we crash, at least they’ll spell your name right in the paper.”

“Aw,” you cooed, “you do care.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t not say it either.”

That earned you a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But you caught it, and your heart did something stupid. Quick and fluttery, like a moth hitting a porch light.

The afternoon bled into golden hour, and the sky softened to a watercolor haze. You rolled the window down and let the air whip your hair around your face.

Joel reached across the bench seat, plucked your sunglasses off the dash, and tossed them into your lap.

“You’re gonna blind yourself.”

You held them up, squinting. “These are scratched to hell.”

“Better than nothin’.”

You slid them on anyway. They pinched your nose and made everything look sepia. You turned to him, letting the lazy drawl slip back into your voice like syrup.

“So what’s your story, Miller? You some kinda loner outlaw type? Haunted past, broken heart, scars that mean something?”

He didn’t laugh. Just kept his eyes on the road.

After a long pause, he said, “Somethin’ like that.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s cool. Real mysterious cowboy of you.”

“You got a story?”

You shrugged. “Nothin’ worth printing. Just needed to leave.”

Joel didn’t press. You liked that. Most people, they wanted the whole truth—or worse, they wanted to fix you. Joel didn’t offer comfort or advice or any of that fluffy shit. Just gave you the silence to breathe in.

You stopped for gas in a nothing town off the state highway. A one-pump station with flickering lights and a vending machine that still sold RC Cola.

Inside, Joel handed the cashier a twenty without a word, then glanced over his shoulder at you, already grabbing snacks off the dusty rack.

You held up a bag of sunflower seeds. “These say they expired last June. Think I’ll die?”

“Only if you’re lucky,” he muttered, pulling a bottle of water off the shelf.

You caught him looking at your reflection in the glass cooler door when he thought you weren’t watching. It was quick—blink and gone—but your stomach flipped anyway.

He looked at you like a man who didn’t mean to want something. Like want was a disease he thought he’d outrun years ago.

And maybe he had. Until you.

Back in the truck, you tore open a bag of gas station trail mix and tossed a raisin at him.

It hit his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

“Seriously?” you grinned. “Not even a blink?”

Joel glanced over, deadpan. “You throw like a girl.”

“I am a girl.”

He gave a small, sarcastic tilt of his head. “Huh. That explains the talkin’.”

You gasped, dramatic. “Joel Miller, you dog. You better watch yourself. I might just hitchhike to Phoenix with someone who respects my conversational skills.”

“You try that, you’ll end up chopped to bits behind a Cracker Barrel.”

You snorted. “Okay, fair. Guess I’m stuck with you, then.”

He didn’t respond, but you could see the smirk behind his beard.

You drove until it was nearly midnight, and Joel’s shoulders finally slackened. The road signs started mentioning Tucson. The stars came out, washed faint and soft above the highway glare.

There was a motel just off the exit—Starlite Inn, with flickering neon and a Vacancy sign swinging in the breeze.

Joel pulled in, turned off the ignition.

“You takin’ the floor or the bed tonight?” he asked, grabbing his duffel from the back.

You arched a brow. “Oh, are those the only options?”

“Unless you wanna sleep in the truck.”

You gave a mock sigh. “So chivalrous.”

He handed you your bag. “One bed. I’ll stay on my side. You stay on yours.”

You both knew how thin that line really was.

The front office of the Starlite Inn smelled like lemon cleaner and stale cigarettes. You leaned against the counter while Joel handled check-in, watching the old man behind the desk type with two fingers like he was unlocking national secrets.

“One queen left,” he muttered, squinting at the monitor like it might bite. “Don’t get much traffic this time of year. You folks just passin’ through?”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt. The kind that said don’t ask more than you want to hear.

You watched the man slide over a single brass key. Old school. No digital locks here. The plastic tag said Room 12 in faded gold print.

Joel handed it to you without looking. “You get the door.”

You bit your tongue, mostly to stop yourself from smirking. Something about being given the key like that, like he was trusting you with it, made your chest tighten in a strange way. Too soft. Too warm.

Room 12 smelled like mildew and air freshener. The bedspread was some kind of polyester nightmare in faded shades of teal and peach. There was a tiny table, a single plastic ice bucket, and a TV from another decade.

You dropped your bag near the foot of the bed and turned in a slow circle, arms stretched.

“Classy.”

Joel didn’t respond. Just locked the door behind him and set his duffel down with a soft thud.

He went straight to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. You watched the way his shoulders moved under his shirt—broad and solid, carrying too much. Always carrying too much.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said, voice low.

You turned toward him. “You said we’d both take the bed.”

“Changed my mind.”

You folded your arms. “Why?”

Joel glanced at you in the mirror, water dripping down his jaw. “’Cause I don’t trust myself to keep to one side.”

The air thickened. Not hot, but heavy. Like a held breath between lightning and thunder.

You didn’t know what to say, so you sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced your boots.

“I trust you,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

Twenty minutes later, the lights were off.

You lay on your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. The hum of the AC unit filled the space between you like a third body. Joel was on the floor beside the bed, one arm folded under his head, a thin motel blanket thrown over his lower half.

You should’ve been asleep by now. But your brain was racing. Replaying the way he looked at you sometimes—like you were something he didn’t want to want. Like the whole road ahead was getting shorter and more dangerous with every mile you traveled together.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitated. “Why’d you say yes? To all this.”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he’d fallen asleep.

Then—“’Cause you asked me like nobody else ever had.”

You turned your head toward the dark, toward the shape of him on the floor. The moonlight through the blinds striped the carpet across his chest.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” you whispered.

He exhaled. A soft sound. “Didn’t think I would either.”

The silence settled again. But it wasn’t empty now. It was full. Dense. Electric.

“Come up here,” you said, not sure if you meant it or just needed him closer to survive the weight of this feeling.

Joel didn’t move for a long moment. Then the mattress dipped under his weight.

He lay down on top of the covers, stiff at first. Then—inch by inch—he let himself relax. Just enough.

His arm brushed yours. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t move away.

Outside, a neon light flickered. Inside, the two of you lay in the same bed, a breath apart.

Still not touching. Not really.

But you could feel it. The line. The one he’d drawn in sand and shadow and motel dust. And how close you were to crossing it.

And how badly he wanted you to.

She was asleep. Or pretending to be.

Joel kept his eyes on the water stain above the bed, an abstract little thing shaped like Texas. Fitting. Everything came back to Texas these days—heatwaves and hard feelings.

The mattress was too soft, too warm on his left side where her arm had brushed his earlier. She’d been quiet for a while now. Her breathing had evened out, slow and shallow, the kind of sleep that meant she was too tired to keep holding whatever it was in.

And him? He was wide awake. Had been since she said come up here.

He shouldn’t have.

Should’ve stayed on the floor like he said he would, like a man who meant to keep his distance.

But Joel had never been good at keeping lines uncrossed, not when it came to things he wanted. And this—whatever this was between them—it was getting dangerous. Not because she was twenty years younger or too soft for the world he came from, but because she looked at him like he could be something else. Something better.

That kind of faith? That kind of sweetness?

It scared the hell out of him.

She’d asked him earlier why he said yes to the trip. You asked me like nobody else ever had, he’d told her. True enough. But it was more than that.

She reminded him of the kind of life he used to want before the world got heavy. The kind of life that smelled like motel soap and roadside peaches and fresh tires on hot pavement. She was young, yeah, but not fragile. Not dumb. She saw things. Paid attention. Asked questions that meant something.

And now she was asleep next to him, hair all messy on the pillow, lips parted just slightly like she’d been dreaming something gentle.

He had no business being here.

No business watching the curve of her shoulder or wondering what it would feel like to touch the skin there. No business remembering the way she laughed earlier in the car, all sunbeam and southern drawl, feet on the dash like she owned the highway.

Hell, no business wanting it. Wanting her.

But there it was, right under his ribs. That low, pulsing ache. Old and familiar. Something between guilt and gravity.

If she moved even an inch closer, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Stay put? Pull away?

Or finally reach for the thing he wasn’t supposed to want.

And God help him, he did want her.

Not just in the motel bed way. Not just in the long-legged, lip-biting, pretty-girl kind of way. He wanted her laughter. Her late-night questions. Her songs on the radio and her theories about the clouds and the way she always seemed to find the quiet parts of him, even the ones he didn’t know were still there.

That scared him worse than anything.

Because she wasn’t his.

And he wasn’t hers.

But tonight? With the blinds drawn and the moonlight on her skin?

He almost forgot that part.

Almost.

You wake up to sunlight slanting through thin yellow curtains and the smell of coffee. Cheap coffee, the kind that comes from powdered packets and hotel lobby machines. But you’re not complaining. Joel’s sitting in the corner chair, legs spread, one hand curled around a Styrofoam cup like he’s guarding it.

He glances up when you stir. “Mornin’.”

His voice is rougher than usual, low and slow like it dragged itself out of sleep behind you. He doesn’t ask how you slept. Doesn’t need to. The two of you had laid there last night, backs straight, arms careful, like your bodies weren’t begging to shift closer.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes. “What time is it?”

“Little after seven. Figured you might want somethin’ warm before we hit the road.”

You blink at him, hair a mess and mouth dry, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself look at him like he’s yours. Like this is normal. Like it’s always been this way: his coffee, his quiet, his steady presence in your morning.

It’s a lie, but it’s a nice one.

“Thanks,” you say, and he hands you a cup. His fingers brush yours for half a heartbeat. He pulls back too fast.

You both pretend not to notice.

The coffee’s awful, but it’s hot, and that’s something. You drink in silence while he packs up. No radio. No TV. Just the rustle of a map, the zip of a bag, the soft creak of old carpet under his boots.

When you finally get moving again, the motel behind you, there’s a stillness to the car that wasn’t there before. You roll the window down and let the wind tangle your hair, let the sun spill across your thighs like it has every right.

Joel doesn’t say much.

But when he hands you a gas station pastry a few miles later, you take it, and that’s how you know everything’s still okay.

Not simple. Not clear. But okay.

The pastry was lemon. Too sweet, too dry. You ate it anyway.

Joel didn’t even glance when you unwrapped it, just kept one hand on the wheel and the other drumming his fingers on his thigh like he was thinking hard. You didn’t ask what about. You kind of didn’t want to know.

There were two hours of Mississippi ahead of you before you hit the Louisiana state line, and not much to look at but cotton fields and stray billboards peeling in the heat. You’d rolled your window back down, one leg tucked beneath you in the seat, the other stretched out toward the dash, toes tapping to the faint hum of some old country song he’d let play low on the radio.

“You always this quiet in the mornings?” you asked eventually.

Joel glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Only when I’m stuck in a car with someone who talks too much.”

You snorted. “Rude.”

“The truth.”

“Fine. But I’m not the one who practically sighed with relief when I handed you your half of the sandwich yesterday.”

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

You looked out the window to hide your own grin, pretending to watch a hawk circle over a line of trees. It was easier this way—teasing him, pushing a little and letting him push back. Every so often you caught the way his eyes softened when you said something funny, or the way his hand would tighten briefly on the steering wheel when your laugh lingered a beat too long.

There was a lot you didn’t say.

And that silence? It was starting to feel like its own kind of conversation.

By the time the gas light came on, the road had stretched flat and pale in the sun, and the air had that thick Louisiana cling to it. Joel pulled off into a gravel lot with one of those gas stations that hadn’t seen a health inspection since the late ‘90s.

“I’ll fill it,” he said, already reaching for his wallet. “You go stretch your legs.”

You didn’t argue.

The station had one of those coolers full of off-brand sodas and melted ice, plus a dusty rack of sunglasses and fake knives. You grabbed two waters and some fruit jerky just because it made you laugh. The place smelled like cigarettes and plastic. You kind of loved it.

When you came back out, Joel was leaning against the truck, cap pushed low, eyes on the highway.

You handed him the water. “I got you something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it’s that damn jerky.”

You held it up proudly. “The fruit kind. Mystery flavor.”

He gave you a look like he was genuinely questioning your sanity, but took it anyway. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I regret a lot of things,” you said, climbing back into the truck. “But not this.”

He paused. Stared at you for a second too long, water bottle hanging from his hand, the plastic crinkling slightly in the heat.

Then he got in, started the engine, and didn’t say a word.

But his eyes kept drifting over to you as you unwrapped the jerky with mock ceremony and took a dramatic bite.

And even though the flavor was somewhere between cherry cough syrup and sadness, you smiled through it. Because Joel Miller was trying not to smile back, and failing.

By late afternoon, the sun had turned a deep, syrupy gold, washing everything in warm light. You passed through towns that looked like backdrops from a dream—shuttered shops, rusted swingsets, a church sign that read “GOD’S NOT DONE YET.”

Neither were you.

Joel hadn’t touched the fruit jerky, but he kept it on the dash like it meant something. You didn’t ask why. Just let the silence between you settle into something companionable. Something steady.

A few more hours and the light started fading. The road grew quieter. You noticed Joel’s hands flexing on the wheel more often, his jaw tight.

“You tired?” you asked.

He shook his head, but you could tell it was a lie.

“Don’t be a hero,” you said gently, turning in your seat. “You’ll get us both killed swerving into a ditch ‘cause you wouldn’t stop for the night.”

He glanced at you, tired but amused. “That how you talk to all your chauffeurs?”

You smiled. “Just the handsome, grumpy ones.”

He didn’t respond, but his ears turned a little red.

You found a motel just outside a tiny town called Marais. The kind of place where time moved slower and the stars actually showed up once the sun dipped below the trees. There was only one room left. One bed. The clerk didn’t even try to hide his raised eyebrows.

Joel paid without flinching.

Inside, the room was cleaner than you expected. Faded quilt. A working ceiling fan. That same familiar hum of an old A/C unit struggling to keep up with the Southern heat.

You kicked off your shoes and collapsed face-first onto the bed, groaning. “God. I forgot how nice it is to lie down.”

Joel chuckled low in his chest. “You’re dramatic.”

You peeked at him from the pillow. “You’re old.”

He turned the bathroom light on, but you saw the smirk anyway.

Later, you brushed your teeth while Joel stood outside smoking. You could see the flick of his lighter through the thin motel curtain. He didn’t smoke much—not around you—but you figured he needed it tonight. The way he’d been quiet again. The way his eyes lingered on the road too long, like he was thinking himself into a hole.

You came out in a T-shirt and sleep shorts. The kind of thing you used to wear around your old beat up apartment. The kind of thing Joel tried not to look at.

Tried.

He put the cigarette out and turned away fast, like he hadn’t noticed the way your bare legs caught the hallway light. You climbed into bed without a word, curling toward the wall.

He took the other side, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Maybe a foot. Maybe less. You felt the heat of him anyway. The quiet of him. The sheer presence of Joel Miller, like gravity itself had decided to rest in the middle of this bed.

Neither of you moved.

Sometime after midnight, you woke up to the sound of rain. Soft and steady against the window, like fingers tapping the glass. Joel was still on his side, breathing deep. But his hand was close now—only inches from yours where it rested on the mattress.

You didn’t think. Just moved a little.

Your pinky brushed his.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t say a thing.

But his breathing changed. Just a little. And somehow, that was louder than anything he could’ve said.

You lay there like that for a long, long time. Neither of you are speaking. Both of you are awake.

And though you didn’t reach for him, didn’t say his name or press your lips to his throat or thread your fingers with his—

You could have.

And he would have let you.

You both knew it.

He didn’t sleep much.

Not that he expected to. Not with her that close.

It wasn’t her fault—she hadn’t done a damn thing. Just laid there breathing, all soft and warm and barefoot in his periphery, like it was normal. Like this whole thing wasn’t tugging something loose in him.

Joel stared at the ceiling until the rain stopped, then at the crack in the curtain where the early light leaked through. He kept thinking it would be easier if she’d been louder. If she talked too much or chewed with her mouth open or snored like hell. Anything to give him a reason to shake this off.

But she wasn’t like that.

She was kind. Sharp, but never mean. Curious in a way that made him feel seen, even when she wasn’t asking questions.

And God help him, she looked at him like she saw something worth keeping.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Joel rolled onto his side carefully. She was still asleep, one arm curled under her cheek, the hem of her shirt rucked up just enough to show the slope of her lower back. His chest ached.

Twenty-two years old and it still hit him like a gut-punch—that quiet, simple vulnerability. The kind of thing he hadn’t let himself want in years.

She moved a little, brow twitching, and he closed his eyes fast, pretending to sleep.

Because if she caught him staring, he wasn’t sure he could explain himself.

Or worse—he might try.

He got up before she did, let the door click shut behind him as gently as he could. The air outside was thick with the aftermath of rain, still cool but warming fast. He sat on the curb by the truck with a paper cup of motel coffee and his second cigarette of the morning, neither of which did a damn thing to calm him down.

He didn’t want to be that man. The one who let himself get soft over a girl half his age just because she was sweet and pretty and kind to him in ways he didn’t think he deserved anymore.

But he was that man.

He could feel it. In the way he hesitated before getting back in the truck yesterday. The way he wanted to hear her say his name even when she was annoyed with him. The way he’d nearly taken her hand last night, just to feel something steady before sleep took him.

It scared him.

Because Joel didn’t want to break her. Didn’t want to hurt her or ruin the quiet good thing they had going, even if it was nothing but shared meals and motel stops and that long stretch of road between them.

But she made him feel younger.

No, not younger. Alive.

And that? That was even more dangerous.

He heard the door creak behind him.

Barefoot steps on the pavement. A yawn.

“Is that coffee?” she asked, voice still low and rough from sleep.

Joel didn’t look at her. Just held the cup out. “If you can call it that.”

She took it and sat beside him without asking.

And for a moment, with her shoulder brushing his and the rising sun spilling gold across the parking lot, Joel forgot all the reasons why he shouldn’t want this.

Forgot about age. About guilt. About how this couldn’t possibly last.

Because she smiled at him with sleep-warm eyes and a soft “thanks,” and all he could think was: Goddamn, I’m in trouble.

They got back on the road after checking out, her hair still damp from the motel shower. She tied it up on the ride out of town, twisting it messily with a hair tie pulled from her wrist. Joel caught himself watching her in the rearview, the reflection just enough to see the slope of her neck, the soft crease at the corner of her eye as she squinted against the sun.

She didn’t talk much at first. Just tapped her fingers against the window ledge, humming under her breath to a song on the radio that he didn’t know. Something soft and female and longing.

He didn’t ask what it was.

He liked it better not knowing.

They stopped for gas at a quiet station just off the interstate. While she went inside for snacks, Joel stayed at the pump, eyes on the curve of her retreating back, the way she moved like she was half-wrapped in sunlight.

Jesus Christ.

He leaned on the truck door, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—though she was, in a way that made his throat tight. It was that she looked at him like she trusted him. Like she saw something he didn’t think he had left in him.

He wasn’t used to that.

But this girl?

She talked to him like he mattered in a different way.

And Joel wasn’t sure what the hell to do with that.

Back in the truck, she tossed him a pack of trail mix and slid a cold can of Coke into the cup holder.

“I guessed,” she said. “You don’t seem like a fruit punch guy.”

He raised a brow. “And what kind of guy do I seem like?”

She didn’t look at him. Just smirked faintly and buckled her seatbelt. “The kind who only likes the original stuff. No cherry flavor. No peach twist. No bullshit.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They drove in comfortable quiet for a while.

Later, she fell asleep again. Slumped against the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her lips parted just slightly.

Joel’s grip on the wheel tightened.

There was a part of him—some selfish, buried part—that liked the way she trusted him enough to fall asleep like that. Like she knew he’d get her where she needed to go. That he’d keep her safe.

And God, he would.

Whether she asked him to or not.

That realization scared him more than anything. Because Joel had spent years avoiding attachments. Keeping things clean. Transactional.

But this? This wasn’t clean.

It was quiet and messy and dangerous.

She wasn’t just some girl hitching a ride anymore.

She was herself.

Warm. Smart. Brave in a way that snuck up on you. The kind of person who picked wildflowers out of a motel parking lot and braided them into a napkin ring for no reason at all. The kind who hummed to Fleetwood Mac and offered you the last piece of candy without even thinking twice.

And the worst part?

Joel wanted to keep her around.

Wanted her beside him in the passenger seat, one knee pulled up, telling him stories he didn’t ask for but always listened to. Wanted her curled up in bed with him again, not touching, not speaking—just there.

He hadn’t wanted something like that in a long, long time.

And now that he did?

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

It was late.

They pulled into a random motel.

The sun was long gone, and the air was thick with humidity and the hum of cicadas, wrapping around the night like a second skin. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead, casting red light across her face as she leaned against the check-in counter.

Joel signed the paperwork with a cheap pen and let the desk clerk assume they were just another couple passing through. Let her think what she wants.

Hell, he didn’t even know what this was anymore.

He was too tired to lie to himself about it.

The room was small. One queen bed. Old AC rattling in the window. A lamp with a cracked base and floral shades that hadn’t been washed since the nineties.

She dropped her bag by the chair, kicked her shoes off with a sigh, and sat on the edge of the bed like she owned it.

Like she’d always belonged there.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Joel nodded. “Just tired.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve been quiet since the gas station.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like that.”

He swallowed hard. Turned away, pretending to fiddle with something in his duffel just to avoid her eyes.

She saw through it. Of course she did.

He didn’t know why he was still pretending. The air between them was too hot, too thick, too full of everything they hadn’t said. Every brush of her knee against his in the truck. Every glance. Every goddamn moment where he almost let something slip.

Almost told her he wanted her.

Almost admitted he hadn’t thought about anything but her for days now.

She stood behind him suddenly, close enough that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

“I know you’re fighting it,” she whispered.

Joel’s whole body tensed.

“I can feel it. You think you’re protecting me,” she said, voice gentle. “But you’re hurting yourself.”

He turned, slowly, and met her eyes.

There was no teasing in them. No manipulation. Just warmth. Certainty.

Like she already knew.

He stepped back out of reflex—but she followed. Hands brushing his chest. Fingertips tracing the edge of his t-shirt like she was memorizing the shape of him.

“You don’t have to be scared of wanting something,” she murmured. “Not with me.”

Joel let out a shaky breath.

She was the one who closed the distance.

He didn’t remember how they ended up this close, only that her hands were on him and his heart was breaking open in his chest. He’d spent every mile of this drive trying to hold the line, keep her safe behind the walls he’d built for women like her—young, sweet, not for him.

And now she was standing there, telling him he didn’t have to pretend.

Telling him she already knew.

When she leaned in, he didn’t stop her. Couldn’t.

Her mouth brushed his like a question, one he answered with both hands gripping her waist, holding her still while he kissed her deep and slow—like he’d been waiting his whole life for the chance. He tasted mint on her tongue and something softer, something hers. Something he’d been dying to have again since the last time she smiled across the truck cab.

She sighed into it, arms sliding around his neck, body arching into his like she already knew the shape of him. He backed her up, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sank down with a soft gasp.

Joel stood over her, just looking.

The low motel light painted her skin in soft gold, her thighs pressed together, breath shaky as she looked up at him.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“I’ve been sure,” she said, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. “Since Amarillo.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a groan and leaned down, kissing her again—deeper now, rougher, fingers gripping her jaw as she pulled him down with her.

They undressed each other in pieces.

Her shirt was the first to go, then his. She traced his chest like she couldn’t get enough of the sight, trailing her fingers over old scars and muscle and warmth.

“You’re so goddamn handsome,” she murmured, and it hit him like a brick.

Joel ducked his head, almost embarrassed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m telling the truth.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he kissed her instead—kissed her slow and deep, until her body melted beneath him.

Her bra came off next. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble—just pulled the strap down her shoulder and watched it fall like it was sacred. Then he leaned in, took her breast into his mouth, and sucked gently—felt her shiver beneath him, her thighs spreading just slightly in response.

“Joel—” she whispered, breath hitching.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” he rasped, one hand trailing down to the button of her shorts. “You want me slow? Easy?”

“I want you, however you’ll give yourself to me.”

His jaw clenched. Christ. She knew how to break him open, piece by piece.

He took his time undressing her.

Her shorts slipped down over her hips, panties damp. He could smell her arousal, thick and sweet, and when he dropped to his knees between her thighs, she gasped.

“Wait—”

“I wanna taste you,” he said, voice low. “Been thinkin’ about it every night since Mississippi.”

She didn’t stop him after that.

He slid her legs open with both hands and leaned in, groaning against her when he finally pressed his mouth to her. She was warm and slick and already so ready for him, thighs trembling as he licked slow, patient circles around her clit. She reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair, back arching up as she bit down on her wrist to keep quiet.

“Joel—oh, fuck—please—”

He flattened his tongue, licked long and slow, then flicked gently until her thighs shook around his ears. Her orgasm built like a wave and broke with her legs wrapped around his shoulders, her hips rocking into his face as she whimpered his name over and over like a prayer.

He didn’t stop.

Not until she pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue.

Joel undid his jeans with shaking fingers, but she touched his wrist.

“Let me,” she whispered.

She pulled his belt open, tugged his jeans down just enough, and wrapped her hand around his cock.

Joel groaned deep in his chest—her touch soft, reverent. He was hard and aching and nearly lost it when she pressed a kiss to his chest.

“Condom?” she asked.

He nodded toward the bag.

She retrieved it, ripped the foil open with trembling fingers, and rolled it onto him slowly, like she wanted to savor every second.

Then she laid back.

Spread her thighs.

Waited.

“Come here,” she said.

Joel settled between her legs, lined himself up, and paused.

Because this wasn’t just a hookup.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was everything he’d been scared to feel.

He slid in slow, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him, and bit back a groan when she gasped and clung to him, nails digging into his back.

“Goddamn, you feel—fuck, baby,” he muttered, burying his face in her neck. “You feel perfect.”

She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him closer.

He moved slow—deep, steady thrusts, letting her feel every part of him, letting himself feel everything. The warmth of her body. The way she whispered his name. The soft, pleading sounds she made when he hit that spot deep inside her just right.

“Joel, I—fuck—I think I—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her. “Come for me.”

And she did.

He felt her clench around him, felt her body fall apart, and finally—finally—let himself go.

He came with a groan, buried deep inside her, every muscle tensing before he collapsed on top of her, breath hot and ragged in her ear.

They laid there in silence.

Her hands traced lazy patterns across his chest. He kissed her shoulder once, twice.

Then, in the dark, she said:

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just held her tighter.

Then—

“Not sure I’ve ever been.”

She smiled against his skin.

“Me neither.”

You wake up to birdsong and silence.

No trucks passing on the highway. No boots on gravel. No Joel rummaging through the duffel for coffee or keys or his worn-out map. Just stillness, and the warm weight of his arm slung across your waist.

For a moment, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into his chest, listening to the soft sound of his breathing. It’s steady. Heavier than usual, like even he’s allowed himself a rare kind of rest.

The motel room is still dim. One of the curtains is half drawn, letting in a sliver of morning sun that catches on the dust in the air. Everything smells like last night—like motel soap and sweat and him. Like something real.

Your thigh brushes his when you shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it again—that ache between your legs, the good kind. The kind that reminds you it wasn’t a dream.

You press your face to his chest, hide the stupid smile that spreads across your mouth.

You’d never seen Joel like that before.

You’d seen him tired. Sharp. Guarded. Patient. Stern.

But not undone.

Not the way he was last night—hands trembling, voice breaking, whispering your name like he’d been holding it in for years.

And God, the way he looked at you afterward—like he’d seen the edge of something and chosen to fall anyway.

When he stirs beside you, it’s slow. A grunt under his breath, his arms tightening just slightly around your middle. His nose brushes the top of your head. He breathes in like he knows exactly where he is—and who he’s with.

“Morning,” you whisper.

His voice comes out rough. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t roll over or grab his jeans like he’s got somewhere to be.

Instead, his fingers trail lightly along your spine. Absentminded. Gentle.

You tilt your head up. “You okay?”

Joel looks down at you, eyes soft in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Think so,” he says after a beat. “You?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

More than good. But saying that out loud would make your chest crack open.

He studies you like he wants to say something else. His brows furrow like he’s weighing it. Maybe wondering if last night changed everything—or if you’ll pretend it didn’t.

So you speak first.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But something settles in him. Like a rope pulled tight just slackened.

“It ain’t,” he says. Simple. Final.

“Good,” you whisper.

Joel leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slips under the blanket, warm and possessive against your back.

“I got no plans of leavin’ you behind,” he says quietly. “Not now.”

And something in your chest flutters—something dangerous. Something hopeful.

You rest your cheek against his heart and close your eyes.

Out there, the road’s still long. There’ll be towns and weather and tension. There’ll be bad days and good ones and probably some kind of reckoning when you get to wherever the hell he’s taking you.

But right now?

He’s staying.

And so are you.

divider by @strangergraphics

🏷️ @xodilfluvr @zevrra @joelmillersonlyprincess @alyhull @bluekat707 @catch1ngmoths

[ninuwrites]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

just one bite omfg 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

[ninuwrites]

watching joel in episode six