#Joel Hatch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

almostfoxglove · 3 months

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AIN'T THAT A BITE

written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV), The Last of Us (Video Game)

Rating: Mature

Central Characters: Reader, Young!Joel, Sarah

Central Relationship: Joel / Reader

Word Count: 6k

Pre-Outbreak & No-Outbreak AU

SUMMARY

It's the night of Jackson High's Sock Hop, the 8th grade dance which took you weeks to organize, and everything seems determined to go wrong. Thankfully, one student's dad—the handsome and brooding Joel Miller—comes to your rescue. READ ON AO3, if that's your jam!

Four weeks ago, volunteering to organize the eighth-grade dance committee had seemed like an excellent idea—a chance to make a solid first impression on the PTA and the chilly cast of your new colleagues while giving yourself a little excitement, some frivolous living beyond the usual boredom of your repetitive existence. Lesson plan, grade, report card, lesson plan, grade, report card—you love your job, but it gets old.

But now, on the night of Jackson High’s September Sock Hop, you know you’ve made a terrible mistake. Someone brought cookies with walnuts that had to be ceremoniously tossed, one of the speakers in the gym is crackling, three of your parent chaperones have bailed, and oh, yes—a sink in the girls’ bathroom has decided to spring a sudden leak and flood the place a mere fifteen minutes before the kids are due to show up.

Drenched and sweating, you make a hopeless attempt to mop the flood of water with the gym’s supply of linens, turning the tiled floor into a swamp of soggy towels that squelch beneath your shoes. It’s all a futile effort—the burst pipe beneath the far left sink is spewing water faster than the towels can sponge—but here you are, trying anyway, looking like you’ve just taken a long walk in a fucking monsoon.

A row of square mirrors sits framed above each ceramic sink, taunting you with your reflection. Your red poodle skirt has gone burgundy with water and your once pristine white button-up clings to your chest, translucent, peek-a-booing your bra.

Real professional.

“Miss Green?” comes a voice on the other side of the door, followed by a weary knock. “Believe students are arriving now.”

With a sigh, you take a final glare at your reflection as if looking again might fix things, then call out, “Alright,” with as much patience as you have left to muster. Outside the calculus teacher is waiting in his pin-stripe vest with a sorry grimace. He agrees to lock up that bathroom from use and with a tired thank you you click down the hall towards the school doors, stomach raw with nerves.

As promised the first, eager attendees stand outside Jackson High’s wide glass doors, giddy to be let in for the night’s event. Kids are in everything from pastel poodle skirts to leather jackets and waitress get-ups—you even spot the Broderick twins in matching, vintage baseball uniforms striped with strawberry red. Behind them stand their parents, some smiling and others bleary-eyed, who you force yourself to smile cheerfully for as you let them in, a clipboard held over your chest to hide your bra.

You don’t miss how the parents stare at you—soaking wet and clearly befuddled—and you mutter your apologies as they shuffle into the school. All but the main hall has been blocked off, leaving the children a one-way path to the gymnasium for the dance. You check your watch quickly; maybe you can sneak in a quick smoke around the corner before the rest of the eighth graders arrive.

Outside the air is perfect: your one reprieve. Blue-dark clouds haunt the star-pocked sky and the balmy remains of the dying summer sweep through the parking lot as a breeze. You breathe easily for the first time in an hour, lift your face, and close your eyes, stitching yourself together in the calm.

When you’re steady again, you decide against the smoke break. Too many parents pulling up in shiny cars with the kids. It’s enough to feel them in your skirt pocket—an escape hatch when you need them, a totem when you don’t. A nasty habit, your mother always says. But you only allow yourself two cigarettes a year. Not so bad, as habits go.

You’re about to turn back in and see if you can’t call a plumber at this hour when a pickup groans into the lot—steely-blue, bold text stickered on the side. It pulls not into a parking spot but the drop-off zone, right in front of you.

Miller Construction Ltd.

Maybe miracles are real after all.

As the passenger window rolls down and the cab light blinks on inside, you rush over, desperation rocketing your heart around in your chest. A girl in a lilac poodle skirt blinks up at you from the passenger seat, eyes wide with surprise. She’s got her hair pulled back in two big, curly pigtails ribboned with bows, and looks adorable—exactly what you’d pictured when you took on the behemoth task of putting this whole stupid evening together—complete with a matching neck scarf and shiny black shoes. You give her what you hope is a friendly grin and start rambling.

“I am so sorry,” you say, before you bother looking at the driver. “But we’ve got a plumbing emergency and if there is any chance you might have a few minutes to take a look at it, you’d be a—”

Your sentence drops off as you at last hunch down to make eye contact with the man in the driver’s seat through the open window. Dark-eyed and frowning, all curls and scruffy beard and thick flannel shirt: your type to a T. In your pause his daughter stifles a chuckle, and you shake your head to restart your brain. Focus. Sinks to fix, floods to mop.

With a tight grin, you tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Would be a lifesaver if you could, I don’t know, take a look. Even if it’s just to tell me we’re fucked and need an emergency plumber. We had a bunch of parent chaperones bail last minute, so we’re a little short on hands.”

Now the kid snorts, giggling. Shit—your teacher-voice has slipped.

You close your eyes, horrified. Seems there’ll be no end to your embarrassment today.

Sighing, you step back to open the passenger door so the girl can hop out. “If you promise not to tell any grown-ups I swore in front of you,” you tell her. “I’ll give you all As when you get to my class in a couple years.”

“Deal,” the girl says, grinning at you. “But I’d probably get an A anyway.”

Despite yourself, you smile—this time for real.

“You ain’t her teacher?” comes the driver’s voice. Deep and coarse, all Texan. When you glance back, he’s still frowning, eyes narrowed at you.

“Tenth grade English and History,” you say.

“And you’re workin’ the eighth-grade dance,” he says.

You shrug. “I’m new. Thought it’d go over well if I came in eager and offered to plan the thing.”

He hmphs, expressionless, his skin golden under the overhead light, eyes glinting with amber. You’re almost glad the kid’s not in your class; parent-teacher interviews would be torture. Sitting across your desk from this man, forced to pretend you don’t want him to ruin you.

Beside you on the sidewalk, the girl shoots her dad a daggered look and crosses her arms. “He’s free,” she says. “He can do it.”

“Sarah,” the man hisses.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she snarks. “Do you suddenly have a social calendar I don’t know about?”

After a brief stare-down which Sarah seems to win, he huffs and mutters a cranky one second before pulling out of the drop-off zone to park.

“I like your skirt,” Sarah says when he’s gone. Streetlamps have you both in a cloak of shadow, and the pale light radiating from the school’s front doors doesn’t quite reach this spot, but her inquisitive expression is unmissable in the dark.

“It’s a little ruined,” you say sheepishly. “But I like yours.”

Pleased, she gives you a little twirl, purple fabric blooming from her waist. “Thanks,” she says, when she stills again. “My dad sewed on the poodle.”

Across the lot you hear the harsh slam of a car door cracking shut and spot her glowering father stalk across the asphalt, silhouetted by a distant streetlight, his shoulders unfairly broad. You nod toward the front doors. You’d never admit it to anyone, but the thought of this surly figure lovingly stitching a felt poodle to his daughter’s costume makes you a little weak in the knees.

“You can go on in,” you tell Sarah, and she waves at her dad before running inside.

Then he’s walking up the pavement, growing closer. Of course he smells good—like patchouli and something earthy and skin. Of course he’s rolled up his sleeves, baring his tanned forearms, one tensed by the toolbox clutched in his hand. You manage a stiff grin as he approaches, no teeth, to which you receive only a curt nod in reply.

In silence, you walk him through the glassy doors, heels clicking as swing music crackles from the gymnasium some distance away. You catch, in the corner of your eye, the shape of his head turning as he watches Sarah running full-speed down the main hall to catch up with a group of girls that must be her friends. She launches herself at them, and even at this distance you hear the shrill of their joy, the sugar-high laughter, and smile to yourself.

“She’s sweet,” you say, guiding him into a branching hallway, away from the main event.

He grunts, then mumbles, “Pain in my ass is what she is.”

You chuckle. When you dare to look back at him again, you see his begrudging tone doesn’t match his expression. You swear his eyes flit quickly away as if you’ve caught him already looking at you. Hard to be sure, you think, in this dimmer light. But his cheeks almost look pink.

After a beat too long, you realize why.

You’ve dropped your clipboard to your side without thinking, unveiling your water-logged shirt, which clings sheerly to your skin. Grimacing, you cover yourself again. “Not much of a plumber,” you say quietly.

Once you’ve grabbed the keys back from your colleague, you drag this poor, probably busy dad to the girls’ bathroom and unlock the door, glancing down at his boots before you open it. “You don’t love those shoes, do you?” you ask.

His eyebrows lift, jaw tensing. “Sure they’ll be fine, darlin’,” he grunts.

You push into the bathroom before your brain has the chance to recover from darlin’. You’ve been in Texas all of six months and you still aren’t used to the pet names. Everyone here seems to call each other everything. Even the old woman who works the till at the grocer by your apartment calls you honey or angel, and you wouldn’t exactly describe her as the friendly type. Darlin’ isn’t even irregular. Bus drivers call you that.

Difference here is that it’s this man saying it—which is to say, someone gorgeous with a voice that could melt you if you let yourself listen close enough. Your heart purrs, thrilled.

The bathroom is a calamity. Though the drains in the center of the tiled floor have meant no water has flooded into the hallway, there’s still an inch or so blanketing the tiles wall to wall. Under one of the mirrors, the guilty sink continues to spew: a graceful font of silver gushing from a fault in the pipe.

Over your shoulder you hear Sarah’s dad clear his throat before you step out of his way.

Fearless, he trudges through the mess unfazed, dodging the tides of boggy towels like this is the most natural habitat to find himself in. His boots and the ankles of his jeans blacken with water, and though you’re in some stupid, clacky pair of heels to go with your outfit, you follow him into the shallows anyway, riddled with shame. At the slosh of your footsteps behind him, Sarah’s dad turns to give you a cutting stare you cannot read and you freeze, caught.

“What?” you say.

“No reason you gotta be in here for this,” he says. “Might be wise to dry off a little, don’t you think?”

Does the corner of his mouth twitch upward, or do you imagine it—you can’t decide. “Right,” you manage. “Sorry. Thank you, seriously.”

You pivot to leave him to it, splashing weakly as you go, your skirt bunched in one hand to keep it safe from the splatter. In the doorway you can’t help but look back, and see him kneeling in the mess, tool in hand, his toolbox open and shelved on a not-broken sink. He spots you looking and this time, you don’t imagine it. He lets slip half a grin.

“Got it from here,” he says.

You nod but don’t move and you don’t know why.

Well, that’s not true. You do.

Sarah’s dad cocks one dark eyebrow at you, bemused, maybe, by your hesitation. “You really have chaperones bail?” he asks, voice low.

“Three,” you say.

He grunts, then turns his attention back to the spitting sink, and you step out into the dim hallway without goodbye.

You slip into the bathrooms in the teacher’s lounge to stand under the hand dryer for a bit, letting your shirt dry out. When it’s no longer see-through, you stand in front of the long mirrors looking at yourself, fussing. You retouch your lipstick—red, like your skirt, like your nails—though the hair’s a lost cause. The best you can do is run a hand through the end bits and say an empty prayer.

Then, finally, you emerge, and take off with a sidelong glance thrown at the closed door of the flooded girls’ bathroom as you pass.

You volunteered four weeks ago, and you spent three of those weeks working on the decorations in tiny pockets of time between the school day, your commute home, and all the hours you spend every evening and weekend on lesson plans and marking. Maybe it’s only September, but the whole staff has been working since August and it’s no slower now than it will be in the spring. Still, you gave up sleep. Gave up seeing friends. Gave up proper, home-cooked meals and reverted to the habits of your college days, eating boxed mac and cheese straight from the pot over the stove.

Now, it all pays off.

The gymnasium’s a goddamn ritz. Ribbons of twinkle lights droop from the rafters, sparkling above the scatter of a disco ball. You thrifted huge, vintage neon signs—with your own money, thanks so much public school district—that cast pools of candy-colored light on the shiny floor. Gingham tablecloths sheath the drink stands. You had to bribe the theater department to let you repurpose an old bartop set from some long-gone play. Painted that sucker with black and white checkers, even scrounged up some round, pleather bar stools to match. Instead of a bar-bar, it’s a snack bar—pastel cupcakes and dairy-free milkshakes and huge metal bowls of nut-free, everything-free snack mixes displayed behind the bar. Kids all get three snack tickets ‘cause the PTA had strong feelings about sugar intake, but hey. All the bar stools are full; the kids seem to love it.

Despite the last-minute disasters, you’re tempted to cry with relief. Slept three hours last night, painting the last of the stars that hang overhead, but they look like magic now. Glossy and twinkling while Elvis plays. It looks pretty close to perfect. And the kids, by some miracle, are dancing. The gym teacher comes out to show them some simple swing steps, and as clumsy as they all are, it’s fucking adorable.

“Hope you’re willing to do this for all the dances,” one teacher mutters to you as you pass.

You flit from table to table, refilling and wiping down and checking in with chaperones—twenty minutes zing by in the blink of an eye. When the gymnasium door creaks quietly open, the dark shape of Sarah’s dad appears in the doorway. You set down your punch glass with a grin and scurry over.

But he’s looking up when you make it to him, starstruck by twinkle lights, his face pink and blue with the neon light. Christ, he’s easy on the eyes. Facing this way, with none of the gym or kids or decorations in view, you can almost imagine that you’re standing in a bar looking up at some handsome stranger you might have a shot in hell at taking home.

“Everything okay?” you ask, when he still hasn’t looked down, his hand flat and broad on the door to prop it open.

He blinks, wakes from his daze, and the look of wonder that just now softened him fades, his face stiff again. You step into the hall and the door slides shut behind you. The honeyed voices of The Isley Brothers muffle.

In the direct light of the hallway you can see he’s soaked—jeans wet to the tops of his thighs, his whole flannel clinging to his chest. One curl lays flat and damp against his forehead. He would’ve had to kneel right in the spray to work on the sink. Might as well have set a hose on the poor man.

Jesus, you must have ruined this guy’s whole fucking night.

“Oh my god,” you say, eyes wide with horror. “I am so sorry—”

He lifts one hand as if to say stop and your mouth snaps shut. “Just water,” he grumbles. “Sink’s fine now. Joint was old and brittle. Had a part in the truck that’ll hold you over till Monday, but you’ll need someone to do a proper repair next week.”

You run a hand over your face, so grateful to him that all logical thought and processing flutters right out of your head. “Jesus, I could kiss you—thank you so much, seriously,” you start to say, hand still over your eyes as you stutter to a halt, realizing your mistake.

Heat boils in your face as you split your fingers to peek at him through your hand, but he doesn’t look horrified. He just rolls his eyes, a little playfully you think, and shakes his head like you’re being ridiculous. “Not necessary,” he says.

You let your hand drop. “I’d insist that I’m normally the epitome of professionalism, but there’s no way in hell it’d be convincing,” you say, grinning sheepishly.

Shrugging, he remains silent. Maybe you should take your friends up on their offers to set you up—you clearly need to get laid. Just him shrugging is doing things to you. Nevermind the tiny flick of his tongue that graces his bottom lip as he looks off down a roped-off hall.

“Still short on chaperones?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Yeah,” you admit. “But we’ll make due.”

Another shrug. “Could help out—‘m already here.”

Your eyes round. Though part of you wants to refuse, insist he’s done more than enough already, that he ought to get home and into dry clothes and forget about this mess, you don’t. It’s definitely selfish, almost greedy, but you don’t want him to go. Even if you only get to look at him across the gymnasium without saying another word to each other the whole rest of the night, you’d like him to stay.

A grin squirms across your face before you can stop it; you have to look away to smother it as you tap one foot against the floor.

“Okay,” you say coolly, returning your gaze to him once you’ve gathered yourself. “But you can’t go in there looking like this.”

The theater department’s costume room gives you the creeps. Has since the first day you stepped foot in this place back in August when you got the grand tour—anywhere with this many mannequins is cursed, frankly—and it turns out it’s even worse in the dark. When you swing open the door, pale light from the hall slants against the black floor, and you reach blindly across the wall for the switch as your heart patters with dread.

Then finally: light. Weak, stuttering, yellow, but light all the same. You breathe.

Regardless, stepping into the costume room feels like being squeezed. Cramped alleyways have been formed by clothing racks stuffed well past their capacity—gowns of past Shakespeare productions hang beside the gothic frocks of Morticia and Wednesday Addams—forcing you to inch between racks, grazed by a parade of empty sleeves.

Sarah’s dad, bless him, hardly fits at all, and has to shuffle through the aisles sideways to follow you on what must seem to him like a blind mission without any destination.

But you’ve been in this place. You know exactly what you’re looking for. Turning a corner, the next section is too narrow for the man to fit through, so you point out a chair across the room by the mirror and tell him to wait.

“And you can ditch the flannel,” you call out as he goes. “Can hang it over the heaters to dry.”

Though you hear the low thunder of him mumbling, you miss the words.

When you emerge from the dusty racks, unnerved by the looming, half-dressed mannequins standing guard over their lot, Sarah’s dad is sitting where you asked him to wait, stripped out of his flannel, left in a slightly damp white t-shirt, his shoulder blades faintly visible in the stuttering light. If him shrugging was doing something to you earlier—this is likely to kill you.

You clear your throat as you approach and he quickly straightens his posture. When you’re close enough, you hold out the hangers to him, even give them a little shake when he cuts his eyes at you, doubtful. You roll your own in reply. “Come on,” you insist. “Sarah will love it.”

That gets him to stand, albeit with a scowl, but it still makes you grin. With a grumpy hmph, he takes the hangers from you and you duck between racks again to give him some privacy. Sure, maybe you’d like a peek as he strips off those wet jeans, but even you know better than that. So you stand in the disordered aisle of costumes and listen instead.

For a long time you hear nothing, like he’s hesitating. You did have to guess the sizes, but you worked plenty of retail jobs in your early twenties. Aren’t so bad at guessing. Every breath in this room, now that you’re silent, feels agonizingly loud. Not just yours, but his. The swelling of his chest with air.

Then finally—clink. A belt buckle slacking open. Your eyes slam shut even though you’re looking in the opposite direction, at some 60s-style dress from what must’ve been an old Hairspray production with construction paper polka dots duct-taped on. He lets out a soft grunt. There’s a shuffle of fabric. Then a wet slop as his jeans hit the floor.

Your whole body throbs with heady, certain want.

Yes, you definitely need to get laid. This is humiliating.

When you hear the belt buckle’s metal clink again, signaling he’s got the new, dry jeans on, you feel it’s safe to speak again. “I never asked you your name,” you say, still staring at the costumes. You hear him set the next hanger on the chair and even though putting it on requires no further undressing, you’ll stay exactly where you are until he’s done. Don’t trust yourself not to leer.

More shuffling, this time of sturdier fabric. “Joel,” he gruffs, and after a pause adds bitterly, “I look ridiculous.”

Chuckling, you squeeze out of the aisles and find him standing before the full-length mirror wedged in the corner of the room, into which Joel is sneering at his reflection.

Also, he’s dead fucking wrong.

The jeans are a little tight, but frankly they’re better this way. His thighs taut beneath denim, his calves hugged. He’s a little bow-legged. So Texan. From the waist down he might as well be a cowboy. From the waist up, however, he looks like he’s just strutted off the set of Grease, putting even 1978’s Travolta to shame. His white t-shirt sits crisply beneath the black leather jacket, which he snaps to adjust the lapels. Fits him perfectly, like it was made for those shoulders, and he’s raked back his wet hair, giving it the look of being gelled, one stray curl rebelling over his forehead.

He catches your eye in the mirror, mouth twitching again, but it doesn’t become a grin or a frown. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t know what you’re looking at,” you say. “But you do not look ridiculous from where I’m standing.”

His nose scrunches as he breaks his eyes from yours in the reflection, ducking his head to rub the back of his neck. Seriously, you’d crawl all over this guy if he weren’t the dad of one of your students. Future students—whatever. But you’ll save yourself the humiliation, gotta get this show on the road, and so you jut your chin in the direction of the door. “Let’s go. Got kids to supervise, hands to keep from wandering.”

Joel balks, hands flat to fists in an instant, ready to kill.

“Oh please,” you tease, and wave one hand dismissively as you make your way to the door. “Like you weren’t thirteen once.”

You listen as he stomps after you, muttering a cranky, “Gonna have to be at all these fuckin’ things,” that makes your head fall back with a sudden laugh.

The moment you return to the gymnasium, you’re needed by everyone—so and so needs to know where the extra ice is; what’s-her-face is concerned about the sugar content of the fruit punch; and some parent wants to talk about their kids’ English grade like this is the appropriate venue for such a conversation. You immediately lose Joel to the call of teacher-slash-host duties, and he slips past you, hugging the wall as he strides over to man the drink table which, in your absence, has stood without supervision. The man might as well be a saint—you manage to catch his eye and mouth a silent thank you across the gym, to which he half-grins from a pool of neon pink glow, setting you ablaze.

Most of the night you spend running around like a madwoman, responsible for switching in new music as each CD ends, refilling snack bowls, and pulling one student off another when you catch them kissing in the hall. Thankfully neither of them is Sarah, but you do have to give the kids a talking-to.

Late in the night, you’re chatting to some of your colleagues against the gymnasium wall and watching the kids shimmy to Rock Around the Clock, poodle skirts billowing like spinning tops, when you spot Sarah rush across the floor toward Joel—apparently only spotting him now. You’re too far to hear them, too far to read their lips, but Sarah’s runaway smile is obvious at any distance. She hops in place, delighted, and forces Joel to do a little spin for her.

Though smaller, you catch his smile too. The dimple in his cheek as he fails to restrain his contentment at her approval. How he shakes his head, embarrassed to be fawned over. Adorable.

When the Spanish teacher makes his rounds with the school’s camera, snapping flash photos of the kids’ eager smiles and costumes as they pose with their milkshakes or friends, you tap him on the shoulder and point in Joel and Sarah’s direction. “Get one of them, would you?” you whisper, and he nods, shuffling off.

Joel spots him coming a mile off, camera in hand, and immediately frowns. He makes eye contact with you across the gymnasium like he knew exactly where you were standing, and shakes his head as if to say no way. You smile, wicked, and mouth yes. One of his hands balls to a fist.

But when Sarah spots the photographer a second later, she wraps an arm around Joel’s waist to pose and his resistance crumbles. When you were thirteen, you’d have been humiliated to be seen posing with your parents in front of your classmates, but Sarah doesn’t seem to mind at all. Her adoration is obvious, abundant. Anyone can see how much she loves him—you can see, too, Joel’s love for her. Once the Spanish teacher raises the camera to shoot, he throws his arm around Sarah’s shoulders, looking down at her with a soft, grump-less grin. The white flash snaps in the dark gymnasium, photo taken, then Sarah returns to her friends.

You cut your eyes away when he starts to turn his head in your direction, returning your gaze to your colleague. Don’t need him catching you staring. Your dignity has suffered plenty tonight.

You cave about twenty minutes before parents are due to pick up the kids at the end of the night—not due to stress, just exhaustion—and sneak out into the black night to smoke. Tucked just out of view of the parking lot and doors, you sink onto a wooden bench and light up, letting the tension unwind from your body. Gray smoke tendrils as you exhale a half-formed smoke ring. Never could get those right, but it’s fun to try while crickets croak unseen from the shadows, braiding their eerie melody. With every drag, you relax into a kind of trance, at one with the night.

Eyes shut, you don’t hear him coming. It isn’t until he clears his throat that your eyes snap open and you realize someone’s caught you smoking.

“Shit,” you mutter, adjusting your posture to sit up straight.

Joel stands over the bench, caliginous in the dark. His hair has dried, curls loosening from each other. You hear a low chuckle that must come from him, but you can’t quite make out his face until he lowers himself onto the bench beside you—then you see he’s smirking.

You tap ash onto the sidewalk beside your feet, away from him, unable to look him in the eye. “Not worth trying to defend myself, is it?” you joke sheepishly.

He adjusts his position, thighs spread just a touch, and crosses his arms over his chest. The leather jacket is practically criminal, it fits him so well.

“That’s alright, darlin’,” he replies. “Don’t need to.”

You bring the cigarette to your lips to smother your impulse to smile, the filter stained crimson by your lipstick. You risk a glance at him. “You want one?”

Shaking his head, the corner of Joel’s mouth tugs. “Quit when Sarah came around,” he admits.

“Very responsible,” you say, and though you really shouldn’t flirt, it comes out a little snarky, like you’re teasing him. “Quit after college, but I get to indulge twice a year.”

Joel quirks an eyebrow at you, though doesn’t question the obvious flaw in your logic. “Miss it?” he asks.

You shrug and exhale a thin stream of smoke from the corner of your mouth. “Always think I do,” you say. “But it’s so much grosser than I remember. Can’t believe I used to smoke these everyday.”

He lets out a deep hmph, not quite a laugh.

“I’m serious,” you say, grinning now. “These things are vile. They reek and make kissing gross. I might as well burn the clothes I’m wearing after this. Don’t even like it anymore—it’s just nostalgia, I think.”

Shifting again, Joel’s legs spread a little wider, though from the other side of the bench you’re still nowhere near touching. As you click one lacquered nail against your cigarette, ash rains softly to the ground.

“Never minded,” he mumbles. He’s looking out at the dim street, not you. Streetlamps dot the street with coins of gold between cedar elms that have already begun to drain their color. The breeze is next to perfect, whisking your smoke politely away from Joel.

“Minded what?”

“Kissin’ someone who smokes,” he says matter-of-factly. His tone isn’t flirtatious—nor is his expression, his face still profiled to you—but goosebumps scale your arms all the same.

“Hm,” you hum in reply.

Best not to dwell in this breath of quiet. The long pause in which you feel yourself want. You shift on the bench, cross your legs, and prepare to change the subject—but Joel beats you to it.

“Looks good in there,” his voice rumbles, and in your periphery, he turns to look at you for just a moment, handsome and leather-clad. Practically put on this earth to punish you. You hold your breath until he turns his head away again. “Impressive.”

Your heart squeezes like he’s crushed it in his fist, but you tilt your head back and forth nonchalantly. “Guess it doesn’t look so bad,” you admit. To your surprise, this drags a quiet chuckle from Joel, and your eyes drop quickly to his hand where it hangs from his still-crossed arms—a brief and discreet glance, you think—and see no ring. It shouldn’t make a difference, but you're glad.

“Gotta be more subtle than that, darlin’,” Joel mumbles, despite the fact that he’s not looking at you.

You feel your face rash with heat. “Fucking eagle eyes,” you mutter, pinching the last of the cigarette to your lips for a final drag. You hold the smoke in your lungs as Joel laughs again, this time with more warmth.

He shakes his head. “Could’a just asked,” he says.

“You’re not even looking at me,” you say, smiling despite your embarrassment. You bend over to crush your cigarette against the bottom of your shoe, then pocket the spent filter, disappearing the evidence. “How the hell did you even catch that.” It isn’t so much a question as it is a whine.

Joel shrugs. “Don’t have to be looking at you to be watchin’,” he says.

You can’t decide if you’re glad or disappointed that the moment you both look at each other, the whole of his face finally visible in the murk of nightfall—warm eyes, summer skin, that stubbly beard you’d like to nuzzle into—a caw of noise erupts inside the school and shatters the moment. The sound of students emerging from the gymnasium into the hall draws Joel’s attention first, and you allow yourself a long look at the back of his head to study his curls, just beginning to thread with gray, before you let the noise draw your attention, too.

“That’d be our cue,” you say, and you both rise from the bench.

As Joel starts shrugging off the leather jacket, you put a hand on his bicep to stop him and shake your head. So solid. Warm. He freezes under your touch, black leather slumped part-way down his arms, until you withdraw your hand.

“Nu-uh,” you say. “You’re keeping that.”

He frowns. “Not sure I like the idea of stealin’ from Sarah’s school,” he says.

You roll your eyes, wave one hand dismissively. “You saw where it came from, they’ll never miss it. There were at least half a dozen more in there.”

When Joel narrows his eyes at you, you narrow yours back stubbornly. Finally, he sighs and snaps the jacket back over his shoulders—a gesture that turns you to honey—and shoves one hand into the back pocket of his jeans. The also-stolen jeans. You’re gonna make him take those too. Not like anything that fits him is gonna fit any of the students here. You don’t even know why the theater department has costumes this size.

“Least take this and sign me up for,” he gestures vaguely with one hand as he pulls something from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Whatever. More chaperonin’.”

Pinched between his fingers is a crisp business card bearing the same logo stickered to his truck. Miller Construction Ltd—Joel Miller, Co-Owner. His phone number is printed squarely at the bottom. You take it, running your thumb across the printed text.

“Very generous,” you tease, and Joel looks down at you and grins, one dimple creasing his cheek. When you smile in return, his dark eyes slip down your face, landing on your lips.

As you make your way back up the path to the school, he walks close enough that his arm brushes against yours just once. Your body purrs with want, made worse when he smirks and leans toward you, lowering his voice. “Trust me,” he rumbles quietly. “Offer’s entirely selfish.”

Then, entirely composed, Joel yanks the front door open for you and winks.

Moodboard created by @studioghibelli!

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jolapeno · 10 months

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under the stars

joel miller x f!reader | masterlist

summary: joel finds that you become a thing of unnatural order, all ethereal as the moonlight kisses your curves.

wordcount: 3.7k warnings: post outbreak. smut. oral sex (m receiving). tying joel up with rope. cutting joel free with a knife. p in v. jo's spelling. feelings, but joel-feelings. softer!joel an: i've had this in my head for so long, getting it down on a page has been the whole wonderful, exciting and exhausting thing. i could sing forever about the moon. thank you to the most wonderful, and amazing @swiftispunk who i threw this at last night and made me feel like i am a goddess of the moon.

Joel had learnt early on that you liked the night.

You’d handed it to him in puzzle pieces—flecks of information that he’d eventually be able to make a portrait out of. First, you’d handed him a story, then a statement and then a feeling.

The only times you didn’t like the night was when it was silent.

No wind in the trees, each branch crunching sounding for miles. You didn’t tell him with your words, but rather your body—frame closer, practically against him.

When he’d seen the abandoned train yard coming into view, he’d already considered it. The night had been closing in, the last embers of daylight casting shadows larger shadows across the tall, wiry grass.

“Ever stayed in a train?”

“Can’t say I have.”

He wonders a lot about the things you haven’t done. If you had a list of things you had hoped to tick off from a list before the world went to shit. Whether you had made a new one when you woke up one day and realised it was kill or be killed.

In another life, he wonders if you’d have been a nurse, a doctor, a baker or a typist—because there’s something about your hands. A soothingness about them wasted on holding a gun or slitting a hole in a person from jaw to pelvis. It’s something which passes over you more when the sun goes down. The sharpness in you fading, as though you truly become the thing you were always supposed to be when shrouded in night and the moon comes out to greet you.

He supposes the night is the constant. The unchanged force that arrived and vanished each day—a fixed point, a welcomed relief. Things don’t appear any more threatening in the dark, no more than the world was before.

Yet, Joel finds that you become a thing of unnatural order, all ethereal as the moonlight kisses your curves. It highlights the lines that bend, and illuminates the sheen which coats your skin as you stare back at him in gratitude, as though the way he makes you feel good can make up for all you were robbed of. He hopes to, not by being the thing you lie next to, but the thing which keeps you safe. A protector, a wall of muscle, bone and flesh that would rip if it meant keeping you whole.

It wouldn’t even matter if it were day or night.

Before it all happened, he’d never have considered that the night was more alive than the day. But he’d witnessed how it was. How the darkness provided by the sky was a gift, the moon licking shadows that added an illusion of safety, one he had used to his advantage.

Your words coaxing him, whispered, all hushed, we can take them—won’t even see us coming. You had been right. Staring up at the sky as you caught your breath, stars inside your eyes and a soul full of darkness.

As he glances over, you’re doing it now.

Peering up through the open hatch of the train roof, cross-legged, dragging his jacket further around your body as you stare, and stare, and stare.

Transfixed, lost. Kidnapped by memories, most likely, ones he won’t rip you from just yet.

He wonders if you had ever wished on them, ever stared up at them with hopefulness swimming in your eyes—their twinkle swirling in the pools of your gaze. Joel wonders whether you’d pleaded for something so hard under the night sky that your nails cut into your palms, only for everything to be robbed from you all the same. Had you ever seen a shooting star, and had you prayed on it for a future that included a white dress or a picket fence?

“Don’t they look so pretty, Joel?”

It falls from you like a whisper, almost innocent—far removed from the killer he knows you can be. From the gutless, powerful soul he sees rip through people when they make you spill crimson and try to take what isn’t theirs.

It’s almost easy, he thinks, to tell you that there’s something prettier next to him. Someone who could rival the prettiest of nights and the most gorgeous of days. Something that could have been fragile, but instead is strong, chaos imagined, all wrapped inside eyes he sees when he dreams.

Head tilting, you meet his gaze, and it’s too much—too strong. It's intoxicating. Feeling drunk off it—that feeling of normalcy you make him want.

“You ever had your cock sucked under the stars?”

You know he has.

Know that under leafless branches and an almost full moon you’d taken him in your mouth. All warm, welcoming—his fingers knotted on the back of your head, biting back each hiss, each grunt as he felt teardrops on the crease of his thighs and hips.

It doesn’t matter what his answer is, you’re already facing him, knees digging into the train floor. Your fingers already working his belt—a glimmer in your eye that has him half-hard already.

Because if lust had a look, he swears it would be you.

That look in your eyes always does something to him. It’s more than just being alive, it’s a glint, a spark of something that he swears would have had rows of people to their knees. Right now, it’s all for him. Only his.

A possessiveness rings through him at the thought; rising up in him when he lingers on it, that he has this with you—has this unlabelled thing where he sees all the shards of you, has met each part which makes you whole.

“I want you to try not touching,” you say, tongue dragging across your bottom lip, mouth close to his.

He wants to taste your request. Breathe it in. Have it merge with his insides, all because of the look that accompanies it. One that makes his jaw tighten, almost tick.

“You think you can do it, Miller? Think you can refrain from touching me until I say so.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Sure.”

The latter catches on his teeth as the cool air brushes over his weeping cock once you free him from his clothing. Your head tilting, holding his stare as you lick a stripe up your palm, before wrapping it around him, pumping him. Tightening your fingers, murmuring about how hard he is for you, how thick he feels in your hand.

“We’ll see,” you smirk, pausing your ministrations, and lowering your head. "Fuck, your cock is perfect, Miller."

A retort brewed, ready to fire, shoot, land. Then, your mouth wraps around him.

Just the tip at first, pausing, all tentative. Your lashes close to your brows as you stare up at him—the moon painting you in a light which he swears he never thought possible. Because it only highlights the appetite you have for him, the starvation to take more of him.

It makes his fingers twitch at his side. Forces his thighs to tense under the need to grasp the back of your head. He refrains, even if it’s a battle he’s prepared to lose. In time.

For now, he wants more of this. Enjoy more of you licking the head of his cock, from humming around him, testing yourself as you try to take more of him, and more, and more—

A groan vibrates around him, making his eyes flutter closed. The battle having appeared sooner, slammed into him as you took more of him. Moaning sweetly around him, tongue swirling around the head when you come up before the tip hits the back of your throat all over again.

Joel doesn’t think of consequences, he just thinks of the need to feel himself in your throat. Letting his fingers move, slide around, brushing up your neck as you take as much of him as you can, mouth so stuffed—

“Hands, Miller.”

He groans, your tongue sliding up the base of him, lips hovering at the head before you trace your lips with him—those perfect, fucking lips—wiping him over you, smearing him.

“I’ll tie your hands down.”

His cock twitches, and you must notice from the way your brow arches, lifting up from him, bottom lip smothered in spit.

Joel finds most of the time, you have heavenly eyes and a hellish smile. A thing which shouldn’t remain, should have been stolen, ripped from you. Right now, you’re nothing but wickedness and darkness.

“Oh, Miller,” you say, voice lower, his name falling like silk. “Do you want me to tie you down? Stop you from touching me.”

He does.

A thing he doesn’t dare deny. His own eyes having caught sight of some frayed rope earlier, pointing it out, instructing—watching in awe as you move swiftly, boots hammering against the train floor, thudding and thudding until you’re on your knees either side of his, holding in both palms.

“Lie down.”

Your instruction carries weight, your body shifting as he lies down, your body crawling up him.

“Do it like—”

“You showed me?” you smirk. “I know how to keep you down, Miller.”

You lean back onto your knees, jean-covered cunt on his chest. Fuck what he’d do to move his hands from waiting for the circles of the knot you’re going to make—and pull you down to his mouth. Lets his breath puff warm air into the worn fabric, forcing it against your likely soaked core. Watch your lashes flutter as you try to make your identical loops, and see if you can think of overlapping them—whether you even make the knot, or let it fall to the wayside as you plead for his mouth, his tongue, his fucking teeth, before he manages to wriggle your clothing down your thighs.

He doesn’t find out, because he doesn’t move. Shadows disguise your expression, all except your smirk as you slide his wrists through the old rope—the frays tickling, brushing over his skin and hair, before with a pull, you tighten it—applying traction.

“Above your head,” you instruct.

You hinge at the hips, falling into the line of the moonlight. And, there’s a little gruffness to your voice, matching the pools of lust currently trying to swallow him whole—readying themselves to consume him, devour him. He doesn’t mind. He never fucking does.

Joel would willingly die in your eyes if he could—in the pair which sees him, all of him. Not afraid of the way he’s worn, the grief he carries, and the array of stories left in scars.

Best looking man I’ve ever killed for.

Only man you’ve killed for.

Fine. Best looking man I’ve laid my eyes on.

He’d succumb to you if you asked. More so, when you slide back down. The seam of your jeans brushing down his cock—the friction pleasant, warranted, needed.

He’s about to ask you to remove them. To bring yourself back up, allow him a taste, something to tide him over, reward you. He’d maybe even beg.

But, he swears your mouth is heaven. That he must have died mere moments ago. Each scrape of your teeth makes him hiss; each hollowing of your cheek makes him want to coat your tongue in his release. His fingers knot around the rope which binds him, hearing it trying to snap under the weight of his own frustration.

It cutting, grazing into flesh, especially as you take so much of him—further than you did before. Barely two fingers worth of him not down your throat, your eyes staring at him, holding his gaze, almost commanding it.

He pulls instinctually, wanting to grab the back of your head, hold you, stroke your neck, cheek—

But, then he ruts his hips into your mouth. Forcing a gag, a cough to arise from your perfect mouth.

“Careful,” he warns, as if it wasn't his doing. His eyes spot them, little streaks of tears which stain your cheeks, all quickly, tumbling and falling to his thighs. “Y’good for me. Fuckin’ perfect, in fact. But, be careful.”

Your tongue licks up the length of him, balls tightening as you graze your teeth over the underside—before he’s enveloped by you again, all warm, inviting, and then your throat squeezes around him.

He’s falling into it, the pool of pleasure—swimming it, bathed to the neck in it under stars and an almost full moon.

He’s sure your mouth is the meaning behind paradise and torture—both perfect and vicious—and he groans, at it. At the way, you swallow around him.

And he can’t take it.

Can’t handle it—

Wants nothing more than to come down your throat and make you taste him until morning.

Cause this is different than last time, and not because it's not a trunk his back is against. But, rather, because you're moon-soaked, kissed by the night. You're a thing he swears glows in the dark, leads a man to shore from choppy waters or could force a man to walk off a cliff.

You're pretty.

It's why he also wants to bury his cock inside you. Wants to feel you squeeze him, grasp for him, whine for him. You make him want, make him desire to possess you. Even if he'll never try to cage you, never tie you down, the thought, the wish, the desire is there. Just the same as how he wants to have you on top of him, under him, even bent over for him. Anything. Everything. All of it, all of you, all—

Mouth lifting off, your eyes glimmer, something there, growing behind your eyes. Spit tying you to him, a bead beginning at the tip of his leaking cock and ending at your swollen, puffed bottom lip.

Then you sneer. Devilishly, all fucking cunningly. “What did you think earlier, Miller?”

Hand taking him, wrapping it around as it moves in fluid motions. Grip how he likes it, a teasing speed that leaves him hovering there, so close to seeing a galaxy of his own and covering your face in his gratitude.

“Miller,” you mutter. "What, did you, think earlier?"

His throat goes dry, bone dry. Like those times when he hadn’t drunk for hours. And he pulls at the rope, wishing to tear himself free and silence your questioning by pushing you down, cheek to the side, sliding his cock inside you until you’re drunk on him, unable to think, ask.

He can feel his skin bruising, marks lacerating against flesh as he grunts at your knot. One he taught you, made you practice—something he knows you must remember from the wink you suddenly shoot him. And he knows from the smirk that cuts across your beautiful face, that the only way he’s going to get any release—is by telling you. Spilling the thing which should die in his throat, blacken, melt down into other things he’ll maybe one day tell you.

“If you want to come—“

Jaw gritting, he swears he could grind his teeth to dust.

Your hand remains poised, but not moving. His name leaves like a spell, but he knows it's draped in poison. Can tell from how it contaminates the air and makes him curse under its potency.

"Joel."

“Fine. I thought—thought y’prettier than the stars. Prettiest—fuck—” Your head dips, sliding the tip of your tongue along his slit, “—thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lifting up from him, bottom lip sliding across your upper lip—painting that in a mixture of his pre-come and your spit too—you slowly smile. “Wasn’t so hard now was it?”

Gritting his teeth, your breath ghosting over his mouth, eyes locked on him. Burying something light, warm, fucking lovely in his soul.

“Cut. Me. Free.”

Tilting your head, he sees your brow lift.

“Now.”

You blink, a thousand universes swirling in your eyes before you move for your knife. “Now?”

“Fuckin’ now, baby.”

You don't blink at the name, you just press the blade against his skin, so close to veins. Yet, he trusts you. More than he thought he would another person, another soul that wasn’t bound to his by blood.

Each slice of the blade against the rope cut through the air, his strangled breaths fading, even as his cock twitched, pleading for release. His eyes just remained on you—the maths of how he’d move you already calculated—watching the vein in your neck, the way spidery shadows cast on your face from your tear-stained lashes.

He felt the rope go slack before your knife stopped, moving in a flash, knife clattering as he flipped you onto your back. Hovering above, likely lit up by the stars and the moon—leering down on you, watching your chest rise and fall.

“So, you think I’m pretty?”

He growls, the button popped on your jeans before he rips them down as much as he can, moving enough to let you kick yourself free, before he plunges his tongue in your open mouth. Tasting, taking, robbing you of the words that you just spoke, the ones which made you cocky. Even if they were true.

But, he wasn’t good—was an animal, a thing carved from grief and the end of days. But then, you were in your own right too. Something that gnashed, scratched, and buried the softer parts of you deep under layers that had taken him months to unearth. To even find, locate.

The animal in you is what made him want to devour, but it was the softness that made him stand in front of you when branches crunched. It was the latter that made him want to pin you down against stiff surfaces and have you feel good, feel adored.

Taking his cock in hand, he drags the head against your soaked folds. Your slick coating him, sliding up and down, watching you, studying you—a sight full of stars, twinkling, pleading. Nails digging into his hips, an order, a demand.

In one thrust, he slides deep into you. Makes you his, like he does whenever you ask him to, when he can, each chance he can get. Never tiring of it, of you.

A thing he could say, fill your pretty little head with it and then fuck it outta you.

“Thinking about how much you like me, Miller?” you whisper, fingers moving up to scratch at his curls, to wrap them around your fingers. “Or, is it more than like, is that what it is?”

A tug, a swallowed groan. His mouth is on yours again—different than before.

A change, a thing the two of you never used to do, but one you do more frequently. Another thing he doesn’t hate. The change happened, and he realised he didn’t want to go back to the time before it. Not when your tongue plunged in his mouth feels good. When you lick at the back of his teeth, flooding his mouth with the taste of salt and remnants of the canned food from earlier.

“Thinking about how y’the most frustrating thing I’ve ever had under me.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

Buried to the hilt, fingers clasped around the space just above your collarbone, he stares into your eyes—wondering if the stars are ever jealous they never get to live in them.

No, he growls.

Your mouth falling open, a moan there, building on your tongue as he hits that spot—knows it, can tell from the way you lightly gasped. It is further evidenced by the way you grasp his hips, almost pinching when he drops onto his forearm above your head, freeing a hand.

“I do like fuckin’ y’under the stars.”

What began as a narrowing of your eyes, ended with a widening. The way it plays out could make him surrender to you every time, render him useless, even heal a shard of him that he thought was long since ruined.

Then, your mouth drops open, a moan emerging—rearing its head in an almost whine-filled cry, as he sticks a finger in, rolling it over your tongue, coating the pad of him in your spit before he slides his hand between your bodies.

And he knows you won’t last long. Not from the way you're clamping down, from the sounds you make—all beautiful, each rich, and fucking sweet. It’s why he drops his voice low, mouth to your ear, grunting your name, that you’re perfect, prettier than a sky full of stars—all the while drawing quick circles on your bundle of nerves, his hips maintaining a constant speed.

“Close, m’close,” you cry out, back arched into him, fingers finding refuge in his hair, face pinned by your forearms.

I know, he thinks, feeling you reach your pinnacle, hovering, hanging, before he delivers one quick thrust and you’re hurtling, spasming. Your body twists as your walls clench around him, coming on his cock, unravelling entirely as he picks up his speed, as he removes his hand from between you for leverage as he fucks into you. Just a few more, knees throbbing even through the pleasure, before his hips stutter, and he’s spilling inside of you, your name cutting into the air, scratching into it, marking it with each letter that makes it up.

Even before he collapses beside you, before breaths are caught, and your head finds that spot on his shoulder, that it’s coming. A look or your tone, that hint of gentleness you otherwise keep bottled up.

So he waits. Listen to the way your heart calms in your chest and your head feels heavy on his bone.

“Your secret is safe with me, Miller,” you whisper, not turning to look at him, just staring through the open hole of the train. “I won’t tell a soul you have a heart.”

Snorting, he swallows. “No one would believe ya if y’did.”

You hum, letting out a gentle breath.

And he just swallows the good he had almost whispered. Because if no one knows, it’s a thing people won’t try to take. And he can’t let you lose another thing, not when he’s sure the whole part of what remains of his heart, belongs to you.

an: hope you liked this. i am a whore for the moon and the stars.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #tlou fanfic #hbo the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader

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rhysdarbinizedarby · 1 year

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‘Our Flag Means Death’: How Blackbeard & Stede’s Fantastical Underwater Reunion Came Together

[Warning: The below contains MAJOR spoilers for Our Flag Means Death, Season 2, Episodes 1-3.]

It doesn’t take more than a single second to recognize Kate Bush‘s haunting and heartbreaking tune “This Woman’s Work,” as Blackbeard, a.k.a. Ed (Taika Waititi), is pushed from a clifftop to plunge into the ocean’s depths below in Our Flag Means Death‘s Season 2 installment, “The Innkeeper.” But how did the pirate heartbroken over Stede Bonnet (Rhys Darby) wind up in this position? It’s a delicate and winding path that starts with the infamous pirate’s unraveling over the course of the latest season’s first two episodes.

Believing Stede intentionally abandoned him after planning to run away together at the end of Season 1, Blackbeard embraces the version of himself so many have conjured up in their minds as he leads the Revenge’s “new” crew to pillage and plunder on the high seas. His unhinged behavior eventually forces Jim (Vico Ortiz), Izzy (Con O’Neill), Frenchie (Joel Fry), Archie (Madeleine Sami), and Fang (David Fane) to violently take control of the ship and neutralize Blackbeard — or so they think — after he steers them directly into a storm.

When Zheng Yi Sao’s (Ruibo Qian) Red Flag happens across an eerie-looking Revenge on the ocean, Stede dives overboard in his excitement over the possibility of seeing Ed, only to be told various excuses for his absence by the crew aboard. When Stede directly addresses Izzy regarding Blackbeard’s lack of presence, the now peg-legged pirate claims the Revenge crew dropped Ed on a beach.

This seems to ring true as we see Blackbeard wash ashore and cared for by his own former captain Hornigold (Mark Mitchinson). While together, Blackbeard and Hornigold discuss the mutiny that took place and Blackbeard’s hopes for the future. When a role-playing scenario testing Blackbeard’s ability to be an Innkeeper, a profession he’s interested in, goes awry, he attacks Hornigold, killing the tarp-clad pirate. But when Hornigold rises again, Blackbeard realizes something is off.

Aboard the Revenge, Ed’s body is uncovered below deck. Believing him dead, Zheng Yi Sao is forced to consider killing the Revenge crew for mutiny after initially welcoming them aboard the Red Flag. And Stede has to cope with the idea that his love may be gone forever.

After hatching an escape plan for the Revenge team, Stede and pals return to their former ship, leaving Zheng stranded without a wheel. Going to sit with Ed’s body, Stede wonders why he had to go and get himself killed. Meanwhile, Blackbeard begins to realize he’s stuck somewhere between life and death, a place this Hornigold manifestation calls a “gravy basket.”

As the two men banter about the pros and cons of choosing life over death, Hornigold ties a boulder around Ed’s waist and throws it from the cliff they’re standing on, pushing Blackbeard into the ocean. Just as it seems as though he’ll succumb to the waves, Blackbeard proves Bush’s song right: Perhaps there’s a little life in him yet. When Stede lifts the cloth from his face on the Revenge, underwater Ed reacts to the change. Peering into the water, he sees a light from which a fantastical mermaid version of Stede emerges.

In the real world, Stede reacts to Blackbeard’s twitching hand, taking it in his and pleading for him to live as a montage of their moments together rolls alongside Bush’s still-playing song. The final seconds of the episode see Ed’s eyes open, giving Stede hope.

So, how did this moving turn of events come to pass? A team full of creatives was responsible for bringing the captivating and satisfying reunion.

Stede’s Mermaid Tail

“It’s a huge process,” putting together Stede’s practical mermaid look, according to costume designer Gypsy Taylor. She says “it started with me begging everybody” to avoid visual FX and make a tail for the sequence. The orange and glittering look could have followed several different styles, but ultimately, Taylor notes, “I thought if Stede is going to turn into a mermaid, and it’s in Blackbeard’s dream, it’s sort of his vision of a mermaid.”

Considering this, in Taylor’s mind, Blackbeard wouldn’t envision some epic fantastical creature; instead, Stede would “just be like a goldfish. He’d just be like a sweet harmless goldfish.” In putting sketches together of the ensemble, Taylor acknowledges the symbolism of the goldfish motif: “There’s a huge Chinese element that we have coming through, and goldfish in Chinese culture is considered lucky.” As this vision of Stede was responsible for helping bring Ed back to life, that luck was certainly there.

“I thought that was a pretty beautiful thing, that they meet each other under the ocean and then they find each other,” Taylor gushes. “And so I went a little deep on that, but really he’s just a goldfish.” In order to achieve the goldfish mermaid look, Taylor teamed up with props master Hayley Egan, who’s based out of Australia. “She happens to excel at making mermaid tails,” Taylor shares.

After securing Egan’s involvement, Taylor says, “We fit Rhys in a jumbo stretch long skirt and made sure it was really tight so he could still sort of do this dolphin [swimming] action. And then we bought these mono fins, which you can purchase online and put your feet in.” Safety was key, though. “He had to swim really deep and for a really far distance, and he’d never done anything like that before,” Taylor explains. “So it had to be really safe and doable.”

Once that was figured out, Taylor says Egan “cast something like 3,000 hand-sculpted silicon scales. There’s something like five kilograms of glitter in the whole thing. And then we hand-dyed pleated chiffon for all the fins, so that when he was swimming through the water, it would have this magic feel.”

While the scene may play as emotional and romantic, the story behind getting Stede’s mermaid look from Australia to New Zealand was actually quite comical. “[Egan] sliced two suitcases in half, filled [them with the mermaid tail], and then when it went through customs, the customs guy said to her, ‘Are you bringing fish into this country?’ And she’s like, ‘Yes, yes I am.'”

In total, there were four tails, including “a practice tail, a stunt tail, because Rhys had to do quite a few lessons before we got the real one on. And the real one was super precious, and chlorine’s very strong, it eats fabrics away, so we wanted to save the hero one for the hero shot,” Taylor reveals. When it came time to film, “We put him in [the tail], and it was just amazing.” In order to get Darby into the pool, Taylor says a ramp had to be built and the actor was placed in a wheelchair while costumed “and pushed in.” As unglamorous as it sounds, she adds, “it was like Rhys’s dream come true.”

How Kate Bush Entered the Music Mix

It’s safe to say Kate Bush has been having a moment on TV since last year’s “Running Up That Hill” needle drop on Stranger Things, but music supervisor Maggie Phillips says, “This Woman’s Work” was selected before Netflix‘s hit made headlines with their use of the aforementioned song. “When we were placing [the song in the season lineup],” Phillips says, “it was maybe weeks after Stranger Things, and I was worried that we would look like copycats.”

Phillips maintains that the song was in the mix before, but it ultimately “doesn’t matter because really what matters is that Kate Bush is a queen and more and more people need to know her music.”

She says, “From what I heard from David [Jenkins], it was a song that Taika was attached to.” At first, Phillips was reluctant to go with the song due to its prior uses, but “David told me not to worry about [that], that people have short-term memory when it comes to music.”

While she debated with the team over cutting it, “[David] has the visuals in his mind. I don’t. I’m just hearing it with a script and I had no clue how it was going to work until I saw the first cut, and it was beautiful and they picked a part of the song that worked really well with the visuals, so they sort of made it their own,” Phillips explains. “They added a different context to the song that I wouldn’t have been able to imagine myself. So they proved me wrong for sure.”

It’s hard to imagine the scene without Bush’s song. “It changes the way you listen to the song,” Phillips notes. “I got chills watching it and I know that song so well and haven’t gotten chills like that in a long time.” With all of the buildup, “You’re waiting for them to have their romantic moment. You’re waiting for three episodes for that to happen. And so it’s so cathartic when that song comes on, and you see them come together in this fantasy world under the sea. It’s just perfect.” This led her to email Jenkins. “I was like, ‘You were right. I was wrong. But this was beautiful, and thank you so much.'”

Blackbeard’s Wet Wig Woes

Anyone watching the scene unfold would have to notice Blackbeard’s silver tresses weaving through the water, a feat much more difficult behind the scenes than the seemingly simple sequence onscreen. “We filmed that quite late in the season, and so we were really planning and thinking about that all the way through [filming]. I was a bit nervous,” hair and makeup designer Nancy Hennah admits. “I knew that he was going to have to be under the water with his wig on for quite a long time.”

Even with high-quality wig glue, Hennah says, “You can do everything you can to make that wig stay on, but there’s a limited amount of time that the glue will last. So we had to use different products than we would normally use to get the wig down.” Because the product Hennah normally uses to keep hair back in a wig is water soluble, “it melts, and the hair starts coming out from the lace, and it can ruin the whole look of the wig.” She had to come up with a creative fix.

“I glued his own hair back, and then we glued the lace on top of that, and wildly, it lasted right until the very last shot when they were dragging him through the water by the ankles,” Hennah reveals. “The wig just came off completely after they’d finished shooting. And so he came up out of the water, and the wig was off to the side, [and he goes], ‘I think my wig came off.'” She calls the success of the wig “incredible” and “just a fluke really.”

When it came to capturing Darby’s underwater look, it was all about blending the mermaid tail with his skin. “With Stede, Gypsy had a beautiful mermaid tail made, and we did a whole lot of practice with different types of silicon and things that we had to blend that piece between his skin and the tail. We made these pieces of silicon with glitter and things in them that we individually stuck over the top of the mermaid tail,” Hennah details.

Again, there were concerns about getting “things to stick underwater,” but watching the scene come together from behind the camera eased those. “[When] we were standing there on the set that day and watching the monitor, it just was so beautiful that we were all blown away by it, and that tank that they were filming in was a couple of stories deep, and to be out there in that water, it was challenging, and they both did so well. It just went off without a hitch. It was one of those great days where it just worked for everybody.”

Don’t miss what else is in store for the season. Stay tuned for additional interviews and content as the second season of Our Flag Means Death unfolds.

Our Flag Means Death, New Episodes, Thursdays, Max

Source: TV Insider

#rhys darby #taika waititi #ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd s2 spoilers #costume designer #costume details

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

what do you need?

Pairing: BratTamer!Joel Miller x Brat!F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: no show spoilers, established relationship, non-canon compliant, post-outbreak, smut, swearing, brat “taming”, D/s dynamic, dirty talk, degradation kink, praise kink, pain kink, impact play, collar wearing, maybe might have taken a snippet of dialogue from how the world works by bo burnh@m for horny reasons, unprotected piv sex, crying, shower, overstimulation, choking, spitting in mouth, fluff

A/N: I feel like this story is going to be presented as evidence when I'm rejected from the pearly gates post-mortem. Happy birthday to Joel Miller, sorry your birthday was a huge bummer that one time. Big big smoochies to @frannyzooey for helping me with several things and just generally being awesome.

[ my masterlist ] [ taglist ] [ AO3 ]

You’re having one of those days.

You know.

The kind of day where everything you come into contact with barbs into your flesh and tugs at your nerves.

Noises out on the street too loud, cupboards too empty, coffee too weak, counters too cluttered, shower too cold, clothing too tight—fuck, even your skin feels too fucking tight.

Overstimulated.

Exhausted.

Restless.

You’ve given pieces of yourself out hand over foot, and now you’re at a deficit and the world around you is still hungry, even though you’ve been picked to bare bones. Everything is too much and too little all at the same time.

The toddler that lives in the apartment above yours is throwing a temper tantrum. The kid’s defiant screeching rubs against your brain like fiberglass until all four walls of your living room feel like they’re closing in around you, squeezing you out like a tube of toothpaste, suffocating you.

And you’re thinking: If I don’t release some of this pressure I might go all fucking Hindenburg and explode.

The apartment door swings open, and Joel walks in, his broad shoulders all slumped like he’s carrying the goddamn weight of the word. He glances over at you as he slides the chain lock closed, “Hey, darlin’.”

You look up from your place on the couch, where you’re hunched over crossed legs, elbows digging into your thighs. All sharp angles and tense muscles. Without responding, you return your attention to the glass of moonshine dangling from your grip. Swirl it around a little. Take a big swallow and try not to wince as it burns down to your belly.

Joel stands there for a beat, watching you, waiting for your manners to kick in. When they don’t, he huffs and stomps into the kitchen. Cupboard doors slam and glass clinks as he searches for a clean cup, then pours himself a drink.

And, christ, he’s so fucking loud.

Every noise he makes is an exclamation mark. A shard of glass pressing into your eardrum. A sliver wedging further and further under your fingernail.

He walks over, eyes glued to you, each heavy footfall a stubborn grain of sand that won’t leave that space between your toes no matter how much you wiggle them.

By the time his weight shifts the couch cushions and sets you off balance, tilting in his direction, you know what you need.

You need to get under his skin like he’s under yours. To push him until his edges are hardened and sharp to the touch. You need him to pry open the emergency hatch and empty your mind.

“What’s wrong?”

Your nostrils flare. You bring the cup to your lips and take another big, burning swig of bootleg liquor, then say, “Nothing.”

“Nothin’,” he repeats, his voice low and disbelieving, “Now, why don’t I believe that?”

You sit up and glare at him, meeting his dark eyes, all shadowed by his drooping brow as he tilts his blank stare at you.

Excitement flickers inside you. You tilt your head right back and drop your voice, mocking him, “Reckon it’s ‘cuz I got a fucken attitude.”

His jaw tightens, mouth flattening into a straight line as he narrows his eyes at you, “You gonna talk about what’s got your panties all in a twist, or just be a nuisance about it?”

You bat your eyelashes at him and shrug.

“I see,” he searches your face, turning his wrist in slow circles, moonshine sloshing around in his cup, “You know, if you need me to do somethin’ for you, or… to you, all you have to do is ask. You don’ need to do this whole thing.”

“What thing?” you blink. Play dumb.

His eyes roll a little as he brings the glass to his lips and tips it back. Taking its contents all in one swallow, he slams the glass down on the end table with a thunk. Shaking his head, he looks at you, “Are you fuckin’ done?”

You smirk at him, dragging your eyes up and down his body. He’s studying you with this stern stare, teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaw twitching like little warning signals: PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

A warm fluttering starts at your center. Setting your glass down, you crawl onto his lap. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything but watch your face as you drag your fingernail along the tightened line of his jaw.

Threading your brows together, you coo, “You’re just so cute when you’re angry.”

“That’s enough,” he grabs your hand and squeezes it hard enough to make you gasp with delight, then says, “Open your mouth.”

“Make me.”

It happens so fast.

One hand on your forehead, the other gripping your jaw, yanking your mouth open.

“Stick your fuckin’ tongue out.”

You do.

You hear it first. The squelch of him gathering moisture. He spits onto your tongue, his saliva moonshine flavored and melting into yours. He does it again, then groans as he rubs it into your tastebuds, the rough pad of his thumb scraping against the tender muscle.

“So, what, you had a shitty day, now you’re actin’ out? Tryin’ to get me all worked up so I punish you?”

The words are all hoarse and heated against your cheek. His cock twitches beneath you and you grind into him, tongue still stretched out.

He spits on it again.

“Is this what you wanted, you little shit? Hmm?” he tugs on your chin, “Do you like it when I spit in your fuckin’ mouth?”

“I like it,” you tell him, nodding, placing your palm on his chest.

His throat rumbles like he’s pleased. He loosens his grip, then brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, glancing down at your mouth, “Do you want more?”

“Yes—yes, please.”

“Much better,” he purrs, “Open.”

You open your mouth wide and stick out your tongue. Another hot wad of spit plops down on it, moonshine flavored, Joel flavored, and you moan.

He cups your cheek and murmurs, “See? You can be a good girl. Can’t you?”

Sparks sizzle up your back bone. You nod and bat your eyelashes at him, closing your mouth and swallowing his spit, sliding your hand through the soft patches of gray in his beard.

His throat rumbles. Dark gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, ”Now, tell me, darlin’, what do you need?”

The question trickles down the middle of you and twists into a stubborn knot. Your heart flutters when your lips part, but courage dies in your chest.

You shake your head and mutter, mostly to yourself, “It’s stupid.”

His brow furrows just slightly.

Heat blooms in your chest and on your face. Nervous energy makes your throat bob and your tongue go numb, and you shake your head, “Sorry.”

He fully frowns now, searching your face, “Sorry? What for?”

You shake your head again, dropping your gaze, and clamp your mouth shut.

Joel releases a big sigh, curling your body into his, and kisses your forehead. He murmurs against your skin, “Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

He lets you sit in the wake of your own answer. The weight of his expectant silence wriggles under your skin and makes you squirm. You cast your gaze downward and shrug, “I don’t know.”

He’s quiet.

When you glance back up at him, his expression has softened into one that makes your heart ache. It’s almost doleful, the way he looks at you.

“I don’t know how to explain it, I feel,” you intertwine your fingers with his, “Empty here,” you pull the clasped hands to your chest, “But full… in-in my head. Everything feels like too much—I don’t know, Joel.”

The tears that prick your eyes take you by surprise. Usually you keep these pesky blue feelings to yourself, so as not to burden him. You should be used to this world by now. Your skin should be thicker.

You feel weak.

Pathetic.

Shame rips through you. More tears erupt from deep within your chest and stream down your cheeks, burning the whole way. A rush of adrenaline pumps through your body. It tinges your blood cold and makes you panic.

You let go of his hand and bring your knees to your chest, burying your face between them, blubbering, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t,” he sighs, not quite sure what to do with this, and slides his warm palm up and down the curve of your back, “It’s—it’s ok.”

All you can do is shake your head. It’s not ok. He doesn’t want someone like this. A crying, sputtering mess. Someone who gets upset because, what, noises seem too loud?

“Look at me, babygirl.”

You can’t help the whimper that bubbles up your throat. He only uses the term of endearment during rare, tender moments. When he needs you to know, really know, that above the games and the rules and the agreements behind the locked door of this apartment… he cares for you.

You sniffle and wipe your tears on the stiff denim of your work pants, then peak up at him.

He searches your face, and says, “Let me take care of you.”

Your eyebrows thread together and your lips part. He just keeps staring at you like that, so earnest, his eyes fertile earth you could take root in.

“Ok,” you whisper.

“Go take a shower. You can be a good girl and do that for me, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

You stay there for a moment, eyes locked on his, and ask, “Can I have a kiss?”

He hums, dropping his gaze to your lips, “How do we ask?”

Heat coils around you. He studies your movements as you unfold yourself and sit up straight, then climb on top of him, knees framing his hips, “Can I have a kiss… please?”

His hands land on your waist, “Course you can.”

You slide your palms up his chest, his neck, to cradle his jaw, then lean in to capture his lips in yours. The kiss is molasses and moonshine. Syrupy and rich. Intoxicating. It warms your insides and leaves you wanting more.

When he pulls back, he smooths his touch around your backside and gives your ass a firm smack, “Go on now.”

You try on his Texas accent and tease, “Go on, git,” and start giggling when he blinks at you, then add, “Ok ok I’m going!”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, y’know that?” he calls after you as you scamper into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

You pull back the shower curtain, flip on the hot water, and strip off your clothes. The weak stream splatters hot against your skin when you step inside. For a minute, you just stand there with your eyes closed, relishing the warmth.

The bathroom door opens, then closes.

You wash your hair as Joel strips off his clothing into a pile on top of yours. His shadow on the shower curtain grows, then disappears as he pulls it back and steps inside. Your eyes close as you tip your head back into the water stream and massage the conditioner from your hair.

He plants his palm at the small of your back and brings himself closer. A soapy washcloth meets your bellybutton and moves in circular motions, working up a lather. When he hits a weak spot, and a tickle shoots up your body, you giggle and grab his wrist.

“You don’t like it?”

Feeling through your wet hair for any remaining gobs of conditioner, you open your eyes to meet his, grinning, “I do, I’m just ticklish.”

His lips curve into a smirk and he shakes his head as he returns his attention to the task at hand, scrubbing the day’s grime off your body. The hot water works with his meticulous attention to dull the serrated edges under your skin.

“Turn.”

You do, taking a backwards step towards him. Your nerves tingle with want, the snarled tips of them all stretching in his direction, untangling to beckon him closer.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and starts on your back. Your shoulders relax under his praise. Under the firm pressure of the washcloth scouring your skin. He draws circles down your spine, around your hip, between your legs, leaving a trail of suds for you to rinse off.

When he’s finished sudsing and you’re finished rinsing, he says, “Go wait for me in the bedroom,” so you swap places with him and squeeze the excess water from your body and hair. You step out onto the bath mat and wrap a towel around yourself, then tiptoe into the bedroom.

Across the patchwork quilt, Joel laid out your collar. You dry yourself off and fasten the leather strap around your neck, then wait for him in the middle of the bed with your legs crossed.

When Joel enters the room, it seems to shrink around him. Every inch of him is gleaming and dewy, his hairline all steely gray and combed back into damp, dark waves. He appraises you while tucking a ratty towel around his waist. You feel your shoulders pull back. Your spine uncurls, pointing straight at the ceiling.

His eyes flick around the room as he walks to the side of the bed and hooks a finger in the little loop of your collar, tugging you to your knees. You crawl to him, following his firm guidance until you’re eye-to-eye and just an inch or so apart.

Under the squeaky-clean soap scent lies something so unmistakably Joel. Woodsy and masculine, it cattle-prods your heart.

“What am I gonna do with you?”

Heat sparks from deep within you and blooms in your guts, your cheeks. You feel yourself arching towards him, leaning closer, trying to taste his breath.

Some smart-aleck answer parts your lips, but he preemptively interrupts you.

“Rhetorical question.”

An amused smile twitches the corners of his mouth.

His mouth.

You stare at it, fingertips buzzing with energy, yearning to feel the soft curve of his plush lips.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes flick to his, smoldering but critical. A wide, calloused palm lands on your waist and slides around to your backside, cupping the heft of your asscheek. You swallow hard. This thick, pulsing ache starts between your legs and makes you whimper. An attestation to your pliancy.

His throat rumbles and he pulls a sharp breath through his teeth. Joel likes the noise, because he knows what it means. It means you’re putty in his hands. Giving yourself over to him, letting him take control. He digs his fingers into the tender flesh of your ass and smirks when you gasp.

“That’s what you need, hmm?”

You nod, eyebrows drawing together, batting your lashes at him.

He doesn’t let up. Quite the opposite, actually, he grips you harder, rumbling out, “Jus’ need someone to take care of you? Fuck the angry out of you?”

Again, you nod.

He tugs on your collar, “Use your words.”

The grasp is bruising and constant and fucking delicious. Dropping your gaze, you breathe, “Yes si—”

“Look at me.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing as you comply, meeting his lust-blown eyes.

“Yes sir.”

“That’s better.”

Joel releases your ass cheek and tugs at your collar.

When his lips meet yours with a firm, ravenous kiss, urgency overcomes you. You clamber closer, hooking your hands behind his neck, dragging your nails through his damp curls. Each time the kiss renews, it gains traction, intensity, evident in his nips and groans, and his harsh, wandering touch. Grabbing your ass, your tits, your thighs. Pinching your nipples so hard you gasp and nod.

He buries his fist in your hair and pulls back, panting, “Turn around ‘n’ bend over.”

You do, reluctantly parting from his lips to spin 180° and raise your ass in the air, pressing your ear to the mattress.

“Close your eyes,” he knocks your knees further apart, and when you comply, letting your eyelids flutter closed, he murmurs, “That’s it. Now you’re gonna sit there and take what I give you, hmm?”

The rough pads of his fingers trail electric up your seam, ghosting along the hungry, aching nerves. You gasp and nod, “Yes sir.”

His throat rumbles, and his fingertips start to work your throbbing clit in hard-pressed circles. He’s heavy-handed in the way he touches you. It’s not delicate, or teasing, or gentle—it’s fucking perfect. Heat bubbles up your middle and spreads across your skin, pulling a whimper from your throat.

Joel’s free hand slides up your spine, his palm pressing firm and slow across every vertebrae, coaxing you to stretch your backbone, arching your hips towards him.

“There we go, that’s my good girl—”

You moan at the rush of pleasure his praise gives you. Your heart starts to thud, heavy and thick in your chest, and his hand between your legs starts to work you faster, jolting your center.

“Fuck, Joel—”

Another gravelly sound surfaces from his chest. He slaps your ass, hard and firm, and you gasp at the sharp sting. He does it again. The smack rings in your ears and the divine pain it’s coupled with resonates deep in your bones. He does it again and again and again, all the while rubbing your clit in vigorous, tight circles, growling out, “All fuckin’ wound up, acting out, this is what you needed, hmm?”

“Yes yes yes yes—”

The feeling at your center grows and spreads, building building building—then it swallows you whole. Your body convulses with pleasure so acute and overwhelming, you try to pull away from him, to close his hand between your thighs, but he grabs your hip and kneels on your calf, keeping you spread open.

“Don’t you run away from this,” he barks as you let out a choked sob, “You take this fucking like a good girl, you hear me?”

“It’s—fuck, it’s it’s—”

You want to tell him it’s too much, but the tide of pleasure draws you back with violent force and washes over you again. The noise that comes out of you is guttural, barely human, this half-howl, half-cry. It’s excruciating and overwhelming and so fucking good.

Joel chuckles, “That’s it, let it go, darlin’.”

You do. A sensation overtakes you, that’s warm and secure. The weight strapped to your shoulders, that skin-too-tight, noises-too-loud sort of feeling melts away and you nod, “Yes, sir.”

He withdraws his hand from between your legs and grabs your waist, bringing your bodies closer. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance and he plunges forward.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you gasp as his thick, throbbing length slides into your well-lubricated cunt.

He splits you open cell-by-cell, his own needy moan mingling with yours, and tells you, “God, your pussy—fuck, that’s good—”

There’s no warm-up period. No sweet, slow strokes, or whispered words of comfort, or gentle anything. Immediately, he’s fucking you hard and fast. You push back against his harsh thrusts, each impact devastating and intoxicating and heady with a feral energy that fills your body with static.

Joel closes a fist in your hair and yanks, tilting your head to the ceiling, and you let out a long, sick moan that makes him groan with delight. His arm slips around you and pulls your back to his chest. Your head falls back on his shoulder, mouth gaping open to babble out, “So fucking good, fuck fuck fuck—I fucking love it, Joel, holy fuck—”

His big hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, restricting your airflow, and you let out wheezing, gasping breathes as he grunts in your ear, “Yeah you fucking do. Pussy jus’ needs a good pounding, that it? My little slut just needs to get fucked, hmm?”

You whimper and nod, as much as his grip will allow. His fingers crush your pulse, leaving you light-headed. The scraps of breath you manage to take in carry the sharp, tangy scent of sex. You revel in the feeling of him filling you over and over, each roll of his hips collects electric at your core, gaining traction and energy.

When you look up at him and meet the corner of his dark, lust-blown eyes, he releases his grip on your throat and pulls you into a heated kiss. Both of you start to take in short, frantic breaths, passing soft moans back and forth. That gooey static in your middle grows and grows. Your limbs start to quiver and you cry, “Oh my fucking god, Joel—you’re gonna make me come—”

“That’s it, babygirl, let it go.”

You do.

You let it consume you, a bright, blissful warmth that pulses through every inch of your body. Joel moans as your cunt clenches down around him, then pulls out in time to shoot his load onto the bedspread.

For a moment, the only things in existence are the two of you. His ragged breath in your ear, your heaving chests and empty minds.

He departs your body and stretches out on the bed with a groan. You only feel his absence for a second before he hooks his finger into your collar’s loop to pull you closer, “C’mere.”

An obedient creature, for the time being at least, you follow the suggestion and curl up at his side. You smooth your palm up his heated chest, all dewy with sweat, and admire his broad frame. His distinguished features. While surveying the map of scars and wrinkles and grays on his rugged exterior, your gaze meets his, and you find a remarkable softness there.

He seems to study you with the same sort of reverence as you do him.

“You’re beautiful, y’know that?”

It makes you smile, which, in turn, makes him smile. A gorgeous and rare spectacle. The expression carves out a dimple in his cheek and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

You scoot closer and kiss him, your lips soft, gentle. He kisses you back in a similar manner, slow and sweet, twisting your brain in a big, beautiful kaleidoscope of emotions.

The intimidation you felt when you met him, still hot-to-the-touch after all these years, tumbling around with tiny glimmering glass bits of desire and apprehension and pride and excitement and awe and dread and security.

And love.

Of course love, even though neither of you dare look at it directly. Only suckers allow such a thing to exist in this world. But it’s there, nonetheless. Weaving its way through each fragmented shard, pulling it all together.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #brat tamer joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #whatsnewalycat writes

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music-in-my-veins14 · 5 days

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#Spotify #Screech In #Come From Away #Musical #Joel Hatch #Music

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mountainsandmayhem · 7 months

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Wings. Fire. Magic. Part Four

18+, Minors Do Not Interact

DragonTrainer!Joel x Female!Reader

Summary: Joel has to follow through on his deal with The King, the two of you share tender moments, and maybe you don't want to go home after all. Dragon divider by @saradika-graphics CW: 18+, p in v sex (wrap it up folks), mean Joel but also tender Joel. Praise (duh, it's Joel), dirty talk, female and male orgasms WC: 6K

Masterlist || Part One || Part Two || Part Three

Fuck. I’m dead. So very dead.

The terrifying milky coloured dragon is going to incinerate you. You can see building in his throat as he roars at you. The last one was so loud that you clamped your hands over your ears and started to back away. Your family flashes before your eyes. Your mom is about to celebrate her one thousandth name day, she’d ask for those little mushroom and cheese pastry puffs she loves so much, your dad would make some joke about her being older than him, even though just a fortnight later he’d be celebrating his same name day.

“Eaaasssyyy,” you say shakily to the dragon, your hands are trembling as you move them from your ears, holding them up to try to calm him.

Suddenly you’re being pushed to the side, hitting the ground hard, rolling over yourself a few times. The wind is knocked out of you and you roll onto your back to try to get oxygen, gasping against the invisible hands restricting your lungs. You can see Joel standing in front of the dragon in just his tight black boxers. The sunrise casts flecks of gold around his tight and tanned skin, more tattoos swirl around his back, as well as 3 thick scars from his left shoulder to the middle of his back. They’re not new, but still raised and pinkish in colour.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he says loudly, holding his arms up, palms facing out to the dragon. “Uvri, easy boy.”

The dragon pauses, sniffing slightly at Joel before lowering himself and folding his wings back into his body.

“There you go.” he praises the dragon, still with a tinge of fear on the edge of his voice, “That’s it. Easy.”

The dragon touches his nose to one of Joel’s palms and then peaks behind him at you. “She is our friend. It’s ok.”

You slowly stand up and Uvri side eyes you. “Sorry,” you say to both Joel and the dragon.

Uvri turns back to the eggs, his large scaled body nestling around them. He lets out a content hum and shuts his eyes. Joel grabs your shoulders, eyes raking over you with concern. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, Joel.” You look away from him, your cheeks heat at how you touched yourself to thoughts of him last night while you were tucked into the soft sheets of your bed. And now he’s here in just his boxers holding your face and looking at you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

His hands cup your face gently with his large palms, “Sweetheart, not all dragons are Rem. She doesn’t know she’s a dragon if I’m being honest. You have to be careful out here.”

“Ok. I’m sorry.” His eyes trail down each of your arms, hands not moving from your cheeks and even though you’re completely clothed, it all feels a little too intimate. When he doesn’t see any injuries he seems to start breathing again, his muscular chest expanding as air fills his lungs.

“We need to talk about The King, I have to go back before those eggs hatch.” His hands slide to your shoulders as he continues, “I need you to trust me, and after we see The King I will take you to see your family. We’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”

Your eyes fall to Joel’s strong bare chest, landing on the small hand tattoo over his heart. His hands fall from your shoulders and he smiles awkwardly at you. He’s suddenly aware that he’s practically naked. The animals of the forest around you start to wave up. Birds chirping, chipmunks chattering, the air seems to come alive. The morning sun is finally high enough to peek through the trees and warm your face.

“You should probably get dressed before we talk,” you laugh. You and Joel walk side by side back towards the log cabin and you fight the urge to ask about the small hand tattoo over his heart. “How many dragons do you have?”

“Umm,” he rubs the back of his neck nervously, bicep flexing, “I have five. They live around the woods here.”

“And they just stay?” you ask. Considering you were stealing an egg you know very little, almost nothing actually, about dragons.

“Dragons are loyal. They might leave for food, but they come back each night.”

Joel opens the back door and you head into the kitchen, propping yourself up on one of the stools. The log cabin is somehow more gorgeous in the morning sunlight. Joel’s half naked body putters around the kitchen, he pops open an airtight canister and the smell of coffee beans fills the room. When he turns back to you, you avert your eyes, looking down at the granite island.

“Is being in your underwear an important part of this plan? Or?” You feel your cheeks heating.

“Shit, sorry. My adrenaline is up here,” he raises an arm above his head and you glance over to see all the muscles in his abdomen flexing as he reaches. “Just, stay there. Please.”

Joel disappears down the hallway and you finally understand what humans mean when they say ‘hate to see you go but love to watch you leave’, the tight boxers hug the strong globes of his ass, the soft fabric straining against his muscular thighs. But what really draws your eye are the two dimples in his lower back, just above the waist band. Your mouth waters at the sight of him.

When he returns the coffee is brewed and, since you already scared Joel half to death, you listen and stay on your stool. He pours you a cup of coffee and slides it across the counter to you, along with cream and sugar for you to add. You give him a tight lipped smile.

“Rem and Uvri have five eggs that are going to hatch soon.” He says as he stirs a little bit of cream in his coffee, “I am going to leave tomorrow to take three of those eggs.”

“Is Remmer going to be ok?” You can’t imagine she’ll be happy to have three of her babies taken from her, she’s so sweet and gentle. “You can’t give away your dragons.”

“No, she’s probably going to be very upset with me,” he places his coffee down and opens the fridge, pulling out eggs and bacon. “But remember how I told you dragons are extremely loyal?”

“Yes,” you’re starting to feel that guilt again, being taken care of while your family is struggling and probably worried sick about you.

“You stole that egg, but once it hatched, the dragon would find its way back here.” you hear the tick-tick-whoosh of the stove before he grabs two pans and puts them over the flame. “They’ll always find their way back to their family.”

“Ok,” you say curiously. “So, what about me?”

“You’re staying here.” he says firmly, his back to you as he puts the bacon in the pan, the sound and smell of the fat sizzling causes your stomach to growl.

“No, Joel,” you argue, “ You have to make The King think you hate me more than he does”

He turns to face you, crossing his arms across his chest. “No.”

“Joel, you have to.” You practically beg him, he turns around and cracks eggs in the second pan, avoiding your eyes as best he can. He already knows he has to take you, but he is a stubborn man, and if you start begging or look at him with those big sad eyes he’ll break. “If he knew that I slept in a big plush comfy bed or soaked in a bubble bath. I’m supposed to be your slave.”

Joel shakes his head. “I’m taking him the eggs. You’re staying here. I’m not bringing you back there. I cannot bring you back there.”

You wrap your hands around your coffee cup and bring it to your lips. He cannot bring you back there. You already know that there’s no arguing with him, even when he knows you’re right. Actually, especially when he knows you’re right. He’ll come around, he just needs to do it on his own time.

After breakfast Joel tells you he’s going into the village to get you clothes and boots, and after a stern warning to stay out of the woods, he hops on his horse and off he goes. You spend the afternoon close to the house, wandering outside but staying clear of the woods. Around one side of the house is a large garden, vegetables sprout up every which direction and nothing is labeled. On the other side of the house, just below your bedroom window, is a flagstone patio with a large fire pit, wooden chairs and a bench. Everything outside of the house looks like it belongs there, like the earth put it there itself. You sit on the bench and start making a small fire. You catch Rem watching you from the tree line. You smile at her, but she stays near a peculiar tree; stark, white bark and a large canopy of deep purple leaves. It’s the only leafy tree in the area, the whole property is surrounded by large conifers, how that tree even exists is beyond you.

Once the fire has started, you head into the house to get a bowl to start picking ripe vegetables. The sun is starting to set and you may as well make yourself useful and make dinner. After picking carrots, beets, potatoes, green beans and a handful of fresh herbs, you skip back into the house. You spotted chicken in the fridge this morning, so you take it out and rub it with oil, sprinkling the fresh herbs on top. Next, you chop all the vegetables up. Unlike Joel, who can just reach up and grab the cast iron pans hanging above the island, you have to climb up and stand on the counter to grab them. You take everything outside and start cooking.

Dinner is almost ready when Joel's deep voice floats across the back yard, “Hi.”

“Hi.” You smile sheepishly at him over your shoulder.

“Something smells amazing.” The fire pops and crackles, birds chirping in the woods calling to each other.

You turn back to the fire, stirring the veggies. “I figured I could make myself useful”

“Thank you. You don’t need to do that.”

You pat the bench beside you and Joel comes to sit beside you, knees grazing one another. You both look at the purple tree in front of you.

“Can I -“ you start. Joel saying, “how’s your -“ at the same time.

You both laugh quietly and you say, “you go first.”

“How’s your back?” he asks, you glance over at him and he’s looking at you with that same big eyed concern he had this morning when you stumbled into Uvri.

“I think better.” you roll your shoulders backwards slowly, testing the muscles and checking for pain. Joel notices the slight wince in your face, “I have more movement in my arms but it still feels like I got trampled.”

“I put some muscle relaxing oil in your room with your new clothes.” He says it so casually and your heart flutters as you thank him. Someone doing something for you is still so foreign. Are you that deprived of the goodness of humanity that you let one little act turn you all gooey?

Joel’s knee nudges yours, bringing you back to reality. “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask about that tree,” your eyes peel away from Joel’s.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, hand coming up subconsciously to his heart. The sadness practically etched across his face.

“The tattoo?” You ask.

“It’s - umm - that’s where my daughter is.” He says, avoiding looking at you and the tree, instead he grabs the metal poker and starts to stir the fiery orange coals. You don’t press him, somehow you know that he’ll talk when he’s ready. “So I think you’re right. You have to come with me.”

You nod, you were right not to push. Joel does everything methodically, he doesn’t jump in. You clear the fear out of your throat, fear that feels like shards of glass and say, “Make him think you hate me.”

“Problem is,” he stands, sliding on a large mitt and grabbing one of the cast iron pans off the fire grill, “I don’t hate you. Not in the slightest.”

Dinner was silent between the two of you and you went to your bedroom early, exhausted from the last few days but full of nervous anticipation for what was to come. You drift off easily, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. A distant roar causes you to stir, rolling over and pulling the blankets up around your neck. You hear yelling in the distance and it slowly brings you to be fully conscious. Now awake you can hear it more clearly - it’s Joel. He’s yelling. You shoot out of your bed and creep into the hallway, his door is closed, “No, leave her.”

You knock gently, his bed creaking under him as he tosses around his sheets. You open the door a crack, peeking in. His eyes are clamped shut, a pained look on his face. His curls are sweaty and slick to his forehead. He’s twitching and mumbling.

“Joel,” you whisper, walking over to him slowly. He thrashes again, violently this time. “Joel,” you repeat, a little louder as your hand reaches out to him. As soon as your palm touches his shoulder he grabs your wrist, jerking you violently and flipping you onto the bed below him. You’re trapped under his large, muscular and naked form. His eyes are glazed over, rage and anger contorting his features.

“Joel!” You practically yell it this time and when he blinks you slowly start to come into focus. He shakes his head, blinking quickly as his breathing starts to calm.

“Fuck,” he huffs, almost leaping off of you, covering himself with his hands before finding some underwear.

“You were having a nightmare,” you whisper, walking over to him. “Are you ok?”

“Did I hurt you?” He’s back, that soft and caring man that you’re starting to fall for. The moonlight paints the room in a light glow.

“No, I’m fine,” you reach out to touch him and he steps away, “Joel, are you ok?”

Joel wanders back to his bed and starts to straighten out the sheets, “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” you say, uncertainty waving through the word, “I’ll just…” you start to leave as he crawls back into his soft sheets.

He calls your name, when you look back at him he’s on his side, back towards you. “Ya?” you whisper.

His voice is sad and cracks a little as he asks, “Please stay.”

You smile to yourself and pad over to him, gently crawling in behind him. You’re not sure what comes over you or makes you feel so bold, but you press the front of your body to his warm back, one arm bending under your pillow, the other draping across his waist, your face nuzzled between his strong shoulder muscles. He’s tense for a second before he relaxes into you. Neither of you speak, and when his breathing gets relaxed and heavy, you place a gentle kiss to his shoulder blade and fall asleep.

It feels like minutes later when Remmer’s cries have you rushing from Joel’s empty bed to look at the large window. You see him heading towards the house with a small wooden chest, Uvri follows along behind him, saddle and reins already affixed to his large and intimidating body.

You go to your own room and slide on your new leathers and boots and head out to the kitchen to meet Joel. He has a ratty looking cloth dress in one hand, chains and a small collar in the other. You both stare at each other. You don’t need words. You knew exactly what being his slave would mean and what playing that part would look like. You’ve seen plenty of Fae in this uniform, following along behind whatever creature owned them. Joel looks at you with a tender sadness, swallowing hard while you nod at him and head out the back door. Rem lands beside Uvri and nuzzles against you, crying out again.

“It’s ok, Rem.” You say quietly, running your hand down her neck, her scales are warm and smooth, you didn’t realize how soothing petting a dragon could be.

Joel helps you up in Uvri and with a click of his tongue the dragon shoots up into the sky and dread fills your body.

The flight is most quiet. You occasionally point to places that you’ve been to, Joel points to an orange and red canopy of trees and tells you his brother lives there. You need the distraction, and assume he does too, so you ask questions about his brother. You learn his name is Tommy and he’s younger than Joel. He’s married and they have a baby on the way. He also trains dragons, just like their father did before them. Finally you see the mountains come into view and you know that you’re close to The King.

Joel lands Uvri in a clearing near the castle. Your insides clench as Joel slumps against your back. His forehead rests softly on the back of your shoulder, letting out a deep sigh before wrapping his arms around your waist.

You both sit like that for a minute, your hearts pounding in sync with one another’s. “Make this quick for me, Joel.”

He releases you and you follow him, climbing off Uvri. You reach into one of the bags strapped to his saddle and pull out the tattered dress.

“I’m sorry about this.” Joel says softly.

“I know,” you say sadly as you walk behind Uvri to change.

You slip out of the new leathers, even though you’re gutted over not having your wings, getting dressed has been easier. You stare down at the thin bra and panties, squeezing your eyes shut before sliding them off. The scratchy fabric of the plain dress is uncomfortable against your skin. You stuff your clothes in a bag and walk back around to Joel.

He looks at you with big sad eyes, recalling what you said last night while you ate dinner, “The King needs to think that you hate me more than he does. You have to hate me to keep me safe.”

His eyes lower down your body, stopping where the hem of the dress ends at your knees, then his head turns to look at his right hand. Your eyes follow, a thick rusted chain connected to a metal collar grips in his fingers. He walks to you slowly and you lock eyes. He stops just a hair away and you force a hard swallow before taking in a shaky breath, gathering your hair in your hands.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, placing the cold, heavy collar around your throat. The hinges creak menacingly before the loud click of the lock reverberates down your whole body. The weight of it rests on your collarbone and it feels like it’s pressing you down into the earth. Even though this was your idea and you have no reason not to trust Joel, you feel absolutely humiliated. Uvri stares ahead at the castle and you find yourself longing for Remmer.

“Why can’t we take her?” You asked Joel last night.

“She needs to be the one to imprint on the babies if I can’t. She fully trusts me, so the babies will too.”

Within seconds of remounting him, Uvri lands on top of that same tower and your body starts trembling, teeth chattering in your skull. Joel helps you down and then pulls you into his arms. You sink into his body, letting his warmth and comfort wash over you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m going to make this as fast as possible. Just look at the floor the whole time. Don’t look up. I got you.”

You clear the glass from your throat, “Don’t let go of my chain.”

He hands you the case that contains the three dragon eggs before looping the chain around his hand a few times. You follow down the stairs and hallway, and before the guards open the doors to the main hall you take a shaky breath and look down at the case.

Don’t look up.

“Joel!” The King exclaims as you enter. “You brought your little slave, I see!”

“Probably should have let you kill her,” he says darkly as he pulls you along the long corridor. “Ungrateful little thing. Couldn’t trust her to stay alone.”

Don’t look up.

When you reach the foot of the stairs, a guard grabs the box from your hands roughly. Joel bows, and when you stay standing he gives the chain a hard yank towards the ground. Your knees crash down on the cobblestone floor. In a cruel mocking tone Joel says, “bow to your merciful king. You should be dead.”

You let out a small cry of pain and The King laughs cruelly, “look at my trophy, fairy.”

Don’t look up.

When your eyes stay fixed on the floor he shuffles in his throne and chuffs like a petulant child before yelling, “I’m talking to you!”

Joel tugs on your chain again and you look up at The King through your lashes. Above him, your wings are hanging from the wall, suspended in a swirling, thin black mist.

“When your master brings me the other eggs, I might let you have these back. But I’ve grown quite accustomed to them. They look better here than they did on your useless back.” The King is smiling like he’s at an amusement park, clearly getting nothing but pleasure out of the torture you’re being put through.

Joel crouches beside you, grabbing a handful of your hair and forcefully pulls. You let out a yelp as he brings your face within inches of his. His face is harsh, eyebrows knitted together and jaw clenched. “Thank your King, little whore.” He spits and yanks your head towards The King.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, voice trembling with fear. Joel shoves your head down, you lose your balance and your palms collide with the floor before he pulls you back to a kneeling position by the chain.

Your heart feels like it’s in your stomach. Your beautiful iridescent wings hung up in such a cruel and harsh place. Tears start burning in the back of your eyes, everything about this feels wrong. Joel has slipped into this role too easily. Maybe he’s using you to get to the rest of the remaining Fae.

As Joel and The King discuss when the next eggs will be ready, you fight to keep your tears in. You focus on breathing, blood surging so loudly through your ears that you can’t make out what they’re saving above you.

My wings. My wings. My wings.

Soon, Joel pulls sharply on your chain and barks, “Up.”

You stand and walk weakly behind him.

My wings. My wings. My wings.

Joel leads you back up the stairs, never looking back at you to keep up what you hope is a facade. But he was so goddamn convincing in that room that all the tender moments you’ve had are gone. His face was so harsh, so full of hatred. You don’t remember how it feels to be safe around him anymore. He hoists you up onto Uvri. Joel flicks Uvri’s reins with one hand, his free arm wrapping tightly around your middle. As he takes off, your body slumps back against Joel, the emotional exhaustion starting to take over.

My wings. My wings. My wings.

The dragon flaps his wings fiercely, the wind whipping so hard your eyes start to water, blurring your vision. The air cools the steel around your neck and it nips at your skin. You close your eyes against the cold and all you can see is Joel’s cruel expression, as if it’s been tattooed on your eyelids.

Within minutes you’re landing in the same field you had just days ago. It took Remmer half a day to fly to the castle from here, and that’s when you realize just how powerful Uvri is. The dragon has barely touched down when Joel is pulling you off the dragon and into his arms.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m so sorry.” He whispers into your hair, holding your tense and exhausted body tightly against him. His fingers work quickly to undo the collar. As it falls to the ground, his fingers trace the light bruises already forming at the base of your neck.

Your hands push at his chest and he lets you take a small step back. You stare at the ground and fight against the urge to run. He called you a whore and ungrateful. He made you look at your wings after he told you not to look up. Everything he did in that hall was done with such conviction that you’re tempted to believe it yourself. You could run. You don’t have wings, no one would hunt you now. You could just run, run and hide.

When you finally manage to look at him, he’s nothing like he was with The King. Dark eyes have turned warm, flecks of brown sugar shine throughout his chocolate brown eyes, tears lining his lash line. His jaw is relaxed, lips parted as he looks at your neck. Without warning he drops to his knees and sits back on his heels. He lets out a hiss when he sees the deep purple bruise already wrapping around your knees. His hands come to rest lightly on the side of your thighs.

“Please talk to me,” he chokes, one tear rolling down his cheek.

You swallow down the lump that’s been in your throat since landing on that tower. “My wings,” you whisper sadly.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

You blink a few times at Joel. Each flutter of your lashes morphs your sadness into rage. “Kiss me.”

“What?” His brow furrows slightly, but you don’t miss the uptick of a small smile that appears on his lips at the thought of kissing you.

“I am fucking livid. Kiss me. Kiss me so I know that it’s ok. Kiss me to show me that we will get my wings back and that all of that was just an act back there. Kiss me to distract me from going there and ripping out that vile man's throat.”

He leans forward, warm velvety lips gently press to your right kneecap, then your left. Joel stands, hands coming to tangle in your hair. “It was all an act, I feel horrible. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” you say, hands trailing up the strong muscles of Joel’s back, concealed under his leather coat. “This was my destiny, to destroy The King. With you.”

The second the words leave your mouth you and Joel come together in a mess of lips and tongue and teeth. It’s frantic and desperate, both of you saying everything you need to say with this kiss. He swallows your moans with his mouth. Gripping your hair tightly with one hand. The other running down your back, lifting you up by the meaty globe of your ass. Your dress hikes up your hips as you lock your legs around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders as he walks you to the edge of the clear blue river.

You break your kiss to undo his jacket, sliding the leather buckles out of their metal clasps. First the one at his collar bone, then chest and stomach. You press your lips against his again as you slide the zipper down. He’s not wearing a shirt, his strong tanned chest warms your body through your thin dress, your nipples stiffening in anticipation.

Joel lowers your feet to the smooth, colourful rocks of the shore and breaks apart from you. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth as you watch him drop his jacket to the ground, your hands working on their own to undo the leather tie of his pants. The outline of his cock pressing through the thick fabric.

His hands grab your wrists. “I don’t - I don’t have protection.”

You blink up at him. “Joel, I’m over six hundred years old. I don’t think pregnancy is a worry.”

You stare at each other for a second, sexual tension morphing as he smiles at you and you start to laugh. His hands come to your neck again, fingering the light bruising before his lips press gently where the collar sat. The hurried rush of his lips and hands is replaced by a slow passion.

His lips caress your neck and you close your eyes. Head falling to the side to give him more access. Your hands reach for the growing bulge behind his pants. He moans into your neck at your touch, kisses moving up your neck.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart.” The deep baritone of his voice sends a fresh wave of arousal to your core. You’re not wearing anything under this thin dress, you can almost feel how wet you are on your thighs.

“Need you,” you moan, voice husky with want.

Joel grips the hem of your dress. “Use your words,” he says, his forehead resting against yours. “Need me to what, baby girl.”

“Make me feel good.” You say.

He slips your dress up and over your body, leaving you completely bare to him. He steps back, toeing his boots off and working at his fitted leather pants. He slides them down his hips, his cock springs free, slapping against his hard abdomen. You lick your lips at the sight of him naked before you. Tattoos and scars on display for you, tanned skin glowing under the setting sun.

His hand reaches out for yours, intertwining his fingers with yours and leading you into the water. It’s cool on your skin and eases the pain in your knees, which just makes you crave Joel more. When the water is passed his hips he grabs you again, lifting you into his arms, bodies pressed tightly against each other.

“Make you feel good how?” He asks, kissing your neck and collarbone.

“Please Joel.” you whine.

“Please what, baby girl?”

You grind your hips into his, you can feel his cock sliding underneath you as your clit brushes against his body and you whine.

“Need my cock sweet girl?” You moan out again. “Say what you need.”

“I need…” fuck why is this so hard for you. After years of giving to everyone else and having no one to take care of you it’s nearly impossible to ask for it.

“Please, darlin’. Say whatever you need and I’ll give it. Fingers. Tongue. Whatever you want.”

You grind against him again, the water of the lake making everything slippery. “Want you inside me.”

“Good girl,” his voice is rough with need, “guide it in for us.”

You reach your hand between your bodies and wrap your hand around his cock, pumping his length a few times before lining it up with your entrance. You can feel your walls fluttering already, anxiously waiting to be filled.

“Look at me,” he says.

You lock eyes and slowly sink down onto him, the head of his thick cock filling you. “Oh god - Joel - fuck.”

“Keep goin’ baby,” his eyes glaze over, “wanna be all the way in.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, fingernails digging into his shoulders as you slide him the rest of the way inside you. You feel every inch of him stretching and filling you. The cool water of the slow moving river dances along your skin.

“Fuck you feel so good.” He moans, bringing his lips to yours. Kissing you deeply.

You grind small, slow circles with your hips into him, at this angle he’s hitting that perfect spongy spot, his abdomen rubbing against your clit.

“That’s it, baby.” He praises as you cry out in pleasure. The small movements shouldn’t feel this good, but you’re surrounded by him in the water and as the sun fully sets and the moon and stars start to light up the water, he looks so beautiful. The trees are still, the world quiet and it feels like just the two of you exist. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes, Joel. Mmmm yes.” You can feel your orgasm building, your heart pounds in your chest over the close intimacy. Your body reacts so well to his, your pussy twitching slightly around his cock.

“Relax. Take what you need,” he says, letting you rub against him at your own pace.

“Oh fuck,” that familiar pressure starts to build again and you grip harder onto Joel.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl.” His hands cup your ass under the water, moving with your slow and steady rhythm. His dark eyes drink you in as you writhe against him. Moonlight reflects off the water, dancing around his body like candlelight.

“More, please Joel. More.”

“Ya?” He asks, thrusting up into you when you grind down on him.

“Oh god. Fuck me. Please.”

Joel crashes his lips to yours again as he takes over. Lifting you up and then slamming into you with his hips, hands pushing you down onto him. You moan into his mouth, he’s so deep and stretching you almost to the point of pain.

He repeats this motion a few more times, you call out his name to the forest, completely unashamed of your pleasure echoing back at you.

“You look so fucking beautiful like this. Look down baby, look how well you’re taking me.”

You lean back, watching through the clear moonlit water as Joel slides in and out of you and that heat in your lower belly starts to erupt. You cry out, watching as Joel’s thrusts become slower and sloppier.

“Play with your clit.” he demands through gritted teeth, he’s trying his hardest not to come yet.

You lean back slightly, sliding your hand between your bodies and rub tight circles on your sensitive nub.

“Joel!” it comes out as a high pitched squeal, you’re right on the edge, teetering towards all consuming pleasure.

“I know. I know.” His voice is soothing.

“I’m. Oh fuuuuck. I’m gonna…”

“Cum for me baby. Let me feel it.” Your orgasm washes over you, sparks lighting up your whole body. You curl into Joel, biting his neck gently, muffling the sounds of your screams as your walls clench hard around him. Joel doesn’t stop thrusting up into you, “that’s it. Good job sweetheart.”

You bring both hands to tangle in Joel’s curls, kissing him as you come down from your high. “Cum for me, Joel,” you say between kisses.

He smiles at you proudly. You could ask for what you wanted when you two started. “Where do you want it baby?”

“I wanna watch,” you moan, your pussy becoming overstimulated by his thrusts.

He lifts you off, you reach for his cock as your feet hit the cool round stones on the bottom of the lake. You watch as you stroke him at the same pace he was fucking you.

“Show me Joel,” your free hand cups his balls, massaging them gently. They tighten in your hand before his cock twitches and his milky spend rises up in the water around you.

You look up at his face as he groans your name, his eyes are fixed on you and glazed over with pleasure. This big, strong dragon trainer is like soft clay, coming apart in your hands and you’ve never felt sexier.

“Fuck,” he says bringing you in for a kiss.

“Bring me home,” you whisper after breaking the kiss.

“We’ll go to your family first thing.” He says, kissing your nose.

“No, just take me home.”

Joel smiles warmly. Home. His home, and now your home.

==================================

Taglist:

@corazondebeskar @hiddenbabynyc @rainstorms-library @smutsmutslut @sullyrocky44 @keylimebeag @pimosworld @casa-boiardi @pedritoferg @paleidiot @lorilane33 @pansexual-potatoes @baar-ur @jessthebaker @jasminedragoon @koshkaj-blog @pedroswife69 @strawberri-blonde @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @iloveenya @javierpena-inatacvest @blazeflays @mermaidgirl30 @lorilane33

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tightjeansjavi · 9 months

Text

🎀 Unwrap Me 🎀

A blue jeans n’Texas dreams Christmas special 🤍

A/N: Merry Christmas, you filthy animals 🥵

~word count: 2.6k~

Pairing | horse dad!joel x f! reader

Summary: it's your first Christmas with your boyfriend, Joel Miller

Warnings: smut, fluff,soo much love between these two, so much kissing and soft touching, mentions of Christmas, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving) dirty talk, praise kink, teasing, sex by the fire, no age gap, pre!outbreak/no!outbreak Joel, soft! joel,horse dad!joel, boyfriend!joel, Ellie and Sarah exist in this universe, reader has no physical descriptions such as skin color or body type, +18 minors dni!

It’s Christmas Eve, your first Christmas spent with your Texas Tall Glass of water. A lot has changed between you and him since Fourth of July weekend. You had gradually moved your life into Joel’s. It had started off with sleepovers, more shared memories at the breakfast table that had become a part of your routine norm. Dinners, movie nights, date nights, driving Sarah to school. You and Joel were nervous that the transition period of living together would sour, but when you love someone, you communicate and make the appropriate adjustments so that you and your partner can both be happy.

So when you suggested separate rooms so that Joel could have his own private space, and you could have yours, he quickly realized there were more pros to this arrangement than cons. Plus, it created a healthy boundary, and the level of intimacy you shared together was heightened as a result. Who doesn’t love having sleepovers with your Texas Tall Glass of water? They were so fun.

You were becoming the definition of a happy family, and this Christmas was special for all of you, but especially Ellie and Sarah who were officially sisters. The adoption process went smoothly back in August, and Ellie finally knew what it was like to have a real family who loved her unconditionally.

The month of December flew by in a blur and you and Joel found yourself wrapping gifts last minute because everything had to be perfect for the baby girls. Joel was beaming with excitement despite the amount of times he had accidentally gotten a paper cut from the damn wrapping paper, or a piece of tape got caught on the table, or his ribbons didn’t turn out the way he had planned. But thank goodness you were there to help him with those gentle hands of yours. He watched in pure adoration while you fluffed up one of his ribbons before setting the wrapped gift under the tree.

You were both wearing matching plaid Christmas pajamas, working side by side while It’s A Wonderful Life played on the nearby tv.

You only stopped your shared wrapping duties when the scene where George Bailey and Mary Hatch were dancing together, having fun and being carefree.

Joel tossed the tape to the side before he gently grabbed your hands and playfully pulled you in front of the tv. He dropped one hand to your lower back, pulling you flush against his sweater clad chest. You danced in front of the tv like two fools that were madly in love, and by god were you in love with this man.

It wasn’t long before he was kissing you by the fireside, easing you onto your back and only departing from your lips to grab a few pillows and a blanket from the couch so he could create a little love nest for you and him to fuck on. It couldn’t be anymore romantic. A crackling fire, glittering lights on the Christmas tree that Joel chopped down with his own hands. (What a sight that was)

His lips and hot breath kissing your skin, fingertips dancing, sweaters being thrown carelessly so you could feel one another more easily. Always needing that skin to skin contact. The thick drag of his cock stretching you open, the gentle roll of his hips, a strong arm wrapped around you, holding you close. Calloused fingertips brushing your chin, easing your head back so you can meet his lips in a dance once more.

He licks into your mouth, hot, shuddered breaths of mutual pleasure. His beard tickles your skin as you feel yourself consumed with all of him. Eyes rolling back, dumb smiles planted on your lovesick faces each time he fucks into you with that steady rhythm of his.

You draw one another in closer to your peaks, praises tumbling from your lips, toes curling, his thumb strokes your clit with his own neediness to feel your clenching pussy milk him dry as he spills into you, hips stuttering, moans muffled by a bruising kiss.

He softens inside of you, fingertips dragging across your navel, drawing patterns against sweat stained skin.

Another kiss treasured before he slowly pulls his hips back, softened cock slipping out, glistening under the warm glow of the fire in yours and his come.

He leans over, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “hot chocolate or tea before round two?” He drawls warm and deep, that raspy post-sex voice of his sending another gush of arousal between your come painted thighs.

“Hot chocolate..splash of Bailey’s?” You hum, reaching for his jaw, pulling him back in for another kiss.

“I like your thinkin’, sugar.” You can taste his boyish grin on your tongue before he departs to the kitchen.

Your Texas Tall Glass of water has gained so much confidence in himself these past few months that he’s shared with you. You’ve always been there to gently remind him that he’s a good man, a good father. That it’s okay to be hurt sometimes and that his feelings are valid. That you’ll always be there to listen, to guide him because he’s done the same for you. He’s taught you what he knows best, filling your brain with his knowledge of contracting, showing you the ropes of his skill.

and in turn you have taught him everything you know about horses and in those short few months, Joel has found himself fully immersed in your world. The business of Dream Riders has significantly grown, and your little herd of six horses has since doubled, and Joel was there with you every step of the way. Javi P, the chestnut, antsy OTTB unlearned his hatred of men through Joel, and you never thought you’d see the day.

The quiet and reserved rescued mustang named Din has found himself a place in the herd with his little donkey friend, Grogu always at his heels.

In the low kitchen light, Joel finds himself thinking of his future with you by his side as he tops the steaming mugs of hot chocolate off with a few marshmallows. Meeting you was one of the best things that had ever happened to him outside the birth of his daughter. He really wasn’t one to believe in all that mumbo jumbo about soulmates, but here he was, smiling dumbly out the kitchen window because maybe they did exist; soulmates and all that.

He heard your sweet voice travel to his ears from where he stood, missing his presence already. The thought sent his heart swelling up like a balloon.

He found you sprawled out in the love nest he built, with only the blanket to cover your modesty. Your eyes drifted upwards, glistening from the glow of the fire, hand outstretched in his direction because you really did miss him for those short few minutes apart.

“Sorry, honey bun. Was jus’ addin’ a few marshmallows s’all.” He crouched down, setting his mug off to the side before he handed you yours, leaning down to steal a quick kiss before he made himself comfortable in the love nest once more with his legs comforting laid out near the fire.

Your hot chocolates were enjoyed in a comfortable silence as the fire continued to crackle.

He rested his weight back on his elbows while you found your head resting in his lap, fingertips tracing patterns along his bare thigh.

“Do you..think we got them enough gifts? Can’t believe how expensive a damn PlayStation costs.” He chuckled, shaking his head with a grin.

“Oh, I think we got them plenty of gifts, cowboy. I just can’t wait to see Ellie’s face when she opens up the PlayStation, and when Sarah sees the new custom tack set I got for her and Frankie?” You said softly, leaning into his touch when the warm expanse of his large hand came to rest along the exposed skin of your lower back, fingertips brushing the curve of your ass beneath the blanket.

“I’m gonna tear up just thinkin’ about seein’ their faces in the mornin.’”

“You stop that right now, baby. Cause if you start, then I’m gonna start too.” You giggled softly pressing your cheek further against the warm expanse of his thigh. “I hope you love what I got you, Joel.”

“Baby, I already got everything I want right here. What more can a man ask for than two loving daughters, and the most wonderful, gentle, loving woman by his side?”

“You’re such a sap, Joel. Who could have been the cause of that?” You teased playfully.

“Dunno. Who could it be? Hmm..let’s see here..perhaps it's the stunning gal laying fireside with my come still drippin’ between her thighs? Ring any bells for ya?” He chuckled, slowly letting his fingertips dip lower between your cheeks, dragging his fingers through the seam of your pussy.

Your thighs instinctively parted open so his fingers would have easier access while your own traced dangerously close to his hardening cock between his thighs. It didn’t take much for either of you to get going again.

“Ooh, look who’s being vulgar right before Santa’s gonna come right down the chimney. That kinda talk is gonna get you on the naughty list, cowboy.”

He chuckled, eyes drifting downwards to where your cheek was still resting against his thigh before they traveled across your bare spine, down to your lower back and between your thighs where his fingers were lightly teasing you. “Mmm..well, sugar, your Texas Tall Glass of water has been on the naughty list for years. Say, you think Santa would mind if I unwrapped my gift early? Think he’ll still bring me coal?”

You fought the warmth rising to your cheeks from the filth dripping so casually between his lips. However, you didn’t fight the crawling desire to feel his touch a bit more as you slowly rolled your ass back into the expanse of his hand. “Baby, didn’t you already unwrap your gift earlier?”

“Sure did. But I think I wanna unwrap it a little more..gotta make it count, y’know? And what better way to ring in Christmas than to pull a couple more orgasms outta my girl. Remember over the summer, when I went down on your sweet cunt for the first time? Do’ya remember what I told ya, sweet girl?” He shifted his weight, easing your cheek off his thigh so he could face you fully. His hand left the spot between your thighs only to then gently coax you on your back. He was attentive to fixing the pillows behind you so that you were nice and comfy.

“Fuck..you naughty, naughty man. I lost track of how many you’ve given to me today, baby. We’ve surpassed the three to four times a day already, Joel.” You giggled, thighs falling open so he could see just for himself how aroused you were just from his teasing alone.

“What can I say, baby. Now that we’re livin’ under the same roof..you can’t expect me to not be touchin’ ya every second that I get. Fuckin’ addictive is what you are. You and that sweet fuckin’ pussy between those thighs.” His voice dropped an octave as he lowered himself onto his elbows, looping his arms around your middle, yanking you down gently so that you were closer to his face. “Christ, all this dirty talk got you this wet?” He peered up at you through thick lashes. “Still sticky with my come..fuck.” He whispered, hot breath fanning your core, “what a sight that is.”

A whine crawled up your throat as the broad expanse of his nose brushed against your inner thighs, dancing across your neglected clit and settling against your pubic bone. “What was it that I called it? Oh, right, the Joel Miller pussy eating special..” he chuckled, sending vibrations racing straight through your core and down to the tips of your toes. You found yourself fisting the blanket in one hand, and the other tangling through his soft head of curls. His hair had grown longer, and now was curling at the nape of his neck. You already threatened him to never cut it because there was nothing you loved more than ripping his baseball cap off at the end of a long work day, and running your fingers through his sweat stained curls while you rode his cock.

“Fuck, yeah, of course I remember that, baby. You literally sent me into a whole new world after that..” you rolled your hips towards his face, desperate to feel his mouth already while your nails lightly scraped at his scalp. “Well, if you’ve been such a naughty boy as you’ve claimed to be, why don’t you unwrap your present a little more, cowboy.”

He had that glint in his eye, one that sent your pussy pulsing desperately around nothing because goddamn Joel Miller and his big brown eyes, and his ridiculously large hands, and his Texas twang, and the way he loved you unconditionally. That goddamn Texas Tall Glass of water that stumbled upon your website all those months ago seeing your pretty face, bright smile and your arm wrapped around your horse's neck in a hug.

“You most certainly don’t have to ask me twice, sugar plum.” Was all he said before you felt his lips press an open mouthed kiss to your clit, dragging downwards as he tasted yours and his come along his tongue. He drove his face forward, one hand splayed across your stomach and the other clasped around your thigh as he devoured his favorite meal. He unwrapped you like the pretty bow you were with his tongue. Jaw going slack as he suckled your clit into his mouth. His eyes were locked on your face, the way your lips parted when he swirled his tongue in a figure eight motion.

He watched the way your chest rose and fell, head tossed back wildly, thighs quivering around his head, clawing at the blanket, tugging on the roots of his dark hair. His hand dropped from your stomach only to find your own. He laced his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand tight before he brought them to rest along your stomach.

He mumbled praising words against your ruined cunt. I love you, I adore you, I cherish you. My girl. My girl. My sweet filthy girl.

The coil was pulled tight inside of you, so tight you were seeing stars as you struggled to keep your moans quiet, but your Texas Tall Glass of water made it increasingly difficult to hold them at bay.

He drank you in, drop by drop, savoring the taste of you along his tongue before he finally let you breathe. And there was your man again, lips, chin, and beard coated in your slick as he nipped playfully at your thigh. His hand that wasn’t wrapped around yours, rubbed soothing circles into your skin as he kissed his way up your body to finally meet your lips once more.

You lazily kissed one another knowing that you had all the time in the world together and that nothing had to be rushed. But especially now, here in one another’s arms while you reached between your bodies, hand wrapping around the base of his cock so you could slip him right back in, guiding him home.

His head came to rest along your chest, eyes closed in a peaceful bliss while you gently pushed back his sweat stained curls that were sticking to his forehead. A tender sweep of your lips across his temple followed.

“I sure hope that Santa comes down that chimney soon just so he can see what a naughty, naughty, boy I’ve been this Christmas.” Your Texas Tall Glass of water murmured against your skin before visions of sugar plums and you would dance in his head.

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