#Wedge Anchor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daryltwdixon · 1 month ago

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Summary: You wake in Joel’s bed, sharing a quiet, tender moment together. But by mid-morning, he can’t keep what’s been bottled up inside any longer, and the dam finally breaks, taking everything with it. || smut MDNI 18+, thigh grinding/riding, handjob, pinv, still considered a pregnancy kink right?, dirty talk, lots of longing and angst, fighting (physical and emotional!!!), no outbreak, they're still terrible communicators, possessive joel, these are not healthy dynamics and I do not support these characters lol, au: joel speaks his mind, this is not medically accurate we do it for the plot || notes: this follows a bit of a different layout than the other parts, more focused on the drama than the smut. and it sure is dramatic. but hope you still enjoy!

The next morning, things felt… well, normal.

Waking up next to Joel was becoming close to what could almost be routine with how often you stayed there, though your brain still struggled to make sense of how it all happened. How his house, his sheets, his scent had started to feel like home.

Sleep came in fragments these days, always interrupted: by the need to pee, by the stretch of your skin, by the tiny feet inside you drumming against your ribs at ungodly hours. Nothing about your body was comfortable anymore—except maybe this.

Joel was still asleep, his body slung heavy and loose with the kind of deep, unguarded rest you never saw from him in daylight. He took up so much space—broad shoulders pressed into the mattress, bicep curled behind his head, the other arm draped over your hip as if to anchor you to him. His bare chest rose and fell beneath your palm, warm and solid, coarse hair spreading beneath your fingertips in a dark, masculine patch.

You couldn’t help but touch him. It was always hard to fight the urge, especially when he was laid out like this: soft in the face, the furrow between his brows smoothed out, sunlight painting the bridge of his nose, brushing across the dark stubble along his jaw. You let your hand drift, fingers splayed, tracing idle patterns through the hair on his chest, letting your nails graze lightly just to feel him shiver in his sleep.

Joel was always so warm. The kind of heat that felt like security, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you melt right into him. He was a furnace as he laid next to you. It felt safe and warm and secure next to him. One of his thick thighs was wedged between your legs, supporting your hips and keeping the ache in your bones at bay, but also creating a whole new kind of ache—a throbbing pulse you couldn’t quite ignore.

Sometimes you wondered if it was just the pregnancy. If it was hormones making you this needy, this desperate for him in the early morning light. But then he’d breathe against your neck, heavy and steady, or shift beneath you and pull you closer, and you knew it wasn’t just that. It was him. You’d never felt this strung-out and aching, like you might crawl right out of your skin just to get closer.

You pressed closer then, greedy for him, for the solidity of his body. Your swollen belly pressed snug to his side, your leg hiked up over his, and for a moment, you just breathed him in. He smelled of that pine leather cologne he always wore and the faintest hint of last night’s sweat that still clung to him.

Your hand slowly wandered down the curve of his chest, tracing the faint scar just under his ribs, feeling the soft give of his stomach beneath your palm. Your fingers played along the dip of his waist, following the trail of hair down until you reached the band of his sleep shorts, his hip bones jutting out under your touch.

He shifted, a low sound rumbling from his throat, half a groan, half a sigh. The arm around you tightened, pulling you in closer, and you felt him begin to stir, breath hitching as your nails scraped lazily over his skin. Your eyes traced the length of his body—broad chest, thick arms, the way his stomach rose and fell with each breath, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he adjusted beneath you.

You were so caught up in the feel of him, so solid, so present, so utterly Joel he was that you barely noticed when his eyes cracked open, lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones as he looked at you, still foggy with sleep. His mouth twitched into the beginnings of a lazy, crooked smile.

“Mornin’,” he rasped, voice gravelly and rough with sleep, his hand sliding up under your shirt, palm spreading wide over the curve of your back.

You smiled lightly up at him, your finger hooking into the top of his waistband as you said, “Good morning,”

He let out a soft grunt, half amusement, half satisfaction, and tucked you closer, big hand gliding up and down your spine with steady, lazy affection. The warmth of his thigh was still pressed snug between your legs, and you couldn’t help the way you rocked against him, just a little, seeking out any relief for the ache you woke up with.

Joel’s gaze flickered down, darkening as he felt you move. His hand stilled, heavy at the small of your back. “Someone’s eager this mornin’,” he murmured, his voice low, the smile never leaving his lips. He squeezed your hip, guiding you to press down just a little harder on his thigh.

You bit back a laugh, the sound coming out as more of a breathless sigh. “I blame hormones.”

He hummed, a deep rumble in his chest, and shifted his thigh, giving you more to grind against. His eyes were heavy-lidded, hungry, but still gentle in the way only Joel could be—with you, at least.

“Can feel how wet you are, sweetheart.” His hand pressed between your shoulders, holding you steady as he watched your face, watching the way you moved for him. “You want somethin’ from me?”

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but you didn’t stop. You finally moved your hand below his waistband and curled your fingers around him, sliding over the thickness that waited beneath the fabric, already hard and aching for you. He shuddered, hips twitching just barely, a low, broken sound caught at the back of his throat. He let you stroke him, slow and teasing, his eyes fluttering shut as your thumb swiped across the slit at the head of him, spreading the pearl of precum.

“Jesus,” he said, fidgeting beneath your touch, his hand coming up to cup your face then, pulling you closer to him, his lips brushing over yours as he said, “You like makin’ me crazy for you, huh?”

You nodded, feeling too breathless to tease him back at the feeling of how thick he was in your hand. You reached forward just a little bit to place a kiss against his lips and he sighed dreamily into it, your mouths slotting together, tongues already searching for each other in a dance you’d come to know so well. His hand threaded into your hair, keeping you close as you moaned into his mouth, your hips grinding down on his thigh, matching the rhythm of your hand as you stroked him.

“That’s a good girl,” he whispered against your lips, “Take what you need baby. Ride my thigh, just like that. Gonna take good care of you if you come for me.”

You whimpered, caught between embarrassment and desperate hunger. Your body was so heavy, so swollen with want, and the pressure of him beneath you was almost enough to make you dizzy. He held you steady, watching your face, kissing your jaw, murmuring encouragement every time your hips rolled a little harder, a little sloppier.

“There you go,” he whispered, voice so gentle but the words biting at your resolve. “This all for me? Just from wakin’ up next to me, hmm? Greedy little thing.”

“Yes, Joel,” you whispered as you kept your hand wrapped around him, stroking him as you moved, loving the way his cock pulsed under your touch, how he didn't care to bite back the moans every time you squeezed a little tighter.

“Come on pretty girl,” he coaxed, kissing your lips between words, groaning as you squeezed the head of his cock in your hand, “Want to feel you come just from this. Be a good girl for me, baby.”

His praise did you in, pleasure cresting in a wave as you cried out, grinding down hard on his thigh, squeezing him tight in your fist. He hissed, holding himself together as you rode through your climax, fingers loosening and twitching around his cock.

When you finally stilled, breathless and shaking, Joel’s arms came around you, gathering you close, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your hair and shoulders.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbled, voice like gravel, “You’re perfect.”

“Here, let me—” you started, realizing he hadn’t finished yet.

“Don’t worry, greedy girl,” he chuckled rough with affection. “I’ve got you. Why don’t you turn over for me?”

You did as you were bid, rolling onto your other side with his help. Joel crowded up behind you, big hands steady and sure as he adjusted you—so careful with your body, always mindful of your swollen belly, always treating you like something precious and breakable, even as he was aching for you.

He slid his arm across your clavicle, cradling you close so your face tucked into the warm crook of his elbow, his other arm hooking beneath your belly and holding you flush against him. You felt him press up behind you, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance, and he groaned low and desperate.

“Promised I’d take care of you,” he said, his voice tight as his breath fanned over your ear, “Always gonna take care of what’s mine, baby. All fuckin’ mine.”

Goosebumps rose across your skin and he slowly pushed inside you. Your body welcomed him, pulsing from your own release, stretching to accommodate the sheer girth of him. Your head tipped back, jaw slackening as your lips fell open. Joel’s breath stuttered out, his face buried in the nook of your neck, lips pressed to your skin. His hand stayed splayed wide of your stomach as he pushed himself into you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice rough in your ear, “So good for me, always takin’ this cock so well.”

He moved inside you, slow at first, rocking his hips while keeping you locked tight in his arms. The weight of his body behind you, the press of his hand over your belly, the heat of his breath at your ear. It was overwhelming, and you never felt safer, more wanted.You moaned, helpless, reaching back to grab at his thigh, needing to anchor yourself to him. Joel’s grip tightened, his possessiveness coming out in every word, every movement as it so often did in these moments. His voice dropped lower, rougher, almost a growl.

“Tell me, baby. You ever feel this way before, huh?” His hips snapped a little harder then, his words sharpening with how much he needed you. “My brother ever make you this cock drunk? Ever have you so full you can’t even think straight?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer, just pressed his mouth to your ear, biting down gently. “Knew you’d never need anyone else after me. Knew you were fuckin’ mine the second I made you come on my cock that first time. Now look at you, carryin’ my baby, takin’ it so well in my bed. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to make you feel this good.”

You sobbed his name, caught between shame and desperate pleasure, the stretch of him inside you almost too much. Joel’s hand slid lower, finding the pulse between your legs, working your clit in slow, insistent circles.

“That’s right, my pretty girl,” he hissed, “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come on my cock, wanna see you lose your fuckin’ mind for me. Just for me.”

You came again, shivering in his arms, and Joel groaned behind you, the sound thick and desperate as he felt you clench and pulse around him, drawing him in even deeper. His arms locked tighter, holding you close, his hips stuttering as he finally let go, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

He stayed pressed to your back, catching his breath, his body curled protectively around yours. His hand never left your belly, stroking gentle circles there, as if he could soothe every ache and tell you without words how much you meant to him.

You let yourself drift in that silence for a moment, letting your breathing slow, letting his touch ground you. But the words he’d said, the rawness, the edge, still lingered, curling in your chest with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Joel…” you whispered, voice small in the hush of the room. He hummed in response, nuzzling the back of your neck.

You hesitated, then said softly, “You can’t… you can’t say things like that.”

He went still, hand pausing on your belly. “What things?” His voice was quieter now, the cockiness gone, just him and you and the smell of sweat.

You sighed, turning in his arms to look into his eyes, something nervous and uncertain there in them as you said, “When you ask me if anyone’s ever…if Tommy has ever made me feel the things you make me feel.”

His brows furrowed, mouth opening for a moment before closing again, eyes drifting over your shoulder in thought.

“With the way things are right now… I’m already so…” you buried your face in the pillow.

He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, thumb tracing the line of your cheek as his eyes came back to you. “Hey,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m sorry. I know I get carried away.”

You nodded, not quite able to meet his gaze. “It just… it gets in my head. I know it’s just talk, but right now everything feels so… intense. Heavy, you know? I just need it to be you and me, just for a little while. No one else.”

“Alright,” he murmured, voice softer, “I can do that. I promise.”

You let yourself relax into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat thudding strong and sure against your cheek.

“I got you,” he whispered, his lips brushing your hair. “Always.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself believe it, letting the quiet settle between you. Wrapped in Joel’s arms, for just a moment, the rest of the world could wait.

Later that morning, the house felt unusually quiet—just the low hum of the fridge, the distant tick of a clock, and the sunlight slipping in through half-closed blinds, striping the living room floor in gold. You stood near the old couch, hands braced at the small of your aching back, watching Joel as he finished gathering your things. Your shoes sat where you’d left them by the coffee table, just out of reach.

You eyed them, willing yourself to bend, but your body had other ideas. With a defeated laugh, you dropped your arms and stood there, belly rounding out in front of you, toes barely peeking beneath its curve. “I feel so helpless,” you giggled, breath catching as you tried again to reach for your shoes, only to give up with a little sigh.

Joel turned at the sound, the corners of his eyes crinkling with something between amusement and worry. “Ain’t helpless,” he said, voice a low rumble. You watched the way he moved unhurried, steady, filling the space so completely as he made his way over to you.

He knelt in front of you, the soft thud of his knees muffled against the old rug, and took your foot in his hands, slipping on your shoe, lacing it up with quick, practiced movements. Then the other, just as careful, his broad shoulders hunched in concentration, the top of his head catching a slant of sunlight.

When he finished tying your shoes, Joel didn’t move to get up. He stayed kneeling on the old rug in front of you, one hand wrapping gently around the back of your calf, thumb tracing thoughtless circles. His head bowed a little, eyes fixed on your legs in front of him, jaw set as if he was working something over and over in his mind.

The morning seemed to hush around you as you watched him, noticing the way his brows pinched together, the distant look in his eyes. He was somewhere else, thinking so hard you could feel the air around you shrinking just to this moment.

You opened your mouth, about to ask what was wrong, but before you could, Joel spoke, his voice low, barely above a whisper, still not quite looking up at you.

“Leave him.”

The words didn’t register at first.

“What?” you breathed, sure you’d misheard.

That’s when Joel finally looked up, really looking at you, still kneeling on the floor in front of you. It felt so vulnerable, so raw, pleading in a way you’d never seen before. He swallowed hard, hands tightening gently at your leg as he met your eyes, voice breaking just a little.

“Leave him,” he said again, everything in him laid bare.

You blinked down at him. “Joel… I—”

He stood slowly, hands trailing up from your calves to your shoulders, his touch hesitant, like he didn’t know if you’d let him hold you. His palms cupped the back of your arms, not squeezing, just there. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, he looked as wrecked as you’d ever seen him.

“I know I’m not supposed to say it,” he said, the words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them now that they’d started. “I know it ain’t… fair. But I can’t keep pretendin’ ”

He swallowed, jaw tight. “It ain’t about the baby anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. You know it. I know it.”

You shook your head, the tears stinging, but he pressed on.

“Tommy—he gets to walk around actin’ like everything’s normal, claimin’ this baby’s his, claimin’ you. All I do is stand on the sidelines, pretend I’m just helpin’ out, just some fuckin’… uncle. I gotta stand there and watch you cry over him, watch him treat you like you don’t matter. And I’m the one here, holdin’ you together when he can barely look at you.”

He looked away, chest heaving, voice breaking. “He asked this of us. Asked me to do this—then treats me like it was nothin’. Like you’re nothin’. And you…you keep comin’ back to me. You keep wantin’ me. So I know it ain’t just me who feels it.”

You’d never heard Joel talk like this before—like the words were burning his throat, like if he stopped, he’d never be able to say it again. Once, months ago, he’d admitted he wanted you. But this was different. Now he sounded like a man drowning.

And you felt caught in his undertow, sinking just as fast.

He raked a hand through his beard, eyes shining with something desperate before his hands fell on you again. “I’m tired, darlin’. Tired of bein’ on the sidelines, watchin’ you cry over him, of hidin’ what this really is. I’m yours, and I love you. It’s killin’ me to watch you let him take everythin’ from you. From me. From us.”

And for some reason, as you watched him, as he waited your answer, your thoughts immediately were of Tommy. Of your vows, of the years you’d spent building a future you could barely recognize anymore. Of all the nights you’d spent crying, and all the mornings you’d woken up in Joel’s arms instead. Was it always headed here? Had you just been pretending too?

Tommy was your husband. He’d been your first love, your future, your family. He was supposed to be all of it. But you couldn’t shake the memories that belonged to Joel too. The way he was always there, always solid, the person you leaned on—at first for Tommy’s sake, and then… somehow, for your own. You thought it was comfort, survival. You thought you were just playing the role Tommy asked for.

It hit you now, standing in front of Joel, just how much you’d missed. You’d been living this way for months—sharing yourself between them, saying it was all agreed, all out in the open. But still, you’d let yourself believe it was something you could manage, that it could stay simple, that no one would get hurt. You hadn’t let yourself see the way Joel looked at you, how often he put you first, how quietly he let Tommy take credit, how he swallowed his feelings for your sake and the baby’s.

God, you couldn’t let him go. You didn’t want to. Maybe you loved him too, maybe you always had and just refused to see it.

But Tommy. And this baby. And the wreckage you’d leave behind if you chose yourself, if you chose Joel.

And here he was, pouring everything out for you, breaking himself open because he couldn’t stand in the shadows anymore. Because he loved you. Because you think…maybe, almost certainly…you loved him back.

It all tangled together inside you—loyalty, guilt, fear, want—making it impossible to breathe, impossible to choose.

You felt the world slip sideways, like your heart was in your throat. “You can’t…” you whispered, voice barely there, “You can’t ask me to leave my husband.”

Joel’s grip loosened, his hands falling away slow, like letting go was the hardest thing he’d ever done. You saw the pain in his eyes, the way it hollowed him out. He looked older in that moment, worn down and emptied, as if saying the truth had cost him something he couldn’t ever get back.

You took a step back, knees trembling, the world tilting beneath your feet. “Take me home,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “Please.”

The whole ride home, you tried not to cry. You weren’t sure if Joel said your name once or maybe even twice. Everything was a blur, your thoughts screaming so loudly you could barely hear the world outside. It all felt dreamlike, suspended, unreal.

You’d be kidding yourself if you hadn’t all along how hard this would be, how eventually you’d have to make a choice. To pick one of them. But how were you supposed to choose? The man you married, the man you’d loved for years, who you built a life with… or the man beside you in the truck, who saw you, wanted you, cared for you in ways no one ever had?

And what if fate really was a twisted son of a bitch? What if destiny was cruel enough to let you meet Joel first, only for you to be blind to it and end up falling for his brother instead? You tried to build a future with Tommy, tried to make it work, only for everything to splinter when he couldn’t give you a child. And as if that wasn’t enough, it had to be Joel—his own brother—who could. As if the universe itself was determined to tangle all your lives together, to make you pay for something you never even understood.

You barely said goodbye as you climbed out of the truck, slamming the door behind you as Joel parked. Maybe he thought of getting out too, but you’d already made it halfway to the porch, fumbling with your keys, desperate to get inside. You didn’t even look back. It wasn’t anger, not really, or at least, not at him. Joel was right. He was valid in every feeling, every need. What you had was real, stronger than anything you’d ever known, with a pull you could feel in your bones.

You were angry at yourself. For thinking you could have both. For letting yourself believe you could keep your life neat and easy, that you could somehow have your cake and eat it too. How did you ever think this would work? That you could be the hinge between two brothers and keep the peace?

The door clicked shut behind you, louder than you meant, and your eyes blurred so badly with tears you couldn’t make out anything in the mid morning light. You were already halfway to the stairs when you heard the scrape of a chair, a mug thumping on the dining room table.

“Hey—” Tommy’s voice cracked, hoarse with sleep or worry, you couldn’t tell. He was on his feet in a second, moving toward you, catching you just as you broke, your face falling into your hands, sobs spilling out uncontrollably.

He wrapped you up the moment you let go, arms tight, rocking you gently in the foyer, his chin pressing against your hair. “Honey,” he whispered, kissing the crown of your head, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

You clung to him harder, wanting to explain everything and knowing you couldn’t. You wanted him to understand—this wasn’t how you’d pictured things, all you ever wanted was a baby with him. You’d never planned for Joel to become such a force, such a gravitational pull in your life, but now you couldn’t picture a future without him in it. Not as an uncle. Not as a stand-in. You wanted them both, in some impossible, beautiful fantasy you thought could work. Just you and the two men you loved, raising your child together.

You knew, even through the heartbreak, that Tommy had reason to feel the way he did. Even though he was the one who’d first suggested this, he couldn’t have known how much it would change you, how much it would change everything.

He held you until your sobs softened, his hands smoothing over your hair, grounding you.

“Talk to me, baby,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “Please. Are you okay?”

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, forcing yourself to breathe deeply, to find your voice again. Nodding, you pressed your palms against his chest, steadying yourself as you finally met his eyes.

“I’m fine. I just…” you shook your head, gazing up at him, “Tommy, why were you so…” you hesitated, your voice breaking around the words, “What happened yesterday?”

Tommy’s eyes dropped to the floor. His hands stiffened around you, searching for the words. “I messed up. I know I did. I… I was angry and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair. None of this is fair, I know.” He swallowed, eyes shining with something raw. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

You nodded, but it didn’t feel like enough. The ache inside you was still sharp. “But you meant them,” you whispered, “Didn’t you? The things you said—about me, about Joel, about the baby.”

Tommy’s jaw worked, shame flickering across his face. He reached up, fingers threading through your hair, his thumb brushing your cheek with so much tenderness, “I was angry. I was scared. I didn’t mean all of it.” His voice dropped, hoarse and pleading.

You held his gaze, desperate for something real, something to hold onto, “Do you still want this, Tommy?” you asked, your words trembling with need. “Do you still want me? This family? After everything?”

He stared at you, searching your face like he could find his answer there. His eyes were wet, his voice ragged. “I do. God, I do. I just—” He shook his head, trying to hold himself together. “I don’t know how to do this, but I want you. I want our baby. I want all of it.”

Before you could say more, a sudden sharp movement made you wince. Instinctively, your hands flew to your belly, pressing gently where the baby’s heel—or maybe an elbow—thudded against your ribs from the inside. You let out a small, startled sound, your breath catching as the sensation lingered.

Tommy’s hands covered yours instantly, his touch gentle, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “He kickin’ again?” he asked, voice a little lighter now, though still concerned.

You nodded, letting out a shaky laugh. “Feels like he’s trying to break out.”

Tommy smiled, the first real one you’d seen from him in days. “He’s gonna be a handful, huh?” His hands moved to your hips, steadying you, thumbs pressing soothing little lines into the small of your back.

“I uh… Learned somethin’ while readin’ that book you gave me,” he offered, nudging your arm playfully.

“Oh yeah?” You tried to sound curious, grateful for the change in subject, letting him tug you gently out of your head and back into the warmth of the living room. “Which one?”

He bent to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “What to Expect When You’re Expectin’, of course. The classic.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Bet you skipped right to the good parts.”

Tommy grinned, shaking his head, “Actually…” He turned you so your back was to his chest, and slipped his big hands beneath your belly, palms lifting with careful, practiced strength. You sighed out, relief washing through you as the pressure lessened, your spine grateful for the reprieve.

“Oh–” you sighed, your head dropping back onto his shoulder, tension melting from your body. You let your eyes flutter closed as you breathed through the release of tension.

Tommy kept you there in his arms with his hands steady, the rise and fall of your belly matching the gentle rhythm of his breathing. He pressed a kiss to your exposed shoulder, voice a soft rumble in your ear, “Let me take care of you.”

You didn’t have it in you to argue. That was all you wanted. Just for him to be here, present, to see you and stay beside you. To be the husband you needed, the father this baby deserved. He’d been so distant lately, lost in his own thoughts, and maybe he didn’t even realize how much you missed him.

You stayed like that for a moment, letting him hold you, letting yourself relax into his body and the softness of the morning. For just a few precious seconds, the heaviness in your chest eased, the worries faded, and you let yourself believe, maybe, that things could be simple again.

Tommy nuzzled your cheek, his hand smoothing down your belly. “He’s lucky, you know. To have you for his mama.”

You swallowed, a tightness returning, but you held onto the warmth as long as you could. “He’s lucky to have you too,” you whispered, your hand finding his on your belly, fingers threading together.

Joel, a few weeks later

Your eyes.

He couldn’t get them out of his head. He felt haunted by the way you’d looked at him last, pain and shock and something deeper flickering through. Every time Joel closed his own eyes, yours stared back at him. Confusion, then pain, then a kind of sorrow he hadn’t known he could cause. Maybe that was the worst of it, knowing you’d looked at him like you didn’t recognize him anymore.

He sat alone at the far end of the bar, shoulders hunched, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and fried food. His third glass of whiskey was nearly empty, but the burn in his chest hadn’t faded. He nursed the glass, letting the heat crawl down his throat, wishing it would take the edge off the ache in his gut. It didn’t.

Joel Miller never asked for things. He learned the hard way that nothing was ever handed to him. When Sarah’s mom left, he’d prayed for a sign, for mercy, for anything that might make it hurt less. None of it came. He’d gotten used to that kind of emptiness, filled it with work, sweat, exhaustion, anything to keep from wanting what he couldn’t have.

But then you.

He didn’t mean for things to change, not like they did. Didn’t mean for a deal struck in desperation to become the center of his goddamn world. He never meant to start wanting things like soft mornings, the sound of your laughter, the smell of you in his bed. He didn’t mean to want…this. A family with you.

And he never meant to need you.

Now look at him. Washed up, bitter, nothing to show for it but a ruined family and a half-empty glass. Weeks had passed with nothing but silence. And these last weeks had been so crucial in your pregnancy, he knew. He knew it was only a matter of time before you went into labor. Would he get a phone call? Would he have to hear about it after the fact? Even Tommy had been avoiding him, working separate jobs, never meeting his eyes in the rare moments they did cross paths. Joel had never felt so exiled.

It was punishment, he told himself. For wanting too much. For saying what should’ve stayed buried in his chest. He deserved it. He’d fucked everything up by asking, by hoping.

But the longer he sat there, nursing his shame, the more it curdled into something ugly, something stubborn. He started to wonder—why shouldn’t he ask for more? Why shouldn’t he get to want you, after everything he’d done, everything Tommy hadn’t?

He thought of how you’d cried to him, how Tommy had left you to do it alone. How you’d reached for Joel in the night, not your husband. How it was Joel you called when you needed someone steady.

Didn’t that mean something? Didn’t he deserve something too, for once?

The whiskey didn’t answer. The bartender didn’t look his way. The whole world spun on, uncaring. Joel stared into the bottom of his glass, jaw clenched, the want and the guilt burning together now, making something sharp and wild out of him.

Maybe he didn’t deserve you. But even if that were true, he knew for damn certain his brother didn’t deserve you either.

The bar lights blurred as Joel got to his feet, setting down the empty glass with a heavy, final thud. He slapped some bills on the sticky wood, not bothering to count.

He was already moving, pushing out into the night air, his mind made up before his feet hit the parking lot.

You

Dinner was quiet, the kind of quiet that crawls under your skin and makes everything feel brittle. The kitchen light buzzed overhead. You pushed food around your plate, barely eating, feeling every small irritation sharper than usual. Tommy sat across from you, arms crossed, his own meal barely touched.

He sighed, “You gotta eat more than that, honey. For the baby.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Tommy frowned. “You need to keep your strength up. Doctor said—”

You set your fork down with a little more force than necessary. “I know what the doctor said, Tommy. I was there.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering, “Hard to tell sometimes. You never listen to me anyway.”

You stiffened, the tension simmering right under your skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just means you don’t listen, is all,” he replied, voice tight. “Always got your mind somewhere else.”

Your hands balled into fists under the table. You wanted to scream, to throw your plate across the room. Instead, you bit out, “Maybe if you tried talking to me instead of talking at me, I’d want to listen.”

Tommy’s face went hard. “Real nice.”

You stared at him, something ugly swirling in your chest. This wasn’t about dinner. It wasn’t even about the baby, not really. You knew exactly what was bothering you. The ache of missing Joel had been gnawing at your insides every minute he was gone. But you couldn’t say that, not now. Not ever. Besides, it was you who’d been avoiding him.

Maybe Tommy sensed something had happened between you and Joel, and maybe he knew more than he let on, but he never asked. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

The argument stalled, both of you sulking in silence, a thousand things always left unsaid. You were about to get up when a sharp, heavy knock rattled the front door.

You froze. Tommy scraped his chair back and headed for the entryway, leaving you sitting there, heart suddenly pounding.

You heard voices. Tommy’s was low and annoyed, and then another, rough and urgent, words muffled but unmistakably angry. The front door banged open, making you jump in your seat. The sound of boots hit the hardwood, the smell of whiskey and cigarettes hitting you before you even saw him.

Joel strode past Tommy, ignoring the hand at his shoulder. His eyes were wild, dark and desperate, and before you could react, he was kneeling beside you right there in the dining room. He looked wrecked, raw, everything stripped bare.

“Joel, what are you doing? Have you been smok–”

He cut you off, grabbing your hands, holding them tight like he might break apart if he let go. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice thick. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. But I can’t—I do this. I need you to see. Need you to understand what this is, what you are to me.”

“Joel…”

Tommy stormed into the room, voice sharp. “You got no right to barge in here. This is my house. She’s my wife, goddammit, Joel.”

Joel’s eyes never left you.

He just clung tighter to your hands, gaze pleading, almost haunted. “You don’t know what it’s been like—how it’s been eatin’ me alive, sweetheart. I see you everywhere. I wake up in the middle of the night just... I can’t breathe. I can’t fuckin’ think straight.”

You opened your mouth again, but he just shook his head, voice cracking. “I know I ruined everything. I know I asked for too much. But I can’t stand watchin’ him treat you like you’re somethin’ he has to endure, like you’re not the best thing that ever happened to any of us. You needed him, and he left you alone. Over and over. And I’m the bastard who made it worse by fallin’ for you. But I can’t lie. I love you. I love you so goddamn much it’s made me stupid.”

Tommy’s jaw flexed across the room. “Let her go, Joel. Jesus, look at yourself. You reek like booze. You’re pathetic.”

Joel’s head snapped up at that, finally turning on his brother, rage simmering in his eyes. His hands still held yours even as he looked away, “You wanna talk about pathetic? You had everything. You had her, you had a family, and you still managed to make her feel alone. That’s on you, not me.”

Tommy bristled, stepping closer, voice rising. “You think you’re some kind of hero or somethin'? She showed up cryin' the last time she saw you. And you're...you're just a goddamn homewrecker. You’re supposed to be my brother, and you’re tryin’ to steal my wife—”

“Hey–” you tried to cut in, but they were already too heated.

Joel’s lip curled, the words coming out as a snarl. “You don’t even know what you’ve got. You’ve never treated her like she mattered. You just wanted a baby, and when you couldn’t do it yourself, you handed her off to me like it was a job, not a fuckin’ life. Just admit you’re angry ‘cause you know I can actually take care of her.”

Tommy shoved him then, hard, and Joel staggered back, catching himself on his palms behind him.

“You piece of shit,” Tommy spat.

“Guys, please, don’t do this.” you begged, looking between the two brothers. Your stomach clenched and tightened beneath your hand as you flattened then against your swollen belly.

They ignored you, Joel getting up on his feet and moving into Tommy’s space. He glared at his brother, chest heaving, eyes wild with grief and fury.

“Go ahead, Tommy,” Joel growled, voice low and venomous. “Hit me all you want. Won’t change a damn thing. You couldn’t give her what she needed. Couldn’t give her a family. And you sure as hell never made her feel the way I do. Had to show you the way, didn’t I? How to touch your own fucking–”

But he was cut off by a right hook to the jaw, Tommy’s fist flying through the air. Joel staggered a little, but was quick to push back, lashing out in return, and then they were tangled, fists flying, bodies crashing into the table, sending a glass shattering to the floor.

You shouted again, stepping toward them, panic clawing at your throat, your hips and stomach tightening in clenching waves. “Stop it! Please, just stop!” But they barely registered you, lost in months of anger, shame, and jealousy.

Tommy had Joel pressed back against the wall, forearm pinning him, spit flying. “You think you’re better than me?” he roared. “She’s my wife, not yours!”

Joel snarled, twisting free, shoving Tommy back and sending him stumbling. He caught sight of you trying to get closer, and his tone softened even in the chaos, rough but laced with worry. “Not right now,” he said, breathless, eyes flicking over you, pleading for you to stay back, “This is between us.”

You hesitated, wanting to reach out for one of them, but Joel was already swinging, fist connecting with Tommy’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Tommy slammed Joel back against the wall, knuckles bruising, both men wild-eyed, locked in a vicious, ugly dance neither seemed able to end.

Your whole body was trembling, tears streaming down your face. “Stop it! Please, you’re going to hurt each other!”

A sudden, sharp pain twisted through your belly, stronger than before. You doubled over, a cry escaping your lips, and just as you felt a gush of warmth down your legs, you gasped, “Oh my god.”

The chaos stopped all at once. Joel and Tommy froze, both of them panting, bruised and bloodied, staring at you in utter shock.

The room fell silent but for your ragged breaths and the sound of water pooling on the floor.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @alidiggory92 @pinkylouise @izzy698 @doblasftcisco @devotedlypaleluminary @elsplayground @puduvallee @victoriaholland @legoemma @leenieweenie12 @possiblyafangirl @alitaar @mads198-9 @emmaoc10 @auteurdelabre @the-last-twin-of-krypton @lilasskicker2 @levislegislation @flowercrowns-goodvibes@starmurdock@94namkooksworld @staley83, @escapefromrealitylol, @starkleila, @ashleyfilm, @honeyydip, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @brooklynbbxo, @ratoonstown, @caroldxnvxrs, @lovelykat001

#sorry for the drama #it was kinda needed #joel miller #tommy miller #tlou #the last of us #joel miller x you #tommy miller x you #joel miller x reader #tommy x you x joel #feeling sad about tlou e3? read some family matters!!#joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #tlou fanfic #if you've made it this far in the tags I love you plz be kind #family matters

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ingeniousmindoftune · 1 month ago

Note

Hi i was wondering if you could write a fic about a virgin with either stack or smoke

“First Time for Everything”

Featuring Stack Moore (Michael B. Jordan) from Sinners (2025)

Reader Insert / Virgin Female OC Style / Modern day

Words: 1,389

She felt the city’s pulse in her bones—the relentless drumbeat that lifted some and swallowed others whole. New Orleans in midsummer wore a heavy, sultry cloak: the air thick with steam, the low murmur of secrets slipping through cracked shutters, and tendrils of cigarette smoke drifting from open bar doors like gray ribbons. Tourists swarmed the French Quarter in camera-bright colors, never noticing the hidden heartbeat beneath the jazz. She did.

She savored the hush after midnight, when street lamps blurred into halos and the clatter of late-night traffic faded to a soft percussion. From the front desk of the Maison de Chartres—a peeling pastel building wedged between a smoky jazz lounge and a voodoo stall that only opened at dusk—she heard saxophone notes spiral down from a second-floor balcony, unwinding like warm jasmine perfume onto the sidewalk. Behind her desk of burnished mahogany, she was the silent anchor for a revolving cast of guests.

They came and went: weary salesmen in damp suits, backpackers with muddy shoes, couples in too-tight formalwear clutching plastic hurricane cups. None of them registered her pale face or the way her dark eyes tracked each arrival and departure. She was the fixed star in a sky of passing comets—always watching, never seen.

Then he appeared.

She didn’t know “Stack Moore” that first humid evening. All she saw was a man who inhabited the air around him as if he’d claimed it by right. He stood at the threshold, tall in a soaked charcoal overcoat, collar turned up against sudden rain, a wool scarf knotted at his throat. His gait was deliberate, silent—an echo of confidence that didn’t need volume to fill the room. His broad shoulders hinted at stories carved into muscle; his eyes, dark and unreadable, never gave anything away for free.

“You the night clerk?” His voice was low, a rumble she felt more than heard, like thunder through a wall.

She looked up from her laptop, mouth parting into a flicker of surprise. “Yes, sir—um, I am.”

He let a brief, crooked smile slip across his face, sharp as broken glass. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Ain’t earned it.”

Her fingers trembled as she swiped the check-in tablet. “Of course. Stack Moore?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You know me?”

“Just from the reservation.” Her voice floated in the hush between them.

He studied her for a beat too long, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “Good,” he said. “I like that.”

Over the next nights, he morphed into a living ghost. Always arriving just before midnight, alone, the hem of his coat dark with rain or something darker. Some evenings a bruise, pale and spreading, bloomed along his jaw; other times faint smears of dried blood crusted under his knuckles. She never asked. She simply slid his room key across the desk with the same controlled calm—her nod the ritual, his departure the final note.

He had money—of that there was no doubt. His matte-black car with tinted windows whispered power. Yet he chose this modest hotel: clean rooms, polished floors, an anonymity that let him slip through shadows. Maybe that’s why she watched, puzzled by his insistence on returning.

One night he lingered longer than usual, leaning against the cherrywood counter as she refilled the lobby candy jar. The tin echoed with each gumdrop she dropped inside. Outside, the street was slick with fresh rain, neon signs winking through puddles.

“You from here?” he asked, voice low.

She paused, lifting a handful of pastel mints. “Born and raised. Lower Ninth—before the flood.”

He nodded slowly, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his coat. “Most people run from something.”

“I’m not most people.” She didn’t look up.

He exhaled, a sound almost like relief. “That scares me.”

His patronage haunted her thoughts as she locked up each evening. What corners of the city swallowed him? Why did he always arrive with that look—eyes like ash, as if he’d just walked away from something burning?

Then came the thunderstorm that cracked everything open. She was about to turn the key in the front door when he burst in, drenched. Water dripped from his hair, his shirt clung to his ribs. A dark bruise marred his temple—angry, raw.

“You okay?” She stepped around the desk before she could think, heart pounding.

He met her gaze, tension coiling in his sternum. “You always this kind?”

She shrugged, cheeks warm. “Not always. Just with you.”

He paused, something in his expression softening, or maybe it was regret. “You ever been touched?” His voice went brittle.

Her breath caught. “What do you mean?”

He closed the distance, voice dropping until only she could hear. “You look like the type who’s never been kissed unless he asked real nice. You ever been with somebody, sweetheart?”

There was no cruelty in his question, only blunt curiosity. She swallowed. “No, I haven’t.”

He blinked, jaw flexing. “I didn’t think so.”

She could have shut him down—called security, turned him away. Instead, she said, “I’m not saving myself.”

His shoulders sagged in a silent concession. “I didn’t think that either.”

“I just never felt… safe. Not really seen.” Her voice was a whisper.

He reached out, brushing a wet curl from her cheek with a tentative thumb. “I see you. More than I should.”

She met his gaze, heartbeat echoing in her ears. “You scared of me?”

He gave a short laugh, bitter and low. “You don’t even know.”

That night they didn’t go to a room. They sat on the worn leather couch in the lobby, sipping mint tea from chipped porcelain cups, listening to raindrops drum against the skylight. He told her about a childhood shaped by alleys and hard choices; she spoke of books that became lifelines and dreams of distant cities. When his fingers found hers across the coffee table, she let him hold her hand.

Their first kiss came weeks later, not in a fevered rush but slow and certain, as if they’d been rehearsing in silence. He returned with styrofoam containers of oxtails and collard greens, a stack of vinyl records crackling with distant trumpets. He teased her about her first taste of spicy gravy; she laughed until her sides ached. He told her her lips made quiet seem holy.

“I want you,” she said one rainy afternoon, her voice soft but unshakeable.

He paused, eyes darkening. “This ain’t just a night. Not with me. I’m not built for perfect.”

“I’m not asking for perfect,” she replied. “I’m asking for you.”

He laid her flat across the bed in Room 307—white sheets smelling faintly of lavender—and tended to her with reverence. Each touch was deliberate. When she winced, he stopped. When tears came, he kissed them away. “You good?” he murmured.

“Never been more sure,” she whispered.

Afterward, they lay tangled in sweat and scent—his heartbeat against her ear, her fingers tracing the scar near his collarbone. He pressed her closer, voice husky. “You ain’t a secret now. You’re mine.”

She simply pressed her lips to his jaw and held onto the stillness.

But nothing golden ever lingers in New Orleans forever. At dawn, the air felt thicker, heavier. He stood by the rain-streaked window, their sheets pooling at his feet like a forgotten promise.

“I ain’t good for you,” he said, eyes on the gray morning sky. “You carry light. I got things chasing me that eat light.”

She rose on one elbow, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face. “Then stop running.”

He turned, pain flickering across his features. “You make it sound easy.”

“I’m not saying it is,” she replied, touching his cheek. “I’m saying I’m not afraid.”

He sank to his knees before her, voice raw. “You should be.”

She leaned down and kissed him—lips soft, determined. “I’m not. Not of you.”

Stack Moore was a sinner.

But to one quiet girl behind a hotel desk, he’d become a beginning. A first. A man who didn’t take but offered—a man who saw her not as something untouched, but someone worthy of careful handling.

Maybe the world wouldn’t understand.

She didn’t care.

Because when you’ve been invisible your whole life, the first person to truly see you becomes unforgettable.

And Stack?

He never looked away.

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 2 months ago

Text

Pillow Wall

Where Harry wants to blame the cold or the mattress or her gravity, but the truth is, he just sleeps better wrapped up in her.

Word count: 1,357

Every night, they start the same way.

Harry climbs into bed first, flops onto his side with a groan like it’s been the longest day in the world—even if it hasn’t. Y/N follows a minute later, switching off the lamp, the room going soft and quiet.

He shifts to the far edge of his side. She mirrors him on hers. A whole country between them.

“G’night, love,” he says, muffled into his pillow.

“’Night,” she replies, already halfway to sleep.

Sometimes he’ll add something dumb, like “Don’t steal the covers,” even though she never does. Or, “Don’t kick me,” even though it’s his foot that always ends up on her side.

They face away from each other. No touching. No cuddling. No crossing the invisible line.

It’s not a cold thing—it’s just how it is. She likes her space. He says he sleeps better without limbs on him. It works.

At least until morning.

Because every single day, without fail, Y/N wakes up with Harry practically glued to her.

This morning, it’s worse than usual. He’s managed to wedge himself between her arm and chest, face smushed against her collarbone, one leg thrown across her hips like he’s trying to claim territory. His breath is warm and slow against her skin. Peaceful. Way too comfortable for someone who swears he needs “distance to function.”

She blinks at the ceiling for a second, lips twitching.

“Again?” she mumbles, mostly to herself.

Harry stirs, groaning like someone’s just disturbed his royal slumber.

“You dragged me in,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Every time. Like a bloody magnet.”

She snorts. “Sure I did.”

His arms tighten just slightly around her, and then he goes still again, already drifting back off.

Liar, she thinks.

It keeps happening.

The next morning, she wakes up with his nose buried in her neck and his hand resting casually under her shirt, palm flat against her stomach like he belongs there. He’s snoring lightly, and his leg is hooked around hers in a way that makes it physically impossible to move without waking him.

She lies there for a minute, not quite annoyed, not quite amused—just… baffled. Again.

“Harry,” she whispers, shifting just enough to make a point.

“Mm?” His voice is rough, still half in a dream. “Cold. You pulled me in.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did too.”

She sighs. He’s not even trying anymore.

Morning three, she wakes up practically spooning him. His back is to her, but her arm is slung around his waist, his fingers lazily twined with hers, like they fell asleep mid-conversation. Like this is just what they do.

She pulls her hand back slowly, like she’s dealing with a wild animal, and rolls onto her side. He follows her instinctively, still asleep, reaching for her even as she escapes.

By the time she gets up to brush her teeth, he’s taken over her pillow and curled into the spot where she was like a cat chasing warmth.

“Menace,” she mutters under her breath.

The next day, she wakes up nose-to-nose with him. Full frontal cuddle. His knee between her thighs, his arms around her like they’ve been in the middle of some intense, slow-motion hug all night. His lips are slightly parted, curls a mess, breath hitting her chin in soft little waves.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try.

“You okay down there?” she whispers.

His eyes barely crack open. “Would be better if you’d stop yanking me in like a sleep-deprived octopus.”

She just stares at him. “You seriously think I’m the one doing this?”

“Babe,” he says, voice low and hoarse, “I’m a victim.”

Then he presses his face back into her neck and falls asleep again.

A smug, snoring victim.

It happens again on a Thursday.

She wakes up with his entire body sprawled on top of hers. His head is tucked beneath her chin, his arms wrapped under her back, and somehow, he’s managed to get one of his feet under her calf like he’s trying to anchor her in place.

She’s had enough.

“Harry,” she says, sharp this time.

“Mmmph.”

“Get off me.”

He groans, buries his face deeper into her chest like that’ll help. “Why’re you so loud?”

“Because you are a liar,” she says, untangling her arm and smacking his shoulder with it. “You keep blaming me for this. Every morning. Like I’m the one dragging your six-foot ass across the bed in my sleep.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just exhales, long and dramatic.

“Look at this,” she gestures, even though his eyes are still shut. “You’re fully on top of me. There is no way I pulled you into this.”

He cracks one eye open. “You’re warm.”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re warm,” he repeats, like that explains everything. “And you smell nice. And sometimes I wake up a little and think, ‘Cuddles would be good,’ and then I just… do it.”

She gapes at him. “So you admit it.”

“I’m only human, Y/N.”

She smacks him with a pillow.

He grins into her shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to move.

Later that night, she makes a big production out of it.

“I’m putting a pillow wall between us,” she announces, tossing one of the big decorative ones from the couch onto the bed and propping it upright between them. “You stay on your side. No trespassing. I mean it.”

Harry watches her from his side, already under the covers, biting back a smile.

“Alright,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Message received. No cuddles. Ever again.”

“Exactly,” she says, climbing in. “Cuddle embargo. Effective immediately.”

“Harsh but fair.”

“Thank you.”

She clicks off the lamp. Silence falls.

For two minutes.

Then—

“I just think,” he says quietly, “you’re being a bit dramatic about how much you love me.”

She groans into her pillow. “Harry.”

“Can’t help that you’re clingy in your sleep. I’m the victim here, remember?”

She tosses a hand over the pillow wall and hits him in the face without looking.

He laughs. “That’s assault.”

She stays silent. Firm. Unmoving. She’s serious this time.

Until morning.

Because, of course, when she wakes up, the pillow wall is gone—mysteriously vanished—and Harry is back where he always ends up: wrapped around her like he belongs there, like it’s instinct. Like neither of them ever meant the distance in the first place.

She doesn’t bother waking him. Just lies there, hand idly brushing through his hair.

She’ll rebuild the wall tonight. Maybe.

Probably not.

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