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javiscigarette · 1 year ago

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Teacher's Pet

Joel Miller x virgin f!reader

Summary: 25 years old, anxiety-ridden, and still a virgin, you ask your friend Joel for advice on your upcoming date. But you're more of a...hands-on learner. And he's more than happy to help.

Warnings: PWP, unbalanced power dynamics, virgin!reader, neighbor/bff/more experienced! Joel, age gap, first kiss, virginity loss, fingering, oral (f receiving), frequent check-ins, soo much banter and Joel is a menace also so soft and sweet :')....(ends on a cliffhanger but there will be a part two I swear).

w/c: 7.7k idk what happened

a/n: I am resurfacing for your monthly reminder that I do in fact still write!! Inspiration for this came out of literally nowhere but I took it and RAN with it and I think I like it?? As always, thank you to my baby love @undrthelights for helping me with this and always listening to my rambling and for being my biggest enabler Ilysm

Part Two

my masterlist

"Fine! What if, hypothetically speaking of course, you were to, hypothetically, give me a, um, hypothetical, lesson or whatever." Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your pulse throb in your neck pound in your ears. You slowly drag your hands away from your face and look at him. He stares right back at you, brows furrowed. "A what?" "Forget it. forget I said anything,” you mutter, shaking your head. "No no wait, hang on, what do you mean? A lesson? Like a…a sex lesson?”

"Seriously, Joel. Fuck off" you snap but with no bite or heat behind it. You bring the sweating bottle of beer to your lips and finish the rest of the now lukewarm liquid off in one gulp.

"What? I just find it hard to believe that you've never even had a kiss. Didn't you go to high school? Didn't you ever get invited to a party? Didn't you go to college? College kids do the do like all the time”

"Clearly not all the time" you mutter, a tad bitterly.

Joel raises his hands defensively and takes a sip of his own beer. "Just seems crazy is all. There's gotta be some chick or dude out there willing to take pity on you and pop your cherry."

You audibly gag at his choice of words. "I don't need a pity fuck, thanks." You stand from the couch and head over to the fridge. The bottles of cold alcohol inside are calling your name and you want something that will help soothe your nerves. You're not a big drinker, but when Joel is prying into your love life like he is now, you wish you were.

"Okay,” he starts from the living room. “Maybe I worded that wrong. What I meant to say was, there's gotta be someone out there who would be more than willing to show you a good time."

You groan and let your forehead fall against the fridge door. "That's the whole point! I came here to get advice for my date, someone who might actually be interested in me, and all you've done is make fun of me for not having fucked anyone yet. So thanks, Joel. You're a real pal."

You push away from the fridge and slam the door shut, a second beer in hand.

"Alright, alright, calm down." He says, hands in the air as if you were holding him at gunpoint as you head back to the couch. "Look, if this guy really likes you then he's not gonna care. Probably won't even be able to tell if you are or aren't."

"You think so?" You ask hopefully.

"Well, I mean, unless you're like... super bad."

Your heart drops into your stomach and you glare at him, "Joel."

"Oh come on, I'm kidding. You're not gonna be bad, okay? Just, go into it with an open mind and just relax. If he tries something you're not comfortable with or makes you feel weird, tell him. And if he gets pissy, dump his ass."

"That simple, huh?" You scoff.

"Well, yeah. You're the one who made it complicated by thinking it was a big deal."

"It is a big deal, Joel! I know nothing!

"Nothing? You ain’t ever watched porn? Jesus, I had no idea you were such a prude."

You can't stop yourself from rolling your eyes and slapping the back of your hand against his arm. He yelps and laughs, rubbing his arm.

"I've watched porn before" you retort.

"What kind?" he asks with a wiggle of his brows.

"None of your fucking business" you respond, feeling your face heat up.

Joel's lips quirk into a shit-eating grin and you're quick to smack him again.

"Okay okay, sorry!" he says through his laughter. "So what exactly are you afraid of?"

You're not really sure how to answer. It's a combination of so many things, most of which are irrational fears and insecurities. Sure you've seen it all done before, but you're well aware that none of it is realistic. At least, not completely. And just the fact that you're freshly 25 years old without a single notch in your bedpost makes you dizzy with anxiety. It's not like you're saving yourself or anything, it's just that hook up culture has never agreed with you and there's never been an opportunity that made you feel like it was the right one. That is until now, with your cute coworker who you thought was miles out of your league asking you out on a third date. And now, the prospect of being in bed with him is looming over you like a dark cloud and the last thing you want to do is mess it up.

"I guess, I'm just afraid that he's gonna be disappointed, or I'm gonna weird him out, or I'm gonna do something wrong and embarrass myself.” Joel nods along and listens. "And if it is bad then we still have to work with each other and then what if it's awkward and everyone knows about it and then he hates me and--"

"Okay, whoa slow down there, buddy" Joel says, putting a hand on your shoulder. "One, you're overthinking this. You're literally thinking like, five steps ahead of what's actually going on. It's a date. And even if it does end up in the bedroom, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. No one's forcing you, okay? He can't. No one can."

"I know, but I want to," you reply quietly.

"Alright. Then do."

"I don't know howwww!! " you whine, flopping backwards into the couch.

Joel groans and sits up a little straighter, scrubbing a hand down his face.

"Well, there's no magic trick, I don't have a secret sex manual I'm holding out on ya."

You sigh, shoulders sagging as you look over at him. The idea comes out of nowhere, well, not exactly from nowhere, but it pops in your head so fast that you then have to bite your tongue before the words bubbling up from your throat come tumbling out.

It's not a bad idea, not necessarily.

You've been good friends with Joel ever since you moved in next door last year. An unlikely pairing, a 40 year old contractor and an almost 25 year old office worker. But after offering him a six pack as part of introducing yourself to the neighbors, you'd gotten along fabulously. He fixes things around your house and you send him home with hot dinners and warm, gooey cookies and you watch movies together almost every Friday night.

It's an easy friendship, open and honest and supportive, and Joel has never given you reason not to trust him. He's a good guy, if not a little brash, but you know deep down he means well. And it doesn't hurt that he's objectively attractive, with his tall and sturdy frame, strong, calloused hands, dark messy curls....It's not a bad idea.

It's an absolutely insane idea.

You continue to stare at him, clenching your teeth together to hold back the question sitting on the tip of your tongue.

"What?" he says, looking back at you.

"Nothing" you mutter, eyes flicking away.

"You've got that face you make when you're about to say something really stupid, so just get it out."

You glare at him again, not enjoying the way he can read you so well.

"I wasn't gonna say anything."

"Well now you're lying."

"I'm not."

"You're doing it again!"

"Doing what?!"

"That face!"

"I'm not making a face!"

"Yes you are! Just spit it out!"

You groan and hide your face in your hands. You blame it on the one beer even though you know you’re not anywhere close to being drunk because how else would you justify what you’re about to say? You wait a moment, thinking about the weight of it but your mouth opens before you can stop yourself.

"Fine! What if, hypothetically speaking of course, you were to, hypothetically, give me a, um, hypothetical, lesson or whatever."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel your pulse throb in your neck and hear it in your ears. You slowly drag your hands away from your face and look at him. He stares right back at you, brows furrowed.

"A what?"

"Forget it. forget I said anything,” you mutter, shaking your head.

"No no wait, hang on, what do you mean? A lesson? Like a…a sex lesson?”

His eyes are wide, and he looks incredulous. You can't blame him, because the more time that passes between your suggestion and now, the more ridiculous the idea seems.

"I’m sorry, that was…It was stupid. Pretend I didn't say anything. Let's just watch a movie." You move to grab the remote, but Joel's hand covers yours, stopping you.

"Is that what you want?"

You look at him, searching his expression for any sign of disgust or apprehension. But all you can see is the same Joel you've known for months, patient, warm, and understanding.

"I know. I know it's stupid. But I can't get this date out of my head, Joel. It's all I can think about and the more I do, the more worried I get and I just don't want to fuck it up. And I know we're friends and this is weird and gross, but I just thought that... maybe, I could have some practice, so to speak."

He doesn't say anything. Just keeps looking at you, the panic rising in your chest the longer the silence stretches. You start to fidget, wringing your hands together in your lap.

"I'm sorry, that was way out of line" you say, moving to stand up, your skin sweaty and hot with embarrassment and your feet ready to run out the door and never come back.

But Joel catches your wrist, gently pulling you back down to sit next to him.

"Joel" you whine, not wanting him to humiliate you any further.

"It's okay, come here."

His voice is softer than before, and his eyes are kind. You let him pull you closer, the two of you sitting knee to knee. You can't bring yourself to look him in the eyes, not with your cheeks and the tips of your ears burning like they are, but Joel doesn't push. He simply moves his hand from your wrist, sliding it into yours. His palms are rough and warm, and the simple touch alone is comforting.

"You really wanna do this?” he asks softly. You can feel his eyes boring into you. “I mean, I'm not exactly a prize winning catch. And it's not like there's a shortage of willing men out there."

You shrug and chew the inside of your lip.

"Yeah, but you're my friend and I...I trust you."

There's another pause, and you wish that you could just disappear into the couch and erase this moment from your memory.

"How drunk are you?" he asks, glancing at the beer bottle on the coffee table.

"You saw me finish one bottle. And half of another. I’m barely tipsy."

"Not drunk?”

"Nope."

"You're gonna remember this tomorrow."

"Uh huh."

"And you still want to?"

You groan for the millionth time and squeeze his hand.

"Yes I want to! Look, if you don't want to then that's fine. It was just a dumb suggestion and we can just forget this ever happened."

He hums, considering your words. His hand slips out of yours, and you think that's it, you've scared him off and washed the friendship down the drain. That you'll have to hide from him from now on, that you'll have to pack your things up and move because the mortification would be too much, and that he'll hate you, and—

His two fingers sliding under chin surprise you, and he tilts your head up. He's looking down at you with that same even expression, eyes big, soft, and warm as he slides his hand over to cup your jaw in his palm.

"If you want to stop at any point, just say so, okay? I won't be upset and we can go back to the way things were before. Got it?"

You nod, your throat suddenly too tight to speak. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone, the tender touch is enough to make your heart skip a beat. There’s no way this is actually happening. That your first kiss is going to be with your 40 year old menace of a neighbor. That you’re going to, how did you put it, get a sex lesson from him. His gaze flicks down to your lips and back up to your eyes and you’re positive you’re no longer able to breathe.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks softly. You nod.

You're sure he can hear the thumping of your heart in his own ears as he leans down. His other hand comes to rest on your hip and when his lips touch yours, a soft, tentative pressure, you're not prepared for the electricity that shoots through you.

He's barely done anything and already you feel like you're floating. Your own hands reach out to clutch his shirt, keeping him close, afraid he'll pull away and leave you cold and wanting if you don't. But he stays put, pressing himself against you, his lips working gently against yours. You follow his lead, kissing him back while trying not to overthink it.

It's nothing like the kisses in the movies or the books, where fireworks explode behind your eyelids or where your foot pops up in the air. It's far more subdued, more quiet and subtle. But the warmth that pools low in your belly and the goosebumps that erupt on your skin when his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, light and quick, makes you absolutely melt.

He pulls back before you can really react, and you're left with a dizzying rush of both blistering desire and excruciating anxiety. You want to pull him back in and never let him go. But your heart is beating so fast you can hardly breathe, your nerves are buzzing, and the urge to run and hide is nearly paralyzing.

"Was it bad?" you ask tentatively, cheeks heated.

"No" he replies, giving your hip a squeeze as a smirk plays on his lips. "It was fucking awful. Worst kiss of my life"

"Shut up!" you hiss, pushing him away with a hand on his chest. He laughs, the sound easing some of the tension in your body.

"I'm just teasing" he says, voice dropping lower. "C'mere, we can work on it."

His lips find yours again, and you try not to smile into the kiss but it's hard when you can feel the way his lips are quirked up as well. It doesn’t take much else to get you to relax and let yourself fall into the moment, into the gentle press of his mouth and the warm hands on your hip and your cheek. He swipes his tongue against your lips again, his fingers pressing lightly into the hinge of your jaw to tilt your head back and coax your lips apart.

You let him, sighing as his tongue glides across yours, hot and smooth and sweet. Your hands slide up his chest, finding purchase around his shoulders, and when you move forward, pushing yourself against him, he grunts softly but lets you. He kisses you until the both of you are gasping for air, and when he pulls back, his lips are wet and red and you're certain yours must be as well.

"Better?" you ask, a bit breathless.

"Getting there" he answers with, his breath warm where it fans across your cheek.

"You're such a liar" you say with a goofy smile.

"Yeah, I know. Now try again, practice makes perfect.”

You roll your eyes but lean back in nonetheless. It's a bit more heated this time, the feeling of his teeth nibbling on your bottom lip making you squirm. His hand rounds over your hip, palm smoothing to the small of your back to pull you closer, the heat of his body radiating through your clothes and warming your skin. Your hands move on their own accord, no thought behind the action as they slide up to his shoulders and then his neck, your fingers finding home in the curls at the base of his skull. When you give them a slight tug, you're rewarded with a muffled grunt from Joel. Emboldened, you pull back, lips swollen and tingling.

"You’re a good kisser,” you pant. "Is that something people usually say?"

"When it’s true" he says, grinning at you. "And since I know you're gonna ask, I'd say that was a C+, maybe a B-."

You scoff but blush furiously at the smile he flashes, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

"Well then, tell me what to do next. What do I need to know?"

Joel hums as he thinks for a moment.

"What do you want to do?"

You stare at him for a second, blinking.

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you" you say, shaking your head a bit.

"Well, how far do you want to take this?"

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very shy. You can’t deny that when the idea popped in your head it was accompanied by the mental image of you naked, spread out on his bed, but the actual act of asking him, or better yet, actually doing it is... intimidating to say the least. Are you really about to let him go all the way, to see you bare and vulnerable, let him pop your cherry as he would disgustingly put it? All just to “prepare” for a date with a guy who might not even like you that way?

Yeah, probably.

"All the way" you answer. “I want to go all the way”

He doesn’t pounce on you like you expected, doesn’t press his lips against yours in a frenzied kiss that you had half hoped for. Instead, he simply looks at you, his brown eyes boring into yours, searching.

"Are you sure? You can always say no and you're not gonna lose me as a friend if this isn’t what you actually want. I don’t want you thinking that."

You can't help the laugh that bubbles up and slips out, because of course Joel, your kind, thoughtful Joel, would say that. He's a good man. A great one, even.

"Yes, I'm sure. But if you don't want to, I get it, I can just leave and-"

Joel laughs, the sound traveling up from deep in his chest, the rumble vibrating against you.

"Sweetheart, I wouldn't be doin’ this if I didn't want to. Just makin’ sure this is what you really want."

"I want it.”

He squeezes your hip and swipes a thumb over your cheekbone once again.

“Alright then.” He nods, firm and resolute, and then looks around the room. “ We’re not doing it here, though. If you're getting the full Joel Miller experience, we're gonna do it right.”

Your eyes roll reflexively, but your heart picks up its pace regardless.

"I’m not gonna do anything if you call it that ever again."

"Fine, fine,” he relents. “Let me show you what a good, thorough fucking feels like. Better?"

Your jaw drops, and he's laughing at you, his body shaking with amusement.

"Fuck you" you grumble, shoving him away while trying to hide your coy smile.

"Yeah, that's what I'm hoping for," he says with a wide, self-assured grin.

"I'm leaving" you declare with a false sense of offense as you rise to your feet. Joel is quick to do the same and before you can take a single step away, he slips a finger through the belt loop of your jeans and tugs you back into him, wrapping an arm around your waist.

"I’ll stop, I’ll stop. I'm sorry" he says, not sounding it one bit.

You huff, but let him pull you closer until you’re pressed against his chest and you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

"I’ll be good. I promise."

"Liar"

"Well, yeah. But I can promise that I'll make you feel good."

You can't help the giggle that spills out and he kisses it away, his lips warm and plush and sweet against yours. The hand not resting on your lower back comes up, curling around the nape of your neck and keeping you close. You sink into him, and the fog creeps in again, dulling the rest of the world, making it seem fuzzy and distant, like the memory of a dream. All you can focus on is him, the warm solid weight of him against you, the strong arms holding you, the way his mouth moves against yours. And then he’s pulling back all too soon and you have to stifle a whine.

"Come on" he says, tugging at your hand.

His bedroom is dim, the little lamp on his nightstand and the faint glow of the moon through the curtains providing the only light. You swallow and take a deep breath as you step inside, your bare toes digging into the plush carpet, his hand warm and large where it grips yours.

He holds onto you as he sits on the edge of the bed. You step forward, letting him pull you between his knees. His hands settle on your hips, and you can feel their heat through the fabric of your shirt.

He doesn’t ask if you're sure again and you’re grateful because you’re not sure if you could form any kind of response right now. Instead, he slides his hands up and under your shirt, fingers dancing across your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps. Your breath hitches as his hands smooth over your ribs and around to your back, the tips of his fingers mapping out the curve of your spine, skimming over each notch and bump. They climb higher, the fabric of your shirt bunching around his wrists.

“Can I take this off, baby?”

Your heart jumps to your throat but you nod anyway. He grabs the hem and tugs your shirt up and and you lift your arms so he can slip it off over your head. He tosses it aside, the fabric falling to the floor beside the bed. You’re left exposed, vulnerable and bare, save for the worn out bra you wear, a few too many washes and a few years past its prime.

Your hands itch where they hang by your side with the instinct to cover yourself, hide the imperfections that you know so well, the stretch marks, the softness of your stomach, the way the cups of your bra are just a bit too small and spill over the tops.

But then he’s pressing his lips to the space just above your navel, his scruff tickling your skin and making the muscles in your abdomen jump and twitch. His hands find your waist again, and when his lips continue their path upwards, his palms follow, skimming up your sides, thumbs tracing the outline of your ribs before stopping at the band of your bra.

"This too?" he asks, voice quiet and husky.

"Yeah" you answer with a squeak, and he grins like a kid in a candy store.

His fingers undo the clasp deftness that makes your knees go weak, the straps slipping from your shoulders and the whole thing sliding down your arms, landing somewhere near your shirt.

"God, baby, look at you" he murmurs, his hands cupping the underside of your breasts, his thumbs sweeping over the tops and then down the slope and around your nipple. Your breath hitches, the gentle touch sending a shiver up your spine. "You're fucking perfect."

The praise is unexpected and it sends a jolt of heat through your core. You whimper quietly and his hands are on you again, the calloused palms rough on the soft skin of your breasts. He kneads the flesh, squeezing gently before rolling your nipples between his fingers, pulling and pinching and teasing.

He pulls you closer and ducks his head, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes dark and hooded, and his pupils blown wide with desire.

"Can I?" he asks.

"Please."

He leans in and wraps his lips around a peaked nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, the gentle heat of his mouth on your skin making your knees weak.

His mouth works on one breast, tongue flicking and teasing while his free hand continues its work on the other. Pleasure builds and coils deep inside, the sensation unfamiliar but certainly not unwelcome. You whimper and he pulls away, releasing your nipple with a wet pop before giving it a sweet parting kiss.

He turns his attention to the other, his teeth grazing over the stiff peak and drawing a whine from your lips. He sighs when your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at the strands until he groans softly against you. He sucks your other nipple into his mouth, the flat of his tongue pressing against it and dragging up and around, swirling and flicking. You’re already breathless, panting, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead.

"Feels good, Joel," you whisper shyly.

"I know, honey" he says, a soft smile pulling at his lips when he pulls away. "Feel good anywhere else?"

He doesn't wait for a response, simply slips a hand between your thighs, cupping you through the denim, the simple action making you squeak.

"Here, huh?" he says, the heel of his palm pressing against you.

You gasp softly and nod, biting your lip, too shy to say anything.

"Get on the bed, baby."

You comply, crawling onto the mattress and scooting backwards towards the pillows, sitting at the head of the bed as you watch him. His eyes never leave you as he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor. Your heart thumps as you stare at his bare chest, his tanned skin dotted with a light dusting of salt and pepper hair. He's broad, his shoulders thick and chest solid. Your fingers burn with the urge to reach out and touch him, so you do, extending a tentative, slightly shaky hand.

He watches you closely, eyes flitting down to the palm pressed against his chest before meeting yours again, his mouth curling into a smile.

"You can touch" he says, reaching down to curl a hand around your wrist and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to the center of your palm before guiding your hand back down to his chest. "I think most people would enjoy that."

"You're having entirely too much fun with this,” you mumble while your fingers spread out across his pec.

"It is fun" he counters, his own hand sliding up the inside of your thigh, thumb pressing against the seam of your jeans and rubbing up and down. "But it'll be more fun once these come off"

Your lips part, a puff of air rushing out.

"You gonna take them off?" you ask, the words slipping out, bold and unbidden.

He grins, his brow quirking up.

"Look at you, being all bossy"

"You like it" you say, finally feeling some of the anxiety slipping away, the familiar and comfortable banter between the two of you slipping into place in a new, unfamiliar situation.

His smile takes up nearly his whole face as moves closer.

“I sure do.”

He looms over you, bracing himself on an elbow next to your head before ducking down to kiss you, his tongue easily slipping into your mouth, warm and insistent. You sigh into it, your hands finding the warm, bare skin of his back, muscles gliding beneath your palms as you slide them up and around, fingertips digging into his shoulders. He's so warm and solid and you can't help the little noise that slips out, a soft, needy moan. You're about to break the kiss and beg him to touch you, give you something, anything, but he pulls back before you can.

"Impatient. I like that too" he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin. He continues his path, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbones and down the valley between your breasts, his beard tickling your sternum.

His palm presses into the top of your thigh, and you instinctively open your legs for him, his hand immediately moving to cup you through the denim, thick fingers pressing against the seam and the bundle of nerves just below. Your hips rock up, seeking more pressure and he grins, entirely too pleased with himself right now.

You huff, and he laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest, but he relents, undoing the button and zipper of your jeans and tugging the fabric down, revealing the pair of pink panties underneath.

Joel sits up, pulling your jeans down your legs and letting them drop off the side of the bed, the sound of the denim hitting the floor indicating that you've officially crossed a line that neither of you can come back from. But if the hungry, desperate look on his face and the way you're practically vibrating underneath him are any indication, neither of you want to.

"I'll start with just my fingers, yeah?" he says, his hands running up the insides of your thighs, touch light and teasing, the tips of his fingers brushing the edge of your panties. You nod dumbly, at a complete loss for words right now.

He ducks his head, his lips landing on the smooth skin stretched over your hip bone. You squirm, ticklish, and he grins. His mouth is a great distraction from his hand, which has found its way back in between your legs, his fingers now pressing against damp fabric.

"Shit" he curses, his touch firm. "Fuckin' soaked already. Am I just that good?" he quips with a smirk.

"Jesus do you ever shut up" you gripe, but the effect is ruined by the whimper that escapes you when his thumb sweeps up, pressing hard against your clit.

"Oh, that's a pretty sound" he murmurs, repeating the motion to pull out another one, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Now," he starts, his tone shifting to the same one he uses when he's about to impart some life lesson. "This guy you're gonna see, or any man for that matter, should always take care of you before himself. That's just common fuckin' sense. And if he doesn't, you send him on his way" he continues. "Because a man that don't wanna see a woman get off is no fuckin' man at all"

You're about to interrupt, tell him he's an idiot and ask him to please, please, get on with it, but his fingers sliding under the elastic of your panties, swiftly pulling them down your legs steals the breath from your lungs. Your pulse sky rockets and you shift underneath him, crossing your thighs in instinctual effort to hide yourself from him.

"M'sorry I didn't shave or anything" you blurt out, your throat tight with anxiety and embarrassment once again

Joel just shakes his head as he pries your legs apart.

"Baby, I could not give less of a shit about that."

"But-"

"No" he says, the word firm, an edge of command to his tone. "You’re not apologizin’ for that. And if a man gives a shit, he's a fuckin' child who doesn't deserve the honor of bein' between these thighs" he says, pushing your knees further apart.

You nod and bite your lip, the words that are just so very Joel, settling in your chest and easing the tension in your body. You let out a long, slow breath and relax, trying to ease the nervousness.

"There ya go" he says, his fingers dancing along your slit, gathering the slick pooling there. You shudder at the gentle touch, your hips rolling up just a bit before you force them back down into the mattress, trying to keep yourself still.

"Nuh-uh. None of that" he says, immediately noticing the movement. He slides his free hand under you, his palm pushing into the small of your back and encouraging you to move again, to lean into your pleasure. "You take what you want, baby. Show me how good it feels. That's all I wanna see."

You squirm and whimper, the simple, almost lazy touch driving you insane. You've touched yourself before, brought yourself over the edge while imagining what it would be like to have the things you read about and watch in videos happen to you. But you've never managed to make yourself feel this good, never felt pleasure so intense, never felt a burning pressure in your abdomen so demanding that it radiates all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes.

And he's barely touched you.

"How's that feel?"

You can't even form the words, so you just nod and hum, the sound a mix of a whimper and a moan, your hips rolling up against his palm. He chuckles, and then the pressure increases, the friction building, his fingers slipping down, collecting more of your wetness to ease the drag against your skin.

He moves his fingers down, down, down, the tip of one circling your entrance, gathering the wetness pooling there. You whine loudly, any shame and modesty you once had replaced entirely with desperate need and pure desire.

"Please, Joel" you whisper, voice shaky.

"I gotcha" he says, dipping his fingertip in, just barely, and pulling a moan from deep in your chest. "Gonna give you what you need"

You groan, a long, low sound as he slowly sinks his finger into you. It's nothing like your own, so perfectly thick and long/ And you found the spot before, the spot that he curls his finger up into, but never at this angle, never with the perfect amount of pressure that he's applying right now.

"Mmm, look at that" he coos as you clench tightly around his finger.

"Joel, god, feels so good" you whimper pathetically.

"I know, honey, I know."

You clench again, the cockiness and self-assured attitude that usually gets under your skin now ignites your whole body in an entirely different way. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching as your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth drops open, your head tipping back as the pleasure builds.

"Another" you beg, the fullness not nearly enough.

"Greedy girl" he chides, but he pulls his finger out, and slides two back in. You swear that you could come from this alone, but he doesn't let you, the hand that was supporting your lower back disappearing, only to reappear between your thighs, his thumb circling your clit with firm, steady strokes.

White hot pleasure wraps around the base of your spine, the dual sensations of his fingers and his thumb sending you spiraling. The sounds falling from your lips are unrecognizable, high and desperate as your mind goes blissfully blank, your entire focus on the heat coiling in your abdomen. Your eyebrows pinch together and you bury your face in the pillow next to your head, trying to hide the ridiculous expression you're surely making, but you inhale the traces of his shampoo and cologne that cling to the fabric, the scent pushing you even closer to the edge.

You try to hold back. Surely you're not supposed to come this quickly, not just from two fingers and a thumb. Surely that's a sign that you're an easy lay, or too inexperienced, or-

"Just let it happen, baby. I can feel it, Just let go" Joel says, his voice cutting through the thoughts racing through your mind, his fingers crooking inside you and dragging across the spot that makes your hips stutter and a cry fall from your lips.

You can't hold back any longer, the pleasure cresting and crashing down around you. You squeeze his fingers, your back arching, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress as you roll your hips up into his touch, seeking more and more and more. And he gives and gives and gives, working you through it and drawing it out for as long as he can before you melt into the mattress, bones and muscles liquid and warm and satisfied.

He pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness draws a disappointed whine from you, his answering chuckle making you smile.

"That was- fuck" you sigh, not quite capable of coherent thought.

"Absolutely mind-blowing? Yeah I know" he teases. You roll your eyes but don't say anything because it's true, and his cocky grin fades into a soft smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you return to Earth.

"Can I- can I return the favor?" you ask, your gaze flicking down to the noticeable bulge in his jeans.

He grunts and shakes his head.

"Not yet. Got somethin' else in mind."

You frown and push yourself up onto your elbows, watching as he shifts from his position. You're about to ask what he's going to do until he's settling himself on his stomach between your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath as you realize exactly what he's got planned and your heart jumps, anxiety clouding your mind once again.

He rests his cheek on your thigh, his eyes meeting yours.

"Alright?"

You swallow and nod, licking your lips.

"Yeah. Just... no one's ever-"

"Yeah, I got that much, that's why we're here" he says, smiling smugly when you glare at him.

"But what if it's not good? Or I don't taste good? Or-"

"Stop" he says, the single word halting your runaway train of thought. "You need lessons in relaxing, not sex. You're so fucking tense all the time"

"Sorry" you say, immediately cringing.

He sighs, his breath ghosting over the skin of your inner thigh, making you shiver. "What did I say about apologizin'?" he says, his tone slightly sharp.

"I know. Sorry- shit, sorry! Fuck!"

He barks out a laugh and you huff, bringing up both hands to scrub over your face.

"See what I mean?"

"Yes, yes, you're very smart and know everything"

He hums and nips at your thigh.

"Damn right I do."

You want to snark back, but his mouth is moving, his lips trailing down the inside of your thigh and towards where you're aching for him, slick and wet and throbbing. He takes his time, laying kisses on your thighs, hips, and stomach, his scruff scraping the sensitive skin, huffing out a laugh when you start to squirm, your patience wearing thin.

His hands smooth over the soft flesh of your inner thighs, urging you to spread them wider before spreading you open with his thumbs, exposing you completely. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and the urge to close your legs and hide yourself from his gaze is overwhelming, the embarrassment making your skin burn. But before you can even think about closing them, his tongue is on you, sliding up the length of you and circling your clit. The moan that escapes you is embarrassingly loud and high pitched, but the mortification is easily swallowed up by the pleasure.

He hums against you, the sound and the feeling sending a shudder through your body. Your hands grip the pillow behind your head and you try not to buck up into his mouth, but your attempts are futile. He doesn't seem to mind though, in fact you think it spurs him on, his tongue flattening against you and lapping at you messily, the wetness he's coaxed from you smearing across his mouth and chin.

The sound is lewd and obscene, the sloppy, slick noises and the soft grunts and groans that rumble in his chest as he works you up. He pulls back, his breath coming out in pants, his chest heaving as he looks up at you, his eyes dark and hooded.

"Don't know what you were worried about" he says, his voice low and raspy. "You taste fuckin' divine"

His beard is shiny and damp, his lips glistening, hair messy from where your fingers were tangled in it. The sight of him looking so completely disheveled and filthy has you clenching around nothing, the ache almost too much to bear.

He doesn't say anything else, just ducks his head and gets back to work, his mouth moving with a renewed urgency, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them further apart, allowing him better access.

Your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open, a constant stream of moans and whines and babbling pleas and praises falling from your lips, but you're not really sure what you're saying, not really sure of anything except the intoxicating pleasure coursing through your veins.

You hear him moan, can feel the vibration against your skin, and you glance down at him, and that's a mistake. The sight of him, his eyes closed and brows drawn together in concentration, his cheeks hollowed out as he sucks and nips and laps at you and– is he fucking grinding his hips into the mattress?

You're fucked.

A throaty moan tumbles past your lips as your hips start to rock, a rhythm forming as you chase your orgasm. His hands leave your thighs and he slides one arm up, the weight of it resting against your abdomen to keep you still while his other hand snakes down, fingers dipping inside again, finding the spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, Joel, please, oh my god, I'm so- please"

He groans in response, the hand on your stomach pressing down harder to meet the two fingers curling and stroking inside of you. You cry out at the increased pressure right as he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud, his fingers moving faster and faster. Flames lick up your spine and spread throughout your body, threatening to burn you alive.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, knocking the wind out of you and turning your limbs to jello. Wave after wave of blinding euphoria crashes over you and all you can do is cling to the pillow and arch your back, your toes curling as he continues to work his fingers and tongue, happily letting you ride his face and grind into his mouth.

He doesn't let up, not until you're a whimpering, trembling mess, physically pushing his head away when it becomes too much. He pulls back reluctantly, a wicked grin plastered to his face, his chin and mouth absolutely soaked. You're panting, struggling to catch your breath as the aftershocks make you shiver despite the content warmth spreading throughout your entire body.You feel sated and sleepy, a bone deep satisfaction making you feel boneless.

But as you come down from your high, rational thoughts start to filter in and you suddenly remember the reason this all started in the first place.

You're here to learn, he should be teaching you how to please a man.

How to please him.

You watch as he gets off the bed and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. Your eyes shamelessly rake over him, the dusty pink flush that decorates his neck and chest, the curve of his belly down to the impressive bulge in his jeans.

You push yourself up, ignoring the way your arms tremble with the effort. He looks at you, his eyes scanning your face no doubt looking for signs of distress.

"You ok?" he asks, eyebrows pinched together in his typical concerned Joel fashion.

"Yeah" you say, a little breathlessly. "But I still want to..."

Your voice trails off and you glance down at his crotch, hoping he gets the message.

"That's alright, baby. It's a lot, we don't-"

"No" you interrupt, a hint of desperation in your voice. "You said you would teach me. Please, Joel. I-I wanna learn" You hope it's a good enough cover to the fact that you really just want him, your original goal forgotten. "I just don't want to embarrass myself" you add, pouting slightly for good measure, praying to god that he can’t detect the underlying want for him and him only.

He watches you for a moment, seemingly contemplating his decision. And then his eyes narrow, because of course he knows. There's never been an instance where you succeeded in lying to this man. He always, always knows when something is off.

"Alright" he says, a slow smile spreading across his face, something mischievous sparkling in his eyes. "Dick sucking class is now in session"

You groan, your face twisting with visible disgust.

"Oh my god, that was terrible."

"What? It's true" he says with a shrug.

"That is- no, no way. Never say those words ever again. Ever." you say, pointing a finger at him accusingly.

"Or what?" he challenges, taking a step towards the bed.

You gulp and lick your lips.

"Or..."

He waits expectantly for a response. You have none, so you just shake your head and look away.

"Yeah, that's what I thought"

You glare at him and then sigh.

"You're a bully"

"Am I?” He asks, taking a step back to give you more room. “ 'Cause you're the one that asked me to teach ya. On your knees, kid. Let's see whatcha got."

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress a grin. You don't know how he does it, but his ability to make a joke or a quip out of anything always has a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, even when the jokes are awful and the puns are terrible. Even when the joke is about you getting ready to suck his dick.

"You're a bully and a pervert" you say, sliding off the bed and sliding to your knees, the plush carpet doing a decent job at protecting your joints.

"And proud of it.”

"Pride is a sin."

"So is premarital sex, so I'll see you in hell, honey"

You snort and look up at him from your place on the floor, grinning widely.

"You're ridiculous"

"You love it"

And that's the thing, isn't it?

Because you do. You love his innate ability to make you laugh, to make you smile even when he's about to take your fucking virginity. He knows how to comfort you, how to put you at ease, when to push you with his teasing and when to pull back and let you take control. You've never met a person who has so effortlessly made their way into your heart.

And here you are, on your knees for him under the false pretense of practicing for a man who's name you can't even remember right now.

You shake your head, the motion clearing the thoughts and the emotions that were swirling in your head, the ones that make you want to stand up and kiss him, kiss him until your lips are numb and you're left gasping for air.

"Joel?" you say his name softly.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Teach me."

Part 2 is already in the works I promise hehehe thank you for reading I hope u all enjoy!!

#joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller #pedro pascal characters

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studiogrimm810 · 1 month ago

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Riptide

// Joel Miller x you

summary: while on a patrol, you get attacked and joel finally comes to his senses and realizes how much you mean to him and how much that hurts him to admit // 2.8k // base content: rainy weather, blood, violence (beating, strangulation), being held at gunpoint, pining

A/N: hello!! just so you all know, unless requested otherwise, all of my joel fics will be written with a 30-40 year old, nonbinary reader. i don't mind to write for specific genders or ages, i just really prefer only a 20 year old age gap myself lolol

Cloudy skies painted the horizon as you and Joel galloped out on your horses, Joel on Dallas and you on Copper. It was your third day of patrols in a row and your body was starting to get sore due to overuse, a stomach bug had made itself around Jackson and there was slack to be picked up.

Today, you and Joel were venturing West, hoping to check off some outposts being neglected at the moment. You two usually took North to East so Joel made you promise to stay close in the unfamiliar perimeter.

The ride was peaceful, the smell of rain in the distance and cool breezes whipping through your hair as you rode alongside Joel. Barring the deep rooted anxiety of the foreboding weather, you were quite content with the moment.

Eventually, you both make it to the first outpost. The horses are easy to secure to a hitch and you jump off with a soft grunt, ghosts of aches rippling through your muscles.

“Y’alright?” Joel asks, peeking a curious glance over to you as he shuffles through his side saddle for something.

“Yep, just feeling the burn of overtime,” you groan as you stretch your arms up and out, loosening what you can. You give Copper a gentle pat and a few words of assurance before you leave her side. Joel smiles softly, rolling his eyes as he finds it endearing that you keep your horse updated with words she’ll never understand.

“C’mon,” he leads, making his way to the aged hunting tower, checking any corner or crevasse for anything that might be off. His gut is unsettled as this is newer territory for him and he can’t rely on memory for what’s potentially out of place.

At the base of the tower snaked up a tree, there’s a small, wooden shed with a few chairs sitting with a log book inside. It’s a tight space, only meant to be a safe barrier between the ladder and the vast woodland surrounding area. You follow Joel inside to grab the pen and log your arrival.

09:32 - Joel and… All Clear -…

Joel tests the sturdiness of the ladder and starts to climb. You set the pen back down and shimmy off your bag, aiming to join him.

“You stay here, keep an eye out. I’m just gon’ see what I can see,” he orders simply, like you wouldn’t take offense to being left behind.

“Screw that, I wanna see the view,” you argue, starting to climb the space he’s already cleared on the ladder.

“I’m not kiddin’,” he looks back down, staring until you cave with a sigh and eye roll.

“Fine, mom,” you pick your bag back up, sticking your head out the door to check on the horses. “Just hurry, this place is too cramped,” you open the door fully.

“Be patient,” he mumbles, opening the hatch and resuming his ascent.

You leave the shed and return to Copper, petting her maine and watching Joel go higher and higher until he reaches the platform about 25 feet in the air.

Joel pulls out his binoculars and surveys the dampened landscape, finding their next post in the distance and looking for any signs of trouble. Once satisfied, he pockets the pair and looks down at you with a simple wave.

You flip him off. Lovingly, of course.

———

Back on your horses, the smoky sky is crying gloomy, misty drizzles that claim your exposed skin.

“How much farther ‘till the next post?” You ask, flipping your hood as the rain picks up.

“Not much more. ‘S bigger, we’ll be able to wait out the rain there,” he nods, squinting through the quickly filling fog. “Stay close,” he states, straightening his posture and staying alert.

It’s not like you can ride much closer to him, but you give the effort regardless since he asked. You haven’t really been able to figure him out just yet. You banter and joke around. You often share dinners or tables at town gatherings. You even fuck out some steam every once in a while.

Okay, most of the while.

But still, neither of you have confronted what it means. You could guess, take a really good guess and go from there, but that’s nothing you can build off of. You need the damn hermit to open up and assert your place in his life if there even is one.

You were never pushy, that you want to make clear. His relationship with Ellie and his commitment to her is admirable and indestructible, despite the rougher teen years that made them seem cold as ice, it was nothing you wanted to intrude on.

It wasn’t until Ellie and Dina moved in together that you started to accept the tide that was Joel Miller and no longer fought against his pull.

“There,” Joel points, pulling you out of your thoughts. In the distance, there was a melting log cabin, molded from the warp of gravity and curse of time.

“Thank god,” you scoff, uncomfortably wet by now as the rain won’t seem to let up. There’s an awning built for the horses, newer and sturdier, and Copper trots under without much convincing. Joel and Dallas follow behind.

Joel is first off, latching the gate around the shelter and going to help you down.

“Y’alright?” He asks, one hand guiding you to him by your waist and the other holding your hand for balance.

“‘M fine, just some rain,” you brush off, looking to the path that leads to the porch of the cabin.

Joel steps beside you, wiping some rain from his hairline. “We can make a run for it,” he states, looking over at you.

“Yeah, make a run for it,” you agree, turning back around to pull off anything you might need from Copper for the next few hours and go back to the gate. “Maybe-.” The words are stolen from your lips and the air forced out of your gut as an arm snakes around your waist and yanks you back.

There’s a rattle of metal and a harsh grunt in your ear. You see Joel whip out his own weapon with a stiff stoic glare, rippled by a snarl he can barely contain.

“Let them go,” Joel demands over the rain, staring right at your captor and not daring to look at you. If he only saw how fear painted your features at the surprise attack, he doesn’t think he could hold himself together.

“Drop your stuff ‘n back away,” the man behind you growls, hot breath invading your senses and making your skin scream.

Joel’s shoulders give him up, rising and falling with the weight of a freight train. He was seething. He slipped off his bag and set it down, taking a small, barely noticeable, step back.

“Grab it,” Joel says like it’s a dare, a glint in his eyes sparkling like a tiger watching its prey.

The metal beside you rattles as the man holding you captive extends his hand, aiming the rusty thing at Joel.

“Back up!” He sounds numb, like all of his effort is used to keep him up right and no passion for living holds up his words anymore as he holds you hostage. Like he’s on auto-pilot and lost to what this world made him.

You’re quick to snatch his outstretched wrist, twisting and forcing the gun out of his hand. The gun goes off as it lands, shooting through the roof of the stable and spooking the horses. The man is surprised at your sudden move but he’s quick to grab your throat and slam you against a beam of the stable.

The motion sucks all of the air out of your lungs again and they burn as you can feel the man bruising your throat. You claw at his hand, then up his arms, trying desperately to find a give but he’s anchored against you.

The rain pelts in, wetting your face and matting your hair further and you swear you must be drowning. You can hear Joel yelling and grabbing the attacker. You can feel the man get ripped off of you but you just sink to the muck beneath you as you gulp down breaths.

Your eyes daze from the impact and restrained oxygen but the color starts to come back in dizzying swirls and the sound funnels back in your ears like you're learning to hear again for the first time.

Joel has the man’s collar gripped in his fist and he’s wailing in on him. His free fist is bloody and trembling but aims stealthy back at its crumbling target. The man is slumped against the railing of the stable and with one more punch of finality, Joel sends the poor bastard through the soaked, rotted wood. He lands in the mud with a slap that spits mud up Joel’s jeans.

Blood is washed from the man’s lifeless face and puddles in the hoof prints sunken in the mud. It mixes with the rainwater and sediment, soon to be forgotten and soaked back into the Earth to provide more good that he seemed to do through the life he lived- in Joel’s opinion, at least.

“Look at me,” Joel’s voice cuts through the slicing rain around you both. He kneels in front of you and a hand- not bloodied- reaches up to cup your face. “Can you breathe? Does it hurt?” He asks too much of you. You blink, holding the moment, and open your eyes again. You nod, a simple answer for all three requests.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside,” he rises, looking off to the porch of the cabin. Your eyes drift over to the bloodied man that you’ve lost the ability to feel remorse for. If anything, he’s like a pesky bug that’s weaseled its way into your home in the old world.

The thought makes you wonder if this world has stripped you of your morals like it had the corpse just five feet away.

Joel pulls you to your feet, mud sticking to your clothes. “Gonna make a run for it,” he repeats from before the attack over the ever-persistent rain. A loose nod rocks your skull.

He leads, dragging you behind him and aiming to get the door open for you to run inside before him.

Mud splatters under your rushed footsteps and you can barely see properly through the curtains of water as you follow him. You slip on the first step of the porch but are able to recoup, with the stability from Joel, and dart past the frame and into the shelter.

Joel follows behind and latches the door behind him, shaking his head to whip out the rainwater. Gloomy skies continue to fight away the sunlight, leaving the room quite dark for noon.

The quick sprint and echo of strangulation on your skin takes its toll and Joel guides you to a chair right next to the logbook.

“Talk to me, baby.” You breathe in the word and it still can’t fill your lungs quite right. You trust him, so as his hands- both bloody and muddy- guide your jaw for him to inspect the ache, you relax. “I’m gonna press here, y’ tell me if it hurts,” he hums softly like he didn’t just beat a man to death, but you don’t mind.

His calloused fingers run along your throat, gentle and caring. You suck in a breath as he presses a particularly sensitive spot and his brows pinch as he mumbles a drawn ‘sorry’.

“Doesn’t seem anythin’s damaged beyond a bruise,” he relaxes his hands slightly so they loosely cradle your jaw. “Y’feel dizzy?” He asks, looking right in your eyes, relieved that they aren’t bloodshot.

“I’m fine,” you insist, trying to push him away but he scowls softly, narrowing his gaze.

“That asshole nearly-.”

“I’m fine, Joel,” you emphasize. “I know the difference between injury and bruising. Trust me, I’m fine,” the words scratch out and a slight wheeze accompanies your breathing, but he knows you’re right. You’ve been worse off in the past but that doesn’t make him feel better, it just reminds him of the other times he’s failed to get to you in time. Something in his gaze is different this time, though. You’d almost bet he’s convinced himself that you had succumbed to the man’s grip and now had to be buried six feet under.

“I’m here-.”

It was his turn to interrupt you and his already ideally placed palms bring you right to him. The kiss is painful for him almost. His face contorts like he’s barely making it through but he can’t pull away- not now.

Fuck, not now. It’s like his senses are cleared and everything clicks. He’s seen you attacked and hurt before, he knows the fear it is to almost lose you, but something about what just happened makes him terrified enough to bear his fear for you in this one, strained kiss that doesn’t feel like enough for him.

You accept how he melts into you, pressing back a bit but not enough where he thinks you’re rejecting him. You want this, you need it, just not as much as he seems to.

His lips only part to bring yours closer, sucking you in like the tide he his, and his breath shivers- he can blame the rain for the latter.

When he finally lets you go, his forehead leans into yours like he needs to feel you against him to remind him that you’re here.

“Joel, I’m fine,” you breathe out and the scent dusts over his face- your scent. He can’t get enough. His eyes open but he doesn’t move away, he just stares down at your lips.

“You coulda’ not been,” he admits and your stomach flips. He’s never been so raw with you before and something about it is unsettling but maybe it’s necessary to lay your roots somewhere else- somewhere deeper. “I can’t-,” he choked but he pulled back like he’s determined to get through this. His face is cooled into a gentle scowl like he’s going against everything he’s ever known and he’s aware of his crimes against himself. “Darlin’, I can’t lose you.”

Darlin’.

That’s new. It’s monumenting of his necessary betrayal.

“You mean more to me than what I’ve shown you and I’m-. I can’t keep goin’ like that. Not when-,” he gets so caught in his own words but you think you know what he’s trying to get at. Your hand, calloused but warmer and softer than what he feels he’s worthy of, reaches up to settle against his stubbled jaw. The thumb caressing his aged and worn skin that ignites under your touch is enough to let the words go and he snaps his mouth shut. His eyes follow as he tries to accept the touch that helps blurt out the words he needs to say. “I love you.”

Your shoulders melt with your head tilt as you take in his appearance- pained and scared like nothing you’ve ever seen. He’s letting you hold his heart in your hands, as deflated and scarred as it is, and he’s convinced you’ll crush it like he had that attacker's skull and he’ll remind himself that he deserves it.

“I love you too,” you admit, keeping your eyes on him as he takes his time to accept your return.

Rain pats along the frame of the old cabin like a thousand loose knuckles rapping against the wood.

He could laugh at how dense he’s been, how self-loathing and ‘woe-is-me’. Here you are, sweet, kind, marked with scars and wrinkles of your own story of life that’s shaped you into the fine, capable person you are today, and he’s acting as if the past year was measuring up to be nothing between you two.

As if the countless nights spent in each other's beds or hours of patrols or empty mornings that craved the other meant nothing but bodies against bodies.

His eyes part, taking you in a new light. That fuckers prints darken around your neck and he feels the boil under his skin but he accepts it in a new box in his mind. It’s not some worthless man attacking another because he needs to survive, it’s a man damned by his own faults the second he touched what was Joel’s, even if neither had known it at the time.

Joel’s hand reaches up to push back some wet hair from your temple, streaks of grey pepper the strands and he smiles almost unnoticeably. It barely relaxes his own cautious look he still holds.

“I love you,” he repeats, testing it out to make sure it feels right.

“I love you,” you match him, and he decides that out of your mouth, anything feels right. Especially when you’re saying it right to him.

thank you so much for reading <3

>> check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids

#the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #joel miller angst #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic

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ltash · 29 days ago

Text

The Unwanted Wife pt-4

SimonGhostRileyxFemaleReader

When want becomes obsession, obsession turns into madness

The private jet hummed softly, a low purr against the velvet hush of the sky. You reclined in your cream leather seat, legs crossed in designer loungewear that still looked runway-ready, your cashmere wrap falling off one shoulder just enough to hint at elegance without effort. Diamond studs glinted in your ears. Barely-there gloss on your lips.

You were the picture of perfection.

Across from you sat Simon.

Black tee. Tactical cargo pants. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on the window like he’d rather jump out of it than be here.

You sipped your mimosa slowly, watching him over the rim of the crystal flute.

He hadn’t said a word since takeoff.

“How long do you plan to act like I dragged you here at gunpoint?” you asked sweetly.

His gaze didn’t move. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

You smirked, leaning back. “Well, you did say ‘I do.’ Or maybe you’ve forgotten that part.”

He looked at you then, sharp, cold, but not unfeeling. Just... guarded.

You met his stare without flinching. “Relax, Ghost. I’m not gonna seduce you thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic.”

A pause.

“Unless you want me to.”

His jaw tightened.

You grinned and picked up your tablet. “I have the entire Turks and Caicos itinerary right here. Candlelit dinners. Private yacht. Sunset horseback riding, yes, I made sure they'd have horses tall enough for you.”

Silence.

You glanced at him again.

“You might as well try to enjoy this. I don’t like sulking husbands. And you don’t strike me as the sulking type.”

He still didn’t speak.

But his fingers tapped once, then twice, against the armrest.

Tiny cracks in the wall.

And you saw them.

You pulled your blanket up, curling delicately into the seat. “Wake me when you’re ready to start acting like my husband,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed with a faint smile.

He watched you for a long while, his expression unreadable.

Then slowly… he reached for his coffee.

And kept watching.

The hum of the jet was almost hypnotic.

You pretended to sleep, lashes resting like feathers against your cheeks, your breathing even. But you weren’t sleeping, not really. You were waiting. Waiting for him to say something. Do something. React in any way that proved he still saw you.

Simon sat across from you, silent as ever. Arms folded, muscles tense, jaw locked like he was holding back an entire war behind his tongue.

You shifted slightly, letting your blanket fall just enough to expose the smooth curve of your shoulder. A calculated accident.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

You peeked through your lashes, just in time to catch the flicker in his eyes before he tore them away and focused on the window again. But the grip on his armrest tightened. His throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“You keep staring at that window like you’re planning to jump,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

He exhaled through his nose. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d prefer you here,” you said, uncurling slowly, like a cat stretching in sunlight. “You’re prettier to look at than clouds.”

That earned a look. Flat. Dry. But definitely a look.

You leaned forward slightly, elbows on your knees, voice softer now. “You know... you could try. Just try. Maybe pretend for one week that this marriage isn’t some punishment.”

He didn’t reply.

You sighed and turned your face away, folding your arms, staring at nothing. “I hate this,” you admitted quietly. “Being ignored. Like I’m nothing more than a burden.”

For a second, just one, his expression cracked.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked to him, sharp. “Then don’t treat me like that.”

The tension between you coiled like a wire pulled tight.

He looked at you fully then. “You wanted this.”

You straightened, chin high. “I wanted you. There’s a difference.”

Silence.

The kind that felt like a scream muffled behind thick glass.

Then the pilot’s voice crackled gently through the intercom.

“ETA to Providenciales: 1 hour, 20 minutes. Weather is clear.”

You didn’t say a word after that. Neither did he.

But this time, when your head lolled to the side and your eyes finally fluttered shut for real…

He kept watching.

Longer than he should’ve.

The villa looked like something torn from the pages of an ultra-exclusive travel magazine, only better. Perched atop a private cliff that kissed the Caribbean Sea, it was all whitewashed walls, sweeping glass doors, and the soft echo of wealth that didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Palm trees swayed in the breeze like they belonged to you. Bougainvillea spilled over stone walls in vibrant pinks and purples, framing the view like a painting.

Inside, it was pure quiet luxury.

Cream linen couches sunk beneath you like clouds. The scent of fresh vanilla, sea salt, and money hung in the air. Every corner was a blend of minimalist design and impossible softness, like someone curated the space knowing exactly how you liked things: elegant, effortless, and impossibly expensive.

The infinity pool melted into the horizon. Just past it, the ocean sparkled like it had secrets.

Your bedroom, your bedroom, was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows. White silk sheets. A four-poster bed carved from reclaimed wood, standing like a throne. The marble bathroom had an outdoor rainfall shower shaded by palm leaves, and the walk-in closet could hold a small country.

It wasn’t just a villa.

It was a statement.

And here you were, heels clicking on the travertine floor, sunglasses perched on your nose, and Simon trailing behind you like a shadow dipped in black.

He looked around once, then walked straight to the window, hands on hips, face unreadable.

You watched him.

“You like it?”

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t hate it either.

And that… was enough for now.

The dining area of the villa looked like something out of a dream.

Candlelight flickered off crystal, the long marble table set with silver cutlery, tall fluted glasses, and white roses arranged in a low, elegant centerpiece. The scent of saffron and grilled butter lobster drifted through the warm air, sea breeze sweeping in from the open terrace doors.

You made an entrance, of course you did.

Hair swept up in a loose twist, a few strands curling around your face. Your silk slip dress shimmered like poured champagne, hugging every curve effortlessly. Diamond drop earrings. Glossed lips. The tiniest, most tasteful anklet glinting as you stepped barefoot across the polished wood floor.

He was already seated.

Same black tee. Same silent stare. Same unreadable face.

His eyes flicked over you once, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

You smiled, sugar-sweet and wicked.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you murmured, gliding into your seat across from him.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he replied coolly, pouring himself a glass of still water.

You leaned your elbow on the table, chin resting lightly on your palm. “Still pretending this isn’t a honeymoon?”

He didn’t answer.

The chef came in quietly, bowing his head slightly before lifting the cloches. Lobster tail, truffle risotto, asparagus drizzled in lemon butter. He refilled your glasses and slipped away just as quietly.

The tension between you and Simon? Anything but quiet.

You took a delicate bite, then licked a smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth, catching his gaze when he flicked his eyes toward you for half a second too long.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head, “I imagined our first dinner as husband and wife going a bit differently.”

He chewed slowly, unfazed. “How’d you imagine it?”

You grinned. “You feeding me strawberries. Whispering things that would make a priest faint.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re delusional.”

You laughed, letting your fork clink gently against the plate. “And yet… here you are. On a honeymoon. With your delusional wife.”

His silence said enough.

But you caught the corner of his mouth twitch, like he wanted to smirk but refused to give you the satisfaction.

“Eat, Simon,” you said softly. “It’s a long night.”

And maybe it was the wine. Or the candlelight. Or the fact that the villa was yours and his alone.

But for the first time since the wedding, he picked up his fork.

And started to eat.

The night air was warm and thick as you stepped out onto the terrace, the moon casting a silver glow over the villa’s infinity pool. You traced your fingers along the marble railing, heart still fluttering from the dinner’s quiet sparks.

Simon was behind you, silent, steady, every inch the ghost you knew. Then, without warning, his hand was on the wall beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable.

You thought maybe tonight would be different. Maybe he’d finally let down the walls.

But now, here you were.

He finally snapped.

After all the lingering looks, the almosts, the silence strung tight like wire, he pressed you back against the cool wall. One hand slammed beside your head. The other wrapped gently, but firmly, around your throat , not to hurt, but to hold you in place, to feel the rapid pulse beneath his palm.

Your eyes locked with his. You leaned up, breath barely brushing his lips, ready to close the distance with a kiss.

But he turned his head, jaw tight.

No.

Your chest rose, sharp with rejection. But you didn’t let go. When he stepped back, you reached, caught his arm from behind. Your forehead pressed against the curve of his bicep, fingers clutching his sleeve like a lifeline.

“Please,” it wasn’t even a word. Just breath, broken and soft.

But he exhaled.

Quietly. Gently.

He peeled your hand off him.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t give you anything.

Not yet.

The next morning, the villa was wrapped in soft sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. You found him in the kitchen, quiet, making black coffee with the same focused intensity he brought to every mission.

You leaned casually against the doorway, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “Coffee for one, or can I tempt you to join me?”

He glanced up, eyes sharp but tired. “You’re going to wear me down if you keep this up.”

You shrugged, stepping closer, the scent of your perfume mixing with the rich aroma of the brew. “Good. I’m patient.”

He didn’t say anything but set two mugs on the counter, motioning for you to sit.

You perched on the edge of the marble island, letting your fingers brush against his as you reached for your cup.

“Tell me something,” you said softly, voice low. “What’s your favorite part of this place?”

He paused, considering.

“Quiet,” he finally said. “No distractions. Just the sea and the sky.”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Then maybe we can find some quiet moments together. No expectations. Just us.”

He looked at you longer this time, a flicker of something unreadable softening his gaze.

And though he didn’t say it aloud, you felt it, the first crack in the wall.

The sun was golden, warm, and lazy over the private beach. The ocean stretched like liquid sapphire, waves sighing against the sand. You walked down the wooden deck barefoot, your silk wrap fluttering behind you.

And then you slipped it off.

The bikini was designer, of course, classic black with gold hardware, sculpted to perfection. It fit like it was made just for you, highlighting every soft curve and sun-kissed detail. Hair up in a loose knot. Diamond anklet still sparkling around your ankle.

Simon was on the lounge chair, book in hand, well, he was reading, until he wasn’t.

His eyes lifted. Froze.

And he didn’t look away.

Not this time.

You didn’t say a word, just walked gracefully past him toward the water, every step deliberate. You felt his gaze burn across your back, trailing the lines of your body like a slow caress.

You turned slightly before stepping into the sea, just enough to catch his eyes.

“I thought you liked quiet,” you teased, eyes glinting. “Then why do I hear your thoughts screaming from here?”

His jaw tensed, but that muscle in his cheek twitched. You saw it.

“Keep pushing,” he muttered under his breath, low and dark, but not angry.

You smiled.

You were getting to him.

And this game? It had only just begun.

116 notes · View notes

silentmoths · 1 year ago

Text

A lick and a promise

Its been *squints* Seven months since i cooked.

god damn its been seven whole ass months CRIES

Boothill got me so fkn good i cant even BEGIN to explain why he's such a comfort character for me ok he just IS.

Boothill x Reader (fem but it's really only mentioned in regards to anatomy.)

NSFW

Enemies to Lovers (kinda?), Smut, Hurt/comfort (kinda?), Oral sex, fingering, boothill is a gd kendoll (sorry boothill genatalia nation i just...wanted to write this like he was a ken doll LEAVE ME-)

7k words, NOT PROOFREAD

The first time you run into the Galaxy Ranger known as Boothill, you’re not sure what to make of him.

You were just an unsuspecting casualty, the pilot, nothing more. Flying ships for the IPC had to beat minimum wage, right? This was your first real gig with them, something a little more secure.

If you managed to make it off pier point without having a gun aimed at you that is.

A…cowboy. You’d heard about them, of course, but seeing one in this day and age was almost unheard of unless you travelled to planets far out in the west, ones untouched by the IPC and their ‘modernizations’.

Yet this cowboy also seemed to be touched by said modernizations, considering almost all of him was made of metal. Hell, all of him might be synthetic, nanotechnology was a terrifying thing, it could eat away the organic and replace it with the inorganic, mimicking skin and its blemishes, hair and all its different shades, like the curtain of black and white you see before you.

“Han’s where I can fudgin’ see em.” He warns quietly, pistol pointed directly between your eyes. You do as he asks, why wouldn’t you? You weren’t being paid enough to put your life on the line for…whatever the hell you were carrying, you didn’t know, the IPC didn’t enforce ledger-checks- You tell the cowboy as much when he asks.

“Yeah that tracks.” he mutters with a roll of his visible eye. “Lookit’ you, still wet behind the darned ears.”

“D-do I get a pardon i-if I told you it was my first day on the job?” you manage to squeak out, a terrible habit really, opening your mouth in times you should really stay silent…but the cowboy cracks a grin, a very sharp-toothed grin.

“Ah heck, really?” He chuckles, shaking his head as he spins his pistol in his hand and tucks it away into its holster. “Look I aint’ got no beef with ya. ya ‘ aint even wearin’ an IPC uniform-” “C-contract work.” You cut in with your explanation, only scolding yourself after the fact for, once again, interrupting the one with the gun. “The IPC really gettin that desperate, huh?” He snorts, his robotic fingers flexing as he himself goes to check the ledger, it was obvious he’d done this a few times…perhaps thats why the IPC had started hiring a third party, someone new for him to kill.

And yet he doesn’t kill you.

He ties you up, sure, but he’s not an entire ass about it, he even apologises when he pulls the rope a little too tight and you squint.

“S’a formality.” He mumbles as he ties the knot tight “y’understand.”

“I guess…Just…thanks for not killing me I guess, Mr.Cowboy.” You shrug, perhaps you were still in a little bit of shock, perhaps you were coping with humour and ‘funny’ comments…perhaps, inside, you wanted to cry because of course of all the times to be held at gunpoint it was your first day working for the IPC.

“Name’s Boothill.” He corrects. Boothill, huh? You’d read about that…some eons old name for gunslinging cowboys who should have been dead.

After you had been discovered, set free, and promptly fired, you decide to look up this ‘Boothill’ character; you find little other than his bounty…whoever he was, he kept himself pretty closed off…made sense for a galaxy ranger.

The second time you encounter Boothill, you’re working on a satellite array. It’s a shit job, it was freezing cold out here, and the welding masks given to you and your coworkers by your bosses were cheap, low quality, offering little protection from the welding torch and its bright, concentrated glare.

After your firing from pier point, no other freighting company was willing to take you on, and in a desperate attempt to get some damned food into your belly, you’d taken this job on some far out meteorite, repairing this shitty, run down satellite so the IPC could extend their reach further.

If the bosses had bothered to do a background check, they would have seen the unfortunate mark next to your name.

’Banned from all positions within IPC jurisdiction’

But considering the shit pay, shit hours, and shit accommodation? The old hand’s out here didn’t really care much for the ‘official’ rules; so long as you weren’t being actively hunted.

There was no sun out here, so every few hours there was a mandatory UV break, in which you all got to return to the little sleeping pods that were nothing but glorified transport containers with a wall sectioning off one third to make a bathroom; just to sit beneath a UV bulb.

Whoever had lived in this one before you had stuck up a picture of a beach on the wall you had to stare at beneath the lamp, and faintly, you wonder if they ever made it there- or had they just keeled over dead from overwork? That seemed more likely, considering nothing had been cleaned out of your pod when you’d arrived.

As you bask in your shitty, simulated sun, an explosion wracks the entire facility, sending you toppling to the floor as the world spins, cracks apart, opens like the gnashing teeth of some horrific space creature.

Was it a space creature? Had the meteorite collided with something it shouldn’t have? You didn’t want to find out, but you sure as fuck weren’t about to stay here and probably die once the oxygen field around the place sputtered out. The emergency guide tape’s you’d been forced to watch are nothing to help against the real thing, a real emergency. There are sirens blaring, the stark white light’s had all died, replaced by that infuriatingly anxiety inducing red as you struggle to put your space suit on.

Just make it to a shuttle, they weren’t far, thats all you had to do.

It’s a mantra you tell yourself as the ceiling above you begins to crack and crumble, your time here was up.

As you wrench open the door to your pod, you collide with someone. Considering you yourself looked like a glorified marshmallow in the emergency suit, you certainly weren't expecting the person you collided with to be as…hard as they were, solid like steel to the point you’re sent toppling back and unceremoniously onto your back, like a turtle.

A familiar pistol is pointed at your helmet.

No fucking way.

Boothill stands there, grin on his face and a gun in yours as he looks you up and down before howling with laughter. “Now what in the hay is that?” he wheezes as you struggle, only to stop when you push the visor of your helmet up, revealing a face he recalls. “No fudgin’ way-”

“You again!” You screech, flailing your limbs as you attempt to stand in this…ungainly suit. “What the fuck are you doing here now!?”

“I could ask you the same mother forkin’ question!” He barks back, yet despite it all, he withdraws the pistol and even shows some mercy, reaching down to pull you back onto your feet “the fork you doin here?”

“Well, someone got me fired from my last job!” you snark at him “and now it looks like I'm out of another, what did you do!?” “Blew up tha’ satellite!” He chuckles as if he’d just won at an arcade game and not caused millions of credits in damages. You open your mouth to…you don’t even know- Shout? Scold a wanted criminal? Beg for mercy? When the world tilts again, the sound of rock cracking and metal creaking fills your senses; resulting in you simply screaming out of fear.

This was it, this was where you died. On a rock, in the middle of space, blown to smithereens by a cowboy. Except, the cowboy reaches down, and for a moment you think he’s going to kill you, just to stop the screaming. Instead, he grabs your arm and yanks you upright without a word, tugging you along behind him like you weighed nothing in this stupid marshmallow safety suit. (perhaps, to a cyborg, you didn’t weigh anything.)

Boothill cares little for the smoke and the flames, and you are just a leaf in his wind, guided through it all with scary precision until there is suddenly nothing and you realise what he’d just done.

This fucking cowboy galaxy ranger had just leaped off of the edge of the meteorite, dragging you along with him.

Correction; this is how you die, once you left the gravitational field, you’d just be stuck…floating in the void of space forever…no one would ever find your body-

Before your thought can finish, you crash into something hard, a ship, you realise, you had fallen into the open loading hatch of a ship, unlike boothill who landed on his feet, you’re simply a pile on the floor.

You hear the cowboy laugh as he turns to look at you, and you thank the fact that you’re face down from keeping your likely red, teary face from his scrutiny.

“Y’alright down there?” He asks.

“Peachy.” you mutter back, your muscles ached, but the adrenaline was already beginning to wane, suddenly the suit felt…heavy, impossibly heavy as you listen to the sound of the ship’s hatch closing. “Why’d you save me?”

Boothill thinks on it for a moment. Why had he saved you? It wasn’t really his M.O, saving people, especially when they worked for the IPC…he supposes a part of him felt a little bad… you hadn’t been working for them directly last time…and because of his stunt, you’d lost that job and had resorted to working for them in this backwater shithole of an array.

“Eh, Y’aint worth killin.” he responds after a moment “S’not like you’re the mother fudger I’m looking for anyways.”

Something about the way he says it…stings. Not worth killing?

Slowly you sit up, a terribly ungraceful affair in this stupid space suit as you pull the helmet off entirely and toss it to the floor, there was no point hiding the tears anymore.

“Wh- hey now! What’s got in yer’ boot?” Boothill balks at your teary face “what’s tha’ matter?”

You hate how stupid you must look, crying, red in the face…embarrassing really. But after the scare you’d just had, you don’t have the forwithall to keep your composure anymore.

“Whats the matter?” you mutter, staring at the cold, metal floor of the ship “what’s the matter is that you have single handedly managed to lose me not one, but TWO JOBS!”

You don’t mean to shout, really, you should be thanking him for saving your life.

“I’m BANNED from working for the IPC!” you cry “I wasn’t even meant to be working here! But where else am I meant to go!? EVERY job is somehow overseen by some division of the IPC, I can’t work anywhere else! Now you say I’m not even worth killing!?”

Boothill stares, the gears turning as he simply takes the emotional vitriol thrown his way. It had been…a long time since he’d found himself faced with this kind of problem.

“Aw shirt…” he mutters, realising his words had only worsened the situation. He takes a knee, pulling his hat off as he watches, he sees the way you’re shaking, your fingers flexing; he might be ‘old fashioned’, but he could recognize a panic attack. “C’mere, let's get this great forkin marshmallow suit off ya.”

You don’t even have the faculties to push him away as cold, robotic fingers begin tugging away at the velcro, the zippers and the straps. Breathing was getting harder, everything ached. Only once the galaxy ranger had pulled you free of the confines of that damned suit could you expand your chest properly. Too small, you realised, the suit you’d been given was way too small.

“Easy, easy, easy.” Boothill mutters as he sits you down “jus’ breathe.”

Easy for him to say, did a cybernetic cowboy even need to breathe?

He could see the struggle, but what the hell was he meant to do about it? It wasn’t wrong..the IPC had their fingers in so many pies… finding a job untouched by them? That’s like finding a needle in a haystack.

It wasn’t often Boothill felt…guilty. But somehow…you’d managed it.

“Aw c’mon, don’t gimme the waterworks.” he sighs “Look…ah’ll admit I forked up your job prospects, I’ll fudgin’ take that responsibility… will ya at least lemme see if I can help?”

“What can you do!?” You cry at him “If the IPC catches wind that I’ve somehow been caught up with you again-”

“Lemme take ya to a planet the IPC don’t care ‘bout.” He cuts in suddenly, an idea forming in his mind. “Been there plenty, they’re good folk, they’ll help ya.. Ya just…gotta trust me.” A planet untouched by the IPC? That seemed like a pipe dream…

“Impossible.” you mutter “any planet the IPC finds, it conquers.”

Boothill grins, that same toothy grin you remember from your first encounter with him. “I know, right? But this one? This one’s special.”

Eyama II was a small planet with little in the way of resources the IPC wanted or needed, a dwarf planet no less, nothing but a speck of dust floating through their air filters. It was a self-sufficient, homely type place…if he was being honest with himself, it’s where he would want to retire if he ever saw his goal through…living the simple life he used to know before the IPC had ripped it from him.

He knows it’s not the most…elegant solution, but he knew some fine folk there, some fine folk who might just be willing to help the poor outcast he’d created. -

It’s a long trip. It had to be if it was out of the IPC’s gaze…but that did mean a long trip with Boothill.

In a tiny two person at most ship.

You didn’t really know what to expect, if he’d just tie you up and put you in the corner…but as it turns out…he’s somewhat hospitable… ok more than somewhat.

After you’d calmed enough to be reasoned with, he’d handed you a bottle of nondescript nature. Without much thinking, you’d taken a swig, eyes widening at the distinctly alcoholic taste. It wasn't anything strong like whiskey, but it was enough of a shock.

“Malt juice.” He clarifies as he takes a seat at the helm, setting the warp drive “figured it’d help calm ya nerves.” You blink down at the bottle before slowly taking another, more temperate sip.

It…wasn’t bad…actually it was pretty good. It burned your throat just enough to keep you in the present.

You both talk…small things, you ask him how he knew of this planet, and tells you about all the planets he’d visited that weren’t under the IPC’s thumb, how all of them were nice, simple places.

He tells you that he thinks you’d like Eymaya II, he thinks everyone would like Eymaya II. It had rolling hills and green valley’s. The people were mostly farmers, ranchers, common folk just going through the motions to get by, but not in the same nihilistic sort of way most did. Good, honest living, as he says.

Part of you wonders if there ever was a time this ranger worked a good honest life, if this whole…cowboy thing was a facade, or if it was real, remnants of a past he couldn’t return to. You’re not sure if it’s his conversation, the malt juice, or both, but you eventually begin to open up, about your home life, about your terrible habit of cutting into conversations when you were nervous, all of it.

And when you begin to fall asleep? Your head nodding slowly where you sat, you feel a cold, metal hand rest on your shoulder.

“C’mon, you need ta’ rest.” He tells you, guiding you to the cot that looked seldom, if at all used.

For a wanted criminal who had put you out of two jobs and nearly killed you both times…he was surprisingly kind.

He wasn’t wrong about this planet. It was beautiful, the air was fresher than you could ever recall, living in the city.

Apparently, the look on your face says as much. Boothill chuckles, tilting his head softly as he watches you take it all in. “Told ya ye’d like it.” He hums, something in his mechanical chest whirring with..pride perhaps? Satisfaction? He wasn’t entirely sure, but seeing a face that, so far, all he’d seen from was fear and upset finally show…wonder…it felt good. He wanted to see it more, perhaps even a smile one day.

He takes you to the inn, sets you up with Jodie, an elderly woman who had been around the block quite a few times, she didn’t put up with Boothill’s antics, more like…a curmudgeonly aunt at first as she barks at him for not calling in sooner, only for it all to melt away into an almost familial warmth as the cowboy explains himself, explains you.

“now child I know you did not lose this poor thing not one but TWO jobs!” She scolds, hands on her hips.

There is a lick of satisfaction as you watch boothill shrink beneath the innkeeper’s rage.

“Donchu’ worry hon, we’ll getcha set up here, somewhere this block for brains can’t accidentally getchu fired. Only thing that’ll do that around here is laziness…you aint lazy, are you?” she asks, turning to you and squinting her beady, aged eyes at you, making you stiffen up as well.

“N-no ma'am!” you bark instantly “I-I promise to work hard and earn my keep!”

This atleast, seems to settle her some, and before you know it, you have a hot meal and an ice cold drink in front of you, and you want to cry again.

You actually feel…somewhat sad when boothill has to leave…anxiety twisting in your gut… would you really be okay here? Would you survive?

But he pats you on the shoulder and grins, and something about it is…comforting.

Something about it made you want to try.

It’s five years until you see Boothill again.

Jodie had grown too old to continue running the inn, and somehow, against all odds, it was you who had taken over. The entire place was yours, and you were happy.

Not a day goes by where you don’t wonder how you ended up here, but then you recall, the enigmatic cyborg cowboy who had hijacked your ship, and then blown up a satellite array.

Somehow, your outlook on him had turned from disdain to…a strange sort of affection. The frigid anger had melted away, and what replaced it was a sense of…thankfullnes for what he’d done for you. Working here, away from the almost all-encompassing reach of the IPC had opened your eyes to just how…corporate everything felt, and how it so desperately wasn't you.

It’s a late evening, you’re closing up for the night, the bar had emptied of all it’s usual late-staying regulars, and those who had rooms rented for the evening had already retired.

You’re polishing a few glasses when the door swings open.

“Well now, there’s a face I ain’t seen in a forkin long time.”

The voice is familiar, and has you turning, a small smile tugging at your lip. A mixture of feelings racing through your chest.

“Well well, come to let me collect your bounty, Sir?” you snicker, placing the glass you’d just polished beneath the malt juice tap to pour him a glass.

Boothill laughs, sauntering in with the swagger you remember as he drops into the stool closest to you. “How’ve you been, Boothill?” you ask him, setting the glass in front of him and waving away his credits. You owed him one drink, atleast, “what’ve you been up to?”

The galaxy ranger snorts, throwing some of his long hair over his shoulder “How long ya’ got there, sweetheart? S’gonna be a long story.”

“I own the place now, and we’re closed, so all the time in the world.” you hum, deciding to pour yourself a glass as well after locking the door. “Shoot, really? What happened to ol’ jodie?” He asks, voice tinged with legitimate concern as you drop into the barstool beside him.

“She’s fine, she’s fine..just old is all.” You assure him, finding a little comfort in the relief that washes over his features.

“Ah, fork don't scare a guy like that.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair “thought Jodie had up n’ left us.”

“Nah, she’s got a while on her yet.” you snort, taking a sip of your drink.

The conversations run long into the night, catching up, listening to the thing’s he’d done, places he’d seen…IPC operations he’d torn apart at the seams. He listens to you too, as you tell him about how things have been here, catching him up on anyone he asked about. It was like talking to an old friend. You weren't sure…what boothill was to you…a friend? An acquaintance? It was…complicated.

More malt juice enters your systems, you ask if it actually has an affect on him.

“You know…being a cyborg and all..” you mumble, feeling a distinct warm dusting to your cheeks as the malt settles.

Instead of responding with words, the galaxy ranger reaches out and takes your hand into his. He feels…

Warm.

“You tell me, darlin.” He chuckles after a moment, watching you though half-lidded eyes. You barely even notice, more curious about how the alcohol affected him. Without even thinking, you run your fingers along his exposed arm; you weren’t going crazy, he was warm, almost humanly so.

Your fingers continue to wander without much thought until they brush along his jawline; the sudden transition from steel to skin is what finally snaps you out of your own thoughts, pulling back with a squeak.

“O-Oh aeons I’m sorry!” you fluster at his face, his eyes are wide and his mouth slightly ajar. “I-I got carried away I’m-”

His hand reaches out again, clasping yours and pulling it back towards his face as he rests his cheek into your palm.

“Don't.” He murmurs, softly, softer than you’d heard him before. “Keep goin…please.”

A realisation settles across your mind.

“You…you can’t feel most touch…can you?”

He doesn't look you in the eye, but he does sigh, only burying closer to your warm palm, worn after years of working hard…but still human.

“S’not that I can’t feel…I can…but..s’mtimes it’s so forkin dull I might as well not…but..my face is…”

“One of the few places you can feel.” You finish the sentence for him, feeling a pang of sympathy. You didn’t know how long Boothill had been like this, but you could wager long enough that he was more desperate for a kind touch than he probably even realised.

“Yeh…” he mutters, his lips turning down into a frown “sorry…ah know it’s probably-”

“Shut up.” you mutter, turning to face him fully, your other hand coming to rest on the other cheek as you watch this man, this gunslinging galaxy ranger, falter. His eyes widen before he shuts them entirely, leaning into it, starved of this type of affection.

“F’ya don’t stop this bullshirt m’gonna think you might have some feelin’s for me, darlin’..”

You didn’t know if thats what it was…but you didn’t want to stop either, a part of you wanting to sate you own selfish curiosity…another part wanting to do this for him.

“It must be a lonely existence, living like you do.” the murmur leaves your lips before you even notice you’d spoken out loud, thumbs stroking over his cheek bones. Boothill stares at you in silence for a long moment, his gaze calculating, probing.

“I thought ya’ hated my forkin guts…” He mutters.

“Perhaps once, for a little bit, I did.” You admit “But then you brought me here, and I’ve never been happier..”

A beat passes, then another, and another. Boothill stares at you, the feel of your hands on his face something he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

And then he leans forward, lips crash together and the taste of Malt juice and perhaps a little bit of oil is on your tongue.

You don’t pull back, if anything, you lean into it shamelessly.

Robotic hands grip your waist as your own finally shift from his face to wrap around his shoulders. At some point his hat goes flying off elsewhere, but neither of you care; too strung tight, too wound up to care.

His teeth are as sharp as they look, but he’s careful with them as he nips at your bottom lip, swiping his tongue over the little beat of blood he manages to draw.

“Shirt-” He mutters against your lips, his eyes shut tight, you can hear his inner mechanics whirring, like a mechanical heart about to rabbit from his chest “fudge, if you don’t stop me now darlin I’m gonna keep taking-”

“Then take.” you mutter back at him, tangling your hands into his surprisingly silky hair and yanking. “Take what you want.”

“Oh trust me, I would but..” Boothill’s growl trails off, and for a moment he looks…embarrassed. You can’t for the life of you figure out why until he steps closer, your knee brushing between his legs- oh.

“Flat as a forkin’ brass tack.” he mumbles.

You’re not sure why, it might just be the curse of your horrible humour, but your attempt at not giggling only sets you off into laughter that you attempt to muffle into his shoulder.

“Ey, watchu laughin at?” you expect boothill to be…mad at your outburst, but you can hear the amusement in his voice, feel the tremble of his own laughter “t’aint funny.”

“It kinda is.” you snicker out, pulling back to look him in the face. He looks a little sheepish, but thankfully, mostly just amused. “It’s okay…we’ll figure something out..”

His toothy grin settles back into a dangerous little smirk as the moment passes again, the kind of smirk that makes your belly twist a little. “Oh yeah, I got some other tricks up my sleeves.”

Without much more to say, you find yourself being lifted, thrown over the cowboy’s shoulder- as you open your mouth to say something, you’re interrupted with a harsh slap to your ass, resulting in nothing but a squeak.

“Where’s yer room?” He snickers as you glare at him.

You consider not telling him, being a brat, but the charming smile he returns to you is… yeah it does something stupid that goes right to your crotch.

“Upstairs…first door on the left.” you mutter, flustering at the way his grin widens.

If you didn’t know better you’d almost describe Boothill as practically skipping up the stairs, the angle for you however was a little trepidatious, and you find yourself clinging to him for a little more stability, right up until he carefully tosses you down onto the plush of your bed, landing with a soft thud.

He’s back on you, and your hands are back on him without him needing to ask; you can see the relief it brings, the way his eyelids flutter and his brow pinches as your fingers glide across his cheek, down his chest and along his arms, still warm, you note…

His lips return too, his own hands untucking your shirt just to get under it, metal fingers gliding over the smooth of your belly, up the your sides as he groans into your mouth. You wonder how much he can actually feel, if it was still dull, or if the alcohol had heightened his mechanical touch sensors somehow. You didn’t care, he looked happy, legitimately happy, like a dog being scratched behind the ears as you indulge him.

His lips move from yours and he begins to nip and taste elsewhere, his nose brushing against your own as he leans in, nuzzling at your cheek, nipping at your jaw, revelling in the little sounds of pleasure he pulls out of you, especially when his wandering hands wrap behind your back and find the clasp of your bra, it comes undone with a surprisingly expert tug and you moan softly at it.

(Who could blame you? You’d been wearing the damn thing all day.)

You wished there was something you could do for him, something to pleasure him like he was doing for you, but you forced yourself to be content with touching him, running your hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp and tugging at the soft strands; running your thumbs over his cheeks, tracing the shells of his ears.

Boothill however, seemed just as hellbent on touching you, but he had far more room to move, to explore, to play.

Metal thumbs find your nipples, embarrassingly hard and sensitive after being trapped in the confines of your bra all day, and you moan as he rolls them both, back and forth in a slow, methodical rhythm that leaves your breath light, and your stomach twisting in knots.

Pointed teeth find your throat, nibbling and worshipping every inch of skin they could catch. You’d have to wear a scarf tomorrow if he kept that up, lest the regulars at the bar notice the strange bruising… but you don’t stop him; you were all in on…whatever this was now.

A metal hand pulls away long enough to pop the buttons on your shirt, leaving the plane of your torso open and exposed to his gaze, nothing short of hungry as he stares down at you.

“Fudge…” he mutters, his voice husky “That’s a nice view…”

“Tease.” you huff.

“Tease? Oh ah’ll show you tease.” He snickers, his mouth returning to your skin, working lower, biting at the junction of neck and shoulder, nibbling along your collarbone before the cowboy shifts further, his tongue darting out to lap at one nipple whilst a hand works the other.

You gasp and moan, a hand quickly coming to muffle your cries, cheeks alight with embarrassment at the sudden outburst. Boothill only chuckles, his eyes trained to your face as he lays, settling between your legs as he rests atop you to continue his work, but at least he doesnt pull your hand away, too engrossed on what he could feel opposed to what he could see and hear.

He switches breasts while his free hand trails down, over the soft plane of your belly and to your belt, unbuckling it with ease and sending the strap of leather flying across the room before those fingers return, popping the button of your work jeans and dragging the fly down. You groan softly in appreciation at the relief it brings, only to feel those metal fingers working the waistband down.

Just what was he planning? you wonder internally as he gives your nipple one last, harsh suck before releasing it, making you keen beneath your hand.

“Feelin good, darlin?” he whispers. He sure sounded like he was feeling good as he nuzzles against your skin, nipping at your stomach and trailing lower, hands gripping at your jeans, pulling them and your underwear away in one swoop, leaving you open, exposed, and embarrassingly wet. “Y’sure look it..” he adds with a low whistle “aint that a sight.”

“B-boothill-” You mumble, an attempt at closing your legs out of embarrassment only sandwiching his head betwixt your thighs. He grins at you; it’s such an endearingly handsome thing, it makes you feel like this wasn’t a first time thing between you both, like he knew you, like he was comfortable with you, which only added to the heat in your belly.

“Aw don’t go gettin all fudgin’ coy on me now.” he snickers “After all those drinks’ ya’ gave me downstairs, I’m still kinda thirsty.”

His metal hands part your measly human thighs with shameful ease as he leans in close; you squeal when you feel his hot tongue lave down your inner thigh, warm breath so achingly close to your cunt it was maddening.

But it seemed Boothill was just as desperate as you were, his mouth attaching to your cunt after only a moment, taking in your squeal as his teeth gently roll your clit, the added danger only serving to make you wetter.

“F-fuck! Boothill-!” you moan out, forsaking keeping yourself silent as your own hands scramble across the sheets, searching for something, anything to ground yourself as his tongue laps at your folds with fever; they eventually find and settle in his hair before giving it a tug.

Boothill groans, the sting is only arbitrary, but he loves it, he loves being able to feel something. The warm plush of your thighs around his ears, the heat of your cunt as he sucks on your clit, only made sweeter by your cries. He’d missed this, he’d missed this a lot..

“Y’aint seen nothin’ yet, darlin.” He growls low and loving against your thigh in the brief moment of reprieve he gives you. You stare down at him with hooded eyes,your knees already trembling from his vicious onslaught; he nips the soft, sensitive flesh of your thigh with a cheeky smirk, holding up a pair of fingers, watching your face as he slowly drags them through your wet folds, collecting your slick; you gulp. “Like a’ said, I got a few fun lil’ tricks up my sleeves.” His mouth returns, lapping and pulling you right back into the overwhelming, wonderful pleasure as a slick metal finger circles your entrance, slow, methodical, torturous. You nearly sob with relief when he finally presses the digit inside, the metal actually making it easier. He hums his approval at how easily his finger is sucked in, pumping it slowly in and out, in and out; taking things at his pace- perfect.

After a little while, you feel that finger beginning to probe, to prod and search for your G-spot, and before long he finds it, signalled by a loud gasp and a sharp tug at his hair, only pulling his mouth closer, his tongue working away at your clit like he wasn’t driving you absolutely mad with pleasure.

Once he’d found the spot, he retreats, slowly adding the second finger and beginning the cycle again, stretching you, filling you stupidly well; it was an absolute tragedy that he didn’t have a dick…at this point you were so stupidly horny, you would have climbed on top of him just for a chance to ride him.

(somewhere in the back of your mind, the saying ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’ reverberates)

As you’re right at the height, right at the edge, he suddenly stops, his fingers cease their movements and he pulls his head away, resting his chin on your naval as he stares up at you with such a stupidly loving look that it makes your heart twist; his chin was absolutely drenched in your slick, but he looked so very content.

But you weren’t.

“B-boothillllll-” you whimper, tugging at his hair again, why had he stopped!? Now of all times? You could feel his metal fingers pressed against your G-spot, but unmoving, they did little to pleasure you. You clench around them, but that too, yields little results.

“Sorry sweetheart, just wanted to see your face when I did it.” He chuckles, his smile twitching up in the corner.

“D-do whAT-” your question cuts off abruptly when the fingers inside you suddenly burst to life with vibrations, the strength of which you’d never experienced before. Your body coils and you nearly scream as he rams those fingers into your G-spot, stars exploding behind your eyes whilst pleasure cuts through your belly like glass.

“That.” He hums, satisfied as he returns that sinful mouth of his to your clit, adding another layer of pleasure. His fingers were harsh and rough, crooking into your G-spot one second, and then splaying out the next, dragging rough and harsh against your walls; his tongue however was soft, gentle, slowly and carefully rolling circles around your poor little nub. You were going to go crazy, he was going to drive you insane and you were absolutely letting him. Your body reacts on its own, thighs squeezing hard around his head, spine arched upward; your hips prevented from bucking thanks to one of his arms, wrapped solidly around your thigh and holding you down to the sheets, forcing you to lay there and take it.

You knew the walls here were decently soundproof, but even you began to question if they could muffle out your cries, made worse when Boothill suddenly sits up, pulling you up along with him, practically folding you in half as he continues to feast on your pussy like he hadn’t eaten in centuries, his vibrating fingers plunging somehow deeper.

At first you struggle for air with the new position, your knees almost at your chest, but then he switches the angle of his fingers and aeons-, you didn’t think it could get worse than this. But the pleasure this new angle brings, it’s new, its terrifying and you don’t quite know how to articulate that to the galaxy ranger causing it all. Your hands scramble clawing and tugging at any part of him you could get ahold of, his name falling from your lips along with incoherent babble, desperation and worry all balling into one feeling you couldn’t describe as he continues to piston those fingers into you, hitting your G-spot with such accuracy, the flame in your gut turning from a high heat to a near-volcanic overload as you jerk and struggle.

The final straw is when you crack open an eye, catching sight of him, staring back at you with such…love, such unbridled affection.

You scream his name as you cum, harder than you’ve ever cum in your life. Your faintly feel yourself make an absolute mess of his face, arms, your back and the sheets below you as your world turns white.

–

A soft, damp cloth carefully rubbing over your skin slowly pulls you back into reality, rousing you from the soft and gauzy subspace of post-orgasmic bliss. You try to shift, to sit up…to…something- but a hand carefully manoeuvres you to lay back down on a thankfully, dry patch of sheets.

“Easy, darlin’” Boothill’s familiar southern drawl hushes you down “Nearly done.”

You crack an eye to find him carefully cleaning you off with said damp towel. Methodical but careful. You’re trembling from the exertion, but boothill looks absolutely fine, the bastard.

In fact, he looks better than fine. A smile plastered on his stupid face as he works away, wiping sweat and other…fluids, off of you.

When he was done with that, he wraps you in a clean sheet and lifts you, sitting you down on the trunk at the end of your bed, just so he could change the set you’d obliterated with your unexpectedly rough orgasm. You sit there, watching him, half asleep and pleasantly dozy before he pulls you back into bed, pulling you into his side. A glass of water is pressed against your lips as he encourages a few sips into you.

You spend the night sleeping with him curled around you; the quiet whirr of his mechanical body providing a pleasing, soft white noise while hands stroke through your hair.

–

“Do you have to go so soon?” You ask as he reaches for his hat.

He’d been here a week, and it had been…for lack of a better word; wonderful.

But all good things had to come to an end you supposed. The look on his face was enough to tell you what you didn’t want to hear.

“I gotta. I ain’t done yet.” He tells you quietly, despite this, he holds out a hand, a silent request for you to walk with him…the inn and the bar would be fine for a little while.

“I’d ask ya t’come with me, but that’d be the biggest forkin mistake I could ever make.” the cowboy admits. He wanted you to, he’d never felt so content as he had in this week, but bringing you meant putting you in danger…aeons know he’d done that enough already.

“Will you…at least come and visit me?”

Boothill snorts as they meander their way towards his ship “O’course I will.”

“How often?”

“S’often as I forkin can.”

You both stop beside the ship, it had a few more dings and dents than you remember, but it was still in surprisingly good condition.

“Well…” you mumble “at least you know you’ll always have a room at the inn while I still run it.”

“Y’mean yer’ room?” He snickers. “I forkin hope you intend on running the place as long as possible, I pulled in a good favor from jodie to get ya yer’ start ‘ere.”

You smile at him. Boothill thanks every aeon in existence that his cybernetic eyes had a camera function, so he could save that face and look back on it when he was drifting through the universe.

Slowly, he pulls his hat from his head, holding it to his chest as he leans down to press his lips to yours, one last time for the road.

“I’ll be back as soon and as often as I forkin can…y’hear?” He murmurs, you nod; fighting away the sting behind your eyes as you step back.

“I hear…and…Boothill?” you ask as he turns around to step onto his ship, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Taglist: @stygianoir @meimeimeirin @ainescribe @dustofthedailylife @rjssierjrie @crystalflygeo @angel-of-requiem @asoulsreverie @zomzomb1e @moraxsthrone @mysnowmanandmebaby @inlustris-is-slowly-dying @pvbbyb0y Want to be added to the list? shoot me an ask~

#Silentmoth writes #finally #HSR x reader #Hsr Smut #Boothill x reader #boothill x reader smut

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cod-dump · 2 years ago

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Graves: *wakes suddenly and sits up*

Graves: Motherfucker- *leans over to turn on the light before he turns and reaches over Nik to reach Price and aggressively wakes him up*

Price: What the fuck- Phil!

Graves: If you ever shave off your beard and leave nothing but a handlebar mustache I will leave you

Price: … what-

Graves: Unless you had no choice. I’m talking at gunpoint. If you ever do that on your own free will I will fucking leave so fast. And I’ll take Nik with me

Nik, barely awake: I’ll go with him

Price: I-

Graves: I mean it, John! Fuck- you would look atrocious

Nik, still barely conscious: I’d still fuck him though

Graves: Of course you would

Nik, drifting off to sleep: He’d make it hot

Graves: Yea, yea- *turns off the light before laying back down and going to sleep*

Price: *remains sitting up, still very confused*

#price actually ends up doing it but graves doesn’t actually leave #he’s too in love to go through with his threat #call of duty #cod mwii #modern warfare ii #john price #phillip graves #cod nikolai #incorrect quotes #pricegravesnik #nikpricegraves

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olderthannetfic · 8 months ago

Note

Really wish that female characters weren't held to such extremely high standards.

I'm a writer and I follow a lot of writing advice blogs and no one really gives a shit how you write male characters (unless it's relevent to them being a minority, which is understandable) but whenever they talk about writing female characters, following their "advice" feels like I'm trying to defuse a bomb at gunpoint.

They can't be GNC or a tomboy or hate makeup/dresses/etc. or else they're a "pick me" or "NLOG" and they have internalized misogyny and that's bad. Unless of course at the end they overcome this horrible "character flaw" and get put in a dress and learn how to be a real, Proper Woman™. (And let me tell you, this one is really fun to see as a GNC woman. 🙄)

They can't be too polite, softspoken, or weak, because then they're a damsel in distress and submissive. But they also can't be rude, loud, or aggressive because then you're doing the "mean girl" trope which is bad and evil.

They can't wear skimpy clothing or be sexual at all. They should never seduce anyone, sleep around, or god forbid want to get naked in front of people, because if you do that you're sexualizing women for the male gaze and you're bad and unfeminist.

They can't fight with other female characters because then it's a "catfight" and it's misogynistic, because I guess women always get along and support each other (lmao).

And fandoms are no better. If a male character has ten thousand flaws people go "I don't care this is my babyboy blorbo man" but if a female character has a single negative or "problematic" attribute people go absolutely apeshit. But then if she doesn't have any flaws, she gets called a Mary Sue.

Women (and female characters) cannot do anything without someone hating us, huh?

TBH, it's not really more or less understandable about minorities. "Don't write extremely basic and egregious stereotypes with no depth" is a good rule. "Only write Good Rep" is not.

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nevermorgue · 9 months ago

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So imagine this. Will finds himself thinking a lot about what Lenore said to him while she held him at gunpoint. How Montresor probably hates him or that he hasn’t done a single nice thing for him.

He nervously approaches the misfits, desperate for an answer. Or maybe he just wants to hear someone say otherwise that isn’t himself. Nobody really pities him, but Eulalie suggests that Will simply use his spectre to figure out how his friends see him once and for all. Berenice tries to say that it’s kinda a shitty idea unless he wants to get killed, but Will immediately rushes off to start planning. It’s a great idea, he thinks. Then maybe he can finally get some sleep. He knows he won't be able to fool Annabel, but what choice does he have? Prospero is not a blabbermouth, Ada wouldn't say anything unbiased about him, and Montresor wouldn't dare say a thing no matter who he turned into. Annabel is the most likely to at least give up something. As long as he can trick her for a moment- just a single minute...maybe he can figure this out. And so he turns into Prospero. He adjusts the gloves and checks himself over for any wrinkles. He straightens his posture, he even takes extra care in making sure that stupid little hair curl is just right.

And so he heads out, grabbing the first book he spots on one of the many shelves, every step he takes one of faux elegance that he could only dream of ever having. He isn’t worried about accidentally running into the real Prospero; everything seemed to fall into place today. Will was kind enough to let Monty and Ada have his room for a little while, leaving Prospero some free time by himself as long as they’re gone. As long as he stays in there, Will should be safe to walk around with his face.

He eventually stumbles upon Annabel in a common room, alone. It’s late, and all of her underlings are off wasting time. But not her second hand, no. He is different- he is a like minded strategist. Perhaps not as ruthless as she, but intelligent all the same.

Will casually joins her, inwardly panicking as he tries to recall how Prospero takes his tea. Would Annabel notice if "Prospero" drank it differently today? Would she notice if his feet were pointed in a different angle than usual? And of course, would she notice that there are certain words he struggles to say in that accent? Of course she does. Will is not an idiot, even if many would disagree. She most certainly took notice, he thinks. But they sit there for quite a while in a silence that is not very comfortable for him- certainly not even a second thought for her. And luckily for him, it is she that starts the conversation on the path he was hoping it would take. Him.

It’s hard for him to keep track of everything she says. She mentions how they should probably not leave him alone with Montresor as often as they should. Something about him being ‘susceptible to any eye contact, friendly or not’. His chest feels heavy, but he simply starts with nodding along. Will knows that if he lets Annabel do all the talking, it will look suspicious. But what does he even say?

“…yes, that is probably for the best,” he starts slow. Cautious. He watches her expression- or rather, what he can see over the rim of her teacup.

“Things will be much simpler if we do not let Montresor run rampant.”

His mind feels fuzzy, warm like the tea he was drinking. Was that accurate enough to fool such a cunning woman? Did she expect more input? Should he have narrowed his eyes the way Prospero does- the way that sends chills down his spine every time?

Annabel continues on. It seems that she doesn’t want his input today. Will knows deep down what that means, but he chooses to ignore it for the sake of playing a little longer. Feeling like he has fooled her feels good.

She speaks about his vulnerability. She mentions that as long as Montresor has him ‘under his filthy belt’, he will never truly reach his full potential. Will feels his eyes burn every time she implies that he is being used or treated as less than human.

It all comes to a close far faster than he would like. When she stands to leave, she gives him a smile that one could only describe as suffocating. Such a gentle up curve of lips, so sharp and ready to pierce his very being until the wax melts down his false limbs.

“I do hope this provided you with the insight you seek, William.”

She left. He sat there for a long while after that, flexing fingers under gloves that felt suffocating around hands that weren’t his. They both knew from the start that he could never trick Annabel Lee- but why play along? Why did she continue to entertain it?

Surely not for his sake, right? Perhaps she thinks the only way to get through to him about himself is to speak to him as if Will was elsewhere. An afterthought, a topic of conversation and nothing more.

He wonders if it worked. He ponders the thought as he melts back into pitiful, plain form he is stuck as every day. And when he feels the uncomfortable pang in his chest shift just a little, he cannot help but smile.

It seems that being the topic instead of the person spoken to is the only way to get through to a spineless fool.

#nevermore webcomic #nevermore webtoon #will nevermore #nevermore will #montresor nevermore #nevermore montresor #nevermore annabel lee whitlock #annabel lee whitlock nevermore #annabel lee whitlock #nevermore annabel lee #annabel lee nevermore #nevermore eulalie #eulalie nevermore #nevermore berenice #berenice nevermore #nevermore prospero #prospero nevermore

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nyuusayuri · 10 months ago

Text

Heart of the Pirate King (ongoing)

Ateez Kim Hongjoong x Reader [SMUT]

Warnings: Mention of guns, slight violence and maybe swear words

Chapter 2

Chapter 1: The Encounter

"Ah-ah, don't move," he murmured, the cool steel of his pistol pressed against my forehead. "Unless, of course, you want me to pull the trigger."

Hongjoong's amusement was palpable as he observed my futile attempt to slip away and rally my people — an effort made all the more audacious in the face of him and his gang. If only I'd remembered that he was as observant as he was cunning; nothing ever seemed to escape his sharp gaze. The gun trained on me was a constant reminder that any misstep could lead to my demise.

"So, care to enlighten me about your little escapade?"

His voice dripped with mockery, a chuckle escaping as he buried me in his intense scrutiny. My reply was nothing more than a low snarl, teeth gritted in defiance. "As if you don't already know, Pirate," I spat, sarcasm swirling around the air between us.

The glint in his eyes only grew as my retort registered, and his lips curled into a smirk. He held me at gunpoint, and yet I sensed a flicker of intrigue dancing behind his playful demeanor. With a scoff, he remarked, "Oh, you've certainly got guts, I'll give you that."

I turned my attention to the crew behind him. His irritation simmered just beneath the surface as he lifted his pistol, reaching out to grasp my chin. "Look at me. Don't look away," he commanded, each word coated with a palpable threat, his gaze penetrating as he bore into my very soul.

Biting back my fury, I felt an overwhelming urge to headbutt him—a response he seemed to relish as he edged closer, clearly enjoying my internal struggle. His smirk widened at my subtle movements, the delightful tension between us growing thicker like fog on a dreary morning, and he leaned in closer, hovering just out of reach.

"Trying to hide your anger so badly, huh?" he teased, his voice a whisper that sent shivers down my spine.

"You have no idea," I whispered back, my tension building. "You attacked my home. Should I be happy about that?" The sarcasm dripped from my lips, raising the corners of his mouth in amusement.

He edged nearer, the warmth of his presence radiating against my skin. "No, you have every right to be angry, sweetheart," he replied, his tone almost mocking. "But let's not pretend you're not enjoying this little predicament of yours. I can see it in your eyes."

Appalled, I slapped his hand away, my fury bubbling over. "What? Why should I?! You're scum, just like all the other pirates before you!" A whistle of delight escaped him, his enjoyment clear as he chuckled at my defiance. The laughter morphed into something darker as he fixed me with a sharp stare.

"Oh, a feisty one, aren't you? But don't act like I'm the scum here. You know nothing about me or my crew, sweetheart." He caught my chin again, a tad too tight this time, pulling me within inches of his face. "But keep up that attitude—it's kinda cute." His grin was charming, wicked, and all too compelling.

"As if I would ever listen to you," I shot back, keeping my gaze locked onto his while gripping his wrist. His chuckle was low and satisfied, an insatiable glimmer of amusement lighting his eyes.

"I didn't expect you to listen, sweetheart. I'm merely curious about how long you'll sustain this little act. You're adorable when you're mad, did you know that?"

His face drew closer, and I placed my hands on his chest in a futile attempt to distance myself. "What the hell are you doing?! Let me go!" I cried, struggling to twist free of his grip, my heart racing in protest.

His crew erupted in laughter, reveling in our clash, as one of his arms snaked around my waist, anchoring me where he wanted me — pressed flush against him. "Oh, sweetheart, don't struggle too much; you'll wear yourself out," he teased, leaning down so that his breath warmed my ear. "Besides, I like having you this close to me."

With a surge of resolve, I finally broke free and glared at him, my anger boiling over. "What the hell are you trying to do here? Do you think I'm just one of your dolls who'll come running at your beck and call?"

He merely scoffed at my outburst, a satisfied grin etched across his face. "I was merely testing how fiery your temper is. Look at you; you've not disappointed." He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. "And no, I don't think you're one of my dolls as you so bluntly put it. You're much more unique."

"What do you even know about me? Nothing! Now let my people go and get the hell out of here!" I demanded, holding his gaze with a challenge.

"Ah, I know more than you think, sweetheart," he replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But I'll admit, I haven't learned your name yet, which strikes me as a shame." He winked at me, and I frowned in disbelief.

"And as for your people? They're safe, for now. I can promise you that."

I let out a laugh tinged with skepticism. "Why should I trust the word of a pirate? And why do you want to know my name? Once you leave here, I doubt you'll ever give me a second thought."

He chuckled, "Oh sweetheart, you have every reason to doubt me. I am, after all, a pirate. But I assure you, I mean no harm to you or your people." Then, without warning, he stepped forward, closing the distance between us. Tilting his head down, he leaned in close, murmuring, "I want to know your name because you intrigue me. You're a feisty one, and I can't help but be drawn to you."

His words caught me off-guard, and I blinked in surprise, searching his eyes before looking away, deep in thought. After a moment, I returned my gaze to him. "Y/N," I said quietly.

His smile softened at the sound of my name. "Y/N," he repeated, savoring it like a fine wine, enjoying how it rolled off his tongue. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he murmured, the devious smirk creeping back to his lips.

"Now, release the others and get out of here," I commanded, my voice firm despite the tremor of uncertainty within me.

An amused scoff escaped him, but he turned to his crew, nodding his command. Moments later, my people were untied, and relief washed over me as they gathered at a safe distance. He turned back, a playful glint in his eye. "As promised, they're safe. My crew won't harm them, I give you my word. But are you truly sure you want me to leave, sweetheart? I was just beginning to enjoy our little conversation."

It was undeniable that there was something magnetic about him — undeniably handsome, perhaps the most attractive man I'd ever encountered — but he was still Kim Hongjoong, King of the Pirates, and trust was not a luxury I could afford.

"Why would I want you to stay?" I raised an eyebrow, wary of the predator before me.

Noting my tension, he leaned into his game, trying to provoke me further. "You've been eyeing me up, haven't you? Admiring the view, perhaps?" He began to circle me, his gaze appraising as he moved. "Let's be honest; you enjoy this little game as much as I do. Otherwise, you'd have walked away by now."

I could only gawk at his audacity, shaking my head. "You mean like this?" I took a few determined steps back from him.

His laughter echoed, buoyed by my defiance. "I do admire your spirit. It's quite charming," he mused.

Determined to reclaim my distance, I stepped away, but he swiftly closed the gap, grasping my waist and spinning me around so that my back met his chest. In an instant, my breath hitched, and I felt his lips near my ear. "But I'm afraid I can't let you leave that easily, sweetheart."

My heart raced as warmth flooded my cheeks, a sensation I fought to conceal by avoiding his gaze. I refused to let him see my flustered state, determined not to grant him any semblance of victory. But the question lingered in the air: why was I reacting this way?

He chuckled softly, clearly enthralled by the effect he'd had on me, savoring every moment. His smirk deepened as he sensed my heart racing, yet he refrained from mentioning it, opting instead to push my buttons further. "Oh, there are countless reasons. Perhaps I simply enjoy having you this close to me. Or maybe I'm not quite ready to release my hold on your delightful spirit."

Driven by a sudden surge of defiance, I seized his arm, twisting it with deft precision until I had him turned around, my grip pressing his arm firmly against his back, rendering him unable to escape. "I think you're listening to me now," I whispered fiercely into his ear. "You may have a handsome face, but I have no intention of entangling myself with a pirate who recently laid hands on my father!"

He let out a huff of surprise at the rapid role reversal, but beneath the annoyance blossomed an undeniable smirk as he admired my strength and audacity. "Ooh, feisty and strong. I like that," he admitted, his amusement evident in the lilt of his voice. "But you know, sweetheart, I had my reasons for confronting your father. It wasn't personal, I swear."

"Oh, but this feels rather personal," I countered, a playful smile dancing on my lips as I landed a swift kick to his leg, sending him tumbling to his knees before me. With his back still turned and my grip unyielding, I leaned closer, my voice a sultry whisper. "I prefer you on your knees, Captain." There was a hint of mischief in my tone as I reveled in his irritation before slipping away into the chaos of the city.

Wincing against the dull throb in his leg, he cursed softly, astonished that I'd toppled him so effortlessly. The world around us seemed to fade as he remained kneeling, still processing the shock of my boldness. As I whispered taunts into his ear, his annoyance simmered, ignited by the warmth of my breath against his skin tinged with a hint of satisfaction.

"You little minx," he muttered, delight dancing in his eyes as a slow smirk crept back onto his lips. "You've chosen to play a dangerous game, sweetheart. Just know this—I'll be coming for you."

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