#pedro pascal smut

[kiss-me-muchoo]

ITS TOO MUCH PEDRO PASCAL CONTENT, 2025

[layaispunk]

still here with me | joel miller x reader

my masterlist

pairing: jackson!joel x female!reader

summary: you save Joel.

warnings: spoilers for episode 2. canon typical violence, jackson's hoard, angst, lil bit of fluff. Ellie isnt mentioned.

a/n: i love abby but NOT ON MY WATCH. anyway .... how are we feeling ....? 🫂

The sounds of gunfire crackled through the cold. 

The blizzard felt like an entity - roaring, kicking up like ash as the hoard was running toward Jackson’s gates - hundreds of them, more than you'd ever seen. Clickers, stalkers, runners. Screeching. Crawling. Dying in waves, but still coming.

You stood on the wall beside Tommy, breath steaming in the cold as your rifle jerked back with each shot. “There’s too many, Tommy. We need the barrels."

“Fuck!” Tommy yelled, loading another round. “Keep your aim steady!” Tommy barked.

But you weren't hearing him anymore. Your ears were ringing. Joel.

You blinked hard, fired another round. “Tommy,” you muttered, voice tight.

He didn’t turn. “What?”

“I have to go.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I need to find him. I need to find Joel. Amy said he's at the ski lodge."

Tommy finally looked at her, eyes wide. “Are you crazy?"

 “Something’s wrong, Tommy. I can feel it.”

Tommy grabbed your arm. “You run out now, you’ll die. Its a death trap.”

“Then I'll die trying.” you muttered, his hand still on yours.

He hesitated—just a breath—then nodded toward the watchtower behind them. “Back gate. It’s clearer that way. Take a horse and ride fast. You hear me? Be fuckin safe. Go."

You sprinted to the stables, saddled a horse with shaky hands, and rode like hell—snow blurring your vision, heart screaming louder than the wind, outrunning the hoard. Toward the lodge. 

Every fiber of you wanted to scream Joel and Dina's names to look for them. To cry out. But you had enough experience to know that you couldn’t.

If they were in trouble, if they're hurt —you yelling would only paint a target on your back. Or theirs. It wasn't an option. 

So you rode low in the saddle, head ducked beneath the howling wind, your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.

When you finally reached the edge of the lodge, you dismounted, boots hitting the ground heavy and wet. Snow clung to your coat and lashes. The horse huffed, nervous.

You crept forward, one foot after the other. Fingers clenched around your rifle. No footprints leading away from the door. No sign of anyone leaving in a hurry. Just quiet.

The sky above you was darkening fast, blizzard now in full force. 

You walked in, slowly. . It felt like your body knew something before your mind did, like it was bracing for impact. Weathered wood, furniture covered in plastic. Then, you saw a door. You placed your gloved hand on the knob, the other pressing your body flush to the wall beside it. Then you leaned in, ear to the wood.

Voices.

Muffled.

A woman’s voice.

"where was the last place you saw the fireflies?,” she was saying, her tone sharp but almost distant, like she was trying to keep steady.

Think. Think, think, think.

You didn’t know for certain—It could be anyone. But something in your chest twisted so violently, it was like your body already knew Joel and Dina were in that room, and they were running out of time.

How many voices? Two? Three? More? Your blood roared in your ears. You couldn’t make out words—just tones. Angry. Confident. Like they weren’t worried about being caught. 

You stepped back from the door, trying to breathe past the knot in your chest and move as quietly as possible. You had to distract them. Get them away from him. Make them come to you.

You crept down the hall, eyes sweeping the room. Old furniture, untouched for years. You spotted a rusted kettle on the stove and stealthily, you knocked it off with your rifle. You usually do this tactic with glass bottles, but you needed to think fast. 

It hit the ground hard—clang—echoing through the lodge.

Shouts followed. Heavy footsteps. “What the hell was that?”

You dropped behind furniture just as two came around the corner, both unarmed. 

There was a high-pitched ring in your ears, drowning out everything but your own pulse.

Your hands moved before your mind caught up and you stealthily walked behind them and plunged the knife into the side of their throat, a trail of bodies behind you now. 

You crept back toward that door, heart slamming against your ribs. You kicked it open hard, rifle raised—ready to die if it meant he lived.

Joel. On his knees, arms up, breathing heavily. Dina passed out on the floor. And in front of Joel —a woman. Armed. Blonde. Braid hanging down her back. Gun aimed at his head.

You didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. Bang.

She dropped before she even turned fully.

The other two put their hands up, trying to save themselves. You fired again. And again. You needed to move fast. 

You ran to him. You dropped your rifle, crossed the room in seconds, and crashed into him like you were afraid he might disappear if you let another second pass.

Joel caught you with both arms, pulling you in so tight it felt like your ribs would snap. His eyes were red and teary, his body was shaking. You could feel his heart hammering through his chest, loud and frantic, like it was trying to fight its way into yours. 

Neither of you spoke. Just the sound of your breathing—sharp, broken. His forehead pressed against yours. His hand tangled in the back of your jacket like he couldn’t let go.

By the time you made it back to Jackson, the blizzard had quieted, but the damage was done.

The wall was down. Dead clickers littered the snow, half-buried in blood and snow. Smoke curled from where fires had been. Guards moved slowly through the wreckage, dragging corpses, calling out names.

You rode in with Joel just behind you, Dina slumped between your arms on the saddle. She hadn’t woken up yet, still drugged, still breathing.

Tommy met you at the gate - or what was left of it. His face was pale with ash and blood, eyes going wide when he saw the three of you.

Joel slid off the horse first, then reached up to take Dina from your arms.

You followed, boots hitting the red-streaked snow, gaze locked on the chaos around you.

Jackson had survived, but just barely.

You and Joel sat in the quiet of the house, the kind of silence that only comes after something  that violent. Your jacket was still damp from the snow, but your hands were warm now—held out toward the fireplace in your home. 

Joel hadn’t said much since you got back.

You’d stayed behind, helped with the wreckage. But Tommy had grabbed your arm, eyes heavy, voice low. “You’ve done enough. Take him home. Take care of him.”

So now here you were. Home. With the love of your life. 

He sat in the armchair beside you, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he was still catching his breath from hours ago. The firelight danced across his face, cutting soft gold into the bruises blooming along his jaw. Gosh, he looks so beautiful. 

You walked over slowly, knees brushing his as you knelt in front of him. He looked up—eyes tired, but still Joel. Still your Joel.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just reached forward, pulling you into his lap like he’d been waiting all night to feel you close.

You curled into him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands threaded into his hair. He let out a shaky breath against your neck, like he’d been holding it in for hours.

You pulled back just a little, just enough to look at him.

Then you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Slow. Careful. Like you were afraid he might break if you weren’t gentle.

“I’m so happy you’re still here with me,” you whispered, voice thick with everything you didn’t say out loud.

Joel didn’t answer—not with words. But the way he held you tighter, like he’d never let go again… that was enough.

For now, it was enough.

[lazysoulwriter]

husband!Pedro ♡

♡ husband!Pedro that holds your hand around the house like he’s scared to lose you between the kitchen and the couch.

♡ husband!Pedro that kisses your temple every morning before you open your eyes, whispering “good morning, baby” in the softest voice.

♡ husband!Pedro that keeps one hand on your thigh during every drive, his thumb stroking lazy circles over your skin.

♡ husband!Pedro that watches you get ready like you’re magic, constantly murmuring “how the hell did I get you?”

♡ husband!Pedro that texts you “come home soon” and includes way too many heart emojis for a man his age.

♡ husband!Pedro that insists on carrying all the groceries because “my wife doesn’t lift anything heavier than her skincare.”

♡ husband!Pedro that lets you steal all the covers and just pulls you closer when he’s cold.

♡ husband!Pedro that gets drunk and rambles about how you saved his life, how young you are, and how much he loves being yours.

♡ husband!Pedro that groans like a sinner when you kiss his neck, and swears you’re going to be the death of him.

♡ husband!Pedro that grabs your chin mid-argument just to kiss you rough and shut you up because he can’t stand seeing your mouth move without tasting it.

♡ husband!Pedro that pulls you onto his lap at dinner parties and pretends it’s casual while his fingers slip just under your dress.

♡ husband!Pedro that can’t keep his hands off you when you wear anything tight, muttering “you’re trying to kill me, baby” as he palms your ass.

♡ husband!Pedro that takes his time undressing you like you’re the most expensive gift he’s ever been given.

♡ husband!Pedro that fucks you slow just to watch you beg for more, praising you with every thrust like you’re his religion.

♡ husband!Pedro that bites your shoulder to keep quiet when you ride him, because the neighbors already know your name.

♡ husband!Pedro that looks at you after sex like he just conquered something holy, whispering “mine” over and over against your neck.

♡ husband!Pedro that makes love to you like a promise and fucks you like a threat.

♡ husband!Pedro that wraps a hand around your throat and says “be a good girl and open your mouth” like it’s just another form of saying I love you

♡ husband!Pedro that keeps a photo of you naked in his wallet, not for the thrill, but because he swears it's his luck.

✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Too old”

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: You’ve been throwing yourself at Joel Miller for months, even if the answer was always a no. But tonight he comes knocking at your door.

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, age gap, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving).

A/N: Just so you know english is not my first language and this is literally my first time writing, so it’s probably terrible but wanted to try anyway. Also this is pretty much all smut without plot.

“I’m too old for you.”

That was the same bullshit excuse he’d always use. Every single time you tried to make a move, he’d bring up the age difference. You weren’t sure if it was because he was scared of what the people of Jackson would say behind closed doors or if he was worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.

Because yes, he was old—but no other man had ever made you feel so weak in the knees like him. Like that time you saw him fixing one of the fences, flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, those huge arms on full display, veins popping out. Logically, you had to run home to relieve the ache between your thighs, thinking of him. Always of him.

Or that other time, right after winter, when you saw him in his new pants—new for him—legs spread wide as he sat, too preoccupied talking to Tommy for him to notice the way you drooled over the big bulge that the too-tight pants revealed. All you could think about was how it would feel to sit on top of that and ride it until your legs went numb.

“Listen, darlin’, I’m twice your age. It would never work. Just let it go,” he said, shutting you down once again. “Plenty of young men for you here.”

“You know, to me, it sounds like you’re scared,” you shot back. “Scared it might work. Scared you might like it too much.” You took a few steps closer to him, your hand barely brushing his broad chest.

He scoffed, amused as if what you had said was completely ridiculous. “You’re so sure of yourself, huh? I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’d never see you as anything but a kid.”

Now you laughed. “A kid, you say? Then swear to me you’ve never thought about me before going to sleep,” you said, a smile on your face that implied you already knew the answer.

“I’ve never thought about you… in that way.” A lie. You could see right through him, the way he looked away, avoiding your gaze.

You chuckled. “Oh right, of course, you haven’t.” The sarcasm was unmistakable in your voice.

“Jesus, fuck, you’re giving me a goddamn headache.” He said through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think of young girls in that way.”

“I’m not a young girl, Joel, in case you haven’t noticed.”

And damn if he hadn’t noticed. Of course, he fucking did. He was only a man, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t help but stare at your ass when you were bending down to pick up tomatoes in the garden, picturing how you’d look bent over his kitchen counter instead, with him fucking you from behind. The truth was that this was his most recurring fantasy on those cold, lonely nights when he had his hand wrapped around his hard cock, imagining bending you over every possible surface, cumming in record time just by thinking about it. He wouldn’t even dare imagine how long he’d last if he were actually inside you.

“Still, you’re too young for me anyway,” he said. More excuses, you thought.

“You’ll change your mind eventually, Joel. I’m gonna enjoy seeing you crawl to me, and I’m gonna be waiting because I’m a very patient woman,” your tone was far too seductive, nearly making him say “fuck it”and give in. “You know where I live, so find me there when you grow the balls to be with me.”

Joel muttered a curse under his breath as he watched you walk away, your head held high and your hips swaying.

That night, he rolled restlessly in bed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face, those beautiful eyes of yours, and oh that mouth that would look so good wrapped around his cock, taking it all in. He couldn’t stop the way his body reacted to those thoughts; he was so fucking hard it was painful. No matter how much he tried to look at the ceiling and think of anything else, nothing worked, and with every passing second he grew more relentless.

“Screw it,” he thought as he stood up from bed, putting on a pair of jeans and a jacket at lightning speed. The town was quiet and empty this late at night as he made his way to your house. He felt stupid; he was an old man. He should know better than to cave in, to knock on your door in the middle of the night because he needed some much-wanted release. But right now, none of that mattered.

A few moments after he knocked on your door, you finally appeared, a knowing smirk on your face. “Oh, Joel, what a surprise.”

He tried hard to swallow the humiliation he felt for being so weak. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, go ahead.” You opened the door for him to enter and led him to your small couch, sitting down and patting the spot next to you.

He had tried really hard not to look at your chest in that skin-tight tank top you were wearing, but when he sat down, his eyes, almost as if they had a mind of their own, traveled down and noticed your hard nipples pushing through the fabric, and he had to suppress a groan from escaping his lips.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. I—fuck… you don’t leave my mind for a second,” he admitted.

“Well, that’s a start, you know, you finally admitting that you think of me in your bed.” You teased him, trying to make fun of him just for the pleasure of watching him squirm.

He clenched his hands, a useless attempt to restrain himself from pulling you close and kissing you senseless. His eyes roamed over your figure, lingering on your thighs, exposed under those shorts that were way too tiny, and he felt the heat returning to his body.

You noticed the way he was staring, like a wolf examining its prey before pouncing.

“You like what you see, old man?” You couldn’t help but test him; you knew you had him right where you wanted him.

“Don’t be a smartass… I’m a man. Of course, I’m gonna look.” His voice was low with desire.

“Why don’t you come and get a taste then?” you bit your lip as you spoke.

And that was all it took. He finally reached out to you, his fingers slowly running down the soft skin of your arm until they reached your thigh, sending sparks through your body. It was all too much for him; you felt too good under his hands, and he needed more. He desperately needed more, as if it was a matter of life or death.

He leaned closer, so close you could feel each other’s breaths, smell each other’s shampoo, so close you could almost taste each other.

“Fucking finally,” you whispered into his mouth, teasing him one last time before Joel lost the last shred of restraint he had left in his body. He closed the distance and crushed his lips against yours in a passionate kiss.

His right hand tangled in your hair, keeping you close as he devoured your mouth with a need you’d never seen before. His other hand was on your hip, pushing you down onto the couch.

He climbed on top of you, his mouth continuing to taste yours as his hands roamed freely over your body, finally finding your breasts. He kneaded your soft flesh, taking your clothed nipple between his fingers and pinching it softly, making you gasp.

His touch was everything you had imagined: rough, passionate, and masculine.

You broke the kiss just when your lungs gave out. If you were wet before, you were soaked now, tugging off his shirt, revealing his toned body.

“Holy fuck, it should be a crime to hide all of this under a shirt,” you muttered, breathless as your hands explored his muscular chest and stomach.

He would’ve laughed, but he was too lost in the moment. His body trembled with pent-up desire and anticipation, which only worsened as he felt your hands over his body.

Joel moved back to your neck, kissing, licking, and nibbling at it with desperation. Then slowly began to move down your body. He wouldn’t let one part of you go without a touch or taste.

He kissed your stomach, making you squirm, but you couldn’t move; his grip on your hips was tight. He only let go to move his hands to the waistband of your shorts, letting out a growl when he finally slid them down your legs—shorts and panties in one go—leaving you completely bare in front of him, spread out and just for him to do whatever he pleased.

Joel pushed your legs wide apart, making room for himself between them. His head was only inches away from your glistening center.

“Are you this fucking wet just from some kisses?” He looked up at your face, noticing the utter desperation in your eyes, almost begging him to do something—anything—to take the ache away from between your legs.

He let out a low laugh as he moved his face closer, his tongue darting out to take a lick of your dripping slit. Joel grunted softly—if heaven had a taste, he was sure it’d taste just like this. His tongue circled your clit with experienced precision, and you couldn’t help the loud whimper that left your lips.

He stopped his ministrations for a second. His warm breath against you.

“Like that, darlin’? Tastes like fucking heaven, this cunt… fucking sweet.” He didn’t give you time to answer as he went right back to work, his tongue moving faster through your folds, drawing delicious circles around your puffed clit as his hand gripped your hips, anchoring you in place and making sure you’d be all bruised tomorrow.

You looked down to see his head buried in between your thighs. He was eating you out like a starved man, like you were the first meal he’d eaten in days, and you could feel how much he was enjoying it—getting off from your pleasure.

Joel had to buckle his hips against the couch trying to find some relief for his aching cock, but hearing you moan and whimper only made him want you more, and so his tongue began to push inside your entrance, deep and slow.

“Oh Joel, yes… yes… don’t stop… just like that.” You cried out, your hand tugging at his hair, trying to hold onto something as he fucked you with his tongue.

It only took a couple more minutes before you let out a loud whimper, cumming around his tongue. He felt it—your spasms, the way your walls clenched around him—and he kept going to help you ride out your orgasm, pulling away only after he had slurped the last of your delicious juices.

You tried to regain your breath after that intense experience, but you got only more turned on as you saw Joel wiping your fluids from his chin and mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh my god… who taught you how to eat pussy like that?” you asked him, half-joking, half-serious.

He laughed softly, his hands roaming over your body—your thighs, stomach, breasts—squeezing the flesh softly. “Years of experience.” He murmured, leaning closer to your face. “But yours is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

Joel kissed you once again, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, only fueling your desire for him—if it was possible to desire him even more.

“Darlin’, I gotta have you… I need to be inside of you,” he muttered, his voice a silent plea.

“Yes… god… yes, Joel, please,” you whimpered pathetically, and your shaky hands fumbled with his belt, feeling the thick shape of him through his jeans.

He grunted, removing your trembling hands with more urgency. He undid his pants himself with impatience, tugging them down just enough to free his cock

You looked down, and your jaw dropped. That was a gorgeous cock if you ever saw one—big, thick, pushing up against his stomach, the tip glistening with a bead of precum.

“Oh god, Joel,” you breathed out.

“Do you want it?” He pumped his throbbing cock with one hand, feeling like it might explode right now.

“Please, Joel… I need it so much.”

With one hand, he spread your legs wider, and with the other, he took the shaft and guided the tip of his cock right on your wet cunt, dragging it teasingly slow to gather all your slick before positioning it on your entrance.

He took a slow breath to steady himself before finally pushing inside—one big and deep thrust that made you see stars.

You whimpered loud, your body shivering as you felt the way he was stretching you open. He gave you one second to adjust to his size before he pulled all the way back, just to slam into you harder this time.

He was so big, bigger than any other guy you’d been with before, it stung for a moment, but the pleasure swallowed the pain whole.

“Holy fuck, how are you this tight?” he groaned as he squeezed his eyes closed just for a second so he wouldn’t lose it. “I swear this cunt was made for me… made to take this cock.”

Joel began to move, his pace completely relentless and unforgiving, each thrust, each roll of his hips, making him go deeper inside of you. His hands kept moving all over your body, gripping you like he needed to brand every inch of you as his.

“Oh Joel… feels so good,” you said between moans. “Please don’t stop… keep going… harder.”

His hands moved to the back of your thighs and maneuvered your legs so they were hooked over his shoulders, this new angle allowing him to dive deeper into you—so deep you could feel him pressing against your cervix, and your moans became cries of pure pleasure.

You’d never seen a man in such a state—completely animalistic, possessed, in the way he moved, almost violently, and in the sounds he let out of his mouth: growls and groans proper of a wild animal.

“Cum for me… need to feel you cum on my cock,” he almost begged with his ragged voice. “Need to feel that pretty pussy squeezing me so tight.”

Joel’s hand made its way in between your bodies, and his thick fingers found your bundle of nerves, tracing hard circles around it, the pace of his thrusts never slowing.

You felt the tears in your eyes, completely overstimulated by his cock and fingers both working in unison to get you there again.

“I’m—oh Joel… I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” you sobbed, tears falling down your cheeks. Joel felt the way you clenched around his cock as you came, and it was the most delightful sensation he’d ever experienced.

He felt his own climax approaching. He wasn’t even sure how he managed to last so long when you felt so incredibly good—he definitely deserved a prize for that.

“Oh yes, darlin’… feels so good cumming for me like that.”

God knows there was nothing he wanted more in this moment than to cum inside of you, painting your insides white and filling you up with his seed until it was dripping out of your cunt. But he knew he couldn’t. So, with the last ounce of self restraint he had left, he managed to pull out, his hand wrapping around his cock as he stroked it—one, two, three times—then he let out a groan that sounded like a wounded animal, and his cum shot out of him, hot and thick now coating your lower stomach in creamy white.

He stared at the sight, admiring his artwork for a second before he collapsed next to you on your couch, completely spent and feeling hazy after the intense pleasure he had experienced. His only thought in mind was how he wanted to do this again, and again, and again.

Joel buried his head in your neck, nuzzling it as he tried to calm himself down and catch his breath again. “You alright?” he asked, his soft voice contrasting with how intense it sounded before.

“I’m better than alright… shit… that was…” You struggled to find words that described how amazing it all felt, to finally have him after so much time of fantasizing about him—and realizing that he was even better than you had expected.

“I know,” he said on your neck, as if he was thinking the same things you were thinking. His hand roaming over your body, not with intense passion like before, but with a tender and soft touch to give you comfort after the intense moments of pleasure you both shared.

“How long was it since you last did this?” You knew you probably shouldn’t ask, especially since he was always so reserved, but it was a question that had been in your mind for a long time.

He sighed, and you could feel how his body tensed. Not because he struggled with being honest with you, but because the answer reminded him of how long he’d forced himself to be alone. He was quiet for a few moments. “A long time…”

You already assumed it had to be a long time. “Very specific, like always.”

He grunted, and you could notice he was slightly annoyed by your insistence. “It’s been… years,” he admitted. He’d had needs, sure, but the vulnerability of sex—the intimacy of it—was something he hadn’t allowed himself in a very long time. Not until you.

“And… did you enjoy it? Now, I mean—was it good for you?” Yes, you knew that he came, but after many years without having sex, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was what he expected.

He chuckled at your question, like you had asked the most stupid thing. He pulled you closer, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Of course I enjoyed it. I’d have to be dead not to.”

“Good, ’cause I did too.” You smiled softly, your voice just barely above a whisper.

He held you tight against his body, his eyes closing as he enjoyed the feeling of you pressed against him and the warmth of your body. Wondering if this could be the beginning of something—if he could allow himself to love and be loved again.

[myownwholewildworld]

gif by @\watchbroken

“you ain’t falling asleep again” — an oldman!joel miller drabble

main masterlist | ao3 pairing: oldman!jackson!joel miller x f!reader summary: joel takes viagra and can't keep it down. he decides you can help. and the glasses stay on. a/n: please everyone say, THANK YOU SYD @syd-djarin !! i wouldn’t have written this if it wasn’t for you! tysm for allowing me to be shamelessly feral and for cheering me on, you know i love ya <3 anyways, hope you guys like this drabble, i am ovulating. heed the warnings and enjoyyyy xx tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. pwp. filthy smut. the old man’s glasses stay on. breeding kink. consensual somno. use of viagra. brief reference to a limp dick situation cause it’s hot. period sex and descriptions of period blood. joel goes down to town on you (f!oral), so vampire!joel if you wish cause he loves it. fingering. unprotected piv. creampie. age gap, no age gap, your choice. no description of reader other than afab. unedited, soz, i'm horny and i wanted this out asap. w/c: ~1.8k

Joel resented you. Really did.

You were sprawled across his bedsheets, legs splayed without a worry in the world. And here he was, on the rocking chair facing the bed in his Jackson home, watching you enjoy your beauty sleep, while his cock beat hard on his calloused hand.

He’d definitely overdone it with the viagra. At the tender age of sixty-one, Joel sometimes needed a bit of help to get him going. The first time he’d remained limp on your hand, despite your best efforts, had really stuck with him. Truth be told, that hadn’t stopped you from sucking him off, giggling and drooling all over his dick. But still, it embarrassed him. So, when Joel had the chance to trade for some pills, he did.

And now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. He’d been railing you all night till the first lights glittered in his room—your beautiful body bouncing on his cock while the light reflected off the sweaty drops kissing your skin. But unlike him, you were spent and in much need of some rest.

Joel, on the other hand, had not been able to go back to sleep. As soon as he heard your soft, cute snores, his veiny cock had hardened again. Unconsciously his eyes darted to the sweet nook between your thighs. He really had the best view from here, eagerly watching his spent dripping down your slick slit.

The chair rocked under him, his big hand palming the growing erection, his eyes roving over every delicious curve of your body. And then something caught his eye—the cum leaking from your pussy was no longer white, but a shade of pink.

Joel sat on the verge of the rocking chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose to have a better look. No, his old man’s sight wasn’t betraying him—you really were bleeding.

His cock had a mind of its own, reacting to the call of nature in the most primal way. Joel tugged at his shaft, squeezing himself tight while a pearl of precum adorned his flushed cockhead. Your period couldn’t have come at a better time. Joel thoroughly enjoyed himself when that time of the month arrived—a reminder of how breedable you were.

Joel stood up, throbbing cock on hand and his cracking knees betraying his moves. He couldn’t just stay put any longer—surely, you’d understand that he was compelled to do this. That he just couldn’t stop himself, not when you were freely bleeding on his white bedsheets.

You stirred a bit when the wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, but your eyes stayed shut. Joel tiptoed to the foot of the bed and carefully sat on the mattress. Up close, he inspected your cunt with diligence. Your pussy was still gushing out his pinkish cum, but he needed to see red.

Bunching the bedsheets on his fist, Joel swiped your seam clean, his thumb stroking your entrance through the fabric to ensure no remnants were left behind. Once he was satisfied, he laid on his tummy and moved your legs, so the back of your knees rested on his shoulders. Now he could really see your slick cunt up close.

Joel spread your pussy lips, coaxing them apart to stretch your crying hole. A few seconds later, he was gifted with a glob of blood. He thumbed your clit softly, coaching your cunt to leak some more period blood for him, and you quietly squirmed. Another red bubble dripped down your fold, smearing your sweet puffy lips, staining his sheets. His eyes locked in on your beating bud, and he just knew what he had to do.

Hypnotised by the sensuality of it all, Joel leaned in and kissed your begging clit. The fingers that were stretching your lips open for him travelled down your glistening seam until they reached your bloodied opening. Without even doubting himself, Joel shoved his middle and ring ringers in your wet warmth, the squelching of your blood almost making him feel dizzy with lust.

Joel suckled on your clit, your thighs trembling against his ears, and then his mouth dropped. He removed his fingers from your tight hole and coated the skin of your inner thigh with your own blood while his tongue dived in.

Your pussy tasted divine. Metallic, fertile, slightly bitter. His favourite flavour, that was for sure. When Joel lapped your whole seam, from your seeping entrance, through your clit, to your mound, he felt your hand fisting his salt-and-pepper curls.

“Joel… What are you…” you trailed off sleepily, moaning as your back arched off the mattress.

Joel looked up at you, smirking like the devil he was.

“Just let me have this,” he almost implored, pecking the bloody fingerprints he’d left behind on your inner thigh.

“Are you… are you still hard?” you managed to croak out, eyes fluttering shut when Joel latched on your clit again.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, mouth full of you.

Joel alternated between fingering you and prodding your hole with the tip of his tongue, drunk with your iron-like tang, thumb pressing tight circles on your clit. And he truly didn’t stop until your legs were shaking uncontrollably around him and you were mewling your pleasure, your wails echoing in his bedroom.

With a bit more of encouragement, you finally came in his mouth. Joel didn’t hesitate to drink everything your cunt oozed out—the period blood mixing with your cream was his personal nectar. His favourite breakfast. He shamelessly licked your folds and hole clean, revelling in how your entrance quivered around the tip of his tongue when he poked at it.

Your mind was still hazy with the ghost memory of your wet dream, but Joel eating your bloody pussy out definitely had you delirious. This old man of yours knew no shame, no hard limits. And you loved him for it.

When Joel emerged from between your thighs, you gasped, and your pussy gushed. His beard was covered in your period blood, even his cheeks were smudged. And Joel just… looked so chuffed about it all, it made you smile back at him.

You glanced down at his lap when he knelt between your legs, his broad hands resting on your knees to part your thighs for him. His stiff cock greeted you, swaying and throbbing. He was about to fucking explode, so red and swollen, leaking precum everywhere—you truly feared for his wellbeing.

“Fuck, Joel…” You bit down your plump bottom lip, eyes focused on his dick. “How many pills did you take?”

“Two. I wasn’t sure if one was enough, needed to make sure I could fuck you all night long,” he admitted, tapping your clit a few times with his warm, tacky cockhead. “And then you fucking bail on me, falling asleep and leaving me hanging.”

Before you could defend yourself, Joel buried himself in you down to the fucking hilt in one smooth thrust. You braced yourself and grabbed at his forearms, back arched so much that your nipples were kissing his naked chest.

Without exchanging another word, Joel began railing you hard, his throbbing cock growing inside you, impossibly so. He filled your entire pussy, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix every time he hammered in. No thoughts formed in your brain, you could only moan and sob and scream his name so everyone in Jackson would know you were getting your guts fucked.

Joel imposed a punishing pace, anchoring his hands to the headboard while his hips slammed against yours, the clapping of skin on skin competing with your loud groans. His mushroom head dragged alongside your anterior wall every time he ploughed you, rubbing that precise spongey spot inside you that made your pussy hug him tighter.

You just managed to open your eyes and glance up at him. He was gorgeous, the most handsome man you’d ever had the pleasure to meet. And he was all yours.

With every plunge, his old man’s glasses slipped further down the bridge of his aquiline nose, until they caught on the tip of his nose. The glass was all foggy now, and you were almost sure Joel couldn’t see shit right now. The picture made you smirk, but his incessant shoves forced your mouth to shape a perfect O before you began moaning his full name again.

Joel was fucking you so hard into the mattress, the precarious balance of his glasses gave way, and the frames fell onto your chest. Without thinking, you snatched them to put them on back on his nose but then you thought better of it. Instead, you put them on and looked up at him with a sly grin—it was all blurry, but could still make out his face and feral eyes.

“Fucking beautiful,” he husked out.

You felt the pulse emitted by his girthy cock, and the threat of his orgasm called to yours. When the first ropes hit your cervix, you came with him, your pussy milking him dry of every single drop he fed you. Joel filled you up to the brim with his cum and not satisfied with it, he fucked his spent into you for a couple of minutes while your used cunt spasmed around him.

You were truly spent, laboriously breathing, your heart racing wild in your chest. Joel was heaving too, and his greying brows furrowed when his cock left your entrails.

You couldn’t help but look down—you had left pink creamy rings on his hard cock, a mixture of your juices, his cum and your period blood. And when you peeked over at your pussy, you sighed. Yes, your pussy was smeared red, your inner thighs too, and you were still bleeding onto his sheets.

You should have felt slightly embarrassed, but knowing how much Joel enjoyed you on your period, well... there was literally nothing to be shy about. As a matter of fact, you had been waiting for this time of the month to come, because you just knew that Joel would be feral about you.

Letting your head fall back for a breather, you felt Joel pet your overstimulated clit. You whimpered a little, your nerve endings flaring alive, almost painfully, and your brows bunching together in concentration.

You managed to open your eyes again, and then you realised. He was still hard. Very much so.

“You ain’t falling asleep again,” he groaned, pointing an accusatory bloody finger at you. “‘M not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

He was right. Joel didn’t let you.

[blueberrykefir]

Save a Horse, Ride a...

Joel Miller x f!reader 18+

Summary: You need to learn to ride a horse. Joel Miller is your grumpy instructor. Joel teaches you more than just the basics... One lesson you'll never forget.

Content Warning: Smut, MDI! Joel Miller basically talks you through it. No horses were harmed OR involved in the making of this. Vaginal Fingering. Teasing. Dirty talk. Praising, lots of it. Use of nickname, Cowgirl. Rough manhandling. Post outbreak.

Word Count: 5k

You were finally settling into Jackson. Earning your keep, proving yourself useful. Short patrols. Food runs. Assisting on the perimeter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something.

But lately it hadn’t felt like enough. You could do more. Longer patrols, further routes, the kind of assignments that actually made a difference.

There was just one problem. In order to do that, you had to learn to ride a horse.

Which brought you here, grumbling under your breath as you headed for the stables to meet some guy named Jonathan who was supposed to show you the ropes. 

What you weren’t expecting was him.

Joel Miller stood at the front end of the barn, leaning against the wooden fence with sleeves rolled, forearms dusted with dirt, and a glare like he’d rather be anywhere else. Your footsteps faltered.

At a community event, you tried to introduce yourself once. All polite smiles and an outstretched hand. He looked at you head to toe like you were nothing more than a bug under his boot, muttered something gruff and walked off.

The memory still made your jaw clench. 

You didn’t mean to gasp, but you did. Just a little. You hoped he didn’t hear.

He did.

He looked up. Slowly. Dark eyes sharp, like he was weighing how much patience he had to spare today—and the answer was definitely none. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shook your head, too fast. “No, I just—thought I was meeting Jonathan.”

His stormy eyes flicked up, pinning you in place like you were an inconvenience. “Yeah, well. Johnny dislocated his shoulder.” He said with a tone dry as dust. “Guess that makes me your lucky replacement.”

Nerves prickled beneath your skin. You shoved your hands into your back pockets, feigning nonchalance. 

You swallowed hard, pulse doing way too much for this early in the morning. “Great,” you said, voice a little too chipper to be sincere. “Looking forward to it.”

He gave you a once-over, unimpressed. “Don’t get all excited at once.”

You could barely hold yourself back from rolling your eyes. So much for hoping he was just having a bad day when you met. Nope. This was just him. Rude, gruff, and annoyingly handsome. 

But you didn’t survive all this time, due to your lack of persistence. So you try to make conversation.

“So… I didn't know you taught lessons.” You rocked back n’ forth on your heels.

“I don’t.” He pushed off the fence, walking past you without a glance. “Let's go.” 

Well. That was short-lived.

You trailed behind him, glancing around at the empty stalls. Hooks lined the walls, holding faded ropes and well loved saddles. “Where are the horses?”

That's when he stopped and turned his head. Slowly. Like you’d just asked if horses came in blue.

“Horses?” His mouth twitched, just barely. “We’re not doing horses today.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then… What are we doing?”

He nodded towards the far end of the stables, where a beat-up wooden barrel sat with a brown leather saddle strapped to it. You blinked at it, then back at him.

“Really?” 

“You’re gonna learn how to stay on before I waste a real animal's time.” His answer was flat, final.

You glared at him, “I wouldn’t be a waste of time.”

He raised a brow, not even trying to hide the way his gaze dragged over you, cool and assessing. “Then go on, Cowgirl. Let’s see what we're workin’ with.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already walking off towards the barrel, not bothering to check if you were following.

Clenching your fists, you rolled your eyes and muttered a curse. You trailed after him, boots crunching on the packed dirt and hay.

The air inside the barn was warm and smelled of leather and horses and something faintly masculine. Sun, sweat, and sawdust. 

Golden rays spilled through the slats of the barn walls, bathing everything in a warm light, dust in the air catching it like glitter. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful. 

Until Joel slapped the top of the saddle with a sharp thwack. “Alright. Hop on.”

You scoffed, then shot him an exaggerated smile, “Are you always this charming, or just with me?” 

"Only you." He leaned one arm on a post, that mouth twitching again, "Now stop stalling.”

“I'm not stalling,” You mumbled under your breath, clearly stalling. You eyed the saddle just now realizing how high the barrel sat. “You put this together?”

Joel crossed his arms, the material of his shirt pulling tight across his chest. “Been sittin’ like that for months.”

You squinted at it. “You realize horses are taller than this, right?” 

He shrugged, lazy. “Then consider this a warm up.”

You stepped closer to the barrel with more confidence than you actually felt. “I’ve climbed fences taller than this.” 

“Then this should be easy.” Joel tilted his head, just enough to unnerve you. His eyes taking you in from boots to brow, like he was waiting to see you fail.  

It should have been easy. But when you reached for the saddle horn and tried to hoist yourself up, your boot slipped against some loose hay, and you stumbled back with a muttered curse.

Behind you, Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

“Don’t” You warned, pointing a finger at him without looking back. 

“Didn’t say a word, Cowgirl.”

“You were thinking it.”

That damn nickname again. It made your cheeks burn hotter than the sun outside.

It was discouraging to say the least. There was not much you couldn't do. So having a wooden barrel be your demise was frustrating.

You squared your shoulders, let out a sharp breath and tried again, this time determined to prove him wrong. This time you braced your foot against the barrel’s edge, gripping the saddle horn with both hands.

With a grunt that was more pride than grace, you hauled yourself up, swinging a leg over with questionable coordination.

The barrel wobbled beneath you as you stuck your landing. Sort of.

You exhaled through your nose, victorious. “See? Told you I could do it.” You looked over your shoulder at Joel.

Stepping away from the post, he gave you a slow look, annoyingly unreadable, “Well, let's hope any horse you ride doesn't mind someone climbin’ all over ‘em like that.” 

Irritation flared up in your chest, “I'm up. That's all that matters.”

“Sure.” He stepped closer, boots crunching dirt and scattered hay. “Now let's see if you can stay up.”

And then, without warning, his hands were on you. One at the small of your back, the other nudging your shoulder blade with practiced pressure. You inhaled sharply, a gasp slipped out before you could stop it.

“Back straight.” His rough hands adjusted your posture, burning through your shirt like he’d branded you, “Good, just like that.”

His hands stayed exactly where they were, firm. Steady. Hot. You were too aware of every inch of contact, your heart thudding like it wanted to climb right into his palms. 

“Shoulders back. Don’t slouch.” 

You swallowed hard, feeling stubborn, “I wasn’t slouching.”

“You were.” He said simply, breath ghosting close to your ear. “But that's alright. We’ll break the habit.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat curling in your stomach. You tighten every muscle to keep your spine straight, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of correcting you again. But then he shoved, just enough to tilt your balance.

You gasped, grabbing the saddle horn to steady yourself.

Joel clicked his tongue. “Keep your balance, Cowgirl. If you fall, I ain’t catchin’ you.”

Then his hands moved to yours, guiding your grip on the reins. Rough hands against softer skin. Calloused, capable fingers curling around yours. 

You shouldn’t have wondered how those hands might feel somewhere else. But you did. 

“Now grab the pommel tighter–Jesus, not that tight.” He gritted out. “I feel bad for whatever poor fella your seein’.”

You loosened your grip, cheeks blushed from the insult. “No ones complained, yet.”

That made something flicker in his eyes. His gaze dropped to where your hands wrapped around the horn of the saddle. His next breath came slow. Measured. Like he was biting down on whatever response nearly escaped.

“Sit straighter.” He said at last, voice rougher now. “You’re leanin’ like you're about to fall asleep up there.”

You blinked, “Well maybe if–”

“Leg’s snug,” He cut in, voice rough, “Right now you’d bounce clean off the second that horse moved.”

Then you felt him behind you again. His breath tickled your neck just before his hands slid down, fingers settling at the tops of your thighs.“Keep ‘em like this–”  He pulled your knees inward, guiding them against the barrel. “Yeah, just like that. Feel the pressure of the saddle?”

You nodded, barely breathing, feeling more than just the saddle. You felt him. Felt the way his voice, gravel thick with heat, settled beneath your skin.

“I asked you a question.” His tone was dark and impatient.

“Yes.” You nodded, throat dry, “I feel it.”

He adjusted your legs a little further, pressing them in just enough, thumbs brushing the inside of your knees, “Good, right there.”

You turned to face him. The height of the barrel leveled your gaze with his. Up close you could see it all. The silver dusting his beard, the rough lines of his face, and the tightness in his jaw. Like he was holding back more than just words.

Joel stepped in front of you now, closer than necessary. You tensed when his hands settled on your hips. His fingers pressed into the curve of your body, firm and unbothered by boundaries.

“You’re leanin’ too far forward.” He said, like it was a fact. 

No warning. No gentleness. He pushed, not hard, but unyielding. His strong grip coaxed your torso into place. The rough handling, controlled and confident, sparked heat low in your belly. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.

“Atta girl,” he said, voice low and approving. “Right there. You feel that?” 

“Yes,” You whispered, barely trusting yourself to speak. With Joel this close, there was nowhere to look but at him. You noticed the small things, like the soft dip at the center of his lip. Or the way his lower lip is just a little fuller. 

“Good.” He murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Now stop starin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not.” You shot back, too quick, too breathy. 

“Yeah?” He stared at you like he could read every thought you didn’t want to have. A smirk tugged at his lips, “Could’ve fooled me.” 

Heat climbed up your neck like a guilty confession. “What’s next?” You asked, desperate for a subject that wasn’t him. 

Then he stepped back, arms crossed like nothing happened. Like you weren't threatening to melt, from a single touch. He sized you up like a piece of wood. His eyebrows furrowed as he analyzed your form. 

You stiffened under the scrutiny, spine already straight, legs tight around the barrel. His brow furrowed like something still wasn’t right. 

Noticing his scowl you said, “Alright, Cowboy.” You tacked on the nickname with just enough venom to cover the nerves. “What's wrong with my form now?”

“You’re tense." He said, flatly, "That’s not gonna work for ridin’... or much else.”

You scoffed, trying to ignore the way ‘much else’ stuck to your chest like a splinter. “Of course I am.” 

Slowly, Joel approached, like a predator closing in on its prey. His hands returned to your hips like they belonged there. There was nothing hesitant about the way he touched you. Those hands knew what they were doing. 

Rough and confident, his calloused fingers dug into the softness of your sides, molding your body the way he wanted. Every touch seemed to have a purpose, but it also felt like he was pushing you further, into something much more than a simple lesson.

“Right here.” He guided your hips into the saddle, fingers burning through your denim. “Gotta move with the horse, not against it.” 

Your body trembled slightly, as his palms pushed you into the seat, each press of his hands like a command, a reminder that he was in control.

“Kinda hard to move with the horse when this one doesn’t move at all.” Your breathless voice betrayed you.

“Wanna get thrown on your ass? ‘Cause if you can’t sit on a barrel, don't expect to survive a buckin’ saddle.”

The words come out, fast and sharp, before you can stop them. “Maybe I don’t mind getting thrown around a little.”

That made him stop. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped dangerously, “You say that like you know what it means.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” You snapped.

He leaned in just enough, like he was whispering a secret. “I know you can’t stop starin’ at my mouth when I talk.”

A breath passed between you. 

His voice was deliberate, like he had you all figured out. “Know you get all flustered when I so much as touch your back. Or adjust your hips." 

“And I hear those sweet little sounds you make," he added, voice dipped in sin, "every time I get close.”

His eyes were dark… dangerous, like he was daring you to deny.

You returned his stare with defiance, even as heat stirred low in your belly, traitorous and slow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Joel.” 

“I don’t have to,” he said, the smirk returning. “You’re doin’ a real good job of that yourself.” 

“Maybe I am,” Your eyes flicked down to his hands still gripping your hips, a little too tightly for a man claiming innocence. His thumbs pressed in just enough to remind you they were still there. “But you’re the one still touching me.”

His thumbs dragged just a little higher, right at the curve where denim met skin. Instruction was long gone. This was something else.

Joel’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Do you want me to stop?”

You tilted your head, heard pounding against your ribcage, “I was just waiting to see what else you could teach me.”

With a low growl, he dragged you forward on the barrel just an inch, just enough to send heat straight to your core. Your breath hitched and you held back a whimper.

“You’re already breathin’ heavy–” His hands tightened on your hips, possessive. “–And I ain’t even touched you proper yet.” 

He stepped closer, the air between you taut like a pulled thread. “Think you’re ready for this lesson?” 

“I learn fast,” You breathed out, voice tight with anticipation.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then slow and wicked, a carnal smile curled into place, dangerous like a drawn weapon. He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted across your lips. If you moved even an inch, you’d taste him.

Without thinking, you tilted your chin to close the space, but he pulled back just enough, the barest retreat. 

“So impatient,” He tsked, “A good rider learns control.” 

“I'm not a good rider yet though, am I?”

“No, I guess you're not,” His voice was rough with unspent desire. “But we’ll fix that.” 

“How?” The words came out so soft, they were barely audible.

Your hands tighten on the pommel like a lifeline, trembling with the effort not to close the distance yourself.

Then finally, he gave in. 

With a growl, his lips came down on yours. Hot. Sharp. Like a punishment. 

He dominated the kiss, with the same rough authority he used adjusting your posture. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t polite. It was primal.

You whimpered, arching into him as he deepened it. You open your mouth for his tongue. He licks at your lips, before sliding it into his mouth to meet yours.

His hands gripped your hips again like they were his to guide. “There we go,” His voice growled low against your lips, wrecked and approving. “That’s it. Move with it.”

And you did. You couldn’t help it. You moved with him before you even realized, rolling your hips forward and backward with a slow grind. Your heart begins to beat between your thighs quickly becoming an incessant throbbing, that becomes more and more intense with every movement.

“Good girl.” He whispers against your lips.

The words, thick with praise, felt like heat, poured straight into your veins. 

You shuddered, body rolling under his guidance, shamefully eager to please. Not because you wanted to get the saddle right anymore. No, it was because he was the one telling you how.

“Just like that.” His thumbs dug in, guiding another rough grind against the saddle.  “Now we're gettin’ somewhere.” 

The friction of your denim against the old saddle, sent waves of pleasure low in your belly. Your fingers tighten on the saddle horn, clinging on to something solid as everything else threatened to unravel.

Then his calloused hands left your hips, sliding up your waist, his thumbs barely brushing the underside of your breasts. Your hips struggled to keep moving in their absence. You were too focused on the way he tasted, the sounds he made, the feel of him.

He pulled back, lips swollen, “Did I say stop?” He snapped, “You keep going, till I say so. You understand?”

You nodded your head, frantic. But he wasn’t having that.

“Use your words, Cowgirl,” He warned. “Say it.” 

“Yes,” You breathed out. “I understand.”

You don’t know what you craved more. The need for release or the praise you’d get for earning it. 

Either way, you obeyed, riding harder, hips snapping forward. You were chasing the rhythm he carved into you. You let out a soft moan as friction met the saddle just right. A slow burn sparked low and deep.

“Knew you’d be a fast learner.” He growled, satisfied. "Look at you, movin’ just like I want.”

One palm slid up your spine, igniting every nerve on its path up. His fingers threaded into the back of your hair. He tugged your head back, firm and commanding, exposing your throat. 

“You gonna take what I give you?” His grip tightened.

“Yes.” You cried out, the word somewhere between a plea and a promise.

Joel’s fingers pulled your hair. 

The sharp edge of pain only made the pleasure coil tighter and deeper.

His mouth was hot on your neck now, velvety tongue painting your skin. His teeth scraped just enough to make your hips stutter, movements slowing.

“Keep going,” he demanded against your throat, showing you no sympathy.

You headed his command and ground your hips down. His other hand came up rough and demanding, gripping your jaw forcing you to face him. It was clear who was in control.

Your lips crashed together again, unforgiving. It was all raw hunger and heat.

Desperation spilled into the kiss, mess and unrestrained, like you both had been starving for years and just now found something worth sinking your teeth into.

He pulled your lower lip between his and gave it a little tug. He released your jaw, sliding his hand down your throat, fingers dragging possessively along your skin, claiming every inch.

Joel’s touch didn’t stop.

It drifted lower, over your collarbones, across the line of your chest, fingers grazing over the softest parts of you with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

Your nipples ached, hard and sensitive, straining through the material of your shirt.

You arched your back. Chest brushing his, aching for more. The space between you felt unbearable, like your skin was screaming for contact. He could feel it. You knew he could feel it.

He chuckled low against your throat, the sound dark and indulgent. “That desperate, huh Cowgirl?”

There was no room left for shame.

Especially when his thumb grazed over your nipple and your whole body jolted like you’d been struck. He hadn’t even undressed you. Not a single piece of clothing had been removed… yet you were still unraveling for him. 

You became a panting mess, as he thumbed and pinched your nipple, like you were his to toy with. Your thighs tightened around the saddle with every spark of pleasure.

“You want more?” he asked.

You should've said no. Should've reminded him this was supposed to be a riding lesson. Or that you were outside and anyone could walk by. But his thumb was still teasing circles over your nipple, and you couldn't focus on anything other than his hands.

"Yes," You breathed out.

Joel's eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the brown. “Then use your words.”

For someone who barely uttered a word to you before, he sure has a lot to say now. 

“I want more,” It took great effort to speak. The throbbing between your legs was becoming painful. "I want you to touch me like you mean it."

A low sound left his throat, half-grow, half-moan. "You sure?" With tortuous speed, his palm slid down, hot and heavy, landing at the top of your jeans. His fingers slipped just barely under the denim. "'Cause once I start, I ain't gonna stop 'till your beggin'."

Your breath shuddered as your hips rocked slowly. "Then don't stop."

A sound of approval left his throat. Half-growl, half-moan. His mouth was on yours again. The kiss turned messy fast. Teeth clashed. Tongues tangled.

One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing against the seam of your jeans, right where the ache had started building. His palm ground slow and hard between your thighs.

You gasped into his mouth, grinding on his hand, hips moving like he showed you.

"That's it." He muttered. "All worked up and we barely started."

A needy whimper left your lips, from the friction. But it wasn’t enough to satisfy the ache he’d built inside of you. You needed more. You needed him.

But Joel… Joel was in no rush.

His hand dragged up and teased the edge of your underwear, warm fingers curling at the edge.

He didn’t move lower. Not yet. He just watched you from under dark lashes, expression wild. Hungry.

“Joel.” You said his name like it hurt. Like just needing him was its own kind of agony. 

“Shhh,” he hushed, almost tender. His fingers slipped past that threshold, dipping into your underwear, slow and steady like he had all the time in the goddamn world. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You were soaked, aching with want. Completely wrecked and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. The sound he made when he realized it was dark, filthy, and far too pleased. The rough noise of approval sent a wave of heat pulsing through your core.

“Christ. So fuckin’ wet.” 

The pads of his fingers circled your clit. Soft at first, coaxing. You shuddered, every nerve sparked under his touch, hips twitching without permission.

You let go of the pommel and tried to muffle your desperate cries, but the hand in your hair was quick to grab your wrist. 

“No.” He growled. “Let me hear how pretty you sound when you ride my fingers.” 

A needy whimper was all you could muster in response.

As if rewarding you, his fingers sank into your slick heat. One, then two. You clenched around him, hips bucking at the sudden stretch. Your whole body bowed forward, forehead dropping to the saddle as a ragged moan slipped from your lips.

“Ngh–” You cried out pathetically, as his fingers thrust deep inside of you. His thumb found your clit with cruel precision, brushing in slow, maddening circles. The only thing you could do was helplessly ride his fingers closer to euphoria. 

“Doin’ so good for me,” He grunted into your ear. His voice went straight to your core. The praise, the authority, the way he said it like it was a fact. "Such a good girl."

You tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut, shamelessly rubbing against him.

“Let me hear you.” Joel’s teeth nipped at your earlobe.

“Joel.” You moaned, hips rolling with reckless need. “Feels so good–”

You were a sinful sight. Temptation itself, perched on that rusted saddle. Joel’s restraint was hanging by a thread, evident in the way his fingers bit into your waist, like he needed to anchor himself or lose it entirely.

Suddenly, you slumped forward with a gasp, hips stuttering to a halt. Overwhelmed by the way his fingers curled just right, nudging that spot deep inside of you it sent a shiver ripping through you, all the way down to your toes. The only thing keeping you upright was your white-knuckled grip on the horn.

“What, that's all you got, Cowgirl?” 

Your body wasn't listening to you anymore. It only listened to him. Your body rocked fast now, chasing that edge with wild bucking desperation.

But as you got close, too close, your form faltered. Your thighs trembled. Ankles slipped against the rusted stirrups. 

In response, he removed his fingers completely and he halted your movements. You cried as your body clenched on nothing, pleasure dwindling away. “Ah–uh uh.” His tone was firm, unrelenting, “Fix your form.” 

Of course he still wanted you to have proper form, even like this. The bastard was going to drag it out of you, keep you right at the edge, just to make you learn.

You do your best to obey, but oh god, it's so difficult.

You whined, hips twitching, “It's too-” Your head fell forward, “feels too–too good–” You tried to move against his restraint, but his hands were unyielding in letting you chase any friction he didn’t warrant. 

Not until you earned it. 

“What was that?” He chuckled darkly. "Thought you learned fast."

"I-I can't." An exasperated sound came low from your throat.

"You can." His voice was low and coaxing. “Back straight, legs tight.”

The words struck something deep… Need, pride, maybe both. You wanted to give him what he asked for. To hear the way his voice dropped when you got it right.

With frustrated tears hot in your eyes, you forced your trembling thighs to steady, dragging strength from somewhere deep in your core.

Slowly, you realigned your spine, shoulders pulling back hips grinding into position exactly like he taught you.

“There she is.” He murmured, approval slipping into his tone, rich and hot. “Knew you had it in you.”

As if rewarding you, he slipped his two fingers back inside, thrusting in and out, stretching you wide. Your body moved right this time. Controlled and powerful.

There's a hitch in your breath when you shift forwards, your clit hitting his calloused thumb with every thrust. You cried as his fingers hit just right, again and again.

“Look at you, so pretty riding my fingers.” He let the praise land heavy, voice warm like the Wyoming sun.

Your head was thrown back, mouth parted in a silent moan, shamelessly riding his fingers. He watched you, full of hunger you know he is fighting. 

“Oh god,” You whisper, lashes fluttering. His fingers are the finest torture you’ve ever experienced. Mercilessly working to get you higher and higher with every deliberate curl.

“You gonna come for me?” His fingers move furiously, forearm brushing against your breasts at this angle. It was all happening too fast. 

“Yes. Yes, Joel–” A string of broken, desperate sounds spilled from your lips. Words lost. You were teetering right on the edge, trembling with it.

“Go ahead,” His words went directly to your core and your body headed his command before your mind could catch up.

Joels name left your lips, over and over, like a chant as your orgasm slammed into you, stealing every bit of oxygen from your lungs. Every inch of you shook as you unraveled. There was no way your form was holding. Not anymore. 

“That’s it, squeezin’ my fingers so tight–” He cooed in your ear. “Fuck, look at you...”

Your body locked up for a beat and your vision blurred. You were helpless against the wave of pleasure he’d drawn from you with nothing but his touch.

But Joel doesn’t let up. He’s relentless. His fingers move faster, intensifying the feeling. 

It's too much. Too overwhelming.Your chest heaved up and down in a frantic rhythm, lungs barely keeping pace with the fire burning through your body. You buck in the seat, trying to ease off his fingers. 

“Just like that,” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, chest heaving as much as yours. “That's how you ride.” 

Your body shook with aftershocks, thighs quivering. You were stunned, reeling at just how hard you came for him.

"Did so good for me."

You didn’t even realize it was his arm keeping you from collapsing entirely. Strong and steady, wrapped around your waist. Your fingers clutched at his forearm, nails digging into the sun-kissed skin, marking the moment. 

Neither of you moved. The barn fell quiet, save for your uneven breaths mingling together. Birdsong drifted lazily through the dusty slats of the old barn. Nature's calm, a cruel contrast to the wildfire that just tore through you.

Every muscle in your body buzzed. Your legs were jelly, trembling and utterly useless.

The saddle suddenly felt miles too high. The thought of climbing down made your stomach dip. But you couldn’t sit atop the rusted saddle forever.

You released his arm to get off, and he went to help but you shook your head. Pride was a stubborn thing.

“I-I got it.” You muttered, trying to swing one leg over.

Joel didn't move, at first. Just watched with one eyebrow raised. Arms folded.

Balance wavered. Your legs felt like water, and your foot slipped.

And in the space between one breath and the next, his hands caught your waist.

“Easy now,” he murmured, “I got you.”

Before you could argue, he lifted you off the saddle, like you were nothing. Your boneless limbs curled instinctively towards him. 

Your boots met the hay covered ground and you were hauled fully into him, one arm bracing behind your back. You gasped and planted your hands against his chest, realizing this was the first time you intentionally put your hands on him, the whole lesson.

“I said I got it.”  You protested weakly. 

“Can’t have my best student fallin’ off the horse.” 

“I’m your only student.” You tried to scoff, but your voice was sleep-soft. “And it's a barrel.”

Meaning to push away, you shifted. But then you felt him. Hard and hot pressed up against your stomach through the rough denim of his jeans. Your breath hitched. He’d been holding himself back this whole time.

Instinct had your hand moving before you could stop it. But Joel caught your wrist in a tight burning grip. 

“We'll save that for that next lesson."

You pulled your lip between your teeth. "You think I'm ready for the horse now?"

Joel's eyes raked down your body and his lips curled slow and dangerous. "I think your ready for a hell of a lot more than that, Cowgirl."

God help you. You could not wait for the next lesson.

[dilf-docs]

Call It What You Want

husband!pedro pascal x younger!reader

summary: you and pedro are married, but you've kept it a secret up to the point you sometimes forget there's supposed to be a golden band on your finger. but then you both get cast in your first movie together. the chemistry is off the charts, and it starts to catch upon you: will the lines between shipping and reality finally blur?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (ñom), smut, dry humping, oral (m. receiving) while pedro wears the skirt™️ (welcome to another episode of the writer's barely disguised fetish), p. in v., teeny bit of angst because i malfunction if i don't bring sad vibes to the function, the worst ever attempt of comedy witnessed by human kind, they're so down bad it hurts, jealous!reader, possesive!pedro, reader speaks spanish and may or may not have direct/indirect latino blood somewhere, use of spanglish but no translations ☹️ (boo go do your homework, citizens. that's what u get for making my dieter bravo fic flop BYE), i transcripted two real interviews for this so keep those likes, reblogs and comments up in the air where i can see 'em 🪓🪓

word count: 11,706 words

side note: hello! this is me, sliding my cv to become president of the pedro pascal fics. i'm kidding, just on duty to fulfill another request 🫡 believe it or not, i envisioned something like this but for myself IJBOL we have to keep the delusional levels UP!! i hope this meets ur expectations, it was fun to write :)

part: prev | masterlist | next

"Please welcome, the internet's newest darling, Y/n L/n!"

You walk into the set, cameras flashing bright and the band playing on the back. You hug Jimmy Fallon, and when he notices your body trembling he tells you everything will be alright. So did your manager before you stepped inside, but you can't help the nerves. You've never been this big before, and now it's all coming down together without letting you breath.

You take your seat and so does Jimmy.

"Hello, Y/n. This is your first time here, right?"

"Am I being too obvious?" you snort. The crowd laughs with you.

"Don't worry. It happens, especially when you're so young"

"Oh, please" you blush. "I can promise you there are kid actors who could handle this better than I am right now"

"Kid stars?" he lets out one of his famous cackles. "No need to be humble. You are great! Let's just talk about the year you've had: big breakout roles, ascend to fame, you're rocking it!" the crowd cheers, and you again turn into a flustered mess.

"Yeah, I suppose. It's hard to dimension when you've started as an extra for popular shows, to now being, you know, the main face of projects. But I could get used to it" you smile, "it's been a dream. I still can't believe it sometimes, look- I'm shaking"

The camera pans closer to the hand you're showing to Jimmy.

"Oh my God, even big stars like you get nervous"

"Big star? I wish I could feel like a constellation. I'm feeling more like a red dwarf star, baby"

The whole place bubbles in laughter. You feel better, your manager even giving you a thumbs up from behind the cameras.

"So, Y/n" Jimmy says once the laughter dies. "You just got casted in the upcoming Gladiator II movie, directed by Ridley Scott. How does it feel to be on your first big movie, alongside names like Paul Mescal, Denzel Washington and Pedro Pascal?"

You try to steady your heartbeat. "First of all, I have to say, it's such an honor to work with Scott. I grew up watching his movies. Like, Thelma and Louis is definitely my go-to movie. So, like, getting paired with such a talented cast is as awesome as terrifying" you answer with a laugh.

"Talking about that, you see" he leans closer, like he'll tell a secret. "I've heard things about you and a certain future co-star of yours"

You shift your position on the couch, your ring(less) finger itching. You have to avoid breathing in relief when Jimmy pulls out a picture.

"Oh. My. God"

He stiffles a laugh. No way. Has the room's temperature suddenly gotten hotter? Why is your face burning?

"Will you tell us the story behind this?" he asks, the camera focusing on the picture in question. The audience laughs, and you pray to God this is a nightmare, because it's too much embarrasment for a human to bear.

"Okay" you clear your throat, coughing awkwardly. "For my 25th birthday, I uploaded a bunch of pictures on Instagram, including ones where I was a teenager" you begin to giggle, "So. Um, there was this one, you see, that's, me, in my childhood home's bedroom, and my fans were quick to notice the poster above my bed"

"You mean, this one?" and Jimmy points it out. You cover your face with your palms. "It's a... Narcos poster" the audience laughs as you get redder. "A Pedro Pascal's Narcos poster"

"I know" you groan. "Picture this: me 18, and while my friends had posters of their favorite bands and artists, I was so different because I had a whole ass poster of a crime drama show about the world's most famous drug dealer on my bedroom" you recall with a laugh. "It was hard to explain to my mom. I believe she thought I wanted to sign for the DEA or something. When I told her I was going to be an actress, she was so relieved! She said: Oh, well. You'll die, but of hunger! Not a bullet in your head, at least"

"Oh. I'm so sorry. You proved her wrong though!"

"I did! Don't worry, Jimmy. She's my biggest fan now" you look at a specific camera before saying, "Te amo mami!"

"I see you speak spanish. I sometimes forget" he comments. "You've got one thing in common with Pedro, it seems. Think that'll make working with him less awkward?"

"I just hope he forgives me or I'm capable of moving out of the country and changing names" you giggle. "Pedro, lo siento!"

"Well, that's Y/n L/n, everyone! Pedro Pascal's number one fan" you burst out laughing in shame. "More on her lastest movie after the break"

mandoshoney: tell me i'm not the only one who started shipping pedro pascal and y/n l/n PLEASE can't wait to get content of them interacting ㅤㅤann-gell: mandoshoney y/n's pedro pascal's controversially young gf era starts now! i wonder how the press tour for #gladiatorII will go 🤔 unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they are dating ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess ptwt can never tweet like normal ppl…wdym you're betting your grandma?!!!?

You were never a fan of secrets.

But then Pedro waltzed into your life with his charming smile and iconic mustache, and before you knew it, you had married him off in some church in California one random sunday morning ("I love you so much, can't wait to marry you, cariño" "If you can't wait any longer, why not now?")

Flash forward, four years later, and you'd think such event would be plastered all over the internet. But there is a reason why only you, family, a selected number of friends and your agents knew: you kept it a secret.

To the world, he was Chile's most elegible bachelor and you were a young rising star. The public loved both of you for the same reasons: charming persona and acting skills. Yet inside the privacy of your home, he was Pedro and you were y/n, wife and husband; he was yours as you were his.

And of course, no marriage is perfect, and your first real challenge is rather funny: you both get casted in your first movie together.

It shouldn't be hard, but it is. Being inside the Gladiator II set during seven months, so far away yet so close at the same time, was torture. You were Rome's empress and he's Marcus Acacius, yet behind the scenes, the actual married couple were you both.

It was hard to pretend you didn't know what he looked like without clothes when he wore his bathing suit, or that you didn't know his favorite food when Paul asked, or acting like you weren't interested in dating when a local in Malta during your trip at the beach asked you out (he didn't know who you were. You were flattered when he called you pretty in such a hot European accent, but then Pedro appeared from seemingly "nowhere" and you remembered what your real favorite accent was. He immediately called you bonita after that)

It was so hard to keep hands to yourself when he walked by you, covered in fake blood. To not think about licking it all over and under his armour. So was to pretend the thought of dry humping him with his Roman skirt on wasn't tempting. Or that the urge to kiss him got harder and harder to fight each passing day, even getting to a point where you would envy Connie for being able to kiss your husband in the open more, a privilege you didn't have.

You were loosing your mental health here. But Pedro was no better.

It was so hard to see you, the Moroccan sun shining over your features like you were an angel. Otherworldly. That he'd see red when you'd finish filming a scene with Joseph, forcing himself to interrupt the small chat you'd engage in after. He too couldn't keep pretending he didn't want to tear off those silk dresses out of your body, and kiss you out in the open like Joseph did.

He almost failed once, cornering you in the hallway of the hotel you were staying. His hot breath lingered on your neck. I miss you, he had said. You felt his hard brush the inner of your thigh. We can't, you whispered in a dragged out voice.

It was hard.

So you gave him your used panties, and you swear you could hear him jacking off in the bathroom of his room, next to yours. He'd screamed your name, and your hand had found it's way to your dripping cunt, doing what he was supposed to do; touching you the way he did. And you came, drowned out moans against your pillow. But it wasn't like when he did it.

But God has heard your prayers.

For the first time in weeks, you're lucky. You find Pedro sitting alone in the cafeteria, his phone in hand. He's still wearing his armour and skirt, not bothering to change for the break. You aren't God's strongest soldier, but you're trying not to go down on him so badly right here and now.

"Hey" he raises his head when he hears your voice, smile adoringly. It only grows wider when he notices you alone. "Thought you'd never get rid of Paul. He's like, stitched to you"

"Same can be said about you and Joseph" you sit across him, and despite most of his tone being playful, there are still hints of jealousy behind. It arouses you deeply, and with this hot summer day above you, your skin isn't the only thing that's getting sticky.

"In case you haven't read the script, I'm his wife" you wink. "Sorry this is how you find out"

He laughs loudly, and God, how have you missed that laugh. Sure, it's been there when you've been out with the cast together, but it doesn't tingle your chest as when you're the cause of it; it feels like it's for you only, and that's what makes it special.

"I miss you so much" he whispers, his hand sliding across the table, finding yours. His thumb carresses your soft palm, and you melt under Pedro's tender touch.

"I do too" you sigh, but it's instantly replaced by what could only be described as a smug face. You lean closer, whispering on his ear, the warm meeting cold. He shivers. "Wanna know something?"

"I'm all ears"

"I just came back from walking. Guess what?No one is 'round here" you lean back against your chair, shit-eating grin on your face as all his body tenses up. "Made sure of it. The trailer zone is empty too"

Pedro gulps, his adam's apple bobbing as his eyes look at you.

"Y/n" calling your name as a warning.

"What? Can't a girl find ways to have her husband all for herself?" you snort. "Please say yes" you let go of his hand, but the free fingers now travel across his broad chest, taunting him. "C'mon, we both deserve a break"

He can't say deny you anything, can he? You know it, he knows it.

Before you register, his big hand engulfs yours as you run across the set. You giggle at his rushed steps, even more when you stand before his trailer and he's fumbling his slippery hands with the doorknob, sloppy movements erratic.

"But you told me to stop" you tease, and he doesn't even let you add more because he's pushing you inside, forcing you with rough calloused hands to a chair and then you to sit over his lap.

"Fuck, babygirl. I've spoiled you way too much" he groans against your lips. "Lo sabes, ¿verdad? Just can't say no to you"

Your eyes darken dangerously, the hunger on them mirroring his own.

"How could you ever say no to this?"

You press your chest against his broad one as your lip bites into his lower one, teasing. Pedro feels his underwear getting tighter when your tongue finds its way inside his mouth, even getting a glimpse of the taste of the strawberries you had earlier before.

He deepens the kiss, and when you pull away to catch your breath, he doesn't waste his lonely mouth and busies himself with the task of kissing your sun-kissed neck, licking and pressing his lips under your jaw. Pedro goes even lower, down until he's reached your collarbone, making you groan a bit under his wet sloppy needy mouth. He's enjoying how putty you are under his intense kissing, fingers in his curls, that have begun to damp under the ablaze of the small space and pleasure that fills the air.

"Kiss me again in my lips" you whine after a while of him teasing you with kisses that get only rougher. "Pretty please, papi"

You cup his face in your hands, and Pedro's back to kissing you in the mouth, tasting all of your insides as he hasn't had in what feels like a lifetime.

"Of course, baby. Missed this pretty mouth" he mumbles in between hot kisses, his now growing boner pressing into you.

"Baby" you giggle. The skirt he's got on may hide it, but your fingers refused to wait, pulling it up. His bulge presses against the shorts he's got under the skirt, and you can feel your pussy and mouth drool. "We have to do something about this big boy" your hands pull down the short, leaving just his underwear on. He's about to remove the skirt, but your demanding hands stops him. "This stays"

His brown concerned eyes make you laugh, but you don't give him time to think about it, rather grinding against his erection. Pedro's breath hitches when he feels your daring movements, bucking his hips against yours.

The friction is addicting, and he captures your lips once again to make you feel what he can't with words: how fucking good this feels.

You keep moving over his aching dick. Your husband throws his head back, groaning in pleasure at the way your hips move against him, knowingly. His hands find their way to your ass under the flowy almost translucent skirt you chose to change in, gripping the rosy skin tightly, hands almost covering all of it.

"You wore this for me, right, cariño? Knew I couldn't say no" he groans, firm hands on your cheeks, the grinding meeting his hips now harsher. "Less with you walking around with this slutty skirt of yours"

You make little sounds he's obssesed with, dripping out of your filthy mouth.

"Fuck" Pedro groans after a while, "I need to have you, mami. Missed you so much" eager fingers make it to your top. He growls, deep within him―guttural, ready to pull it off as he mumbles naughty wife when he realizes you got no bra on, chastising you for a "rushed" plan that seemed planned all along, when a sound cuts through the air.

You both stop.

The sound gets clearer.

It's a knock. A knock at his door.

A knock in Pedro's trailer.

And you are inside. Both.

While you're grinding him.

With his skirt on.

(It's time to build a bomb and kill yourselves off and whoever is stading behind that door)

"Pedro!" a familiar accent calls. Peudrou. It's Paul. "Hey, man. Just wondering if you are here"

He's debating on speaking up when he sees your red face and rising-falling chest before him.

"Answer" you whisper breathlessly. He tries not to groan when he fills you slip out of the spot in his middle while also trying not to think about murdering Paul as soon as he gets out.

Aside from the order, you're unexpectedly quiet, and Pedro quirks an eyebrow at you. He knows you better―you're his wife after all, and if there's something he's aware of, is your inability to loose.

"I'm here" tone clipped and annoyed. But no footsteps backtracking are heard: the Irish man is still there.

You bite your lip, watching the skirt with his legs spread, a sight too tempting. Also, he was still hard, as hard as the task to not go and keep doing your job.

Oh, fuck this shit.

Your devilish hand equals the grin in your face, fingers making their way toward his unattended bulge.

"What are you doing here?" Paul asks, but Pedro's attention has completely deviated, now focused on how they land right over his clothed dick, skirt pulled up by your other hand. "I thought you were at the cafeteria"

"Yeah?" but it comes out strained, yet the younger man doesn't notice or comment.

His hips raise when your fingers press his member, massaging it.

"Yeah" he uses a tone that equals a duh. "You texted me yourself"

Pedro rolls his eyes, wishing desperately he would go away, annoying him just as much as a fly hovering above fresh food. Talking about food, fuck, weren't you hungry? He tried to warn you, holding your wrist, but all resolve was lost the moment you looked in his eyes: he immediately pulled down his briefs, dick sprouting hard.

"Well, changed my mind" his tone falters in between words, member now free from the confines of his tight underwear.

"Are you tired, man? You sound tired" Paul comments on his tone. "Came to rest?"

You spit on your hand, and he gulps.

"Somethin' like that"

You start to jerk him off, leaving little wet kisses and licks just above his dick. Pedro's eyes are hypnotized, glued to every lick of yours across his girth, the spit making your movements smoother. Sexier. Fuck.

"Well, sorry to break it to you but rest time is over. They want us back on set now"

Your tight needy lips are wrapped around his his length and it's so hard to keep the talk normal when he justs wants to yell at Paul to fuck off. Your hand is there too; you are as of help as much as you aren't.

"I'll be there, Paul, just―Fuck!"

But his attempt to cover a moan doesn't go unnoticed.

"Are you alright in there?" he tries to enter, but Pedro locked the door. He's yelling he's fine, but Mescal doesn't sound convinced. "I can't go inside; it's locked. Are you sure you are okay, mate?"

"Didn't want you to take a picture of me drooling on my sleep" he manages to get out in a monotone voice. A real win if you take into account you've gotten to a point where you squeeze under his cock, massaging his balls.

"Smart move!" he chuckles from outside. "I guess I'll see you there"

Pedro covers a moan with his palm as he's throwing his head back in pleasure. He can feel his orgams looming over, minstrations growing sloppier around his pulsating cock, the need to fill your greedy evil mouth with his seed making him sick. He's a simple man: he just wants his pretty wife to fuck his cock silly and come in her mouth in peace. Is that so hard to get this days?

Paul seems to be finally gone as Pedro can't keep containing his grunts anymore, steps moving: until said steps sound closer again.

"Oh, I almost forgot, have you seen Y/n? I can't find her anywhere" it's coming. His orgasm is coming in the absolute worst moment. He can feel you gagging at his hard rock cock, hitting the back of your throat now. Still, your hands don't loose their grip on his cock and skirt, determination filling that sexy little body of yours. It was rather admirable the effort you were putting in this. "Think she went to the beach? She said she loved it. God, that little rebel. Anyway, if you see her, tell her-"

He leans his head back once again, seeing stars. No one knows him like his wife, truly.

The sight of you drooling from your chin, the wet sounds of him fucking himself onto your mouth as your spit-coated fingers pump his girth, you gulping down the precum from his tip, his fingers holding your face roughly by the cheeks...

"Yes, Paul, yes!" Pedro barks, barely hiding the moan that erupts from his ribcage, thick shots of his hot cum hitting your tongue and deep of the throath. "Fuck off and let me get ready"

"Jesus, mate, chill. I'm sorry. See you there"

And Paul Mescal's hovering fly ass is finally gone.

"Poor Paul" you say as soon as you pull off his length, voice raspy as you huff for air. Pedro lovingly cleans rests of your saliva and his cum from your chin as he chuckles at how much audacity, courage and horniness could fit in such a small young body. "You've ruined the friendship"

"You think?" he licks off some as you sit on his lap again, tongue directly on your face. You feel aroused again, but time's up. "It's your fault. That and this"

He points down.

"Just as you used that pretty head of yours to think of the trouble you just made, think of an excuse for Mr. Ridley about the skirt"

at0michips: wait wdym paul is sick??? ㅤㅤl-u-n-a-m: at0michips he's died vnightx: i'm wondering who'll do now the do you even know me interview with pedro now :( i was so excited!!! hope they don't cancel it :( ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: vnightx i bet my grandma it's y/n ㅤㅤat0michips: unhing3dprincess why do u keep betting ur grandma omg 😭😭😭

"You know what I think would be fun?" Pedro comments while you wait for the interview's set to be prepared.

Tour press has finally begun. That meant you could go home for a while after the filming wrapped, just to be back for the promotion of the film. You were excited of course, the experience new and thrilling. After much needed battery recharging and husband/wife time, you were ready to take over the world.

But then Paul got sick.

Today's interview was scheduled to be him and Pedro, but since he was unavailable, they paired him with you, since you both spoke Spanish (which felt slightly racist in your opinion), and because Fred and Joseph were already paired up for the other.

You leave your coffee, knowing he's about to say something stupid or endearing, perhaps both, brown liquid probably spilling out of your mouth. Or worst, nostrils.

"Tell me"

"What if we left little hints that we're together?" his smile is one of mischief. "Like you could wear my cap, or I could wear a chain with your initial around my neck, like Ryan Gosling did at the Barbie premiere"

"Or as Taylor Swift sang" you counter. "But Pedro, dear, you're underestimating our fans. You don't think they'll match it sooner than we think?"

"Maybe" he agrees. That's just what I want. "What's funny is we're about to do a type of interview where we could blow our cover"

"Maybe" you repeat, "or maybe you don't know all about me as much as you think, Mr. Pascal"

He fake gasps, feigning hurt. "Is this a dare, Mrs. Pascal?"

"No" you try to be mature for once, cutting the banter as much as you'd like to go on and kiss him right there. "Also, remember to answer incorrectly sometimes, you know..."

"There's no way I'm letting you win though"

"Pedro, no seas necio!"

The producers arrive just in time to let you know it's ready.

"After M'lady" he's back to being charming as he is, not as husband charming but just Pedro Pascal charming. The nerve of this guy to do it in front of the LADbible crew.

"Whatever" you grumble, the nerves getting the best of you as you realize this interview may or may not give away more than you've been allowed before.

"Hello, I am Y/n L/n" you present yourself. Wow, the camera is really close. This isn't going to end well.

"And I'm Pedro Pascal"

Hearing his voice soothes you. It's okay, y/n, you got this. "And this is Do You Really Know Me- No wait, it's do you even know me. Okay, let's start again: Hello, I'm Y/n and this is-"

"I don't even know anymore" Pedro jokes, making you laugh. "Do you even know me?" he asks while looking forward, now making the crew laugh.

"This is Pedro Pascal, that'll do" you sigh.

"This is gonna be sad, she's not going to know any of these" he says, but in reality, he's mocking you, the mischief in his eyes glowing as he only looks at you tauntingly.

"Same can be said about you" you tease, "we're like a million years away"

"That's not true!" he gasps, "I watch your every move" punctuating each word. God, you try not to make a face. "I have Google alerts on you"

If he was gonna play, so were you.

"Glad to know I have you alerted" with the sweetest voice ever, seeing how his friendly façade falters for a bit at the tone you've used. You laugh, and Pedro takes the chance to laugh it off too.

After the introduction, they ask one of you to keep score, and you offer yourself because, well, you don't trust Pedro.

"I'll go first" you say. "Which was my first ever role in the industry? As an extra during an episode of Stranger Things, as a voice actor in A dog's purpose" you can't help but laugh, "or as a back-up dancer in Hustlers?"

"In Hustlers?" Pedro inquires in disbelief. "You're telling me you were in Hustlers?! I didn't even know you could dance!"

Lies. You and Pedro sometimes put some bachata and dance in the kitchen. God bless Juan Luis Guerra.

"Jennifer Lopez and I are practically besties" you answer nonchalant.

You know the answer. He does too. But he chooses the last one for comedic purposes.

"I'll go with Hustlers. Now that I'm looking at you, you do have a... dancer face"

"It's okay, you can say the forbidden word. I'll take it as a compliment" you laugh, "you're wrong, though. The answer is Stranger Things"

"No way!" and it sounds as if he genuinely didn't know. Good lying son of a bitch; Jim Carrey on Liar, Liar would've been proud.

"Yes. If you look in the background of season two, on this one episode where Nancy and Steve appear to have broken up during a halloween party, you can see me drinking from a cup on a corner"

"That's so crazy"

"Yeah, I was twenty already, yet playing a highschooler" you giggle. "Wow, time flies by. Anyway, we're both at zero. Your turn"

"What film did my dad not let me see at the cinema when I was, uh, ten years old?" Pedro reads from his card. "Rambo: first blood, The Breakfast Club, Day of The Dead"

"I'm going to base this in the year you were born. Okay, so 1975. Let's see" one of the things Pedro loves about you is that you're like a film encyclopedia, but right now, that'll cost him a point. "They all came out the same year, and they were also R rated. Hmmh, I'll choose The Breakfast Club"

Your analysis was just mindless bragging really. You knew the answer the moment he started reading the question, because the anecdote came during a time he heard you listening to the movie's soundtrack ("Did you know that my dad...")

"You complain about Paul all the time, but you're just the same" he comments. "She's a real competitor, people!"

You flush in embarrasment. "Okay, that's one for me. Next question" you read the card in your hands. "What pet do I own? An orange cat named Louis after my favorite singer, a fish, or a Shih Tzu named after my brother"

The orange cat lives with you both. You're curious as to how he'll answer.

"You aren't naming a Shih Tzu frickin' Fernando" he laughs, so loud, it ends up catching up to you and the crew. "I'll go with the cat"

"That's correct" you lament. "How would you know?"

As if the damn cat doesn't love him more than he loves you.

"I follow you on Instagram" he defends himself. Clever. "We are, um, what do you call it-"

"Oomfs"

"I'm not gonna try to pronounce your made up language. Okay, my turn. Which of these characters I've played in Saturday Night Live? Naughty daddy, protective mom, or weird uncle who has a creepy sneeze" he reads out loud in a confused tone.

This is easy. It was all over your timeline.

"Protective mom" you answer on a beat.

"This isn't fair, that was really popular!" he complains.

"It's still two for me and one for you" you mock. "Now, what is the nickname the internet has given me? I won't give you clues because it's an easy one"

"Easy? You said we were million of years apart and now I'm supposed to know?"

"Well, you seem to manage Instagram so I think you'll be just fine" you tease, and Pedro just wants to rip that smirk off of you. So he caves in first.

"It's people's princess"

"What?!" your eyes grow comically large, shimmering with betrayal as you shout with an incredulous tone. "I can't believe you know" more like can't believe you said it.

"You're royalty! How am I supposed to not know that, internet darling? Besides, told you: I keep my eye on you" and he winks.

This motherfucker. Oh, he's totally sleeping on the couch tonight.

"Talk about internet darlings" your snarky tone comes out, and Pedro knows he's pissed his competitive wife off. "I guess we have a tie. Your turn"

"What are the initials of my full name?" his brows furrow. "I forget. JBPP, JPBP, JBPP"

"José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite. "B, of course"

"But that's too easy, everyone with Google knows it!" but then he's leaning into your ear, whispering in a very low voice to make sure only you hear. "I'll let it pass, though. Love hearing you pronounce my name, mami"

Your face grows obscenely red. "I'm back ahead. Let's see if you can keep up. Okay, here it goes" you read the card, "what is the director I've stated I want to work with? Greta Gerwig, Pedro Almodóvar, or Quentin Tarantino"

"Pedro Almodóvar, no? You said you were jealous I had already worked with him" he playfully nudges you. Too much contact, face hot again. Maybe in group interviews you'll do better, because right now, you're doing a rather poor job at controlling yourself, even as an actor; you can already picture your agent pulling her hair behind the cameras.

"It's Greta Gerwig, actually"

"What?! No way, you told me this!" he grumbles. "This game is rigged"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm still jealous. I just think working with Greta Gerwig is peak womanhood, and I gotta live that. So, Greta, if for some reason this silly video gets to you, call me. I promise I'm not that childish"

"She is" Pedro slips in, "don't call her. So unprofessional" in a mocking exaggerated tone.

"Whatever, you sore looser. Me three, you two. Next!"

"Fine. Which of these songs would I have played at my funeral? My Heart Will Go On, Purple Rain, Nothing Compares To You"

He looks at you, silently pleading you to not answer correctly. Your competitive side screams in agony.

"I have no idea. Why do I feel you've already said it somewhere, though? I'll go with Nothing Compares To You, because the first its too corny for you and the second too epic"

He scoffs, amused at the fact that you did obey, but at what cost? Pedro's well aware his princess can get as competitive, if not worse, than Paul.

"You're saying I'm not epic enough for Purple Rain? Too bad, because that's the answer" you grunt, crossing your arms. "That's right, I am cool enough to have it played. I guess we're tied again!"

"No, you don't loose a point. It's still three to two. This just gives you the opportunity to tie"

"W-wait a minute"

"Settle down" you pat his thigh, "you can still try, handsome"

He gulps when your hand meets his skin, despite the layer of clothes. It's still something that gets him on edge, no matter the years you've known each other. And handsome? You came here for blood.

"Okay, here's your chance: what image of me became trending topic on twitter? An image of me eating a typical dish from my country, an image of me watching Deadpool and Wolverine with glasses while Hugh Jackman's shirtless scene reflects on them or C, me meeting Taylor Swift at the backstage of the Eras Tour"

"The typical dish is tempting" he muses out loud, "but I'll go with the Taylor Swift one because that sounds like something that'd trend"

"You're right" you throw your card. "I'm not complaining though. Best day of my life"

"Does this mean I'm winning?" he beams excitedly. "Oh, in your face Paul! I will finally win something!"

"Slow down, cowboy. There's still some left"

He purses his lips. "Let me have this one thing, would you? Guess not. Here it comes" he starts to read his card, "At school I competed in state competitions, in which sport? Soccer, lacrosse, swimming"

"Swimming" you answer hastily, trying not to think on Pedro wearing tight little swimsuits, as you've only seen him wearing swim trunks.

"Okay, that's dissapointing. Please continue"

"I participated in which play while I was in highschool? Hamlet, The Iliad or Much Ado About Nothing"

You doubt he remembers. The only time it ever came up, was when you visited your parent's house and a photography of you during said play was showed to him by your dad.

"The Iliad, right?" you laugh. The answer is wrong: It's Hamlet. "What? I swear it was that one! It's just you have very..." beautiful is at the tip of his tongue but he refrains himself, "...very greek features"

You can't help but laugh.

"Why of course! This is a face people go to war for"

"I agree" your heart skips a beat, "but I don't think I'll make it that far, if we talk about a war"

"You big fat liar!" you slap his arm playfully. "You've played all sort of characters, from soldiers of all nationalities and places, and like, superheroes, f*****g Joel Miller, even a DEA agent. You at least learned something!"

"Wow, slow down, this isn't a filmography recount" he jokes. Liar, you mouth to the cameras. "Okay, last one: I became a viral sensation for eating what type of sandwhich in LADbible's snack wars: BLT, PB&J, grilled cheese"

You remember the video fondly. Even your brother had sent it to you, along a text that said: Isn´t this your husband?

"PB&J, I win!" you cheer, instantly getting off the chair to do a celebratory dance. Pedro doesn't say anything, just throwing the cards away while the fondness of his eyes betrays him.

pyramiidsf: i want someone to look at me the way pedro looks at y/n mybritishstyle: guys they're just friends 😭 he's like that with all his female co-stars ㅤㅤann-gell: mybritishstyle me when i'm delusional af mandoshoney: where's that girl that's always betting her grandma??? SHE WAS RIGHTFLKRGJ

"Hello, I'm Paul Mescal. I'm here with my friends from the cast of Gladiator II" Connie and you both raise your palms to greet the camera, laughing when you realize you'd done it at the same time, "and we are going to play a game about how well we know each other for Vanity Fair" the irish man introduces the interview you're filming today.

"Did they prompt you?" Pedro speaks up, "or did you just make that up on the fly?"

You laugh a bit too loud, hoping they cut it off in the editing process.

Paul goes first, taking up a card with the first question written on it.

"Okay. Question: What's my least favorite day of the week?"

"Tuesday" answers Joseph once Paul is done reading. "Oh, you're writing it down?"

"Yeah" he answers.

"You just wrote Tuesday" Connie points out, Paul's card on his legs. You laugh along the rest.

"Yeah" he repeats laughing. "I actually, when you said Tuesday" Yeah, he said Tuesday Pedro adds on the background of laughter. "I was like...I'm gonna give everybody a point for that"

"I think I deserve a point for being observant" Connie complains.

Everyone gets a point and Paul moves towards the next question.

"What was the name of my character in Normal People?"

"Connell" both you and Joseph answer, looking at each other before squinting your eyes playfully.

"Callum" Pedro answers out loud at the same time, and you laugh. He clearly had slept when you played it for a re-watch last summer.

"No, you're out" Paul pokes Pedro next to him.

"Connel" Joseph repeats, and Fred agrees to the same answer.

Paul then asks Connie what's hers after he confirms you three.

"Connor?" she asks, confused.

"Incorrect. Three points" while pointing you three.

"You got wrong" he tells Pedro, "Callum's a different character"

"See? You just don't pay attention when you watch things" you blurt out, stopping yourself before adding the with me. It would be harder to come back from that, but so is this as everyone looks at you, even your husband, subtle panic in his eyes. Where the cameras this close? How long had you been silent?

"It's just, quick funny story" you improvise. "Pedro didn't know much about Paul's career, and as I am a fan, I took the time to show him and recommend him your stuff" Paul smiles. "Clearly, my fanatism didn't rub on Pedro but a girl can try"

He laughs, before saying "So the answer is Connell" and you try so hard to remain normal like the energy hasn't shifted.

"He only plays characters with the letter C in the name" Pedro jokes, chewing on a toothstick he seemingly pulled out of nowhere. More laughs follow, and you are so grateful for how he's handling your little metida de patada.

"What's number one on my bucket list?" he asks next, "and don't look at my answer"

The marker is the only sound to be heard, and then Pedro jokingly tries to take a peek.

"No peeking" Connie berates as Pedro laughs.

"You're not gonna be able to see that" Paul replies in an anyways tone.

You repeat the same joke, before Fred blocks you. "Not you too!"

Paul finishes after a while, Connie commenting it was long. Joseph raises his hand.

"Yes, Joseph"

"Is it to see the Great Wall of China?" he asks.

"No, but it's in that-"

"It's close, isn't it?" you interrupt.

"...family of thought" he finishes.

"It's to go and see something" Pedro points out.

"Okay. Rajasthan" tries Connie. "Go to Rajasthan, for a tour"

"Travel to South America" Paul interrupts with the correct answer, "I've never been to South America"

"I'm from South America" Pedro comments, never missing a chance to shout out his dear Chile.

Paul jokes about him getting three points while the rest of you laugh.

"I was born in South America. 17 points for Pedro"

"I want points too" you jump on the joke. "I know Spanish, so I can take you there and avoid you getting lost, mi querido amigo"

"But who was born there?" Pedro counters, "you get no points"

"I think Joseph is the only person who gets a point there" Paul adds, "because everybody just jumped on the bandwagon"

"He said to visit the Great Wall of China" Pedro protests, "which is nowhere near South America"

"It really is not" Connie agrees.

"Qué gente tan tramposa" you complain. "That's unfair. I remove my offer"

"Think about bucket list, and he came up with travel to bit" he tries to reason Joseph's point.

"And by the way, where in South America?" Pedro questions.

"Don't fight, don't fight" pleads Joseph, the calm one. Fred just sits there, enjoying the chaos.

"I want, any, I want to do a big tour of everywhere" Mescal defends himself.

Pedro doesn't back down. "'Cause it's very different"

Paul starts to get angry too. Jesus, men. Competitive men of it all.

"I know it's very different" making an annoyed face.

"Well, different is nice" you intervene, a hand placing in Pedro's left shoulder. "If you stop giving points for free, I'll come with you to the big everywhere tour"

"Alright" Paul agrees. "When's my birthday?" is the next question.

"February" all of you say.

Joseph struggles with the date first, saying seventh, then fourth. Fred tries with ninth, Pedro with eight, and then Joseph starts counting from one to two. Fred counts from eleven to twelve.

"Second" Mescal reveals. "Point to Joseph"

"Oh my God, you guys are good" Connie mentions.

"That's all my questions" and it's time to move on the next one: which happens to be your dear husband, Pedro.

"Paul is like" he brings up while the toothpick dances on his teeth, "Paul is motivated to catch up on points. He's coming for you" to pick on his competitive side as Mescal looks deep in thought.

"He's coming. He's coming" Joseph repeats as Fred laughs.

"What is my full name?"

"Oh! Pedro-" Paul tries in a blink. "Something, J? Jose? Juan?"

"Pedro Pascal, something, something" says Joseph.

"Nope"

"No?"

"Pedro Maria, Jose Maria Pascal" Paul struggles.

Pedro is about to answer when your voice cuts through the air.

"It's José Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" you recite.

"It indeed is!" he says, smiling a bit too much. "She gets a point"

"Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal" your husband repeats in a more english-friendly pronunciation, looking at the camera while toying with his toothpick.

"I said Jose, I said Jose" Paul protests.

Pedro shakes his head. "You said Jose, but then you put it-"

Connie takes Paul's side. "You did say Jose"

"But then you put it behind Pedro which eliminate- which disqualified you" he replies.

Paul gets angry. That sore looser.

"That's absolute bullshit"

"Don't worry mate, the game has just begun" you joke, making the man more irritated. "Think you can get ahead of me?"

"Joseph is still ahead, y/n" Paul counters, still irritated. "Besides, wouldn't it be cheating? You can speak Spanish!"

"So? Not like speaking a language allows you to know every person's name Paul" you mock. He just snorts, despite still being half angry. Pedro is allowed to continue, trying not to make a face at yours and Paul's banter.

"The question is, who is my favorite actor?" he reads. As the cast members laugh, he uncaps the marker with his mouth, and now you have to try not to make a face, thinking about those teeth sinking into your flesh.

Quinn raises his hand. "It's me"

"That you're my favorite actor?"

"Yeah. You said that to me once" the bald man sounds sure of it.

Paul tries to think in the background. So do you. How can you not know this? he must've brought it up at least once.

"Do you remember?" Joseph insists.

Pedro finally remembers. "I said you were- I said I thought you were special"

"Oh" he sounds rather dissapointed.

"And special can mean a lot of things" he jokes, laughing by himself. Fred laughs with you as Joseph makes a face, your laughter turning even louder when you notice Paul all moody, trying to get this point.

"Who's your favorite actor?" Paul asks, "I think we just have to shoot from the hip here guys"

"Marlon Brando?" Connie guesses.

"Is it Harrison Ford?" Fred guesses.

"Let's go with Harrison Ford just because he's my favorite actor..."

You can't believe you didn't know this. You've re-watched and watched so many Star Wars content together. He gives you a brief look, knowing you're embarrased at your lack of answer.

"As a kid?"

"He's most influent, yeah" Pedro agrees.

"What job did I have before I became a full-time actor?" is next.

"Dancer. You were a great dancer" Paul aswers. Both Fred and Joseph repeat it, adding he was specifically a go-go dancer.

"Oh, he is" you add. "Videos of you dancing are lovely. Ever thought of getting back in the bussiness?"

He laughs, what appears to be a light blush creeping up his cheeks.

"Sure, darling. When you ask me to dance, I'll be there"

Nobody comments on this, too busy waiting for Pedro to say yes or no to the answer they believe to be right. But he isn't saying it is. Now you remember why.

"Come on, come on, come on" Paul begs.

"Can any of you guys remember?" Pedro pleads.

They insist that he danced in Spain, then New York, then settle with Spain again, even Pedro confirming so. But it still isn't the answer written on the card, no matter how much the boys insist.

"Connie?" he tries. She just looks confused.

"The answer in the card is-"

"Waiter" you answer. "You were a waiter"

Now you have three points under your belt.

"Why do you always say the answer at last?!" Paul grumbles. "You are cheating!"

"I'm not" you laugh the accusation off. "You just can't accept I'm better"

"Si que lo eres" Pedro agrees. "Es divertido hacer que se enoje Paul"

"What did you say about me? It's not fair, you're probably sharing the answers!" he's still adamant on insisting with the supposed cheating issue, making you laugh.

Now it's Connie's turn, who starts with: "How many languages do I speak?"

You put a puzzled look.

"You speak seven, eight maybe" Joseph guesses. Pauls says she speaks french, "but most likely seven"

Pedro points his finger at him. "Once he gets going, he's on a roll"

"Joe's got it" Connie agrees.

"Paul, end this reign" Pedro jokes. He looks rather frustrated.

"And the bonus points" Connie offers. "Okay, bonus, what are they?"

"This is an emperor's reign" your husband adds.

Joseph answers: Italian. Danish. English. Swedish. French. Spanish. Norwegian.

Connie agrees she speaks Spanish, making you jump in excitement.

"Oh, I didn't know that!" you beam. "Wait, does that mean you did get what Pedro and I gossiped about you?"

"What?" Joseph asks.

"Nada" you quickly correct yourself. "Yo no dije nada"

"Not that much. I just speak a bit of Spanish. I mostly dominate my own language, German and English"

"You blew our cover!" Pedro nags, hitting your bare leg, yet its devoid of anger.

"He needs a bonus" comments Connie, surprised at Joseph.

"This is horrifying" Pedro says when Joseph gets another point and a fricking bonus on top of that. "This is a slaughter"

"Oh, for which film did I have a gym built in my garage?"

Both Joseph and Paul answer the question correctly, saying Wonder Woman. The latter is quick to state they both get that point.

"That's one for me" Paul says, then looks at you. "And none for you"

You stick out your tongue at him as Connie reads the next card.

"If I were to take this cast on a vacation where would I take you?"

"Ibiza" answers Joseph. Connie agrees in Spanish, with a cute and excited correcto.

Your husband feels the need to crack a joke at Quinn's expense.

"Somebody was paying attention to Connie Nielsen very closely during the shooting of this movie"

"Okay. What is my favorite curse word in Danish?"

"Fuck" Pedro tries.

"No"

"Nobody is going to get that, Connie" Paul bickers.

"Oh, I don't know any Danish" you lament.

"At least now you know how it feels" Mescal drops, making you snort. You playfully kick him on the ribs with your shoe.

"It's very simple" Connie gives as a clue. "It's the same word in every language"

"Shit" Paul tries.

"Satan" she reveals.

Everybody is laughing in confusion at that, saying there's no way you could use that.

"Vos Satan!" Connie curses.

Now it's Fred's turn.

"What is my weirdest on-set habit?"

"I haven't noticed you do anything weird on set" Paul tells.

"I have" Pedro interrupts.

They all get on a small briefing about what could it possibly be, that it was weird, and wasn't part of his character, as you ponder. It was funny before, but now Paul is behind you by a point. So think fast.

"Yeah. I would say being yourself" Pedro jokes, but surprisingly, it works.

"Me! Five points for Pedro" he celebrates as you all laugh. "Love Fred. Oh, Fred"

"Oh, oh, okay" he moves to the next question. "What is my favorite reality TV show?"

Joseph tries with Survivor and Paul with Alone. Truth is, you don't watch any show of said kind, only vagely hearing about Love Island.

"You and I have talked about reality TV" Pedro reveals, "It's just that we never identified one"

They keep guessing shows that sound like a foreign language to you.

"You know what's offensive? That I'm the second youngest of this cast and I have no idea what are you all talking about"

"She's not to be trusted" Pascal quips, "can't trust someone who doesn't appreciate the art of reality TV"

You huff, annoyed.

"Is it A&E stuff?" Pedro asks.

"Yeah, it's the competitive cheapskates" Fred answers. "It's people that really save money on everything"

Pedro gets the point because he mentioned the A&E bit.

"There's like this amazing guy that made a stew out of fish bones, and I just thought it was incredible" he shares. Then, moves to the next question. "What is my go-to crafty snack?"

Nobody remembers eating snacks on set, and Fred gives the clue that it's a drink. Joseph says it's a smoothie, and he does remember it but it isn't the answser.

"I'm thinking of something specific. That Emerge-C that you put in the water"

"Oh, that's very good" you agree, so does the rest, even discussing the best colors

"Who in the cast would I ask to bail me out of jail?"

Everyone even Pedro agree its him. Everyone gets a point, yet Joseph remains ahead.

It's Joseph's turn. "What is my favorite sport?"

"Skateboarding" Paul is so quick to answer, earning him two points for both being correct and time.

"What celebrity do I get mistaken for?"

"Daisy Edgar-Jones sometimes" says Mescal. Of course he had to bring her up.

"No, she gets mistaken for me" Joseph jokes. "Yeah, poor Daisy. But I'm writing it down"

"That was the two letters?" Pedro notices. Still, no one gets it.

It's fucking Justin Timberlake. You'd never guess that.

"What is my favorite film franchise?"

You've probaly named all the existing franchises to no avail. You think fo your dad, a huge geek, trying to remember if there is one missing.

"Oh- Lord of the Rings!" you both answer with Paul at the same time.

"C'mon!" his celebration is short lived when he realizes you tied to him.

"What is my favorite British slang word?"

Pedro says it can't be said, but Quinn insists they can, even adding it's his favorite one too.

"We can say bad words? We can say-?" but the camera beeps over it.

The answer is Bellend. What even is that? Joseph feigns sadness and Pedro keeps apologizing, even as you sit on the chair.

"Okay. I'm last"you wiggle your eyebrows with interest. "Let's see. Okay, first question: what did I take from the Gladiator II set?"

"You took something?" Joseph asks on disbelief.

"Why wouldn't I take something?"

"Is it like an item or memorabilia?" asks Connie.

"It's an item" you uncap the marker, scribbling down the answer.

"It's a short word" Fred points out, but still can't provide a guess.

"You took the rings home" Pedro answers. You snap your had on his way, probably obvious. "What? You told me" he says.

Of course Paul complains. "Hey, that isn't fair! He knew the answer before!"

"Well, if you payed more attention to me, you'd know it"

Lies. Pedro knows because it's sitting in the jewelry box inside your house.

"See? I do pay attention" Pedro playfully hits Mescal.

"I could pay you more attention" he looks at you.

"Alright, then do. Ready? Next question: what is my go-to movie? Oh, this is a good one. I'm always changing it, but most of the time I end up choosing the same one"

They all give you a puzzled look as you scribble.

"C'mon, guys! I've said it on interviews before too. Paul?" the man shrugs. "Thought you said you'd pay me more attention. Heads up, you're doing a terrible job so far!"

"Hey!" he protests. "It's not fair if the answer's changing. Give us a clue"

"You didn't give any clues to yours!" you giggle. "Besides, I don't want you to win"

"Hey, that's against the rules!"

"I'd say it depends on the season" Pedro speaks up. You quirk an eyebrow. "Like, if it's changing, I don't think your Christmas go-to movie is the same as your summer one"

"Actually" you smile fondly, "that is true. On summer, it's Mamma Mia. So I suppose, if you can't guess the one, that'll do"

"No" he smiles, cheeky. "I know it too"

"Yeah?" you challenge, "what is it, then?"

"It's Thelma and Louise" he answers, and your heart beats fast.

"How do you know?" Paul inquires. "Somebody was paying attention to Y/n L/n very closely during the shooting of this movie"

Ah, his joke from earlier. Joseph giggles behind him. Karma, he supposes.

"She said it on an interview, guys. C'mon, learn your sources!"

"Okay" you clear your throat. "What movie got me into acting?"

"Thelma and Louise" Joseph tries.

"No" you laugh, "you're just recycling the answer"

"Is it an old or modern movie?" Connie asks.

"Hmh, old" you pause, "just not... I don't know if you'll ever guess it"

"Is it a Pedro Almodóvar film?" you shake your head. "What? You're always mentioning him!"

Pedro looks into your eyes amid the others' discussion, and you can tell he remembers the conversation.

"There isn't one"

You smile, chest pounding at his soft tone.

"That's correct"

"A trick question?!" Paul yells. "I quit"

"When there's just one left?" you tease.

"Yes, because you've been hiding it all the time but no more" he counters, pointing both you and Pedro. You feel the space getting smaller, breaths going from even to noticeable. "You are sharing answers"

You try to make your breath of relief pass as a chuckle.

"I'm not even gonna win, relax. And drop the charges, please. Loose like a man"

"You didn't explain it though" Connie speaks. "What did Pedro mean?"

"While I have many movies that are inspiration to me, they aren't the reason I chose this path. I did it because I saw an Oscar's ceremony when I was 11" you explain fondly, feeling warm at the memories. "I still remember when they handed the award to Diablo Cody for best original screenplay. I don't know, man, it moved me. What it meant for young artists who came from nothing. I guess I wanted, one day, to be the one standing there, for other dreamers to see it's possible"

"Wow, that's beautiful" Connie says.

"Thank you" you get flustered. "Suppose it was worth it, you know, to do interviews about not really knowing my cast mates" and laugh.

"How does Pedro know, though?" Joseph asks.

"We talk a lot" you clear your throat. "Last one: what indie horror movie did I make a small appearence in? I'm feeling generous because it's the last so I'll give you a clue. It's a Stephen King adaptation"

Paul is the first to speak. "You where in a-"

"Yeah but it wasn't such a huge role. Don't make yourself any ideas"

"I have no idea" Connie surrenders. "Other clue, as in how many words?"

"It doesn't even have any words" you laugh. "You give up? It's 1922. Was an extra as well. Made me think Netflix had my name highlighted in the extra call sheet, because I did so many minor and background roles during that year. Grateful, though, because now I get to be Rome's empress and not fortune teller or highschool #6"

The interview ends, and the camera may or may have not captured the last seconds, Pedro's gaze fixated with you the entire time.

elysyannemimi: we all saw that right? GET PEDRO AND Y/N IN A ROMCOM ❗THEIR CHEMISTRY IS INSANE❗ at0michips: love paul and y/n so much 😭😭 gimme enemies to lovers RN ㅤㅤbobgirllll: at0michips wait what if paul and y/n are secretly dating 😳 ㅤㅤann-gell: bobgirllll quick question are u dumb unhing3dprincess: i bet my grandma they're married. it has to be. trust me ㅤㅤstarlightt180: unhing3dprincess BESTIE U ARE BACK

You arrived in London today. The premiere will be in a few days, and things have been, well, hectic.

Lux couldn't stop talking all the plane ride, but your mind kept going back at the email your manager had sent you before you had boarded the plane.

It's catching upon you, read the haunting message. Attached below, a TMZ article that claimed a regular church attendee had seen you both getting married. It also used a lot of the noise fans had been making on social media, connecting dots or just hyping up the undeniable chemistry. It ended with a little paragraph saying it was obvios, and they're just hoping you'd confirmed it.

You came to realize you didn't care about it anymore. Sure, the pushing around annoyed you, but the thought of still keeping your marriage under wraps feels pointless now. Why wouldn't you shout to the world how in love with your husband you are?

Yet, when you arrive at the hotel, you keep the same protocol of arriving after Pedro, who has already checked in with two keys, claiming its for him and his sister, while you ask for the key to Lux's actual room. After you swipe cards with her, you head over the room you'd be sharing with your husband.

His face appears in your frame, everything happening quickly.

"Get inside. Now"

Your body is dragged inside the hotel room, not even giving you time to swipe the key for yourself.

"Pedro!" you exclaim, between surprised and confused. "What the hell is your problem?"

"Did you read it?"

"What? The article?" your tone is filled with annoyance. "Yes, I did. Why?"

"What do you mean why?" he snaps, voice raising higher. "Don't play dumb with me. You know fans have fuelled the rumors, and tabloids have started digging every corner in fucking California"

"So, what? You're acting as if people finding out is the worst thing in the world" you roll your eyes.

"It is, yes!" Pedro bursts out, caving in to the stress.

It feels like you've been hit across your face.

"Excuse me?" you seethe, hurt etched all across your features. "Would it be the worst thing in the world to admit you're married to the person you supposedly love the most?"

"I love you, y/n. It's just-"

His voice softens, trying to reach for you, yet you pull back, his hand falling to his side in an akward manner. He sighs in frustration, running a hand through his hair as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"I love you" he repeats, sounding much more sure this time.

Your frame seems smaller as your voice comes out hoarse, filled with emotion, appearing to be in the brink of tears:

"Then why do you act like you're embarrassed of me?"

He hates himself for making you feel this way, making you think things that aren't true.

"I don't. Never" he emphasizes. Then, tries to reach once again when you move a little bit closer to him, recognizing that's your way of letting him know you're ready. "You're the most precious thing in the world to me, don't ever think the opposite" then he sighs, heavy. "I'm just scared"

You silently ask him to explain, rubbing his thumb soothingly across his tattoo.

"You're so young, and I'm, well- I know we're aware of it, but people are cruel and the press is ruthless. I don't want to see your name dragged across the mud because you decided to marry me. Your career is starting, and I'd never forgive myself is something happened to you because of me. Not trying to make this about me, yeah? But this industry is fucked up. You've work hard to get to where you are, and it'll be unfair if you'd loose it. I'm scared because us..." he wavers, words trailing off. "I want us to be. I wouldn't want to live in a world without you, i-it would kill me not to have you be my wife"

You desperately want to kiss off the worry on his face, but let him finish.

"N-not saying our love is weak, or anything! That a couple of opinions or tabloids will- you know? Just, I-I don't want them to break us apart. Mi vida, you're the light of my life. Please, forgive me, I-"

He feels his throat closing up, words failing to come out. You sense the grip on your hand to be stronger, immediately letting loose of it.

"Hey. C'mere" your voice is tender, allowing him to bury his face in your stomach as you comb his messy curls with your fingers. "It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere"

He lets himself melt under your touch, his mind loosing itself in the soft of your digits and your perfume up his nostrils. He's again breathing normaly, hands now hugging your waist.

"There you go. Better?" Pedro nods, still not being able to talk. "That's okay, take all the time you need. We have all day"

"Do we?" he raises his view, his eyes soft yet there is something else to the brown shade.

You hum as to nod. "We agreed to join Lux for dinner. It's barely 1pm"

"Tell me you're thinking it too" his voice cuts throughout the air, boucing off the tapestry on the walls.

You laugh, nervously. "I don't think I do"

"Hmmh, I see" he stands up, towering over you. "You sure you don't?"

"You sure you want this?"

Before you know it, his lips capture yours in a passionate kiss, cutting off all words to be said. What a waste of air, anyway. You are quick to reciprocate, whimpering against his lips.

Pedro picks you up like you're as light as a feather, his arms flexing as he carries you and places you on the bed, frame hovering over yours. He breaks the kiss to breath, but you're pulling him back in, his hold on your hips tighter and the wet spot in your panties wetter.

"Look at you, pretty baby. So needy" he whispers against your face, hot breath lingering above your lips. "And mine. Mía. Only mine"

"I am, yes. Yours only. Need you so bad right now, papi" you answer in a rush. "Now shut up and fuck me"

"Con gusto" he chuckles darkly, "gotta keep the wife happy"

"Happy wife, happy life" you recite, stripping him off of his plain shirt, revealing his toned torso, bulging biceps defined by the movements. You gulp. "Fuck, papi. Gotta thank Marvel for this. I love all of your versions, but I can work with this too" you dreamily stare at him, your hands cupping his face.

He strips the rest of his clothing, but a cute blush adorns his cheeks.

"Yeah, well, it's Scott's fault too"

Your impatient fingers reach the middle of your panties to rub your clothed pussy, letting out a sound that darkens his hazel orbs.

"Fuck that guy" you mutter. Pedro laughs.

"Thought you said you loved the guy"

"Until I learned what he said about your body" you groan, still rubbing. "Connie told me"

His hands now travel to remove your clothes, almost ripping them off.

"Who cares? I just want to fuck you now" he breathes out, practically drooling at the sight of your damp panties. "Lemme take this off too"

He unhooks your bra, seeing the hard nipples. The urge to lick them is so bad, but his desire to fill you silly to the brim is stronger.

You see his hesitation, which is why you grab him by the neck to pull him in for a kiss. He kisses back fiercely, labored breaths as he struggles to focus on your lips, his wet mouth darting to your jaw, neck and collarbones. His hands roam all over your body, needy.

"Gotta be inside of you, mami. Can't wait any longer"

"Then stop waiting" you plead, tugging at his boxers with urgency.

Seeing you so cockhungry, lips parted and pupils blown wide makes his hard dick twitch with anticipation.

He mutters a labored fuck, aligning himself to enter your sticky folds. Pedro enters your tight pussy with a low groan, burying himself deep inside of you, used to his length by now. You're basically begging for it, nails digging and eyes supplicating.

He can't deny you anything, can he?

A messy whine leaves your widened mouth as you adjust, pleasure mixed with pain.

"Mhmm" you moan.

"Mhmm what?" he mocks. "You asked for it. Now take it, cariño"

He thrusts deeper into you, watching in awe how his dick enters your pussy; it was always perfectly, your pussy made for him.

"You're drippin' baby" his rough voice caresses your cheek. He kisses the are, giving a lick to the sweat starting to form. "S'fucking tight too"

You move your hips towards him, trying to augment the friction. The overstimulation starts to cloud your sense, reducing you to a whiny mess as you grip his steady arms.

"I can't think of anything but you, baby" he confesses between grunts, "filling up your pussy to the brim, you dripping with my seed for days"

You moan at the filthy words.

"Love how you take my dick, amor" stretching you as Pedro moves in and out. "S'made for me"

"Yes" you moan, skin slapping sounds bouncing off the walls. "Fuck, I love your dick..."

His pace picks up, and it comes to a point where he's just fucking you silly, his grip on your hips surely to leave a bruise as you keep spilling obscene sounds of pleasure from your lips.

"Your pussy's mine, yeah? No one else gets to have you like this"

"N-no, just you, Pedro. My h-husband" you manage to squeeze, more moans vocalizing the pleasure you felt with each thrust, his big dick inside of you moving in a a steady rhythm, making your eyes roll back further and orgasm closer.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, and he finds impossible to resist the urge anymore, licking the sensible skin and hard nipples, your hands moving to his back, scratching him harshly, both chasing your release.

"Please!" you whine out loud, not caring how desperate you sound.

Harder. Faster. Rougher.

But your husband knows you, so he indeed starts to fuck you harder, heavy breaths and slippy kiss noises hanging in the spaces between each thrusts. He pants with every motion of his dick, a knot forming on his belly.

"Shit, baby. I think I'm gonna cum. Gonna come so hard"

"Do it. I'm on birth control, remember?" you groan, feeling your high approach as well. "Fill me up, please. Give me all your cum"

Your bodies move as one, precise thrusts hitting exactly that sweet spot of yours repeatedly, chasing your orgasm. For a brief moment, your eyes lock with his and then he's saying:

"I love you, y/n. So much"

Your heart skips a bit, his dick twitching inside as his gaze glimmers with adoration and possesiveness, teeth grazing your skin with marks for him to call you his.

"I love you too, Pedro. More than you know"

A final thrust is delivered. Fuck, feels so good you think you hear him say. Just like promised, he fills you with his release, shots of his thick, warm cum inside your sticky walls. You follow soon, back arching, toes curling, and both head and eyes rolling back. Pedro falls on top of you, his broad body collapsing over yours, as you both pant hard, trying to steady your pulse and breath. He then removes himself and positions you to be the one on top now, lazily throwing the covers over your bare bodies. We need to shower, you said, but he argued you'd do it later before going out.

"I needed that" and you happily hum in agreement at your husband's dragged out words.

Your head falls and rises, with the movement of his chest, silence settling on the previously filled with sex noises room. That until he speaks up:

"One day, I'm gonna fill you up so good until you have my babies, mami" he murmurs, just then realizing what he said. But you snuggle closer, hand and legs drapped over his bare body. You look at him closely, seeing nothing but certainty on his eyes.

I choose you. I'll always choose you.

"Whatever it is with you" your nose brushes his, a small sweet kiss on his lips, "I want"

His eyes shine, probably with tears or the glow of affection.

"Let's do it"

"What?" you look into his eyes for any sign of doubt, bull all you see is love. "Pedro, are you serious?"

He nods. "Wouldn't you want that?"

You feel the corner of your lips pull up.

"Never have I wanted anything more"

poppysplayground: Y/N AND PEDRO RED CARPET DEBUT AT THE LONDON PREMIER OF GLADIATOR II WTF I JUST WOKE UP ptwt is in SHAMBLES mostannoyingbillioner: UM HELLO pedro showing up with two hot women on his arms LUX GIMME A CHANCE pompeiianbollockr: WAIT WDYM THEY ARE MARRIED?!??! ALL THIS TIME?@?#? HOW???! NEED BIGGER CAPS TO SCREAM I'M GOING INSANE at0michips: that article better come out now or i'll burn the TMZ building ann-gell: not me thirsting for a married man 😭😭😭 how they kept this a secret for so long?? we should've noticed ㅤㅤunhing3dprincess: ann-gell i did. knew betting my grandma was the way all along ㅤㅤpyramiidsf: i'm gonna start betting my grandma too

cr: divider @kodaswrld / gif @trashcora

[irb-pascalito-99]

Father Figure

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader (no outbreak AU)

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3k

Content Warnings: smut, dbf!Joel, lap sitting, soft!Joel, praise kink

Summary: When your college boyfriend breaks up with you a month after you graduate who is there to comfort you but your dad’s best friend, Joel Miller.

A/N: Writing is how I’m coping with the new season of TLOU. This one might be a one off, or maybe more I haven’t decided yet.

The small gravel stones of your dad’s driveway dig into your feet as you run barefoot out the front door in a desperate attempt to follow after your boyfriend. Three years you’ve been together. Three years, most of your college life, just for him to show up at your childhood home a month after you graduate to break your heart.

“So that’s just it? You’re fucking leaving?” You yell after him as he gets in his car. He doesn’t respond, or even look at you, while he hurriedly starts the engine. He nearly peels out of the driveway in an attempt to speed away, but not before you hurl one more insult in his direction. “Fuck you and your fuck ass car!”

You throw a rock at the car, but given the tiny size of the object it does nothing more than cling against the metal of his vehicle. He disappears into the night, leaving you standing in your driveway crying your eyes out.

Your whole body shakes as you sob. You allow your body to crumple to the ground. The rocks that were digging into your feet now scrape against your legs and hands. You aren’t sure how long you are out there before a familiar southern drawl calls your name. You glance in the direction of the voice to find none other than your father’s next door neighbor Joel Miller, watching you from the edge of his front porch.

Joel and his daughter Sarah moved into the house next to your dad the summer before you left for college. Both of them were single dads, your mother having left when you were too little to remember, and shared similar interests. It didn’t take long for Joel to become your father’s new best friend, even though Joel was nearly 15 years younger than him. Especially considering how lonely he’d been after you moved away to school.

Whenever you came back to visit it was inevitable you’d be spending time with Joel and Sarah. The two were invited to holiday dinners, barbecues, football games, pool parties. You didn’t mind though, you were glad to see your dad had someone to spend time with when you weren’t around. Sarah was a sweet kid, and looked up to you so much, and her father was always kind. It helped that he wasn’t bad to look at, but now he was looking down upon your pathetic state.

You considered what you must look like right now. It must be concerning, if not purely insane. You can feel the way the tears soak your cheeks, little droplets dripping off the edge of your jaw. Chunks of your hair came loose from the bun you had thrown it in earlier and now flew around your face, sticking out every which way. You’re sitting on the ground wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and sleep shorts, which are doing nothing to protect your skin from the cold winter air. How long have you been out here?

Joel is standing next to you now. He crouches down to your level and takes your face in his hands, his warm calloused hands. His eyes survey your face, his thumbs rubbing circles over your cheeks.

“You okay sweetheart?” Joel asks, even though he can see you very much are not okay.

You try to catch your breath. You take your trembling lip between your teeth in an attempt to pull yourself together. You nod, but you aren’t even able to finish the action before another sob wracks your body.

“Oh darlin’, come here.” You let Joel wrap you in his arms while you continue to sob into his chest. His t-shirt is balled up between your fists and you’re certain your tears are soaking into the material, but Joel just holds you while you cry. One of his hands rubs circles between your shoulder blades while the other rubs along your arm. His fingers brush the goosebumps that have begun to form there. “You’re freezing. C’mon why don’t you come inside. I’ll get you something warm to drink.”

You allow Joel to pull you to your feet. He directs you over to his house, and you numbly follow. The inside of his house is warm. Joel has you sit at one of the chairs surrounding his kitchen table while he puts some water on to boil.

“Sarah?” You ask.

“At a friend’s house for the night.” Joel says in explanation. You nod, though his back is still to you, and start to take in your surroundings.

You’ve been in Joel’s house a couple of times now, but you haven’t spent much time looking around. Pictures of Joel and Sarah are positioned all around the house. The fridge in the kitchen holds up several drawings you’re assuming Sarah did. Your eyes are focused on a picture of Joel, Sarah, and another man with curly black hair. He looks similar to Joel, so you would probably guess that they’re related somehow though you haven’t seen the man from the picture around.

“That’s my brother, Tommy.” Joel says, following your gaze to the picture on the wall. He sits down in a chair next to you as he places a mug on the table in front of you. “He lives in Wyoming now with his wife and son.”

You grab the mug he set down, and hiss a breath through your gritted teeth when your palms sting under the heat of the ceramic. Joel quickly grabs the mug out of your hands and places it back on the table. He turns your hand in his to look at your palm.

“Jesus,” Embedded in the heels of your hands are several small pieces of gravel, some of them deep enough to actually draw blood. Upon further inspection your knees and chins are even worse for the wear. How hard did you fall to the ground to cause such injury? “Give me a second.”

Joel hurries away up the stairs. You attempt to pick some of the gravel out of your hands yourself, the embarrassment of it all finally washing over you.

You are not this girl. You are not a girl who cries in her driveway over a boy. Did you even love him? You thought you did. You told him so at least. You spent three years of your life with him. You planned on moving in together when he graduated in the spring. But now that he left you can’t help but wonder if you’re sad about losing him or just angry about what he had said to you.

Joel returns with antiseptic, bandages, and a pair of tweezers. He arranges the items on the table before he sits down across from you again and begins carefully picking the gravel out of your skin. He does his best to be gentle but it still stings a bit.

“You fighting with your boyfriend?” Joel asks while he starts working on your knees. His thumbs splay across the bare skin of your thighs.

You realize you’ve never been this close to him. You don’t think you’ve ever even touched him aside from shaking his hand before tonight. Now you can feel the warmth of his skin against yours. You soak in the scent of him— the combination of cedar, whiskey, and something soft. There’s a stirring in your stomach when you feel the strength of his hands on your thighs, a fluttering of nerves but something more intense as well. He says your name, snapping you out of your thoughts and causing a blush to creep across your cheeks.

“You okay?” He asks. You bite your lip and nod, doing your best to pretend you weren’t just thinking about the way his hands would feel on other parts of your body.

“Yeah I’m fine. I’ll be okay.” You say, faking a smile. Joel raises his eyebrow at you, silently communicating to you that he doesn’t buy it. You sigh and let the smile fall from your face. You’re too exhausted to keep up the act anyway. “We broke up. He broke up with me.”

You feel the tears trying to force their way back up again and aren’t able to say anything else. Joel simply shakes his head in return.

“Idiot.” He mutters as he cleans your knees with the antiseptic. You let out a half hearted chuckle at his reaction. “I’m serious, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

You shrug. The truth is your boyfriend, or rather ex-boyfriend now, had a point when he told you earlier it seemed like you didn’t have any ambitions. You were never really passionate about your degree in business. It just seemed like a good option to make decent money later, but now that you graduated what do you have to show for it? You’re living at home with your dad. You have no idea what you’re going to do next. All of your friends are still up at school finishing their degrees. Soon they will be moving across the country to start internships, and here you are floating through life aimlessly.

“Hey,” Joel whispers. His thumb brushes along your jaw. You fight the urge to shiver as his eyes stare deep into your own. “I mean it. You’re a beautiful girl, you’re smart, you were way out of his league. You’ll land on your feet.”

You smile back at him, and this time it’s genuine. His fingers squeeze your jaw lightly before moving back to putting bandages on your knees.

“What about you?” You ask when he finally sits back down across from you.

“Pretty sure you’re out of my league too,” Joel jokes. He finally takes a sip from the mug of coffee he brought for himself, which is certainly cold by now.

“No,” you laugh. “I mean you’re attractive. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re good with your hands. Why don’t you have someone?”

“Just haven’t found the right person I guess.” Joel shrugs, though he seems more tense than before. ”I haven’t really dated anyone since Sarah’s mom.”

You vaguely remember your dad telling you about Sarah’s mom. She left when Sarah was little, much like your mom did with you. Unlike your dad, who has no concerns about sharing how much he despises the woman who left you, Joel doesn’t ever really talk about his ex. Sarah hasn’t really mentioned her either, though you’re not sure how much she would really have to talk about anyway. You certainly don’t have any memories of your own mother.

“What, you’ve never been interested in anyone? Sarah’s what, eleven now?” You chide.

“She’s nearly thirteen, and no. I never said I wasn’t interested in anyone, just that I haven’t acted on it.” Joel stares down at the table

You might be imagining it, but it feels as though there’s a tension in the air. The stirring in your stomach grows. You know it’s a stupid idea. It’s been a long night. Joel is double your age, and your father’s best friend, but you’re feeling vulnerable and something about the way he’s refusing to make eye contact with you after the conversation you were having lowers your inhibitions.

Without thinking about what you’re doing, or the repercussions you could face, you get out of your chair and stand in front of Joel’s. He drops his hands to his sides and looks up at your figure, his lips pursed in a question before you lower yourself onto his lap.

“What’re you-“ Joel’s hand quickly grabs the small of your back as you slowly move your hips forward until your chest presses against his. His bulge is aligned with your center now. Any concerns you had about reading the situation wrong instantly leave your mind when you feel his length start to harden beneath you. “Your dad…”

“Is working late.” Your breath fans against his lips. ”It’s just us.”

Joel’s eyes are wide and focused on yours as he attempts to find an argument for why this can’t happen. There are so many reasons, but he can’t seem to mention one or think at all for that matter. He only murmurs your name in warning.

“Please Joel,” you whisper. “Help me forget.”

You circle your hips slowly over his again. His entire body jolts when you do. He shakes his head and moves further back on his chair, but you follow his body with your own.

“We can’t,” he says quietly, but his eyes are fixed on the way your body moves against his.

He could easily stop this. He could push you off. He could stand up and walk away, but he doesn’t. He seems transfixed on the way your body molds into his.

“Nobody has to know Joel.” You feel yourself leaking all over him as you press yourself into him again. His hands move from your back to your hips while he watches your wetness seep into the fabric of his sweatpants. “Please, I want you.”

“Darlin’,” Joel rasps beneath you. His hands squeeze your hips tightly as you continue to grind your clothed core against him. “Darlin’, this isn’t- Fuck- It isn’t right.”

Despite his words Joel doesn’t do anything to stop your actions. He simply drops his forehead to your collarbone and lets out a long groan. You whimper at the sound of his desperation and the feeling of his breath fanning across the top of your breasts.

You need him. All of him. You know the situation is precarious. He’d stop you immediately if you took it any further than this. You fear even lowering your shirt may snap him out of the pleasure filled haze you find yourselves in, but you need more, so you speed up your movements and bear down on him harder which seems to snap any remaining resolve he had.

“Fuck, fuck it. God fuckin’,” Joel groans. His hands dip lower until his fingers dig into your ass. You grip his shoulders as if they are the only thing grounding you to the earth, and you think maybe they might be. “God damnit baby, that’s good.”

You shudder under his touch, allowing him to push and pull your body against his. Your hands leave his shoulders to travel up his neck. You plant your fingers in the greying curls in the back of his head.

He lifts his head from your collarbone to press his lips delicately on the side of your neck. You cry out when you feel him suck your skin into his mouth and then gently nip at it with his teeth.

“C’mon baby,” Joel moans against your skin. “That’s it, be a good girl for me.”

Your cunt throbs at the words. Be a good girl for me. Yes please, anything he wanted. Anything he ever wants is his.

Your climax builds quickly while he continues to guide you across his lap. You don’t think you’ve ever had it this good, certainly not with your loser boyfriend. Most nights he couldn’t make you come at all and now here you were, in the lap of your father’s best friend on the brink of orgasm without even taking off one piece of clothing. You’re starting to think that asshole breaking up with you might be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Joel must sense how close you are because he grips you tighter and bucks his hips up into you, rutting his clothed cock against your pulsating clit.

“Joel,” you whimper. “Joel please.”

“I got you baby. I got you.” He breathes into your ear. You shake uncontrollably in his grasp as he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth. “Come for me sweet girl. Come all over my lap. Show me how good I make you feel.”

His encouragement is the last thing you need to push you over the edge. You scream out as your walls clench around nothing and pull at his hair. Your body twitches in his grasp but he continues to push and pull you against his throbbing cock. He keeps the motion steady, extending your climax for as long as possible until you collapse into his arms.

“Good fucking girl,” he hums against the top of your head. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face with one hand while the other rubs soothing circles on your lower back. “Did so good for me sweetheart. So good.”

When you finally return to your body you can feel the insistent pressure of Joel’s hard on pressing into you. You reach your hand down to grip his length and slowly lower yourself to the floor. Joel gulps while he watches with dark eyes. You run your finger along the outline of his dick, licking your lips at the sight of his impressive size.

There’s a dark spot soaked into the material of his sweatpants where you just came on top of him, evidence of how good he just made you feel. Now you’re going to get to make him feel just as good. You reach your hand up to the waistband of his sweats, ready to pull them down his thighs when you’re interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up to your abandoned house.

“Fuck, your dad is home. Get up!” Joel says through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine,” you whisper. “He’ll probably just think I’m asleep.”

Joel pulls you to your feet despite the way you whine his name. Joel stands up and puts distance between the two of you.

“You should go home.” He says.

You want to tell him no. You want to pull him back into the chair and feel him inside your mouth. You want to hear his groans as he releases on your tongue, but you know it’s no use. Joel stands behind the kitchen island now, putting a whole room between the two of you. Just as quickly as it started, the moment is over. The exhaustion from earlier crashes over you again.

“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Goodnight.”

You hear him lock the door behind you as you walk back across the grass to your house.

[joelsrose]

Feels Right (Part 2)

warninnggssss omg stepdad!joel smut - this is not everyones cup of tea so pls pls be warned also as always 18+ for smut, otherwise to the of age freaks pls enjoyy hehhehe

TW: pls pls pls be warned !!!! this is dirty as fuck !!! stepdad!Joel | peepaw-coded filth | age gap (legal but still unwell) | power imbalance | gaslighting (loving) |manipulation (oop)| face-riding | oral - female receiving | daddy kink (like a huge one) | infidelity | overstim...

Part 1 here

You woke in your childhood bed with the morning light slanting through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room like it hadn’t witnessed sin just hours before, like everything was still innocent and untouched—but the moment your thighs shifted beneath the sheets, the truth came flooding back, thick and hot and humiliating in the most delicious way. The slickness clinging to your skin, the soaked-through panties that had dried against you uncomfortably, the faint ache between your legs—it wasn’t a dream.

Joel had been there. He’d sat at the foot of your bed, legs spread, hands clasped between them like he was just resting after a long day, but there had been nothing casual about the way he looked at you, nothing accidental in the way his voice dropped low and coaxing, rough as gravel and honeyed with want. He hadn’t stumbled into anything, hadn’t walked in by mistake or tried to back out—no, he’d stayed, eyes dark and heavy, and whispered things that made your body move before your brain could catch up. “Go on, sweetheart,” he’d said, voice all soft encouragement and something unspoken underneath, “Don’t gotta be shy. Not with me. Show me how you do it when you think no one’s listenin’.”

And God help you, you had.

Your hand had slipped between your thighs with a trembling boldness, fingers slicking through your folds as Joel watched, never blinking, never flinching, like he’d been waiting his whole life to see you like that—open, needy, and doing exactly what he told you to. And when you’d come—legs shaking, breath caught in your throat, your stepfather murmuring “that’s it, that’s my girl” like it meant something—you hadn’t even thought to be ashamed.

You wanted him to see. You wanted to be good for him. You wanted more.

And now, in the stillness of morning, wrapped in the scent of your own arousal and the ghost of his voice in your ear, you knew exactly what had happened—and worse, you knew it wasn’t the end.

You checked your phone with trembling fingers, the screen lighting up with a simple message from your mother—“Gone to the shops. Back soon x”

You padded down the stairs slowly, barefoot and quiet, every creak of the wood beneath your feet sounding deafening in the silence. You didn’t know what you were hoping for—maybe that he’d gone with her like he always did, like he should’ve, and this whole thing could stay where it belonged, suspended in the fog of last night. You could pretend he hadn’t watched you touch yourself in the bed where you used to fall asleep clutching stuffed animals, pretend he hadn’t sat there in the shadows with his big hands gripping the edge of the mattress like he was fighting off a goddamn primal urge, coaxing you through it like a man on the edge of something permanent and wrong.

But the minute you reached the bottom of the stairs, you knew.

You rounded the corner cautiously, the hem of your cotton shorts brushing against your thighs, heart thudding like a secret against your ribs, and there he was—Joel—sitting on the edge of the worn leather couch like nothing had happened, one ankle crossed over the other, newspaper draped casually across his lap, a half-drunk mug of coffee in his hand, steam curling lazily into the morning air. The television was on, low and distant, casting muted flashes of color across the lines of his face, but he wasn’t watching it—not really. He was still, thoughtful, his eyes scanning the page with that quiet, deliberate focus you’d always associated with him, like the world couldn’t rush him if it tried.

You were about to retreat, feet moving in silent panic, the urge to flee crawling up your spine like something instinctual and animal—because how the hell were you supposed to look him in the eye after what you’d done, after what he’d said, after the way your body had arched for him like it was his to command? But before you could slip away, his voice rang out, smooth and low, laced with something unreadable.

“Good mornin’,” he said, not lifting his head, just glancing up at you from over the rim of his glasses with those tired, dark eyes that always saw more than they should, always made you feel like you were stripped bare even when fully clothed. He took a slow sip of his coffee, never breaking eye contact, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly as he swallowed and set the mug down on the side table with a soft clink, the sound delicate and final, like punctuation to a thought he hadn’t said out loud.

Your breath caught, caught hard, because there was nothing casual in the way he looked at you—not with that slow, lingering gaze that flicked down to your bare legs and then back up again, nothing rushed, nothing hidden. He didn’t smile. He didn’t smirk. He just watched, like he was waiting to see what you’d do now, standing in front of him in your little top and sleep-rumpled hair, trembling under the weight of everything that had passed between you in the dark.

And all you could do was stare back, throat dry, knees unsteady, wondering how the hell you were supposed to survive being in the same room with him—when every part of your body remembered what it felt like to come apart just from the sound of his voice.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, your fingers curling around the hem of your shirt like it might anchor you, like it could hide the fact that your entire body was thrumming with something hot and guilty and unspeakably alive. “Hi—good morning,” you managed, your voice a little too light, a little too breathy. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, cheeks warm, eyes flicking anywhere but his—until they landed on his coffee mug, the newspaper, the soft flicker of the TV, the utterly normalcy of it all, which only made the heat in your belly twist harder.

“I thought you went to the shops,” you said, quieter now, like maybe if you kept your voice soft enough, he wouldn’t hear the way your heart was pounding, wouldn’t notice the nervous tremble in your fingers or the shameful press of your thighs beneath your cotton shorts. Your words hovered in the space between you, light as dust, but the weight of them was unbearable, full of everything unspoken—you shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t want you, we shouldn’t have crossed that line, but we did, didn’t we?

Joel’s eyes never left you. He leaned back slowly against the couch, the leather groaning under his weight, one arm draping over the backrest like he had all the time in the world, like he knew exactly what you were thinking and was content to let you squirm in the silence. His glasses slid a little lower down the bridge of his nose, and he looked at you over the rim with that same unreadable gaze, calm and steady and devastatingly male.

“Didn’t feel like goin’,” he said finally, voice low and warm, rough like gravel softened by honey. “Figured your mama’d be fine on her own.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world—only made your stomach drop, because it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t normal. Nothing about this morning was.

“Christ, darlin’,” he murmured, setting his mug aside with a quiet clink that felt far too loud in the stillness between you, his voice cutting through the room with that deep, familiar drawl that always felt like it came from somewhere lower than his chest, like it was carved out of something older, heavier, more dangerous. He tilted his head just enough to look at you fully, brows drawn slightly in concern—or maybe curiosity—his gaze sweeping over you in that slow, deliberate way of his, the kind that always made your skin heat and your breath catch even when he didn’t say a word. “You’re lookin’ at me like you’re scared of me.”

You swallowed hard, the knot in your throat tightening as you shifted in place, arms crossed like a weak shield, but your voice—though soft—held no hesitation. “I’m not scared,” you murmured, eyes flicking up to meet his, wide and steady, even if your pulse was doing somersaults under your skin. And it was true—you weren’t scared. You were wired, rattling with nerves and guilt and something molten that pooled low in your belly, but you weren’t afraid. Not of him.

Joel watched you for a moment longer, something unreadable flashing behind those tired eyes of his, and then he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders melting just a fraction. “Good,” he said, and the word came out more like a rumble, warm and rough like it had to scrape its way out of him. He folded the newspaper in half with careful fingers, set it down beside him, and leaned back in the couch like he owned the whole room, legs spread just slightly, one hand resting across his thigh, the other reaching out—beckoning, calling, commanding—with the faintest curl of his fingers.

“C’mere.”

Simple. Low. Quiet. And yet it landed like a thunderclap in your chest.

Your breath stuttered, and for a second, you didn’t move—not because you were unsure, but because you could feel the weight of the moment shift, like the floor had tilted beneath you.

He noticed your hesitation, of course he did—he noticed everything—and like he always did, Joel leaned forward with the kind of slow, deliberate ease that made the room feel smaller, hotter, heavier with something unspoken, his elbows resting on his knees as his voice dipped into that low, husky register that always managed to melt your spine. “Come on, babygirl,” he hummed, the nickname thick with heat and affection, a gentle tease soaked in sin, his mouth curling just slightly as he let the words stretch slow and lazy in his throat, “don’t make me beg.”

And God, how did he say things like that—so casual, so sweet, so devastating—like he didn’t know what it did to you, like he didn’t already have you falling apart with just a look?

You walked toward him then, your legs stiff and uncertain, your breath shallow, like every step toward that couch was pulling you deeper into some dream you weren’t sure how to wake from. You felt like a deer stumbling through tall grass—skittish, wide-eyed, clumsy in your own skin—and it wasn’t who you were. You weren’t some blushing, nervous little thing who forgot how to speak around men, but around Joel, everything in your brain went soft and slow, turned to syrup and static, like nothing else mattered except the space between you and the heat in his eyes.

When you finally reached him and stopped, unsure and awkward with your arms crossed protectively in front of your chest, Joel looked up at you like he was taking in a sunrise—like he had all the time in the world to just sit there and look at you—and you felt your breath catch all over again. His face, weathered and beautiful, every line carved with time and experience, his deep brown eyes impossibly warm, a shade that always made your knees weak, and that beard, thick and soft and shadowing the hard line of his jaw—he was so handsome it hurt. And then his hands, those big, capable hands, reached for you like he had a right to, settling on your hips with a quiet sort of confidence, thumbs rubbing slow, absent circles through the fabric of your shorts, grounding you, claiming you, calming you—and you watched them, stared like you were hypnotized, lips parting, brain empty.

“How’d you sleep?” he murmured, and his voice wasn’t teasing now, just gentle, intimate, the words curling against your skin like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

And just like that, the girl who had mouthed off her whole life, who’d never backed down from anything, was reduced to a blushing, bashful mess beneath the weight of his gaze. You couldn’t even meet his eyes. Your cheeks burned, your lashes fluttered, and something soft and shaky caught in your throat, because somehow this man—your mother’s husband, for God’s sake—had undone you completely.

Joel tilted his head then, smiling like he knew, like he loved it, that slow, crooked smile full of patience and quiet promise, and you swore the room spun just a little.

“You’re real pretty when you’re shy,” he murmured, almost to himself, almost like it was a secret meant for no one but the space between your bodies.

“You… you can’t say that,” you murmured, the words slipping from your mouth in a whisper so soft it felt like they barely existed, your eyes still cast down, lashes lowered as if that might soften the weight of everything hanging in the space between you. Your voice was tight, caught somewhere between protest and plea, the heat in your cheeks blooming all over again as his hands stayed firm on your hips, thumbs brushing in slow, easy circles like he hadn’t just shattered the fragile line between right and wrong with a single sentence.

Joel tilted his head, one brow lifting, his smile widening just a little—amused, indulgent, unbothered. “Can’t say what?” he said, voice smooth and rich, a teasing hum that curled down your spine. “That my stepdaughter’s pretty? Huh? ’Cause it’s just the truth, sugar. Don’t think there’s a law against honesty.”

The word—stepdaughter—hit you like a jolt, echoing in your chest, reverberating somewhere low in your gut, shame and arousal tangling so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. It felt wrong, it should’ve felt wrong, but the way he said it—so casual, so easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world to call you that and still hold you like this, like he wanted to say it while his hands were on your body—made your breath stutter all over again.

You shifted on your feet, blinking hard, your voice barely steady when you asked, “Did… did mom say anything?” You still couldn’t look at him, not with the way your heart was pounding and your skin was buzzing, not with his hands still warm and heavy on your waist. “I mean—when you went back to your room. After.”

Joel let out a low chuckle, the sound rough and honeyed, and your stomach did a slow flip, because that sound was always dangerous—soft and lazy, like he knew something you didn’t. “Your mama?” he said, drawing the word out with a shake of his head, “She was out cold, sweetheart. Think she drank too much wine. Again.”

He laughed quietly to himself like it wasn’t anything unusual, like it was just another evening in a long stretch of a dull domestic life—and maybe for him it was. Maybe last night hadn’t been a life-altering moment of madness, maybe it had just been inevitable.

You nodded, slow and uncertain, your lips parting just slightly like you wanted to say more but didn’t trust your voice, didn’t trust yourself not to crack under the weight of it all—and that’s when Joel moved, gentle and deliberate, reaching for your wrist with one of those big, weathered hands that always made you feel too small, too soft, too young. He lifted your arm with a tenderness that made your breath hitch, and without breaking eye contact—not even for a second—he pressed his mouth to the inside of your wrist, right over the place where your pulse throbbed wild and frantic beneath your skin. His lips were warm, slow, deliberate, and his eyes stayed locked on yours as if he needed you to feel it everywhere, needed you to remember the way it felt to be touched there, kissed like that, seen like this.

“What I wanna know,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and molten, seeping into you like heat through the floorboards, “is if you felt good last night. Hmm?” He didn’t ask like a man seeking validation. He asked like someone already sure of the answer, just wanting to hear you say it—needing to hear you admit it, out loud, right here in the daylight.

You swallowed thickly and nodded again, barely breathing, your voice trembling on a single word. “Yeah.”

And that was all he needed.

He smiled then—slow and crooked, like it pleased him more than he wanted to admit—and he hummed, the sound a deep, contented vibration from the back of his throat that made your knees want to give. “Good,” he said, soft and approving, thumb brushing once more across the inside of your wrist before letting go, like he’d branded you there, like the ghost of his mouth would never really leave.

He leaned back just slightly, eyes dragging over you again, darker now, thoughtful. “Now…” he drawled, voice thoughtful, almost lazy, like he was working something out in real time, “I know you can make yourself feel good, babygirl. Real good. But that ain’t what I’m wonderin’ anymore.”

You blinked, heart thudding, every nerve suddenly alive.

Joel tilted his head, that half-smile still on his lips, and added, “What I’m wonderin’ now is… do you want me to make you feel even better?”

And there it was—laid out plain, low, and filthy in that Southern murmur of his, not a question but a promise, the kind that made your thighs press together instinctively, your breath falter, your whole body buzz with the thrill of being wanted by a man who shouldn’t, who knew better, and didn’t give a damn.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as cotton, eyes wide and lips parted, voice barely more than a breath when you whispered, “How?”—a question so innocent it betrayed the wildfire already curling low in your belly. “I mean… how would you do that?” you added, stumbling through the words, not out of fear but out of need, the kind that made you dizzy and warm all over, the kind that left no room for shame.

Joel chuckled low, that gravel-and-honey sound curling around your spine, rich with amusement but soft with affection, and the way he looked at you—like you were the sweetest little thing he’d ever laid eyes on—only made the heat behind your ribs burn hotter. “You sound real sweet when you ask things like that,” he said, voice slow and fond, as if he were savoring every syllable you gave him. “But the answer’s easy, sugar… whatever you want. However you want it. However you need it.”

Your gaze dropped instinctively, almost helplessly, flicking down to where his jeans stretched tight across his thighs, to the outline pressing stubbornly against the denim, thick and heavy even in rest, and your breath caught in your chest as your mouth went dry for a whole other reason. You hadn’t meant to look—but your body was ahead of you, craving, already remembering the low rumble of his voice last night and imagining what it would feel like to have him inside you, really inside you.

He noticed, of course he did. Joel’s brows lifted, his mouth twitching in amusement like he could see every filthy thought flickering behind your eyes. “Not yet, darlin’,” he murmured, shaking his head just a little, and there was something dangerous in the way he said it—like a warning wrapped in velvet. “You ain’t ready for that. Gotta get you loosened up first. Gotta work you open nice and slow, stretch you out so you can take all of me. Otherwise…” he trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy between you, smirking slightly as he tilted his head, “well, let’s just say I don’t wanna hurt my best girl.”

And all you could do was blink, dazed, pulse fluttering wildly in your neck, not even embarrassed anymore, just overwhelmed by the sheer weight of want sitting thick in the air around you. “Oh,” you breathed, soft and stunned, your legs trembling where you stood.

Joel reached up then, one hand brushing your hip again, the other sliding lazily down your arm, fingertips ghosting along your skin as he looked up at you like he was already picturing it—already planning it. “How ‘bout my mouth, huh?” he said, almost a whisper, a question laced in promise, in filth, in reverence. “Let me get you ready with my tongue. Open you up real gentle. Make a mess of you before I even fuckin’ touch anything else.”

You bit your lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh like it might ground you, like it could keep you from making another terrible, beautiful decision—but Joel’s hand was already sliding lower, fingers curving possessively over the swell of your ass, kneading with slow, deliberate pressure, not like a man in a hurry, but like someone savoring something earned, something he’d been waiting for. His grip wasn’t greedy—it was intimate, reverent, the pads of his fingers pressing into you like he was memorizing every curve, every soft place that belonged to him now, at least in this moment.

“But my mom,” you whispered, breath catching at the edge of panic, but not quite falling into it, not with his hand still on you like that. “She’ll be back soon.”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. He just tilted his head with that low, amused smile pulling at the corner of his mouth—like he knew better than you did, like he’d already planned this out in his mind a hundred times. And then, somehow—like it was the easiest thing in the world—he coaxed you into his lap, strong hands guiding you effortlessly until you were straddling his thighs, thighs thick and warm beneath you, denim rough against your bare legs, and his eyes didn’t leave yours for a second, dark and steady and heavy with intent.

Then his mouth was on your neck, hot and damp and devastating, lips dragging open kisses along your skin as the rough stubble of his jaw scraped you raw in the most delicious way, each slow kiss branding you like he was marking you for later, like he wanted your skin to remember his mouth long after he was gone. His tongue flicked over your pulse, and you swore he groaned low in his chest when he felt how fast it was fluttering.

“You know your mama takes forever shoppin’,” he murmured against your throat, voice rough and wicked and so sure of himself it made your stomach flip, his hands moving at the same pace as his words, guiding your hips into a slow, lazy grind over the bulge in his jeans. “I could make you cum at least three times ‘fore she even makes it outta the wine aisle.”

You gasped, not just at the filth of his words, but at the way he said them—like he wasn’t teasing, like it was just fact, like he’d already seen it in his head: you falling apart in his lap, soaked and ruined, breathless and begging, all while your mother compared pinot noir prices three suburbs away.

And you didn’t even argue—couldn’t, really—because with the way his mouth was dragging down your neck and his hands were tightening on your waist, every thought you had was unraveling too fast to hold on to.

And then his mouth was on yours—sinful, hot, wet—and just like that, the world narrowed to the searing press of lips and the slow, molten slide of his tongue against yours, and you forgot everything.

You forgot that this was Joel—your mother’s husband, the man who made coffee every morning with his sleeves rolled up and kissed her cheek with that same mouth now devouring yours like he was starving. You forgot that he wasn’t supposed to be doing this, that you weren’t supposed to want it, because when he kissed you like that, like he already knew every secret your mouth had ever held, like his tongue had been made to move with yours, slow and deep and devastatingly sure, there was no room left in your mind for guilt.

He kissed you like he’d waited years for it. Like he’d dreamed of it in silence, in secret, and now that he had you, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers buried in your hair as he tilted your head the way he wanted, needed, guiding your mouth against his with a tenderness that bordered on desperation. And it was hot, not in a rushed, clumsy way, but in the kind of way that made your toes curl, your thighs clench, the kind of kiss that made your whole body ache with the slow realization that no one had ever kissed you like this—like they wanted to memorize you, ruin you, keep you.

You whimpered into him, soft and helpless, clutching at the collar of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground, your fingers curling into the fabric, bunching it in your fists as his mouth moved against yours with maddening slowness.

Joel groaned, deep in his chest, like your little sounds physically affected him, like your pleasure was a trigger inside him. “Goddamn, I love it when you make those sounds for me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick and reverent, honeyed and rough, that Southern lilt curling around each word like a caress. “Make me crazy, darlin’. Could kiss you forever.”

And the way he said it—kiss you forever—didn’t sound like a line or a promise or a plea. It sounded like a truth he’d just uncovered, and you believed him. God help you, you believed him.

“All right,” he murmured, finally pulling back, and the loss of his mouth on yours felt like the world shifting on its axis—sudden, dizzying, wrong. You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless, your eyes wide and glassy, lips kiss-bruised and swollen, your chest rising and falling in shallow little gasps like you’d just surfaced from somewhere deep and dangerous, and Joel looked at you like he was proud of that—like he liked seeing you like this, pliant and overwhelmed and barely hanging on.

“Gotta taste you, baby,” he said next, voice thick with hunger and something darker underneath—something that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, just declared, as if it had already been decided, already done. His eyes didn’t leave yours, didn’t flicker or waver, but they darkened right in front of you, going heavy and low like smoke curling under a locked door, like you could see the shift in him—the descent, the change from tender to possessive—as if that kiss had stripped away the last layer of patience he’d been clinging to.

And then, without loosening his grip on your hips, hands still holding you steady in his lap, he leaned in, voice dropping to a gravel-soft whisper as he said, “Want you to sit on my fuckin’ face.”

It hit you like a blow—sharp, hot, filthy—and your breath hitched so fast you nearly choked on it, your thighs tightening around his as your body tried to comprehend just how badly he meant it. His gaze dragged slowly down your body, then back up, and when he met your eyes again, there was nothing sweet left in him. Just need—that dangerous, grown-man kind, the kind that didn't plead, didn't play fair, just took.

“Need you up there, sugar,” he rasped, voice like honey poured over gravel, his thumbs stroking your skin like a pacifying gesture, though the look in his eyes was anything but soft. “Let me get my mouth on that pretty little pussy ‘til you’re cryin’ for me. Want you to look down and see me starin’ up at you while you fall apart, just like last night—but this time, with my fuckin’ tongue in you.”

“You trust me, don’t you?” he added, voice soft now, coaxing, hands slipping under your shirt, warm and sure and possessive. “Then be a good girl and let me taste what’s mine.”

You were aching—truly, undeniably aching now—soaked through and dizzy, your breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and anticipation, your body already betraying you long before you could find the words. The fresh pair of panties you'd slid on after your shower that morning, cotton-soft and meant to make you feel clean and normal again, were already damp, ruined, clinging to you in a way that made it impossible to ignore just how much you'd let him unravel you with nothing but his mouth and a few dangerous words. You shifted in his lap, thighs tightening, trying to will away the throb between your legs, but it was useless—he felt it, and he knew.

Joel’s gaze never left yours. His hands gripped your hips a little tighter, steady and anchoring, and then he cocked his head slightly, eyes soft but sharp—like he was studying you, reading every flicker across your face. “You ever sat on a man’s face before?” he asked, low and rough, but somehow tender, like the question wasn’t filthy at all, just curious, almost concerned, like he needed to know before he went further.

Your lips parted, shame blooming hot across your cheeks, and you shook your head slightly before you could stop yourself, stammering, “I—I’ve never…”

Joel’s expression didn’t shift into surprise, didn’t turn mocking. Instead, it softened, deepened—something proud flickering in his eyes as his thumb brushed across your hipbone in a slow, grounding motion. “That’s okay, baby,” he murmured, and the way he said it—low and sweet and just a little too warm—made your whole chest tighten. “Let daddy be the first.”

He said it like a promise. Like a corruption.

“You don’t gotta be shy with me, sweetheart,” he added, his voice dipping into something darker, older, coaxing, the kind of voice that wrapped around you like a warm blanket and made you forget what was right. “I’ll teach you how good it can feel. I’ll show you real slow, take my time with you, show you how much I like it when a pretty little thing like you gets all messy and shakes on my tongue.”

You gasped at that—soft and instinctive—and he smiled, soft, pleased, like he’d just unlocked something, like every part of this was unfolding exactly how he wanted. His hands slid down to cup the backs of your thighs, squeezing gently, guiding, encouraging—like it wasn’t wrong, like he was doing you a favor.

“That’s it,” he whispered, “Don’t worry about a thing. You just sit that sweet pussy on my mouth and let me take care of you.”

“Okay,” you breathed, the word tumbling from your lips before your mind had time to catch up.

“Good girl,” Joel hummed, low and satisfied, the praise curling around your spine like a hot hand as he leaned in and reached for the hem of your t-shirt, fingers swift and sure, tugging it up and over your head in one smooth motion before you could so much as blink. The cotton landed on the floor with a whisper, forgotten, and suddenly you were bare-chested in his lap, skin flushed, breath caught, and you didn’t care.

You didn’t care that your mother could be pulling into the driveway at this very second, keys jangling in one hand, a shopping bag in the other. You didn’t care that the house was rigged with security cameras that Joel himself had installed—wired into every corner, including the living room where you now straddled him half-naked, soaking through your panties and trembling beneath his gaze. You didn’t care that this man, this older, worn, married-to-your-mother man, had his big hands sliding up your sides like he owned you.

All you knew was the heat of his palms as they cupped your breasts—firm and hungry, calloused thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked under his touch, until you arched into him with a gasp you couldn’t control.

Joel groaned, deep and filthy, the sound scraping up from his chest like he’d been holding it in for years. His fingers dug in as he kneaded your tits, not delicate or unsure but possessive, like he had every right to touch you like this, like this wasn’t something borrowed but something that had always been his.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself, dark eyes flicking between your breasts like he couldn’t decide which he loved more. And then, with a low laugh that chilled and scorched you all at once, he added, “These’re a hell of a lot prettier than your mama’s.”

Your breath caught—scandalized, wrecked—and you moaned without meaning to, thighs tightening around his hips as the line between shame and arousal blurred until it didn’t exist at all.

His mouth descended then—hot and open, hungry—and he kissed and nipped at your chest with a desperation that made your head spin, his tongue swirling around your nipple before pulling it between his teeth with a low growl. You whimpered, loud and breathless, clutching at his shoulders, and he pulled back just enough to murmur against your skin, “You moan real sweet when I suck on ‘em like that. Gonna make it my job to hear that every damn morning.”

And as wrong as it was, with your chest heaving and his mouth all over you, your stepfather’s hands gripping you like he’d never let go—you wanted that too.

“So pretty and perky for me,” Joel murmured, lips dragging over the curve of your breast as he spoke, the words half-swallowed against your skin, low and reverent and possessive, like he was speaking straight to them—not you—like your tits were something sacred that belonged to him now. His tongue flicked lazily over your nipple, then again, and the groan that rumbled from his chest was filthy, like it pained him to stop. “So soft, baby… fuckin’ perfect.” His voice dipped lower, barely a breath now, dark and gravel-thick with hunger. “Bet your mama never looked like this when she was your age. Bet she never tasted this sweet.”

You whimpered, back arching, your body moving on instinct—pushing forward into his mouth, into his teeth, like your skin was begging for him, like every inch of you had been waiting for this exact moment without ever knowing it.

But just when you thought you’d melt entirely into him, Joel pulled back with maddening calm, his hands sliding down your sides like he was taking his time, like he was admiring his own work. Then he patted your thigh once, firm and final. “Stand up, babygirl,” he said, leaning back slowly against the sofa, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest, the other trailing down to the curve of his thigh. “Take all of that off. Want you bare.” His gaze roamed over your flushed chest, the curve of your waist, the trembling of your thighs like he was etching you into memory, like you were a painting come to life—and his to strip.

You stood slowly, nerves crackling under your skin like fire, every movement shy but magnetic, compelled by the way he looked at you—not like a girl, not like his wife’s daughter, but like a woman he was about to consume. The cotton shorts slid down your legs, your ruined panties following, and you stepped out of them with shaking hands, now completely naked in the middle of the living room—the one where you’d opened Christmas presents, where your mom hosted wine nights, where Joel installed the goddamn security system that might’ve been watching you both right now—and yet… all you could feel was heat.

Joel didn’t move. Just leaned back further, legs spread, jaw tight, and eyes burning.

It was dizzying, the power imbalance—him fully clothed in denim and flannel, the scent of coffee still lingering on his skin, and you, butt-naked in the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, every inch of your skin exposed and wanting.

“You look like a fuckin’ dream,” he said, voice rough with restraint, dark with something filthy and low. “My sweet little girl. All grown up. Standin’ there like you were made for me.”

And he said it like he believed it. Like this—you, bare and blushing, in your childhood home—was always how it was meant to end.

“You think I’m pretty?” you asked, voice soft and uncertain, the question slipping out like a confession you hadn’t meant to speak aloud, a fragile thing cradled in trembling breath. You stood there—completely bare, skin warm and pink in the morning light, chest rising and falling with every shaky inhale—and for a moment, something inside you tightened, afraid of what he might say, of how quiet the room suddenly felt with those four little words hanging between you.

Joel looked up at you slowly, his gaze traveling the length of your body with something close to awe—not just lust, not just hunger, but a deep, bone-deep reverence, like you were something holy and unrepeatable, like you were a secret he’d been trusted with. .

“Baby,” he said, shaking his head slightly, that crooked, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “pretty don’t even come close.”

Joel extended his hand toward you, slow and steady like he was asking for something sacred, not sinful, palm up and waiting, and without thinking—without questioning—you placed yours into it. Yours looked so much smaller cradled in his, delicate and trembling against the calloused strength of his fingers, and he gave it the gentlest squeeze before tugging you softly toward him, guiding you like he had all the time in the world.

“C’mere, babygirl,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, that dangerous mix of comfort and command dripping from every syllable. “Let me show you how this’s done.”

You let him pull you closer, straddling his lap again—but this time, he was leaning back on the sofa, one arm braced along the cushions, the other slipping down to your hips, guiding, positioning, his touch warm and steady as he helped you move. You were awkward at first, hesitant, unsure of where your knees should go, how your legs should spread, how close you were supposed to get—but Joel didn’t laugh, didn’t tease, just murmured soft encouragements under his breath like he loved that you needed help, like he wanted to teach you, shape you.

“Just like that, honey… there you go. Ain’t gotta be nervous,” he whispered, his hand sliding from your thigh to your lower back, pressing lightly to arch you just so. “You’re doin’ perfect. Fuck, look at you—sweetest little thing I’ve ever seen.”

And then suddenly—God, somehow—you were hovering over his face, thighs shaking as they spread wider, your bare heat so close to his mouth you could feel his breath ghosting over you, warm and reverent, and your whole body lit up like a live wire. You couldn’t look down.

Joel tilted his head back, eyes locked on your pussy like it was the fucking holy grail, mouth parted slightly like he was about to start praying. His grip on your hips tightened, grounding you in place, and then he groaned—deep, guttural, like the scent of you hit him all at once and knocked the wind out of him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, baby,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second like he needed to recover from it. “Smell so fuckin’ sweet. Like you were made to sit on my face.”

The moan that spilled from you was instant, involuntary, shameless—your whole body trembling at his words, at the way he said them, like you were a drug and he’d been starved for a fix.

“Don’t be shy now,” he whispered, voice barely a breath as he looked up at you again, dark eyes blazing with hunger and something far worse—adoration. “Go on and give it to me, sugar. Let me taste that perfect little pussy. Promise I’ll take care of you better than anyone ever has.”

“I—uh,” you stammered, a soft, breathless laugh bubbling from your lips, bashful and unsure, your voice trembling like the rest of you as you looked down at him through your lashes, your thighs trembling on either side of his broad chest. “How… how will you breathe?” you asked, the question so sweet, so innocent, it made Joel groan low in his throat like it hurt him.

Joel chuckled softly, his thumbs rubbing soothing little circles into your skin, and then he added, voice low and coaxing, “You worry too much, sugar. Just let daddy take care of it. You just sit that pretty thing right on my mouth and hold on tight. Let me show you what a real man can do with no air in his lungs and his stepdaughter drippin’ down his throat.”

And the worst part—the sickest, most shameful part—was the way your hips tilted forward, instinctively, like your body was already saying yes, even if your mind was still spinning.

“Enough talkin’,” Joel growled, his voice suddenly rougher, deeper, edged with something sharp and molten—and before you could even process the shift, his hand came down hard on your ass, a sharp smack that echoed through the living room and made you yelp, more shocked than hurt, your body jolting forward in instinct. The sting bloomed fast, heat flashing across your skin—and before you could so much as whimper, he was gripping your hips tight with both hands and yanking you down, forcing you onto his mouth like he’d lost every ounce of self-control he’d been pretending to have.

You gasped—no, choked—a sound ripped straight from your lungs, loud and broken, as your pussy met the full, hungry heat of his mouth, his tongue already working like a man possessed. He groaned the second he tasted you, that low, guttural noise vibrating directly against your core, and it was diabolical, the way he moaned like you were his favorite meal and he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Your entire body lurched forward, instinctively bracing your hands on the back of the couch behind his head, your thighs shaking, your breath stuttering as your mouth fell open, lips parted in a silent scream. The sound—his sound, the groan he made the second you were on his face—echoed inside you, down your spine, into your chest, like it rewired your organs, like it knocked the air out of your lungs and replaced it with something molten.

And still, he didn’t let up.

Joel dragged you closer, his grip bruising now, hands spreading you open for him, his face buried so deep it was like he wanted to drown in you—and maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted to die like this, with your thighs shaking around his ears and your scent all over his lips, his stepdaughter made into something sweet and sacred between his teeth.

“You taste better than fuckin’ heaven,” he muttered into you between strokes, and you whimpered, already unraveling, already gone.

It was unreal—otherworldly, even—the way Joel ate you out, like he was a man on death row and you were his final meal, and he was determined to savor every last second of it, every twitch, every moan, every drop. From your vantage point—perched above him, thighs trembling, hands gripping the couch behind his head for dear life—you could barely breathe, let alone think.

His tongue lapped at you with slow, deliberate drags at first, warm and too good, circling your clit with the kind of finesse no boy your age had ever dreamed of having—this was a man who knew what he was doing, who enjoyed it, needed it, who moaned into you every few seconds like your pussy was the most sacred place he’d ever been. And fuck, his hands—those big, rough, hands—kept trailing up and down your body, not just holding your hips but gripping them, spreading you wider, sliding up your waist, curling over your belly like he wanted to keep you still and feel everything at once. He reached up once, palm flat against your chest, and squeezed your breast in rhythm with his tongue, and your entire spine arched like he’d struck a chord deep inside you that no one had ever dared touch.

Every time he pulled back to breathe, to talk, you thought you might fall apart from just seeing him—lips red, chin soaked, his beard shining with your slick, mouth swollen like he’d been drinking from you. His voice came out wrecked, voice low and cracked, soaked in sin. “Fuckin’ messy for me, ain’t you, babygirl?” he rasped, his breath fanning hot across your cunt as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, biting the skin gently like he couldn’t stop tasting you. “Sittin’ on my face like a goddamn dream, makin’ a mess all over me. Look at you.”

You moaned, loud and desperate, your fingers twisting into the cushion behind you, and Joel grinned like the devil, dragging his tongue back through your folds slow, then curling it up—and your body jolted like he’d struck you.

He pulled back again, licking his lips, your slick clinging to his stubble. “You feel that?” he whispered, tone low and gleefully cruel. “That’s my tongue, baby. That ain’t a toy. That ain’t some fumblin’ college kid who don’t know what the fuck he’s doin’. That’s a man eatin’ pussy like he’s supposed to.”

And then—like he hadn’t just destroyed you with words alone—he pulled you down again, arms tightening around your thighs as he buried himself in you with a growl, groaning into your pussy like your taste was his salvation, like this—you—was what he’d waited his whole damn life for.

And all you could do was take it. Eyes shut, mouth open, body shaking—because no one had ever touched you like this. No one had ever devoured you like they were grateful just to be allowed.

You groaned, a sound ripped raw from your chest—as your whole body started to burn, your thighs quivering violently around Joel’s head, your back arching as every muscle locked tight with that wild, helpless tension only seconds before release. “I’m—I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cu—” you stammered, the words spilling from your lips in broken pieces, high-pitched and desperate, your voice choked with sobs and need and the unbearable heat coiling tight in your belly. You were a mess, a stuttering, trembling, wrecked little thing, and he didn’t let up—not for a second.

Joel’s hands gripped your thighs harder, bruising now, controlling, holding you right where he wanted you as his tongue moved in relentless, devastating circles, flicking against your clit with that same impossible precision that had already dragged you to the edge once, twice—again. You shattered with a scream, your body convulsing above him, your hips bucking in his grip—but he didn’t stop.

He kept going.

The orgasm tore through you, brutal and all-consuming, but Joel didn’t ease off, didn’t slow down—his mouth stayed latched, his tongue deeper, filthier, like he wanted you sobbing, wanted you shaking so bad you couldn’t remember your name.

“Take it,” he growled between licks, his voice muffled and soaked, so deep into you that your vision blurred, so relentless it felt like his mouth was etched into your skin. “That’s it, baby. Be a good girl and fuckin’ take it. Daddy’s not done with you.”

You sobbed, shoulders shaking, hands clawing at the back of the couch as tears rolled freely down your cheeks—not from pain, not from fear, but from the sheer overwhelming pleasure, the shattering fullness of it all, the way he kept licking, kept sucking, even as your body tried to twist away from him. But he held you firm, grounded you with those hands, those stepdad hands that never stopped touching, like he couldn’t bear to be away from any part of you.

“Mm, look at you,” he panted, when he finally pulled back for a breath, his mouth and beard soaked, glistening with your slick. “Cryin’ on my face. You cummin’ that hard for me, sweetheart?” His eyes were wild with need, lips swollen, dripping. “You never had a man really eat this pussy before, huh?”

You couldn’t even answer—your mouth hung open, lips trembling, breath coming in ragged little gasps as your entire body trembled like a live wire, the aftershocks of your second orgasm still shuddering through your limbs when another wave crashed over you. A third—God, a third—and it stole your breath, your thoughts, your ability to do anything but sob, every nerve raw and overstimulated as Joel kept going, licking and groaning and sucking like a man starved. You wailed, high and broken, legs twitching as your hips bucked once, then stilled entirely, your strength gone.

And finally—finally—Joel eased up, his hands loosening their bruising grip on your thighs, his mouth slowing to a few soft, reverent licks before he kissed your inner thigh with something dangerously close to affection. You collapsed forward with a whimper, body slack, boneless, ruined, your limbs trembling as your chest pressed to his, your cheek finding his shoulder, hot and damp with tears and sweat. He caught you effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your waist, drawing you into his lap like you weighed nothing, like you belonged there, like you always had.

“There she is,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with satisfaction, fingers stroking your spine in lazy, grounding motions. “My good fuckin’ girl. Took it all, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak, could barely move, your fingers twitching weakly against his chest.

And then—the sound.

The sharp crunch of tires over gravel outside. The soft groan of the gate opening. The car pulling into the driveway.

Joel’s head snapped up instantly, his arms still locked around you, and then—so calmly, so dangerously collected—he licked his lips, wiped his soaked mouth with the back of his hand, and was already moving. “Shh,” he whispered as you whined, dazed and whimpering, “I got you. Let daddy take care of it.”

In seconds, he had your ruined panties tugged up your thighs, the fabric sticky and damp, your t-shirt slipped over your head like he’d done it a thousand times, smoothing it down over your trembling body. You could barely lift your arms, let alone help, but he didn’t need help—he just dressed you, quick and efficient, like this was routine, like he knew how to hide a mess. Then he lifted you into the corner of the couch, tucked a throw blanket over your bare legs, and ran his fingers gently through your hair, whispering, “You rest, sugar. You did so good.”

The front door creaked open a second later.

“Joel?” your mother’s voice called from the hallway, casual, distracted. “Can you help me with the bags?”

Joel stood, gave you one last look—soft, smug, filthy—and then turned toward the door.

“Comin’, sweetheart,” he called back, already walking toward her. “Lemme get those for you.”

You blinked slowly, barely able to lift your head as you watched him greet her in the entryway. She smiled—smiled—and leaned in to peck him on the lips like it was nothing, like she wasn’t tasting the ghost of her daughter on his mouth.

He kissed her back, warm and easy. “You get the pinot you like?” he asked, casual as sin.

“Mm,” she nodded, brushing past him, “if they haven’t jacked the price up again.”

And just like that, he turned back once, eyes flicking toward you under the guise of nothing, his lips twitching in that same crooked, knowing smile—and you knew, in that moment, he hadn’t just ruined you.

He owned you.

˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

i hope yall enjoyed xxx

[millers-girl555]

officially beekeeping age 🐝

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐖𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐲 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ you ran through the frozen woods, believing Joel was dead, your daughter and Ellie in the falling town, attacked by infected, only to wake up to a much worse scenario, Joel was taking care of you, with no mobility in one leg, a deformed face and the need to never let go of his wife.

warnings_ age gap (implied late 20s but you can ignore that), GORE, HEAVY ANGST, reader vomits and faints, fallacy references, canon divergence, medical inaccuracies in the following parts, anxiety, overthinking, trauma, panic attack, short part and no proofreading.

Notes_ JOEL IS NOT DEAD, HE GOT UP FOR HIS WIFE AND KIDS

「 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐲: 𝐑𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐦𝐞, 𝐈 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 」 (part one)

「 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫: 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 」 (part two, which this fic belongs to)

♫ ♪ the worst playlist 4 Pedro

✰ Index (+ fics here)

୨ৎ───୨ৎ───୨ৎ———୨ৎ───୨ৎ

The morning after breakfast, Joel and you went out on patrol. Since the moment you woke up, your heart was pounding already.

Your hand was placed near your heart, as the other was doing everything to keep riding your beloved horse; star.

“Is everything okay?” Joel asks, riding beside you.

“I think I’ve been feeling some arrhythmia since I woke up…”

“Do you think your anemia is back?” He asks, worriedly.

“I don’t know, love” your voice showed some defeat for some reason.

Your health had improved since you arrived in Jackson five years ago. You looked healthy, even in shape after many patrols, hunting, and escapades with your family. Maria had been strict about you going to a doctor each year to check on your blood tests and cross out any anomalies. You would live with many issues, but you doubted you’d ever touch base like you did almost a decade ago in Boston.

After giving birth to Cerise, you promised to be healthy for your baby. And each time you had to leave her, your heart ached.

You constantly look back at Jackson. Worried and hoping that the drill was over.

“Cerise is going to be fine, baby,” Joel says, knowing you were worried about the little girl.

Joel loved his daughter, he was beyond overprotective with her. But he trusted Tommy, Maria, and his friends. Dina swore to take care of Cerise during the drill and that relieved both you and Joel.

“Yeah, she’s safe no matter what…” you say trying to convince yourself.

But your face demonstrated you were not pleased at all. Joel also knew his wife was protective of her family. So the best he could attempt to do was to distract you.

“You look very pretty today,” Joel said with a playful smile. He was trying to get you in a calm mood despite the worry of the drill, the snowstorm, and Ellie likely in a different patrol.

“You think so?” There was nothing special about your look that day.

Loose jeans, boots, a black turtleneck top with a heavy jacket, and earmuffs.

“Yeah, baby” The way he eye fucked you set your cheeks on fire.

As the years passed, Joel grew confused. When Ellie distanced from him, you and him separated for two months. After getting back together, he had been debating whether to return to his usual loving self he grew out to be after couple therapy or not. But you had proven him to be willing to be just as doting as he could be.

“Love you!” You said, blowing a kiss to him.

“I love you too, dear,” Joel said back.

It didn’t matter how much your body changed over the years if you grew your hair long or decided to cut it short. Whether it was summer or winter, Joel Miller would cherish you every single day. Even on the worst possible day, your husband would always come back to you.

…

Joel had grown trustful. It wasn’t a coincidence that the moment he took the hand of the random woman about to be eaten by the infected, your heart started pounding faster.

You said no when she offered to take you both to the place she had spent the night, but Joel made you a sign with his head that it was okay.

Now, you are being held by two people, looking at Joel and his bleeding knee, fearing the worst.

Who the fuck was Abby? And why she was so mad at your husband?

“She’s the wife? Attractive too” she says eyeing you with a fake smirk.

“Aren’t you a little too young for an old man like him?” You could kill her, but she was a stranger, whom you couldn’t feel anything towards.

But she revealed the truth, giving you flashbacks of Salt Lake City. And how the fireflies were going to experiment with you and your unborn child.

You don’t say anything, you barely eye her, the only thing that made you have some click with her was that she also lost her family at a young age.

“How could you marry a cruel man like him? Let alone let him give you a child?” Your eyes snapped open at the mention of Cerise. “Your daughter is not of my concern”

Joel wants to run and tell you it’s going to be fine, but seeing your bloody face and fingers purple and swollen, he started to feel like that was it.

“Answer me. Why him?” Abby asked, standing in front of you. She was taller than you; just a few years younger.

“He unfairly ruined your life. But he saved mine…” her bitter smile turned into a chuckle full of hate.

“I bet he did,” she said before turning back to Joel.

You could understand her pain, but she would never know all the things you endured.

You don’t give a fuck whatever the woman is saying, you just exchange looks with Joel and he was trying to calm you, but you couldn’t feel anything but panic.

To her, Joel ruined her life, but he saved yours. Joel was your savior and the reason why you had everything you always wanted. You refused to let her take that away from you.

But there wasn’t much you could do to stop it. You couldn’t do anything and that was killing you. Time was passing so rapidly and so slowly at the same time.

Her hand touched his forehead like she was trying to prove one last time that it was real. You started squirming when the woman started beating Joel.

“I sympathize with your daughter, Joel” she whispered in his ear. “She will also know what it feels to lose her father”

His screams and groans of pain started mixing with your sobs. He tried to crawl away but it was useless.

The woman and man holding at you were failing to keep you still. Nothing had prepared you to see the horrific sight of Joel covered in blood, his face swollen and barely breathing.

Your screams were bothering everyone, giving them heartache for the future widow and single mother you were gonna be.

“JOEL!” You yell his name over and over. Your heart, mind and soul breaking each time more and more.

“PLEASE! HE’S MY HUSBAND!” You begged over and over as more blood pooled around the man you loved. “STOP! PLEASE, JUST STOP!”

“We should’ve sedated her,” said one of the girls in the group, but nobody answered her.

One guy entered the room panicked and everyone turned to look at him.

“The horde is coming this way” everyone panicked.

But Abby hadn’t finished until the same guy went to grab her by the waist.

“ABBY, IT’S OVER! HE’S DEAD” He screamed at her. “WE HAVE TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW!”

Your tears didn’t let you give Joel one last glance before you started running towards the door after the man and woman holding you flickered in panic due to the news.

“Let her go. She will live to tell the tragedy of her husband” Abby said to her mates after they tried to go after you. “Let’s go!”

Your boots were sinking in the snow, it was nearly impossible to run.

You started hearing the screams and grunts of the infected. Your hands clumsily pull out your walkie talkie and you try to reach out for somebody.

“TOMMY?” nothing, not a single glitchy sound of hope. “TOMMY! Do you copy me? Please…”

It was too much to handle. Your tears couldn’t stop, blinding your vision, the beating of your heart pounded and you could hear it.

As you ran, the pain of having just lost your husband assaulted you. You couldn’t say goodbye. You couldn’t grab his corpse to give him a proper funeral.

If Jackson was alive, you’d return to an empty house, where you’d raise Cerise… without his father.

You ran away without looking back for Cerise and Ellie. For them and only them.

You started hearing a ringing in your ears, your arms felt heavy and before you could control your body, you fell on your knees to vomit, with your eyes hurting and still squeezing more tears.

You scream.

Everything you wished for had been taken away from you twice.

You sob loud enough to draw the attention of some infected. What was once a pair of two women a teenager run after you. But you aren’t able to run so far.

They tackle you and start biting your body as you scream and cry. You feel them sinking their teeth in your skin, wounding like sharp knives. You feel how two of your fingernails are pulled off and how the fingers begin to go numb.

At that moment, you started closing your eyes. You swore your life flashed before your eyes. Every moment of happiness in your life appeared in your eyes. Your family made you happy. The one that brought you the world and the one you started on your own. You thank having the chance to experience being a mother with Cerise and Ellie and you thank life for pairing you with Joel.

And the last thought that ran through your head before losing consciousness, was that you despised death, but you weren’t afraid of it.

…

Your eyes snap open and you are blinded by the sun. You want to move but you can’t. As your vision starts gaining light, your head also gains sense.

You can’t breathe, it hurts to fill your lungs with air. You don’t feel your left hand and all of your extremities burn.

You are at the entrance of the gold club. But how did you get there if you ran down the hill the day before?

You hear a pair of boots and your head turns alert.

A figure gets closer, limping and taking a very long time to sit beside you.

You force your eyes to focus, but when a pair of hands start caressing your face, tears start running through your cheeks.

“Oh my god! Joel!” you can barely focus your mind and gaze on him.

“We’re alive…” it’s all he said, with a dry voice. You feel his hands holding yours but you are very disoriented to properly identify his touch.

His face is swollen. There was a lot of dry blood across his face, some of his hair frozen along more blood, his under eye purple and black.

He had broken his skull.

More tears pool in your eyes as you try to reach his face to touch it. He gently pushed your hand away. The air wasn’t enough after doing that movement.

“Joel… I think my ribs are broken” you said, noticing it’s taking a lot of strength to breathe and talk.

“Breathe slowly,” Joel says.

Tears start flowing down your cheeks as rage invades you.

Your husband was hurt, you were hurt. Your babies were gone from your side.

You can’t understand what’s happening.

“I can’t do this,” you say between sobs, feeling like your ribs are going to explode. “Not again…” you start mumbling, feeling exhausted even though you had just opened your eyes.

“We’re alive, Ellie and Cerise are alive too” Joel repeats. “It’s all that matters…”

You see Joel’s deformed face because of the swollen areas covered in blood, his left eye barely visible and his hair a mess of blood and frozen sweat. You cry harder, feeling an unbearable pain flowing all across your body, shattering your soul.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere” you sob harder at his words, ignoring the excruciating pain in your ribs.

Once again, you have been traumatized. Just like the time you woke up after having to kill your family when they got infected. You feel your legs are bandaged and you wonder how long had passed since you were bitten and had fainted. You have so many questions. And you can’t wait to feel better to have a proper conversation. Although it would only make knowledge of the tragedy that had happened.

You have lost your family. Your husband was barely alive, you were nearly dying.

You never thought you would experience so much misery since you killed your family. You feared this time was worse. Your husband was excruciatingly wounded, you were dying if you didn’t stop crying.

And that would be a problem. The waves of agony were taking you, threatening to drown you to death. Even if Joel was alive, breathing by your side, the image of him being hit and punched would never leave your mind, the image of Jackson in flames, knowing Cerise was there and knowing Ellie was somewhere else, it was more than enough to shatter you once again.

The days would pass and you knew the tears would not stop. But the thought of Joel being alive and breathing made you realize, you could bear it.

Your agony would not kill your hopes of restoring your family. At that point, nothing could be worse.

“Stop crying or I’m losing you, y/n”

“Never,” you say through sobs and huffs of pain. “You’re not losing me, Joel”

Joel can’t articulate any expression on his face. But you know he tried to smile.

He was breaking your heart by being alive.

______________

I cried the whole time I was taking a shower after watching episode two 🚬

Taglist: @just-mj-or-not @mmkkzz @hiroikegawa @nosebeers @glitterspark (tell me if u want to be added or removed from masterlist)

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 12: "The one when nothing happens" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Emma is in town, and it’s Benny’s birthday. Just a simple night out at the bar—or so you think. But the space Frankie has carefully placed between you stirs something unexpected. WC: 18,6k

Pd: This is for all of us, we lost our husband yesterday so I hope this brings you joy ❤️‍🩹 #ripJoelMiller I will always love you.

A/N: heheh *rubs hands together like a mosquito* Thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comments!!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

You didn’t step back. He did.

The silence between you had always been there, in your dynamic, a familiar presence in the room, but this one carried a different kind of weight. Not heavier, necessarily—just changed. Altered somehow.

The days folded in on themselves. A quiet rhythm took over—early mornings filled with emails and half-drunk coffee, afternoons swallowed by errands, small domestic rituals. No Frankie.

On monday, Bill stopped by. He brought you a cappuccino and a chocolate muffin with a paper napkin tucked under it like it mattered. He told you about an idea he couldn’t shake, a proposal: books in the coffee shop. Not a whole bookstore, just shelves. Corners of stories.

It started with Juliette, apparently—she’d been in one afternoon, tucked into the window seat with a paperback and a mug of hot chocolate, and later at home, she told him, casually, “You should have books. So people can read if they want.”

That one sentence stayed with him. He couldn’t let it go.

So now he wanted your help. What do people like to read while they’re alone but surrounded by other people? What kind of books feel like company without requiring too much of you? Should there be poetry? Cookbooks? Art? He talked about adding narrow shelves along the wall near the tables, maybe even building them in himself. It might take a while, he said, but it was doable. Manageable. And lucky for him, you lived next door.

He asked if you’d make the list. Choose the books. He said he’d buy them from you—of course he would—and he’d pay for your time, too.

“Thinking and curating isn’t free,” he said, when you teased that maybe he could just pay in muffins and coffee. Not that he’d ever really charged you properly anyway.

So you said yes. You kept a notepad beside your computer, filling it with titles in between emails and phone calls, between folding laundry and watching the sun move across the living room floor. You took naps on the couch beside Mr. Darcy, made simple dinners, rewatched old movies where the endings still made you ache.

Still, no Frankie.

Because he didn’t call. And he didn’t write to you either.

And you told yourself it was fine. Normal, even. There was no real reason for him to reach out. Except, of course, there was. A quiet reason. One that lingered in the corners of your thinking, never quite announcing itself, but never really leaving either. At the same time, there was also a reason not to reach out. An equally plausible, equally logical reason. So you chose not to dwell on it. You folded the thought in half and tucked it somewhere you didn’t have to look at.

Another week passed, almost unregistered by your body. No Frankie.

No messages lighting up your screen. No phone calls. No familiar knock at your door. The silence began to feel structural. Built-in.

You saw Santi on tuesday night over dinner. He brought empanadas and a bottle of wine, and you ate on the couch while a movie played behind your conversation. He didn’t mention Frankie. You waited, half-listening, hoping for some accidental update, some passing reference. But it never came.

Instead, he talked about the skydiving. Said he was still stunned you’d gone through with it, and then launched into a long, slightly theatrical complaint about not being invited. You laughed. Promised to go again with him next time. He made you swear it.

Then, more cautiously, he asked about the situation with Frankie. The two of you. The fake relationship.

You didn’t lie. You told him the truth—or a version of it. That things were going well. That you and Frankie had found a sort of rhythm. That you were getting along better now. That was technically accurate.

He looked at you for a moment like he was trying to read between your words, but he smiled eventually. Told you he was glad to hear it.

You almost asked about him. You nearly said, Have you seen him? Has he said anything? How is he?

But you didn’t. You changed the subject. Something about work, or maybe the movie. You can’t remember now.

The rest of the week slipped by in the same quiet way. Bill kept you busy. There were lists to write, catalogues to browse through.

On thursday you met Juliette, finally, at the coffee shop.

She was clever and observant, in that way some people are from a very young age, like they’ve always known how to listen carefully. She had shoulder-length brown hair, and enormous green eyes that didn’t seem to miss much. She had her mother’s sharpness, according to Bill. 

You liked her. She liked you too. That shouldn’t have mattered so much, but it did. There was something grounding about it, as if her approval—casual as it was—validated something inside you that had been unsteady for a while.

Emma arrived on friday. You saw her car pull up in front of your house, the familiar dent on the left side of the bumper, the same soft pop of the door as she got out. You didn’t wait. You ran down the steps and into her arms, almost tripping over the welcome mat in your rush.

She smelled like citrus perfume and coconut shampoo, a scent so distinctly hers that it made your throat catch for a moment. Like summer and high school and safety.

You closed the bookstore a little earlier than usual. Turned the sign, locked the door, didn’t even pretend to feel guilty about it. You both went out for pasta—her favorite place, the one with the mismatched chairs and the faded mural on the back wall. The waiter already knew your order.

You already knew the basics, of course. She’d told you everything over the phone, in a string of late-night calls and voice notes sent during walks to work or while she folded laundry. But face to face, everything hit different. The tone, the pauses, the way her hands moved when she talked. It all filled in the spaces her words had left empty.

She told you about the divorce—not dramatically, just plainly.

Yes, it was real. Yes, it was happening. But no, it wasn’t awful. They were still friends, weirdly. Comfortably, even.

You liked Luca. Everyone did. He had a warm, easy energy and a really nice laugh. Emma had met him on a summer vacation a few years ago—something casual at first, then not casual at all. It had been fast, she told you once, in that breathless way people do when they’re still stunned by their own feelings.

He was kind. Charming. Funny in the kind of way that didn’t try too hard.

But it hadn’t worked out. Not because they fought. Not because they stopped loving each other. But because of something bigger, something she couldn’t control, something neither of them had the language for at first.

Irreconcilable differences, she said lightly, sipping her wine. Then she clarified, smiling in that half-sad, half-resigned way she had: irreconcilable differences being that he fell in love with the Michael, the bartender at the place they used to go to every other friday. The place where he went more often than she did.

It hadn’t been messy, at least not in the external sense. No shouting. No broken plates across kitchen counters. Just quiet revelations and truths that had been waiting patiently beneath the surface.

She said she wasn’t angry. Not really. More shocked than anything. There’d been signs, small ones, that she’d ignored. Not out of naivety, but maybe out of self-preservation. You understood that. Completely.

And when he finally told her—haltingly, kindly, honestly—she had listened. She had nodded. She had said it was okay, even if it wasn’t. Because she loved him.

You took her to one of those rage rooms on the edge of town. The kind where you wear safety goggles and throw ceramic plates against concrete walls. You both paid extra to smash an old television with a baseball bat.

You screamed until your voice cracked. She laughed so hard she had to sit down. It wasn’t therapy exactly, but it helped. It was something.

And that night, when you lay side by side in bed, hair still wet from the shower, your fingers brushing in the dark, she whispered, “I think I’m going to be okay.” And you believed her.

Emma was doing better now. You could see it in the way she moved around your living room, humming absently while waiting for the kettle, not checking her phone every five minutes. Luca had been out of the house for a couple of months, and the divorce, as far as divorces went, was being kind. Quiet. Almost courteous. Like two people respectfully folding their shared history into neat piles and placing it in separate drawers.

He hadn’t said anything about Michael and their relationship status—not explicitly. And she hadn’t asked. That was part of the new understanding between them: leave certain truths alone. Let them breathe in their own time.

His family still didn’t know. She said that with a shrug, like it was someone else’s problem to solve. Maybe it was.

That night, the plan had been to go out for drinks. A real friday outing, just the two of you, reclaiming your twenties like responsible women who still owned good heels. But somewhere between deciding where to go and actually leaving the house, you ended up under a blanket in bed, her phone screen glowing against the sheets. A tiktok was playing softly on her phone—something about baked chicken with cream and garlic—and neither of you moved to pause it. You fell asleep like that. Her phone still in her hand.

The next morning, you woke to a text from Benny.

[Ben]: Birthday celebration. Tonight at Ogham. Last minute, so sorry if you already have plans, Santi told me you'd probably be busy. No worries!!!

You read it aloud while Emma stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like it had personally wronged her. She was wearing a pale blue robe, the fluffy kind that made her look like a very elegant cloud. Her hair was messy but artfully so, a short blond cut that would’ve looked awkward on almost anyone else but framed her face like it had been designed specifically for her cheekbones.

“I think we should go,” she said, without looking up, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

“You think?” you asked, skeptical. “I thought you wanted us to go out dancing. A proper club night.”

“I did. But I think I’d rather go to Ogham now,” she said, lifting her mug toward her mouth, one eyebrow raised. “Frankie’s going to be there, isn’t he?”

“I guess so.”

“Then... let’s go.”

You gave her a look, unimpressed. “I’m not sure.”

“But it’s Benny’s birthday! We like Benny!”

“Oh, you definitely like Benny.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be like that. Can’t a girl look at someone?”

You laughed, opened your mouth to respond, but she cut you off before you could.

“And don’t even try to turn this around on me,” she added smoothly. “You know Frankie’s going.”

“I know. I just don’t know if he actually wants me there.”

“I think he was pretty clear when he told you not to stay away.”

You exhaled loudly, let your head drop back as you leaned further against the counter. The marble edge pressed into your lower back. Something about the discomfort felt appropriate.

“How clear, though?” you muttered. “Honestly, every time I replay the conversation in my head, it gets blurrier. Like, the more I think about it, the less I actually understand.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because he spent most of the conversation listing all the reasons he shouldn’t be near me. And then, like, right after that, he kissed me. Just... he kissed me. And I’m left wondering what the hell I was supposed to take from that.”

Emma closed her eyes and gave a small nod, thoughtful. You’d already walked her through the entire thing the day before, over half-eaten pasta and the last glass of wine. Right after she told you about seeing Luca again—with his lawyer, no less.

“I mean, it sounded like a last kiss,” she said eventually. “Like something you do when you know it’s the last time. Which is kind of romantic, if you think about it in a tragic, messy sort of way.”

“I guess. But I don’t know if I’d call it romantic. It felt more like emotional whiplash. Like... what does he expect from me now? He kisses me, walks away like he’s done with it, and then just vanishes.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but not at you. More like at the general emotional incompetence of the male species.

“I already told you. He’s probably spiraling. I mean, remember how he acted after the wedding? The whole thing where he said he didn’t talk about it because he assumed you forgot? That wasn’t chill. That was full-blown internal meltdown. He’s probably lying in bed somewhere, overanalyzing some ridiculous thing.”

You tried not to smile, but your mouth gave you away.

“Or,” you offered, “he’s just being logical about it. Maybe he’s finally sticking to the boundaries we talked about. Maybe now that we have no excuse to be in each other’s lives—no wedding, no birthday party—he doesn’t see a reason to stay close.”

“I thought he was going to help you with the list?”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Right. The list. You mean the one that includes kissing a stranger and the New Year’s kiss?”

She smirked into her coffee. “That’s the one.”

“Yeah, I don’t see either of those things happening anytime soon.”

“What about the rest of it?” she asked. “The non-kissing parts.”

“There are a few things left,” you admitted. “But we haven’t talked about any of it. Not since.”

“Well, maybe the ‘kiss a stranger’ part is closer than you think,” Emma said, tilting her head toward you, raising her brows with theatrical enthusiasm. “We’re going to a bar tonight, remember? And it’s saturday. Statistically speaking, that place is going to be full of very attractive, emotionally unavailable men.”

You made a face. “Oh, yeah. Everyone's going to be there. My brother’s going to be there.”

Emma rolled her eyes like this was the most irrelevant detail you could have offered.

“Santi’s practically middle-aged, all of them are, and you’re almost thirty. Your knees pop when you stand up too fast. What are you, thirteen? He’s not going to care.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Okay, fair. But still, not happening—”

She cut you off. “That whole thing about Santi? It’s kind of a childish excuse, if you think about it.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The Frankie excuse,” she said, with a small shrug. “The one where he says, oh, you’re his best friend’s sister so it’s all off-limits or whatever. Like, okay, sure. But also, what does that even mean?”

You sighed. “I don’t know. It’s not that it’s bad exactly, but it feels... off. If things went south, it would be uncomfortable. A mess.”

Emma looked at you like she was trying to be patient, but barely succeeding.

“Babe, you guys already hated each other for, like, multiple years. You once threw a dart at his actual head. And now you’re worried it might get awkward? We’ve already been to weird. We set up camp in weird.”

“That was different.”

She smirked. “You two are addicted to excuses. It’s almost romantic in how tragic it is. Like, see, there’s an attempt at honesty. But it’s half-hearted. ”

“Okay, Atticus Finch,” you snorted.

Emma set her coffee down on the counter and turned to face you more directly, her expression suddenly more serious.

“Alright, what if I went out with Santi?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean, hypothetically,” she said, tilting her head with mock innocence. “Say something... unexpected happened. Would that bother you?”

You pressed your lips together, unsure whether to laugh or actually consider the question.

“Well... first of all, he’s engaged.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Yes, obviously. I said hypothetically. If none of that were true. What would you think?”

“I—I don’t know. I think it’d feel kind of strange, I guess. You’re my best friend. My person. It’d be like two parts of my life suddenly... touching in a way they weren’t supposed to.”

“Would it bother you?”

“Maybe a little. I think I’d feel... weird about it, at first.”

Emma nodded like she was filing that information away.

“Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. There’s a difference between ‘this would be strange’ and ‘this can’t happen.’ You know?”

“I think so.”

“But you’d accept it,” Emma pressed.

“I guess I would.”

“Why?”

You exhaled, your arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“I dunno. Because I love you both, maybe?” You lifted your shoulders, more in question than statement. “I mean, I’d hate it if you turned into one of those people who completely change when they start dating someone and suddenly start leaking your friends’ secrets over wine.”

Emma gasped, hand to heart. “I would never.”

“I know,” you said, smiling despite yourself.

She tilted her head. “So? It wouldn’t really bother you. You’d get used to it. Eventually. Sooner or later.”

“Yeah. Okay. Probably. But why are we even talking about this anyway?”

“Because,” she said, with the slightly smug tone of someone who had been quietly assembling an argument and had just reached her favorite part, “I think Santi would say exactly the same thing. You two—God help us—you’re very alike. Which is precisely why I think what Frankie said is just a really well constructed excuse.”

“He never actually said Santi would disapprove. He said he felt weird about it. That he didn’t know how to navigate it. And anyway, that wasn’t even the main reason he brought up.” Your voice softened. “There were... other things.”

“I know,” Emma said, hands up in mock surrender. “And those things are valid, okay? I’m not saying they’re not. I’m just saying... he’s hiding behind the most convenient reason because it’s easier than admitting something else.”

You looked down at the tiled floor, the words catching somewhere between your chest and throat.

“Well,” you muttered, “you’ve made your point.”

“Thank you. I do try.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “I missed you.”

Emma's face softened into something honest and unguarded.

“I missed you, too.” she said. “Good thing we’re friends, and that I’ll be by your side tonight. In fact, I packed a super cute dress that I’m really hoping to wear. It’s got, like, criminal levels of leg.”

“Oh, I’m sure Benny will appreciate that.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Ha, ha. The pot calling the kettle black.”

“Mmm, the old Ogham’s fries,” Emma said as the two of you stepped inside, her hand pressing against the bar door.

The bar was packed. Conversations overlapped in warm bursts, threading themselves into the clatter of plates and the low hum of music playing from unseen speakers. Yellow-gold pendant lights floated above each table like small suns, casting soft pools of light that made everything look a little kinder, warmer. The exposed brick walls were cluttered with vintage beer ads and fading whiskey posters, all half-charming, half-forgotten. 

You hadn’t given much thought to what you were going to wear. Emma had insisted on a few outfits—held them up with dramatic gestures and persuasive arguments—but in the end, you went with a black skirt and a fitted black tee. Simple. Uncomplicated. You did let her do your makeup, though. Something subtle, she’d said, brushing color onto your cheeks. Just enough to bring out your beautiful features.

“They’re in the back,” you said, already looking past the tables, even though the view was fractured—shoulders, raised glasses, blur of motion. You reached out and took Emma’s arm.

“I’m ordering fries the second we sit down,” she whispered.

You walked forward slowly, weaving through the narrow aisles. Benny spotted you first. He lifted a hand in greeting, grin already forming on his face.

“Hey!” he called. “Must be my lucky day.”

You smiled back instinctively, even as your eyes swept the rest of the table. Will was in the corner seat, leaning into his beer. Next to him, Benny, then your brother—who was already rising to greet Emma—and Yov, who met your glance with an easy smile. Tom wasn’t there. You remembered he was out of town for work. And Frankie—no sign of him. You weren’t sure if that absence meant anything. Maybe he was late. Maybe he’d decided not to come.

You gave everyone a quick hello and slid into the empty seat beside Yov. Benny was in rare form, practically glowing. He insisted it had nothing to do with his birthday. According to him, it was the win that mattered.

“Billy Spears,” he said, raising his glass, “talked more shit than anyone I’ve met in a ring. Said I’d be down in the first round. That I didn’t have the heart for it.” His voice curled into something close to laughter.

Will chuckled. “You taught him a lesson. That much I believe.”

Benny nodded, still smiling, his knuckles red and fading to purple at the edges.

“Four rounds,” he said, almost to himself. “Twenty minutes of him trying to take my head off. He didn’t land anything clean. Not once. He’ll think twice before running his mouth next time.”

He kept talking, something about the final clinch or how the ref had almost called it early, but your attention slipped. You rested your chin in your hand, elbow braced on the table, and let the noise of your friends wash over you like static. You weren’t really listening. You were thinking about who wasn’t there—and wondering why it mattered.

“Everything okay?” Yov asked, her voice low. “What have you two been up to?”

Emma shifted closer, the side of her arm brushing yours as she leaned in.

“Talking,” she said, and her eyes flicked between you and Yov. “Talking is never enough. Honestly, I could talk forever and still feel like I haven’t said half of what I meant to.”

Yov laughed, the sound genuine.

“You’re one of mine,” she said, like that explained everything. “How long are you here for?”

“Just until tomorrow. It’s a short visit. I have to get back to work.”

“But you missed Austin?”

“I missed everyone. Family. Friends. I’m not even that far away, but distance does its thing anyway.”

You took a small step back. Yov’s attention stayed on Emma.

“It’s the daily things, right?” Emma said. “Even when the drive isn’t long, it still feels like a whole production. There’s no room for the unplanned anymore.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Yov nodded. “I used to make last-minute plans with people all the time. Now I have to book something two weeks in advance, and even then it might fall through.”

“Yeah, well,” Emma added, mostly to herself, “life tends to get in the way.”

Yov gave a small sigh, like she was admitting something without saying it directly.

“It does. I’ve got a routine now, and I like it, mostly. But sometimes I miss being able to just say, ‘Hey, meet me in an hour,’ and know it could actually happen.”

Santi turned around in his seat at that. “What do you miss?”

You laughed lightly, pushing your chair back in that awkward, careful way people do when they’re trying not to interrupt anything.

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you said, already half-standing. You looked at Emma. “Want me to order your fries?”

She nodded, still smiling up at you from her seat. “Yeah—do you want me to come?”

“No,” you said, your hand already brushing the back of your chair. “Stay. I’ll be back in a second.”

But a second had stretched into something longer. Not dramatically so, just enough that you noticed it. You were still at the bar, your back lightly pressed against the stool, one elbow resting on the counter as you waited—first patiently, then just passively—for your drink and the cheddar fries Emma had been craving.

The place had a menu designed to satisfy people who ordered with beer already in hand. Everything felt intentionally greasy and generous. Good for soaking up alcohol. On saturdays, though, even the kitchen struggled to keep pace. And ever since The Crow had closed for renovations, Ogham had absorbed the spillover crowd. It was louder now, more chaotic. A sort of charming disorder, if you were in the mood for it.

Grian caught your eye from behind the bar. He was mixing a drink with the weary rhythm of someone who's already halfway through a long night. He gave you a look that said “I know, I know” without saying a word. You liked him. He was tall and had pale ocean eyes. He always wore cool graphic tees. Tonight, his shirt read: I hate Woody Allen. 

“Your food’ll be up in a sec,” he said, tone apologetic as he slid your gin and tonic toward you. His smile was almost embarrassed.

You nodded and gave him a small smile in return, dipping your head slightly in that way you did when you were trying not to make someone feel worse for something out of their control.

“No worries.”

You reached for your purse, your fingers brushing the zipper just as the bar door opened behind you. Just a flicker of motion. You didn’t even hear it, not over the music and the voices, but you felt it—a small shift in the room’s atmosphere. Some part of your mind, the part that noticed things before you let yourself notice them, turned toward it.

Your eyes followed a beat later. The door had swung closed again. And he was there.

Frankie.

White t-shirt, dark pants. No cap tonight. No jacket, either. You saw him and then, just as quickly, looked away. Back to the counter. Back to Grian, who was holding your glass a little closer to you now, like he wasn’t sure you were really present.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You nodded, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” You took the drink, brought it to your lips. “Tastes great. As always.”

He grinned at the compliment, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Thanks. Sorry for the wait. I’m on my own tonight. Kat's in the kitchen.” He gestured vaguely behind him, where the chaos of orders buzzed from the kitchen. “Can you believe it? On a saturday.”

“Where’s Bianca?”

“She quit,” he said, grabbing another glass from the shelf. “Had a fight with—”

But you’d stopped listening.

Because Frankie was somewhere behind you now, in the room. And even though you weren’t looking, you knew exactly where he was standing.

“Hey, Morales,” came a voice from behind you. Male. Confident in that casual, too-familiar way. You didn’t recognize it.

You turned slightly, just enough to see. A man, maybe in his forties, with a receding hairline and cool red prescription glasses. He clapped Frankie on the back, and he greeted him easily, a handshake and a half-laugh, like this sort of thing happened to him all the time. 

You turned back to Grian, catching his eye again.

“That’s too bad,” you said. “I like Bianca.”

He made a face—part shrug, part agreement. “Everyone likes Bianca. But Tim's a jerk.”

You raised your eyebrows. Grian, sensing your curiosity, leaned in slightly like he couldn’t help himself.

“She wanted to go take care of her mom. Something in L.A.—family stuff. Last weekend.”

You nodded.

“Tim told her no,” he continued. “Said she had to be here. She told him to fuck off, more or less. He threatened to fire her, so she saved him the trouble.”

You exhaled through your nose.

“Anyway, we don’t get paid enough to put up with this shit,” Grian added. “I’m thinking of just stealing liquor at this point. Like, genuinely. One bottle at a time.”

You laughed. “Start with the Jameson. That one’s mine.”

He gave you a mock salute, but before he could respond, a voice came from just beside you.

“First wine and champagne, now whiskey,” he said, with something like amusement tucked under the words. “You’re turning it into an art.”

You didn’t turn around right away. The voice was low, smooth, unmistakably his. Your pulse jumped once.

Then, slowly, you let your gaze shift, your shoulders following.

Frankie stood beside you. His hand was resting casually on the edge of the bar, the other on the back of your stool like it had landed there by accident. He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close enough that you felt the heat of him in the space between.

His t-shirt clung a little to his chest, and his skin looked flushed from the walk or the weight of the room or maybe something else. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, and under the flickering bar lights they caught the glow—like sparks rising too fast from a match.

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re late, Dante.”

Grian paused to glance between you and Frankie. “Should I get the first aid kit ready?”

Frankie didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on you, the corners creased just slightly. “No, but I’ll take a beer.”

Grian gave a little shrug. “On it,” he muttered, already turning away.

A small exhale left your chest, almost inaudible.

You opened your mouth, ready to ask how he’d been. About his week. About what had kept him busy or distracted or too preoccupied to send a message. But before a single syllable left your lips, he spoke.

“I could smell your perfume when I walked in,” he said, voice quiet enough that only you could hear it.

You tilted your head, intrigued. “I hope that’s a good thing. Some people have very strong opinions about perfume.”

“It’s good.” He wasn’t smiling but his expression had softened. “I like yours.” Then, after a beat, he added, “I smelled you before I saw you.”

You let out a short laugh, raising your glass toward your mouth again. “That sounds like something a well-trained dog would say.”

He actually laughed at that—low, unguarded.

“How long’ve you been here?” he asked.

“Do you mean at the bar or waiting?”

“Both.”

You sipped your gin and tonic again, letting it linger before answering. “I got here nearly an hour ago. Been waiting… thirty minutes, maybe more.”

He took a moment to scan the room. “It’s packed.”

“It is. The guys are in the back.”

“I figured. You came with Emma, right?”

You nodded, smiling now, almost involuntarily. You weren’t sure when his voice had started to do that to you.

Grian returned, setting a beer in front of Frankie. Almost immediately after, a plate of cheddar fries appeared beside you, steaming and glowing faintly in the low amber light.

You stood up, the legs of the stool scraping softly against the floor. Frankie reached for the plate before you could, holding it carefully.

“I’ve got it,” he said, and you looked at him for a second longer than you meant to, then followed him through the crowded bar.

You made your way back to the table, weaving through the mess of chairs and limbs and low laughter. Frankie moved ahead of you, greeting Benny with a hug that involved too much back-slapping to be casual. Emma caught your eye as you approached, her expression bright with unspoken commentary. Her mouth curved up, conspiratorial. You could practically hear the teasing words she hadn’t said yet.

You sank into the seat beside her. Almost immediately, her fingers found your forearm, tapping once, then staying there, her touch unhidden.

Frankie took the seat across the table, one spot over—not directly in front of you, but close enough that you became aware of his presence each time he shifted in his seat or lifted his glass. His gaze drifted past you occasionally, never lingering, never quite settling. Still, you felt the flicker of it every time.

Two hours passed this way. A blur of drinks appearing and being drained, plates stacking up in the middle of the table like lazy little mountains of comfort food. At some point, four more plates of fries had arrived—no one had actually agreed on ordering them, but no one had stopped it either. You were already on your second gin and tonic.

The conversation at one end of the table had splintered into something you only half-registered. Will was explaining something about a car he was working on—something about a part he couldn’t track down, maybe something to do with a carburetor, though you weren’t sure what a carburetor even looked like.

On your side, Emma had shifted her full attention to Yov and Santi. She was asking about the wedding—venue, dress, guest list—and Yov, for her part, answered with the kind of practiced cheer people use when they’ve been asked the same questions too many times. Her fingers played with the edge of her napkin as she spoke, a little nervous.

You leaned in to hear them better, but your mind kept wandering. To the weight of Frankie’s presence at the edge of your vision. To the warmth of Emma’s hand still near yours. To the fizzing sensation in your stomach. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair, letting your gaze wander around the bar, detached from the thread of conversation at the table. There was something soothing about observing other people living their lives—temporary characters in a play you weren’t invited to join. At one table, a woman tilted her head, laughing, her mouth open too wide, one hand resting possessively on the arm of the man beside her. At another, two friends spoke directly into each other’s ears, their voices drowned by the music. Just to your right, a couple was mid-argument—low-voiced and tightly contained, the woman’s expression tight, her hand slicing the air with every sentence.

Your eyes landed on Grian at the bar. He looked mildly distressed, his brows drawn together as he listened to a man gesturing wildly in front of him, as though urgency alone would guarantee better service. Grian’s hands were on the bar, long fingers tapping against the wood, waiting for a break in the monologue.

“... but I know that's because she likes Fish,” Will said suddenly, pulling you back to the present.

You didn’t turn your head right away. Your ears tuned in instinctively to the rhythm of Will’s voice, but your eyes stayed fixed on Grian—on the way he finally reached for a glass, as if grateful to have something to do with his hands.

The guys laughed, that light, familiar cadence of friends teasing each other.

“I told you it was just a matter of time,” Benny added, grinning around the rim of his drink.

“That… that’s not true,” Frankie murmured. The tone of his voice was quiet, uncharacteristically so.

Will leaned forward a little, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I offered to take her home, she said no. But with him? Tam didn’t even blink.”

Something tightened inside your chest. It was so slight, it barely registered—like your body skipped a beat only to recover by beating twice as hard. You glanced toward Frankie. He was rubbing his temple, elbow on the table, eyes trained on Will with a tired sort of focus. Your cheeks grew warm.

“I just took her home, that’s all,” Frankie said. His gaze flicked toward you. A second, maybe less. But it was enough.

“Hers or yours?” Benny grinned.

“Man, fuck off.” Frankie’s voice cracked a little under the weight of it. His face flushed, and he dropped his hand from his temple to fold both arms tightly across his chest. “You always do this.”

Santi was laughing.

“Right, leave him alone,” he said, looking from one to the other, clearly gearing up. “He’s not exactly a free agent anymore, is he?”

Will raised his eyebrows, smiling. “What, is he married to a cockpit now?”

There was a pause—small, fractured—and then Santi just came out with it.

“He’s like, like my brother-in-law now,” he said, tipping his head toward you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “This son of a bitch is dating my little sister.”

Yov’s face lit up with amusement. She turned to look at you, her cheeks tinged pink, lips parting like she was about to ask something—though she didn’t.

Will and Benny burst into laughter, their reactions immediate and slightly performative, like they thought it was a joke. A ridiculous, funny story. But after a few seconds, the sound tapered off. Their faces stilled. The mood shifted by degrees. It was in the way their smiles froze, how their eyes flitted between you and Frankie like they weren’t quite sure what they were looking at now. Was it a joke?

Frankie didn’t say anything. He just shook his head slightly, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes were on you. You didn’t meet them. But you felt them. The way one feels heat even when there’s no visible flame.

You smiled, just a little—tight-lipped, like you were amused in theory but not particularly entertained. You looked at Santi instead, not needing to say anything at all. There was something deeply satisfying about letting the silence stretch.

No denial. No clarification.

Will’s eyes widened gradually, disbelief taking up space in his expression. “Dude. Are you serious?”

"No, he isn't," Benny said, half-laughing. 

Santi raised his glass. “Ask Helena. She’s thrilled.” He drank, and beside him, Yov reached over and smacked his arm, not too hard, but enough to say, what the hell are you doing?

“There’s no way you’re not joking,” Benny said.

“I always knew there was something there,” Will added, pointing at Frankie with narrowed eyes, grinning like he’d just uncovered a well-kept secret. “Right from the get-go.”

Benny looked at you then, frowning slightly. “You threw a dart at him once.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You gave me the dart.”

“I remember the dart,” Will said, shifting in his seat to face Frankie more directly. “You remember the dart, Fish?”

Frankie exhaled hard through his nose and covered his face with one hand. When he pulled his hand away, his cheeks were flushed and there was a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, I remember the dart. Still got the damn scar.” He pointed just above his brow, where the skin had once split open under the wrong end of a bad decision. He glanced at you for a second—not bitter.

“That was the crush,” Santi said casually.

Benny turned to you again, then looked at Frankie, bewildered.

“Are you kidding? That logic—‘if you hate each other, you secretly love each other’—works on tv, right, sure. But not with you two.”

Frankie laughed quietly, without looking up.

“Call my mom,” he said. “Ask her what she thinks.”

Benny shook his head, eyes wide. “No. No way.”

“You want to date my little sister too, Ben?” Santi asked, tilting his head in Benny’s direction with mock suspicion. “You’re starting to sound a little too invested.”

Emma groaned dramatically next to you and covered her face.

“Please don’t take this away from me,” Benny said, leaning forward again, his eyes exaggeratedly mournful. “Watching you tease Frankie is one of the only joys I have left. I’ve got more darts. I can restock.”

“I’m sorry, Benny,” you said, lifting your shoulders in a resigned shrug. “It is what it is.”

“Shit, Fish, tell that to Tam, then,” Will said, his tone flattening slightly as he looked across the table at Frankie.

Tam. You blinked. Who the hell was Tam? Why were they suddenly talking about her? Had Frankie taken her home? Was that what this was about?

The mood shifted just enough for everyone to feel it. Emma pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, and Yov looked vaguely guilty, like she'd laughed a little too long. Santi just leaned back, watching everything unfold with that unreadable look he wore when he didn’t want to interfere but also couldn’t look away.

“What should I tell her?” Frankie asked, his voice light, lips curved in something that looked like a smirk.

Will turned to you then, as if your reaction had suddenly become important.

“I think he’s free to hang out with whoever he wants,” you said, your voice too even. You turned your head, eyes locking with Frankie’s. “As far as I’m concerned, Francisco, you can do whatever you want. That much is clear.”

Benny shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable now. His earlier jokes had evaporated into a fog of uncertainty.

Frankie was still watching you. “I’m not sure about that.”

You let out a short breath. “Ask Tam.”

Benny turned his confusion into a muttered, “I don’t understand this,” directed at Santi.

Your brother raised his eyebrows and shook his head, offering nothing.

“There’s nothing going on with Tam,” Frankie said. His voice was quieter now, but steady. He leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes not moving from yours. “I just gave her a ride home. It was late.”

You tilted your head. “That’s how it starts.”

You didn’t know if it was the gin and tonic, or the music, or the strange heat blooming under your skin, but everything in you was beginning to feel looser, like your words might start slipping past the filter.

Frankie kept his eyes on you. A full second passed, maybe more. Then: “Do you really—”

“Alright,” Santi cut in suddenly. He held up both palms like a referee in a game no one had agreed to play. “We’re done. I take it back. It was a joke, a dumb one. Not true. None of it.”

You let out a laugh and rolled your eyes. You turned toward Benny and Will, who were both watching you now like you were a page in a language they didn’t speak.

But Frankie’s eyes hadn’t left your face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Benny asked, confused, almost indignant.

Will laughed quietly beside him, like he had only just realized he was also confused.

“It’s not real,” you said, your voice lighter now. You smiled. “Frankie and I aren’t dating. We faked it. That’s all.”

Will blinked. “What? Why?”

Frankie leaned back in his seat, his shoulders sinking a little into the booth. There was a hint of a smile on his face, but it didn’t quite hold—it felt more like muscle memory.

“For convenience,” you said, your voice even. “It’s a long story.” You lifted your glass and took a sip that felt like punctuation.

“My family still thinks it’s real,” Frankie added, his eyes scanning the table. “So if you run into any of them, I’d appreciate it if you just… didn’t say anything.”

Benny let out a short laugh, disbelieving. “Right—why?”

“Jesus, man,” Frankie said, exhaling sharply. “I’ll explain later. It’s not some big dramatic thing. It just is.”

Will slumped against the back of his chair with an exaggerated sigh, folding his arms across his chest like a sulky teenager.

“Well. That’s disappointing. I had hopes, you know.”

Santi made a strangled sound in his throat. “You really thought this would actually work out?”

Will gave him a look. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Yov cut in, shrugging as she swirled the last of the ice in her glass. “Unless your only objection is that he’s your friend. Which, okay, fine. But opposites attract, baby.”

Santi narrowed his eyes like he was personally offended by the phrase.

“Not in their world.” He turned toward you then, leveling you with the kind of look only older brothers can get away with—half teasing, half invasive. “Besides, I’m pretty sure your type is more like, like brooding academic or something like that. The ones who look like they teach ethics at liberal arts colleges and that shit.”

You let out a breathy laugh, somewhere between surprised and exasperated. “What are you even talking about?”

Santi was already laughing, his face flushed with alcohol and mischief.

“Come on, you know what I mean. Like your new guy. What’s his name again? That one you’ve been hanging around with lately.”

Emma perked up beside you, clearly enjoying the new direction. “Oh, right. Bill?”

“Bill. That’s the guy,” Santi said, nodding like he’d cracked some sort of code.

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

“He’s not my guy, and he’s definitely not a brooding academic, if that’s what you were picturing.”

You could feel Emma grinning next to you without even looking.

“Well, he’s very attentive,” she said, turning her words to Santi but clearly directing them at you. “And, I mean, he sells coffee. That’s like... ideal, if you’re someone who sells books.”

“I don’t know about ideal,” your brother said. “But his donuts are damn good.”

“Bill who?” Benny asked, glancing between the two of you with genuine confusion.

“He owns the coffee shop next to the bookstore,” you explained, feeling suddenly very aware of how small your voice sounded in the room.

“He’s really cute,” Emma added, despite never having met him. “He’s doing renovations right now, and she’s helping him out.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t correct her. “He just wants to add a little library area. Somewhere people can sit, read and, yeah, just that. He asked if I could help him pick out some books. Maybe design the shelves, that sort of thing. That's it.”

There was a small pause, just long enough for your face to betray you again, your cheeks warming.

From across the table, Frankie shifted. He was half in shadow, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze found you and didn’t let go. There was something unreadable in his expression. Maybe a smirk trying not to be a smirk. You weren’t sure.

“That’s sweet,” Yov said. “Yup. I get it. I see the appeal.”

“And he has a little daughter,” Emma added like she was dropping the final piece of the puzzle. “She loves to read too, apparently. I mean, come on.”

You exhaled, more sharply than you meant to. “I’m just helping out. That’s all it is.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Well, he’s lovely. And he clearly likes you.”

You shot her a warning look. “Emma.”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

“I’m thinking I’d like more free donuts,” Santi muttered under his breath.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Yov laughed.

“I think Bill is exactly what you need,” Emma said, her voice pitched slightly higher, like she wanted to make sure everyone could hear her.

You turned to look at her, eyebrows drawn together in a way that felt automatic, like your body was trying to shield itself from where this was going.

She went on, undeterred. “A man who knows what he wants. Someone with actual follow-through. Who doesn’t play games. Who’s not afraid to show you how he feels.”

There was a beat of silence—something in the air growing taut, or maybe just your own pulse pressing hard behind your ears.

Frankie stood abruptly. “I’m gonna grab a drink. Anyone want anything?” His voice was calm.

Nobody answered. Or maybe a few people shook their heads, you weren’t really paying attention. He pushed back his chair and stood. Then he turned, and walked off in the direction of the bar.

There was something in the way he moved. A tired walk. You tried not to follow him with your eyes, but you did.

Thankfully, Will spoke up, saying something about Bianca not being there tonight. You latched onto the change of subject the way someone might grab the edge of a table during an earthquake—knowing it won’t help much, but needing something to hold on to. It was obvious he was fishing for sympathy, or maybe absolution. According to what Santi had told you, there had been something between them. Casual, inconsistent, but still something.

Still, your thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Your gaze wandered to the bar. Frankie was standing there, leaning into it with one elbow, his body slightly hunched. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just staring at something in front of him you couldn’t see. Grian, behind the bar, was finally moving like someone at ease, as if the worst part of the night had passed.

You hadn’t seen Frankie in nearly two weeks. Fourteen days where the thought of him would drift in and out —at the sink, at work, just before sleep. You wondered if he’d been working too much. If he was taking care of himself. If Helena had asked about you. If he’d told her anything at all.

And the only thing you’d learned about him in all that time was that he'd apparently been driving Tam around. That—and the fact that Will seemed to think she liked him.

You looked down at your hands, resting in your lap, and suddenly wished you had something to do with them. 

You had no right to feel anything. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a fact, like something printed in a textbook or carved into stone. He’d been clear, hadn’t he? He couldn’t have that kind of relationship. Not with you. And maybe that was the part you’d skipped over—the with you. As if the problem wasn’t in the thing itself, but in the person he might share it with. Maybe it wasn’t relationships he was avoiding. Just the one that included you.

That thought lodged somewhere deep, somewhere soft. It made your stomach feel unsettled, like the air had shifted slightly and now everything was just a little off balance.

You hated that. Hated the way your body betrayed you over something that, by all definitions, was nothing. Because what even was this? It wasn’t real. It wasn’t defined. He hadn’t promised you anything, hadn’t even implied it. And yet here you were, trying not to think about what it would mean if he looked at someone else the way he sometimes looked at you.

Emma’s voice pulled you out of your own head. “Hey, wanna go to the bathroom?”

You nodded wordlessly, grateful for something to do, and followed her through the press of people standing near the pool tables, their voices loud and overlapping like waves hitting the same shore.

The bathroom was cooler, quieter. Emma closed the door behind you with her hip and turned toward the mirror, digging into her purse.

“Why didn’t you go with it?” she asked, glancing at you through the reflection.

“What?”

“Bill. Why didn’t you play along? It was working. You could’ve just said you liked him too.”

You leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely across your chest. “What did you want me to say? That I’m in love with him?”

Emma laughed quietly, smoothing a fresh coat of gloss over her bottom lip. “You didn’t have to lie. Just... lean into it a little. It was making him mad.”

You frowned. “Huh?”

She looked at you through the mirror again, meeting your eyes this time. “Frankie.”

Your chest pulled tight, like the air had been snatched out of the room too fast.

“He looked pissed,” she said, turning to face you now. “Not jealous-jealous, but... you know. Close.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were trying not to feel the thing you were already feeling.

“I don’t think that’s why. He was already upset before the Bill thing.”

Emma frowned, tugging at a piece of hair near her temple. “Yeah? Why?”

You shrugged. “Because of the guys. Because Santi opened his mouth and made the whole fake-dating thing sound like a joke. Tam, probably.”

“Who even is Tam? Do you know her?”

You gave a tiny shake of your head, almost embarrassed by the answer.

“No. Not really.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Well, it shouldn’t bother you anyway,” she said lightly, but then her tone sharpened just a touch. “Still. I know a jealous man when I see one.”

You scoffed, looking down at the floor tiles. “Frankie’s not jealous. He was the one who tried to convince me Bill was into me. When we went skydiving.”

“Okay, but that was before you told him how you felt.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

She let out a small, frustrated sound and rubbed her temples like you’d given her a migraine.

“You are infuriating. Like, truly. I love you, but you make me want to scream into a throw pillow.”

You gave her a crooked smile, something caught between guilt and defensiveness.

Emma checked her reflection again, smoothing down her dress and fixing a small smudge near her eye.

“Come with me to the bar, will you?”

You squinted. “You want another drink?” It wasn’t accusatory, just surprised—Emma wasn’t a big drinker. Two beers, that was usually her limit.

“Yeah,” she said with a grin that felt just a little too rehearsed. “I’m feeling festive.”

You stepped out of the bathroom together. Bowie’s China Girl was playing on the speakers, a little distorted through the sound system. The air was thick with the layered scent of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and deep-fried potatoes.

Emma grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd. Frankie was still at the bar, leaning against it. When he saw you approach, he shifted—barely.

You slipped into the space beside him, Emma sliding in between you.

“Emma,” Frankie said, his voice low and even. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, cocking her head, playful. “Though the sound of your car’s hood slamming shut is still echoing through my skull.”

Frankie let out a soft laugh and made a half-dismissive gesture. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” she said with a smile that softened just slightly. “I hear you’re redeeming yourself.”

“I’m trying.”

Before you could say anything, a voice called out from somewhere behind you, and Emma’s hand was instantly on your shoulder.

“Oh my God, Devon!” she said, and turned toward the voice like it was magnetic. Then she glanced at you, amused and breathless. “Tragic, I know, but I have to go say hi. Order me a beer, okay?”

She winked before disappearing into the crowd, her pace just fast enough to suggest she was escaping something.

You stayed where you were, eyes flicking toward Frankie. He didn’t speak right away, but he didn’t move either. Just stood there, the space between your arms barely an inch. 

Grian came over and placed Frankie’s drink in front of him, the glass catching a glint of amber under the overhead light. You gave him Emma's order without looking up. Just a beer.

“Santi is drunk,” Frankie said. His voice was neutral.

You nodded, fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “I noticed.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment. The bar hummed around you—music, laughter, a burst of ice clattering into a metal bin. You watched the way your nails pressed against your palm, the thin crescent marks they left behind. Frankie exhaled beside you. Not loud, not theatrical. He shifted his weight.

You turned to look at him.

His jaw was tight. Not clenched, but contained. He wasn’t watching you—his eyes were fixed on the bottles behind the bar, neat rows of color and glass and labels. His brows weren’t furrowed, but there was tension in the corners of his mouth.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He glanced down at you then. His eyes dark. “You want to get out of here?”

“What?”

He turned toward you more fully now, eyes scanning your face with something like uncertainty.

“If you want to leave. With me.”

He sounded earnest, a little hesitant—like maybe the words had gotten ahead of him. Your lips twitched with a hint of a smile, the kind you didn’t mean to show. 

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He looked over his shoulder toward the table where the others were sitting. “Wherever you want.”

You followed his gaze. Santi was leaning dramatically against Benny’s shoulder, mid-laugh. Yov was talking animatedly with someone you didn’t recognize. Will looked tired but was laughing anyway.

“What about them?” you asked.

Frankie turned back to you.

“They’re drunk,” he said simply. “And a little unbearable, to be honest.”

“And you don’t care if they see us leave together?”

“No,” he said, shrugging. “I think they already made up their minds about us. Impossible, they said.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “And Emma? I’m not leaving her here alone.”

His lips curved slightly. “So that’s a yes.”

“What?”

“That you want to come with me.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just turned to look at Emma again, now laughing at something Devon was saying. Her body language was loose, comfortable.

You looked back at Frankie, raising your index finger. “Give me a second.”

He nodded, watching you walk away.

When you reached Emma, she looked up with a knowing expression already blooming on her face.

“So?” she asked. “What did he say?”

“He asked me if I wanted to leave with him.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Go,” she said, waving her hand. “I’m fine. Devon’s driving me home soon. And I have the spare key in my bag.”

You touched her arm. “Text me when you get in?”

“Obviously.”

When you returned to the bar, Frankie was sipping from his glass while Grian spoke to him about a fight that had broken out the night before. He nodded at something Grian said, then turned when he saw you.

“Okay,” you said simply. “I’ll come with you.”

“You have everything?”

“Yeah, just my bag.”

He finished the last sip of his drink and set the glass down. “Alright. Let’s go.”

He pushed off the bar and gave a nod toward the exit. Grian gave you a small, knowing smile. You waved at him, your hand lifting instinctively, and then you followed Frankie toward the door.

Outside, the air had shifted—lighter now, cooler. It wasn’t particularly cold, but it felt cleaner somehow, like a layer of noise had peeled away with the door behind you. Frankie stepped up beside you, his hands tucked into his pockets, close enough that your arms might touch if either of you leaned just slightly to the side.

At the corner, you turned to look at him. The amber streetlights caught in his eyes, making them look brighter than usual. He looked back at you, a tender expression there. Neither of you said anything, and for a moment it felt like those hours in the bar had existed in some other version of reality. This felt like a different moment. Him, here. You, here. No noise. No laughter. No Emma nudging you beneath the table or Santi trying to make a joke.

Out here, he looked different. Or maybe he just looked more like himself. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hand through it too many times. You imagined it would feel soft if you touched it, and then tried not to imagine that.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

You hesitated, but only for show. “Whatever I want?”

“You sound like trouble. Don’t make me steal anything tonight.”

That made you laugh, too quickly. You looked down at your shoes, pretending to consider the question, even though you already knew your answer. The gin still warmed your veins, made you feel bolder than usual, like the version of yourself who didn’t overthink things to death.

You looked up again. “Can we go to your place?”

Frankie smiled—an uneven, vaguely suspicious sort of smile, like you’d just proposed something illegal and mildly intriguing.

“You want to go to my place?”

You nodded, unfazed. “You've been to my place several times. That I can remember. I, on the other hand, have no idea where you live. For all I know, you sleep in your car like a cryptid.”

He tilted his head. “Wow. A cryptid?”

“I said like one. You’re far too clean to be an actual cryptid.”

“Thanks,” he said, deadpan. “Really heartfelt compliment. I’ll treasure it forever.”

"You're welcome."

He laughed, the sound low and genuine, and ran a hand through his hair, which only made it more chaotic than it already was.

“Aha. So this is about fairness,” he said, crossing his arms. “You’re calling me out on a hospitality imbalance.”

“Exactly. Basic domestic justice.”

“Alright. Full disclosure, though—no cat.”

You narrowed your eyes, pretending to reconsider. “That can be arranged. I know a guy.”

He laughed. “You’re gonna get me a cat?”

“I think you should have one,” you said, shrugging. “Otherwise, who do you talk to at 2 am?”

“I talk to my plants.”

You tilted your head, charmed despite yourself. “What do you say to them?”

“Mostly, ‘please don’t die.’ Sometimes I play them old records. I’ve been told it helps. Mai told me, actually.” 

You grinned, already imagining it. Frankie watering plants while Johnny Cash plays in the background.

“Well, I still think the cat’s a good idea anyway.”

Frankie grinned, mouth twitching at the corners like he was trying not to look as pleased as he felt.

“Alright then. Come to my tragic, cat-less apartment and make your judgments.”

“Gladly. But just so you know, if there’s even one lava lamp or a poster of Scarface, I’m walking out.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let you in if I had a lava lamp.”

“Fair,” you said, and the two of you started walking again, your shoulders nearly brushing.

“Don’t fall. Watch out.” Frankie’s hand wrapped around yours as you stepped out of the Uber like he'd done it a hundred times before.

“I’m not going to fall,” you said, frowning at him playfully, though you didn’t pull your hand away.

Then you looked up.

Frankie’s house was—unexpected. Clean lines. Neutral tones. The place stood neat and self-contained at the end of a quiet street. The facade was light wood, almost golden under the porch light, and the gabled roof above it was the color of charcoal. Everything about it looked clean and measured. The symmetry of it was almost uncanny—the central porch framed by white columns, the wide double door with its glass panes catching bits of amber light from inside.

On either side, windows glowed softly, as if someone inside was still awake. But you knew that wasn't true, and that Frankie probably left the lights on to create the false impression that someone was inside. The garage stretched to the left, its doors darker wood, with small square windows at the top like little eyes. The front yard was impossibly tidy. The grass was cut to an even length, the edges trimmed. There were rows of low shrubs and just enough flowers to make it feel like someone cared, but not too much. The path was poured concrete, no cracks, no weeds creeping through.

You stared for a beat too long, and he noticed. “I have a gardener,” Frankie said, his voice close to your ear. You didn’t answer.

He unlocked the door with ease, and then stepped aside to let you in first. You brushed past him, closer than necessary, and he didn’t move.

The room felt too exposed, like something you weren’t supposed to be witnessing. Not because it was messy or chaotic—quite the opposite—but because it was composed in a way that revealed too much. Or maybe it just felt that way because it was Frankie, and you had never really pictured him inside a space like this.

The living room was lit by two lamps, one on each side of a deep gray sofa, casting the kind of glow that made everything look softer than it probably was. The fireplace across from it wasn’t lit, its matte black surface blending into the wall, with a television mounted above it, silent and blank. On the mantel sat two houseplants in identical white ceramic pots, flanking a pair of simple photo frames.

A coffee table, scratched at the edges, stood in front of the sofa. He had left a mug there, half drunk. There was also a book turned face-down and a lighter next to an open pack of cigs. Two armchairs filled the remaining corners of the room. One had a navy cushion, the other black.

The air smelled like laundry detergent, the faint bitterness of old coffee, something earthy and clean. And beneath it, him—his cologne, maybe, or the scent of his skin. It was subtle but persistent. Like if you stayed here long enough, it would cling to you.

“Want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?” His voice came from behind you as he moved toward the kitchen, his steps quiet on the hardwood floor. You didn’t follow him.

“Tea’s fine,” you said, almost to yourself, wandering over to the fireplace. You leaned in to look at the photos. One showed his dad standing alone on a pier, sun hitting his face. He was grinning, the lines around his eyes deep and familiar. He looked so much like Frankie it startled you—same smile, same jawline, same thick, full hair. You imagined his voice would be similar too.

The second frame was filled with women. His mom, his sisters, all of them laughing at something just outside the frame. Frankie wasn’t in the photo.

You kept walking, a little slower now, taking in more than you should have. A sweatshirt tossed over the back of the sofa. Headphones folded carefully on the coffee table. Three plants lined up on a chest of drawers by the window, each one thriving in a different shape of pot. To the left, a piece of mid-century furniture caught your eye. A record cabinet, filled almost to overflowing. A closed record player sat on top, the glass lid dust-free.

You leaned in, reading titles out loud in your head like they were clues: The Stooges. Fleetwood Mac. Busy Bee Starski. Alice in Chains. The Clash. Eagles. Marvin Gaye. T. Rex. The sleeves looked worn, loved, pulled from the shelf again and again.

“Wanna hear one?” Frankie’s voice startled you. You hadn’t heard him come back.

You turned toward him. “T. Rex?”

He grinned. Not smug—more like pleased. He placed two mugs down on the table and crossed the room to join you. You held the record sleeve while he powered up the record player. Electric Warrior. His hands were steady, practiced, and within seconds, Mambo Sun filled the room.

“My dad loved this album,” you said, not really looking at him. “He’d play it on sundays while fixing stuff in the garage. The volume was always too loud.I really love it.”

You rested the sleeve behind the record player carefully and turned around. Frankie was already on the sofa, holding his tea.

“T. Rex in the garage on a sunday,” he said, lifting the mug to his mouth. “Sounds like your dad had his priorities in order. Shit—careful. It’s hot.”

You sat beside him, your hip brushing his just barely. “I like it hot. So hot that one sip burns my heart out.”

You smiled at him then, sideways.

“So romantic,” he murmured, head leaning back against the cushion. 

You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence wasn’t awkward—it felt chosen. Mutual. Like you both knew that if you said anything right then, it might undo the atmosphere you’d stumbled into. So instead, the music filled the space. The vinyl hissed softly beneath the track, that low, velvety warmth that you always loved.

By the time Cosmic Dancer had reached its halfway point, you lifted your mug, took a careful sip, then let it rest in your lap, your fingers curling around the ceramic. You were perched on your knees, your legs folded beneath you, spine tilted just slightly toward him like your body had gotten used to the idea of being near him again. You kept your eyes fixed on your hands.

“I missed talking to you,” you said. “Just a little.”

The words felt like they slipped out more than they were offered.

You felt him turn, could feel the weight of his gaze move from the record player to your face. Your cheeks warmed under it, uninvited.

“You did?” 

You nodded, still not looking at him.

“Just a little,” you repeated, and finally let your eyes meet his, your lips tilting into something that tried not to be a smile but failed.

“Ah, thank God,” he said, leaning his head back against the couch with a kind of theatrical relief. “I was starting to get worried.”

You laughed, soft and breathy, your eyes dropping again to the mug in your lap. There was a pause. Not uncomfortable. You shifted a little closer and rested your head on his shoulder like it was a pillow you’d always used.

“So,” you said, “what’ve you been up to?”

He didn’t answer right away. You could tell he was thinking.

“Work. Rest,” he said finally. “I bought a new coffee the other day.”

“Oh yeah? Is it any good?”

“It is. I’ll give you some.”

“That’s generous of you,” you said, your tone feather-light. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “What else… I went on a few walks. Tried to cut down on smoking. Not sure if I actually managed to.”

Your gaze flicked to the coffee table, where a pack of cigarettes lay in plain sight.

“Uh-huh,” you said, nodding toward it. “There’s your progress.”

He gave a short, stifled laugh that vibrated faintly beneath your ear. “I’m trying.”

You reached over and patted his thigh twice. “Good boy.”

He exhaled a laugh, head turning slightly toward you. “That again?”

“I haven’t forgotten. My theory still stands.”

“It’s a weird theory,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “A praise kink? Really?”

“It’s not weird, actually.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding with mock solemnity, eyes dancing. “It’s not. So,” he went on, “that’s what I did. Oh—helped Will with his car. We spent the whole day on it.”

“A whole day?”

“Well. Two hours, technically. Then we gave up and made ribs in the backyard.”

“Ah. The whole day.” You laughed and leaned into him again. “Two hours.”

He laughed again, then lifted the mug to his mouth. You were about to say something else, maybe something meaningless, but then the thought came back like a door left ajar in your mind, something drifting through.

“So, Tam,” you said, casually enough that it surprised even you. “What about her?”

You felt the change in him instantly. A shift in posture. A tightening. 

“She’s a friend of Will’s,” he said, voice level. “They met a few months ago. She sold him a bike.”

“Oh.” You nodded once, your eyes on the handle of your mug as your thumb traced over it.

You didn’t add anything.

A few seconds passed. He swallowed. “There’s nothing going on with her. I just…” He paused. “I just—”

“Frankie,” you said quietly, lifting your eyes to meet his. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“I just drove her home. It was late.”

You smiled. “That was nice of you.”

“Mm.” He shifted again, resettling into the cushions beside you. Your head was still resting on his shoulder, and neither of you moved to change that. “That was it.”

You extended your empty mug toward him, and he took it from your hands with an ease that made something inside you soften. He leaned to place it gently on the small table beside him.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to glance at him from your position. “Do you think what Will said is true?”

“What?”

“That maybe she likes you. Or something like that.”

“Will just likes messing with me. He sees something and runs with it. That’s kind of his thing.”

You reached out, your hand brushing against his arm, fingertips trailing until they found the little freckle near his wrist. You pressed lightly there, then traced the edge of it.

“It was just that, you know?” he said, his voice more certain now, like he needed you to hear it. Like he needed himself to say it out loud. He looked at you, but your gaze didn’t rise this time.

You exhaled slowly. “Even if it was something else, it’s fine. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to explain.”

But still, he reached for your hand, the one that had touched his skin. He folded his fingers around yours, his thumb brushing softly along your fingertips.

“I just got the sense that it bothered you,” he said quietly. “That’s all. I—”

“As far as I know, you’re a single man. And if you meet someone you like, and they’re kind to you… I think that’s your business.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept holding your hand.

Then, “We’ve talked about this already.”

“I know,” you said, your voice even, “but these aren’t things you can always control, right? You can have the whole thing mapped out in your head—what you want, what you’re ready for, what you’ve decided not to touch. You can feel so sure about all of it. And then someone comes along who completely rearranges the blueprint, and maybe you weren’t prepared for that. Maybe it’s inconvenient, maybe it’s terrifying. But what are you supposed to do with that kind of thing?”

You paused. “Sometimes it just... arrives. Like timing that sneaks up on you and lands exactly where it should, whether you’re prepared or not. And honestly, Frankie,” you added, eyes steady, “you shouldn’t feel guilty about that. You don’t have to defend yourself to me. Or anyone.”

He didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing beside you, that quiet rhythm, the way his chest moved beneath your head, like he was sorting through something inside himself. For a moment, you worried you’d said too much, crossed into a space that wasn’t yours to step into.

Then, finally: “I get it. But I don’t like Tam.”

You let out a soft exhale. “I wasn’t really talking about Tam,” you said gently. “I meant anyone.”

Your eyes dropped to where your hands rested together. His thumb was brushing against your skin again, the motion absent-minded but oddly grounding.

“I think it’s just one of those things people can’t plan for. You try, but then it happens anyway. I think it’s okay to take your time, to be cautious, to move at your own pace. But I also think it’s not weakness to let yourself be caught off guard by something good.”

He tilted his head slightly, enough to look at you. “You think that’s possible? That it can be a good thing?”

“I think it’s the most human thing in the world. Letting yourself feel something fully. Letting it lead you. Even just a little.”

Frankie gave a half-smile, not the kind that reached all the way to his eyes.

“Bad things have happened when I’ve done that before. When I’ve let myself get too carried away by what I was feeling.”

You looked at him. “Right, but what were you getting carried away by? What kinds of feelings?”

He let out a short laugh, more tired than amused. “It’s been a long, long stretch of darker ones, baby.”

Your gaze dropped again, back to your joined hands. You studied the place where his fingers still cradled yours.

“Then maybe that’s the difference,” you murmured. “You don’t have to follow the dark ones. Not if there are brighter ones. I mean, it sounds corny but... you know.”

“Uh-huh. Like what?”

“Well, I dunno,” you said, and your voice carried that hesitant tone people use when they’re trying not to sound too sure of themselves. “I know you said you don’t like Tam. But say you did. Say you met someone who made you feel a little more okay just by being around, someone who was gentle, real, not out to ruin your life. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Frankie’s laugh came out a little too fast. “They could absolutely crush me. Like, destroy me. Again.” He tried to make it sound like a joke. “Break my heart. And you... you’re not afraid of that happening again? Not after what Harry did?”

You nodded slowly, still looking down. “Yeah, I am, sometimes. Maybe more than I admit. But I don’t want that fear. I don't like it. I don’t want to be afraid of something as good as love just because someone misused it. Falling in love is... still one of the best things. It's fun, it's nice. I’m not going to let him take that away from me.”

Frankie leaned his head back against the couch. “It usually ends in a disaster, though. It rips you apart. It doesn’t just hurt, it—it just... Yeah, it fucking hurts.”

“I know, I’m not pretending it doesn’t.”

“And you still want it?”

“Still,” you murmured. “Even after everything. And I get it, right? Like, you promise yourself you’ll never be that open again, never leave the door even slightly cracked. But then someone comes along and you find yourself doing it anyway. You stop noticing how carefully you were guarding yourself, and suddenly you’re not anymore.”

Frankie was silent for a beat. Then:

“Someone like Bill?”

You frowned faintly, but didn’t lift your head. “Bill?”

“Yeah. I told you—I could see he was into you. And he seems decent, doesn’t he?”

“I think so.”

“And Emma likes him. And she's your best friend, she knows you better than anyone. If he’s the way she says... I guess I just think—I think—”

“He is,” you said, cutting gently across his sentence. “He is exactly like she says.”

“Right.” He paused. “He is exactly like she says.”

He just sat there, still as furniture, the heat from his side warming yours. Your fingers moved slightly, brushing his knuckles before curling around them—just barely, just enough to feel it. The shape of his hand in yours felt familiar. 

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” You whispered. You waited. He didn’t reply. “He’s not who I want.”

Shit. Shit. The words echoed in your mind long after you said them.

Next to you, Frankie stiffened — not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. Enough to make your body react instinctively. Your hand, still tangled with his, turned cold at the fingertips, and you let it slip out of his. It didn’t feel right to keep touching him.

You adjusted your posture, putting space between your bodies, lowering your feet to the floor as if reclaiming a version of yourself that wasn’t so recklessly leaning into him.

A pause stretched between you. You reached over to your purse and fished out your phone. The screen lit up instantly with a message from Emma, timestamped ten minutes earlier.

[Em🐥 ]: I'm home <3 let me know how everything is going, I'll stay up a little longer

You replied with a few quick words — something casual, enough to reassure her you weren’t unraveling, even if a part of you might have been. You told her everything was fine, that you’d be back soon. You slipped the phone back in your bag, your hands quieter now.

“Um,” you said, eyes trained somewhere around the coffee table, anywhere but his face. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah. Down the hall. First door on the left.”

He hadn’t moved. His back still pressed against the couch, his eyes on you, hand resting exactly where yours had been, like he hadn’t quite registered its absence.

You stood and made your way to the bathroom, maybe a bit too fast. The light flicked on and for a second your eyes narrowed against the brightness. The space was neat — not sterile, just… simple. Everything in its place. No clutter.

You leaned your weight against the wall and exhaled, the sound more fragile than you expected.

Goddamn gin. You hadn’t even had much, just enough to loosen the seams a little. You weren’t drunk — you were just... like this, around Frankie. Words always rushed out like they were being pulled from you. Like he had some quiet gravitational force you hadn’t learned to resist.

And now you’d done it. You’d said too much. You’d pushed him again, out of his comfort zone, out of reach. He’d already been at arm’s length — why did you keep trying to pull him closer? He was probably right to stay there.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. You didn’t look wrecked, at least. Your lipstick hadn’t faded, your eyeliner hadn’t betrayed you. That was something. A small win. Thanks, Emma.

You stayed there longer than you needed to, buying yourself a few more seconds before stepping back into the atmosphere you’d unsettled. But eventually, you knew — you had to take responsibility for what you’d stirred.

You opened the door. The music was still playing, Marc Bolan’s voice floating like a ghost through the room.

Frankie stood by the record player. One hand hovered near his mouth, fingers resting lightly against his lips, the other braced at his hip. He looked like he was studying the motion of the record as it turned or the color of the vinyl.

You stayed where you were, watching his back. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

He didn’t turn fully, just twisted at the waist, his profile barely visible. “Yeah—okay. Or I can drive you, if you’d rather.”

You shook your head before remembering he couldn’t see you. “It’s fine. I’ll get an Uber.”

He nodded once. Not arguing.

You could tell he wasn’t drunk, not really, but you both knew there was just enough alcohol in your systems to complicate things.

He turned back toward the record player and reached forward, stopping it with a practiced motion. Then he carefully lifted the vinyl off it and slid it into its sleeve, his fingertips pressing softly at the edges like he was handling something fragile. He was.

“Thanks for the tea,” you said, watching him. “And for letting me come here. It’s like uncovering a mystery.”

He let out a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a breath—and turned to face you.

“And thank you for showing me your records,” you added.

“You’re welcome. Anytime.”

He looked down at the record in his hand, hesitated, then glanced back up at you.

“I know you don’t have a garage or anything,” he started, “but... here. Take this.” He stepped forward and held it out to you. The record, now tucked neatly in its cover, extended in your direction. “I saw your player. In the bookshop.”

Your fingers closed around the edges, brushing briefly against his.

“Are you sure? It’s yours—”

“You’ll enjoy it more than I do. Really. And maybe you can listen to it at work. Or whenever you want, I mean. ”

You looked down at the cover, letting your eyes trace the artwork, the worn corners. You smiled, and lifted your gaze back to him.

“Thank you,” you said, and you meant it more than he probably knew.

Frankie smiled again. There was peace in his face, but not joy exactly.

“Well,” you said quietly, turning away as your fingers curled around the strap of your purse. “I’ll get a car.” You pulled the phone free, the screen lighting up in your hand. “What’s your address again?”

You glanced up, expecting him to speak quickly, but instead he stepped toward you. Just two steps but enough that the air between you changed. His presence drew up close to yours like heat in a narrow space.

“Um,” he began, eyes flickering down to the phone in your hand. “Two-two-one-one… Hartford—Hart…” He stumbled over the words, his voice catching as if his mind had exited the room entirely. His brow creased, lips parted, eyes still on your screen, but not really seeing it. He ran his hand through his hair, nervous. 

Then he looked at you. You should have said something. You felt it building in your chest, a sentence that never came. You thought, briefly, that you might speak. That you might ask if he was okay, or if maybe—

But you didn’t.

Because he was already there. His hands lifted to your face, gently. And his mouth was so close you felt the first brush of it before you realized he’d leaned in at all.

Your eyes shut instantly. A reflex. A surrender.

His fingers curved along your jaw, thumbs soft at your cheeks, touching you like he was afraid you might vanish. The kiss wasn’t demanding — it was brief, tentative, something barely born.

When you opened your eyes, he was watching you, his gaze darker than you’d ever seen it. Full.

He slipped the vinyl from your hands —carefully— and placed it down on the couch without breaking eye contact. You let your phone fall there too, not bothering to look at it again.

Then his hands were on you again, firmer this time, his grip less cautious. And he kissed you like he’d run out of patience, like he couldn’t talk himself out of it anymore. You met him with the same urgency.

Your heart was thudding, loud and uneven, as if trying to match the rhythm of his. You looped your arms around his neck, pulled him closer, tilted your head to let him in. His tongue slipped into your mouth without hesitation.

You made a quiet sound against his lips, and he responded by pulling you tighter. You reached for his hair, threading your fingers through it, gripping soft strands like you needed something to anchor you to the ground.

You hadn’t even noticed when it happened, not fully — just the subtle shift of his body, the press of his weight, and then the cool firmness of the wall behind your back. One moment you were kissing him like you couldn’t breathe without it, and the next you were pinned, his hands moving down your sides, rough with want but tender with care. His fingers found your hips first, gripped tightly, then slid down, tracing the shape of your thighs, your ass — pulling you into him like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.

Your breathing was uneven, catching at the top of each inhale, and his matched yours. You were flushed everywhere, skin hot and tingling, like something inside you had been lit and was now burning recklessly out of control. The closeness wasn’t enough — not nearly. You wanted more of him, all of him, everywhere.

He broke the kiss and moved to your neck like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His lips grazed the skin beneath your jaw, warm and searching. Then he bit softly — just enough to make you gasp, your hands instinctively clutching at his shirt. The sound you made seemed to light something in him, because he groaned against your throat, low and needy, the vibration of it sinking straight into your chest.

You opened your eyes, breath shuddering out in fragmented sighs.

“Frankie,” you said, barely above a whisper, not even sure if it was a plea or a warning or both. You tugged gently at his hair, needing him to hear you, to see you.

He lifted his head, his mouth deep pink, eyes heavy and full of something that looked like reverence and hunger all at once. His face was flushed and gorgeous in that ruinous way people look when they’ve stopped pretending.

“I don’t know if you want this.” Your voice didn’t sound like yours — it was fragile, shaky, almost not there at all.

His expression shifted, like something cracked inside him.

“I do,” he said, the words scraping out of his throat. “I do,” he repeated, eyes locked on yours. He rested his forehead against yours. “I’ve been thinking about you. Every damn day. I—” He shook his head like the sentence was useless. “Fuck it.”

Then his mouth was on yours again — hard, urgent, no more waiting. He kissed you like he was making up for every second he hadn’t, his hands cupping your thighs as he lifted you without hesitation. You wrapped your legs around him, your arms tightening around his shoulders, everything in you pulling him closer. The wall disappeared behind you. You didn’t know where he was carrying you, and it didn’t matter. Your eyes were closed and your thoughts had blurred into sensation — pure, overwhelming.

You kissed him like you were starving. Like the world outside this moment had ceased to exist. And then, just as the pace of everything threatened to consume you entirely, he set you down. Carefully. Your back met a soft surface — a bed, you realized. Your chest rose and fell, breathless. The room was dim, nearly pitch dark, until Frankie turned and switched on a lamp beside the bed. A small circle of golden light spread over the sheets, over the shape of his body as he looked at you.

You kicked off your shoes in a clumsy rush. You barely looked at the room itself — barely noticed the furniture, the walls, anything. Your attention had narrowed entirely to him.

He climbed onto the bed, over you, his knee sliding between yours. He kissed you again before you could say anything. Your hands trembled slightly as they moved to his belt. You fumbled, but not out of hesitation — out of the sheer urgency coursing through you. You got the button open, then the zipper, just as his mouth moved to your throat again, this time biting with more certainty, less restraint.

The pain flared, beautiful in the way it folded instantly into pleasure. You moaned, head tilting back, hands still on his waist, and thought briefly, this is happening, and thank god.

You reached for him without thinking, but he was already moving, shifting his weight back onto his knees. A frustrated sound broke in your throat at the absence of his body on yours. But then you saw his hands at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head in a single motion and tossing it somewhere behind him, careless with everything but you.

You sat up automatically, drawn forward, and placed your hands on his bare abdomen. His skin was warm, soft under your touch, and you could feel the tautness of muscle beneath the surface. Quiet strength, the heat of him, the way desire seemed to radiate outward and settle in the pit of your stomach like something molten.

He guided you back, pressing you into the mattress again. His palms slid down your body, finding your skirt. You bent your knees, lifting your legs to help him, and he removed it with a practiced kind of ease, the fabric sliding down and away.

You sat up again, wordlessly, unthinking, and peeled off your shirt, letting it fall from your fingers to the floor beside the bed.

Frankie reached for you once more, his hands firm. He pushed you back again, settling over you with a kind of certainty that made you feel both cherished and undone. His face hovered just above yours — eyes dark and focused, mouth curved in the faintest smile — and then he kissed you, briefly, almost teasingly, before pulling back a little.

One of his hands pressed into the mattress above your head, steadying himself, while the other moved to your shoulder, tracing the strap of your bra with his knuckles before easing it down your arm. Then the other. His fingers found the center clasp and worked it down, peeling the fabric away until it rested around your waist, leaving your breasts exposed to the room, to him.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your skin buzzed beneath the sudden coolness, your nipples already tight, your whole body reacting before he even touched you again. He looked at you like he was seeing something private and sacred, something he wanted to memorize. Then, finally, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his weight pressing into you as his tongue explored your mouth with aching intensity. You tasted want and something else you didn’t have words for.

His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbones, across the soft hollow between them. Every part of you he touched felt heightened, more awake. When his lips finally closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching toward him as if your body had made the decision for you.

You reached up and cradled the back of his neck, anchoring him to you, your fingers sliding into his hair as he circled his tongue over the sensitive skin. The sensation pulled a reaction from you so swift, so undeniable, that you barely recognized the sound you made — a moan that felt like it had come from somewhere deeper than your throat.

He moved to your other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, fingers firm and careful, and your body responded again, a rush of heat pooling between your legs. It was impossible to stay still beneath him. 

Frankie let go of you with a wet sound that echoed in the quiet of the room. His mouth trailed lower, over your stomach, leaving behind a warm, glistening path of kisses that made your skin tense beneath him. You felt the brush of his lips against the top of your underwear — the softest press — and yet your hips lifted toward him, needy and instinctual.

His breath hit you there, unsteady and hot. You could hear it—uneven, rushed—against the cotton that separated his mouth from your skin. His hands came to rest around your thighs, thumbs pressing into the softness just above your knees.

And then his mouth was on you. Just the thin barrier of fabric between his tongue and your flesh. The pressure made your back lift off the mattress, your body responding with a gasp. Frankie groaned into you, low and raw, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him and vibrated through your body like it belonged to you.

Your fingers found his messy hair and gripped, not knowing what else to do. He pulled back then, just enough to reach for the waistband of your panties, and you didn’t wait for instruction. You raised your hips, legs bent and ready, and he slid them down your thighs in one clean motion.

For a beat, everything went still.

Your knees rested lightly on his shoulders, the bones of your legs brushing against his collarbones. He looked down at you, eyes glazed with something heavier than lust. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, chest rising in quick, uneven rhythm. He looked like someone caught between prayer and ruin. 

One hand slid along your leg, palm smoothing over the bend of your knee. The other traced the length of your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of heat. Then, without a word, he opened you. And he saw you.

You watched his face change—eyes widening slightly, mouth twitching. You could feel his gaze on you like contact itself, like pressure, like he was touching you just by looking.

But it wasn’t enough. Your body screamed for more, impatient and pulsing. Still, he stayed there, fixed between your legs, studying you like you were made of something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then he moved.

His hands slid lower, securing your thighs in his grip. He leaned in and kissed the inside of your left leg, just above the knee. His mouth wandered downward, closer and closer, and you propped yourself on your elbows to see him—to see all of him, hair mussed and lashes shadowing his cheeks as he kissed his way down like he was following a map.

And then he reached your core.

There was no hesitation, no warning—just his mouth on you, all tongue and lips and intention. You cried out without sound, your mouth dropping open, your head falling back against the bed. Every nerve inside you lit up, over and over again, as if your body had been waiting for this exact touch your entire life. You trembled under him, every muscle drawn tight, and the sensation rushed through you in waves so intense you weren’t sure whether you could bear it or beg for more.

Frankie’s tongue moved in steady, circular motions, like he had studied you before this moment, like he knew what would make you fall apart. He groaned against you, the sound low and guttural, and the vibration shot straight through your core.

“Oh my God, Francisco,” you gasped, the words tumbling out of you as your head dropped back onto the pillow. Your eyes squeezed shut. You felt almost outside yourself, like you were watching this happen from somewhere else in the room.

Your hips began to shift, restless with urgency, but his grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you anchored to the bed. His breathing had turned heavy, matching your own, and there was something increasingly frantic in the way his mouth moved on you — like he couldn’t get enough, like he wasn’t just trying to make you come, but to taste your undoing, to drown in it.

It had never been like this. You had known pleasure before, of course, but not this kind. Not the kind that seemed to steal the thoughts from your head and replace them with static. Frankie moved like he could feel every nuance in your body, like he could sense exactly where you were breaking, and pushed just a little further.

You felt it rising inside you, a tension that curled tighter and tighter. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, a movement so quick it almost startled him, your hand finding his hair again and tangling there, tugging with a force you didn’t know you were capable of. He groaned again, louder this time, and the sound rattled against your skin, your ribs, your bones.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, a fierce, uneven rhythm. Heat spread through you like fire licking at every corner of your body. Frankie pulled you closer, his tongue moving with a rhythm that felt built for you and no one else. You cried out — not words, just sound — and your head tipped back as the wave overtook you, crashing over your body in a torrent that left you gasping. Every part of you clenched and released, like your body was unraveling and rebuilding all at once.

But he didn’t stop.

Even when your fingers pushed at his hair, even when your body jolted with overstimulation, he kept going — licking, kissing, breathing you in. You whimpered, twisting beneath him, your hand pressing at his forehead until he finally lifted his head, lips wet and eyes dazed.

You were shaking. Completely unmade. Your chest rose and fell in sharp breaths that didn’t feel like enough. And still, he looked at you like he wasn’t finished.

He moved back up over your body, settling on top of you with that same heat still written across his skin. His mouth found yours again, this time soft, almost careful, like he knew you needed a moment.

"You okay?" he asked in a whisper.

You smiled, eyes almost closed. "Yeah. That was... Yeah." You caressed his face, your fingers running over it as if you wanted to memorize it.

Frankie smiled. Then he moved to your neck, kissing the place just below your jaw, again and again, like he knew you loved it. Or maybe he just wanted to stay there for a while.

Your hand trailed back down his chest, each movement deliberate not in pace but in purpose. His skin was warm under your fingertips, the faintest ridge of muscle beneath the softness. You brushed past his navel, past the band of his boxers, and without pausing, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric. The hair there, and then—further down—you found him.

Hard. Large. Hot in your palm.

You opened your eyes. The ceiling was a blur, the room spinning softly around the edges. Frankie let out a sound into your neck and it curled around your spine like a fuse catching fire. The sound did something to you. You didn’t have a name for it, but it made your breath catch and your body ache.

“Please,” you whispered, hoarse, sure what you were asking for. Just more. Just him.

He stilled, his breath uneven. Then he shifted, pulling away from your body with effort, like detaching two pieces of something that had always belonged together. He rose from the bed without saying anything, and you stayed where you were—sprawled across his sheets, boneless and burning—watching him silently.

Frankie bent to remove his shoes, then his jeans. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, as if witnessing this needed the reverence of attention. When he pulled off his boxers, you went still.

There he was. Completely bare. Standing in the amber light of the bedside lamp like a statue half-finished, chest rising with every sharp breath, cock full and thick and impossibly beautiful in the dimness. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you with that expression again—like he was still trying to believe you were real.

He climbed back onto the bed, one knee between your legs, one hand stroking himself with an absent-minded kind of urgency. You felt your mouth go dry and wet at once, your body too aware of every inch of him. The sight of him touching himself in front of you was almost too much.

He opened the drawer on his nightstand and pulled out a foil packet. You sat up, instinctively, and reached for him, your hand wrapping around his length. You moved your palm up and down, gentle, reverent. His breathing fractured.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, the words barely audible.

He tore open the wrapper with shaking fingers. You let go and watched him carefully as he rolled the condom on. You leaned back, your skin hypersensitive, your nipples prickling with the faintest movement of air.

Then he was over you again, his body shadowing yours, arms bracketing your head like he needed to keep you beneath him. His mouth found yours—not ravenous, not frenzied. Just… kind.

He kissed you like he meant it, like he had all the time in the world to taste you. Lips brushing yours with a softness that felt dangerous. Like this could be something more than heat and breath and tension. Like this might break you open if you let it.

And you let it. Because you were already breaking.

You felt him there, right at the edge of you—his body so close it was hard to tell where yours ended. You tilted your hips toward him instinctively, something inside you guiding the movement without thought. Frankie’s mouth brushed yours again, and he smiled—barely, just enough for you to feel it. His left hand planted itself above your head, steadying. His other hand shifted between you, grounding you in a way that felt both gentle and firm.

Your arms went around his neck. You couldn’t help it. You needed to hold him. Needed to feel every inch of him pressed against you.

And then he pushed inside.

The stretch was exquisite, each inch of him invading you in a way that made your lungs forget how to work. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just air, caught in your throat. He stopped halfway in, his breath faltering, forehead nearly resting against yours. And then he drew back, not completely, just enough to make you ache, and slid in again. This time deeper. A shiver ran down your spine.

You moaned—soft at first, involuntary. When you opened your eyes, his face was right there. His expression was undone, like he’d broken apart and hadn’t figured out how to reassemble himself yet. He was looking at you, but it wasn’t just about sex. There was something else in his gaze.

Then he kissed you again—messier this time, more urgent, like he needed your mouth the same way he needed everything else. He moved inside you harder, hips shifting into a rhythm that felt like a storm brewing just beneath your skin. It wasn’t just the pressure or the depth—it was the way it built, how it stole your breath more with every thrust.

The noises that came from you weren’t delicate. They were raw, real, rising in pitch as his body collided with yours. The slap of skin, the creak of the bedframe, the heavy breath between both of your mouths—it all blurred into one sound, constant and deafening and perfect.

He groaned into your ear, a low, shaken sound. Your hands clung to his back, nails dragging across his skin as if anchoring yourself to the moment. You felt him respond to the sting of it—his hips snapping forward harder.

He was driving you deeper into the mattress with each movement. You felt it in your ribs, in your thighs, in your soul. The wall behind the bed thudded in rhythm, the room echoing back the chaos you two were making.

Your chest heaved. Your face was flushed. There were tears pricking behind your eyes for no reason you could explain—just too much sensation, too much want. A buzz built beneath your skin, sweet and dizzying, until it filled your whole body like electricity.

You bit him.

You weren’t thinking, not really—your teeth found his shoulder, his neck, like you needed something to hold onto or you might disappear. And he let you. He groaned again, a sound that went straight through your body and took up residence somewhere deep inside.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His moans shifted—deeper now, full-bodied. You opened your eyes and ran your hands over his back, tracing the dip of his spine, the tension in his shoulders, the thickness of his arms. You adjusted beneath him, tilting your hips in a way that made your intent unmistakable. He paused just enough to register it.

So he moved, wordlessly. Rolled off you and onto his back, hands already on your hips as if his body had anticipated yours.

You climbed over him in one fluid movement, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Your center brushed along the length of him and your breath caught like a thread pulled tight in your chest. His hands remained on you.

You pushed the hair from your face and let one palm rest on his chest—warm, firm, rising and falling beneath your touch. Your other hand moved between your thighs, guiding him toward you. And then, with both hands braced on his chest, you sank down onto him.

Your head tipped back. Your mouth opened in something between relief and reverence. He filled you completely. Every inch of him belonged inside you and your body knew it instinctively.

At first, you moved gently—learning the rhythm, feeling every part of him stretch and press inside you. But the pressure built quickly, rising in waves, until your hips began to move with more urgency. Up, down, again, again. The bed shifted beneath you, groaning with each motion. Frankie’s hands slid from your waist to your ass, gripping you tightly as he began to move with you, helping you take him deeper, harder.

You leaned forward, placing your hands on either side of his head. His eyes were glazed with heat. He let out a sound—low, strained—and then bent his head just enough to capture one of your breasts in his mouth. Your hips stuttered. The contact made you gasp.

You were unraveling. Melting over him, against him, around him. Every nerve in your body lit up, overwhelmed by sensation. The room filled with the echo of it all—flesh meeting flesh, your breath hitching and breaking, the slick sounds that made your whole body feel like it was vibrating.

Then Frankie growled—a dark, guttural sound that you felt more than heard. He grabbed your waist and pressed you flush against him, arms aroung you, lifting his knees for leverage. He began thrusting up into you, hard and purposeful, meeting you with a rhythm so perfect it felt like your body had been made for this exact moment.

You pressed your hands to his shoulders for balance and looked down at him.

He was stunning. Absolutely undone. Hair matted to his forehead, his cheeks flushed with exertion, his lips parted, damp and pink. His eyes met yours—dark, shining—and you felt like you could drown in them.

You leaned down and kissed him, a shaky moan caught between your mouths. He was still moving beneath you and it was almost too much. Every thrust scraped against something inside you that made your vision blur.

You broke the kiss and gasped against his cheek. Your fingers dug into his skin, holding on like you might fall apart.

Your mouth found his again, and this time you bit down softly on his lower lip, just as you felt the wave crest. His hips stuttered beneath you, erratic now, almost frantic. You heard the shift in his breath—the sharp intake, the strangled exhale—and then you felt it. His release. The moment his body surrendered entirely, muscles tightening, his grip on you fierce and unthinking.

Your vision blurred as your own pleasure surged alongside his, crashing into you in a way that made your hands clench around his shoulders, your spine arch, your thighs tremble where they straddled his hips. Frankie groaned—gutural and right against your neck—and the sound felt like it was stitched into your skin.

When it ended, he didn’t move right away. Just held you there, still connected, one hand splayed across your back, the other resting on your hip like a tether. You let your forehead fall into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He smelled like skin and sweat and something warm that you couldn’t name but never wanted to forget.

After a few breaths—his still uneven, yours catching on the edge of a sigh—you lifted your face. Your eyes met his in the half-light. It felt impossibly quiet. Like nothing else existed outside that room, that bed, that look.

You raised a hand and touched his cheek with your fingertips. He turned into your palm like it was instinct. You kissed him once, soft and lingering, and then began to shift off him, your body aching in the best kind of way.

But before you could fully roll away, his hand caught your arm. He pulled you gently back against his chest, like he wasn’t ready to lose the weight of you yet. His other hand came up to your face, brushing over your cheekbone with careful tenderness.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was low, raw. Like it had been scraped out of him.

You nodded and kissed him again. “I'm okay. You?”

Your head settled on his chest, and your hand moved across his skin in idle strokes. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, strong and steady, the rise and fall of his breath slowly evening out.

“I’m okay, baby,” he said, barely above a murmur.

No consequence felt significant in that exact moment.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[andy-15-07]

Last patrol

PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1710 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

A/n: I have no words after watching the second episode, I was expecting Joel's ending, because I watched the video game, but I didn't think it would be so soon, it was hard for me to write this fic with tears in my eyes, I tried to make another alternative. I liked, or rather I loved this character like crazy. I hope you like it and I'm sorry in advance if it makes you cry

The sun had barely cleared the jagged outline of Jackson’s broken rooftops when Joel and Dina slipped out through the guardhouse gate. Fresh snow crunched under their boots, and the world felt impossibly quiet—too quiet. Joel adjusted the sling of his rifle across his shoulder, glancing back over his shoulder at the settlement’s wooden palisade. “You sure all’s good in there?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and unspoken fears.

Dina jabbed a gloved finger at the satchel slung low across her chest. “I packed extra rounds. Dog patrol’ll be fine.” She lifted an eyebrow, that half-grin he’d come to know so well. It was the same grin she wore when she knew they were asking too much of themselves.

He managed a crooked smile. “You’ve got the right gear, Dina. Let’s just—” He cut himself off when she caught his gaze, her dark eyes warm and steady. “Just be careful,” she said, and clipped the words with an uncharacteristic softness.

“Always,” he promised, pushing off toward the tree line. A ridge of pines marked the boundary where the world beyond Jackson opened up into frozen ruin. They both tightened their jackets, the chill dragging at their bones, and stepped out into the silent white.

—————

By the time Y/N noticed Joel and Dina’s absence, the pale winter sun had climbed higher. Cold and heavy with morning frost, she paced their small cabin with slow, deliberate steps, her hand never straying far from the curved swell of her belly. Two months gone, and every ache in her body was a reminder of the life growing inside her.

Ellie hovered in the doorway, boots encrusted with snow. Her dark hair clung to her face in damp tendrils. “You okay?” Y/N’s lips twitched into a tired smile.

Y/N waved her over. “I’m fine. I just… I can’t sit still.” She motioned to the doorway. “You want to come? I’m worried about Joel.”

Ellie’s eyes lit up with purpose. “Let’s go find ’em.”

Together they bundled back into their coats and stepped onto the porch. The wind bit at their cheeks but offered something exhilarating: movement, the promise of action. Y/N pressed her mittened hand into Ellie’s back. “You lead.”

—————

Joel and Dina had followed tracks,fresh footprints in the snow,leading toward the old Caldwell estate, an abandoned manor left to rot. Stories whispered that the family had fled years ago; locals said the place was crawling with infected. Jackson sent patrols around it for good measure.

They’d been at it twenty minutes when it happened: a sudden whisper of alarm, Dina’s sharp hiss in his ear: “Infected!”

Joel spun, rifle raised, as shambling figures,a runner, then another—emerged from the trees. He fired once, twice; the shot cracked in the air, and the first one dropped. Dina backed up, eyes scanning. “That’s—”

A scream, human, desperate. Joel’s heart stuttered. Not noise from the infected,the voice belonged to a woman, crying out. “Dina, wait—”

But Dina was already moving, sprinting toward a gap between the pines. Joel cursed and followed.

They rounded a bend in the hill to find Abby pinned under a fallen beam, shin splitting. She twisted, knife held high, as two infected lunged. Dina yelled and raised her pistol; Joel fired, tearing both to pieces.

Abby didn’t look at them. “Help,” she gasped, voice tight as wire.

Joel stepped forward. “Easy-We’re not gonna hurt you.”

Abby snarled, eyes wild. Dina crouched to lift the beam; Joel braced it. But before they could toss it aside, Abby kicked out with enough force to send Joel sprawling backward into the snow. She ripped her arm free, blood slick on wood. She stood, glancing at them,Joel in the snow, blood staining his shoulder, and Dina shocked, hand frozen on the beam.

Joel pushed himself up. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she straightened, fixed them with a lethal stare. “Who are you?”

He swallowed. “Patrol. Jackson.”

Abby’s lips curled into something like a smile. “Jackson.” She looked at Dina. “Is he—”

Dina stilled, realization dawning. Joel’s eyes flicked to Abby’s. “You—”

Before the word left his lips, Abby lunged. A single brutal move: she wrapped her forearm around his throat and yanked him backward, spine snapping against the snow. Joel’s rifle clattered away as he gurgled, hands scrabbling uselessly. Dina cried out, rushing forward, but Abby kicked her so hard the girl went sprawling into a drift.

Y/N and Ellie,following a distant gunshot,reached the crest of the hill in time to see Joel’s body slump. Dina’s anguished scream pierced the cold. Ellie froze, arm outstretched toward the slaughter. Y/N clutched her belly, horror searing through her like ice.

“Joel!” Ellie screamed, but only the wind answered, whistling across the frozen field.

Abby turned, eyes locked on Y/N and Ellie. She started to smile, but something in Y/N’s face—raw grief, undiluted rage,suddenly broke the killer’s calm. She fled into the woods, disappearing as swiftly as she’d arrived, leaving only the dying echo of her footsteps.

Y/N dropped to her knees by Joel’s side, fingers shaking. Ellie fell beside her, silent tears falling into the snow. Joel’s eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, a single rivulet of blood tracing from his mouth. Dina crawled to him, cradling his head in her arms, rocking back and forth as tears froze on her cheeks.

Y/N laid a gentle hand over Joel’s chest, feeling the stubborn warmth slowly fade. “Joel—please,” she whispered, voice cracking. Ellie pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “You can’t leave us.”

But Joel was already gone.

—————

They carried him back to Jackson on a crude stretcher, the sun sinking low and painting the world in blood-orange light. The marching steps echoed through the settlement, drawing everyone out: hunters, farmers, children. They formed a silent procession to the makeshift chapel. Dina walked at the front, her face set in a mask of grief so fierce it had the power to steal breath. Y/N followed close behind, hand on her swelling belly, shock and sorrow swirling in her eyes. Ellie stayed on her other side, expression hollow.

Inside the chapel, they laid Joel’s body atop a rough bier. They covered him with the faded quilt Y/N had embroidered, before the world ended, with golden threads spelling out “FAMILY.” The candles flickered, casting trembling shadows against the log walls.

Maria’s voice, firm but gentle, filled the hush. “He defended this place. He defended you all.” She paused, eyes lingering on Y/N and Ellie. “He would have given anything to keep you safe.”

Dina stepped forward, voice unsteady. “He was our shield. Our rock.” She swallowed, then she looked at Y/N. “I’m so sorry.”

Y/N knelt by the bier, tracing Joel’s worn hands. She felt numb, apart from the cruel twist in her gut as the baby kicked against her ribs,a reminder that life still pressed on, indifferent to death. She pressed her palm to Joel’s chest. “You promised.”

Ellie hugged her, tears soaking into her coat. “We’ll keep going. For him.”

For a long moment, they all stood there, bound by loss. Outside, the wind howled, and a few flakes of snow drifted through a crack in the door. Someone lit a candle for Joel; one by one, they all did, until his bier glowed under a halo of flickering light.

—————

When the crowd dispersed, Y/N remained, kneeling by Joel’s side. Ellie had gone to see Dina; the two friends clung to each other outside, faces streaked with tears. Y/N felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Maria.

“He would’ve wanted you to rest,” Maria said softly. “You need to care for yourself and the baby.”

Y/N nodded, although her world felt hollow. She pressed a kiss to Joel’s forehead. “I love you.” She rose slowly, every movement a battle against the grief crushing her.

Maria guided her out into the dusk. The sky burned violet over the mountains, the air colder now. Y/N pulled her coat tighter. “What now?” she whispered, voice raw.

Maria met her eyes. “Now, we live. For him, for you, for the life he helped create.”

A sob caught in Y/N’s throat, but with it came a spark,a fragile flicker of resolve. She put her hand on her belly. “For our baby.”

Maria nodded. “And for Ellie, and Dina, and everyone Joel loved. He didn’t die in vain.”

Y/N let the words sink in. The pain was endless, but the promise remained: a new life, shaped by Joel’s legacy, by the love he gave, the protection he’d fought for until his last breath.

She stared out at the settlement’s wooden walls, now illuminated by torchlight. Faces,resilient, determined,looked back at her. She felt the weight of their expectations, the silent plea that she carry on.

She took a deep breath, snowflakes sprinkling her hair. “All right,” she said, voice steadying. “Let’s go home.”

—————

Inside the cabin that night, Y/N warmed her aching body by the fire. The quilt lay folded neatly on the bed. She reached for it, tracing the gold letters: FAMILY. She closed her eyes and remembered Joel’s laugh, his steady arms around her, the gentle way he’d place his hand on her belly.

A soft knock came at the door. Ellie slipped in, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes weary but determined. She held a battered guitar case. “He wanted you to have this.”

Y/N opened it to reveal Joel’s favorite guitar,scratched, worn around the edges. She ran her fingers over the strings. Ellie’s voice trembled. “He always said music kept him alive.”

Y/N nodded, tears spilling. “He did.” She lifted the guitar into her lap. Gently, she strummed a chord,half-remembered, half-broken. It rang pure in the small room.

Ellie sat beside her, leaning her head on Y/N’s shoulder. “Play for him.”

Y/N closed her eyes and began to play the soft melody Joel used to hum when the world felt too heavy. The notes trembled, then grew stronger, rising up through the cabin’s rafters, echoing into the freezing night.

Outside, the wind carried the song, scattering it across Jackson’s sleeping streets.

And though Joel was gone, his voice lingered in every note,a promise that love endures, that even in death, the people we cherish become the heartbeat of the world we carry forward.

[for-a-longlongtime]

Kaaate!!! OOF. I don't even know what to single out - all of it was just such a great read. I've been craving more Clint as we wait for the movie to get released online, and oh did this hit the sweet spot. LOVE IT!

CHERRY LIPS

Clint Flood x f!reader || 4,5 k

Summary: Clint and you have a simple relationship - you fuck each other and go on with your lives. Can it stay that way? What if one night changes everything?

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, age gap (the size is up to you bb), stripper!reader, Cherry is her stage name (mentioned once), Clint is in love, protective!Clint, canon typical violence (not towards reader), bratty reader, lots of banter, praise kink, FEELINGS, mention of m!oral, unprotected piv, creampie, dirty talk, pet names, swearing, alcohol consumption (Clint has a beer). Reader has hair.

A/n: this started as a pwp but as usual turned into something else. I hope you’ll enjoy it❤️ Sweet kisses to @milla-frenchy for coming up with the title (inspired by the song Cherry Lips - Garbage) and for beta-ing! ILYSM!😘 Dividers by @huraxy

MASTERLIST || more Clint

You walk out of the club late at night after your shift and take a deep breath, filling your lungs with crisp air. It’s a little cold outside and a shiver runs down your spine, your skin erupts with goosebumps, but after heavy cigarette smoke of the club you relish the freshness of the night. Besides, you don’t have time to get really cold - a hot flash burns your insides when you see him waiting for you.

Clint is leaning against his blue Chevy, huge arms crossed in front of his chest, broad shoulders straining a black leather jacket. His glare tells everyone to ’fuck off’ and only to you it whispers ‘C’mere’. You bite your lip at the sight, your desire pulling you to him like a magnet.

“Hey, Cherry! How much for a bj?”

You roll your eyes, hearing some asshole shout behind you. Of fucking course. The motherfucker had the pleasure of seeing your tits, so now he feels entitled to trying the other goods out.

“I’m not a hooker, asshat. I’m a dancer,” you throw at him, not turning back, heading to the man you would give a hundred bj’s for free.

Clint’s scowl turns extra threatening when he hears the guy talk to you.

“Hey, Cowboy,” you purr, reaching the car, and Clint opens the door for you to get in, but his eyes are set on the man following you from the club.

“Are you her pimp?” the fucker asks, coming up to the car and getting into Clint’s face.

“Big mistake,” you mumble under your breath, already in the passenger seat. Through the window you watch him show Clint his index and middle fingers and yap,

“Your bitch owes me two lap dances.”

“Don’t call her that,” you hear Clint’s growl, quickly followed by a crunch of bones.

You look away in disgust and then see Clint walking around the car to the driver’s seat. The asshole is squealing on the ground, cradling his broken fingers, and you pop your head out of the window to smirk into his crying face, before Clint drives you off.

“How’s work, baby?” Clint asks as if nothing has happened, giving you a quick up and down look. After watching him stand up for you, there’s a risk of you sliding off the leather seat, but no way you’d show him how much his protection turns you on — you’re a strong independent woman after all.

“Uneventful,” you reply, grabbing a cassette tape from the glove compartment and sliding it into the player. “Well. Until you broke my client’s fingers.”

A song you love starts playing and you bob your head to the beat, humming under your nose. Clint seems to be focused on the road ahead but then he asks,

“Should I apologise?”

“No, he deserved it,” you reply with a shrug. “And I loveeeee when you’re protective of me.”

“Don’t say this word.”

“What? ‘Love’?” You furrow your brows, hearing his growl. “C’mon Cowboy, you said it, I didn’t, what’s the big deal?”

Clint doesn’t reply and keeps silently driving you through the empty streets, but electricity in the air is palpable.

Familiar feeling crawls into your chest - a mixture of guilt and anger, and as soon as it pangs your heart, you get defensive.

“Quit working for the mob and maybe I’ll change my mind. Your life's too messy for me.”

“Messy,” he repeats slowly, his thumb drumming against the steering wheel. ”Yours isn’t? That dick coulda attacked you.”

“I doubt it. But if he had, I would’ve used a pepper spray. And the mess you’re in—,” you pause, pointing a finger at the man, ”no amount of pepper spray would help with that.”

Clint chuckles bitterly, glancing your way.

”You’re too wise for your age, you know that?”

You smirk and turn to him in your seat.

“Oh, I bet you’d want me to be a lil bimbo, huh?” You make your voice higher and squeeze your breasts together between your arms, pushing them out, as you blabber, “Big clever man, please, teach me life, while I’m sucking your fat cock!”

Clint chuckles, shaking his head, but his paw darts down to adjust a prominent bulge in his jeans.

“You’re funny.”

“So what am I? Wise or funny?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Ok. Whatever you say, handsome,” you shrug and throw your shoes off. You put your feet on Clint’s lap and he rests his free hand on your ankle. His warm touch makes you purr like a cat and you melt against the seat.

You two are driving in silence, only music filling the car, both in your own thoughts, until you see his house.

Clint’s place is simply decorated, clean and always dimly lit. You love it- after strobing lights of the club your eyes and mind can finally rest, your soul feels at peace. There you’re always on high alert, your guard is constantly up - half naked, glitter on your skin and in your hair, you can’t help but feel like a prey that’s inviting a predator, grinding on some guy who would have happily taken you by force if not for the security.

At Clint’s house you unwind, relax, take a deep breath of his scent and feel yourself protected, cared for, loved.

‘Loved’.

Clint never says it now, the word alone makes his chest rumble with thunder. He did once and your reaction surprised you both. You laughed. Then you got furious.

You’d been seeing each other for a few weeks and his confession was unexpected but also cruel. Those three little words made your relationship complicated and dangerous for you. Like a rope tied around your wrists, bonding you to him. How long till that rope would be around your neck?

Clint always thought that he was invincible, a warrior no one could fuck with. But what about you? You’d seen too much shit happen to girls because of their men and you didn’t want to be one of them. So you fucked him and went on with your life. He fucked you and went on with his.

“Gonna take a shower. Wanna join me?” you purr, pressing your palms to Clint’s strong chest, when you two step into his place.

”I’m good. I’ll wait for you.”

He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. Soon they part and he hums at the taste of cherry, your favorite lip gloss flavor.

You come back soon wearing his band tee, big enough to cover your ass, and a black thong. Clint’s waiting for you on the couch, nursing a beer in his hand, deep in thoughts as usual. His leather jacket discarded, you bite your lip seeing him in a flannel shirt over a grey Hanley. The broadness of his torso, the spread of his thighs make you gush into your fresh panties.

“How was your day, honey?” you trill with a smile, padding to the cassette player on the drawer. Clint sighs and takes a sip of his beer.

“Fine.”

“Sounds like it,” you mumble and slide the cassette you made for him into the deck. You rewind it to the song you sometimes dance to at the club and smile, enjoying the sexy tune. As if by itself your body starts moving and you turn to Clint, seductively swaying your hips, your hands slowly pulling the hem of your tee up, exposing more of your body.

You saunter to the couch and stop between Clint’s legs.

“You don’t have to dance for me,” he utters, but his eyes take in everything you’re giving him.

“I know I don’t have to-,” you smirk, turning around. “I want to.”

With your back to the couch you bend over, showing off your ass, your palms gliding over your naked legs, your skin erupting in goosebumps. You bring your hand to your covered pussy and trace your seam over the wet fabric. A moan falls out of your mouth, loud enough for Clint to hear even through the music. The man growls, his obsidian eyes set on the place that’s throbbing desperately for him.

You straighten up and turn around, facing him again. Clint licks his lips, his Adam apple bobs, and you feel giddy inside seeing how turned on he is because of you. Making people horny is literally your job, but only with Clint you feel a thrill as if you’re dancing for someone for the first time.

To push him further you lift your bare foot, put it on his denim-clad thigh and slowly drag it up, up to his big bulge. When your foot slightly pushes his clothed cock, you take a sharp breath - he’s rock hard under his jeans.

Suddenly Clint grabs your ankle and pulls you to him, making you fall on his lap with a gasp.

“Bad Cowboy,” you scold him, giggling and straddling his thick thighs. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a punishment but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Quit your teasing.”

He sits up, holding you close with one arm wrapped around you, and places the unfinished beer on the side table. His strong body against yours, the way he holds you like a doll, sends a bolt of lightning to your core, and you bite your lip, suppressing a needy whimper.

Clint leans back on the couch and slides his hands under your tee. They’re so big and warm on your hips, that you purr at the feeling.

Then you bring your index finger to his face and trace a line that goes from the bridge of his nose down to his cheekbone.

“When are you gonna tell me how you got this scar?”

Clint scratches the place that you’ve tickled and gruffs,

“When you behave.”

“Never then. ‘k.” Your laughter lightens up the room and Clint shakes his head with a soft smile.

After a few moments of silence you ask,

“Why do you never come see me dance at the club?”

“I don’t go to strip clubs.”

Your brows shoot up as you remind him,

“Didn’t we meet there, Cowboy?”

Clint shifts his jaw and replies,

”Yeah, but I was working. You know it.”

“Oh, yes!” You tilt your head to the side and reminisce, ”You were so cute. Trying not to stare at my tits when I was dancing for your boss.”

You remember that day like it was yesterday. The pull you felt when you saw Clint for the first time - tall and broad, dangerous-looking. A pair of grabby hands were creeping over your body, no one would dare to stop a mob boss from groping a stripper, but you didn’t care. All your attention was focused on his enforcer, standing in the shadows. You weren’t dancing for the asshole in the chair, you were dancing for Clint.

After the lap dance, you managed to sneak a paper with your phone number into his palm and he called you the next day.

A smile tugs at Clint’s lips as he mumbles, looking almost shy,

“‘Cute’. No one ever calls me ‘cute’.”

“That’s because you’re cute only for me.” You slowly lean down and give him a teasing peck on the lips. When your eyes slide down his chest, you see that his bulge has gotten even bigger. God, you want it inside!

You grab the hem of your tee and take it off, freeing your naked breasts, your nipples diamond-hard.

“Oh yeah, baby,” Clint groans and bucks his hips up at the sight.

Your dance continues as you’re moving back and forth on his lap, bringing your tits closer to his face and then pulling away. Your clothed pussy grazes his bulge, whimpers fall from your mouth at the sensation of the rough material against your heat.

Clint’s eyes are dark as he’s watching you, they trail over your naked breasts, your heaving belly, a small triangle of your thong, stuck to your wet folds. You tease yourself with your fingers and press your lips to his thick neck. Your tongue darts out, his skin salty and hot. Suddenly Clint growls and pushes you to sit up.

“What?” you whine, already missing the feel and the taste of him on your tongue.

He is rubbing your arms up and down and says,

“Lemme look at you first.”

“Perv.” You roll your eyes, and Clint huffs a laugh but his gaze is full of longing, his hot palms trail over your skin with a softness only he gives you.

“Don’t look at me like this,” you whisper, feeling a lump in your throat.

“Like what?”

You leave his question hanging in the air, too hard to answer, to say the words out loud.

A corner of Clint’s mouth rises up but his eyes lack humour. His hand slides from your hip to your back and he pulls you closer. He presses an open mouth kiss to your collarbone, making your heart beat so hard and fast, he surely can feel it on his lips, as they trail down to your naked breasts. He kisses a spot just above your nipple and your eyes flutter shut, your body lighting up at the feeling of his soft touch and scruffy facial hair, his big hand keeping you in place.

Clint tilts his head up, his eyes are dark with lust, but there’s something else there, something warm and real. You push him back slightly, clinging to your power, refusing to accept his vulnerability, but your walls crumble when he murmurs three simple words,

“You’re beautiful.” All of a sudden, you stop breathing as he continues, “Do they tell you that?”

“Who?” You croak and clear your throat.

“Assholes you dance for.”

He leans back against the couch while his eyes are staring into your soul.

“Sometimes.” You’re not lying. Some men shower you with praise when you dance, but their words are tasteless, only Clint’s compliments make your heart flutter.

He hums, narrowing his eyes at you.

Your voice is shaky when you tell him, “I’d love to give you a dance at the club. Wanna show you what I can do.”

“You’re showing it now, baby. Doing a damn good job,” Clint smirks, watching you straddle him. He brings his hands to your tits to cup them and grazes your perked up nipples with his thumbs.

“Could I touch you like this in the club?” he asks, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“No, I’d ask you to sit on your hands, bad boy.” You give him a smile but you don’t feel like laughing - the lust sends hot flashes through your core again and again, your pussy aches to be filled.

“Do you want me to sit on my hands?” Clint’s husky voice makes you shudder and goosebumps cover your skin as you shake your head.

Clint hums in approval, his hands now grabbing two handfuls of your ass and squeezing them. A sudden slap follows right away, not hard but strong enough for your asscheek to jiggle.

“Could I do this?”

He’s challenging you, waiting for you to beg him to fuck you.

“No,” you reply, your voice small, barely audible through the music.

He tuts as his hand snakes to your mound and he cups your heat over your panties.

“What about her? Could I touch this little pussy? So wet,” he adds, massaging it with his paw.

The reply gets stuck in your throat, you’re drunk on him, with the way he’s masterfully playing with your body, with his scent enveloping you, his obsidian eyes focused on you. Clint lightly slaps your mound to get your answer.

“Could I?”

“No,” you mumble, “you’d be asked off the premises immediately.”

He smirks, his thumb slides under your thong, and when he swirls your clit, your needy moan rings loudly in the room.

“Why the hell would I go to the club, then? If I couldn’t make my girl happy.”

“I’m not your girl.” Your whimper has just a trace of defiance.

“Keep telling yourself this,” Clint gruffs, taking in every sign of your pleasure. His thumb begins rubbing your puffy clit under your panties, but his touch is feather-light, torturous, up and down, up and down. “Lie all you want but she can’t. Always wet and warm for me, always ready to take me.”

“Huh, bet you want it to be just you and her right now.“

It’s difficult to tease him when he’s working your pussy like this but you can’t help yourself. Clint’s eyes are set on your cunt as he smirks,

“No, I like you.“

“Oh. Only like me?”

“Not only. But…” His hand leaves your heat and he brings it up to glide his thumb over your lower lip. “Sometimes you make me wanna shove something big in this pretty mouth of yours, just to shut you up.”

Clint’s words set your core on fire, the ache getting unbearable. You dart your tongue out and lick the pad of his finger, tasting your own juices on it.

“What’s stopping you, Cowboy?”

“I guess I’m a gentleman, baby.”

“Huh. So that’s why I’ve been grinding against you forever and you still haven’t fucked me? Cos you’re a gentleman?”

A thunder rumbles in Clint’s chest and he tilts his hips up, his bulge poking your centre.

“No, it's just— you always leave as soon as we’re done and…“

“And you wanna keep enjoying my amazing company?“ You finish his sentence with a giggle but he’s not laughing. It seems that you’ve hit the bullseye and the realization makes you melt.

Who has ever wanted you like that? Fully, unconditionally, sincerely?

You feel tears well up in your eyes and, hiding them, quickly push your face into the crease of his neck.

“Fuck me, Clint, please, just… just fuck me.”

Your hips start to grind against his cock bulge, your pride be damned, you need him with every cell of your body.

A fresh surge of wetness floods your core when you hear his belt buckle clank. You lift your hips so Clint could unzip his jeans, tug them down together with his boxers and pull his cock out.

You’d never tell him but he’s got the most beautiful dick you’ve ever had or seen. Long and thick, two veins bulging on the sides, a wet red tip curved upwards for your pleasure - it looks like it was made for you.

You hover over his length, your hands planted on his broad shoulders, and he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your needy pussy.

“Fuck, these are soaked. She’s less stubborn than you, beautiful. Needs me bad,” Clint smirks, brushing your dripping folds with his bruised knuckles. It’s impossible to deny that you are desperate for him, you both see it.

“Yeah, she wants it real bad, Cowboy.”

“She’s gonna get it, beautiful. I’ll give it to you both nice and hard.”

His big hand darts to grab your waist and he pulls you down. When his hot tip notches your tight hole, you brace yourself- taking him is always a challenge. You begin slowly sinking on his length and Clint grunts through his teeth when your pussy starts swallowing his cock inch by inch. When you take all of him, your ass flush with his heavy balls, a moan falls from his parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m so full,” you mewl, sitting pretty on his cock. Clint leans against the couch and thrusts his hips up, making his dick plunge even deeper into you. You cry out, the dull ache making the pleasure extra delicious. Clint’s hot wet breath fans your tits as he shudders and twitches inside you, his thick fingers digging into your soft hips.

“Haven't had any since our last date, Cowboy?” you gloat, giddy with the idea that you’re the only girl he’s fucking.

Clint retorts through heavy breaths,

“You sucked my dick at the backseat, baby. You calling it a date?”

“Fuck you,” you bite back and, feeling spiteful, rock your hips, massaging his cock with your walls, making him lose his mind.

“Easy, tiger,” he growls but how can you stop now? “Little minx…” Clint gruffs, when you start enthusiastically riding him. He pulls you flush against his chest, wraps his huge arms around your torso, rendering you completely helpless, and keeps you still.

“Ya heard me? I’ve had a hard day. Let me get used to her first.”

“Or what? You gonna bust too soon? Guess it’s normal at your age, Cowboy.”

You playfully kiss his neck but your teasing finally pushes the man to the limit. Clint plants his feet wider on the floor, the grip around your torso tightens, and he starts thrusting his cock up into your cunt with fast and rough strokes. His breathing is hot and shaky against your temple, you’re moaning and whimpering while your pussy is being ruined. You feel the stretch like never before, his thickness splitting you in two, and your eyes roll back into your head, thanks to the divine angle of his pounding. His stiff cock is rubbing the pleasure button inside your wet heat, and you rise so high and so fast, that your head starts spinning.

“Take it—take it—take it,” Clint grunts, his voice husky and strained. “ ‘s all you want, uh?— to be fucked hard?—like I don’t give a shit about you— like I don’t love you…”

You freeze in his arms, his hips still moving, his cock still jackhammering your pussy. For a few moments he keeps fucking you until you wiggle out of his iron embrace and sit up.

You’re both panting, blown out eyes locked, and you lean in and kiss him, his scruffy cheeks in your hands, your mouths desperately swallowing each other’s air. Always knowing what you need before you do, Clint begins caressing your body, his fingers writing confessions all over your skin, your tongues licking into each other’s mouths. His lips leave yours for a moment so he could say,

“Ride me, baby. Take what you need, I got you.”

You know he does. He always does. But you need to feel all of him now. So you push the flannel off his shoulders and Clint hastily takes his Hanley off.

You hungrily take his naked torso in and start dancing on his cock, slowly, sensually, gliding your palms over his broad chest, muscular arms, ruffling up his pushed back curls.

Clint’s hands don’t rest either - they start kneading your breasts, palming your hardened nipples, twitching and pulling them. You drop your head and see how perfectly your pussy is stretched by Clint’s thickness. The sight mesmerizes you, your lips part and you moan watching her swallow Clint’s glistening shaft again and again, your pearly cream sits like a ring around his base.

“Hey, keep your pretty eyes on me.“

Clint pinches your chin and tilts your head up to face him. Here it is again. That look of his that tells you volumes without words, that terrifies you, excites you, makes your heart flutter.

You don’t fight it this time. Don’t tease him, don’t throw a joke to dilute the feeling, don’t shut his wordless confession up. You let his gaze take you to your peak, make your thighs shake and pussy quiver.

You come with his name on your lips, not ‘Cowboy’, not a cold ‘handsome’.

“Yes, baby, like that, doing good for me,” Clint encourages you and bounces you on his cock, prolonging your shuddering orgasm. Then he freezes with a moan and begins exploding inside you, painting your walls with his warm load. You cling to his chest and his arms envelop you again but he’s not restraining you now, he’s holding you close, while ecstasy is rippling through your bodies. Your lips meet and you’re making out lazily, getting down from your highs.

Feeling exhausted, still spasming on his cock from time to time, you put your head on his shoulder and close your eyes with a satisfied sigh. Clint’s gentle hands glide over your tingling skin and soon they put you to sleep.

You wake up when the morning sun is peeking through the drapes in his bedroom. Clint’s on his back next to you, his breathing deep and slow. For a few seconds you’re watching him, his dark lashes fluttering, his chest rising and falling. You take a deep breath, overwhelmed by the desire to kiss him, trace his scar with your lips, run your hands over the vast expanse of his body. You want it so much your chest hurts, but you fight it and get up. Not seeing your clothes, you grab Clint’s flannel off the chair and put it on.

“Hittin’ and quittin’ and stealing my favorite shirt,” Clint croaks behind you and you turn around with a smile. “Bad girl.” His lips are slightly curved too, sleepy eyes sliding up and down your half naked body.

“I need to go. I’ll give it back to you, don’t worry.”

Clint hums and then stretches. He spreads his big arms, huge muscles bulging, and a sheet slides off his leg, exposing his thick hairy thigh. A pronounced shape between his legs makes you salivate and you bite your lip.

“Stay,” Clint says softly. “We can go again.. Or just cuddle.“

Your eyebrows shoot up as you giggle,

“You wanna cuddle?”

“I wanna cuddle the shit out of you, baby.”

Your laugh rings loudly in the bedroom, but you’re hesitant. You’ve never stayed till the morning, never made breakfast for you two, never let him pull you too close. Yet something in you has changed tonight, the strong feeling sits warm and heavy in your belly. You crave all of that now.

The flannel shirt falls on the floor and you jump into the bed. Clint wraps you in his arms with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on him and holds you close. And you let him.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic! Your feedback means the world💜

MASTERLIST || more Clint

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People who were interested in the wip posts (no pressure to read, bbs) @604to647 @toxicanonymity @sawymredfox @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @tateypots

[exqorcism]

〝 LOVE YOU LIKE A WOMAN ! 〞

sub!joel miller x fem!dom!reader ㅤ♡𓈒 ཾ 𓈒 ──── synopsis. you're the only one that can make joel beg. cw. prolly ooc!joel... bear with me ﹅ 18+ — minors dni! ﹅ sub!joel ﹅ 'papi' used like once ﹅ begging ﹅ mentioned orgasm denial ﹅ creampie ﹅ baby joel is alive and well in my book !!!

꙳ ⋆ ⸝⸝ JOEL REQUESTS ﹫HERE! ノ masterlist. ノ my taglist

"i'm gonna— fuck, hon, right there," he whispers lowly, hoping, silently begging with his eyes. let me cum, he looks up at you while you bounce up and down on his length, i'm gonna cum if you don't stop.

you let out a low chuckle, quite breathless as you roll your hips in a way that has joel choke on his own saliva, his handcuffed hands shaking where they're locked to the bed frame, leaving him open and vulnerable.

and only for you to see.

"say 'pretty please'," you demand, and oh — he knows you're serious. balancing yourself with your hands on his chest, nails raking down his skin, leaving marks in their wake. joel lets out an inhibited moan, feeling the urge to close his eyes but not wanting to miss a second of your blissful expression at the same time.

then, he shakes his head.

"just say it." you hiss through clenched teeth, patting his cheek while continuing your rhythm, feeling your walls open wider to accommodate to his size. "you're almost there, baby. wanna breed me s'bad, don't ya? it's only one word, baby, you can do it."

joel so desperately wants to grab your tits, hips, thighs, push you back onto the bed and fuck you stupid. he wants to rub off that cocky smile playing on your lips, bend you in half until you're crying out for him to stop.

but he can't.

the worst thing? joel secretly enjoys it.

and oh, don't you as well.

your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes glimmering with hint of authority when you look down at your boyfriend with authority written all over your face. the way your body moves on top of him, the subtle jerks of your hips and the flutter of your walls, right where he's buried deep inside. your boobs moving in sync with your controlled bounces, and your clit pulses in the rhythm of your heartbeat.

embarrassment blooms low in joel's stomach, slowly creeping up his neck until he feels his skin burn. he's so close to giving you what you want, for the sake of his cock, pulsing and twitching with every withdraw of your hips.

"no." his voice is strangled, raw and low, as he, half heartedly, tries to make his way out of the handcuffs that keep him tied to the bed frame.

your smirk doesn't falter — if anything, it grows wider, feeling the slight break in joel's demeanour. you twirl a piece of your hair around your finger, battling your eyelashes in a way that you know has joel spiralling.

"c'mon, papi, you're almost there" you whisper, your voice sultry and sweet and sugary, even thought the nickname is anything but.

joel's cock jumps where it's buried deep inside you, and you let out a soft whine as you grind on his lap — and he just lets you, boneless and exhausted, so close to his breaking point even when you barely do anything to make his ache go away.

the soft drag of your velvety walls on joel's cock makes him twitch, legs shaking from the pure force of his incoming orgasm; the very one you denied him three times before. the wet squelch of your walls echoes through the room, heavy with smell of sex and sweat — and it's so utterly erotic, it makes your legs shake on both of joel's.

"f-fuck, hon, don't make me—" he chokes out, and you lean down, slowly and subtly, pressing your lips to the stubble on his jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin, tongue darting out to lick the sweat adorning the vein on the side of his neck. "oh, fuck, please, let me cum— i can't, i'm gonna fuckin'—

you grin against his tan skin, straightening your back so that you can reward him for being so good, so obedient for once in his life, beginning to roll your hips in a way that you know has joel see stars. your clit catches the soft hairs at the base of his cock every time you lower yourself onto him, your core gripping him like a vice as you feel the unmistakable knot begin to form in your stomach.

there's no inhibitions anymore; profanities, mixed with the sequence of shameless 'please, please, please's leaves his mouth, his hips beginning to piston up into the home that is your tight cunt.

"fuck, good boy. go ahead, cum f'me, baby, 'm so proud of you."

joel's breath stutters at the words leaving your mouth, and he's moaning into the evening air, letting you do most of the work. he's falling limp onto the mattress, watching your face confront in pleasure and — which makes his stomach and chest tighten with something he can't quite name — pride.

leaning forward for just a second, you press a wet kiss on his lips and move faster. back and forth, up and down, grinding down on his impressive length until you feel cramps begin to creep up your legs. your breathing is laboured, eyes shut tight as he eagerly kisses you back, tracing the outline of your lips with his tongue, not letting you move away from him for a more than a second.

"fuck, please— right there, please, don't stop," he blabbers between the kisses, not even caring about how desperate he sounds. you let out a soft moan,

before you know it, joel whimpers into your mouth, the sound so unusual and so not joel, it makes you bit his lip, nails digging into his skin, sure as hell to leave marks in their wake. his back arches off the mattress as ribbons of his warm, fresh load cover your inner walls, the tip of his cock pressed tightly against your cervix as he gives you everything he had to give. for now.

"see? wasn't so hard, was it?"

joel can only let out a breathless chuckle, feeling sweat roll down his temple, lazy eyes following yours as you straighten your back, grinding down onto his lap with slow, measured movements.

"now... ready to beg some more?"

ⓘ exqorcism, 2025 — do not repost, re upload, copy and plagiarise my content. / reblogs are deeply appreciated !! ˙ ‎♡‧₊˚

[salvagemarch]

Natural High

joel miller x reader

662 words

summary: you’re the most insatiable, sex hungry woman joel miller has ever met. he decides if anyone’s gonna give you your fix, it should be him.

warnings: basically just porn with a rice grain of plot, fast paced, not proof read, manhandling, reader may seem kind of pushy but i promise joel is 100% into it, joel is old but unspecified age gap, unprotected piv, creampie

a/n: i’m sorry if this is bad. i needed to write something after that episode and i whipped this up in 10 minutes. this is really just therapy for me. part 2

You’ve never been a one and done type of person.

You always got seconds of dinner, always bought three of your favorite face washes in case they sold out, always pet dogs you saw at the park a dozen times before walking away…

Made your creaky-boned boyfriend fuck you a hundred times before you fell asleep.

Your skin feels clammy and Joel pants heavily from his spot beside you in the unmade, sweat soaked bed.

“No more, honey. I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

You tried to sympathize with him, you really did, but the insistent throbbing and arousal coming from between your legs overpowered any pity you might have felt.

“Jooooel,” you whine out, “I want you over and over and over again. It’s not my fault, it’s hers!” You pointed an accusatory finger down south to your voracious vagina.

Joel sighed heavily and threw his forearm over his tired eyes. “If I give this to ya, will you let me sleep?”

You beamed at him and nodded.

Suddenly, he grabbed you by your calves and held you by the backs of your knees by his forearms, his grip on you stronger than steel.

“You want it so damn bad? Take it.”

A whine is pulled from you as Joel folds your right leg to your chest and moves the same hand holding you down to grip the base of his cock, guiding it towards your heat. You whimper contentedly, letting him slide home into your body, your pussy giving him a satisfied squeeze.

“You’re too horny for your own damn good, girl. You’re lucky my dick is still attached to my body,” Joel scolded you while simultaneously pushing his hips forward, urging his cock deeper and deeper inside. You moaned away happily as the curls sitting at his pubis rubbed against your clit, forcing even more arousal from you until it leaked onto the sheets below.

“You like that, don’t you? Like tiring me out? Yeah, you fuckin’ like it…” He trailed off, pushing both of your thighs onto your chest, thrusting into you as fast as his overworked body could. Your eyes rolled shut when your legs began trembling, your hole clenching around his dick and leaking out arousal to accommodate him.

Your body never seemed to get used to Joel’s length, impressive as it was, and you yourself never got tired of it. The tip always nudged against that perfect spot, his wide dick filling every single inch of you. Joel groaned deeply and moved his hands down to your hips, bouncing you on his lap so you could work yourself on his cock. The new angle let you grind onto him, and you could feel another orgasm building rapidly in the base of your stomach.

“J-Joel,” you warn, “‘M gonna cum again, I-,” you whimper out loudly, feeling one big hand slide up your torso to cup your breast, kneading the plush skin and rolling your nipple between his fingers. His other hand snakes down to rub quick circles on your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts.

You’re done for.

You rake your nails down his upper arms as your climax runs through you, making your back tingle and your legs lock up. A high pitched, strained moan is torn from somewhere deep in your chest as he continues fucking you through it, using your body to get off.

“There we go, baby, feels so good don’t it? Feels so good to- fuck, shit-,” he buried his sweaty face into your neck, groaning and biting at your skin while forcing his cock as deep as it could go. You whine weakly as you feel his cum filling you up, leaking out of you along with your own juices. He panted heavily in your ear before his body relaxed and dead weighted like a blanket on top of you.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“…Can we go again?”