proximaamidnightt - Tumblr blog

proximaamidnightt · 6 days ago

Text

⁀➷ Desk Duty // Jim Hopper x F!Reader

Summary: You're the sunshine of the Hawkins Police Station—always smiling and brightening everyone's day. Especially his. Chief Jim Hopper is gruff, intimidating, and far too old for you... But you've had a quiet crush on your boss since day one. The age gap, the power imbalance, and the rules make it impossible. Or at least, it should be—until one stormy night pushes everything past the point of no return.

A/N: I have been desperate to write for Hopper and I'm so glad I did... this man has me in a chokehold.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, age gap (reader: 20s, hopper: 40s), boss/secretary, forbidden romance, innocence kink, sunshine vs grumpy, protective Hopper, minor injuries, size kink/difference, squirting, praise kink, oral (f receiving), rough sex, overstimulation, Hopper is a tits guy

Words: 5.6k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The Hawkins Police Station wasn’t exactly known for its excitement. On most days, it was quiet enough to hear the tick of the wall clock and the squeak of Officer Callahan’s chair every time he leaned too far back.

But for you, the silence wasn’t a bad thing. It gave you room to breathe, to sort through case files and tidy up the endless stream of paperwork with your usual meticulous care.

You’d been working at the station for just over six months, and in that time, you’d managed to become something of a fixture behind the front desk. Bright eyes, organised, and hopelessly king. Too kind, according to Chief Jim Hopper.

You bought fresh coffee every morning, laid out pastries on the breakroom table before anyone arrived, and swapped out the vase of flowers on your desk weekly just to keep the place from feeling too grey. You remembered birthdays, wrote thank-you notes in tidy handwriting, and always had a soft smile for even the most irritable walk-ins.

You were the kind of sunshine that warmed everyone around you. And everyone in the office noticed.

“You’re too good for this dump,” Powell had said once, shaking his head as he grabbed a glazed donut from the box you brought in. “You should be working at some fancy law firm or greeting people at a spa.”

But you didn’t want that. You loved your job. Love the small-town rhythm, the creaky floorboards, the scent of strong coffee and old paper. And more than anything, you were drawn to the man at the heart of it all: Chief Jim Hopper.

It didn’t make sense, not really. He was gruff, older, chronically dishevelled, and wore a permanent scowl as if it were stitched into his skin. But somehow, he made your stomach flutter. He made your cheeks burn when he barked out your name or muttered under his breath in that deep, rough voice.

You had a crush. A big one. An all-consuming, ill-advised crush on the Chief of Police– your boss.

“You’re gonna burn out if you keep smiling at everyone like that,” he’d grumble, every other morning when he passed by your desk, coffee in one hand, permanent scowl on his face.

And every time, you’d just grin up at him and say, “Good morning, Chief.”

It had become your thing. You teasing him, him pretending not to enjoy it. But you caught the way his mouth twitched sometimes, like he was holding back a smile. Hopper was all sharp edges and shadows, tall and broad and imposing with that worn-out Sheriff’s uniform clinging to his hulking frame, but there was something else under the surface. A heaviness. A quiet sadness he never talked about.

You noticed it even when others didn’t. The way his shoulders dropped the moment he thought no one was looking. The way he lingered in his office long after everyone else had gone home.

And that was why you stayed.

You didn’t tell him that, of course. You just pretended to have too much filing to do. Pretended to be absorbed in some boring county report or half-finished inventory list. But every night, you waited until his heavy footsteps echoed down the hall and out the front door before packing up your things.

It was just after nine when the phones finally stopped ringing. Powell and Callahan had already left, tossing casual goodnights over their shoulders/ The radio in the corner played soft static, and the overhead lights buzzed with that low, flickering hum. You rubbed your eyes, blinking at the glow of the desk lamp as you finished logging the last of the incident reports.

The door to Hopper’s office was still closed.

You bit your lip, glancing toward it. You could go home. No one would blame you, and you were officially meant to finish your shift an hour ago. But something about leaving while he was still here, alone, likely hunched over a bottle and an old case file, just didn’t sit right.

You stood up, walking softly to his door. You knocked gently.

“What?”

The bark made you smile. “Just me, Chief.”

A pause, then the sound of a chair creaking and heavy boots approaching. He opened the door with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowing beneath that wild mop of hair. “You’re still here?”

You shrugged, offering a sheepish smile as you looked up at him through your lowered lashes. “Had some filing to finish.”

His gaze dropped to your empty hands, then flicked back up. “You’re lying.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You always finish by eight.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You hadn’t realised he… noticed. That he paid enough attention to know your habits. Your cheeks warmed under his intense gaze as you absent-mindedly began to wring your fingers together.

He sighed, leaning against the doorframe, one hand raking through his hair and pushing it back. “Why do you stay late?”

You hesitated. “Because you do.”

That shut him up. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing like he wasn't sure what to do with that. You stood your ground, fiddling with your fingers.

“I just… I don’t like thinking of you here alone, that’s all.”

He looked like he wanted to scold you. Maybe tell you it was none of your business. But instead, he signed again and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

You blinked, not expecting that response. “Really?”

“Might as well. I'm just going through old case files. Not confidential.”

You stepped inside his office for the first time, taking in the cluttered desk, the peeling maps on the wall, the ashtray filled with crumpled cigarett butts. It smells like smoke, coffee, and something uniquely his– woodsy and warm, like cedar and old leather.

He dropped heavily into his chair with a grunt and gestured for you to sit in the battered chair across from him.

You sat down, smoothing a hand over your skirt nervously. “You live like a raccoon in here.”

He gave you a flat look. “You don't have to stay.”

“I want to.”

That got a reaction. His brows lifted, just slightly.

“You’re too nice,” he grumbled, grabbing a file. “It’ll get you hurt someday.”

You smiled softly. “Not with you around, Sheriff.”

He froze, just for a second. Then cleared his throat and focused hard on the paper in front of him. You didn't say anything else. The quiet stretched between you, not uncomfortable but thick with something else. An awareness that neither of you acknowledged.

You watched the way his sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong forearms. The way his fingers dwarfed the pen in his hand. The tiny twitch of his moustache when he was deep in thought.

“You shouldn't want me like that,” he said without looking up.

You jumped. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does.”

Your heart skipped. You swallowed, shuffling in the leather chair. “Maybe I do.”

That made him look up. His eyes were tired but sharp, focused entirely on you.

“You shouldn’t”, he said again, but his voice was softer this time, almost like he didn’t believe his own words.

You felt heat rise in your neck. “I should probably head home.”

He stood before you, towering as always. “I’ll walk you out.”

Outside, the air was cold. You shivered, arms wrapped tight around yourself. Without a word, he pulled off his flannel overshirt and draped it over your shoulders. His hands lingered, brushing your arms.

You looked up at him. “Thank you,” he held your gaze for a long moment. His expression was unreadable.

“Get home safe, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your chest ache. “You too, Chief.”

He waited until you got in your car and didn’t move until your headlights disappeared down the road. And still, long after you were gone, he stood outside in the cold, staring into the night, jaw clenched tight like he was holding something back. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The morning air in Hawkins had a crisp bite to it, and you hugged your coat tighter around your frame as you stepped into the police station. You were early again. Hopper would grumble about it if he noticed, but you didn’t care. It gave you time to set out the fresh box of doughnuts, refill the coffee pot, and tuck a sprig of sunflowers into the chipped vase on your desk.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Powell greeted, breezing past you with a grin.

You smiled back. “Morning. I brought your favourite today. Raspberry jelly.”

“You’re gonna spoil us rotten,” Callahan muttered as he grabbed a glazed one. “Still don't know how someone like you ended up stuck in this place.”

You laughed lightly, used to the comment. “Guess I have a thing for grumpy men with badges.”

The moment the words left your mouth, your eyes darted to Hopper’s office. The door was closed, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard. You busied yourself with rearranging the folders on your desk, cheeks warm. Just thinking about him made your stomach flip.

As if summoned, the door creaked open. Hopper emerged, looking as tired and dishevelled as ever, hair sticking up on one side, uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He grunted something that resembled a greeting and made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Fresh,” you called softly.

He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “Course it is.”

You offered him a sweet smile. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Just filled his mug and disappeared back into his office.

Mid-morning brought chaos. A loud ruckus at the front doors had you jerking your head up. Powell and Callahan rushed forward as two deputies dragged in a handcuffed man, thrashing and shouting.

“Get your hands off me! You think you can lock me up for nothing? Bunch of small-town bastards!”

You stood quickly, hands braced on your desk. The man was wiry and angry, eyes wild and red-rimmed, likely drunk or high, maybe both. Hopper stormed out of his office.

“What the hell is this?” he barked.

“Caught him breaking into Henderson’s garage,” one of the deputies said. “Resisted the whole way.”

The man snarled, thrashing again. “I didn’t do shit!”

It happened fast. The man jerked forward, headbutting the nearest officer. In the chaos, his elbow flew out and struck you. A blinding crack to the side of your face sent you stumbling backwards, crashing into the corner of your desk.

Everything tilted. Your vision swam.

“HEY!”

Hopper’s roar echoed like a gunshot. Chairs scraped. Officers shouted. Powell reached you first, hand on your shoulder, but Hopper was already moving like a freight train. He lunged.

In one fluid, furious motion, he slammed the man against the wall with a snarl. “You just hit her,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Big mistake.”

The station froze. No one dared move. No one dared breathe. The man whimpered under Hopper’s grip. The Chief didn’t let go until the deputies peeled him off.

Still trembling, you had slumped back into your chair, dazed, with your face in your hands. Blood trickled from the corner of your lip. Everyone rushed around you–Callahan barking for an ice pack, Powell fumbling for tissues–but it was Hopper who reached you first.

He dropped to a croch, his large frame making him eye-level with you. His hands, however, were near your face, clenched tight with restraint.

“Let me see,” he gently coaxed. You shook your head, blinking fast.

“I’m fine. Just startled. It was an accident.”

“He hit you.” his voice was firm.

You offered a weak smile. “You should see the other guy.”

He didn’t smile. He reached out, fingers ghosting along your jaw. The gentle contact made you flinch. Hopper flinched, too. Something burned behind his eyes. Anger. Guilt. Something more. And then he stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away, one hand fisting his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “I need a minute.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode out of the front doors. The others watched him go silent. Callahan eventually broke the tension. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll drive you home.”

You stood numbly, shaking your head as much as possible without it throbbing. “No, it’s ok. I just need a moment outside, I’ll be fine.” With a hand pressed to your aching jaw, you slipped outside.

The air was cold, biting. It made your cheeks sting and your eyes water, but you needed the solitude. You stumbled along the path at the edge of the station, disappearing into the trees. There, out of view, you leaned back against the rough bark and let yourself crumble.

Silent tears slipped down your cheeks. Your chest heaved with the emotion you hadn’t let them see inside.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. “You shouldn’t be out in the woods by yourself.”

You startled, turning to see Hopper, towering, jaw still tight. His eyes locked on yours, then immediately dropped to your swollen lip.

You quickly wiped at your face. “But I’m not by myself, and anyway, I just needed a moment.”

He said nothing at first. Just looked at you, really looked. Then he stepped close. Close enough that his chest almost brushed yours. His hand reached out, slow this time, warm and steady as it found your jaw again. He tilted your face toward the light. His thumb brushed your lip, and you winced.

“Damn it,” he grunted.

You saw it then, the way his whole body tensed, as if he wanted to hit something. Or scream. But instead, he exhaled, slow and deep, hand still cradling your cheek.

“I should’ve been faster. Should’ve stepped in before it happened.”

“You did what you could,” you whispered. “You always do.”

His brows furrowed. “Doesn’t make it easier,”

There was silence then. The wind rustled the leaves overhead. You leaned further back against the tree, grounding yourself, but Hopper followed your movement, his hand still on your face, his other moving to your waist.

You gasped softly at the contact. His palm was heavy and warm on your hip, thumb grazing slowly over the fabric of your jumper. Your hand came up instinctively, fingers wrapping around his wrist where he cupped your cheek. The tension between you was suffocation.

“You scared me,” he said, voice low. “Thought he–shit, I don’t know what I thought. Just don’t ever do that again.”

“It wasn’t like I meant to,” you breathed. He let out a humourless laugh, his forehead almost brushing yours. His hand on your waist tightened slightly.

“You’re too good for this place,” his eyes dragged over your features. “Too soft. Too…good.”

“I belong where you are,” you said without any rational thought.

He froze. You felt his breath catch, his gaze dropping to your lips. His thumb moved again along your jaw, slow and aching.

“Don’t say things like that,” he rasped. “Not when you don’t know what they mean.”

“I do.” You tightened your grip on his wrist. “I know exactly what they mean.”

Something dark flickered in his eyes. His head dipped, lips just inches from yours. So close you could feel the heat of him, your breath hitched, needing this.

Then, the station door creaked open. Footsteps. Voices calling.

He pulled back sharply, like the moment had never happened. The space between you is filled with cold air.

“Callahan’s gonna drive you home,” he finally said, stepping away. “You rest. Take tomorrow off.”

You nodded, your heart still hammering. He turned, walking away with fists clenched and shoulders rigid. But just before disappearing around the corner, he stopped. And looked back. His eyes held yours. Then he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were back at work the next morning, despite Hopper’s orders. Your lip was healing, and the faint discolouration from the bruise along your cheekbone had already begun to fade beneath a dusting of concealer.

You’d smiled when you passed his office, pretending not to see the way his brown furrowed or the way his eyes dropped immediately to your jaw.

“You’re gonna give him an ulcer,” Powell said around a mouthful of muffin.

You blink at him in confusion. “Who?”

Powell gave you a look. “Don’t play innocent. We all saw the way Hopper nearly murdered that guy yesterday. And now here you are with homemade blueberry scones and those little peppermint cream things he likes.”

Callahan leaned over the breakroom table. “He’s like twice your age, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

Powell smirked. “You keep bringing in his favourite candy and talking to him like he doesn’t make your cheeks glow like a goddamn christmas tree, you’re gonna get the whole department caught in a sexual harassment seminar.”

You flushed, turning away to rearrange the snack tray. “It’s nothing. He's my boss. We just talk sometimes.”

Callahan gave a low whistle. “Talk. Right. That's what you call it when you two vanish behind the trees for twenty minutes yesterday?”

Your hands stilled on the napkins. “I was upset,” you say offhandedly.

“He was upset,” Powell echoed, but gently now. “Just be careful, alright? We like having you around. You’re good for him. Maybe too good.”

You didn’t reply. I just offered a small, polite smile and returned to my desk. Hopper didn’t emerge from his office until nearly noon, eyes flicking to the new flower arrangement on your desk and the scones on the tray. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You stayed late, again. Of course you did. And this time, it came back to bite you.

By the time you finally gathered your things and stepped outside, the lot was empty, and dusk had settled. You turned the key in the ignition of your car.

Nothing.

You tried again—nothing but a weak sputter. The battery was dead.

You sighed, resting your forehead on the steering wheel. You didn’t want to call anyone. You didn’t want to explain why you were still there after hours. So you grabbed your coat and bag and started walking.

It wasn’t far. Just a mile and a half. Maybe two. But the wind had picked up, and you hadn’t dressed for the cold. You’d worn a sundress, one of your favourites, a soft yellow one with buttons down the front and a hem that swished around your knees. Pretty and light. Completely impractical now that the sun had dipped.

Your arms were already covered in goosebumps when you heard the familiar rumble of an engine behind you.

A beat-up Bronco pulled alongside. Hopper.

His window rolled down. “What the hell are you doing?”

You glanced at him, sheepishly raising a shoulder. “Walking home.”

“In that dress? In the dark?”

“My car wouldn’t start. It’s fine. I’m almost halfway.”

He swore under his breath and slammed the car into park. “Get in,” you hesitated. “Don’t argue, " he said, already pushing open the passenger door.

You climbed in, shivering. The heat blasted your face immediately, and the door thunked shut behind you. He didn’t speak at first. Just pulled back onto the road, jaw tight, eyes forward. You rubbed your hands together, trying to warm them.

Without a word, Hopper shrugged off his flannel shirt and handed it to you. “Put this on before you freeze to death.”

You slipped it on, grateful. It was huge, swallowing you whole. Warm and worn and smelling like him. The sleeves fell past your fingers. You hugged it close.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He grunted. You glanced down at your thighs, the dress having ridden up when you slid into the seat. It now rested dangerously high, just above the mid-thigh, where your bare skin brushed against the cold leather.

You saw his gaze shift. He didn’t speak, but his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. His eyes flicked from the road to your legs and back again. His jaw flexed. You pressed your legs together, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

“Sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Hi voice came out gravelly, “You don't make me uncomfortable, sweetheart.” You looked at him. He didn’t look back. “You make me…” he trailed off. Shook his head. “It’s not important.”

You turned more toward him, your knees angled in his direction. The trust was old and narrow. The space between you felt like nothing.

“Tell me,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to you for just a second. Then they dropped to your bare legs, your hands folded in his flannel. “You’re too young,” he said finally. “Too sweet. Too good. I'm not the man you should be riding home with.”

“Then why do you always make sure I get there safe?

That did it. His jaw clenched. He pulled off to the side of the road and threw the truck in park. You both sat there for a long moment, listening to the engine tick.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” he admitted. “Because you make me feel things I shouldn’t feel.”

Your heart thudded. “I’m not that innocent,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours. “Yes. You are.”

The air in the cab turned thick. Hot. You watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he reached across the seat and tucked the flannel tighter around your body. His hand lingered on your arm. Just for a second. Just long enough to burn.

And then he pulled away. “Let’s get you home,” he finally said, breaking the silence. But the look he gave you before turning back to the road wasn’t one of indifference. It was a promise.

The next morning, you arrived at the station with Hoppe’s flannel still folded neatly over your arm. You’d washed it the second you got home, even spritzed it lightly with cedar spray to mask your laundry detergent, but part of you wanted to keep it, selfishly, like it belonged to you now.

As they entered, Powell gave you a knowing glance. “You always wear that dress on the days he’s in early,” he teased. “What happened, couldn’t find one shorter?”

“It’s not short,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

“Sure it’s not,” Callahan added with a wink. “Still cold out, sunshine. Maybe he oughta just buy you a jacket. Better yet, move you in.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did that traitorous flutter all over again. Hopper hadn’t come in yet, but you could already feel the weight of him in the air, he way he occupied space even when he wasn’t present. It was maddening.

You set his flannel on the edge of his desk and smoothed it flat. A note accompanied it in your tidy handwriting: “Thanks for the rescue. And the warmth.”

He didn’t mention it when he arrived, just nodded once and carried it into his office without a word. But he lingered at your desk just a second longer than necessary. You swore you felt his fingers graze yours when he took the reports from your hand.

The day passed in a haze of tension and glances. Every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence like a shadow, tall and impossible to ignore. When you brought him his afternoon coffee, your fingers brushed again. You both paused, but neither said a word.

Late that evening, the station emptied slowly. Powell waved goodnight. Callahan teased you on his way out, but you were already lost in your paperwork. You hadn’t even realised Hopper was still inside until you heard his door creak open again.

He stood there, arms crossed, eyes soft.

“You working late again?”

“Guess so,” you smiled. “Didn't want to leave before you.”

He exhaled slowly, stepping closer. The room felt warmer when he was near. “You should stop doing that,” he said slowly.

“What?”

“Waiting on me.”

You tilted your head, eyes searching his. “Why?”

“Because I might start expecting it.”

Silence stretched between you. His eyes dropped to your lips. Then lower. The hem of your dress, yet again, had ridden up whilst you sat.

His jaw flexed. “You're freezing again.”

Before you could reply, he was shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. His fingers lingered there, heavy and warm, pressing into your arms. Your breath hitched.

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Why do you keep doing that?” you asked.

He blinked. “What?”

“Taking care of me.”

His voice was low. “Because no one else does.”

You stood slowly, his jacket falling around you like armour. “That's not true. Everyone here looks out for me.”

“Not the way I do,” he said, closer now. “Not like this.”

You were trembling, but not from the cold. From the heat in his eyes. From everything unsaid.

“Jim,” you whispered.

His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek, the faintest stroke. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. He stepped closer. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he said again, voice cracking.

Your lips parted.

The office door slammed open. Callahan’s voice called out, too loud and jarring. You jumped back. Hopper swore under his breath, stepping away like he’d been caught red-handed.

Callahan poked his head in. “Oh. You’re both still here. Forgot my damn wallet.”

You busied yourself with your files, pretending your skin wasn’t burning. Hopper cleared his throat, face like stone. “See you tomorrow,” Callahan added, then slipped out.

Neither of you moved. After a long beat, Hopper finally exhaled.

“You should go home,” he said. “Before we do something we can’t take back.”

You didn’t argue. But as you left, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders, you knew it was already too late. The line had been crossed. It was only a matter of time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain came fast and had, sliding down in waves as you turned your car onto your street. Windshield wipers struggled against the downpour, and every crack of thunder made you flinch. By the time you pulled into your driveway and stepped out, the wind had already blown your umbrella inside out.

You were soaked within seconds.

Your dress clung to your skin, a sheet of heavy fabric. Your shoes squelched. Cold raindrops trickled down your spine as you fumbled with your keys and rushed inside.

The house was quiet, still. But the silence didn’t last long. With a loud crack, everything went black—power out.

You stood there in the dark, shivering, water dripping from your hair. The air in your home had already turned frigid without the heater.

You stripped out of your wet shoes and peeled off your soaked dress, shivering harder in your thin slip. Every room felt colder than the last. You pulled one of Hopper’s flannels from the laundry basket; you hadn’t returned it this time. You just couldn’t bring yourself to. It felt like safety. Like him.

After lighting all the candles that you owned, you were still rubbing your arms trying to warm up, when the knock came.

You froze.

Another knock. Harder this time. More urgent.

You padded barefoot to the door and opened it to find Hopper on your porch, drenched to the bone.

“Jesus,” he grunted, looking you over. “You okay? I tried calling. Lines are down.”

You stared at him. “Y-You’ve driven through this?”

“You didn’t answer. I wanted to check on you.”

Your heart fluttered. He stepped inside, kicking the door closed behind him.

“It’s freezing in here, power out?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself. His eyes trailed down your body, bare legs, soaked through slip, his flannel barely buttoned.

His throat worked visibly. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t have time to change,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, large hands cupping your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed over the fabric of the flannel, the only barrier between your skin and his palms.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold,” you said, though your voice trembled for other reasons, too.”

His eyes dropped to your lips. Then lower. The shape of your nipples was visible through the thin, soaked fabric. His hands flexed.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he suddenly doubted himself. “You’re half my age. Im your damn boss.”

Your heart clenched.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That’s all.”

You stepped forward, your voice soft and innocent. “But you always take care of me.”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, eyes still averted. “And I shouldn’t. It's not right. You deserve someone your age. Someone who doesn't want to drag you into something you’ll regret.”

You were close enough to touch him now. Slowly, gently, you reach out and place your hand on his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt, the solid heat of it underneath.

“I don’t regret this,” you whispered. “Not any of it.”

He looked down at you then, and you bit your lip, eyes wide and full of want. That was all it took.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you against him, kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

His lips were rough and desperate against yours, the kiss tasting of tain and restraint finally shattered. His hands slid under the flannel, dragging it down your arms as his mouth devoured yours, his facial hair rough against your soft cheeks.

“You’re so delicate,” he groaned against your skin. “So fucking sweet.” Next, he removed your shift until you’re completely bare before him.

You whimpered, clinging to his soaked shirt, his body massive and warm against yours. He swept you up without warning, carrying you through the dark hallways toward your bedroom.

He laid you back on your bed gently, like he couldn’t bear to be rough with you just yet.

He kissed you as if he were starving.

You were trembling beneath him, breathless, caught between anticipation and need as his massive frame hovered above you. His hands, big and rough, traced the length of your thighs, parting them gently.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he praised, voice thick with emotion. “Too good for me.”

Your fingers clutched his biceps. “I want you, Jim. I want this.”

He groaned like the words pained him, like he was trying to keep himself in check. “I should stop. Shouldn’t be touching you like this.”

You reached up, brushing your lips against his jaw, your voice sweet, almost pleading. “Then don’t stop.”

That broke him. He claimed your mouth again, tongue sliding against yours in a deep, consuming kiss. One hand trailed down your stomach and between your thighs, fingers teasing.

“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I gotta stretch you first.”

You gasped as one thick finger slid into you slowly, the stretch already burning slightly. He moved carefully, watching your face, kissing your cheeks, your temple, your jaw until a second finger was able to slip beside the first.

“That okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimpered, clutching at him as your hips rolled in time with his movements. “Feels so good.”

“Good girl,” he praised, curling his fingers until your back arched. “You take me so well.”

Your moans turned breathless, needy. When he added a third finger, your thighs trembled around his hand.

“God, you’re so tight,” he growled, biting your lower lip, voice rough with restraint. “You sure you can take me, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, I want to. I want all of you.”

Jim didn’t need telling twice as he carefully eased his fingers out of you so that he could remove his clothes. You watched his every movement, pussy clenching with need at seeing his body slowly being revealed to you.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Chief,” you say coyly, fingers gripping into the sheets below.

With his clothes finally removed, he carefully lowered his body over yours, cradling your head as he kissed you soundly, his hips slotting against yours until you felt the heavy pulse of his cock against your thigh.

He lined himself up, kissing you once, hard and full of need, then pushed inside with a slow, careful thrust that stole your breath.

Your nails scraped down his back as your legs circled his hip, crying out in desperation. “So big,” you gasped. “Oh my god.”

He grunted, trembling with the effort not to slam into you. “You’re gripping me so fucking right, sweetheart. Jesus.”

He rocked his hips slowly at first, letting you adjust. Every inch of him stretched you open, filled you so deeply it stole your breath with each thrust.

“You okay?” he asked against your ear.

“Y-Yeah. Please don’t stop.”

Once he knew you could take it, the pace changed. He thrust deep and hard, mouth on your neck, your chest, lavishing your breasts with licks, sucking on your nipple until your back arched.

“These tits,” he panted, sucking a nipple between his lips. “So perfect. I could stay here forever.”

You mewled beneath him, body jolting with every thrust. You were soaking, trembling, your noises high-pitched and utterly pathetic.

“I’ve wanted this,” he groaned, biting gently at your collarbone. “So fucking long.”

You came hard, a whimpering, gasping mess under him, and he never let up. He fucked you through t, murmuring praise as you sobbed against his shoulder.

“One more,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart.”

He flipped you over, pulling you into his lap, his cock still deep inside. His big hands gripping your hips and guiding your movements, helping you rock against him.

You were trembling, head thrown back, gasping his name.

“Too much,” you whimpered.

“You can do it,” he rasped, kissing your throat. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You broke with a scream, squirting over his thighs, your body convulsing with overstimulation.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growled, eyes dark with awe. “You’re perfect.”

He pulled out at the last second,s troking himself fast an came with a loud groan across your chest, hot ropes streaking your tits as you panted beneath him.

You lay again him, trembling and dazed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling quickly.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, you were finally his.

283 notes · View notes

proximaamidnightt · 14 days ago

Text

Beautifully written i love it!! 😭😭

Cupid's Chokehold — part three!

SUNSHINE & SYNCHRONICITIES

[previous chapter] [next chapter]

summary: Joel sends you and Uncle Tommy on a road trip for a work consultation. Tommy begins to wonder if what he feels for you is more than a craving.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap, heavy praise, dom/sub undertones, oral (f!recieving), like probably too much idc the miller brothers are eaters argue with a wall, dirty talk, unprotected piv, hand kink (hand anon...now u know damn well what ur doing), marijuana consumption, light angst, exhibitionism (kinda), begging, creampie, cum play, brat taming (god i'm so sorry to my loyal readers i can never escape this tag), physical violence but not towards reader or tommy, no beta

note: helllooooooo!!! long awaited part three!! i hope you all enjoy this one just as much as the other two parts. i'm so sorry it's taken me so long to finish this i was distracted by the fortnite battle pass and i wish i was lying but that shit is so good this season. i plan to start writing the next part tomorrow so stay tuned for that in the next few weeks! love u all so much <3

wc: 14.7k

[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]

When Tommy pulls up to the job site early Monday morning, Noah’s leaning against the metal door of the trailer with a cigarette in one hand and a coffee in the other. Which is strange for only two reasons.

The first is that Tommy’s never once seen Noah break off from the group. He’s always the first to brag about the women he’s met over the weekend and all the things he’s done to them. So, seeing him ten feet away from the half-awake gathering of men in hard hats awaiting Joel’s instruction is out of the ordinary.

The second is the fucking coffee in his hand.

Noah has never, not even once, shown up to work with coffee. Has always taken his caffeine in the form of bubbly energy drinks. The ones that taste like battery acid and leave you crashing by four in the afternoon unless you have another.

Tommy promised you he would be cool about this. Promised not to tell Joel about the way Noah had you so afraid at the bar on Friday night that you’d hidden in the restroom and called for safety. Up until this very moment, he’d had every intention of keeping that promise.

But Noah is waiting for you. He’s waiting for you, and that coffee is most likely yours, and Tommy��s hands pale around the steering wheel.

You and Joel are talking about some client up in Stratford, bickering back and forth. You only continue your argument when you climb out of the truck, speaking animatedly. Joel waves Tommy off and says, “Let everyone know we’re starting on the drywall today. Give us a minute.”

And he’s thankful for it. Truly. Because it gives Tommy a head start.

He bypasses the group of guys entirely and approaches Noah with a tremble in his hands. Doesn’t say hello, doesn’t give a warning. Tommy just pulls his fist back and bashes it against his jaw.

It lands hard enough to send Noah stumbling, coffee steaming as it splashes against the steel steps leading into the trailer. “What the fuck, Tommy?!”

“Told you what would happen, huh? Didn’t I?” He wants to say more. Wants to tell him that this is what happens to men like him who get off on scaring little girls. Wants to tell him that the biggest mistake he ever could’ve made is scaring you.

But Tommy can already hear Joel shouting from behind him and knows there’s no time for monologues or explanations.

So he just says, “You know good an’ well what this is for.”

This time, when Tommy’s fist strikes him, Noah stumbles to the ground. His eyes are crossed, and blood drips from his bottom lip.

It’s not right to kick a man when he’s down, Tommy knows. So he grabs hold of Noah’s neon vest and pulls him back to his feet.

And then he hits him again.

He won’t get another one in, even though Noah deserves it. Because Mike is on one side of him and Joel’s on the other, shoving him back, standing as a shield between the two of them.

But it’s not necessary. Not really. Tommy hadn’t made the decision impulsively. Hadn’t let his actions be influenced by emotion. His head is calm and level before and after he threw the first punch. He just did what needed to be done.

When he turns his head and his eyes find yours, they’re wide and full of worry. You’re concerned. Not for Noah, Tommy realizes. Even though he’s got blood on his shirt and still struggles to stand.

You rush to Tommy instead, one hand on his elbow while the other gently examines his fingers. His knuckles are covered in the evidence of his revenge in your name, crimson splattered up to his wrist. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath. You take the hem of your black t-shirt and use it to soak up the blood, uncaring of the permanent staining. “Does it hurt?”

The sunlight hits you just right, yellow and orange hues dancing along your skin. It makes Tommy’s heart forget its regular cadence. It’s sort of like stealing a glimpse of heaven. As if God had told him to close his eyes and Tommy’s reward for disobedience is a look at inconceivable splendor.

He thinks this might damn him. Thinks that you will be his ultimate undoing. But how worth hell is, for the tenderness of your touch.

Tommy says, “Nah. Not anymore,” and doesn’t miss the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

He likes being taken care of by you. Likes that in all the chaos, you immediately seek him out before anyone else. Your concern is genuine, and there’s no undertone of anger or disappointment.

The same can’t be said for Joel, however. And Tommy knows it’s probably because he’s used to this by now. Annoyed because he has to bail his little brother out of a bad situation for the millionth time. And Tommy thinks he has every right to be angry. He’d made promises to Joel, too.

He takes the two of you aside, just out of earshot, while the rest of the crew tries to get Noah cleaned up. He asks Tommy, “What the fuck happened?”

“Kid’s got a big fuckin’ mouth,” Tommy says. “Doesn’t know when to quit.” And when Joel presses for more information, he remains silent. Doesn’t trust himself enough to form a convincing lie.

Tommy thinks that’s the end of the interrogation.

But then Joel turns his sights on you.

With a furrow in his brow, he says, “Why do I feel like you’re somehow involved in this?”

You burst into disbelieving laughter, looking at Tommy, your hands, the dirt beneath your sneakers—anywhere but Joel’s face. “What? No, I don’t know anything. Why would you think that?” Your tone is full of mock surprise, but it’s that fucking grin on your face that gives you away.

Tommy would find amusement in your complete failure of an attempt, if it weren’t for the sharp, splintering pain beginning to ripple through his knuckles.

“Oh, no. ‘Course,” Joel says sarcastically. He braces one hand on his hip and waves the other between you and Tommy. “'Cause it’s not like you two do fuckin’ everything together or anything. Right.”

“Joel, dude,” you say with a scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Who the fuck even is Tommy Miller? I’ve never met the man in my life.”

Tommy’s not sure what makes him laugh harder—the complete fucking absurdity of your lie or the look on Joel’s face when you call him dude. His barely contained laughter earns him a glare, but Tommy just can’t help himself.

“Alright, look,” Joel says, squeezing his jaw. “Just…tell me. He deserve it?”

“Yes.” The answer comes in unison. Timed perfectly in sync, your voice laced with Tommy’s.

Joel scoffs. He’s so tired of the two of you already today that the vein in his forehead visibly throbs. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles.

Tommy knows the drill by now and isn’t surprised when Joel sends him home for the day without pay. They’ve been through this a time or two. Joel will fire Noah for the disruption, but can’t let Tommy off the hook pain-free.

He promises to swing by a little after seven to pick the two of you up, but Mike offers to give you a ride home instead. Tommy’s not quite sure how he feels about you sitting in another man’s back seat, but he reminds himself that Joel will be there, too.

Tommy spends the day working on his truck inside Joel’s garage to keep himself busy. Maintenance, mostly. Something to keep his hands occupied enough to keep him from going through your room.

You make him feel a little like a crazy ex-boyfriend, Tommy thinks. He wants so desperately to feel like he has this hold on you. Wants to feel needed, desired, tied to you in a permanent way.

It’s an unattainable task, though. Because no matter how much he wishes and no matter how hard he prays to keep you, the truth gnaws at him like an insect buzzing behind his ear.

You’re not a woman to be kept in any capacity. You’re too young, too wild, too carefree. Like a fire that burns bright in the late summer evening, warming those around you, keeping the joy thruming despite the descending darkness.

Tommy knows standing this close will burn him, but he likes the heat too much to step away.

What he feels for you is wrong. What he does for you, what he does to you, is wrong.

That’s the bottom line. And there’s no true way to discount it. It’s always clearer to him when you’re apart.

It’s a little after seven thirty when Tommy hears the familiar sound of tires against gravel in Joel’s driveway. The sun persists despite the late hour, painting the sky pale pink and orange.

Normally, he’d drop everything to greet you. Tommy would ask about your day, make sure you had a good lunch, and consumed more than just caffeine. He’d listen to you talk for as long as you needed, unloading the weight of the day off your shoulders.

Except, right now, he’s lying on his back beneath his truck. Motor oil drips down his long fingers as he strains to loosen the old filter.

He can feel your nearness before he glances down to see you standing at the side of his truck. He tries and fails to keep his mind out of the gutter as he watches you lower yourself to your knees.

The oil pan steadily fills with thick, black liquid as he watches you crawl beneath the metal body of the truck and claim the space at his side. You lay your hands on top of your belly and give him the sweetest, happiest smile. Like there’s no place you’d rather be than here, lying on the concrete beside him with the thick scent of automotive oil in the air.

He glances down to see your legs resting beside his, lying flat on the ground, while he has one knee propped up at an angle. You’ve got your feet crossed at the ankles, and you sway them back and forth casually. His heart pinches in his chest at the sight of it; your well-loved sneakers and light wash, boot-cut blue jeans beside his oil-stained denim and battered cowboy boots.

Tommy wishes he could see your sneakers beside his boots at the door of his apartment. Wishes he could buy your favorite snacks at the grocery store to stick in his pantry. He wishes your shampoo bottle would exist beside his in the corner of his shower, and wishes the last thing he’d do every night is wash your favorite coffee mug in the sink so it would be clean for you the next day.

He’s never wanted those things before. Never wanted softness or slow mornings or to have his existence threaded so heavily with someone else’s that there’d never be any untangling it. Not until now.

Not until you.

“Teach me what you’re doing,” you say, nodding to his hand that’s still wrapped around the blue cylinder of the oil filter. “Talk me through it. I know how good you are at that.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. He presses his elbow into your ribs playfully and says, “Fuckin’ pervert.”

“You love it,” you say. And he does. With that too familiar, troubling smirk, you lean in close with a scalding sort of heat behind your eyes. You whisper, “It takes one to know one, Uncle Tommy,” in a way that sends shivers down his spine. He knows that lilt to your voice. Knows you’ve arrived home today with a craving for chaos, the devilry in your blood taking precedence over all else.

Tommy licks his lips and lets out a slow exhale. “An oil change,” he finally explains. “Supposed to do it every twenty-five thousand miles. I’m a little late. But you ain’t got no reason to know how to change your oil long as I’m around.”

He thinks it’s awfully funny how you wait until he’s twisting the filter hard enough that the veins in his forearms swell before you ask, “What if I get a boyfriend?”

Tommy finally pries the filter loose, and your words catch him off guard enough that he drops it into the oil pan with a crude sound, splashing the liquid over the lip onto Joel’s driveway.

“What if he wants to do my oil changes?”

“Then he oughtta be better than me in every way of the fuckin’ word,” Tommy says quickly, agitation in his voice. He knows you’re provoking him. Goading for a reaction that he gives you all too quickly. “Better know how to take a punch, too.”

With a laugh, you say, “What, like Noah?”

Tommy scoffs and picks up the new filter he’d bought just this afternoon. “Did it look like that kid could take a punch?”

You shrug as he twists the filter on. “Maybe you just hit hard.”

He tries to fight the smile your words evoke, tries not to feel proud. But he does anyway. It’s not a compliment, not really, but it makes him feel the way a compliment would. Warm. Admired. “How pissed was Joel?”

“Oh, I got an ear full,” you answer with wide eyes. “You would’ve thought I was the one who’d cracked his tooth in half.”

Tommy laughs at that. Imagines that snot-nosed motherfucker explaining to the dentist that he’d gotten his ass beat in an avoidable altercation. Tommy had warned him what would happen, after all. But he’d never meant for you to take the brunt of the consequence. And so once his enjoyment fades, he says, “I’m sorry you had to put up with it. I never meant一”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, waving your hand in dismissal. “It’s what we do for each other. You take care of me, I take care of you. Right?”

An easy smile finds its way to his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Right.”

Once the oil has completely drained, Tommy replaces the cap and slides out from beneath his truck.

You follow suit, and he extends his hands to pull you back to your feet. “I wasn’t serious, by the way,” you tell him. “About the boyfriend thing.”

“I figured,” Tommy says flatly.

Because he knows you. Knows you just like to see him squirm, to see his desire for you on full display.

But he does you one better. Lays the truth bare when he says, “S’alright. We both know you’re my girl.”

Your reaction is beautiful, Tommy thinks. An instant flush of your cheeks, a shy turn of your head. He delights in your wide smile and mirrors it, letting your warmth sink deep into his weary bones.

When he rounds the truck and pops the hood open, you lean over and try to watch his movements. But you’re a little too short and just out of view, so he opens one arm and says, “C’mere.”

You move instinctively. Like it’s completely natural to let him envelop you in his hold, and Tommy supposes it is by now. He stands behind you like a looming presence at your back, close enough that he pushes the front of your thighs against the bumper.

It would seem innocent enough if someone were to walk by you now. They’d only see an uncle teaching his niece how to do an oil change, making sure she knows the ins and outs thoroughly enough to do it on her own next time.

Tommy extends his hands on either side of you. “See this here?” He points at the symbol on the oil cap. “This is what you wanna look for. Emptied it already an’ replaced the filter. Now we’ve gotta fill her back up.”

He can’t see it, but Tommy can feel that smirk on your face, can hear that filthy joke before you even ask, “Me next?”

Innocence gone, the moment fills with a different sort of energy. One that feels more authentic, more like you, and more like him. More truthful, more honest.

He chuckles, shaking his head. His mouth is only an inch from your ear as he says, “Bet you’d like that.”

Your breath stutters as your lips part. Your mom and Joel are just inside, likely discussing dinner plans or how the day went. Joel’s probably talking about how Tommy had caused a real ruckus, and Sarah will be home from her classes at the community college any minute—and here Tommy is with his lips against your throat.

Making you nervous for a change.

He finds that he enjoys this a little too much. He shouldn’t feel his blood sing when you suck your bottom lip into your mouth and drag your teeth across it. His cock shouldn’t stiffen in his jeans when he leans forward the smallest bit to twist the oil cap off, but it just rests so perfectly against the decadent swell of your ass that he can’t help it.

It’s wrong, and he knows it, but Tommy thinks the obscenity of it all only amplifies his longing for you. And what seals the deal is that the two of you share this perversion like you share every fucking thing else. It’s not just him that gets you off, it’s the fact that he’s your Uncle Tommy.

You turn your head to face him, mouth so close to his that he can feel the heat of your breath. So gently it’s almost undetectable, Tommy feels you arch your back, pressing yourself even harder against him. “Only one way to find out,” you say.

He takes your chin in his big hand and turns it forward. “Pay attention, now, sweetheart. This is important.”

The faintest whimper escapes from someplace deep in your throat. A needy sound that makes Tommy feel satisfied in an entirely new way.

Is this what it’s been like for you these last few months? Teasing him, constantly prodding for a reaction, indulging in the fall when he inevitably loses the carefully found balance on that thin line you’ve drawn.

It’s a whole lot nicer on this side of things, Tommy thinks. A whole lot more manageable when you’re the one at his mercy and not the other way around.

Tommy sticks the end of the funnel into the uncapped opening and picks up the five-quart container of motor oil. He explains, “Fully synthetic blends are best. Better for the engine, and it’ll last longer. Worth the price.”

Your attention is zeroed in on his fingers, oil-stained and calloused, with deep purple bruises blossoming across the knuckles of his right hand in defense of you. “I can feel how hard you are,” you say.

But Uncle Tommy pays it no mind. He’s too focused, too determined to teach you this lesson. “Cars are all a little different,” he says. “Different makes and different models need certain kinds of oil. Smaller engines need less. We need about seven quarts.”

He tips the container and watches the amber liquid spill into the funnel he’d placed perfectly with one hand, and slides the other firmly down the center of your thigh, no doubt leaving grease stains in his wake on that pretty blue denim. “Please,” you whisper, and it almost does him in.

Almost.

“Shh. We’re almost done, baby. You payin’ attention?” He knows you’re not. Knows the soft sigh that slips between your lips is another plea. Tommy squeezes the inside of your thigh hard before moving his hand upwards, right between your legs, fingers pressing against the seam of your jeans.

Your head falls back against his chest and your eyelids flutter closed, but Tommy won’t have it.

He pulls his hand away as he empties the last of the oil from the first container. He steps away completely to grab the second and chuckles when your shoulders drop dramatically in frustration. “Hey,” he says. “Nuh-uh. No throwin’ tantrums. When has Uncle Tommy ever let you down, hm?”

“Never,” you say, and the answer comes so quickly that it warms his heart.

“Exactly. Now, c’mon. Let’s finish this up.” He comes up behind you again, cock heavy and aching as he presses it against the small of your back. Tommy breaks the seal of the new carton and tips it up, pouring two more quarts of oil. And then he sets the remainder on the garage floor, retwists the oil cap onto the reservoir, and lowers the hood.

There’s so much hope in your eyes as you turn in his embrace and ask, “Are we done?”

“Not just yet. Patience, sweetheart.” Tommy steps back and opens the driver's side door of his truck. “Get in, start her up,” he instructs.

And you do as told. Of course you do. His pretty, desperate girl.

The engine roars to life as you turn the key in the ignition, while Tommy kneels down and crawls beneath the truck. “Always gotta check for leaks,” he explains. “Cause if the seal’s bad on the filter, you’ll be leaking oil for god knows how long and could fuck up your engine real bad real fast.”

He waits a few minutes, double and triple checking that he’d done everything right. And when he’s satisfied, Tommy comes to stand between your spread thighs. “Last step,” he says. “The most important one. Wanna guess what it is?”

“I…” You stop. Close your mouth just to open it again. “I don’t know.”

Tommy smiles. It’s a corrupt sort of amusement he finds in your innocence. “Unbutton your jeans an’ I’ll show you.”

You’re thumbing down your zipper before he even finishes getting the words out.

Tommy hooks his long fingers around the denim waistband and pulls your jeans and panties down to your knees. The driver’s side door, propped open, shields you just enough that there’s no fear in him when he pushes your thighs back, leans forward, and slides his tongue through your wet heat.

You moan in tandem一you at the feel of his lips on your clit, him at the heady taste of you. Tommy knows it’s wrong and knows there’s no good ending for the two of you, but when he has you like this he doesn’t fucking care.

Because you’re everything he’s ever wanted in all his life. He flattens his tongue against you, leaving no part of your pretty pussy untouched, and groans when you slide your fingers into his thick hair and tug lightly at his curls.

“God一you…I can’t believe you did that for me today,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him devour you. “You…fuck, that feels so good. You knew it would be bad but you did it anyway.”

He doesn’t know how to explain that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. Doesn’t know how to make you understand there’s no line he wouldn’t cross, no consequence he’d be unwilling to conquer, no aftermath he wouldn’t face when it comes to his very favorite girl.

Tommy circles your clit with a pointed tongue, savoring the ambrosia taste of you. Your slick coats his face一dripping down his chin, wetting the scruff of his facial hair that’s two days too grown out. He presses your legs back further and hums against you, grinning when the vibrations have your spine bending.

It’s only been a few weeks since he’d been here last with his face pressed between your thighs, but Tommy feels like a man starved. He’s insatiable for you and supposes he always has been, greedy hands reaching out to take everything you’re willing to give. His bruised knuckles have turned an ugly shade of purple now but they hold your pretty skin so tenderly.

His mouth waters as he laves his tongue between your folds, saliva mixing with the wetness that drips down onto his leather seats. Tommy likes the sight of the shiny leather more than he should. “Filthy girl,” he murmurs against your sweet pussy. “Makin’ a big fuckin’ mess for me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair. “Fuck, I’m一I’m close, I’m一hmm.”

He knows just how much you love when he talks to you real nasty, and so he doubles down, words muffled through the wetness of his tongue against your clit. “Yeah…that’s right,” Tommy says. “So wet, baby. You fuckin’ needed this shit, huh? Needed Uncle Tommy to kiss it better.”

“Yes, yes yes一!”

With a low laugh, he uses one hand and clamps it over your mouth. “Shh. Don’t want anyone to hear you now. Don’t wanna end it before you get a chance to feel real good, do we?”

“No, no, please,” you beg, your voice bleeding through the spaces between his thick fingers. You slide your hands through the soft curls in his hair, pressing his mouth harder against you. “I want一please, I need it. I need you.”

He knows you do. Tommy sucks your clit gently between his lips and focuses his efforts there. Knows you’re right on the edge when your legs begin to tremble on either side of his head. “Go on now, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s got you.”

Your breath halts, just for a single moment, and then an onslaught of moans begin to vibrate against his hand.

“That’s it. There you go, shh.” he licks up every drop of your release, tongue curling over your sensitive clit. You taste like heaven, like the rest of his life, so good he whimpers against you.

Your spine bends and your chest heaves with each shaking breath, and it feels like release. Like redemption. Just seeing you fall apart beneath him, feeling your clit pulse and throb beneath the heavy pressure of his lips, it’s enough for Tommy to feel satisfied.

He doesn’t stop until your breathing evens out. And even then, he cleans the mess between your legs with his tongue, smiling real wide when you flinch at the overstimulation. Your fingers are a little nicer now, stroking gently through his thick hair instead of pulling at the roots. “S’better now,” Tommy says. “Right?”

With a soft giggle, you nod and say, “Much better.” You lift your hips just enough and Tommy helps you pull your jeans back up those pretty thighs of yours.

His cock aches, heavy and wanting, but he knows this isn’t the time. Knows that the indulgence he’s allowed himself already is too much, too risky. And that assumption is quickly confirmed, because before you can even twist your thumbs around the silver button, Sarah’s car is pulling into the driveway right behind his truck.

“Shit,” Tommy hisses. “Can you一?”

Before he even has a chance to finish his sentence, you’re stepping in front of him. You say, “Yeah, I got it,” and Tommy begins to wonder if there’s anyone in the entire world who has made worse decisions than him today.

Cracking the tooth of a boy ten years younger than him. Working up his pretty little niece until you beg him for release. Indulging in you until he’s left standing in the front yard with his dick painfully hard and on full display.

For what it’s worth, you handle the uncomfortable transition with ease. Sarah gives Tommy a wave but doesn’t engage him much further than that, thanks to your attempt at conversation. He can hear the two of you babbling on about that same girl from Sarah’s biology class. Something about a comment she’d made on Sarah’s Instagram post一Tommy couldn’t keep up.

He waits outside until the swell of his cock goes down. Cleans up the mess he’d made doing the oil change, closes the door to Joel’s garage, and walks through the front door just in time for dinner.

You’ve saved a seat for him, like you always do. Your mom has made a fancy, braised chicken dish with tomatoes and capers. She’s left the olives on the side, knowing Joel and Tommy hate them.

But he knows you love them, and so he piles them on his plate anyway. Sarah talks about how her classes went, and you talk about a potential client up in Stratford you’ve been emailing back and forth with who lives up in Stratford.

You pluck the olives off Tommy’s plate one by one, eating slowly as you talk. He doesn’t quite understand why he loves it so much. It’s something trivial. Just olives for Christ’s sake. But you move so naturally, so familiar.

Tommy’s self aware enough to know that this…relationship you’ve created is doomed to fail.

It’ll likely blow up in his face. You’ll be caught red-handed, because nothing else could ever tear him from you.

Joel, Sarah, and everyone else he cherishes will look at him in a new light. He’ll be outed as the immoral man he is, unable to deny your wicked temptation.

But he hopes that you’ll still save a seat for him at the dinner table when the inevitable happens. Hopes that you’ll still look at him with those starry eyes and laugh at his stupid jokes and sing along to his favorite songs.

Tommy hopes that, no matter what, even in all the aftermath, you’ll still pick the olives off his plate.

After dinner, Joel pulls him aside. Tommy smokes a cigarette on the back porch while Joel explains about the woman in Stratford. “One of those rich folks who wanna give back to the community instead of giving their money to a corporation. I don’t want to take it, to be honest,” he admits. “It’s a complete remodel. One of those big ass mansions on the border that was built in the eighties. The house right now is worth ten million. With new floors, new plumbing, new wires…we’d double it, easy.”

Tommy inhales deeply and flicks the ash on the end of the filter over the side of the porch. “How much would you make, after material cost and labor an’ everything else?”

“Half what it’s worth now,” he says, and Tommy’s eyes widen because they’ve never been offered a job that big. “Original quote was one million, but she fuckin’ talked them up and now they’re willing to pay five times the price.”

“Joel,” Tommy chokes. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

Five million for a single job.

He’d always known that the work they do is good. Better than half the contractors in Texas. Worth that kind of money, but with no access to the clientele. With you behind that company email instead of Joel, though…

This one job could change everything for them.

Tommy could move out of his shitty apartment. Could find some land out in the boonies and make a home out of it. Could build himself a house that’s all his own, have a possession to his name that’s worth something.

He could be worth something.

He could be more than just Joel’s fucked up little brother. More than someone to bail out of every bad situation he gets himself into. He could be someone worthy of you.

“You have to take it,” Tommy says. “Right? I mean…fuck, Joel. Five million.”

“Jesus, Tommy,” he grumbles. “I know, alright. I’ve heard it from her all fuckin’ day. But Stratford is almost ten hours away. If we worked every day from dawn till dusk, we’d be gone, what? A month? And we’d have to account for temporary housing. Hotel rooms for all the guys willing to go that far. And we’d have to feed them, too.”

“So that’s what? A hundred thousand if we don’t share rooms? Christ. Even after all that, the profit is worth it.”

“I just…I don’t trust it. I don’t know these people, and a month?” He points to the back door. “All three of those girls would be here alone. And if something were to happen…”

The hesitation makes a little more sense to Tommy when Joel puts it into perspective like that. Because he’s right. Eight hours away isn’t exactly around the block. Tommy couldn’t just come pick you up. Couldn’t run lights and blow stop signs to get to a bar when you feel unsafe.

“Have you done a consultation yet?”

Joel shakes his head. “She was tryin’ to set one up for this weekend, but I’m…I’m busy. Takin’ her mom out for an important dinner Saturday night. Actually, I was wonderin’ if maybe you could…you know. Go with her. She’s awfully optimistic about this, and I don’t want her to get ahead of herself.”

It’s a bad idea, and Tommy knows it the second the words leave his brother's mouth.

Alone. With you. For an entire weekend.

Talk about a fucking bender.

“Look,” Joel says. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But she’s a little girl an’ I don’t want her up there alone. I trust her to make the right decisions for the company, but I don’t trust her to be meetin’ people she doesn’t know by herself. Wouldn’t ask it of Sarah, wouldn’t ask it of her.”

He wants it, he does, but already knows good and well what’ll happen if he’s alone in a hotel room with you.

Tommy takes a long drag off his cigarette. Can still taste you on the tip of his tongue. He says, “I don’t know, Joel. I’ll…get back to you.”

But by the time Friday afternoon rolls around, Tommy finds himself with a packed duffel bag in the back of his truck like any true addict would.

You’ve got a backpack slung over one shoulder, and Tommy hovers behind you on the front porch.

Joel stands just inside the door with that signature scowl on his face. He pulls his worn leather wallet out of his back pocket and digs out a shiny, black credit card. He says, “For necessities. Gas, food, hotel room. Alright? No bullshit.”

You’re so excited you’re practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. When you reach for the card, Joel pulls it just out of reach.

“I mean it,” he insists. “Necessities. You understand me?”

It feels a little bit like getting cash from your parents before they turn you loose for the night at the fair, Tommy thinks.

“O-kay,” you tell him, plucking the card from his hands and passing it to Tommy over your shoulder. And then you’re turning to him with your eyes alight with mischief and that troublesome smirk on your face. “You hear that, Uncle Tommy? Joel said we can buy hookers and blow on the company card.”

“Wagyu steaks and caviar for dinner, too. S’what I heard,” Tommy adds with a laugh.

Joel doesn’t find the humor in it, though. Grumbles about canceling the whole consultation until he can go his damn self. Says, “You two spend too much fuckin’ time together. Two peas in a dumbass pod. Gonna rack up my bill ‘til I have to take this job just to pay it off.”

But he doesn’t mean it, and you both know it.

You toss your bag in the back seat, and Tommy opens the passenger door for you. He lets you pick the music, and you settle on some poppy ballad by the Neon Trees that he hasn’t heard in half a decade.

With the windows rolled down, you let in the pine-scented summer air while you sing the lyrics in the wrong key, and Tommy Miller falls in love with you in a whole new way.

You’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. The wind ripples through your hair, and the midday sun caresses your face and turns your soft skin golden.

But it’s not just the way you look that steals the breath from his lungs—it’s the way you kick off your shoes and prop your feet up on the dash. It’s the affectionate look in your eye when you turn away from the passing scenery to give him one of those sweet smiles. It’s the way you scoot to the center of the leather seat to be closer to him, and the familiar weight of your head resting against his shoulder.

It’s the way you trust him that chokes Tommy up. Thoroughly and without so much as an ounce of doubt. As if you’ve known each other for your entire lives and not just for the last year since you’ve moved into Joel’s spare bedroom.

The only thing anyone has entrusted Tommy Miller to do in his entire life is to fuck things up. And maybe his being here with you, resting his big hand on the inside of your thigh, is a testament to that. But it’s awfully hard to care what anyone else thinks when you wiggle your toes to the beat of the radio and press an easy kiss to the side of his broad shoulder like you’ve never been happier than to be here beside him.

You make him feel loved. Cherished. Adored.

He pulls off the highway a couple of hours into the lengthy drive. Stops at one of those gas stations that doubles as a rest area for truck drivers. There’s a car at every pump and a little mom-and-pop style diner within walking distance with a full parking lot. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” is your answer. You stand beside him while he slides Joel’s shiny black card and fills up his tank. With a nod in the direction of the diner, you ask, “Think they have decent French toast?”

Tommy nods. “Breakfast for dinner is always better at places like that. Probably have waffles with all those fancy fixin’s too.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, eyes alight. “Do you think they have banana and chocolate chip?”

He shrugs and returns the nozzle to the pump. “Only one way to find out.”

It’s exactly as he expected. Busy, but with only a low hum of chatter. There’s an old bar that houses the grumpy-looking regulars and an inoperable jukebox in the corner. Booths line the outside walls of the diner and are made of worn red leather seats and chipped, brown laminate tables. The scent of stale coffee hangs heavy in the air, and the soft melody of a nineties country song plays on the overhead speakers.

An older woman with blue eyeshadow and too much of that white diamonds perfume introduces herself and brings you to a booth in the corner of the room. She compliments you on the sequined star pattern on the back pockets of your denim shorts as she lays out two menus.

When she leaves to let the two of you decide what you’d like to eat, Tommy jokes, “Linda oughta keep her eyes to herself, starin’ at your ass like that.”

You giggle and shake your head. “What, like you don't stare?”

“Ain’t a moment we’re in the same room an’ I’m not lookin’ at you, darlin’,” Tommy answers. And he means it. Always has an eye on you, admiring the way you bend and stretch and the rise and fall of your chest with each breath. Even loves that nervous tick you have of adjusting the way your jewelry sits around your smooth neck. He says, “Such a pretty little thing,” and grins when that flush he loves so much crawls up your cheeks.

The diner doesn’t have chocolate chip and banana waffles, but Linda promises to hook you up with milk chocolate drizzle both on the inside and on the outside of your breakfast pastry. Tommy orders an all american burger with extra fries on the side because he knows you’ll want some, too.

“How do you think the consultation will go?”

Tommy can sense your nervousness. “It’ll be fine,” he promises. “Gotta treat it the same way you’d treat any of the others.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just my first one without Joel, and I don’t—I don’t want to disappoint him, I guess.” You take a slow sip of your sweet iced tea. “Is that stupid?”

The two of you have talked about everything under the sun, but you rarely have a conversation like this one. One that’s heavy, weighted, raw. You always make light of every situation, incapable of being serious around each other, and so Tommy takes your fears to heart. “Not stupid at all,” he says. “To be honest, I think my brother trusts you to make those decisions more than me.”

“Liar,” you scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Nah. I mean it.” He leans back against the red leather seats. “I’ve made a lot of bad choices,” he explains. “Gotten myself in a lot of shitty situations. Joel’s pulled me out every one of ‘em my whole life, so I think there’s a part of him that will always look at me like I’m just his kid brother.”

You listen while he speaks. Really listen, as if you’re hanging onto each syllable. It makes him feel warm. “I don’t think that’s true,” you say. “There’s a reason he sent you with me instead of sending Mike or pushing the consultation out a couple of weeks until he could do it himself. Joel trusts you just as much as he trusts me.”

He’s not quite so sure. And what’s worse is that Tommy knows whatever faith his brother has in him will be blown to pieces the moment he finds out the things he’s done with you. To you.

There’s no real way to explain it, he thinks. No way to make you understand how precarious these relationships are with the people he loves most.

But Tommy doesn’t get a chance to even try before Linda returns with plates and wrapped silverware in hand.

Your eyes go wide, and you giggle happily as she sets your waffles in front of you, covered in chocolate syrup, sliced banana, and a mountain of whipped cream.

The food is delicious, just as Tommy expected. You eat happily together, trying things off each other's plates and making god awful jokes about sticky fingers and toasted buns. Tommy laughs until his side aches, even though no one else would find them half as funny.

Once, you set down your fork and fill your unused spoon with a small dollop of whipped cream. You turn it towards him and bend the mouth of the utensil back with your index finger. Tommy warns, voice filled with jubilation, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare. Linda will take you over her knee an’ teach you a lesson in table manners.”

You say, “Linda sounds like a freak, Uncle Tommy. Want me to get her number for you? I know you like ‘em like that,” and then you fling the whipped cream, aiming right for his head.

But it misses and hits the back of the leather booth beside him with a wet plop, and the sound sends you both into rambunctious laughter. Your face flushes, and you sink so far down into your seat that you have to grab the edge of the table to keep yourself balanced.

The moment is so light, filled with so much joy that it makes Tommy’s ears ring. He struggles to find composure because once his mirth begins to fade, all it takes is one look at you before it starts up again.

He’s never felt this way with anyone before. So close, it’s like you share some sort of secret language that only the two of you are capable of understanding. It’s this that he loves the most. The thing he cherishes.

Such a strange feeling it is to be understood in such an absolute way, Tommy thinks.

He’s almost done with his burger when you set your utensils down for good, pancakes half finished, destined to end up in a styrofoam box. You look up at him with a soft smile, and he feels the energy shift. “How do you want this weekend to go?”

“What do you mean?”

“With us,” you clarify shyly.

Tommy knows what you’re trying to say despite the lack of words. Knows that you see the opportunity at hand the same way he does. Just the two of you for nearly three days, all alone in a town full of people who don’t know you.

But each time he relapses, the recovery hurts just a little more than the time before. Tommy has long since given up trying to deny you. You’ve irreversibly captivated him, changing the very basis of his DNA. But he worries that eventually, there won’t be anything left of him to give.

Worries that the push and pull takes a sliver of his soul each time he loses balance. Chipping away at him slowly over time.

But when his eyes meet yours, all consequences become nothing but smoke in the air. Because Tommy wants to hold you, to wake up beside you, to have that slow morning he’s dreamt about for months now. He wants just one day of normalcy with you.

A single day where there’s no need to pretend that he doesn't love you more than an uncle should.

Except in this, he’s not so sure what you want. And for Tommy, your desires and your happiness supersede all else. They always have. “It can go however you want it to go, darlin’.”

Your mouth curves up at the corners. “We might never get a chance like this again,” you say. “I don’t want to spend it feeling guilty for what I want.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“You.”

The way you say it steals the breath from his lungs. There's no hesitation. It’s raw and real and honest. Tommy thinks he’s never met someone so open as you. Brave in a way he’s never been.

But you make him want to be.

And so he curls his calloused fingers around your jaw, leans over the table, and presses a kiss to your syrupy lips. It’s the first one you’ve shared in public. Broad daylight. There are a handful of people in the room, and not a single one of them looks in your direction.

His stomach ties in knots as your lips move against his, tasting the salt on his tongue. He can feel your smile begin to take form, and the thought crosses his mind that everyone likely just assumes you’re two people hopelessly in love. So hungry for one another that you can’t keep your hands to yourself for a single meal.

Tommy thinks they wouldn’t be far off.

He finally pulls away but lingers. Just a little. Tastes your air, breathes it in like oxygen. Savors it. Savors you. “You’re everything to me,” he says. And good fucking God, he means it down to his very bones.

Your smile widens, and your eyes turn all starry in that way he loves. You open your mouth to speak, but before you get a chance to say what’s on your mind, Linda approaches with that leather bound notepad and a pen.

She calls the two of you lovebirds as she places the check on the table.

Tommy pays with Joel’s black card, and as you leave the diner, he laces his fingers through yours. He opens the door to the passenger side of his truck for you, but doesn’t bother buckling you in because he knows you’ll just slide to the center of the cab to be nearer to him anyway.

The rest of the drive is slow. Tommy would never admit it, but he goes five under the speed limit the rest of the way to Stratford for no reason other than the warmth of your thigh beneath his fingertips and the way you kiss his cheek every few miles.

You play more of those high-spirited indie pop songs you love while the sun sets beneath the horizon, and Tommy feels like the richest man alive.

By the time you make it to town, it’s nearly midnight. He finds one of those half-decent hotels right off the interstate, and you cling to him in the air-conditioned lobby, hands wrapped around his bicep.

It makes him feel warm. Protective, even. When the receptionist behind the desk asks if you need a room with one king or two queens, you’re the one who answers. You say, “Just one for me and my husband, please.”

The air in Tommy’s lungs gets stuck. Knocked out of him as if he’d been struck dead center in his chest. He doesn’t like playing pretend with you, but this he could get used to.

You laugh when you look up at him, and he knows it’s because of that face-splitting grin of his, but he just can’t help it.

Husband.

Christ. What a fucking idea.

When the receptionist leaves the desk to grab your room key, Tommy leans in close and mutters against your ear, “You keep that shit up an’ I’ll fuck you right through that king sized mattress. Good luck explainin’ two grand worth of hotel damages to my brother.”

Your face heats, but your troublesome smirk makes its appearance, and Tommy knows right then and there that the whole thing was intentional.

He takes the key for room 314, thanks the receptionist, and grabs your bags from the back of his truck before locating the room.

It’s on the third floor, nearly at the end of the lengthy balcony. In front of room 307, there’s a rowdy group of young men—half his age, if Tommy had to guess. They’re drinking and smoking and having a good time, laughing together and passing a bong back and forth.

Which wouldn’t bother Tommy usually, except you're with him. He’s in an unknown town, and these are unknown people, and the one in a black graphic t-shirt with the sleeves cut out stares at you a little too long for Tommy’s comfort.

He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you to him. You fit so perfectly there, right at his side, and it makes that delusional part of him wonder if his body was crafted with you in mind. The arch of his shoulder that you find easy shelter beneath, the dip between his ribs and hip that your curves fit against like puzzle pieces, the size of his hand that slides effortlessly into the arch at the base of your spine.

Nothing else makes sense to him. Nothing else but you.

The hotel room is far from glamorous. Exactly what he’d expected. There’s dated maroon carpet and bleached white sheets and a small television set mounted to the wall across from the bed. It’s a little too cold—the thermostat is set to a crisp sixty-two degrees and blowing icy air through the vents.

But it’s clean, and Tommy considers that a win.

Across the room, there’s a wide window. He sets your bags on the floor beside the bed as you draw back the heavy curtains.

“There’s a pool,” you say as he comes up to the window to join you.

The hotel rooms were built in a U shape, all three floors overlooking the underground pool in the center of the courtyard. It’s dark out and the lights are low, clearly closed for the evening, but the water glows just slightly in a greenish hue.

Tommy kisses the back of your neck. “Gate’s not too high,” he states, mirroring the smirk that forms on your face as you turn to face him. “You wanna go?”

“I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” you say, moving past him and towards the door. “So try not to perv too hard, Uncle Tommy.”

He chases after you, laughing a little too loudly as you try and fail to escape. The room fills with your lighthearted giggles, and he fills with love. Tommy wraps his arms around your waist and lifts your feet off the ground. “Such a brat,” he says with a shake of his head.

Tommy opens the door for you, double-checking he has the room key in his back pocket, and the two of you make your way to the courtyard.

The wrought iron gate around the pool is covered in chipping white paint, and he can smell the chlorine from outside of it. There’s a placard screwed into it that reads, NO DIVING. POOL HOURS: 9-9.

You hold tight to the metal edge of the sign as Tommy gives you a boost so you can pull yourself up.

“Careful gettin’ down,” he says as you toss one leg over the top of the iron fence. “Concrete might still be wet.”

You snort. “What, you think it’s my first day out here or something?”

No, he doesn’t. You agreed too quickly, knew just where to leverage your feet, pulled yourself over to the other side of the barrier with too much ease for Tommy to believe this is your first time hopping a fence.

Tommy follows suit, jumping up and ove. When he lowers himself to the other side, his voice is teasing as he asks, “You mean to tell me this ain’t your first time bendin’ the rules?” He clicks his tongue playfully. “You’re trouble, girl.”

“This is light work,” you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. “You want trouble? Give me a minute.”

And then you’re climbing back over the gate, this time with no help from him at all. “What in the hell are you on about now?”

You call over your shoulder before disappearing into the darkness, “Just—wait a second. I’ll be right back.”

Tommy’s left sitting on the edge of one of those cheap plastic chaise chairs that are at every hotel pool, confused and curious.

The humidity is thick, and sweat quickly forms at the back of his neck. The sound of crickets and cicadas fills the space around him, and Tommy takes a second to send a quick text to Joel. Lets him know you’ve arrived safely, and promises to call right after the consultation to tell him how it goes.

You’re not gone long. And when you haul yourself back over the pool gate, there’s a grin on your face. You kick off your shoes beside him and say, “C’mon.”

Tommy stands and follows you to the edge of the pool. You sit on the concrete lip and stick your legs into the dimly lit water, sending gentle ripples across the surface. He sits beside you, shucking off his work boots and pulling up the denim of his jeans just enough to feel the cool water against his skin.

“Need your lighter,” you say. It’s only then that Tommy sees the joint in your hand. Rolled to perfection, made with practiced fingers.

He knows you likely got it from those guys in front of room 307, and a part of him wants to reprimand you. Wants to remind you how dangerous it is for a girl like you to approach men you don’t know. Especially an entire group of them.

But you’re here, and safe, and your boldness might just be the thing he loves the most about you. Trouble, certainly, but full of life and free of regret. So he just chuckles lowly, shakes his head, and pulls the chrome Zippo out of the front pocket of his jeans.

You hand him the joint, and he lights it easily. The heady smell hits quickly, but it’s far from unpleasant. He offers it to you between pinched fingers and says, “Ladies first.”

But you just shake your head. “You know how to waterfall, Uncle Tommy?”

He hears the echo of that first conversation he ever had with you in Joel’s kitchen. He’d tried to keep his distance that day. Truly, he had一but as he poured that whiskey into your mouth, you’d just looked so fucking pretty. Tommy thinks he’d been doomed from the damn start. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “I got you.”

When he presses the joint to his mouth and inhales deeply, Tommy finds he doesn’t mind the taste. A little fruity and a little peppery, but not bad. The smoke burns his lungs, but he holds it in deep.

You part your lips and lean in so close that he can taste the remnants of your cherry lip gloss. It makes him feel dizzy in the same way it had been that very first time.

He exhales the smoke into your mouth, and you breathe it in, pressing a kiss to his lips at the very end. You hum softly and say, “Mm. You taste so good.”

The corners of his mouth turn up at the compliment. It’s innocent, technically, but he thinks about the way you’d licked his release off your fingers not too long ago on the kitchen floor of his apartment, and those obscene images get stuck in his brain. “Yeah?”

You take the joint from his fingers this time when he passes it to you, holding it between your lips to take a hit. “I think about stuff like that all the time,” you tell him. “Small stuff. Not just the sex but…everything else. The way you taste. The way your hands feel on my skin. The sound of your voice.”

Tommy knows he could tell you anything and you wouldn’t judge him. Knows, too, that you’ve come to the same conclusion yourself. But this is another first. One of those conversations you’ve never had. Honest in a way you’ve never been before. He takes the joint when you pass it to him, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs.

“It’s never felt like this with anyone,” you continue. “Never been this good. It’s like…I don’t know. I don’t have to ask you for anything because一”

“You just know,” he says, finishing your sentence. He reaches a hand up and strokes the side of your cheek. “I know what you mean, baby. S’okay. Don’t gotta try to explain it to me.” He takes another short hit and passes the joint.

“Do you really think they’d be that mad?” Your voice is timid when you ask the question. Soft and full of quiet concern. “I mean, it’s not like we’re actually…you know. Related. Or…whatever. And there has to be some part of them that knows, right?”

Tommy hates the fear that builds in your voice. Wishes he could will it all away, wishes to keep you his favorite, carefree girl forever. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.”

Except he does know. Knows Joel will hate him for this. Knows it’ll bring tears to your mother's eyes, and it’ll prove the very thing Tommy’s denied his whole life.

He’s no good.

You take your last hit, the joint in your fingers burning to near completion. You stub the cinders out on the concrete beside your thigh, pocket the remains, and rest your head against his shoulder. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” you say.

The high slowly creeps in. A lightness takes hold of his limbs, and his brain becomes fuzzy. “Thinkin’ about something that happened when I was a kid,” he tells you. “Nothin’ important.”

“Well, I wanna know anyway.”

Tommy tries and fails to not let those four words mean too much to him. “My old man was a cop,” he begins. “Don’t know if Joel’s ever told you that or not. Real mean old bastard. Ran a tight ship, always wanted things done a specific way and by a specific time, even though he was gone most of the day and too drunk to know left from right when he was home. I did a stint in juvie when I was thirteen. Stole a bike that belonged to some kid who lived down the block. An’ when he came lookin’ for it, we got into a pretty nasty brawl. Broke his nose, gave him a concussion. Fuckin’...” Tommy scoffs. “Fuckin’ stupid, s’what it was.”

You lay your hand on his knee, palm up and open. Tommy traces the curving lines and wonders if this moment of quiet in all the ones you’ve shared of chaos was written there. Wonders if it’s fate or whatever the hell people call it. If some witchy, old lady who smells like patchouli and incense were to trace the lines in your palm, Tommy wonders if she’d see his face.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I’m sure you can imagine how embarrassing it was for my old man, a cop, to have a kid serve time. It wasn’t long, just a month, but…still. Knew he’d be pissed when I got out. Honestly thought he was gonna beat the hell out of me an’ I’d have deserved it.”

“No,” you say, a tone of finality in your voice. “Doesn’t matter what you did, Tommy. You’d never deserve something like that. You were just a kid.”

His breath stutters. Tommy’s not a father, so he knows he doesn’t exactly understand the weight of such a title. But he likes to think that he played a decent hand in raising Sarah. And she’s a thousand times better than Tommy ever was, but even if she were somehow worse, he can’t imagine ever speaking to her with even half the malice his father’s voice held.

And yet, still, in all his years, no one has ever said it so boldly. Not until now.

Until you.

Just a kid. Tommy inhales shakily.

“Yeah, well…I don’t know.” He swallows down the intensity of emotion that swells in his throat. “He didn’t end up punishing me at all. Didn’t even show up the day I got released.” Tommy shakes his head and laughs softly, but there’s no true amusement in it.

You press a kiss to his shoulder, and it grounds him. Allows him to feel the self-hatred this memory always brings without fully drowning in it.

“Joel was there, though,” he says. “Waited all day in the front office ‘til they processed me and let me out. An’ when we got home, there was a brand new bike waitin’ for me on the front porch. Found out he mowed every lawn on the block and walked every damn dog in town just to buy it. I coulda’ done the same thing, but instead I took the easy way out. An’ I think…I think that was the first time I ever let him down. I mean, really let him down.”

Tommy can still clearly recall the look on Joel’s face that day. Relieved to see his little brother released, but harrowed in a whole new way.

He sighs softly. “Whole life’s just been a series of memories like that ever since. Got…I don’t know. Bad luck. Bad blood, maybe,” Tommy explains, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m supposed to be somethin’ a little different to you than what I am. Somethin’ better. An’ I think if my brother were to find out that the only woman I’ve ever loved is the same little girl he cares for like she’s his own?” He huffs. “I don’t think he’ll just be mad, sweetheart. I think he’ll finally see me for what I am.”

“Which is what?”

“A disappointment,” he answers with finality. He pulls at the loose thread on the pocket of his jeans. “There won’t be any comin’ back from that one.”

You grab hold of his hand. Squeeze your fingers tightly around his. The touch sends electricity skittering up to his elbow and somehow calms him at the same time. Both shock and soothe. You lift his knuckles to your mouth and press a kiss there. The sweetest, softest touch.

And then you’re standing to your feet, and Tommy watches from the ground as you pull your t-shirt over your head and drop it on the concrete beside your feet. He knows, but still asks, “What are you doin’?”

“Taking my clothes off,” you say as if it’s obvious. You unbutton your denim shorts and shimmy them down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your pretty lace bra and a pair of violet colored panties.

You make his mouth water. Even though you’re not putting on a show for him or playing your hand at seduction, Tommy can’t help but want you. You’re beautiful in a way he’s never experienced before. But it’s different now compared to those first few weeks after he’d met you. Less fiery supernova, less burn, and more like the warmth of the hearth. Beautiful like…like home. A feeling he’s never known existed before you, yet has craved all his life.

With a running start, you jump right into the cold aquamarine waters, droplets splashing him in the process. And when you crest the surface, running your hands over your hair, wiping the water from your face, it reminds Tommy of a painting Sarah had written an English paper about once called The Birth of Venus.

You look like something fucking holy.

The water ripples as you swim to him, hands on the concrete edge of the pool on either side of his hips. You push yourself up, water dripping off your smooth skin and onto his jeans. You say, “Kiss me,” and Tommy thinks it’s a request he’ll never be capable of denying.

He leans in close, lips a breath away from yours, and then you move back, pushing yourself back into the water with your feet against the pool’s cement wall. “Brat,” he mutters.

Your soft giggles echo in the night air. “Guess you’ll have to come get me,” you say, swimming to the very center of the water. You float on your back, arms extended.

When Tommy stands to his feet, his balance sways. His head is cloudy and he knows the high has taken full effect now. Everything feels slow, movements delayed, sounds syrupy in his ears. He tugs his shirt by the collar and drops it in the pile you’ve started. He discards his jeans, takes one last look at you to cement this memory in his brain, and then he dives in.

The water’s cold as it rushes up to greet him. But his body adjusts quickly, and Tommy glides easily through the water to meet you in the pool’s center. The water’s shallower here, enough so that he can stand flat-footed on the bottom and still keep his head above water.

You cling to him as if it’s instinct, wrapping your limbs around him.

When he finally kisses you, your lips taste like chlorine and sugar and you. A lethal combination.

You cradle his face in your hands. Hold him like he’s worth something. With more certainty in your voice than he’s ever heard, you say, “You’ll never disappoint me, Tommy Miller.”

And it steals the breath right from his lungs. Is damn near painful to hear. Because he doesn’t believe it. Knows good and well that eventually he’s going to do something to let you down the same way he always does, and when he catches a glimpse of that disheartened look in those starry eyes, Tommy thinks it just might break him.

But he can try, can’t he? To be everything you want him to be. To be everything you need. He wishes he had gotten himself together years ago. Wishes he were better for you now and not later. But you understand him in a way no one else ever has, and if you’ll have him just as he is, how could he ever deny himself of that?

Tommy thinks that just might be the bravest thing of all: loving him before he becomes the man you deserve.

He kisses you hard. Breathes you in like air, tasting your tongue, hoping you can feel the way he worships the ground you walk on.

When you pull away, it’s slow. Reluctant. And then you say, “Tell me another memory.”

He laughs. “M’afraid none of them are very interesting.”

“They are to me,” you explain. “They are if it’s you.”

Maybe it’s just the weed, but Tommy feels high on your saccharine words. Had never realized until now just how badly he wanted to hear them.

So, he does. Tells you all about his partner during Desert Storm named Owen. Explains that Owen was the kind of guy who could always find something good to talk about even on their worst days. “Could make the crowd at a funeral laugh,” Tommy says. “You kinda remind me of him in that way.”

You smile when he says that, eyes crinkling around the corners, and Tommy wonders if you’re aware of the impact you have on those around you. How you light up every room you enter.

He tells you Owen was a real momma’s boy, and how in Christmas of eight-seven he went all out. Came into some extra money and got her a brand new car—one of those Dodge Caravans to haul the grandkids in. Blue, just like she wanted. And Owen’s momma was grateful, of course—but he’d gotten her a poinsettia for Christmas every year since he was nine, and just so happened to forget in eighty-seven.

“Told me she was so upset about that damn poinsettia it brought her to tears,” Tommy explains with a laugh. “Said he would never forget after that.”

He smiles sadly, and Tommy thinks you know what’s coming before he explains that Owen went on a scouting mission gone bad one day and never came back to camp. Your arms around his neck embrace him just a little tighter when he says it.

“Anyway, I…I‘ve never told anyone this before. But when I got home, I went lookin’ for his momma. Found out she lived in some podunk town in Indiana. An’ I wanted to talk to her. But I just…I couldn’t bring myself to. An’ I got real nervous every time I tried, so I never did. But I sent her a poinsettia every Christmas until she passed a handful of years ago.”

You twist the curls at the nape of his neck in your fingers, and he’s not sure if your desire to be constantly touching him now is because of the weed or if it’s simply the magic of the moment. “You’re a good man,” you say.

But he shakes his head. “Nah. Anyone woulda’ done it.”

“No, I don’t think they would have.” You kiss him gently, nuzzling your nose against his. Water trickles down the side of your cheek. “Do you ever think that sometimes you’re meant to meet people? I mean, what are the chances that Owen would have you as a partner of all the men and women there? And because it was you and not someone else, his mom never went another Christmas without a poinsettia.”

Tommy’s never really put much thought into it, truly. Has never believed in things like that up until recently. “Some parts of our lives might be mapped out, sure. But you can be handed something an’ still fuck it up. It’s what you do with what you’re given that counts.”

You nod contemplatively, rolling his words over in your brain. “Yeah, I can agree with that.” The words are timid. Almost shy.

And Tommy knows there’s something you’re not saying, so he lifts your chin with his index finger and traces the outline of your pretty bottom lip with his thumb. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

“It’s kinda…I don’t know. Kinda bad,” you confess.

But he would never judge you for anything, and he thinks you know that.

So, you continue. “Do you ever think we were meant to meet each other? I mean, what if…and I know this is so—so selfish, but what if it’s not my mom and Joel who were meant to meet. What if it was us?”

It feels a little like betrayal just to consider it. Like a knife right in his brother's back. Because Tommy doesn’t think Joel has ever been as happy with a woman as he is with your mother, but he wonders if you’re right. How else would any of this make sense?

If he wasn’t meant to meet you, then why does he feel like he’s going to find you in every lifetime? After his death, when the worms eat him down to the bones, when even they turn to ash, Tommy Miller would fucking find you.

In the way he knows the comfort of his bed waits for him after a terrible day, he knows you wait for him in this place and the next.

“They love each other,” he says dismally. “And Joel deserves it. All that love she’s got for him.”

“I know, but…where am I supposed to put all of mine? If I’m not supposed to love you, then why is there so much of it?”

Tommy hates that there’s the faintest trace of pain in your eyes. Your voice remains calm, nothing but curious. A plain question. But he knows you. He can see it.

He swallows hard. There’s no answer he can give you. No way to ease your ache. But what he can give you is this. Him. Today.

So, he takes your small hand in his and presses it flat against his bare chest, right over his beating heart. “Right here, baby,” he says. “You put it right here, an’ you don’t worry about anything else. You let me carry the rest.”

You nod slowly, the tension bleeding from your shoulders. The way you trust him so easily, instinctively, warms him from the inside out. And Tommy decides right then and there that he’ll never jeopardize your faith in him.

Even if it means taking the complete fall for this, even if it means losing his brother and his niece and you in the process, he swears he’ll keep you safe. Keep you happy to the best of his ability. He presses his mouth to yours and knows the high has taken full hold of him now because the taste of you leaves his lips tingling.

Your tongue is soft against his. Slow but deliberate. Tommy can feel the love there. Wonders if his soul has always known yours.

It isn’t until you’re breathless that he hesitantly pulls away. Gives you just a little room to breathe, only for the corners of your mouth to pull up into a happy smile. “I bet I can hold a handstand longer than you can.”

Tommy laughs. “Got a few years of practice on you,” he says, swimming just far enough to put some distance between you. “Let’s see if you can keep up, youngin’.”

Your giggles are music to his ears. Sadness and fear vanished from your eyes. Tommy learns quickly that when it comes to pool games you’re a god damn cheat. Can feel the ripples of your movements as you topple out of your underwater handstand, but suspiciously, you’re still in position when he comes back to the surface.

He doesn’t think you close your eyes even once during Marco Polo, and when he tosses a handful of change from the front pocket of his jeans into the shallow end, you’re diving for the coppery coins before he’s even back in the pool.

But he lets you win every round without protest because he loves the way you demand three kisses after each game for your prize. A very specific number, and you want each one in very specific places.

After the handstands, all three of your prizes are on your face. Your forehead first, and then your cheek, and then that pretty mouth of yours. And then it’s your chest一your collar bone, your sternum, the valley between your breasts. Your torso follows. One to the curve of your left hip, one to the space between your ribs, and the other just below your navel.

Tommy catches on to the theme after your second round of Marco Polo. Knows what’s coming long before you pull yourself out of the pool and rest on the concrete edge. You lean back on your hands outstretched behind you, and say, “You pick for the first one.”

“What, like a pity reward?” Tommy teases with a snort. “Nuh-uh. Ain’t no sore loser. Tell me where you want it, sweetheart.”

The flush that crawls up your wet skin is beautiful, Tommy thinks. Painfully so. You touch the top of your thigh, lifting your legs out of the water just a little more to make it easier on him.

Tommy kisses you there, mouth hot and wanting. He tilts his head just a little, looking up at you. “Next?”

Your throat bobs as you swallow. He can see the desire steadily building in your eyes come to the surface with full force now. You spread your legs and he finds home between them, pushes them just a little wider to compensate for the width of his shoulders. You touch the inside of your thigh this time, just inches away from the edge of your panties.

When Tommy kisses you this time, it’s heavier. He goes back for seconds and thirds. Licks the water from your smooth skin and squeezes the supple flesh of your thigh between his calloused fingers. Groans against you and says, “Mm. So goddamn sweet.”

His cock has already grown hard at the taste of you. But it pulses in his boxers when you shoot him that troulesome smirk that he loves so much, and slowly slide one hand down the center of your body. “Last one,” you say. “So make it good.” And then you touch your center, directing him right where he knows you need him most.

Tommy places a hand above yours. Strokes his thumb up your slit over the top of your panties. “Here? Or…” And on the down stroke, he hooks his thumb beneath the wet fabric, right over your clit that’s slick in an entitely different way. He smiles when your breath stutters. “...here?”

“There,” you answer, spine arching the smallest bit.

For a second, Tommy thinks about denying you. Thinks you’ve deserved some teasing after the way you’d cheated him out of every well-deserved win tonight.

But he’s nothing if not greedy for you. And so he gives you exactly what you want. Tugs your panties to the side and leans in to press a soft, featherlight kiss right against your swollen clit. Your thighs part just a little wider, and Tommy sinks further into the pool to press his mouth to you even hard.

He slides his tongue through your slit and palms his cock with his free hand, moaning against your wetness. There’s nothing in the world he loves more than this, he thinks. Was fucking made to worship you.

You keep yourself propped up with one hand and thread the other through his hair, guiding him right where you want him. And Tommy is all too happy to oblige. He licks feverishly at your folds, needing it almost more than you do. His mouth waters, his saliva mixing with your arousal. He sucks your clit into his mouth and smiles at the way you shiver and shake.

He wants to slide his fingers into you. Knows he’d encounter no resistance. You’re just so fucking wet for him. But his cock is so hard it aches, beggind to be inside you, to feel you. He’d been able to keep his composure in Joel’s garage enough to not fuck you right in broad daylight, but the sun has set now and there’s no one around.

Tommy thinks he could fuck you right here. Right here, when all it would take is for some insomniac to open their hotel window to see the two of you. But he needs it. Needs you.

He pulls away, face hot and breath heavy. Says, “Got somethin’ else that wants to give you a kiss.”

You laugh, but it’s overtaken by a moan when Tommy slides his tongue inside of you. He thinks he likes the sound of that more than anything else. “Oh, God一fuck. Fuck, okay. Here? Now?”

He circles your clit with his thumb and peppers kisses up your torso. “Yeah, baby. Right now. Lean back.”

There’s no protest to be had. You do as he says with a smile on your face, and Tommy slots himself between your spread thighs. Pulls his cock just over the elastic band of his boxers, heavy and wanting, and presses his tip to your clit with your panties pulled to the side. He rocks his hips against you, cock sliding through your wet folds. You moan his name and your hands find his shoulders, seeking support that he gladly gives.

“S’alright, baby,” he promises. “M’right here. Wanna love you from the inside, too.”

He lines himself up with your entrance. Kisses you hard, and waits for the impatient rocking of your hips before he pushes into you.

You feel like ecstasy. Soft and wet and so fucking warm. He finds a fast-paced rhythm, thrusting deep. His movements are needy. Desperate. Fucking his fist to the thought of you these last few nights just hasn’t cut it.

The sound of your moans only spur him on, cock splitting you open, hammering against that soft spot inside of you that leaves your legs shaking.

But he slows, just a little, when you say, “God一please, please, I need一mmm.”

Tommy cradles your face in his big hand, holding you just below your chin. “Tell me, baby,” he mutters. “Tell me what you need an’ I’ll give it to you.”

He half expects you to tell him to slow down, to be gentle. But instead you say, “Fuck, more. Touch me more.”

It leaves him dizzy and breathless. The Earth moves slowly around him in a way that has nothing to do with the weed and everything to do with you. Well and truly addicted with no sobriety in sight.

He thrusts into you harder, hips rocking against yours. He drags his rough hands down your throat, feeling the shape of your collar bones and the way you arch your back up into his palms.

He says, “You’re so fuckin’ sexy, baby. This pussy was made for me. Made just for Uncle Tommy, hm? Say it. Tell me how much you love this dick.”

“I do, I fucking一yes, right there. I love it,” you whimper. And then, “I love you.”

If he wasn’t at your mercy before, he certainly is now.

His cock throbs inside you. Hearing it like that, all shrouded in desire and lust, nearly sends him over the edge. Tommy slides his hand beneath your panties and circles your clit, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher. Wants to feel you fall apart for him, but knows he’s running out of time.

With the flat of his tongue, he licks the water droplets from the curve of your throat. A groan escapes from somewhere deep in his chest at the taste of chlorine and you.

“Gonna fill you up, sweetheart,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “My favorite girl. Got no idea what you do to me. Make me feel…Christ,” he hisses, his orgasm rapidly approaching. Your warmth pulses around his cock, sucking him in deeper. But Tommy doesn’t dare stop. “Make me feel so goddamn special. Got me wantin’ to…shit. Wantin’ to be a better man. Say it again.”

And you do, without any need for clarification, the words whimpery and your voice soft. “I love you, Uncle Tommy.”

Pleasure twists down his spine, molten and heavy and intense. He paints your insides with sticky white ropes of cum, so much of it that it spills out around his cock, staining the fabric of your panties.

He keeps up the pace for as long as he can. Doesn’t pull out of you until his cock is so sensitive it hurts. And when he does, he slides two fingers into you and curls them upwards, finding that spot he loves so much. Sets the same rough, punishing rhythm. Says, “S’right there, ain’t it?”

“Yes, yes God一!” Your legs tremble around his hips. He knows you’re close, can feel your pretty pussy squeezing tight around his fingers.

“Such a dirty girl,” he mutters. “Lettin’ your uncle touch you all nasty. Right out in the fuckin’ open, too.” He clicks his tongue. Loves the way his fingers grow even slicker at his filthy words. “Filled you all full’a me. Should see the way it looks when I’m pushin’ it right back in. Mm. So god damn pretty.”

You reach for him, hand gripping his strong bicep, nails digging into his skin. “I’m so一so close一”

“Give it to me,” Tommy demands, voice low and dark. “Show me just how much you love your Uncle Tommy, baby.”

Your spine bends, and he pushes your legs wider with his free hand on the inside of your thigh. Knows you’ve reached the summit not by the way your walls twitch around his fingers or the sound of those filthy curses as they fall from your lips. Tommy knows it like some twisted sixth sense.

“There you go,” he murmurs, a satisfied mile tugging at his mouth. “Good job, sweetheart. So fuckin’ good for me.”

He fucks you through it, presses hard against that sweet spot inside of you. Doesn’t stop until every muscle in your body pulls tight and relaxes beneath his touch. And even then, he only slows the pace of his fingers. No longer thrusting them in and out of your entrance, but just massaging. Caressing. Loving.

When he does ease them out of you, they’re covered in a mixture of you both. You take his hand in yours, bring it to your mouth, and lick his fingers clean while staring right at him with those starry eyes.

It makes him hard all over again.

He grins, and you giggle with his fingers still in your mouth. “You’re fuckin’ crazy,” he says, but it’s filled with nothing but admiration. “You know that?”

“We, Uncle Tommy,” you correct. “Takes crazy to know crazy.”

It makes him laugh, but he hears the truth in your words the moment they reach his ears. He says, “At least we’re together.” An echo of that first night you shared. This moment feels somehow even more extraordinary. Untainted by shame, filled with nothing but tenderness.

Your eyes soften, and you press the palm of his hand to your delicate cheek and nod. “Yeah. At least we’re together.”

When you rise fully to your feet, you offer him your hand and help pull him out of the pool. The night air has cooled considerably, chilling him as the wind touches his wet skin.

You gather your things, but when you pull on your t-shirt Tommy notices the shiver in your shoulders and tosses you his, too. “Here,” he says.

He waits as you pull the too-large fabric over your head and pick up your shoes. You toss them over the fence into the grass, and he helps you up and over the iron railing.

Tommy goes to follow you once you’re safely on the other side, but stops when he catches a flash of the silver chain wrapped loosely around the pool gate. He snorts. “Hey, look at this.”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

He walks the short distance to the gate, wraps a hand around an iron bar, and pushes it right open without an ounce of resistance.

Tommy walks right on through with a dramatic prance and you burst into obnoxious laughter, doubling over with your hands on your knees. It’s not even that funny, but your mirth sends him into a spiral with you.

By the time you make it back to your hotel room on the third floor, Tommy’s laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. The responsible part of him knows he should be concerned about noise complaints, but his heart feels so childish with you. Silly and fragile and good.

He sets an alarm for less than five hours from the time his head hits the pillow, but Tommy doesn’t close his eyes until long after you’ve started snoring.

Instead, he savors the way you cling to him in your sleep. Memorizes the pattern of your slow breathing and the weight of your head on his chest. Fights off the shame when it threatens to trickle in.

Tommy lets himself have this weekend. Lets himself have you.

Because he knows, when you return to Austin, he’s going to fall the fuck apart without you.

taglist; @theretrofuturista @chuutu @gabymalikk @nana90azevedo @alidiggory92 @marisemonteiroo @ivyinthesun @hollowgracie @moyavsemoya @feliciahardysgf @polkadotsocks1993 @malewifejoelmiller @mmmunson @ssssc0m @skye-44 @tateypots @joelscowgirl69 @dbs5647 @cuntyhunty22 @thaliagracesgf @whossbunny @jamespotterismydaddy @whatdoyoumeanhesnapped @rainydayathogwarts @urfavhanna @subconsciouscollapse @worhols @joyridinginzombieland @emmaaas-posts @millers-girl @strawberrytreecake @atjlovverr @magicxmiller @reidswifeyyyyyy @avaluna @joelsslutt @krystal---meth @bbhfilms @virginesquee @njdluvr @royaltyinlife

note: let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! and pls let me know what you think about part three! i love talking to you guys about the dynamic between these two. whether it's through dm's or asks, it's my fav thing ever so PLEASE HIT MY LINE lmfaooo okay love u bye <3

for visuals, @feelherlove has made a tiktok edit inspired by part three which you can watch here! it's beautiful, TRUST. everyone say thank you stephanie!!! <3

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

662 notes · View notes