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kiwisbell · 5 months

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Candy Girl [joel miller]

The before and after. Or, Joel fucks his friend's daughter for the first time.

my masterlist!

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ [mdni]

tags/warnings: daddy kink, baker!reader, age gap (20s/40s), (sort of) dbf!joel, daddy dom!joel, soft!joel, angst, self-loathing, waxing poetic about eating pussy, unprotected piv (wrap that shit up like a pastry), creampie, cream pies, dirty talk, pet names, forbidden romance, tw for occasional stylistic omission of quotation marks, moodboard for aesthetics only

word count: ~ 6k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, all!! please, as always, mind the tags for this fic - it's quite a departure from what i typically write, but daddy joel has set up shop in my brain and he won't leave. if this isn't for you, that's cool - you don't have to read it. i hope you'll be kind, and as always, i hope you enjoy!! xoxo

thank you HUGELY to my dear mya @cavillscurls for the absolutely stunning moodboard!!! i love you and i'm obsessed with you and you're crazy talented 🫶 and thank you endlessly to my parents sam and el @tieronecrush and @northernbluess for being AMAZING betas and always supporting me and my silly fics!!

CANDY GIRL

What have I done, he thinks, parting your dewy folds with two fingers and sliding his tongue through the glistening mess between your thighs, to deserve this?

He certainly can’t think of some good-enough deed to warrant him being here, tucked warmly in this apex, kindling a fire, rubbing his hands over the red of the flame, breathing sighs and gasps and groans into the sweet-smelling flesh of your thighs as if he were destined to arrive here. As if it were a mere quirk of fate, and now everything is gently settling into motion.

Your fingers are curled in his hair and your chest—bare, smattered with a faint sheen of sweat and reflecting moonlight, illicit—is heaving. You have no instinct to steer him. Your hand knows no guiding push or pull. Your back is bowing off the mattress and your mouth is emitting needy little whines and whimpers and pleas for mercy, more, please, Daddy.

And he’s acquiescing, toppling slowly into that heady pull of sticky wet warmth between your thighs, and all he can think is that you smell like cherries.

And you are messy. Fuck, you’re dripping onto his chin as he licks through you, languishing in the prickling taste as if he's guiding his tongue along the salt rim of a glass. His fingers absently dimple your thighs, bruising, forcing them to fall open, part wider, for him.

Let me in, baby girl.

Thaaat’s it. My sweet girl. My pretty girl.

So goddamn beautiful like this.

You just relax, baby, and let me in. C’mon, now.

You obey every muffled order like it’s law, letting him shoulder his way between your legs, his hand pressing firm on your belly, pinning you. The answering mewl he hears from your parted lips is the sweet slide of your strawberry icing along his taste buds. He buries his tongue between your wet folds and holds you tighter, dizzied with the smell and the taste and the feel of finally taking what he wants. What you've given him.

Joel licks self-indulgently through your slit until your pretty cunt is slathered in his spit and glistens with your own juices. When he sees your clit, puffy and fucking needy and shining at him like a goddamn pearl, he licks his lips.

Look at her. She’s fuckin’ cryin’ for me, baby girl. You need your Daddy to kiss it better?

You whine, grasping his locks, still never quite urging or pushing, but begging: Daddy, I’ll do anything. Please, I’ll do anything.

Shh, sweetheart. Don’t have to do anything. Just keep ‘em open for me. I’ll make it good. Hear me?

A frantic nod. A reflexive squeeze of the hand on your belly. Eyes, watery and butter-soft in the darkness—wrong, risk—meet his own.

Yes, Daddy.

It didn't begin this way.

Some of the edges are blurred with time. He vaguely recalls the time before you—mornings alone at the breakfast table, intermittent calls to Sarah all the way in College Station, long days on the job site because he had nothing else to come home to—and he’s bitter. It tastes nothing like the after: strawberry icing, vanilla perfume, cherries.

It must have begun when Chris slapped him on the back after the scaffolding on the Queen Street job was taken down and said, “Couple of us are grabbing coffees at the Morning Star. You should come along, man. Get outta the house.”

The Morning Star. A slightly weathered pink awning and a varnished oak interior, a couple small tables (occupied), a flurry of activity in front of and behind the counter. A glass display case brimming with cakes and croissants and macarons. Glass vases filled with pink roses whose stems have been neatly trimmed. A pretty girl working behind the counter, tending to customers with an irradiating smile, a tender hand, the blinding glint of a bracelet, a pair of earrings, glowing.

“What can I get for you this morning?” you asked him, like it was some secret spilling from the torso, a heart lurching from its cage, spread out on the ground.

Petal-pink flowers painted on your fingernails. The aching attentiveness of your stare. Ekphrastic turns of phrases pasted to the wall behind the counter, in the form of a mural, crowd-sourced poems and letters and works of art. Lived-in, loved. The smell of cherries as you approached.

And then it was Chris, clapping Joel on the shoulder, a jolt of good-natured violence turning to torrent as he said, “The usual for me, honey.”

It's been wrong since that moment. Maybe it's been wrong all along. That doesn't stop him from ending up here. And it doesn't stop you from following.

On your back, in Joel’s bed, your legs spread wide to accommodate his broad shoulders, welcoming the face-warming intrusion of his mouth between your slick folds. Bold in the way you curl your pretty polished fingers in his greying locks—he’s too old, much too old for you—and receptive in your soft moans and your uttered hexes of yesyesyes.

Bewitched, he flattens his tongue against your pulsing clit and latches his lips around it, his eyes fixed on the way your head falls back, the length of your throat exposed, the evidence of your beating heart laid bare for him in the tremble of your pulse.

He sucks on your clit until your legs begin to shake, and it’s the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his shoulders, the way you reflexively kick his back with your heel. But he’s pulling away, crushing his nose in the flesh of your thigh, nipping your soft skin, and the cry that leaves your mouth carves a tremor down his spine.

Your tight little hole flutters with the need to be filled, to take him inside you, to make him wholly yours, the way he already is, the way you can never know.

So he slides his tongue over your clit and lathers you in his spit and digs his fingertips into your thighs as if he owns you—because he never can.

The flickering burn of regret and shame soothes when he's between your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth and making you come so hard that you weep—leg kicking out, shackled by a firm hand around your ankle, back arching, fingers grasping, flexing, at whatever you can touch. You pour into him, molten gold, recast in his likeness, and he doesn't deserve this but he will take it.

Instinctively, he pushes deeper, lapping your release from your messy hole, his nose pressed against your oversensitive clit—and he can’t resist, has never been able to, gently coaxing you through it, Poor baby, so goddamn needy for Daddy, sweetheart. Taste so fuckin’ sweet.

You’re whining, finally pushing at his head as the pleasure notches too high, and he presses a soft kiss to your clit before dragging his lips up your belly, between your tits, pulling you upright to sit you in his lap. You grin lazily and drop your forehead against his.

Fuck, he's so proud. He smooths his hand down the crown of your head and skates his fingers down your sweat-slick spine.

You tired, baby?

You nod, and he nips at your pouting bottom lip.

Hmm, but you ain't a quitter. You can give me another, can't you? You wanna be good for me.

He whispers it all against the curve of your throat, into your collarbones, fitting his rough palm against your lower back and pulling your body flush to his. He sweats through all his layers and bleeds his warmth into you, but you don't care, grinding down on his lap, sliding your wet pussy along the hard length in his jeans.

Your hand is slippery at the back of his neck and your eyes are lidded, sleepy, near-black, as you take what you need because you're a greedy girl when it comes down to it, and he's holding your bloody beating heart in his palms.

I’ll be so good, Daddy.

He knows. God, he knows—his lips find your temple, hair matted with sweat, and he can feel your tits pressing up against his chest, the erratic melody your heart sings to him, for him, through him. And he doesn’t deserve this.

Gonna need to take me out, baby girl. Go on, now.

You scramble, reaching between your bodies and unbuttoning his jeans, your hand teasing down the waistband of his boxers. Joel groans when you squeeze him, his teeth catching on your earlobe, nibbling from your jaw to your chin. He watches your manicured hand with its pretty pink polish wrap snugly around the base of his cock—you give him a firm, slow stroke, and he curses at the sight of your oh-so eager gaze.

Shit, baby. You're grinding your hips, smearing your wetness along his length, and he kneads your hip like dough while you grasp his shoulder, your head lolling. He bares his teeth, growling and snapping like a dog at the hot, slick slide of your cunt, his eyes a pendulum between the joining of your bodies and the heavy gaze you give him. That’s it, that’s fuckin’ it, take what you need.

Your legs are trembling, too weak to hold yourself upright, and he knows, as always, exactly what it is you want.

You’ve always been spoiled, because he’s let it happen.

“Just a coffee,” he said, his third consecutive day in the Morning Star. “Please.”

He felt the twist of your lips in his ribcage. “I promise we have more than just coffee.”

“‘s good coffee,” he said. “Why spoil a good thing?”

He liked your pale pink hat and apron and the colour of your nails. He liked the way you feathered your fingertips over the till while you waited patiently for orders, the way you dealt so kindly with indecisiveness, the way your heart-shaped pendant glimmered when the sun dipped low in the western sky.

He only knows it glows like that because you let him stay one night, long after close, to fix the hinge on the front door.

He’d known the Morning Star for a month. He knew it better than he knew you.

“You don’t have to do this, Joel.”

An anxious shifting of your weight from one foot to the other, an intermittent four-fingered tap of your nails on the countertop, a soft weariness blurring the edges of your irises, as you tried to tell him you were fine, you could call your dad in the morning, please don’t worry about me.

The gentle in-and-out of your chest as you breathed, the golden near-evening light trickling the sun into the whites of your eyes, where it belonged. When you inhaled, he exhaled, the rhythmic pulse of life dancing between you, twirling carelessly on the edge of something neither of you could explain.

“I wanna help,” he said. “And you should let me.”

You sighed, little of the charging bull and more of the huffing kitten, and his stomach lurched painfully. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to rest his hand at the crown of your head, soothe the tension in your shoulders with a measured press of his fingertips, unearth the blood-flecked bones that heralded emotions he could not yet name. Later, he would know them intimately; later, he would set his teeth in the white marrow and lick the blood from his chops.

He wanted to ask all of his questions with his fingers, not his mouth, let you answer them the way you saw fit, giving that silent, haptic space the power it needed to pry open the parts of your life he could only guess at.

But he did not touch you.

Then, a time firmly lodged in the hazy somewhere of before-and-after, he could only pretend. And he could fix the door.

Now, he’s gazing in disbelief at the way your tight little hole wrenches open around the weeping tip of his heavy cock, his sweaty body sliding along yours as you hastily shove the buttons of his flannel out of their slits and shuck off his shirt. Skin-to-skin, he feels your pulse ever stronger, licking and sucking at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. His palm is flat between your shoulder blades as he eases you open, helping you take his big cock.

Daddy…

I know, baby girl, I know. Just a little more. That’s it—keep holdin’ onto me, baby.

Petting you like a domesticated cat, fitting his fingers in the grooves between your ribs, feeling his own heartbeat settle into the rhythm of yours. You grasp his shoulder, the nape of his neck, your lips parting against his forehead, pressing feverish kisses to the space where his greying curls stick to his skin.

You can take me, sweet girl. My baby. So good for me—

—the way you always have been.

“When my mom left, she gave the bakery to me.” Guiding the pink icing onto the small fluffy cakes, you moved seamlessly. Second nature, like laying mortar and brick. Your hands were speckled with flour and frosting.

The vanilla cupcakes, robed in white paper, were a commission for a young girl’s sixth birthday. “Pink was Sarah’s favourite, too,” he’d said when he walked in that morning—perhaps too needy for a reason to connect. Blindly tossing a fishing line into a murky lake.

But you still glowed when you had beamed up at him: “And now? She still a pink lover?”

“Haven't asked in a while,” he’d said, “but I’d reckon so.”

“She’s smart.” You had slid the black coffee across the counter and placed a cupcake next to it. Joel frowned.

“What's this?”

You had lifted your brows, your eyes telegraphing a challenge. He had sunk neck-deep into your emboldened gaze. “This is a cupcake.”

“Smartass,” he’d huffed. “You got a reason for givin’ me a cupcake?”

You’d gently pushed them closer to him and given him that blinding, tempting grin, and how could he ever hope to decline you when you looked at him like that?

“I value your opinion, Joel,” you’d told him, “and if you don’t eat it, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

He'd taken the cupcake and sunk his teeth into its pillowy flesh right there in front of you.

“And your dad?” asked Joel, on his knees under the counter, replacing the latch on the display door’s hinge. “He help you out a lot?”

An intrusive figure, playing unwitting God in the budding flower bed, picking petals before they were dead. He would always inflate the distance between you, assert his right to decide who you wanted, dated, fucked—he would always be Joel’s judge and jury.

The executioner’s axe he’d take up himself.

You topped off a row of cupcakes with little candied cherries. “He couldn't afford to quit, so I’m running the place. So much for school.”

Joel didn't like that. He didn’t like the way you let it all slide gently down your spine. There was a quiet defiance in the way you spoke—some simmering anger you buried deep in the earth where the colours weren't bright and your heart wasn't so naked. He could feel its veins as if holding it in his palm, the gentle ba-dum, ba-dum of a vulnerable organ so acquainted with disappointment.

“What do you want to study?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Never got the chance to think about it.”

Never got the chance to find yourself. To learn. To grow. You had simply stepped into another’s body, a ghost, occupied endlessly with the next task and the next and then one more. You should've been spending your early twenties partying and studying and crying your eyes out over idiot boys who didn’t know how good they had it. You shouldn't have to be here, decorating cupcakes for a six-year-old while some old man fixed yet another broken hinge, latch, bulb.

“I became a dad pretty young,” said Joel. “Thought I was gonna lose my whole life, all my opportunities, not that I had any.”

He did not deserve the empathetic shimmer in your waterline. “Joel, that's not true—”

“But,” he said with a faint groan as he rose, “I got to make a life of my own, with my kid, and I was happy.”

“You were happy?” you said wearily. “You aren't anymore?”

“I’m…”

He caught your eye and felt the plates far beneath his feet dislodge. Quantum shift. You held his gaze as if you were waiting for some truth to crawl from his sockets—like he was your answer. And Joel did not know what to do with that, but if you would keep looking at him this way, he would tell you any false truths you wanted to hear.

“I’m lonely,” he said at last. Joel reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. A shiver coursed through your heart which lay in his palm, warm crimson blood trickling down his wrists. “And you shouldn't have to be. You’ve got so much life ahead of you, sweetheart.”

Some glacial melt keeled the weight of your head toward him, and your cheek was resting in the pool of his palm. Joel did not care for the hand of God whose fingers would inevitably squeeze the life from whatever this was. The jigsaw fit of your bodies felt so right in this incomprehensible sliver between before and after.

“You're not old, Joel,” you said softly.

“Too old for you.”

He didn't know why he said it, but it made you smile.

“You keep lying to me, Mr. Miller, and I’m not going to trust you anymore.” A wry twist of your lips. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Is this flirting? he thought to himself, so fucking out of practice that the concept felt altogether foreign. But you were giving him that foxlike look and his hand was still cupping your cheek and he could feel the flutter of your pulse, and he didn’t want to stop.

“No, baby. I don’t want that.”

Flesh meets flesh. Your hips drop, and you’re sitting so prettily on his cock, the whole of him buried inside you, stretching your capacities, shifting the dichotomy of right and wrong. He stares up at you—lips parted, eyes lidded, heart beating JoelJoelJoel—and pleasure pinballs down each knob of his spine. He’s locked in the tidal push-and-pull with your body, gravity sucking him into you, or sucking you down onto him. It doesn't matter.

This is the after, and you're drunkenly nudging his nose with yours, trying to kiss him, and he's taking you. Running with the diamond. Sliding his tongue into your mouth, tasting cherries and frosting and giving you a piece of what he's already taken from you. You're sighing and moaning and greedily opening your mouth into him to swallow down your own taste.

His hand slides up your spine to the sticky nape of your neck as he presses you to him, joined by every joint, every pound of flesh.

And when he begins to move, to grind up into you and draw gooey, cloying gasps from your mouth, Joel thinks he briefly sees white.

Jesus. Been waitin’ so goddamn long for this. You're so fuckin’ soft, baby girl. So fuckin’ beautiful.

His teeth in your throat, around your earlobe, scraping your jaw, pleasure pinching, recapitulating, recovering only to start again. Your name on his tongue, passing from his mouth to yours, the anchor of your hand around his neck, the other on his shoulder, reciprocal re-stabilising.

He needs you just as much as you need him, and he shows you in the way he pulls you firmly to him, because he cannot bring himself to whisper it into the barely-there space between your bodies.

“Joel, I’m sorry to call you so early, but I’m out of options, and the party starts in two hours, and my delivery guy flaked, and—”

“Honey, slow down. Lemme wake up, okay? I’m comin’ to you.”

“Oh, God, just forget I said anything. Go back to sleep. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He still remembers the break in your voice, the fragile warble of your resolve cleaving down the middle. He remembers the sting in his own chest like it was his wound, not yours. He was awake before the sun began to climb.

You had to personally drive the cake you’d made for a ten-year-old’s birthday party all the way across town now that your delivery service had fallen through. You didn’t even have a car; you took the bus everywhere, which Joel had chewed his tongue to pieces over for months. Things could happen in the dark. Public transport was no different. But your own father didn’t seem to take issue with it, so how could Joel?

“Don’t say a word,” he told you when you hopped up into his truck and opened your mouth to apologise. “I don’t mind. You know damn well I don’t mind.”

“You should mind,” you said, instinctively picking a piece of lint from his flannel with that miserable little pout on your face. “All I’ve ever done is ask you for things.”

“And if I like doin’ things for you?”

“Then I’ll put you on my payroll,” you countered.

Joel shook his head fondly. You cleaned when you were anxious; grooming and picking at him like a monkey should not have surprised him. “Well, I got a birthday comin’ up, if you wanna thank me.”

“Yeah?” You bit your lip and some of the heaviness sitting on your shoulders lifted, the promise of getting to repay him for his altruism at last eliciting the smile he wanted. “What would you like?”

You take me so well, baby girl. Goddamn meant for me.

The hot, wet slide of your cunt up and down the length of his steel-hard cock has him doubling over, mouthing sloppily at your tits, sucking and nibbling on your stiff nipples as you cry and whimper: Oh, Daddy, please… fuck, that feels… I can’t—

He’s blinking hard to squeeze the bleeding edges of fantasy away—because this is real, and he cannot know if he will ever have this again. I know you can. You can take me.

A nod, frantic and sick with desire, slips against his temple. I can take it. Please—let me be your good girl. I’m good, good for you.

I know you are, baby girl. So good for Daddy.

“Joel!”

He had never heard his own name infused with such thrill. It settled in the pool of his gut and oozed out past his ribs.

You beckoned him to the counter and placed a steaming mug between the pair of you. The umber liquid sloshed gently in the cup. “It’s a macchiato. And don’t worry”—you caught him before the gash between his brows could deepen worriedly—“it’s nothing like that sugar heap you'll get at a Starbucks. Two shots of espresso, balanced with the milk foam.”

Joel tried to smile, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace. “Milk… foam.”

“I know you're a coffee purist, Joel, but hear me out.” You scurried to the large black boards on the back wall and flipped one over to reveal the bright white writing—stark, vibrant, a proclamation you should’ve had no business making, not when it was so bold as this.

NEW, it read in a pretty, looping font. THE MILLER.

His heart leapt to his throat. And there you were, gesturing to the board with his name—Joel’s name—on it, and he was lifting the confounding liquid to his lips.

Some of the foam accumulated in his moustache as he tentatively sipped and rolled the flavour over his tongue. It wasn't… bad. Not at all. A little too sweet where he preferred the bitter drag of a dark roast. A few too many frills. But—

“It’s good,” he said. Your answering smile decided it for him. He would never go back to black coffee.

Fuck, baby, that's it. Keep on ridin’ me just like that. Oh, Jesus—

The slow, rhythmic slap of your thighs against his as you lock your arms around his neck and lift yourself up and down on his dick. Your head lolling around your shoulders, your brows drawn up in the middle. The squelch of your creamy cunt as you take him to the hilt and bring your hips down in measured, grinding motions.

You’re getting yourself off, too, your clit rubbing against the hairs at the base of his cock, and Joel groans, Fuckin’ hell. Christ, that’s good. That’s it, that’s—

“Think I’m gettin’ fat on all these sweets, baby.”

He’d begun to come into the bakery on Saturday mornings, too, even though he didn’t work. With Sarah no longer in Austin and a dreadfully empty house whose groans and creaks only kept him up all hours, he had little to do but work, maintain the lawns, and, well…

Sat together at the table by the window, you shared a leftover slice of rich cherry pie. The awning outside fluttered gently in the breeze, cutlery and ceramic softly colliding as folks indulged in your treats. You beamed at Joel and reached out to swipe some foamed milk from his moustache.

“I like you this way,” you said, your thumb coasting along his jawline, your eyes like jewels. The pendant on your throat dipped as you swallowed, settling in the hollow like a perching bird.

Joel, white-knuckling his fork, felt his cock grow hard in his boxers, a heavy weight against his leg. The rapid shuttering of your eyes left him feeling inexplicably panicked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“No,” said Joel, his hand covering your knee beneath the table. You were wearing a little skirt that day. The silky fabric shifted under the coarse texture of the pads of his fingers and he wondered if the softness would be akin to the flesh of your thighs, your belly, your tits (sitting so pretty in that plain T-shirt: pink, of course). “No, you didn’t… You know I…”

And what could he say?

You know I’ve wanted to slip my hand down each one of those pretty skirts you wear since the first day I saw you. You know I take my cock in my hand and jerk off in the shower and I picture your lips around it. You know you’ve fucking infected me. You know I’m poisoned. You know I ain’t good enough. Youknowyouknowyouknow I can never have you.

“Joel, man, I’ve been calling your cell.”

His hand smacked the underside of the table in its hasty retreat as Chris rounded the corner and clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Hey, kiddo. You mind if I have a bite?”

And because you were so goddamn sweet, because you were a smart girl and knew how to play it cool, you gave your father your fork with a big smile and said, “All yours. I should get back. Thanks for the taste test, Joel.”

Chris easily occupied your seat at the table and Joel, adjusting his pants discreetly, was struck by how wrong this had been. To sit with you, sharing a pie, touching, wanting—

He was fucked. And he didn’t care. He only wanted more.

“Cowboys kick off next Sunday,” said Chris through a mouthful of baked cherries. The warm, cloying scent reminded Joel of your perfume. “You want to come over for dinner? We’ll order takeout, grab some beers.”

Joel swallowed, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. He felt the phantom touch of your thumb lingering just above his Cupid’s bow. “Yeah, man. Be fun.”

Chris grinned over the pie—now his, no lingers yours and Joel’s. “Hope you don’t mind that I invited my kid, too. She needs the break.”

You’re close, baby. Can fuckin’ feel it. Feel you squeezin’ me.

Thighs trembling, muscles gooey, you struggle to lift yourself up, and it's Joel who scoops you up with a hand on your ass and lies you on your back, never once pulling out. He doesn't think he can. How did the first man to discover fire ever snuff it out?

He bends over you and thrusts deep, punching a sob out of your throat. Joel groans, nipping your chin as you toss your head back, his mouth trailing down the hollow of your throat, latching around one of your sore nipples, already abused by his attention. You rake your fingers through his tousled greying locks and lift your legs up around his hips as he fucks you slow, hard, deep enough that your heart begins to bruise.

Joel hisses when he feels your fingernails scratching down his spine, between his shoulder blades, pulling him close to you. He dulls his pain in your flesh, open-mouthed kisses soothing the biting bruises he's left on your throat.

Your cunt rhythmically pulses around his cock and Joel grunts, driving deeper, hand fisting your hair, and Daddy, I’m so close—!

Friday night. Joel’s birthday.

He’d spent it on the job site, laying brick, then at home, cracking open a cold beer and calling Sarah, whose gift hadn't arrived yet. She sang him “Happy Birthday” from her dorm room and Joel smiled. All things considered, it wasn't a shitty day. Just…

Lonely.

And you—

You were at his door at ten o’clock, shrouded in night in a way he'd never seen you. Not dressed in pink but black: sweatpants and a tight little tank top that made him swallow his tongue. You were holding a goddamn cake.

You'd had a stressful day. He could tell. Eyes a little sunken, shoulders a little rounded, but you were still smiling, still holding up that cake—chocolate, circled with candied cherries, of course—and singing a weary “Surprise!”

Joel laughed—in shock, maybe—and rubbed his hand over his beard. “Jesus, baby,” he said. “C’mon in; it’s cold out.”

He helped you secure the cake in the refrigerator and offered you dinner: leftover pad thai and a beer. You accepted the former with a grumbling stomach and politely declined the latter. Of course, you were a wine girl.

“I’m sorry it’s so late,” you told him, sitting across the couch while reruns of Happy Days idly played on the television. “Shit goes down at the Morning Star when you're not there.”

Joel shook his head. “I run a tight ship. You doin’ okay?”

“I’m strung-out, Joel, as ever. But fine.” Your conciliatory smile was so fucking cheeky he had half a mind to put you over his knee. “I hope your birthday wasn't a disappointment.”

“Couldn't have been,” he said. “You brought me a cake.”

You beamed. And the cord wrapped around both of your bodies jerked tighter. Joel was hiding his erection with the takeout container, too humiliated to let you see the hard band of his cock in his jeans. You'd run. You'd think he was a freak, a perv, a sleaze.

He was all three, of course. Didn't stop him from wanting—

His cock driving deep inside you, achingly slow, back screaming for relief. Daddy, please, I’m… nnngh, please let me come! Daddy, I’ll do anything, please!

Shhh, baby girl. He rises to his haunches and dips his hand between your joined bodies, rubbing your slick little pearl in fast circles. Your eyes roll back and your head collided with the pillow once more. Thaaat’s it, baby. You gonna come for Daddy? Be a good girl for me?

“Joel,” you said softly, your food forgotten on the table, your body inching closer to his, now two feet apart at best. Your eyes buttery in the darkness, lips dewy with some pinkish gloss you always wore, gloss he knew tasted like cherries. He licked his lips.

His hands flexed. “Yeah.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you said, bridging the gap, placing your hand on his knee, pink nails and soft skin and vanilla perfume. Joel sets his container aside, swallowing hard.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You were tentative at first, scooting closer, your hand gingerly exploring the length of his strong thigh, against the grain of the denim.

“Baby,” said Joel, more a long-bated exhale than a word at all. Gritting his teeth, hands at his sides, he watched in disbelief as you explored him, your manicured hand gently palming the hard length in his jeans. The moan he let out surprised himself.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered, pulling yourself onto his lap, straddling his hips, your arms winding around his neck, perfumecherrieslipgloss—

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Joel’s hands, no longer balled into fists, flattened against your arms and travelled their length, exploring your contours, dipping his palms into the curves of your shoulder blades, lodging himself firmly in the after with you.

You shivered, and he liked it.

“You need someone to touch you, too, baby girl.”

Not a question. You nodded anyway.

“Words,” he demanded.

Your lips parted and suddenly your noses were brushing, the pupils of your heavy eyes expanding, taking all of him in.

“I need you to touch me, Joel.”

“I know,” he said, one hand smoothing down the crown of your head, the other trailing featherlight up your spine. “I’m gonna kiss you, baby.”

You nodded again, a little feverish, pulling yourself closer to him, your thighs squeezing his. “Please.”

The after began with you, the way it will end with you. And he's kissing you now, too, swallowing the sounds of your orgasm as you hold him so tightly to you there's no escape. Not that he wants to leave. Not that he finally has this.

He's breathing life into your climax and burning it bright, hot, endless—that’s my good girl, coming so much for me, I know it's a lot, baby girl, just keep holdin’ me, that’s it, sweetheart.

And he's coming, too, grasping your hips so hard they'll bruise, nipping your earlobe and your jaw and leaving sloppy kisses on your neck, spiralling out of control, squeezed so tight by your hot, wet pussy. He comes with a pinch of pain in his lower back, groaning your name into you, pitching up into a near-whine as you milk him, guide him, coax him.

Fuck, fuck… goddamn—

Daddy, I need your cum. Please come inside me.

I will, baby girl, I will… Jesus—

It's so warm and slick where his cock begins to pulse inside you that he couldn't pull out if he wanted to. He empties himself, absolves himself, no longer a sinning man but one cleansed. Your body begs for it, your cunt pulling every drop from him, letting him make a mess of your used hole. Joel grinds absently until it's too much, until he’s sensitive and softening and trying not to collapse on top of you.

Your lip gloss is smudged. He licks his lips and tastes cherries.

“You okay, baby?”

You wince as he pulls out of you, globs of cum pooling at your hole and dripping onto the bed sheets. “Mhm.” You pull him closer, asking for a kiss he happily gives you.

“I feel good. I feel happy.”

He grins into your throat, littering meagre kisses in the junction there. “Did so well for me,” he mumbles.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair.

He purrs at the satiating scratch of your nails, his head resting on your chest. “Mmm.”

“Do you really like the Miller Macchiato, or are you just ordering it to make me happy?”

Joel chuckles, playfully taking your nipple between his teeth. “It's grown on me.”

From here, where he can feel the thrum of your settling heart reverberate through his skull, Joel gently tucks the beating organ back between your ribs for safekeeping. Here, in the clear-blue space of after, he doesn't need to hold it to know he's got it. He only needs to lower his ear to your chest and hear it sing his name.

tagging some friends who showed interest in the wip!!: @casa-boiardi @swiftispunk @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @cool-iguana @morning-star-joy @party-hearses @5oh5 (i love you all 🫶)

#tw: daddy kink #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #daddy!joel miller #daddy!joel

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jellieland · 5 months

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"You know," says Jimmy smugly, "I think second is the best spot to die in, actually."

"Really," says Mumbo, exasperated.

"Yes, I don't know what you're so happy about," says Lizzie. "You barely lasted ten minutes more than me."

"Doesn't matter. Not out first, baby!" He crows, triumphant, to the neverending void.

"And you killed me last session!"

"...Yes, I, uh, I'm sorry about that one. Sort of. Mostly," he says, momentarily cowed.

"I can't believe you people," says Lizzie. "They didn't have a funeral for me. I died first, and you got one, and they didn't even have a funeral for me!" She sounds indignant, but a look of genuine hurt crosses her face for a moment.

"I'm going to be honest, Lizzie," says Mumbo awkwardly. "I think they had bigger things to worry about. I- I think Joel was quite sad about it, though. If that helps?"

"I suppose it's better than nothing." She crosses her arms.

"But- wait, hang on. Jimmy?" says Mumbo abruptly. "Did you say you wanted to go out second?"

"No!" Jimmy protests. "I just think if you have to go out, then second is sort of ideal, really, if you think about it!"

"No!" says Mumbo, indignant. "No, surely third is better, actually! And to extend that logic, fourth would be better as well, and fifth, and- well, you get the idea. Anyway, my point is that I did better than both of you!"

"Hey, don't bring me into this!" says Lizzie.

"Anyway, you're wrong," says Jimmy, back to being smug again.

There is a short silence.

"You, uh. You gonna elaborate on that one, buddy?" asks Mumbo.

"Well," says Jimmy. "Obviously going out first is terrible. Would not recommend. I don't know why anyone would do it, honestly, I know I would never-"

"You're going on my list," says Lizzie, cheerfully.

"Wait wait wait, no, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I really am!"

"Hmm." Lizzie narrows her eyes. "Acceptable. For now."

A few moments pass.

"You may continue," she says.

"Right," says Jimmy. "What was I saying?"

"You were being wrong about how the ranking in this game works," offers Mumbo.

"No I wasn't!" says Jimmy. "Just, let me explain. Now, you obviously don't want to go out first, sorry Lizzie, but it's true."

"I will concede that point," says Lizzie. "It wasn't great."

"But—have you seen how they get?"

"How they... get?" Mumbo frowns. "What do you mean?"

"The people who don't die."

"I- now, I don't know if you remember this," says Mumbo, "But third is a new record for me, so I really don't know how you expect me to know that."

"Anyway," interjects Lizzie, "Mumbo and I have only done this once before. I mean, I guess people started losing it a bit once you two died, but it wasn't that much different to how it already had been. Although I wasn't around for that long at that point."

"Yes, but, it-" Jimmy frowns. "I haven't seen much of it either. But there's something- I don't know how to explain what I mean. Maybe you haven't noticed, but there's stuff with Grian, Scott, Pearl."

He stops, sighs. Looks at the ground.

"Martyn's going to be alone, now," he says.

"Well," says Lizzie, a little acerbic. "You don't have to have people die for that to happen, you know."

Jimmy gives her a look that is a combination of sheepishness and genuine regret. "Ah. Yeah. I guess not."

"So you're right," says Lizzie. "I don't know what you mean."

"...I did feel bad," says Jimmy, quietly.

"You... did?" asks Lizzie. "What about?"

Jimmy looks at her, then off to the side. "...When I killed you."

"Oh."

"I really didn't mean to," he says. "I felt bad. It wasn't satisfying. It was just... a person I cared about. Dead. Because of me. Because I acted without thinking, because I wasn't paying attention."

"...Oh." says Lizzie, softly.

"And that was when I knew you would come back," says Jimmy.

Lizzie and Mumbo exchange glances, unsure.

"I'm good with second," says Jimmy. "I think it's the closest you can get to winning, actually."

They stand there, silent, for some time.

"Well," says Mumbo eventually. "I still feel like third is a bit better, though."

"Mumbo!" cries Jimmy.

"Mumbo, come on, we were just having a moment!" says Lizzie.

"Yes well, look, I really need this, guys," says Mumbo, shifting his weight from side to side. "I don't know if you know this, but I've had a really bad day. It was just terrible!"

"I think we've all had pretty bad days, Mumbo!" says Lizzie, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we all died!"

"Yes, I- I had picked up on that, actually."

"I don't know," says Jimmy. "My day was great!"

They keep talking, and bickering, and the emptiness stretches off into the distance.

It's nice, not to have to be there alone.

#secret life spoilers #secret life smp #jimmy solidarity #i think it's really interesting how both lizzie and mumbo have only been in one other season and died quite early on #I've just been thinking about those three #together after the end.#my writing

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ilovepedro · 29 days

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Over the Edge | joel miller x f!reader

Palestine - if you enjoy my work, I ask you to click on this link and help Palestine in any way you can.

Main Masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~1.2k

Summary: Joel agonizingly taunts you before pushing you over the edge.

Warnings: no outbreak, pwp, established relationship, edging, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y'all!), TW: daddy kink, oral (f!receiving), fingering, begging, soft!dom!Joel, sub!reader, dom/sub dynamic, creampie, two (2) spanks, hella pet names (angel, dollface, baby, baby girl, princess, etc), squirting, reader is female, no mention of hair type/skin color/body type, NO USE OF Y/N, let me know if i missed anything! :)

A/N: hey y'all!! <3 i've been a bit down in the dumps about my writing lately so, this was just something i wrote for fun to get back into the groove :) i took some inspo from a few prompt lists such as this one and this one. this is my first ever daddy kink fic lol i'm nervous. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy! 🫶🏼 poorly self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Heat pricks your skin, the mixture of the Texas heat and the man above you creates a sheen of sweat on your body. Glistening in the warm glow of the room, you writhe beneath Joel as he pins you down with his strong hands lazily swirling his tongue along your puffy, swollen clit.

He’s been edging you for hours. A lazy Saturday spent between your legs, Joel eager to put you in your place after he’d caught you touching yourself this morning without his permission.

Eager to unravel you.

Constantly bringing you to the brink and leaving you dangling off the cliff before reeling you back in, withholding your sweet, sweet release.

Releasing your precious pearl from his mouth, he hums as he savors the flavor of you on his tongue. He presses teasing kisses along your body as he slithers up to your mouth, whines bubbling from your chest. Tears sting the corners of your eyes, the ache in your core burning brighter with every touch.

“You gonna be good for me, dollface?” Joel hums, his thick fingers hooking under your chin, bringing your gaze to meet his. His eyes are wild, blown with pure lust. A tear rolls down your cheek as you impatiently nod.

“C’mon, princess. Use your words. Wanna hear you. Lemme hear you beg for it,” he taunts.

A whine rips from your throat. Joel teases your dripping cunt with his dexterous digits, your thighs sticky and coated with slick and saliva.

Exasperated and desperate, your eyes squeeze shut as you begin to beg.

“Yes I’ll be good, just please, Joel.”

You gasp at the dull sting of a soft smack to your thigh.

“Please who?”

Your eyes snapping open as you gulp, the dull sting of the smack heightening your need, your clit furiously throbbing as a new wave of slick seeps from your cunt.

“Daddy. Please, daddy.”

“‘S better. Now I’ll ask ya one more time – are ya gonna be good for me?”

“Yes, daddy, I promise. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you want, just please.”

“Please, what? What do ya want, princess?”

“Y-your cock. Need your cock, daddy, please,” you mewl, squirming under his hold.

He laughs, smug and satiated with your begging as his cock twitches at the sound of your neediness, your shrill moan like music to his ears. His large, rough hands skate down your body to pin your hips down, his lips brushing against your neck.

“Beggin’s a good look on ya, dollface,” Joel taunts, his thick digits fluttering around your aching core, teasingly sliding his fingers through your folds, collecting your slick. Sharply gasping at the feel of his calloused fingertips brushing against where you need him most, more tears rolling down your cheeks as you softly whimper and writhe under his broad chest.

“Shhh, shhh, easy, baby. Relax, angel. Daddy’s got ya. Gonna give ya what ya want, don’t worry, baby,” Joel says, nipping at your chin as he lines himself up with your entrance.

Joel grabs your hips to adjust the angle and slides home in one swift move, the obscene amount of slick dripping from your cunt aiding him. He places your calves on his chest, your ankles resting on his broad shoulders.

An animalistic moan claws from your throat, shredding your vocal chords as Joel fills you up, stuffing you to the brim. His cock, thick and heavy and long.

“Fuck, look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ my cock, angel,” he groans, your heat clenching around him. “Ya like when daddy fills you up, baby?” He asks, dragging his hips agonizingly slow against yours.

“Yes, daddy. Love it when you fill me up, f-feels so good,” you squeal. His pace gradually picks up, fucking deep into you, your pornographic moans growing louder and higher with every thrust as Joel grunts above you.

Squelches fill the air, your slick dripping onto the sheets as it smears in between you and Joel.

“So fuckin’ wet, ya hear how wet you are, baby girl? Who’s this all for, hmm?”

You try to tell him it’s for him, for daddy, but he’s fucking you so good, so deep, he’s taken your ability to speak. There’s another smack to your thigh, only it stings a bit more. Another broken moan rumbles from your chest, the ache fueling the fire that’s burning in your belly.

“Use your manners, baby girl, I’m talkin’ to ya. Who’s this all for?”

“You, daddy! All for you, my pussy’s yours, I’m yours,” you babble almost incoherently.

“There we go, good girl. ‘S right, baby. All mine,” Joel smirks, placing a kiss on your calf as he hits that sweet spot.

Your hand mindlessly finds your clit, eagerly stroking yourself until Joel swats your hand away. Releasing your legs, he leans down, practically bending you in half. Pleasure ripples throughout your body as he roughly pins your hands on each side of your head, caging you in between his taut biceps.

His thrusts grow rougher, needier.

“Greedy. Girl,” Joel grunts, punctuating his words with his hips.

“You don’t fuckin’ learn, do ya? What, this cock ain’t enough for ya, baby doll?”

You ferociously shake your head, whimpering as he continuously hits that sweet spot, eyelids heavy with your orgasm nearer in sight.

“‘S enough, daddy, I swear,” you slur. Suddenly and swiftly, Joel lets go of your hands and grabs your hips, flipping over onto his back as he still sits inside you.

Hips flushed together, you sit perched atop him, straddling his strong thighs. Gasping at the newfound depth, your eyes fly open as you brace yourself on his taut chest.

“Wanna act up? Now ya gotta work for it, angel. Go on now - ride my cock, dollface. Wanna see you come all over me. Soak my fuckin’ cock, babygirl.”

He gives you a nudge, lightly bouncing you on his throbbing length. You feel him pulsing inside your warm, wet heat. A whine rips from your throat as he kisses your cervix. Mouth dry and sweat coating your body, you muster all the strength in your being as you slowly drag along his cock.

Moans ripping from each of you, the friction finally giving the two of you relief.

“Atta girl. Look so fuckin’ pretty bouncin’ on daddy’s cock.”

His filthy fucking mouth.

You toss your head back, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you pick up the pace, fucking yourself harder onto his cock.

Joel tightens his grip on your waist, squeezing your hips. It’s so fucking hot in the room, it’s hot everywhere. His touch sets your body alight, your skin burning beneath his hands. Oversensitivity sinking in as you near the edge of your release.

“C’mon, babygirl. You’re close. Can feel it. Fuckin’ squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, Christ,” Joel grunts.

He runs the pad of his calloused thumb between your soaked folds, coating it in your slick. Your hips buck at the sensation, a small cry tears through your vocal chords.

Joel brushes his thumb against your clit, stroking you as you bounce on his cock. Wailing above him, you clutch his chest for purchase. Your orgasm is blinding – burning hot white as you squirt on his cock. Writhing and twitching as you ride out your orgasm, continuously gushing around him as your ears ring. Your eyes squeezed shut as a few stray tears cascade down your cheeks, your ears plugged from the intensity of your orgasm.

Blinded by your orgasm, you hadn’t even noticed Joel finished inside you. You fall forward, collapsing on top of him, both of your breaths ragged. A sticky mess collected in between both of you, sex and sweat permeating the hot summer air.

He gently runs a hand along your spine, bringing you back to earth as you catch your breath. Joel presses a kiss to your head, leaving his lips pressed against your hair as he hums.

“Fuck, so fuckin’ good, baby. Good job soakin’ daddy’s cock, dollface. Knew you’d be a good girl for me – always are.”

#tw daddy kink #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller one shot #daddy k!nk

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notscarsafe · 3 months

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OKAY SO what with the TWO new Hermits implied by the updated banner I will say that, though the Skizz truthers have me convinced, I now have room to do my own crazy red string monologue and throw my hat in for my choice

1) Mythical J. Sausage (the J is silent) is a multitalented S-tier builder that absolutely deserves to be shoulder to shoulder with the Hermits. The man does buildings, interiors, terraforming, custom trees, and he does them SO WELL.

2) The production values!!! Beautiful replay mod sequences with shifting camera perspectives, shaders, music that sets the tone for each segment that's different from series to series. He already has more than a million followers on YouTube and for good reason!!

3) He has been SO consistent lately. He started a hardcore world about three months ago (about the time you might expect the Hermits to finalize their s10 choices maybe...???) and already has 15 episodes and hasn't gotten involved in any other big content. (He did just start playing a little of the BCG server but from what I understand that's super casual /copium copium copium).

4) That hardcore world is conveniently about to reach a good "pause" point. He started his world on a cherry blossom biome island that he's filled with a medieval village and starter farms, he's said it's almost full and what's left is the castle. I'm guessing the new season will start the first week of February, so if Sausage puts out a video this week building out that Castle and finishing that island it will be MIGHTY CONVENIENT TIMING.

5) This man can GRIND. His Hardcore world hasn't even been going half a year and he's built... So much??? Magnificent! And when he was on the Hermitcraft server he did the Razorcrest for scar AND the player head baby yoda/stormtrooper merch AND the noteblock themesong AND still built in the xmas village and other "diamond of peace" and so many other shenanigans. Did the man even sleep? He can grind with the best of them.

6) He can do redstone, too! Maybe not unique designs, I honestly don't know, but he builds farms for build materials no problem.

7) The DRAMA this man loves his improv and his backstory and trauma lore! For every series he does! Can you imagine if he gets to interact with Ren for an extended period of time, what that would do to them, to us?? Give Martyn a run for his money!!

8) Which brings me to my next point, which is that Sausage is already One of The Gang, because he's been in series with so many of the Hermits already! Empires and the crossover, obviously, but also Pirates with Cleo and Origins with Scar, and he's even done MCC! Joel is the only other player with the same depth of different series but there are other people truthing him already.

9) The EPIC BROMANCE with Pearl. My god the devotion of this man to his sunflower goddess bestie. I would try to do ot justice but y'all have seen floweroflaurelins work, you already know.

10) He's already a PG streamer but with HILARIOUSLY PG-13 tendencies. Imagine him and Cleo cracking each other up at an HHH stream, *grips your shoulders* IMAGINE IT.

11) Sausage comes with his own mascot in the form of interdimensional dog extraordinaire Bubbles, but he's also just an animal lover on general. Mans drinks his "I love Jellie" juice and had her in his world even before the sad news of her loss.

12) Diversity win! No one should be hired just for their gender, race, sexuality etc etc unless it's truly necessary to the job, but we were all happy when more women got added to the server in s8 and I know a lot of people would be happy to see some ethnic diversity added, too.

... That bulletin board had a lot more pins in it than I thought it did but anyway MYTHICALSAUSAGE TRUTHERS/ALL OTHER TRUTHERS RISE UP SPEAK YOUR TRUTH! we'll only get to wildly speculate for a few weeks so we might as well make it everyone else's problem ENJOY IT TO THE FULLEST!!

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft 10 #hermitcraft s10 #mythicalsausage #hc s10 #new hermit speculation

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ssnowflowers · 5 months

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Grian's alliance with Cleo and Etho is so interesting to me. Because it's so different from every other alliance he's made.

The first alliance made in the Life Series for Grian is the Blue Sword Boys. And it's simply for a diamond sword. This sets an expectation that Grian needs to be useful for an alliance to be worth it.

His alliance to Scar, his desert friend, is built on him selling his life to Scar. An entire life, one of three deaths he gets before never being able to walk the world again. He gives it all to Scar. Because lives are valuable, useful. Servants are useful.

In Last Life, the Southlands are brought together through resources. You go red, there are no gifted lives bringing you back from the brink like in other alliances. You just go. Grian is forced out of the Southlands first, the home he built no longer his. Because by dying, he has proven he isn't useful.

His alliance with Joel is built on the fact that they are both red. That they need one another to survive. That reds live and die alone. They are loyal, because loyalty is useful. And their alliance ends when they stop being red. And it resumes once they are again.

In Double Life, Grian doesn't want to pair with Scar. He quite literally lets out a guttural scream of no. But it's easier to stick around his soulmate. Build Scar a base, babysit him. It's far more useful.

After a certain point, Grian stops viewing alliances as someone loyal. Someone who has your back. Simply, that it is necessary to have friends.

It's useful to have allies, so he jumps at the first opportunity. In Limited Life, he joins Joel and Jimmy because they invite him. He changes his skin, something he has never done before. He engages with bread bridge, he changes things about himself to look useful.

And then in the final sessions, when he loses Jimmy and Joel, he moves along quickly. He even says that Joel is a 'lost cause' and teams up with Pearl and BigB instead.

His wording is so specific too. Not allies, not teammates...friends. This is how he views friendship. A mutual exchange of usefulness.

It's why he's so desperate to make friends in Secret Life. He begs and pleads with people, when he is forced together with Joel he sticks with him like a clingy child, he builds the egg not because he likes it, but because a pretty base can attract friends.

When he asks if he can join Etho and Cleo. They just say yes. No second thoughts. And Grian is still trying to sell himself, prove why they should want him around. And Cleo just has on screen text (aka, inner thoughts) questioning why Grian is still trying to convince them? They've already said yes!

He's so stuck in the mindset of seeming useful, that he's now doing it even when no one is looking for him to be useful.

This is what sets his alliance with them apart from anyone else. He does not have to stick around, or cling to them. He can disappear for most of the session, and be fine.

Cleo and Etho help him out and he helps them in return. Not because he needs to be useful. But because he wants to. Because he has finally found people who just want him around because it's him.

It's such a large shift in his previous alliances, that I can't help but appreciate every little interaction. Because Cleo and Etho are his friends first. Not just allies.

#secret life #secret life spoilers #snow speaks #trafficblr #long post #grian

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macfrog · 5 months

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little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #sugardaddy!joel miller #the last of us #the last of us fic #tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #sex on fire

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elliesstrapon · 6 months

Text

Swan princess

!Asshole Ellie Williams x Princess Reader ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

✧˚ · . Summary: Your parents had you to be wedded by the time you each turned 20, they had you meet every summer until then, but you just couldn't stand her.

✧˚ · . Warnings: Ellie is a douch bag, rough sex, enemies to lovers, slow burn, erranged marriage, drinking, swearing, oral, over stimulation, eventual genuine wedding, Soulmates, Ellie hates you up until your both adults, major flashback, readers bipolar but i feel like this was me projecting, sorry 😭, NOT proofread.

I need all you to know this is pretty fucking long, feel free to take your time or skip <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Your first summer out of the castle when you'd turned 5. Your father held onto your hand reassuringly, pointing out at all the wonderful things you had yet to experience. His words you so vividly remembered along the lines of, "one day, this will all be yours to take care of" so sadly, the frown on his face one of the worst parts from those core memories. The rays of light hit your pearl pink dress, the sparkles shifting as you rode on the horse through what now had been the forest. "Papa, where are we going?" Your head turned back up to look at him, a cheerful smile upon your lips, your teeth crooked and white. "We, my dear daughter, are going to meet the one you shall marry one day." His eyes focused on the muddy path way, as you held onto your perfect dress so tightly in fear of it getting ruined by nature's mishaps. The memory had stopped, where what begun was the hatred between you and Ellie Williams.

For you remembered the look on her face when she'd met you. Your father pushed you towards the tall man with the girl behind him, urging you to say hello. The man'd done the same, an overjoyed toothy grin flashing on his face. "Who might this lovely young lady be?" Your dad inquired, just as happy as the man infront of you, "young princess Ellie, no doubt " He urged you again. You furrowed your brows at him angrily, taking the slightest step forward to the taller little girl who stood infront of you. "I'm Y/n" You gritted through your teeth, biting your bottom lip upsettingly, curtseying at everyone disposal. "It's a pleasure to meet you." You finished, a fake smile plastered on your face, pleading eyes for your father to take you back home. Ellie eyed you disgustingly, uninterested rolling her eyes back, the taller man pushing her forward closer. "Go on" he said angrily. "Joel!" She yelped. "Ellie." He eyed her. She scoffed, her attitude already unbearable. "It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.. Princess Y/n.... Ellie" she said poorly, introducing herself, her pinky finger digging in her ear, eyeing at it like it was all she had left to do. She turned back before the man flipped her around, roughly shoving her closer, his patience limited now. She sighed, going back to grab your hand, gently, something you hadn't expected from her insignificantly terrible mannerisms, her finger tips soft, she kissed the back of your hand, your heart had fluttered, from what you remembered, only for a slight second before she pulled away, sticking her tongue out and wiping her mouth, "Ugh, gross!" She cried. You rolled your eyes, the moment of whatever romance that'd be destined to start, passing like the speed of light.

The two of you stood there, your father's smiling at the "perfect match." all you could think about was how unpleasant she was, how she wouldn't understand you, how you absolutely despised her existence. The summer growing to be what you thought was the worst of your life span, the constant bickering and her heavy insults. You ran through the halls of her castle. Joel and your father having not understood nor notice the two of you constantly at eachothers throats. Your dress getting caught in the doors, and tripping over your slippers when she'd attacked you. "You're such a goody-two shoes!" She argued, your cheeks burning red from the running. "Shut it, Ellie" you spit at her. Your dress torn at the hem and your pink slippers stained with shoe marks on them from tripping over your feet. The rest of the summer lasted the exact same, every little thing she said annoying you, and every action you took, she wanted to intervene.

Soon enough more winters and summers went by before you were 12, hiding at the top of the tower, in your room dreading this summer. "Y/n! We can't keep Princess Ellie waiting any longer!" Your father called from the carriage at the bottom of the castle. "Ugh, please, she's barley even a princess!" You shouted angrily, eyeing him from the window, your hair tied into a braid and your nightgown hadn't changed. "I haven't even washed my hair nor changed"you gestured to your hair and clothes. "Gives you all the more reason to hurry" you heard the grin in his voice, causing you to smile the slightest. You redid your braid, finishing it off with a blue ribbon at the end, and quickly slipping on one of you're too many owned dresses. You pranced through the long historic hallways, waving small goodbyes to the servants who'd helped around the castle, leaving out the door to the garden. "Are you ready to leave?" Your father asked. "Yes" you sighed sadly, having to see Ellie again making you feel as if the world were ending. "I don't get why you dislike her so much, she's really such a lovely young lady." He frowned, entering the carriage with you. "Sure, if lovelys the word you wanna use." You groaned, "half the time the only thing she's doing is jumping at me every chance she gets to make my life horrible." Your dad smiled at you, saying you were over doing it. The ride to the neighboring kingdom was joyful, the sound of your laughter echoing through the windows. Once you'd arrived, you'd seen Ellie once more, no better than the previous summers, still as horrid as you remembered. "Hello, princess" she rolled her eyes, whispering into the ear of another girl beside her, it so clearly about you. "Princess Ellie." You gritted. "And who's this?" Your father smiled, Ellie's attitude being replaced with the innocent act she'd always put up to make you seem as if the bad guy. "This, is the friend I made last winter" she grinned. "Dina" she introduced her. You nervously waved at her, not earning much in return but a dirty look from Ellie, you clutched your dress, suddenly feeling very self conscious. "Well, what're we waitin' for? Les go!" Joel said with his thick accent, following him back to the all too familiar grand castle, lifting your dress as you walked over the muddy ground. You followed Ellie around the rest of the day, the two girls continuesly looking back at you as you acted like a dog, scolded if you sat out in the permanent room you had here during the summer. The sun reflected your shadows ever so often, "does she have to follow us around?" Dina turned around suddenly, weirdly annoyed with your presence, her red dress swaying with her hips as she turned. Ellie looked back, her ill-fitted dress steady as her shoes stepped on the hems. Tearing it like colored paper. "I wish she didn't, it's a shame I have to marry her" she said angrily, grabbing Dina's hand, pulling her along to show her the tree house that was supposedly in the field behind the castle, whispering about it as if you couldn't hear them.

You followed them to the tree house, far behind, you almost didn't wanna go into the tree house, till you saw it, it hadn't been there last summer. You ran softly on the grass, attempting to catch up to the girls, finally getting to the ladder, it began to float up, realizing the girl with a dark haired messy ponytail was pulling it up. She darted her eyes at you. "Snowflakes aren't allowed up in this treehouse" she said distinctively. "Oh, fuck you!" You yelled. Giving them the finger you walked off annoyed. "What's her problem?" Dina raised her brow at Ellie, "Dunno, she's like short tempered or whatever" Ellie chuckled, watching you storm off.

When you turned 17, you had your first royal ball, "Ellie!" You called, walking to her room at the very end of the hallway on the very last floor of the castle, you turned the door knob, opening the door aggressively to see her in her loose dress as it'd always been, practicing her archery on an ill drawing of you from when you were 10. "Oh, real mature" you said angrily. "Yeah whatever." She stuck her tongue out at you, you walked towards the target of you, your blue and fancy ruffley dress following closely behind you as your heels clicked hollowly against the old floors of the castle. Your hair effortlessly soft. You ripped it off the wall. "Hey!! What the hell's your problem?!" She spat. "You're a fucking child is my problem." You rolled your eyes tearing it. "What do you even want?" She got up angrily. "The ball" you muttered. "That's tonight?" She gasped. "Yes, everyone knew that" you fixed the straps of her dress unconciously, her breath hitched, suddenly flinching your hand away "get out, I'll fix it myself, I wasn't even gonna wear this" she muttered. "Jeez fine, the one time I try being nice and all you ever do is be a total douche." You outed the room, flattening the lacey blue ruffles of your dress, adjusting your gold heart shaped locket and your finished hair. You walked down the hall once more, waiting for your fiance to open her eyes and act like the princess she really was whether she liked it or not. You found yourself at the entrance of the castle, a strongly built woman guarding the gate. "Strong arms, huh?" You smirked up at her, her face flushing, "Princess." She averted her eyes, meanwhile Ellie watching from afar with Dina. "God she's always flirting with those damned guards" she huffed, the giggling of you and the guard filling the room. "Why care so much? What, you like her?" Dina said, brushing the lose strands of hair from her face. "God no" she said annoyed, fixing her new suit. "Sure seems like it" Dina scoffed. "She can flirt with who she wants" Dina defended you. "Whatever" you turned to see the girls eyeing you warily for you had no clue as to why. You brushed your hand off the guards arm, kissing her cheek. "Guys let's go, we'll be late." You waved your arm at them, calling them over as they obeyed. "Alright Papa! We can go" you shouted to the topless carriage outside. "Perfect, darling!" He smiled, patiently waiting, you carefully lifted your dress running to the cart. Leaving Ellie behind. "You like her" Dina teased. "Oh fuck off, I've hated that ‘ Little Ms. Perfect ’ since I was 5, thats not about to change now just because she went from some annoying ugly duckling to a fucking goddess...or.. whatever." Dina chuckled, "like a swan?" She pressed. "Yeah whatever you wanna call it." She walked to the cart quickly behind you now to catch up, smiling at your father. "Took you long enough" you said. "Shut up" she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "We're already to leave!" Your dad called to the people in front, controlling the horses.

You drove up to your palace, the towns people, hundreds, of them cheerfully smiling, waving, throwing flowers from their own gardens, you couldn't help but flash a toothy smile, waving back and holding the hands of the little children being held upon shoulders of their parents, a few sending weird stares at you as Ellie stuck up her two fingers behind your head, mocking you, making some of the kids laugh. "Hey!" You turned, arms over your chest, "will you quit it?! God your frustrating" you sighed, melting back into the leather seats of the carriage.

Soon you'd pulled up at the gates of your castle, the horses in the stable causing a racket, and the ball gowns visible from the windows you'd seen from outside. The dim lights romantic, Ellie exited the carriage after your father, Joel waiting for Ellie to turn and help you down, she ran her hands through her hair annoyedly, grabbing your hand gently helping you down. Your heart fluttering the same the day you'd met when she kissed your hand, despite the hatred you had towards her, your locket glistened under the moon light, and the pins in your hair reflecting the moon itself. "Thank you, but I could've done it myself" you pushed her hand away. Walking alone to the entrance, walking in as the guards at the door opened it for you, you winked at them, the beads of sweat rolling down their heads. "Such a beautiful young women she's becoming" Joel smiled, Ellie turning her head from your direction, the poof of your dress following the move of your hips. "Indeed she is" your dad agreed.

As you entered the ball room, royal families you'd thought close to you came to greet you, compliments being thrown from every direction, the colours of the gowns bright and warming. "So... you and Ellie, huh?" A girl in green said. "Not as charming as everyone thinks" you rolled your eyes. "She's absolutely horrid." Your hands rested in your hips, suddenly warm breath tickling your neck. "Horrid my ass," she came from behind you, aggressively whispering in your ear her complaints. "Attitude problems I tell ya' " she pushed you aside gently. "You would think someone as pretty as her has a pretty personality too, but wasn't raised right... clearly " she sheepishly smiled at you. Your hands fisting the fabric of your dress in the palm of your hand as the girls gawked at her disrespect towards you, throwing shame at your name. "Fuck you" you mouthed to her, walking away annoyed.

You found yourself flirting with the princesses of every country, each one of them better than the last much like the last glass of wine you drank unsupervised. The shawl on your shoulders slipping off, the freckles and goosebumps appearing so clearly. "Look.. I'd give anything to sleep with you, but aren't you betrothed to her excellency, Ellie?" The girl respectfully asked concerned. "Who cares, everyone knows it won't work out." You grabbed her slim waist, suddenly your father tapping your shoulder. "The slow dance, dear." He grabbed your available hand, you measly let go of the girls pink dress, a look of dismay on her face. You internally yelling inside your head at the thought of marrying this woman. Your dad helped you your way to Ellie, her tall muscular build in the center of the room, standing there dreading your hands on her body. "Now don't make a scene, be professional" your dad warned, placing your hand upon Ellies shoulder, taking the empty wine glass from you, "fine... god" you looked up at Ellie, her gaze away from yours as her hands slid down to your waist, holding you firmly. Your hands only placed hesitantly on her padded shoulders.

"Sorry" she apologized, moving her hands gesturing she didn't mean to be weird. "Ellie Williams, THE Ellie Williams apologizing" you teased, her look still distant "would you look at me? No one'll believe your poor excuse of whatever the hell this is" you complained, your hand cupping her cheek, pulling her face to look at you as the band played a soft spoken song. "This is shit" she whispered. "Yeah, well they're all watching, so shut up and pretend you love me for the next annoyingly long 3 minutes of our dumb lives" you said, moving your feet slowly with hers in sync. She looked into your eyes, you realizing just how vivid her green eyes were, suddenly just noticing all the small details of her face, like the mole under her eye, or the scar on her eyebrow, even how uneven her side part was, you almost laughed in her face.

You upside down smiled, cheekily looking away, "what now" she asked, her brows furrowing. "Nothing, nothing" you waved your hand dismissively. "Yeah whatever" softly laughing along with you, not helping herself. For a short period her hands on your hips sent butterflies surging through your stomach, her breath upon your forehead giving you goose bumps as you twirled and spun around the room, your dress swinging satisfyingly as you forgot the crowd of people around you. "You know, your presence currently is... slightly more tolerable than usual." You whispered, "That so true, now?" She widened her eyes, spinning you into a dip on the slow and steady beat of the song. "Surprisingly." You giggled, admiring the equivalent of stars splattered across her scab cut face from training, your heart increasing every so slightly. You almost felt yourself falling for her like a fool. "If you weren't such a massive whore and flirt to every girl you met I might've actually been in love with you by n—"

"Excuse me?" You interrupted her. Angrily, stepping on her foot. "Ow— what the fuck?" She yelped. "'No what the fuck'd you just call me?" You let go of her immediately. The gaze of people returning to just you. "Well I'm not wrong." She admitted honestly. "Oh yeah— as if you don't do the same, Ellie!" You cried, pushing her away, almost tripping over your dress. "Why do you always do this?! What's your fucking issue? Can you not act like a decent human being for once?" You rolled your eyes, crossing your hands over your chest as she stared at you almost fearfully. "The only reason you're fucking dance with me is because if you didn't we'd both get shit for it! To think I almost fell for that shitty act of yours." Your eyes started to swell up with tears glistening in the light threatening to spill. "No fucking shit! Why'd I like you if you're always being like this?"

You scoffed, "Fuck you, Ellie." You pulled your laced shawl back up your shoulders, holding it firmly as you ran to your room.

That night you watched Ellie shamefully leave in her fathers carriage, Dina beside her worriedly holding her hand in attempt to relax her, a frown on your face as you'd waved goodbye, you entered inside, your father calmly rubbing your back. "I want to break off the engagement." You said sternly. "But—"

"No!" You bursted, the tears rolling down your cheek onto your already tear stained ball gown. "I don't care about out legacy— we'll get someone else to take over, I refuse to wed her. Do you not understand the severity of what she said to me, father?!" You cupped your mouth, muffling the sobs, your breaths quick and weak.

"At least just give it another year, my love, please consider" your father frowned, the wrinkles on his face increasing by the years. "Love has it's ups and downs, this is bound to happen through your marriage" he tried to reason. "Not when you refuse to do what it takes to fix it." You wiped your nose. Your cheeks red and your eyes puffy. "I'll give it another summer" you reckoned, "but one more slip up of hers and I'm done for." You darted your eyes, your tone serious.

"Very well, my dear" he hugged you, whispering a low "I love you"

"I love you too" you hugged him back, holding back the frustration tears.

You wanted to lose your mind atleast a hundred and fifty times before meeting Ellie again. The dreaded summer you'd not been waiting for, not by a long shot. Your father repeatedly thanked you, the carriage dropping you at the front gate of the castle with your dad. Joel standing smiling at you, Ellie up in the castle possibly spying on your every move, and if she was, you wouldn't have been surprised. "I'm really, really sorry for the way things endin' " he apologized, hugging you closely. "Don't worry Joel, it was a misunderstanding.. You know.. like Papa says.." you chuckled, the stupidity of last year's events getting to your head. You stepped foot inside the castle, barley missing anything about it but the guards. "Ellies up inner' room if you wanna go.. y'know" he pointed to the grand staircase. Your father gave you the look, where you didn't have to go, but if you didn't, the disappointment would be unbearable.

You went up the steps to the last floor, out of breath your 2 inch heels making you wobble, you found yourself hesitating at the door, unable to turn the knob before you heard the sound of suckling, heavy breaths, and deep sighs, you almost felt you were about to throw up. The anger boiling inside you, you could've just left, slept it out, or argued with her, tiring her out instead. You aggressively pushed open the door, nearly breaking your nails, the sight of a woman on top of Ellie, her nightgown barley even worn on her body anymore and the soft fingers of Ellie's you'd felt one too many times on your body for your comfort on the girls hips. "This just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn't it?!" You exclaimed angrily. "Fuck." Ellie sighed, her eyes wide as the woman got off top of her, adjusting her lingerie before rushing out clumsily. "What the fuck do you want?" She got up, sitting straight, all left of her, her loose strapped bra. "What do I want?" You mimicked her, suddenly stomping towards a pair of clothes, throwing at her almost bare chest, you grabbed her as she finished clothing, gripping her forearm tightly, you dragged her downstairs, the sound of your loose dress waving in the air and your breaths heavy, you stopped at 2 of the 3 dining rooms until you found your father. "I'm out!" You complained. "I refuse to marry her, I'm done." Your tiara crooked off the top of your head, Ellie gave you a dirty look. Pushing you off of her. "But —" you continued. "I'm not going to marry someone who doesn't love me" you hallored. Throwing her an angry and disapproved look. "I want to leave, and I never want to see her face again unless it's news of whoever she's betrothed to next cause they're in for a rude awakening." You insulted. Not a word escaping her lips, but a few gasps from Joel. His heart along with your father's crumbling to the ground like a shattered plate. "I'm sorry Papa, but I can't." You sighed. "I'd like a carriage to bring us home as early as possible, we have important decisions to make, I'd rather be in the comfort of our castle rather than a scums." You walked to your room. Packing the things you'd left during the winters for the summer, all of it coming to an end. It almost made you upset, you were overjoyed, yet angry, at how you almost fell for her, if she hadn't said what she did that day at the ball, you would've sworn you'd forgotten the rotten history of your past.

The next morning you left, concluding the last time you had seen Princess, Ellie Williams, your ex fiance.

You hadn't seen Ellie in two years, and if you were being honest, your life had become healthier. It was like it'd always been but without the stress of Ellie constantly making your life a living hell, you'd been in a few relationships, none of them lasting and neither one of them being ‘the one’, you picked up on your hobbies, helped your father around the town, rebuilding the castle and re-doing your room, and at the very best making friends of your own.

"Princess" the guards entered the dining room as you read a book, munching on freshly picked strawberries from the garden out back. "Yes?" You smiled, turning your head to look at her. "One of your friends are here, requesting to see you" the guard said. "Oh thank you, tell her I'll be there in a second" you stood up, patting your pink dress of the strawberry seeds, closing your book. "Very well, your excellency" the gaurd rushed away, leaving you adjusting you hair before walking through the halls rapidly to see your bestfriend.

"y/n!" She shouted, waving at you, her pale dress falling beneath her ankles and her cardigan slipping off her shoulders. "Elisa!" Your lips growing into a grin, "I didn't know you were coming!" You ran towards her, engulfing her in a well needed hug, "you didn't get my letter?" She giggled. "Goodness, no." Your arms fell from her waist, playing with her hair. "What a surprise!" You squealed. "No! The surprise is what I have to tell you!" She grabbed your wrists, her smile wide. "I just had to tell you in person!" She said. "Must be important, huh?" You said, pulling her inside the castle, your dresses meshing against eachother. "What is it?" You asked, taking her out to the garden. "Well.." she began, you took your seats at the small table centered with a bouquet of lilies. "The neighboring kingdom.." she began, your heart skipping the beat at the sound of it. "Y'know.. King Joel, princess Ellie.." you scoffed. "Some princess" you rolled your eyes. "No, but, listen!" Elisa waved her hands, "they're hosting a ball, every royal, andd towns people invited she exclaimed excitingly, her, herself just a wealthy towns person. "Oh, goodness," you paused, "in what honor?" You asked curiously, "Princess Ellie hasn't found someone to marry yet, Kind Joel's saying there hasn't been one perfect match since.." she trailed off. "Not surprised." You tucked your hair behind your ear. "What's it to do with me, though?"

"wanna come as my plus one? Just for fun! Of course" she asked overjoyed. "Elisa.. I don't know.. you know how things ended—" you said, resting your head on your hand. "Please! We'll stay away from her at all costs." She begged you. You pondered over the decision, looking for reasons you should and shouldn't be going before deciding it might've been fun. "Fine!" You said warmly, "but if anything goes wrong.."

"I know!" She smiled. "Alright," you agreed "it's tomorrow night, you might want to get ready" she said, getting up quickly. "Now I've got to go get prepped. I'll see you tomorrow?" She pushed in her chair. "Sure will, need me to see you out?" You asked. "Nope, all good, I've been here so many times I know the hallway like the back of my hand...... Sort of" she waved you off as a guard took her away. You stared into the distance, watching the geese and doves fly profusely over the sunset, suddenly feeling like going for a late night walk in the woods outside the town.

You found your way around the castle to your father, asking him for a dress fitting early tomorrow. Afterwards going onto put a long warm coat, white fluff fulfilments along the rim of the sleeves and hoodie, a moon stone as the button that clipped at the top. The coat itself a heavenly blue. You'd left the castle, quietly walking through the town, street lights flickering and the youngest little children running around in packs as their parents watched over them, curstying after you.

You watched the constellations ever so brightly in the sky, everyone of them dusted across the midnight blue, the sparkles of them vividly reminding you of Ellie's freckles, you subconsciously counted them the summers you met her. It made you sick. Moreso the thought of having to see her again rather than counting the freckles new every year. In some ways, you felt crushed by how you so easily could've moved on from the one you were ‘destined’ to marry, break it off, and still not have found love. It was like a curse, thinking of how in every universe, you hated her guts.

You're gaze softened at the lake you'd come to just through the forest , 2 swans tangled in eachothers embrace, their feathers white as snow, a heart lazily untangling as they swam side by side, neither one of them moving further apart than 3 inches from eachother. You sighed. Looking at the locket you'd owned since 15, it heart shaped, a swan engraved on it. "Oh how I love swans" you whispered. You made your way up to the castle a little more than an hour later, the moon fully above, it reflecting off of windows you stepped by.

Once you woke up in the morning, you'd gotten your dress fitting done, choosing a baby blue ball gown, the sleeves falling elegantly off the shoulders, lace and jewels falling across the corset of the dress, pearl necklaces to go with the locket you held so dearly, and glittery high heels. You'd gotten your hair done not far long after, your white and silky house coat sliding against your hair softly, the maid had put your hair in a half up-half down look, strands of hair still lazy left out, framing the shape of your face precisely the way you had liked it, she finished it off with a jeweled tiara matching your gown.

The day'd passed the sunset almost upon you, as you looked into the vanity in your room, your heart beating fast as you slipped on your gown, you maid behind you tightening your corset, tieing elegant bows, you adjusted your sleeves, "Miss, are you alright?" The maid asked, concern in her voice as she massaged your shoulders, watching as your gaze became saddened and saddened the more time went on. "Oh, no I'm fine.. Please, tell the guards to tell Elisa that I'll be down as soon as possible when she gets here." The maid left the room, you put on cherry red lipstick, focusing so quickly on making it perfect, you watched your lips move around blending it out to be softer. "I can't believe I'm doing this" you groaned, slipping on your heels gently, walking out to see Elisa in a bright pink dress, a boa slinking off her shoulders the radiant white fluff falling across her chest, diamonds hanging from her neck and ears. Her hair in a clean bun. "You ready to go?" She said, grabbing your arm as you walked up to her. "You look beautiful" you smiled. Dismissing the question. "Thank you" she blushed. "I was hoping I'd meet someone there tonight, it means a lot you think that" "no of course, I get it" you rubbed her arm with your thumb, circling in the same spot. You hoping you'd meet someone as well.

The carriage drove you through the dark night passing the same lake with the partnered swans, from the night before. "You looking to settle down?" you asked, hands resting on your lap. "I think so, I wanna have children so bad, and I need their future parent to treat them just as well as I would" she stared at her hands "all I really want is a family" the cold coming from her mouth. "I'm betting you'll meet someone amazing" you assured her. The trees swayed in the winds, your hair blowing along with the rhythm of it all, strolling through the ghost town that you'd remembered so full when your enemy wasn't foolishly inviting every person to exist to this horrid ball. You found yourselves at the gate. The castle lit and decorated with bright and gorgeous lanterns. You both thanked the guards.

You shivered walking to the big doors that's been open. Guards greeting every new person to have walked in. "They'll be here all night" you whispered to Elisa. "Sure will" she said, sorry for them.

You walked in the ball room, Elisa disappearing from your arm as soon as you did. "Typical" you sighed. Walking measly around the room, your gown brushing against the others. Feeling small in the crowd. You stood at the food table, eating the crab cakes like your last dinner, stuffing in two at a time before catching a glimpse of a tall build, her hair short, the same hairstyle as you, and her suit dark, a blue rose in her pocket. Talking to a few of the females, the freckles and eyebrow scar unmistakable. You're breath hitched, gulping down the remaining crab cakes, you felt faint, she looked so mature, her smile bright, yet her eyes hiding a subtle hint of pain you'd only notice if you'd known someone for years, regardless how much you hated them. Tucking the loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes suddenly widening before you realized she'd seen you. "Shit" you muttered, she waved off the women excusing herself to walk towards you.

She stopped a few inches from you, averting her eyes from yours as she bowed, a gasp escaping your coated red lips. "Princess" her voice cracked. "Yes— uh, Princess... Ellie" you curtseyed. "You look... Beautiful" she breathed. Gently grabbing your hand to kiss it softly. "Thank you— Did you happen to hit your head or something" you pulled your hand away quickly away from her lips. "You're acting... Strange" you let out a breath you had no clue you'd been holding in for so long. "How so?" She raised a brow. "You're not acting like you hate my guts." You said. "Who said I didn't?" She crossed her arms. "What? So that's changed now cause I'm, ‘beautiful’?" You spat. " 'That such a bad reason?" She scrunched her nose subconsciously, wiping it with her hand. "Get your head out of the gutter Ellie." You stomped away, "fuck" she whispered.

You still unable to wrap your head around when she'd become so.. odd? You flew around the ball room, every 30 minutes seeing her eye you from across the room. As if some kind of snack, you began to feel creeped out, her whispers to an oh so grown up Dina always beginning after she saw your face. Soon you found her asking you to dance. "Ellie, if you're only going to like me because of my looks.. I don't want you to like me at all" you sighed, taking a step back. "Especially considering our history, I mean what is this? 15 years of constant torture and insults being thrown at me for it to just suddenly change? I can't do it Ellie, I really just can't" you said, turning around for a split second, before she hooked her slender hand around your forearm, the slow dance beginning as she pulled you into her, her hand firmly on your waist and the other holding your other hand just above your shoulders. You sighed, "Ellie —" annoyed. "What else?" You said, she held you close, deja vu hitting you like a carriage door, while she span you around the room, the crowd almost not there, you gazed deeply into her eyes. "What else?" She raised a brow confused. "Is beauty all that matter to you?" You asked, pained. "What? No—" she choked on her words. "That's not—"

"Then what else?" You grip on her hand tightening significantly. "I don't know— I mean—" she bit her bottom lip. "No Ellie— save it." You stopped her. "You don't get to do that" you darted your eyes at her, the hatred building up with every step you took, you began to feel frustrated. "Do what?!" She raised her voice ever so slightly, no one heard over the band. "You don't get to like me because I'm fucking attractive now to you. That's just not fair." Before you could react, she grabbed your arm painfully, pulling you of the crowd of people, she dragged you down the hall, unable to free from her grip, you tripped over your gown. "Ellie what the hell!!" You cried, playing with her hand to get you off just before you'd got thrown into the tea room you'd remembered not to fondly, she locked the doors. "Ellie open that goddam door—"

"Would you just listen to me?!" She yelled, you quickly walked up to her, stumbling over your heels as you grabbed the collar of her suit, the blue rose falling from it. "You don't get to have me listen to you! Ellie, I hate you! And you threw this ball so you could find a wife, I am not going to play that roll again, just becau—"

She threw you onto the couch, your big dress wrinkling against it as she pinned you down, her arms caging your head from escape like an animal. You let a gasp escape your mouth. Your heels falling off of your feet in the uncomfortable position. "It's not because of your fucking looks! Y/n!" She confessed. Her one arm falling to her side. "It's the fucking history" her lips trembled. "We spent our whole lives together knowing one day all thats around us would be ours to rule, together." she said. "You know my worst fears, goddamn it, and you threw it away just like that." Your breath hitched. "And I know everything there is to know about you, whether I hate you or not." Her arms at your hips now, subconsciously caging you in again. "Those two years I didn't see you, I thought I missed messing with your fuckin' head and flaring your anger up like I was those 15 years, but I really just missed seeing the one person I spent every summer with up until I turned 18" you felt offended, her back handed compliments confusing you. You sat up warily, watching her gaze turn to guilt as you propped your elbow up against the head of the couch. "What the fuck" you breathed. Her face just inches apart from yours that you could feel her heavy breaths up against your lips. "Ellie—" you groaned. "So what are you saying? You're in love with me? After all that?" You scoffed in disbelief. "Yes!" She cried. Your heart pounded at your chest, the warmth between you suddenly growing hotter. You couldn't understand anything, grasp the situation at hand before you reached your hand up to her cheek, cupping it softly before connecting your lips that were inches apart just a few mere seconds ago. You roughly bit down on her lip, the sexual tension flying off the walls. "What're you doing?" She muffled a moan into the kiss, surprised as she gripped your hips. "Fuck you" you whispered, shoving your tongue in her mouth exploring every inch of her as she delicately whined, her embrace tightening. You lazily pushed her down, hovering above her, "all that shit just for this" you breathed, hooking your lips onto her soft freckled skin, leaving a wet trail across her neck, while you undid her button up, the sounds of her heavy breaths and sighs filling up the room, you sucked at her skin. "Fuck" she whined. Messily gripping a handful of your hair as the sticky path of saliva continued down her collar bone, stationd between her breasts. You abruptly stopped, struggling to undo the bows of your corset. Ellie looked up to you with pleading eyes, "lemme—" she heaved, flipping you over, your clothed ass up on her crotch while you held your hair to your shoulder, her fingers unintertwining the ribbons. You sat on your knees, she trailed kisses down the back of your neck, each and every one rougher than the last, your dress slipping off by the second before she threw it to the ground leaving you with only your panties left. "Shit" she whispered as you turned over, pulling her in desperatly, tugging at her lips between your front teeth. "You're so beautiful" she admittedly whispered between breaks. "Thank you" you, you smirked against her lips. You sat on her lap, sucking at her tongue, her hands roaming your body entirely, she played with your boobs, all the thoughts leaving your mind as you threw your head back. "Fuck, Ellie" you moaned. Her wet kisses filling the room with sinful noises.

Her tongue flicked at your hard bud, it only standing more as she sucked at it, toying with the other one while she still squeezed your plush hips.

"I need you" her lips meeting your stomach, butterflies in your lower abdomen began to scour, the heat between your legs only growing stronger as she praised you, worshipping your body like a goddess. "Why are you like this" your jaw dropped, her hands suddenly palming you through your panties, already soaking, moans escaping from your red stained lips, that matched the pair all over Ellie's neck and jaw.

"Lay down" she demanded, squeezing your ass cheek. You immediately layed yourself beside her, her head stationed between your legs as she looked up at you hungrily, a face you'd never seen her make at you before, she kissed the inside of your thighs, biting at them like dessert as her fingers gently rubbed at your throbbing pussy, your panties still unmoving, "mmh~" you muffled, the hickys between your legs butterfly shaped, she continued to rub at your sweet spot, playing with the tangles in your hair as she kissed you softly. Your heart collapsed in on itself, the gentleness something youd never experienced before. "You're being so... So sweet" you heaved into the kiss, staining her lips in lipstick as she rubbed faster. "You deserve it" she smirked against the kiss, leaving more around the rest of your face. The ball room music faintly heard from outside, your mouth formed an ‘O’ as she lowered her head again. Your conversations severly uncoordinated, responding to questions with only moans and whines. She slipped off your panties, only lowering them as far as your knees, "I'm gonna make you never want to leave this room" she kissed your hickey covered thigh again, before nuzzling your clit with her tongue, you flinched at the contact, an overwhelming pleasure washing over you as your legs shaked, leaving her holding your hips down. You felt your walls tighten, she swirled her tongue, every muscle causing you to tense up, her tongue only deepening. "Oh god—" you reclined back, her teeth softly nipping your pussy. "Feel good, princess?" She said. Rubbing your inner thigh reassuringly as she suckled "fuck, yes, Ellie" you whined. The pressure in your stomach building up, "I'm so... Fuck—!!" She slid against your walls, you cupped her hair, thrusting your hips into her tongue, desperately wanting to release the knot. Your wet folds quivering. "Please, Ellie—" you begged, vibrating underneath her touch. She fingered your clit, eating you out both at once. "Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie!!" You cried you repeated her name like a god. Giving into your pleasurous desires, the creamy white substance leaking down your thigh "shit!" You cried, all she did praising you through your orgasm, just for her fingers to not lift off once. Still her slender fingers pounding inside of you quickly, the slaps of skin filling the room like paddy-cake.

She sat you on her lap again, grinding your hips over her hand, having you ride her as she moved your waist herself, you too weak, for your second orgasm to wash over you, the couch damp in your liquids. "You're doing so good" she whispered, your fingers digging into her skin like daggers. Your heavy breaths drawn over the music. You came again. Your head falling into her shoulder, she tucked the strands of messy hair off your face, tears staining your Rosey cheeks, and her clothes stained in your cum.

"Oh god.."

PART 2?

I got so lazy towards the end out of fear people would get impatient!! Especially since I promised to post yesterday!! Either way, I will edit eventually if people want me too! I'll be posting part to in the next few days! <33

#tlou #tlou2 #the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie williams #reading #ellie the last of us #dina tlou #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #princess reader #ellie smut #smut #tlou smut

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wren-kitchens · 3 months

Text

i used to know (but i’m not sure now)

1298 words cw: panic attack

maybe joel should talk to scar. it- there’s no way he actually meant for joel to spiral into.. well, whatever joel has begun to spiral into. relatively close to a panic attack, probably, but joel can’t remember any of the techniques mumbo told him about for calming down after he and pearl started freaking out about being kicked out of the mounders- okay, he’s noticing a theme here. that’s- that isn’t the point. he’s just- well, what if he goes to find scar to ask him about what he meant, and scar did mean to reference last life, and he’s- he’s mad at joel, or doesn’t wanna talk to him at all, and then joel has to leave again and he-

joel’s train of thought is interrupted painfully as he smacks the top of his head on his ceiling, and he realises that he’s been slowly flying upwards since he started spiralling. at least hitting his head managed to ground him. actually- can you call that grounding when he’s not on the ground?

joel is freaking out about past alliances. turns out, he’s not the only one

if I actually wrote/finished all the ideas I have in my head right now, i’d be posting daily istg

winter is the season of writers block however so you get this <3

if you’re going to like, please reblog!

joel is being dumb.

there’s no way scar was referencing magical mountain—he just saw a mountain and magic was alliterate with the word mountain, so he said magic mountain before he could remember about the almost identically named alliance they had, and by the time he remembered it was too awkward to change it. that’s- it has to have been that. that’s a very scar thing to do- it’s a very joel thing to do, in all honesty. if scar hadn’t said it, joel probably would have, and then he would be having pretty much the same dilemma—just a little to the left.

it was a slip of the tongue, and everyone moved past it, and- it might be their team name now, but that’s fine. is it a team on hermitcraft, or is it like.. a group? it’s not like they’re teaming up against each other this time, so they can’t be a team—or an alliance, on that note. it’s probably a group name then. maybe joel should suggest a different name next.. meeting? okay, he really doesn’t know as much about hermitcraft as he thought he did.

and that’s- well, that’s an entirely different freakout he’s probably gonna have soon, but- what if the naming of this mountain was a kind of.. omen? what if it all goes wrong, and it turns out joel isn’t welcome here anymore, and then he has to go find somewhere else to stay- and everyone has already established their neighbours and their groups and joel will be like the odd one out- and it’s his first season, it can’t go wrong this quickly. joel might be having two freakouts at the same time now- that’s probably not a great sign, huh?

maybe joel should talk to scar. it- there’s no way he actually meant for joel to spiral into.. well, whateverjoel has begun to spiral into. relatively close to a panic attack, probably, but joel can’t remember any of the techniques mumbo told him about for calming down after he and pearl started freaking out about being kicked out of the mounders- okay, he’s noticing a theme here. that’s- that isn’t the point. he’s just- well, what if he goes to find scar to ask him about what he meant, and scar did mean to reference last life, and he’s- he’s mad at joel, or doesn’t wanna talk to him at all, and then joel has to leave again and he-

forcing himself to breathe slowly, joel lands back on the floor. okay. he should probably talk to scar, considering he’s getting this het up about everything. besides, since when has scar actually done anything like that for no reason? never, that’s when. probably.

it takes a moment for him to hype himself up enough for joel to even approach his front door, but he gets there after a minute. he puts his hand on the doorknob, pushes it down, pulls the door open and-

-and finds himself face to face with an equally nervous looking scar.

scar jumps, making a noise like a suppressed yelp as he realises what just happened. “I- joel. you’re- hello!”

joel has seemingly forgotten how to form any coherent words, because all he can do is stare as scar starts to ramble about wanting to give joel something that he must have forgotten at home because he can’t seem to find it on him-

“are you-“ joel says suddenly, surprising both scar and himself. his voice is embarrassingly rough, which- okay, he didn’t actually cry or anything, why does he sound so bad? “is- I don’t know how to. say it.” he huffs in exasperation. “is this about last life?”

“I-“ something akin to fear flickers across scar’s face, and joel immediately regrets bringing it up until scar says, “it’s not.. not about last life.”

for a moment, neither of them say anything—the silence so loud, joel feels like he’s about to lose his mind. then, simultaneously-

“I shouldn’t-“

“you weren’t-“

scar looks like he’s about to cry, and joel wants to hug him but has no idea how he would even try- or if scar would even want that. “you- you can go first.”

“I- i’m sorry. for being so pissy to you after- after I turned red, I mean-“ joel throws his hands out in exasperation. “I was red- those were the rules! you couldn’t team with me, and I just- I took it harder than I should have, and then I took it out on you. and you didn’t- you don’t deserve that.” joel’s voice breaks embarrassingly at the end of that, and he clears his throat.

“oh.” scar has tears in his eyes, and his voice wavers and- fuck, did joel say something wrong? but then the smallest of smiles ghosts across his lips. “I thought- I was gonna apologise for kicking you out for no reason. I thought you were gonna be mad at me.”

joel gives a huff of a laugh, slightly incredulous. “wh- I thought you were mad at me, I didn’t- why would I be mad at you?”

“‘cause- well, it’s a little hypocritical of me, right? me and grian in third life were breaking the rules, and then I didn’t break them for you.” scar’s ear twitches. “are you honestly not mad?”

“I mean- I was.” joel admits. “but not- I wasn’t mad at you, though. I thought- y’know, was it me?” he tries to keep his voice steady, but it wavers against his will, and he glances away from scar’s gaze. “i’d- in third life, I didn’t have a team. and then I teamed with you, and in a week, I was alone again. i just,” he shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance as he looks back at scar. “but then I had boat boys, and then the bad boys, and then the mounders, and- I wasn’t mad anymore.”

scar’s smile turns a little sad. “I.. i’m not exactly a stranger to that feeling. so- i’m sorry I contributed-“

“oh, no- jimmy did this too, you don’t get to apologise for my problems.” joel slaps a hand over scar’s mouth, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “and, on that topic, i’m sorry if I made you feel like that in secret life- no, i’m allowed to say that because I actually did fuck up.” joel says as scar starts to protest. he moves his hand away for fear of being licked. “you always belong with us, you know that right?”

“I- joel, if you make me cry, i’m gonna be so mad.” scar laughs, already crying as he pulls joel in for a hug. joel freezes in surprise for a moment, but before scar can start to pull away, he hugs scar back. “thank you.” scar mumbles into joel’s hair.

“I mean it.” joel says, muffled against scar’s shoulder. “if you ever start feeling like you’re alone on this mountain, my door is always open. it- pretty literally, actually, it’s built so the door is open.”

scar snorts. “you’re ruining the sappy moment.” he tells him, hugging him tighter. “you can’t be vulnerable for one second, can you?”

“wh- okay, i’m working on it.” joel scoffs, and scar cackles. “I only see you guys in death games, give me a break.”

“I forgive you.” scar says, voice soft all of a sudden, and joel smiles to himself. “i’m happy you’re here. i’ve missed you.”

#magic mountain #magical mountain #hermitcraft #hermitcraft s10 #joel smallishbeans #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #smallishbeans #wren writes

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