tokkiwrites

[tokkiwrites]

was just thinking about how old as fuck bf Joel would have you in bed by 9pm and had to write it 😭😭 all fluff xx

It’s 8:42 when he flicks off the living room lamp with a sigh, the whole house dipping into that familiar, sleepy hush. You’re already brushing your teeth, barefoot in his flannel that hangs loose and low, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you lean over the sink. He watches you from the hallway like he always does, arms crossed, eyes soft, like he still can’t believe you’re here—his—night after night.

By 8:56, you’re both under the covers. Clean sheets. Fresh pajamas. His arm is warm around your waist and the windows are cracked just enough to let the breeze in. The town outside is quiet. Your limbs are tangled, skin on skin, and he smells like cedarwood and peppermint toothpaste and the kind of comfort you never thought you’d get to keep.

You glance at the clock. 8:59.

“You made me boring,” you whisper, smiling into his chest. “I used to be wild. Fun. The last one to leave the party.”

Joel’s voice is low, sleep-soft. “You still fun. You’re just tired now.”

“Because I’m in bed at nine. You’ve aged me.”

He snorts, the sound muffled by your hair. “You’re the one who yawned through dinner.”

“You were the one talking about home insulation and firewood like it was the highlight of your week.”

He chuckles again, hand smoothing down your back beneath the blanket. “That’s ‘cause it was.”

You bite back a laugh, snuggling closer, cheek pressed to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat—steady, warm, yours. His other hand cups the back of your head like he needs to keep you there, needs to hold on even in sleep.

“You like our little life?” he asks suddenly, voice quieter now, almost shy.

You blink up at him, and the look on his face is so open, so tender, it makes your breath catch. That furrow between his brows, the one he always wears like a shield, is gone. He looks… safe. Happy. Home.

“I love our little life,” you whisper. “I’d go to bed at 7 if it meant doing it with you.”

He smiles. Really smiles. The kind that starts in his eyes, slow and crooked and completely devastating.

And then he leans in, presses the softest kiss to your lips, like a thank-you. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

By 9:01, you’re both asleep.

Wrapped in each other.

Wrapped in peace.

[tokkiwrites]

AN HONEST MISTAKE

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: swiping left and right on tinder, you think you match with Joel Miller, a handsome single dad in his late 30s. Feeling enamored and horny you decide to meet in person, only to be met with an almost completely different person. warnings: darkfic, dub-con eliments due to alcohol intoxication, gaslighting, very big age gap [Joel is 61], switching POVs, explicit sexual content. Some tags are not added to avoid spoilers, dm me if you need the full list. reader description: afab she/her, has hair long enough to be pulled; has boobs and ass; reader mid to late 20s-early 30s. word count: 6,2k

a/n: thank you for all of the excitement and interest you'd shown to this idea, i have been working on it for some time and i'm finally happy to show you part one. huge thanks to @arcanefox207 , Ally helped me to polish this chapter and shown me a lot of support which i truly appreciate <3 READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST | part 2

Dating wasn’t fun. It always felt like an inescapable chore for you, and you tried to avoid it at all costs. Hiding your face in your morning cup of tea when attacked by your mom’s questions, her voice distorted by poor video connection. Joking only to avoid the topic of boyfriends and girlfriends when your friend kept nagging you about it. Losing yourself in an unsatisfactory myriad of hands that belonged to faceless people when the nights got too cold for empty sheets.

You looked at your table, a small hand-made sign read “do better” in your own handwriting. And that was exactly what you were going to do. You were going to kill not two, but three birds with one stone, and that stone was going to be going on a date. A real, proper date, with excruciatingly predictable questions and awkward first touches. And you were going to have fun. 

On the fourth hour of swiping Tinder, you were a breath away from ghosting everyone you knew and hiding in the Peruvian Amazonia for the rest of your life. The few conversations that you managed to have quickly died out when the person you talked to learned what you were there for. A month ago you’d find a pretty face and invite them over to smoke and have some fun, but that wasn’t a great start for an actual relationship. No, your fuckgirl days were over, so you went back to swiping. 

And that was when you saw him.

Joel M., 39 Southern gentleman with a beautiful daughter. Work in construction, so I can build you a house. I am looking for a real connection, please, respect that.

God, he was handsome. Your mouth started salivating as you swiped through his pictures. He was broad, tall and had a tool in his hand. Not the one you immediately started wondering about, but it looked like at least he didn’t lie in his description. Feeling like a complete creep, you screenshotted his profile. If you weren’t a match, at least you’d have someone pretty to think about before going to bed tonight.

Gently, as if afraid, you swiped right. Your screen lit up, and so did your face, you gave a wide grin to your phone. “It’s a match!”

He was too good to be true. A gentleman, he didn’t lie there. Joel gave you the exact amount of attention to make you run towards your phone whenever it rang. It was definitely nothing like you expected. He was attentive, remembering what you said and when, never shied away from your questions, and on top of that he was devastatingly hot.

You heard a blip of a new message and unlocked your phone, a smile already plastered on your face like a Pavlovian reaction.

[Joel M.]: I was thinking, we seem to have a nice connection here, don’t we? [You]: I think so, too. A little unbelievable, but I am feeling hopeful. [Joel M.]: Unbelievable how?[You]: Unbelievable that no one snatched you up earlier. From where I am sitting, you look like a full package. [Joel M.]: Well, you’re sitting awfully far away, so I see how it looks like that. Why don’t we meet in person and find out if you still think the same, darlin? [You]: Joel, are you inviting me on a date? [Joel M.]: Only if you’re accepting. How about a dinner at my place? I am a pretty decent cook.

Your hand hovered above the screen. It wasn’t smart, going to a man’s place for your first date. He could be a creep, he could be a murderer… But then again, you could never brag about your self preservation instincts, sometimes you just thought with a little kitty purring between your legs. 

You tapped on his profile again, looking at the zoomed in picture of his face. His brown eyes looked sad, but kind. A half-smile tugged on his soft-looking lips. Just a few sprinkles of salt and pepper in his hair. Even if he turned out to be a creep, you’d never had such a handsome lay before, and you were planning to check all of his tools as soon as you could, you thought to yourself before typing your reply.

[You]: I’d love that. Send me the address?

You weren’t worried, not really. You never struggled with too low of self-esteem. You knew your strong suits, and you wore them like armor. The upcoming date sent a pleasant shiver down your back, anticipation made you giggle into the void of your lonely apartment. The closer the day came, the giddier you became.

So on the fateful night you had enough confidence to pick out the dress that was a bit uncomfortable but looked gorgeous on your body. You smacked some lipstick that complemented the shade of your skin, grabbed a small purse and a bottle of wine and winked at your reflection in the mirror. You looked good, you felt even better.

August kept tricking you with its weather, the days still suffocated you with heat while the nights were unpleasantly chilly. You hugged your naked shoulders and rubbed your skin in an attempt to warm up as you waited for your Uber to arrive. 

You got inside the white Honda Civic, the smell of cigarettes unpleasantly soaked into the seats so you opened up the window praying that it wouldn’t stink up your dress. The driver acknowledged you with a small grunt and a nod, you did the same, not willing to start a conversation. The estimated forty minutes dragged out and became an hour in the man’s GPS, of course you got stuck in traffic it was just your luck. And on your way to a literal dream man, no less. 

Your kitten heel kept tapping on the car floor, the annoyed-looking driver gave you a stern look in the rear view mirror that you completely ignored. You needed to warn Joel that you were going to be late, and it made you want to grind your teeth. You hated being late, be that a party, a dentist appointment or a walk in the park with a friend. It made you feel guilty, leaving your palms sticky with cold sweat. You clearly weren’t going to make a good first impression, and with the way you chewed your lip bloody, you might not even get a kiss. You looked at the picture of him you shamelessly saved to your camera roll. Out of the two of you, you were definitely winning the creep competition, while he was just a dream come true. 

You zoomed in on his face, your thumb caressed the pixels of his skin. There were smile lines around his lips, and you wondered what made him laugh so hard throughout his life that the remnants of the gesture permanently cut themself into his skin. Joel’s eyes were gleaming with youthful mischief, something you’d thought a person loses after having a child, but he clearly proved you wrong. Sun made his brown look like amber, adding to the overall handsomeness of the man. You imagined yourself next to him – yes, it was way too early, but you couldn’t keep your mind from wandering – he’d be taller, bigger than you, his strong hand on your lower back as you walk through the city. The eyes of men and women hungry to have what’s yours, but he’d only look at you. Yes, he was a bit older, but still young enough to have you on his arm without dealing with accusatory stares and venomous whispers behind your back.

A loud honking from the car behind you made you jump in your seat. The line of cars finally started moving and it brought a sense of relief to you. You had 20 more minutes, maybe you were still going to make it.

The sound of your heels kissing the pavement echoed like gunfire through the neighborhood. When your taxi left you at the needed address, you looked around. It wasn’t too late, the small houses still looked alive with yellow lights and muffled voices. You took a deep breath, straightened your back and looked in front of yourself, examining the location. 

From the outside, Joel’s house looked nice. Nothing too fancy, the white paint a bit chapped, but the porch looked recently freshened up. A sturdy looking rocking chair covered with a blanket and a pillow gave the place a cozy feeling. His lawn was perfectly trimmed, and you imagined watching him mow it from that same porch with an iced tea in your hand. He’d be sweaty and shirtless, you’d drag him inside to fuck before he finished even a third of the territory. You clenched your thighs, a small pool of wetness gathering in your thongs. You better keep that thought away or you’d jump the poor man’s bones before he had the chance to say hello.

You checked your phone, 8:27 PM. Not too late, even acceptable in some countries, you tried to cheer yourself on. You hoped he wasn’t as insane about being late as you were or here went your first date in years. Gently, you tapped on the wooden door, the sound of someone approaching from the other side made you squeeze the bottle neck harder.

When the door flew open, you stretched out the hand holding the wine and fired out an apology in the most comical way you could, your eyes tightly shut.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, the traffic was horrendous. I promise I am usually never late, ever.” When no reply followed, you opened your eyes, a smile still tugging on your lips as you took in the man in front of you. It was both Joel and not. With your hand still outstretched, your mouth dropped with a hundred different questions, but you only managed to ask one. “Joel?”

“Hello, darlin’.”

“Is this some kind of a joke? Are you his dad or something?”

The man in front of you was not in his late thirties, hell, he wasn’t even in his late forties! The Joel that was staring at you looked pretty old, mid-fifties at least, you thought to yourself. His hair was mostly salt, no pepper in sight. It was inches longer than in the picture, soft-looking, it curled at the bottom. He was as tall and broad as you imagined, and it did give a little pang to your core that you quickly shut off. His face was ridden in wrinkles, prominent crows feet near his eyes that were still sad, still brown. You had half a thought to turn around and order yourself an Uber home, but the bewildered look on his face made you stop where you were.

“Darlin’, I know what’s going through your head right now, because I promise I didn’t expect you to be this young either! It must’ve been Sarah, my baby girl. She set up this thing, said she was tired of seeing her old man sad an’ miserable. Guess she didn’t think I was mighty attractive anymore.” He says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “She just straight up told me today that a nice woman would come over for a dinner, said she’d be here too, and if I loved her I had better prepared my nicest shirt an’ all. Christ, what was that girl thinking?” 

You caught yourself feeling bad for the man, your heart clenching. He was still definitely handsome. His stomach was slightly more prominent and his was shirt hugging him tightly in the middle. His hand that tucked a little white strand of hair behind his ear matched his face in little sun spots, skin that had been kissed by the burning star for longer than you’d been alive. But he still got it, in a silver fox kind of way. Poor man, put into such an embarrassing situation by his own daughter. Being willingly childfree had never looked more appealing to you. 

“You came all the way here just to be disappointed, I can’t tell you how-“

“I’m not disappointed,” you interrupted him quickly and stepped forward, an unknown force drove your hand to squeeze his forearm in a reassuring gesture. His eyes dropped when your manicured nails dug into his ironed flannel. “Just surprised, but that’s not a bad thing. We both unknowingly catfished each other.”

“Catfish? Ain’t that a type of fish?” 

“No,” you laughed lightheartedly, the man was adorable. The cold breeze picked up, and you were reminded that you were still on the porch, if any neighbors were out they were definitely getting a fresh batch of gossip to discuss before sleep. “It’s when you… You know what, no matter, it’s not important.”

Joel looked hesitant, his jaw ticked and you noticed him look you up and down before swallowing hard. Was he blushing? 

“I want to make it up to you before you go. I made us a nice dinner when I thought you were umm… age appropriate,” Joel tightened his lips and gave you an apologetic smile. “It ain’t catfish, just a steak, but I swear on my mama, it’s good.”

Before you could respond, your stomach growled making the decision for you. Your hand jumped to it, fisting the material of your dress as if trying to silence the embarrassing sound.

“Well, I don’t see any harm in that,” you smiled, accepting Joel’s invitation. The man looked harmless and you didn’t want to leave him sad and miserable, it seemed like he felt guilty enough. “It was quite a long drive.” Maybe it all could become a funny story you both would tell your friends. Separately. 

He stepped aside and you waltzed inside his house. It was big enough to still be cozy without making you feel trapped. The warm light made everything look safe and homey, hardwood floor creaked gently under your footsteps. The door lock clicked behind you and you turned around.

Joel was looking at you, a more confident smile now stretching his lips. The soft lighting took a few years off his face, and once again you noted that the man aged like a fine wine. That reminded you of the bottle you were still tightly gripping in your hand, and you stretched it out to Joel for the second time that night. He accepted with a muttered ‘thank you’.

“Feel at home, sweetheart, I’ll just grab something real quick.” Joel pointed towards his kitchen, the space was open, luring you in with a mouth-watering smell. 

You felt awkward walking around a stranger’s house, but followed his instructions. 

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the exposed skin of the back of your thighs, his tongue flicking over his lower lip in anticipation. 

He disappeared further into the hallway, and you made your way towards the dining table. 

Alone, you took the opportunity to study the place you were allowed in. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very unique, or maybe you were just a shitty detective. Joel’s kitchen that spilled out into a dining room was disappointingly ordinary. Walls painted a soft yellow; polished doors of wooden cupboards and kitchen cabinets that looked old but taken care of; a four-person dining table that was now set with a few plates, simple utensils, napkins and wine glasses. You narrowed your eyes trying to see the pictures that were stuck to the fridge with small butterfly magnets. Your long ride and empty stomach must’ve taken a toll on your eyesight so you could barely make out Joel in those. There was a picture of him with another man, and… You leaned over the table as if trying to get closer, to see better.

“You know, you can just come closer to the fridge.” Joel’s chuckle made you jump in your seat.

“Sorry, I was just,” the right explanation failed you, and you surrendered. “I was just being nosy.”

“Didn’t catch you going through my drawers, so no harm. Can’t really snoop if it’s out there to see, right?” Joel set the opened bottle of the wine you’d brought on the table and waved a bottle opener in his right hand. “Haven’t had wine in some time so had to go look for this guy,” he explained. 

“Whatever you made, it smells delicious,” you smiled at him. The sucking feeling in your stomach became uncomfortable, and you cursed at yourself internally for skipping lunch.

“Well then, let’s get some of it in you, shall we?”

Joel seemed way more relaxed, maybe your agreement to spend time with him made him feel less guilty for his daughter’s actions; or maybe it was the confidence of being a host. Either way, it looked good on him. 

You didn’t stop your eye from wandering over his frame while he looked away, putting food on your plates. His dark green shirt was snug around his broad shoulders, the soft-looking material translated the feeling of warmth and comfort you lacked in your dress. He had blue jeans on, and you felt your cheeks heat up when you noticed a firm ass hidden behind the rough fabric. Your hand left the table, and you tugged at your bottom lip absent-mindlessly. What was twenty more years? He turned around and since your eyes hadn't moved, you were now shamelessly staring at his crotch. The jeans did not hide much.

You snapped your face up immediately at Joel’s quiet cough. There was a barely hidden smirk on his face, so you decided that no harm was done. So what if you gave the man a quiet compliment? You’d been doing that for the last two weeks, even though apparently his daughter was the one responding to them. You could spare some flirting for the poor guy, he looked like he enjoyed a bit of your harmless attention.

He didn’t lie, he was a decent cook. The meat melted on your tongue and the wine you brought complimented it nicely. You didn’t notice the way your glass was always full, Joel’s stories from the past kept you too entranced.

Heat was creeping up your chest, settling in your cheeks and you moved the wine glass away. You could tolerate a full bottle without being visibly affected, not your proudest trick but it was what it was. Yet, now you felt like you’d emptied at least a couple of bottles on an empty stomach, even though the bottle on the table proved otherwise. You felt dizzy, but not in a bad way, just more relaxed than you were planning to be. Joel looked more handsome every minute, his syrupy thick voice lulled you into a trance-like headspace.

“Can’t lie, you look mighty pretty, darlin’. Had I been thirty years younger it’d be hard to keep my hands to myself.” 

Wine dimmed your instincts, so you just giggled. Joel’s eyes darkened as he tripped his gaze from your face to your bust, your breasts straining against the silk fabric of your dress. You noticed him looking and cleared your throat, tits jiggling slightly. 

“Forgive an old man, sweetheart?” There was nothing sorry about his tone, but it slipped your mind completely, your guard almost all the way down. “As I said, haven't had a pretty thing like you here in ages.”

You tried to study his face, your brain foggy as you struggled to figure him out. “You compliment like a man deep in the dating pool,” you smirked, “makes it hard to believe it’s all an accident. Maybe you actually lured me in here

intentionally?” You raised your eyebrows, but couldn’t handle your own silly accusation, breaking down in giggles.

“Don’t worry, darlin’, this old dog is all bark no bite.” His smile looked sincere, kind laughter leaving his wet lips and he gave you a wink.

“You’re not that old,” your voice dragged the words out like you wanted to convince yourself more than him. You felt hot all over and you weren’t sure if it was the result of the wine you drank.

“You’re too kind, sweetheart, no need to spare my feelings. My prime is long behind the horizon.”

“No, you’re actually very handsome,” you didn’t lie, anyone with a good working set of eyes would see his attractiveness, and you had two weeks to cement it in your brain. “You have a very nice smile, and your hands,” your eyes dropped on the table where a giant fist was curled around his fork. “A lot of women appreciate a good set of hands.”

“Learned to work with them pretty well, too.” Joel nodded and smirked. “Leaking faucets, clogged drainage. Can fix it all.”

In your mind that phrase sounded naughtier than you were sure the man intended it to, and you reprimanded yourself, feeling a different kind of heat rise from your belly. With one swift movement you’ve emptied what was left in your glass of wine, forgetting about your need to somehow get home after dinner. Joel only poured some more in your glass, smiling softly.

He learned the dance moves long ago. Pretty birds like you were comfortably predictable, and even though you oozed a different kind of odor, he knew exactly what to say. He watched you sip your wine with ease, his own glass barely touched on the table.

When the last piece of salad was cleaned off your plate, you felt a pleasant fullness in your belly. Your head was heavy in a sleepy kind of way, and you looked around, trying to find something to hold your attention on. Your eyes skimmed the living room, from where you were sitting you could see an old couch, in some spots it was now more beige than brown, its big cushions looked soft and the blue quilt draped over the back of it was calling your name.

There was a guitar leaning against one of the armrests and you moved your eyes back at Joel who was silently studying you.

“You play that?” You blindly pointed your thumb towards the strategically placed instrument and Joel curtly nodded.

“I pluck the strings, sometimes something bearable comes out.” He joked, the apples of his cheeks saturated with color and you reached your hand to take his

and gently squeezed it. Joel’s skin turned out to be warm and dry, the sensation of giving him such an innocent touch tingled on your fingertips.

“I noticed you tend to undersell yourself. Would you play something for me?” You didn’t want to leave yet, and your empty plate didn’t really leave you a reason to stay. You tilted your head to the right and gave Joel a sweet smile, hoping he’d succumb to your charm. He didn’t wait long before returning the soft gesture. Slowly, he got off his seat. His figure loomed above you for a quiet moment before he outstretched his palm.

“I’d never be able to refuse you,” he admitted. Your hand drowned in his and he tugged you up. You almost crushed into his broad chest, but to your own dismay he took a step back. Your insides throbbed, the smell of his cologne mixed with his own odor awoke every single receptor on your skin.

“Do you like old stuff?” 

“I’m still here,” you quipped and shrugged your shoulders innocently. Joel stopped, making sure you saw him roll his eyes in fake annoyance. He couldn’t contain the breathy laugh, though, so you knew he got your joke. 

You moved towards the couch, while Joel walked a step behind you, enjoying the view of your ass in a skin tight dress. The outline of your thongs was visible to him, and he smiled to himself, maybe you weren’t as innocent as you pretended to be. Joel bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from any comments.

His hand hugged the neck of the guitar confidently, while you made yourself comfortable on the couch.

“I think I know just the thing.”

Your eyes never left his fingers as he started to hum an unfamiliar melody.

His voice lulled you in, deep vibrations as he plucked the strings reverberated in your chest. You felt so warm inside, the heat that was pooling in the depth of your belly rose and touched your chest, neck, the tips of your fingers. The dress clung to your skin unpleasantly and for a moment you wished you could take it off. Was it so wrong?

Your eyes traced Joel’s face, the sharp angle of his nose, the tip of it twitching as he sang gently. His lips caressed the words with a tenderness of a lover and you wondered when was the last time they did the same to a woman. Your thighs tightened as your body already knew something your mind only danced around. You shifted in your seat, moving closer to Joel, letting your knees touch.His eyes found yours, a question burning in his browns. You shrugged your shoulders and gave him a small smile, he smiled back. The melody continued, his warm timbre embracing the words.

Maybe tomorrow, honey, Some place down the line, I’ll wake up older So much older, mama, I’ll wake up older, and I’ll just stop all my trying

Your fingers drew patterns on your dress, nails picking at the seam with nervousness. The fire in the center of you gave you confidence to follow through, and your hand ended up on Joel’s knee, slowly moving up until your pinky touched the wood of his guitar. The melody didn’t falter, but his voice did.

“Whatcha doin’, sweetheart?”

“It is a date, isn’t it?” The shreds of your confidence only allowed you to squeeze his thigh with a hint, yet your eyes looked anywhere but his face.

“You shouldn’t do something like that to an old man like me, will break my heart when you leave,” he sounded so painfully sad, it made your heart ache as bad as your pussy. You looked him in the eye then, god, he was so handsome. 

“What if I don’t leave?” You challenged him like a mouse challenging a lion. Joel shook his head, his hand gripping the guitar’s neck viciously.

“Stop playing with me, darlin’.”

“What if I’m not playing?”

You expected another sad plea, another crack in his voice. But instead, he put his guitar to the side and spread his legs wider than before. “Then prove it.” He husked out. “Prove that you know what you’re doing.”

There was no mistake in what he meant. His voice added a new depth into it, eyes glowed with something dark. Passion, you thought. Need. The one that was pushing you to your knees at that same moment. The one that numbed your skin when your bones hit the hardwood floor between his spread thighs. The one that guided your hands to his zipper before you could even steal a kiss off his tantalizing lips.

He was hot underneath his clothes, his skin was burning like he had a fever and you were almost too impatient to be gentle. Joel lifted his hips just enough to help you tug his jeans down, his grey cotton boxers followed. He watched you intently, and you watched his half-hard cock lay heavily on his full balls. They were hanging low, their size intimidating. But no more intimidating than the main course.

You weren’t offended that he wasn’t fully hard yet, still, Joel took you by the chin and made you look at him. “Sorry, darlin’, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen in a long time, but at my age, it’s just not enough anymore.”

You nodded, your mouth flooding with saliva at the thought of him growing under your tongue. He was thick, veiny, more veiny than the dicks you’d seen

before so you thought it was an age thing, however the vines surrounding his shaft only made you whimper harder, thighs squelching with your arousal. 

You leaned forward, inhaling full lungs of him. It was heady, strong, and made you dizzier than all the wine you drank. You reached your hand out with the intent of touching his cock, but Joel stopped you.

“Touch yourself.” For the first time you heard something dark in his melody. Commanding.

“What?” You were confused. Did he want you to just play with yourself? Because you were on the verge of bursting if he didn’t let you get closer to his cock.

“Put your little hand in your panties and slick it up with all the sweet juices that have been leaking out of you since the moment you saw me, darlin’.” Your mouth fell open, hand following his order under Joel’s dominant gaze. “Then you can wrap it around my dick, and prove to me that you really want this.”

It was so easy to just do what he said, without questioning the moral, the consequences. Your hand was wet with your arousal, pussy begging to keep it

there, to give some attention to your clit, but your mind was set on the man before you. 

He hissed when you wrapped your slick hand around his shaft and started jerking it slowly, feeling the girth of him thrum with growing desire. You looked at his cock, entranced. His shaft was shining with your own juices, a pink head became deeper in color as more blood rushed to his cock. You swiped your thumb over it, a tiny drop of precum glistening in his slit. 

“You’re doin’ such a good job, angel.” Joel’s hoarse voice was almost a whisper. You felt the steam coming from him, it made you sweat, your breath hitching. “Why don’t you put that mouth to use, hm, darlin’? You speak awful lot with it.”

It almost made you giggle, a plan forming in your head. Instead of letting his cock in the scorching wetness of your mouth, your head dropped lower. You

stuck your tongue out, lathering his heavy balls in your saliva. They were fuzzy, like a ripe peach, and you massaged them with the wet muscle. 

“Fuck, ain’t nothing angelic about you, huh?” Joel’s voice was barely recognizable, hungry and low it vibrated in your pussy. You opened your mouth wider, sucking his balls in turn. “That’s right, making me feel so good, sucking on my balls like that. Come on, baby, use your tongue.” 

You tried to alternate between licking and sucking on his ballsack, your spit drooling over your chin while you were panting like a rabid dog. The only thing that mocked your ladylikeness was your goddamn dress, and it was almost drenched in your own slick at this point. 

“Good girl, sucking on my balls like it’s what you came here for. Came here to make an old man cum? What a perverted little girl you are, sweetheart.” Your pussy tingled with your praise. The mouth on him made your head spin, like a newfound drug that affected only you he seeped under your skin making you pant and moan as you continued pleasuring him. Your hand jerked his thick cock in tandem with your mouth on his balls. Joel’s eyes never left you, as he continued praising you. “Mmhm, that’s good, drench ‘em, fuck you’re a dirty one.” 

You felt his hand at the back of your head as it pressed you harder into him, your nose was forced into his perineum and he almost humped your face with his groin. Your tongue hung out, and he managed to slide his balls across it before it almost went too low. The tip of your tongue almost touching his puckered hole covered in more hair. 

“Not today,” you heard him grumble before tugging you up. “Come on, darlin’, don’t make me waste a load.” He pushed on your cheeks with his hand, feeding you his cock in one movement. It was a lot to take, your teeth barely scraping his shaft, and you used your tongue to protect the underside. “Take it all, come on, darlin’, you’re the one who wanted it.”

Intoxication and arousal didn’t mix well, as you just moaned pathetically around him, letting him deeper in your throat. It bulged with the sheer size of his dick, you felt it, uncomfortable, but you couldn’t move, your body too heavy and tired. Instead, your hands found his wet balls, already tight and ready to blow every drop of cum he’d been saving for you. You tried to fit them in your hand, gently tugging at his sack to stimulate him further.

“Ready, sweetheart? I better not see you waste a drop.” His hips bucked, and your nose was pressed into the soft tuft of his grey pubes. Joel pressed your head into him harder as his hot load trickled down your throat. You tried to breathe through your nose, the lack of oxygen blackening your vision.

He pulled out seconds before you were ready to pass out.

“Gotta tap my leg or somethin’, sugar. I don’t need you dying with my cock still in your throat.” You chuckled, not sure why. Joel placed his hand on your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip, slippery with your saliva. His whisper sounded gentle, “God, you’re a mess. Beautiful.”

You didn’t trust your throat to work, so instead, you tried to get up on your trembling legs. Your pussy still screamed for release, so wet you could feel your arousal escaping your thongs and dripping down your leg. You hiked the skirt of your dress up, not an ounce of shame inside, and straddled Joel.

“Whoa, darlin’, slow down,” his hands dropped to your hips, keeping you in place. Your brows furrowed. He didn’t look like a man who’d let a lady down. “Why don’t we change our location?”

You didn’t get an opportunity to look around, your feet scrambling as he tugged you into a dark room. His pants were up, but undone, and you lost your heels somewhere along the way, your dress still hiked up like a common whore.

Everything was spinning, so when he dropped on the bed at first you thought he fell. His voice was navigating you through the darkness, but you could barely concentrate on it.

“Come here, angel, let this old man take care of your pretty pussy.” Joel smacked his lips, and guided you to climb on top of him, legs on each side of his body until your pussy hovered over his face.

“Panties,” you whimpered and heard an immediate crack of fabric ripping.

“Sorry, darlin’, can’t make you wait any longer,” his face pressed into the side of your thigh, sticky with your own juices, and you whimpered pathetically at the texture of his scruff scratching your sensitive skin. “Smell so good, fresh, like a new doll.”

You couldn’t understand what he meant, you didn’t even try to. When his lips latched onto your clit, your head tilted back and you let out a loud moan. Joel only moaned back, the sound penetrating your pussy alongside his tongue.

His hands gripped your asscheeks painfully, forcing you to grind on his face. His tongue slipped in your wet hole, and you felt yourself shaking on top of him, your legs giving out as he kept fucking you with his tongue. 

Joel growled in your skin, making you crawl to your orgasm faster and faster with every swipe of his tongue. 

The tip of his nose kept hitting your sensitive clit, as he pushed his tongue further and further in your fluttering hole. He kissed his way up, pinching your clit between his tightly clasped lips and sucked, punching a cry out of you with his raw vigor.

“Come on, sugar,” he commanded, “I feel her cryin’, give her what she wants.”

With doubled passion he flickered his tongue over your throbbing bud, and you felt sweat trickling down your neck and soaking into your dress as an orgasm rushed over you.

Your body felt powerless, and if not for Joel’s strong hands still holding you up, you’d have fallen back. But he kept you somewhat steady, lapping up all that your wasted body could give him until every swipe of his tongue started being painful and you had physically push his face away with trembling hands.

“Got too enthusiastic, my bad. Ain’t every day I get to drink from a fountain of youth.” Joel joked, helping you settle next to him in his bed.

Your tired body was half laying on top of him, fully drained yet still unexplainably insatiable. Forced by something deep in the pit of your belly, you dragged your nails over his soft stomach until you touched his soft cock again. Joel quickly stopped you, grabbing your wrist and bringing your hand to his chest. You felt the sparse hairs on his nipple tickle your palm. His heartbeat was hard, but steady.

“Sorry, angel, ain’t that young anymore.” He said, kissing the crown of your head. His fingers found their way into your hair and he tugged at it gently. “If you want me to fuck that pretty hole of yours, you’ll just have to agree to a second date.”

Your words were slurred, eyelids too heavy to keep them open. “Maybe I will, old man.” 

He chuckled, the grip of his fingers in your hair tightened as he looked in the distance. A couple of flickering street lamps visible from his window were providing minimum light in his room and a possessive smile creeped onto his lips as he listened to you snoring lightly into his chest.

You weren't the first mouse to get trapped so easily, but something told him you were special. He wasn't ready to discard you just yet.

LEAVE A COMMENT, YOUR FEEDBACK IS MY MOTIVATION <3

[tokkiwrites]

tysm for reading MUAH !!! 🌷🌟

Can you write more Wade Wilson? I really like your writing :)

▪︎summary: you're at a small diner, where you work part-time as a waitress. Every day, you meet tons of annoying jerks, but today, one of those said jerks gets your heart pounding and your panties wet.

▪︎tags: pwp but not really, afab reader, this takes place when Wade was just a mercenary, lots of flirting (its wade duh), pet names, sex with a stranger, sex in a public place, mirror sex, unprotected p in v, kind of mean wade, tiny breeding kink, creampie.

▪︎thank you for requesting!!! honestly, im still on the deadpool rush, and I'm working on another fic with him. until then, i hope you enjoy this 2.45k word read!

It’s a slow afternoon, the kind where time drags and you’re left counting salt shakers just to stay awake. The bell over the door jingles, pulling your attention, and when you look up, the air in your throat gets stuck. The man who walks in is leaves you a bit dizzy. Tall, broad shoulders, all cocky in his step. His leather jacket clings to him like it was made for him, and the way he runs a hand through his messy hair has your stomach doing involuntary flips. Then he looks your way, and his grin is sharp enough to cut glass. You snap your gaze back to the table you were wiping, cheeks heating up. Great. Just what you need— a customer who’s not only trouble but stupidly attractive.

He slides into a booth in the corner, his movements fluid. You grab your notepad, steeling yourself as you approach. “Ready to order, sir?” you ask, your voice sounding far more composed than you feel on the inside. “Not quite,” he says, looking you up and down, grin widening as his eyes meet yours. Your legs turn into jelly. “Guess I got a little distracted.” Your heart skips, but you mask it with an unimpressed look, though you're sure it didn't fool him. “I’d recommend sticking to the food, sir.”

He chuckles, leaning back in his seat like he’s settling in for a show. “Feisty. Alright then. I’ll take a burger. Surprise me with the toppings.”

“Anything to drink?” You ask, writing it down.

“Coffee. Black. Like my soul, in case you couldn’t notice." he says, in a fake sad voice, leaning forward slightly, his eyes still locked on yours. You try your best not to laugh. Perfect, he's hot and funny. “And for dessert…” He pauses, tilting his head as if he’s really considering it, then hums. “I was hoping I could have you for dessert.”

Your face heats instantly, and you fight the urge to stumble over your words. “W-we have pie,” you manage to stutter out, glaring at him even as your pulse quickens. “Pie sounds good,” he says, clearly enjoying your reaction. “But only if I get to eat it between your legs."

This is really happening to you, isn't it? “I’ll get your coffee started.” But there's no bite to it. As you walk back to the counter, you feel his gaze following you, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop the way your lips tug into a small smile.

You place his order and try to busy yourself at the counter, but you can feel his eyes on you the entire time. It’s like he’s made it his personal mission to get you as riled up as possible. You grab the freshly brewed coffee, setting it on a tray along with a small creamer and sugar packet.

As you walk back to his table, you steel yourself, determined not to let him see how much he’s getting under your skin. But the moment you set the cup down in front of him, he looks up at you with that same infuriating smile that gets you wet in all the right places.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says, taking the coffee and blowing on it lightly. Then, as if the thought just struck him, he adds, “How about instead of a cash tip, I give you another kind of tip?” Your skin burns so hot it’s a miracle the coffee in his hand doesn’t start boiling. “S-sir, this is a diner,” you stammer, voice barely steady.

“Oh, keep calling me ‘sir,’” he says with a groan, giving you a once-over that feels appraising. “Might give you an extra 10% just for that.” You gape at him, completely thrown off. “A-are you always like this?” You manage, trying to regain even a shred of composure.

“How about you meet me in the bathroom to find out how I really am,” he says smoothly, taking a slow sip of his coffee while his eyes stay locked on yours.

You quickly grab the empty tray, retreating to the counter under the guise of checking on his food. Your heart is pounding, your hands slightly shaky, but you can’t help the ridiculous tug at your heart and the growing feeling in your lower belly.

As annoying as he is, there’s something oddly charming about him—something hot. Maybe it's his courage. Or maybe he's just stupid. Either way, going to the bathroom sounds really good, just about now. So that's what you do, heading to the bathroom he entered minutes ago.

Pushing open the bathroom door, you freeze.

There he is. Leaning casually against the sink, as if he owns the place. His leather jacket is slung over one arm, his other hand resting on the counter. When he sees you, that devilish smirk spreads across his face like he’s been expecting you all his life.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, his tone dripping with mischief. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Couldn��t stay away? Thought you were a good girl” Your stomach twists, and you feel both mortified and strangely thrilled. “This is the women’s bathroom,” you manage, your voice a little breathless.

“Is it?” He glances around exaggeratedly. “Huh. Guess that explains the lack of urinals. My bad.” You narrow your eyes, trying to look unimpressed despite you knowing he'd be here and your pounding heart. “You s-shouldn’t be in here.”

“Or maybe,” he says, taking a step closer, “I should. And I'm exactly where you want me to be.” Your breath hitches as the space between you shrinks. His presence feels overwhelming, and you can’t decide if you want to disappear or drop to your knees in front of him. "C'mon, sweet thing. I know you wanna." he practically purrs in your ear.

"There a-are people here, andㅡ" he tuts, resting one of his large palms onto your hip."There aren't, babe, this place is basically abandoned. plus, your shift is over soon." Your eyes dart around his face as you try and speak again. "But, Iㅡ" but he chuckles while interrupting you again. "Look, do you want me to fuck you or not?" Well.

"Yes.." god, what are you doing? "See. Wasn't so hard now, was it?" He towers over you, taking away any last wish for fighting that you had left. You work too damn hard. Maybe it's okay to let loose. If letting loose means fucking a stranger in the bathroom of your workplace... so be it. The last piece of resistance crumbles. You don't want to fight anymore. You want to see where this will go, consequences be damned. You want the wildness, the chaos, the thrill of stepping outside the boundaries you've always kept yourself within.

Without thinking, you tilt your head up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of defiance and submission. His eyes darken, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he's won some battle. "Good girl," he breathes, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. The contact sends sparks through you, and your skin burns where he touches.

without any hesitation, he spins both of you so that you are facing the large, old mirror above the counter. He groans, rolling his shoulders back as he bends you over the sink, your hips snug in his grip. "Shit, you're so fucking gorgeous."

you look down, a whimper bubbling at the back of your throat. "Please.." The man shakes his head and lands a hard smack on one of your asscheeks, making you yelp in the process. He takes his time pulling up the uniform skirt you had on , finally taking a look at your soaking panties. They were barely covering anything. His calloused thumb makes contact with your clothed folds, dragging it up and down, in painfully slow circles. Without a warning, you hear the material rip and feel the flimsy undergarments fall on the cold tiled floor.

"Pretty pussy." he mutters under his breath, undoing his jeans. he pulls them a bit down, enough for his manhood to spring free and slap against his covered bellybutton. you can see it all in the mirrorㅡ it's huge. you gasp softly as you feel him drag the tip of it against your swollen bud, and you hide your gaze, head hanging low. this doesn't last long, as you feel his rough palm grab at your face and pulling it up again. you're making eye contact with him through the mirror and you see him shake his head. "Uh-uh, you watch while I fuck you, okay?" you shake your head, agreeing, but that isn't good enough so he slaps your cheek with the back of his hand, lightly. "C'mon, you were all cocky out there. What happened? I didn't even dick you down yet and you can't speak?"

" 'M sorry..." he drags the pulsing tip up and down, up and down as if he didn't make you wait long enough. truthfully, you never wanted it to end, so maybe him teasing was his way of making sure this lasts. after he thinks its sufficient, he starts to push inside, and godㅡ your breath gets stuck into your lungs from the feeling laden with thorns; every prick of discomfort is countered by an unexpected surge of delight. Your tears fall down onto the surface under you, little moans gripping your throat as he slips inside further. "Shhh. It's okay. C'monㅡ" he assures you, asking you to surrender. " There we go...Nice and full, right?" he laughs, lifting your hips a bit to get a better angle. He moves gently at first, each stroke hitting deeper within your core, the pain soon converging with ecstasy right as he alerts his movements.

His hips dive down with force, one of his palms snaking up and wrapping itself tightly around your throat, assuring you see how good he's destroying you. your head was spinning, heart pounding, as his whole weight dominated over you. "That's it, pretty girl." his thrusts are rough, each hit making your body bounce, the urgency as he hit that very spot each timeㅡ your whole insides burning, too cock drunk to talk or respond, other than some pathetic whines that perfectly accompanied the wet sounds your pussy made wrapped around the stranger.

"Fuckㅡ please.." You manage. pulling at your hair, he starts. "What if your manager walked in just now? What if they saw how good you take this cock? Yeah, nice and deepㅡ" while thrusting relentlessly into you, your legs barely holding up anymore.

Feeling you tightening, the hand that was around your throat slips down to your clit, while the other makes you spread your legs wide again for easier access, giving you a chance to take in a big gasp of air. "want me to cum in this pussy, huh? feel you up with my babies?" the room spins around you, body floating as if ready to plummet back down, you try your best to reply. "Yes, yes! please, please, I'mㅡ"

"Go ahead." the man succeeded to say, between his breathy groans. "Thank you, thank you, oh god, thank you so much!" you say as if praying to him whilst he keeps fucking into you. The man buries himself into you as you come down from your high, body almost too limp to register your surroundings. he slaps your ass, and watches you writhe under him. With a few more snaps of his hips you know he's close, nails digging roughly into your skin as he finally paints your walls with white ropes. "Holy shit." You know that you'll be bruised tomorrow.

the bathroom feels sticky, and the mirror in front of you is all fogged up, but you can just barely make out your face, all tearstained and messy. You moan as he pulls out, the sudden feeling of emptiness leaving you shivering. He watches intently as his seed drips out of you, body beautifully splayed out right under him. you're both quiet for a bit, catching your breaths and you feel like you are floating.

"How's that for a tip?" he laughs.

[tokkiwrites]

guys how do we feel about a werewolf joel miler fic?

[tokkiwrites]

YEEEESS!!!!

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐘 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

SUMMARY - josh has been unusually handsy all night–lingering touches and whispered jokes against your neck. it’s getting harder to tell if it’s just the alcohol...or if he’s finally giving into what you've both been pretending not to want.

PAIRING/SETTING - fem!reader x bsf!josh washington. no prank au (that timeline hurts too much). no use of y/n. 

WARNINGS - graphic sexual material (porn with plot basically), dubcon(ish?), strong language, & underage drinking.

W/C - 1,876

A/N - hey, hey, heyyy…i’m not exactly “new” to the game, but this is my first work on this page (how exciting)! a full-length josh x reader series is currently in its development stages. until then, enjoy my silly, sappy, smutty one shots ♥︎

joshua washington is a lot of things. persistent, loud-mouthed, and a bit perverted–but ohh does he know how to throw one hell of a party. you hate to admit it, but nothing hits quite like a washington house party at full tilt–too many bodies, not enough boundaries, and the absolute guarantee that you will wake up with glitter in places it should never be. there’s something euphoric about the filthy spectacle. 

you manage to make your way to the kitchen amidst the chaos, converse clinging to the tile drenched in sweat and spilt red solos. there was chris, mystery shot in hand–the two of you had developed this unspoken tradition over the years of ragers–you blithely accept his offer, throwing back the concoction. the faint taste of lemonade and lighter fluid burns the back of your throat. you’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. you jet to the sink, running your tongue underneath the faucet before swishing and spitting. 

“gahh~ what the fuck is that?”

he brings a wagging finger up to your face, “ah-ah-ah, a magician never reveals his secrets.” 

“i’d hardly call that magic,” you retort, eyeing the empty glass. “eugh~” you shiver.

you reach for a paper towel, dabbing away the water that dribbles down your chin, when you feel an unmistakable shift in the air. 

“annnd there she is…” there stands josh washington in all his smug glory, leaning against the doorframe with a beer in hand and that shit-eating grin he wears like a trademark. “tsk, tsk, tsk–and to think i had faith you’d last at least 15 minutes before making such poor choices,” he tuts, stepping further into the kitchen. 

you don’t bother with formalities. “well you can blame chris and his shitty taste in alcohol.”

josh shoots him a finger gun, “doing god’s work, man.” 

chris brings his hands together in prayer, bowing before his best bro, “always a pleasure.”

you can’t help but roll your eyes, “ahem~ losers,” you cough out before turning on heel to make your escape.

suddenly, josh’s free hand is planted on the counter beside you, boxing you in–not enough to trap you, but just enough to make your breath hitch. “and just where do you think you’re going?” he questions, a tinge of devilry curling around his words. 

“i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a party josh. i’m going to dance, obviously,” you patronize.

he furrows his brows, eyes raking up and down your figure, tongue slowly swiping across his lips before perking up. “well, if that’s the case…” he starts, walking his fingers up your arm and down your spine, hands finding solace on your waist, “mind if i ride along?” 

the cool sweat from his bottle drips down your thigh, sending a slight shockwave through your body. you manage to steady your breathing, ��not at all.” 

“sweet,” he spins you round, giving you a small push towards the door before turning back to chris to shoot him a two-finger salute.“peace-out cub scout.” 

as the two of you make your way through the sea of bodies, you become hopelessly aware of josh’s grip on your hips. sure, it wasn’t exactly out of character for josh to get a bit handsy with you, but this felt different, very different. “what has gotten into you tonight?” your tone is light, playful, but his touch caries an edge, far from innocent.  

he leans down—lips hovering mere centimeters from your neck—“mm~ wouldn’t you like to know?”

his breath is hot against your skin, laced with the sharp bite of booze. his tone, low and wanton, sends a pool of warmth to the pit of your stomach. what the hell is wrong with you? 

relief washes over you as you spot an opening in the crowd, a brief, fleeting escape from the dizzying heat of josh’s touch. you turn to face him, fingers sharply pressed into the skin of his forearms as he moves the pads of his fingers to brush over your ass. 

you suck in a breath, eyes now glued to the floor. “you keep touching me like that,” you stammer, just loud enough to be heard over the booming bass of the speakers, “people are gonna start talking.”

he chuckles, low and satisfied. “good. let ‘em.”

you narrow your gaze, half-expecting him to stumble, slur, do something to explain his sudden brazenness. this was new territory–for you, that is. josh washington flirted like it was sport, sure–but this? this felt…focused. intentional. like he had tunnel vision, and you were the prize at the end of it. 

he must be drunk, you tell yourself, a futile attempt at rationalizing his behavior. he brings his beer to his lips, taking a quick swig. a sly smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he swirls the bottle around. “second one,” he says, as if reading your mind. “i’m barely buzzed.” 

your stomach flips. 

so he’s not drunk. not even tipsy. which means every longing look, every teasing word–its all him. clear-headed and in total control. 

you must’ve zoned out for just a second too long–snapped back into reality by a rough tug on your waist as he pulls you in. he cocks his head to the side, “what’s wrong? you’d prefer i was?” he taunts. 

the air around you begins to thicken as the sound of your pounding chest fills your ears. 

“josh i-” you murmur, your voice becoming increasingly shaky as he presses his now painfully obvious hard-on against your body. “tell me to stop and i will, no questions asked.” his gaze doesn’t stray, steady and unflinching. 

you persistently shake your head, throat bobbing as you swallow, “no, don’t stop. please.” 

his pupils blow wide, the last shred of restraint flickering out like a snuffed candle.

“upstairs,” he rasps, “i’ll be up in a minute.”

“promise?” you question sweetly–god, what has he done to you? 

he takes your chin between his pointer and thumb, “ohh~ absolutely.” his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up with a sinful grin. “wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

you make your way up to his bedroom, the familiar scent of his cologne floods your senses. you take in the charming mess before you, and for a brief moment, everything is still. your fingers graze over the soft fabric of his sheets as the door quietly clicks shut behind you. 

josh brings a swift hand up to your hip, swiveling you towards him, the other loosely fisting your hair. 

“miss me?”

you arch into him, positively aching. 

“i’ve got you,” he mutters against your skin, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.

your lips crash into his in a messy, hungry kiss. he tightens his grip onto your thigh, sweeping your other leg from underneath you, forcing you to stumble onto the bed. you gasp against his mouth as he grinds his erection against your clothed heat, allowing his tongue to slip past your lips. 

your hands roam over his chest, desperately twisting at the fabric of his shirt. he takes the hint, swiftly pulling it over his head and discarding it with the rest of his dirty laundry that lays in a pile on the floor. you follow suit, evening out the playing field–but not for long.

he undoes the button on your jeans, arms hooking around your legs as he peels them off. his lips never leave your skin for long–trailing a line of kisses from your jaw down to your inner thigh–until your legs are trembling beneath him and your voice is nothing more than a whisper of his name. 

“god, look at you,” he worships, gently thumbing over your clit. “so perfect for me.” you whine at his words, hips shamelessly lifting off the mattress. he chuckles at your desperation, “sooo needy.” he hooks his fingers around the band of your panties, pulling them down your figure at a painfully slow pace. he’s practically torturing you, and enjoying every second of it. 

“josh–please~” you breathlessly plead. there’s that stupid cheesy smile again, “well, since you asked so nicely…” he dips his tongue into your cunt with all the fervor of a starved man–drawing tight circles on your swollen clit as he coaxes you open. you bring a hand to his hair, tugging at the dark locks, your other grasps onto his navy sheets. his eyes never leave yours, drawing you further in as your climax grows closer. 

“fuck josh, 'm gonna-” 

you’re cut off by the wave of pleasure that crashes over you. 

he lifts his head, a string of spit connecting his swollen lips to your pussy. he runs his thumb along his chin–slick with a mixture of saliva and cum–before sucking it in and out his mouth with an obnoxious pop. it’s a vulgar sight, but the prettiest you’ve ever seen. “so sweet,” he smirks, before pulling you into a sloppy kiss. 

you fumble with the button on his jeans, dragging down his zipper with a satisfied sigh. “impatient much?” he teases, nipping at your bottom lip. you let out a whimper, “mhm~” josh groans, low and guttural, “jesus christ, you’re something else.” he pulls a condom out of his back pocket before hurriedly kicking off the denim. he removes his gray boxers–now stained with precum–soon after, simultaneously tearing at the foil with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his length. 

fuck he’s big. you’re practically gawking, almost wincing at the thought of taking all of him. 

he recognizes the hesitation in your eyes, brushing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. his tone is soft, but his words send a fiery heat to your core, “you’re okay, you can take it baby. be so good for me.” 

you let out a breathy moan as he rubs the tip of his dick through your soaked folds. he begins to push into you, slowly, inch by inch. your moans quickly turn to choked sobs. the stretch stings, but if it doesn’t hurt so. fucking. good. 

“atta girl, let me hear all those pretty noises.” your walls flutter around his cock at the praise. “ohh fuck~” he sputters–head dropping at the sensation–“yeah, squeeze me just like that baby.” 

you bring your legs up to wrap around his waist as he fucks into you, nails clawing down his back at the erratic pace. the sounds of slapping skin and your broken moans–now borderline pornographic–fill the room, drowning out the party just below you. he finds a delicious rhythm, each snap of his hips pushing you closer to the edge. 

“m’fuck josh, please” you plead as he wraps a hand around your throat, giving it a light squeeze. “yeah? ya like that? so-fuck-hot.” your eyes roll back as you are overcome with ecstasy. “come on baby, be a good girl and cum on my dick.” 

with that, you come undone–melting into the mattress as josh continues to use your pussy as his own. he follows just behind you, spilling into the condom with a few more thrusts. he collapses next to you, flushed and fully fucked out. he’s never looked better. 

“best. pussy. ever.” you giggle at your new superlative, but not before reaching for a pillow to smother him with. 

still a total loser.

© 2025 xoxocher | don’t copy, repost, or translate my work

[tokkiwrites]

thank you for reading!!

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Heartbroken and lost, you find your peace in the strangest place — or maybe, in the rough hands of a stranger who feels more like home than anything you've ever known.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ trucker joel miller x fem reader, no outbreak au, afab reader, strangers to lovers, hurt comfort, soft joel, age gap (mentioned like once), slight angs, found family themes, reader is in a vulnerable mental state, themes of family problems, abandonment themes, sex with a stranger, shower sex, unprotected p in v, head m receiving, some fluff.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: wooow who is this??? guys i just have so many ideas like i want to keep on writing sm i hope you wont get tired. idk what this is but i craved some trucker joel so yeah. this is not proofread soo...lmk if u want a pt2!!! hope u enjoyyy 🎀🐇🌟

You hadn't even known they were leaving.

No call. No letter. No warning.

Just gone.

The late afternoon sun beats heavy against your back, turning the asphalt into a slow, shimmering sea. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once. It sounds lonely.

You stand there on the cracked sidewalk, a single suitcase dragging heavy behind you, staring up at the place that once tethered you to the earth.

It looks smaller now.

Older. Sadder.

The windows are dark. The porch swing hangs lopsided, one chain snapped clean through. The garden is wild now, strangled with weeds.

And then there's the sign.

Staked crooked in the dry grass.

FOR SALE.

Faded letters, rust blooming along the edges like sickness. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tighter than it should be. You step closer, slow. One foot in front of the other, like maybe if you just knock on the door, they’ll open it, laughing, some cruel surprise party for the daughter they forgot.

Maybe they’re inside right now.

Maybe.

But you can already feel the lie breaking apart inside you. No car in the driveway. No porch light left burning. Not even a note tucked into the mailbox.

Nothing. They’re gone.

They left without a word.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart hammers helpless against your ribs, each beat growing louder, louder, until you can’t stand it anymore. You sit down hard on the curb, scraping your palms against the concrete. You barely feel it.

The ache opens up inside you like a sinkhole. A hollow thing, sharp around the edges. You drag in a broken breath and press your fists against your eyes but it’s no good.

The tears come anyway.

Hot. Ugly. Unstoppable. Not the pretty kind you see in movies. No trembling chin, no single glistening tear. Just sobbing, red-faced and snotty, body hunched in on itself like you could somehow hide from the shame of it all.

You must look ridiculous. A full-grown girl weeping into her hands on a shitty little sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

A few cars roll past. None of them slow down. The sun keeps sliding westward, pulling long shadows behind it, and still you sit there. Too heavy to move.

By the time the low rumble of a truck grinds into the gas station across the street, the sky has cracked itself into a thousand bruised colors. Orange. Violet. Sickly gold.

You don't look up. You don't think you could bear it.

Not until you hear boots and the slow, heavy crunch of them over gravel. You freeze.

Instinctively shrinking into yourself, holding your breath.

"Figured you might need these." A voice. Rough. Warm. Older. You look up through a curtain of tear-blurred lashes. A man stands over you. Sunburnt skin. Faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up to thick forearms. Hair gone silver at the temples.

A stranger. A trucker, maybe.

In his hand there's a fistful of gas station napkins, crushed and slightly oily, but clean enough.

You blink at him. The late sunlight outlines him in gold, makes him seem almost unreal.

Some part of you wants to tell him to go away. That you’re fine. That you don’t need anybody. But you’re not fine. And the kindness in his face is so rare it slices you right open. You reach out and take the napkins with shaking fingers. "Thanks," you whisper, voice breaking apart like wet paper.

He crouches down without being asked, one knee cracking softly under the strain. "Didn’t mean to scare ya," he says, low and careful. "Just saw you sittin’ here lookin’ all broken up." You try to smile, try to pull yourself together, but a fresh sob bubbles up before you can stop it.

The man frowns softens. He shifts closer, careful like he’s approaching a scared doe. "Hey now," he says. "Ain't no shame in it, darlin’. World kicks hard sometimes." You wipe your nose, mortified. Your skin burns with embarrassment.

"IㅡI didn’t know they were gone," you choke out, the words spilling uninvited. "I didn’t knowㅡ they never even told meㅡ" His mouth draws into a thin, grim line. He doesn’t say Jesus or what the hell’s wrong with them or any of the things he could say.

He just nods. Understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of hurt before.

"Families," he mutters, almost to himself. "They can gut you worse’n any knife." You let out a strangled laugh. It sounds ugly, broken, but it’s better than crying. He huffs out a soft breath, like he’s relieved to hear even that.

You’re staring at him before you realize it. At the steady set of his jaw, the faint scar running through his eyebrow, the careful way he holds his hands.

Like he knows what it’s like to hold something fragile. And for one aching second, you lean forward and try to kiss him. It’s clumsy. Salty with tears. Desperate in a way you don’t mean it to be. You feel the scrape of his stubble against your cheek, the stunned heat of his mouth, but just as fast his hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight. "Hey. No. Not like this." You stumble backward, cheeks flaming, tears stinging anew. "Iㅡ I’m sorry," you stammer. "I wasn’tㅡ I didn’tㅡ" He’s still crouched there, breathing hard, dragging a rough hand over his face like he’s mad at himself. "You’re not thinkin’ straight," he says. "You’re hurtin’. That ain’t the way this should start."

You press the napkins to your face again, wishing you could disappear. The shame is thick enough to choke on. He hesitates. "My name's Joel." He looks out toward the highway, then back at you. "You got somewhere to stay tonight?"

You shake your head miserably. His jaw tightens. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I got a room down at that old motel, just off the 45," he says finally. "It ain’t much. But it’s safe. Two beds. Nothin’ will happen you don’t want, I swear it."

You stare at him, every nerve screaming at you not to trust a stranger.

You nod. "Okay," you say, small. Something eases in his face.

"Alright then," he says, rising to his feet with a grunt.

He holds out a hand. You hesitate then reach out and let him pull you up. His hand is big and rough and calloused, but it holds you carefully.

Like you’re a porcelain doll. You follow him toward the truck, the sky bleeding itself dry behind you.

The motel is even sadder than you pictured.

A squat strip of rooms sagging under their own neglect, washed in the sickly orange of buzzing neon lights. Joel pulls his truck into a cracked parking spot and cuts the engine. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve.

"You sure?" Joel asks, voice low. "Last chance to change your mind, darlin'." You glance over at him. The dashboard lights throwing sharp shadows across his face. There's no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

You nod. His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile, but almost. He gets out first, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Comes around to your side and opens the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You slide out, clutching your suitcase tight, trying not to feel like a little kid lost at the fair.

The motel office is locked up for the night, but Joel already has a sad looking brass key. Room 2. He leads the way down the sidewalk. He opens the door, steps aside to let you in first, giving you space.

The room is as bad as you expected.

Scratchy bedspreads. Faded floral curtains. A humming mini-fridge in the corner that sounds vaguely threatening. But it’s clean enough. And it's safe. The first thing Joel does is toss his duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door.

"You can have the other one," he says, jerking his chin toward the second bed. Sheets still tucked in tight. Untouched. You set your suitcase down and stand there awkwardly, wringing your hands. Joel watches you for a long moment.

"You want somethin’ to eat?" he asks. "I got some stuff in the truck. Nothin' fancy, but it's somethin’."

You shake your head. Your stomach feels twisted into knots. "Water, then," he mutters to himself.

He crosses to the mini-fridge, crouches down with a soft grunt, and pulls out two water bottles.

He cracks the cap on one and hands it to you. "Here you go, darlin'," You take the bottle and sip gratefully. Cool water rushing down your raw throat.

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the window and the old wood creaks under his weight. He stretches his long legs out, resting his forearms on his knees, and looks over at you.

"You got anybody you can call?" he asks. You shake your head again. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the rasp of it loud. "That’s a damn shame," he mutters. "You don’t deserve that." Your chest squeezes tight and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Thank you," you whisper. It’s all you can manage.

It feels stupid and small and nowhere near enough. Joel tips his head like he heard you anyway. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The whole world feels like it’s folded itself down to this one room and this one moment.

You sink down onto the bed across from him, clutching the water bottle in both hands. "I'll take first watch, if you want." You blink at him, confused.

He smiles, just a little. "Ain’t no locks on these doors worth a damn," he says. "Rather keep an eye out. Make sure nobody bothers you." Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach. A rough, tender kind of feeling, one you didn’t even realize you were starving for until now.

You curl your legs up onto the bed, tucking yourself into the smallest shape you can make. "Thank you," you whisper again, voice cracking. Joel just leans back in the chair, arms crossed loose over his chest, boots planted solid on the floor.

You wake in the dark.

For a second, you don’t know where you are.

The room is still. But you remember Joel.

Your heart calms a little. You lift your head from the pillow and squint across the room.

He’s still there.

Sitting in that same battered chair, not really asleep. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, dim golden light painting the sad looking walls. You sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist.

Joel stirs when he hears you move and lifts his head.

His eyes find you instantly, bleary but alert, making sure you’re alright. "Sorry," you whisper. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t," he says. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the soft gray at his temples catching the light. "You need somethin', sweetheart?"

You open your mouth then close it again, suddenly too shy to say it. But Joel waits, patient as ever. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket and breathe in slow through your nose.

you whisper, "Will you come sit closer?" Joel goes still. Some battle raging behind his eyes.

Then he stands up, slow. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, careful to leave enough space between you that you could still escape if you needed to. If you wanted to.

You shift, just slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. "You sure?" he murmurs. It would be so easy to say no. But you nod again instead.

The tears come out of nowhere. One minute you're fine, the next you're crumbling. Crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, shifting closer. Without thinking, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his worn flannel. He wraps his arms around you.

You sob into him. Ugly, gasping, hiccupping sobs and Joel just holds you through it. His hand rubs slow circles over your back as his mouth brushes your hairline. When you finally pull back, Joel lets you go without a sound. Your face is a mess, tearstained, flushed, swollen but you don’t even care. He tips his head down to meet your eyes.

"You alright now, darlin'?"

You nod. But you're impulsive, so you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Not a kiss that asks for anything or a kiss that demands.

Just a thank you. Just a please stay.

And he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you no.

Not this time. He just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in slow and shaky.

You wake a little before the sun. The cheap motel curtains let a little light bleed through. Joel is still sleeping. Or at least, his eyes are closed.

You slip out of bed quietly, your body aching in ways you didn’t even realize from the long day before. Sticky with sweat. Heavy with sleep.

You need a shower. Desperately.

You gather the little toiletries you bought from the gas station last night and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The water comes alive with a groan of old pipes and a thin hiss of steam. You step under the spray, shivering a little at first, then sighing when the heat seeps into your skin. Washing away the grime, the dust.

You’re half-done, shampoo stinging your eyes, when you realize you forgot your clean clothes. They're still folded neatly by the bed, in the other room.

Shit.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but there's no towel in the tiny bathroom either. Just bare skin and dripping hair and a racing heart. "Fuck this..." you whisper. "He’s still sleeping. Just real quick." You crack the door open and peek out. Joel's heavy figure is still sprawled across the bed. Face turned into the pillow, blanket rucked around his waist.

You tiptoe out.

Naked, dripping. You reach the edge of the bed, your fingers brush the hem of your clean shirt, but that’s when you hear the shift of sheets. Then the low and scratchy sound of a man clearing his throat.

You freeze. Like a deer caught in the center of a long, empty road. Joel is awake. Very awake, actually.

Sitting up, eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. His gaze drags over you, his hands clenching in the bedsheets like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. Heat floods your whole body. You can't move. Can't think.

You're naked, soaking wet, standing in front of a man you met less than 15 hours ago. "Shit—" he rasps, dragging a hand over his mouth, looking away fast. "Shit, darlin’, I thought you were still in the shower—" You scramble backward, grabbing your shirt against your chest, face burning hotter than the sun. "I—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep—!"

Joel swings his legs over the edge of the bed, palms raised like he’s trying not to scare you. "It's alright! Ain’t your fault." He keeps his eyes carefully averted, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.

You hurry back into the bathroom, slam the door shut, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You lean against the wood, gasping, mortified.

But for a moment you pause. With your palms flat on the door, heart still hammering, you call out to him. "Joel?"

"Yeahㅡ" you can hear the hesitation in his voice. You squeeze your eyes shut as your cheeks burn. "Will you come wash my back...please?" The quiet drags out for a second too long. You almost lose your nerve. Then the floorboards creak and his rough voice come through again.

"Yeah, s-sure 'Course I will." he stutters. This giant hunk of a man was blushing, and you could hear it in his voice. The door opens. Finally. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. You turn away, back into the shower, giving him your back, the damp curve of your shoulder blades. You can feel his stare.

When he finally touches you, it’s like fire. His hands are rough, careful, sliding soap over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. Everywhere he touches, your body lights up. And when his hands slip around to your front and you don’t stop him. You don’t want to stop him. You turn in his arms.

Still slick and warm and trembling. Finally he lifts your chin and kisses you like he’s been dying to. Soft at first. Then deeper, needier, like he’s finally giving in.

Joel kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His palms flatten against your hips, fingers spreading wide like he wants to memorize the feel of you. You clutch at his shirt, the old cotton clinging damp to your palms, dragging him closer without thinking, needing to feel him, needing more.

He groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your chest, and suddenly it's like something inside him snaps. He picks you up, just lifts you like it’s nothing, your bare thighs hooking around his waist, your wet skin sliding against the denim of his jeans.

You gasp into his mouth, and he carries you, stumbling, until your back hits the cool tile wall. "Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, "Fuck, you’re killin’ me, baby..." You can feel him, hard and aching pressing into you, and it sends a desperate heat spiraling through your belly. Your hands roam up under his shirt, tracing over rough scars and thick muscles, greedy and shy all at once.

He shudders under your touch, dropping his forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath. "You sure about this?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, sweetheart."

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a shaky whisper."I want to. IㅡI want you." Something shifts in his face. He kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s worshiping every little gasp, every brush of your lips against his. One hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingertips skimming the inside of your thigh then finally finding its way to your wet fold, and you whimper into his mouth.

He smiles a little at that, a small crooked thing that makes your knees even weaker. You can barely hold on. "S'alright," he murmurs, soothing, "lemme take care of you, little girl."

He touches you with maddening patience, two fingers deep in you, dragging every tiny sound out of you until you’re shaking in his arms, crying out against his neck. "good girl, so pretty, you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart —" and it wrecks you even worse.

You want to cry so bad.

You manage to push yourself off of him, sinking down to your knees and looking up at him through tearstained lashes. A little gift, you said, for taking care of you. He groans, his head all over thinking how is this even real. You looked straight out of one those pornos he used to rent back when he was about your age, face flushed and mouth full of cock. "Shitㅡ Atta girl...Y-eah, please keep goin'" he whimpered through bared teeth, hands roughly gripping your hair. His hips were barely kept from snapping like he wanted to. He wondered how it'd feel to fuck your throat, but he didn’t want to force you right now.

Your tongue swirled and lapped around his head, saliva and precum mixing and dripping down onto the shower floor. Your jaw hurt, and knees even more, but you didn’t want to stop. Not until you made him unravel.

Your thoughts are cut short by Joel, pulling you off and up. "Don't make me come yet, baby. Gotta feel you around me first." Oh, how your heart twisted. When he finally sinks into you, slow and careful and thick, your head tips back against the wall with a broken sob.

Joel curses under his breath, clutching you tighter, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your temple, your throat. "Shhh," he breathes, rocking into you with aching sweetness, "I got you, baby. I'm right here." And you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe someone. You cling to him like a lifeline, gasping his name over and over, as the whole world narrows down to just this.

His cock slides in and out of you rapidly, reaching places you didn’t know felt this good. He fucks you deep and hard, and for the first time you're actually not faking anything. It's all raw, and beautiful and sad at the same time. You cry and he kisses you hungrier, eating up your sobs as his length throbs inside of you. You're all broken again, in his arms, body jolting as he bites your shoulder.

Maybe you'll regret it later. But who cares about later when it seems like today is all you have. When he is all you have. Maybe he's a murderer on the loose, maybe he'll hurt you. Maybe it's the pain controlling you, but it feels right. Just right.

Your vision is blurry, and your head is fuzzy with him, that familiar feeling in your lower belly blooming again. Finally you come undone in his arms, shaking, crying and moaning all at once. He holds you closer, if thats even possible, and spills inside of you, his soft groans filtering through the ringing in your ears.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let you go. Just holds you there, cradled against his chest, both wet and sticky. Dirty and clean. Ugly and rough. "Was real brave of you," he whispers rough into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "Comin’ out here. Trustin’ me."

You smile against his skin through tears, small and trembling.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just stupid luck. But you found him. Or he found you. Either way, you hope he won't let go any time soon.

[tokkiwrites]

biggest softie i know! thank u for reading

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Heartbroken and lost, you find your peace in the strangest place — or maybe, in the rough hands of a stranger who feels more like home than anything you've ever known.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ trucker joel miller x fem reader, no outbreak au, afab reader, strangers to lovers, hurt comfort, soft joel, age gap (mentioned like once), slight angs, found family themes, reader is in a vulnerable mental state, themes of family problems, abandonment themes, sex with a stranger, shower sex, unprotected p in v, head m receiving, some fluff.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: wooow who is this??? guys i just have so many ideas like i want to keep on writing sm i hope you wont get tired. idk what this is but i craved some trucker joel so yeah. this is not proofread soo...lmk if u want a pt2!!! hope u enjoyyy 🎀🐇🌟

You hadn't even known they were leaving.

No call. No letter. No warning.

Just gone.

The late afternoon sun beats heavy against your back, turning the asphalt into a slow, shimmering sea. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once. It sounds lonely.

You stand there on the cracked sidewalk, a single suitcase dragging heavy behind you, staring up at the place that once tethered you to the earth.

It looks smaller now.

Older. Sadder.

The windows are dark. The porch swing hangs lopsided, one chain snapped clean through. The garden is wild now, strangled with weeds.

And then there's the sign.

Staked crooked in the dry grass.

FOR SALE.

Faded letters, rust blooming along the edges like sickness. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tighter than it should be. You step closer, slow. One foot in front of the other, like maybe if you just knock on the door, they’ll open it, laughing, some cruel surprise party for the daughter they forgot.

Maybe they’re inside right now.

Maybe.

But you can already feel the lie breaking apart inside you. No car in the driveway. No porch light left burning. Not even a note tucked into the mailbox.

Nothing. They’re gone.

They left without a word.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart hammers helpless against your ribs, each beat growing louder, louder, until you can’t stand it anymore. You sit down hard on the curb, scraping your palms against the concrete. You barely feel it.

The ache opens up inside you like a sinkhole. A hollow thing, sharp around the edges. You drag in a broken breath and press your fists against your eyes but it’s no good.

The tears come anyway.

Hot. Ugly. Unstoppable. Not the pretty kind you see in movies. No trembling chin, no single glistening tear. Just sobbing, red-faced and snotty, body hunched in on itself like you could somehow hide from the shame of it all.

You must look ridiculous. A full-grown girl weeping into her hands on a shitty little sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

A few cars roll past. None of them slow down. The sun keeps sliding westward, pulling long shadows behind it, and still you sit there. Too heavy to move.

By the time the low rumble of a truck grinds into the gas station across the street, the sky has cracked itself into a thousand bruised colors. Orange. Violet. Sickly gold.

You don't look up. You don't think you could bear it.

Not until you hear boots and the slow, heavy crunch of them over gravel. You freeze.

Instinctively shrinking into yourself, holding your breath.

"Figured you might need these." A voice. Rough. Warm. Older. You look up through a curtain of tear-blurred lashes. A man stands over you. Sunburnt skin. Faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up to thick forearms. Hair gone silver at the temples.

A stranger. A trucker, maybe.

In his hand there's a fistful of gas station napkins, crushed and slightly oily, but clean enough.

You blink at him. The late sunlight outlines him in gold, makes him seem almost unreal.

Some part of you wants to tell him to go away. That you’re fine. That you don’t need anybody. But you’re not fine. And the kindness in his face is so rare it slices you right open. You reach out and take the napkins with shaking fingers. "Thanks," you whisper, voice breaking apart like wet paper.

He crouches down without being asked, one knee cracking softly under the strain. "Didn’t mean to scare ya," he says, low and careful. "Just saw you sittin’ here lookin’ all broken up." You try to smile, try to pull yourself together, but a fresh sob bubbles up before you can stop it.

The man frowns softens. He shifts closer, careful like he’s approaching a scared doe. "Hey now," he says. "Ain't no shame in it, darlin’. World kicks hard sometimes." You wipe your nose, mortified. Your skin burns with embarrassment.

"IㅡI didn’t know they were gone," you choke out, the words spilling uninvited. "I didn’t knowㅡ they never even told meㅡ" His mouth draws into a thin, grim line. He doesn’t say Jesus or what the hell’s wrong with them or any of the things he could say.

He just nods. Understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of hurt before.

"Families," he mutters, almost to himself. "They can gut you worse’n any knife." You let out a strangled laugh. It sounds ugly, broken, but it’s better than crying. He huffs out a soft breath, like he’s relieved to hear even that.

You’re staring at him before you realize it. At the steady set of his jaw, the faint scar running through his eyebrow, the careful way he holds his hands.

Like he knows what it’s like to hold something fragile. And for one aching second, you lean forward and try to kiss him. It’s clumsy. Salty with tears. Desperate in a way you don’t mean it to be. You feel the scrape of his stubble against your cheek, the stunned heat of his mouth, but just as fast his hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight. "Hey. No. Not like this." You stumble backward, cheeks flaming, tears stinging anew. "Iㅡ I’m sorry," you stammer. "I wasn’tㅡ I didn’tㅡ" He’s still crouched there, breathing hard, dragging a rough hand over his face like he’s mad at himself. "You’re not thinkin’ straight," he says. "You’re hurtin’. That ain’t the way this should start."

You press the napkins to your face again, wishing you could disappear. The shame is thick enough to choke on. He hesitates. "My name's Joel." He looks out toward the highway, then back at you. "You got somewhere to stay tonight?"

You shake your head miserably. His jaw tightens. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I got a room down at that old motel, just off the 45," he says finally. "It ain’t much. But it’s safe. Two beds. Nothin’ will happen you don’t want, I swear it."

You stare at him, every nerve screaming at you not to trust a stranger.

You nod. "Okay," you say, small. Something eases in his face.

"Alright then," he says, rising to his feet with a grunt.

He holds out a hand. You hesitate then reach out and let him pull you up. His hand is big and rough and calloused, but it holds you carefully.

Like you’re a porcelain doll. You follow him toward the truck, the sky bleeding itself dry behind you.

The motel is even sadder than you pictured.

A squat strip of rooms sagging under their own neglect, washed in the sickly orange of buzzing neon lights. Joel pulls his truck into a cracked parking spot and cuts the engine. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve.

"You sure?" Joel asks, voice low. "Last chance to change your mind, darlin'." You glance over at him. The dashboard lights throwing sharp shadows across his face. There's no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

You nod. His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile, but almost. He gets out first, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Comes around to your side and opens the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You slide out, clutching your suitcase tight, trying not to feel like a little kid lost at the fair.

The motel office is locked up for the night, but Joel already has a sad looking brass key. Room 2. He leads the way down the sidewalk. He opens the door, steps aside to let you in first, giving you space.

The room is as bad as you expected.

Scratchy bedspreads. Faded floral curtains. A humming mini-fridge in the corner that sounds vaguely threatening. But it’s clean enough. And it's safe. The first thing Joel does is toss his duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door.

"You can have the other one," he says, jerking his chin toward the second bed. Sheets still tucked in tight. Untouched. You set your suitcase down and stand there awkwardly, wringing your hands. Joel watches you for a long moment.

"You want somethin’ to eat?" he asks. "I got some stuff in the truck. Nothin' fancy, but it's somethin’."

You shake your head. Your stomach feels twisted into knots. "Water, then," he mutters to himself.

He crosses to the mini-fridge, crouches down with a soft grunt, and pulls out two water bottles.

He cracks the cap on one and hands it to you. "Here you go, darlin'," You take the bottle and sip gratefully. Cool water rushing down your raw throat.

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the window and the old wood creaks under his weight. He stretches his long legs out, resting his forearms on his knees, and looks over at you.

"You got anybody you can call?" he asks. You shake your head again. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the rasp of it loud. "That’s a damn shame," he mutters. "You don’t deserve that." Your chest squeezes tight and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Thank you," you whisper. It’s all you can manage.

It feels stupid and small and nowhere near enough. Joel tips his head like he heard you anyway. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The whole world feels like it’s folded itself down to this one room and this one moment.

You sink down onto the bed across from him, clutching the water bottle in both hands. "I'll take first watch, if you want." You blink at him, confused.

He smiles, just a little. "Ain’t no locks on these doors worth a damn," he says. "Rather keep an eye out. Make sure nobody bothers you." Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach. A rough, tender kind of feeling, one you didn’t even realize you were starving for until now.

You curl your legs up onto the bed, tucking yourself into the smallest shape you can make. "Thank you," you whisper again, voice cracking. Joel just leans back in the chair, arms crossed loose over his chest, boots planted solid on the floor.

You wake in the dark.

For a second, you don’t know where you are.

The room is still. But you remember Joel.

Your heart calms a little. You lift your head from the pillow and squint across the room.

He’s still there.

Sitting in that same battered chair, not really asleep. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, dim golden light painting the sad looking walls. You sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist.

Joel stirs when he hears you move and lifts his head.

His eyes find you instantly, bleary but alert, making sure you’re alright. "Sorry," you whisper. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t," he says. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the soft gray at his temples catching the light. "You need somethin', sweetheart?"

You open your mouth then close it again, suddenly too shy to say it. But Joel waits, patient as ever. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket and breathe in slow through your nose.

you whisper, "Will you come sit closer?" Joel goes still. Some battle raging behind his eyes.

Then he stands up, slow. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, careful to leave enough space between you that you could still escape if you needed to. If you wanted to.

You shift, just slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. "You sure?" he murmurs. It would be so easy to say no. But you nod again instead.

The tears come out of nowhere. One minute you're fine, the next you're crumbling. Crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, shifting closer. Without thinking, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his worn flannel. He wraps his arms around you.

You sob into him. Ugly, gasping, hiccupping sobs and Joel just holds you through it. His hand rubs slow circles over your back as his mouth brushes your hairline. When you finally pull back, Joel lets you go without a sound. Your face is a mess, tearstained, flushed, swollen but you don’t even care. He tips his head down to meet your eyes.

"You alright now, darlin'?"

You nod. But you're impulsive, so you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Not a kiss that asks for anything or a kiss that demands.

Just a thank you. Just a please stay.

And he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you no.

Not this time. He just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in slow and shaky.

You wake a little before the sun. The cheap motel curtains let a little light bleed through. Joel is still sleeping. Or at least, his eyes are closed.

You slip out of bed quietly, your body aching in ways you didn’t even realize from the long day before. Sticky with sweat. Heavy with sleep.

You need a shower. Desperately.

You gather the little toiletries you bought from the gas station last night and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The water comes alive with a groan of old pipes and a thin hiss of steam. You step under the spray, shivering a little at first, then sighing when the heat seeps into your skin. Washing away the grime, the dust.

You’re half-done, shampoo stinging your eyes, when you realize you forgot your clean clothes. They're still folded neatly by the bed, in the other room.

Shit.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but there's no towel in the tiny bathroom either. Just bare skin and dripping hair and a racing heart. "Fuck this..." you whisper. "He’s still sleeping. Just real quick." You crack the door open and peek out. Joel's heavy figure is still sprawled across the bed. Face turned into the pillow, blanket rucked around his waist.

You tiptoe out.

Naked, dripping. You reach the edge of the bed, your fingers brush the hem of your clean shirt, but that’s when you hear the shift of sheets. Then the low and scratchy sound of a man clearing his throat.

You freeze. Like a deer caught in the center of a long, empty road. Joel is awake. Very awake, actually.

Sitting up, eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. His gaze drags over you, his hands clenching in the bedsheets like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. Heat floods your whole body. You can't move. Can't think.

You're naked, soaking wet, standing in front of a man you met less than 15 hours ago. "Shit—" he rasps, dragging a hand over his mouth, looking away fast. "Shit, darlin’, I thought you were still in the shower—" You scramble backward, grabbing your shirt against your chest, face burning hotter than the sun. "I—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep—!"

Joel swings his legs over the edge of the bed, palms raised like he’s trying not to scare you. "It's alright! Ain’t your fault." He keeps his eyes carefully averted, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.

You hurry back into the bathroom, slam the door shut, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You lean against the wood, gasping, mortified.

But for a moment you pause. With your palms flat on the door, heart still hammering, you call out to him. "Joel?"

"Yeahㅡ" you can hear the hesitation in his voice. You squeeze your eyes shut as your cheeks burn. "Will you come wash my back...please?" The quiet drags out for a second too long. You almost lose your nerve. Then the floorboards creak and his rough voice come through again.

"Yeah, s-sure 'Course I will." he stutters. This giant hunk of a man was blushing, and you could hear it in his voice. The door opens. Finally. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. You turn away, back into the shower, giving him your back, the damp curve of your shoulder blades. You can feel his stare.

When he finally touches you, it’s like fire. His hands are rough, careful, sliding soap over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. Everywhere he touches, your body lights up. And when his hands slip around to your front and you don’t stop him. You don’t want to stop him. You turn in his arms.

Still slick and warm and trembling. Finally he lifts your chin and kisses you like he’s been dying to. Soft at first. Then deeper, needier, like he’s finally giving in.

Joel kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His palms flatten against your hips, fingers spreading wide like he wants to memorize the feel of you. You clutch at his shirt, the old cotton clinging damp to your palms, dragging him closer without thinking, needing to feel him, needing more.

He groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your chest, and suddenly it's like something inside him snaps. He picks you up, just lifts you like it’s nothing, your bare thighs hooking around his waist, your wet skin sliding against the denim of his jeans.

You gasp into his mouth, and he carries you, stumbling, until your back hits the cool tile wall. "Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, "Fuck, you’re killin’ me, baby..." You can feel him, hard and aching pressing into you, and it sends a desperate heat spiraling through your belly. Your hands roam up under his shirt, tracing over rough scars and thick muscles, greedy and shy all at once.

He shudders under your touch, dropping his forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath. "You sure about this?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, sweetheart."

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a shaky whisper."I want to. IㅡI want you." Something shifts in his face. He kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s worshiping every little gasp, every brush of your lips against his. One hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingertips skimming the inside of your thigh then finally finding its way to your wet fold, and you whimper into his mouth.

He smiles a little at that, a small crooked thing that makes your knees even weaker. You can barely hold on. "S'alright," he murmurs, soothing, "lemme take care of you, little girl."

He touches you with maddening patience, two fingers deep in you, dragging every tiny sound out of you until you’re shaking in his arms, crying out against his neck. "good girl, so pretty, you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart —" and it wrecks you even worse.

You want to cry so bad.

You manage to push yourself off of him, sinking down to your knees and looking up at him through tearstained lashes. A little gift, you said, for taking care of you. He groans, his head all over thinking how is this even real. You looked straight out of one those pornos he used to rent back when he was about your age, face flushed and mouth full of cock. "Shitㅡ Atta girl...Y-eah, please keep goin'" he whimpered through bared teeth, hands roughly gripping your hair. His hips were barely kept from snapping like he wanted to. He wondered how it'd feel to fuck your throat, but he didn’t want to force you right now.

Your tongue swirled and lapped around his head, saliva and precum mixing and dripping down onto the shower floor. Your jaw hurt, and knees even more, but you didn’t want to stop. Not until you made him unravel.

Your thoughts are cut short by Joel, pulling you off and up. "Don't make me come yet, baby. Gotta feel you around me first." Oh, how your heart twisted. When he finally sinks into you, slow and careful and thick, your head tips back against the wall with a broken sob.

Joel curses under his breath, clutching you tighter, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your temple, your throat. "Shhh," he breathes, rocking into you with aching sweetness, "I got you, baby. I'm right here." And you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe someone. You cling to him like a lifeline, gasping his name over and over, as the whole world narrows down to just this.

His cock slides in and out of you rapidly, reaching places you didn’t know felt this good. He fucks you deep and hard, and for the first time you're actually not faking anything. It's all raw, and beautiful and sad at the same time. You cry and he kisses you hungrier, eating up your sobs as his length throbs inside of you. You're all broken again, in his arms, body jolting as he bites your shoulder.

Maybe you'll regret it later. But who cares about later when it seems like today is all you have. When he is all you have. Maybe he's a murderer on the loose, maybe he'll hurt you. Maybe it's the pain controlling you, but it feels right. Just right.

Your vision is blurry, and your head is fuzzy with him, that familiar feeling in your lower belly blooming again. Finally you come undone in his arms, shaking, crying and moaning all at once. He holds you closer, if thats even possible, and spills inside of you, his soft groans filtering through the ringing in your ears.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let you go. Just holds you there, cradled against his chest, both wet and sticky. Dirty and clean. Ugly and rough. "Was real brave of you," he whispers rough into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "Comin’ out here. Trustin’ me."

You smile against his skin through tears, small and trembling.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just stupid luck. But you found him. Or he found you. Either way, you hope he won't let go any time soon.

[tokkiwrites]

thank you so so much for reading and for your sweet words!!! i am so happy you enjoyed it this much, it means the world to me. 🩷🎀🌟

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Heartbroken and lost, you find your peace in the strangest place — or maybe, in the rough hands of a stranger who feels more like home than anything you've ever known.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ trucker joel miller x fem reader, no outbreak au, afab reader, strangers to lovers, hurt comfort, soft joel, age gap (mentioned like once), slight angs, found family themes, reader is in a vulnerable mental state, themes of family problems, abandonment themes, sex with a stranger, shower sex, unprotected p in v, head m receiving, some fluff.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: wooow who is this??? guys i just have so many ideas like i want to keep on writing sm i hope you wont get tired. idk what this is but i craved some trucker joel so yeah. this is not proofread soo...lmk if u want a pt2!!! hope u enjoyyy 🎀🐇🌟

You hadn't even known they were leaving.

No call. No letter. No warning.

Just gone.

The late afternoon sun beats heavy against your back, turning the asphalt into a slow, shimmering sea. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once. It sounds lonely.

You stand there on the cracked sidewalk, a single suitcase dragging heavy behind you, staring up at the place that once tethered you to the earth.

It looks smaller now.

Older. Sadder.

The windows are dark. The porch swing hangs lopsided, one chain snapped clean through. The garden is wild now, strangled with weeds.

And then there's the sign.

Staked crooked in the dry grass.

FOR SALE.

Faded letters, rust blooming along the edges like sickness. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tighter than it should be. You step closer, slow. One foot in front of the other, like maybe if you just knock on the door, they’ll open it, laughing, some cruel surprise party for the daughter they forgot.

Maybe they’re inside right now.

Maybe.

But you can already feel the lie breaking apart inside you. No car in the driveway. No porch light left burning. Not even a note tucked into the mailbox.

Nothing. They’re gone.

They left without a word.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart hammers helpless against your ribs, each beat growing louder, louder, until you can’t stand it anymore. You sit down hard on the curb, scraping your palms against the concrete. You barely feel it.

The ache opens up inside you like a sinkhole. A hollow thing, sharp around the edges. You drag in a broken breath and press your fists against your eyes but it’s no good.

The tears come anyway.

Hot. Ugly. Unstoppable. Not the pretty kind you see in movies. No trembling chin, no single glistening tear. Just sobbing, red-faced and snotty, body hunched in on itself like you could somehow hide from the shame of it all.

You must look ridiculous. A full-grown girl weeping into her hands on a shitty little sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

A few cars roll past. None of them slow down. The sun keeps sliding westward, pulling long shadows behind it, and still you sit there. Too heavy to move.

By the time the low rumble of a truck grinds into the gas station across the street, the sky has cracked itself into a thousand bruised colors. Orange. Violet. Sickly gold.

You don't look up. You don't think you could bear it.

Not until you hear boots and the slow, heavy crunch of them over gravel. You freeze.

Instinctively shrinking into yourself, holding your breath.

"Figured you might need these." A voice. Rough. Warm. Older. You look up through a curtain of tear-blurred lashes. A man stands over you. Sunburnt skin. Faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up to thick forearms. Hair gone silver at the temples.

A stranger. A trucker, maybe.

In his hand there's a fistful of gas station napkins, crushed and slightly oily, but clean enough.

You blink at him. The late sunlight outlines him in gold, makes him seem almost unreal.

Some part of you wants to tell him to go away. That you’re fine. That you don’t need anybody. But you’re not fine. And the kindness in his face is so rare it slices you right open. You reach out and take the napkins with shaking fingers. "Thanks," you whisper, voice breaking apart like wet paper.

He crouches down without being asked, one knee cracking softly under the strain. "Didn’t mean to scare ya," he says, low and careful. "Just saw you sittin’ here lookin’ all broken up." You try to smile, try to pull yourself together, but a fresh sob bubbles up before you can stop it.

The man frowns softens. He shifts closer, careful like he’s approaching a scared doe. "Hey now," he says. "Ain't no shame in it, darlin’. World kicks hard sometimes." You wipe your nose, mortified. Your skin burns with embarrassment.

"IㅡI didn’t know they were gone," you choke out, the words spilling uninvited. "I didn’t knowㅡ they never even told meㅡ" His mouth draws into a thin, grim line. He doesn’t say Jesus or what the hell’s wrong with them or any of the things he could say.

He just nods. Understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of hurt before.

"Families," he mutters, almost to himself. "They can gut you worse’n any knife." You let out a strangled laugh. It sounds ugly, broken, but it’s better than crying. He huffs out a soft breath, like he’s relieved to hear even that.

You’re staring at him before you realize it. At the steady set of his jaw, the faint scar running through his eyebrow, the careful way he holds his hands.

Like he knows what it’s like to hold something fragile. And for one aching second, you lean forward and try to kiss him. It’s clumsy. Salty with tears. Desperate in a way you don’t mean it to be. You feel the scrape of his stubble against your cheek, the stunned heat of his mouth, but just as fast his hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight. "Hey. No. Not like this." You stumble backward, cheeks flaming, tears stinging anew. "Iㅡ I’m sorry," you stammer. "I wasn’tㅡ I didn’tㅡ" He’s still crouched there, breathing hard, dragging a rough hand over his face like he’s mad at himself. "You’re not thinkin’ straight," he says. "You’re hurtin’. That ain’t the way this should start."

You press the napkins to your face again, wishing you could disappear. The shame is thick enough to choke on. He hesitates. "My name's Joel." He looks out toward the highway, then back at you. "You got somewhere to stay tonight?"

You shake your head miserably. His jaw tightens. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I got a room down at that old motel, just off the 45," he says finally. "It ain’t much. But it’s safe. Two beds. Nothin’ will happen you don’t want, I swear it."

You stare at him, every nerve screaming at you not to trust a stranger.

You nod. "Okay," you say, small. Something eases in his face.

"Alright then," he says, rising to his feet with a grunt.

He holds out a hand. You hesitate then reach out and let him pull you up. His hand is big and rough and calloused, but it holds you carefully.

Like you’re a porcelain doll. You follow him toward the truck, the sky bleeding itself dry behind you.

The motel is even sadder than you pictured.

A squat strip of rooms sagging under their own neglect, washed in the sickly orange of buzzing neon lights. Joel pulls his truck into a cracked parking spot and cuts the engine. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve.

"You sure?" Joel asks, voice low. "Last chance to change your mind, darlin'." You glance over at him. The dashboard lights throwing sharp shadows across his face. There's no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

You nod. His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile, but almost. He gets out first, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Comes around to your side and opens the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You slide out, clutching your suitcase tight, trying not to feel like a little kid lost at the fair.

The motel office is locked up for the night, but Joel already has a sad looking brass key. Room 2. He leads the way down the sidewalk. He opens the door, steps aside to let you in first, giving you space.

The room is as bad as you expected.

Scratchy bedspreads. Faded floral curtains. A humming mini-fridge in the corner that sounds vaguely threatening. But it’s clean enough. And it's safe. The first thing Joel does is toss his duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door.

"You can have the other one," he says, jerking his chin toward the second bed. Sheets still tucked in tight. Untouched. You set your suitcase down and stand there awkwardly, wringing your hands. Joel watches you for a long moment.

"You want somethin’ to eat?" he asks. "I got some stuff in the truck. Nothin' fancy, but it's somethin’."

You shake your head. Your stomach feels twisted into knots. "Water, then," he mutters to himself.

He crosses to the mini-fridge, crouches down with a soft grunt, and pulls out two water bottles.

He cracks the cap on one and hands it to you. "Here you go, darlin'," You take the bottle and sip gratefully. Cool water rushing down your raw throat.

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the window and the old wood creaks under his weight. He stretches his long legs out, resting his forearms on his knees, and looks over at you.

"You got anybody you can call?" he asks. You shake your head again. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the rasp of it loud. "That’s a damn shame," he mutters. "You don’t deserve that." Your chest squeezes tight and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Thank you," you whisper. It’s all you can manage.

It feels stupid and small and nowhere near enough. Joel tips his head like he heard you anyway. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The whole world feels like it’s folded itself down to this one room and this one moment.

You sink down onto the bed across from him, clutching the water bottle in both hands. "I'll take first watch, if you want." You blink at him, confused.

He smiles, just a little. "Ain’t no locks on these doors worth a damn," he says. "Rather keep an eye out. Make sure nobody bothers you." Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach. A rough, tender kind of feeling, one you didn’t even realize you were starving for until now.

You curl your legs up onto the bed, tucking yourself into the smallest shape you can make. "Thank you," you whisper again, voice cracking. Joel just leans back in the chair, arms crossed loose over his chest, boots planted solid on the floor.

You wake in the dark.

For a second, you don’t know where you are.

The room is still. But you remember Joel.

Your heart calms a little. You lift your head from the pillow and squint across the room.

He’s still there.

Sitting in that same battered chair, not really asleep. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, dim golden light painting the sad looking walls. You sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist.

Joel stirs when he hears you move and lifts his head.

His eyes find you instantly, bleary but alert, making sure you’re alright. "Sorry," you whisper. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t," he says. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the soft gray at his temples catching the light. "You need somethin', sweetheart?"

You open your mouth then close it again, suddenly too shy to say it. But Joel waits, patient as ever. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket and breathe in slow through your nose.

you whisper, "Will you come sit closer?" Joel goes still. Some battle raging behind his eyes.

Then he stands up, slow. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, careful to leave enough space between you that you could still escape if you needed to. If you wanted to.

You shift, just slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. "You sure?" he murmurs. It would be so easy to say no. But you nod again instead.

The tears come out of nowhere. One minute you're fine, the next you're crumbling. Crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, shifting closer. Without thinking, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his worn flannel. He wraps his arms around you.

You sob into him. Ugly, gasping, hiccupping sobs and Joel just holds you through it. His hand rubs slow circles over your back as his mouth brushes your hairline. When you finally pull back, Joel lets you go without a sound. Your face is a mess, tearstained, flushed, swollen but you don’t even care. He tips his head down to meet your eyes.

"You alright now, darlin'?"

You nod. But you're impulsive, so you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Not a kiss that asks for anything or a kiss that demands.

Just a thank you. Just a please stay.

And he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you no.

Not this time. He just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in slow and shaky.

You wake a little before the sun. The cheap motel curtains let a little light bleed through. Joel is still sleeping. Or at least, his eyes are closed.

You slip out of bed quietly, your body aching in ways you didn’t even realize from the long day before. Sticky with sweat. Heavy with sleep.

You need a shower. Desperately.

You gather the little toiletries you bought from the gas station last night and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The water comes alive with a groan of old pipes and a thin hiss of steam. You step under the spray, shivering a little at first, then sighing when the heat seeps into your skin. Washing away the grime, the dust.

You’re half-done, shampoo stinging your eyes, when you realize you forgot your clean clothes. They're still folded neatly by the bed, in the other room.

Shit.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but there's no towel in the tiny bathroom either. Just bare skin and dripping hair and a racing heart. "Fuck this..." you whisper. "He’s still sleeping. Just real quick." You crack the door open and peek out. Joel's heavy figure is still sprawled across the bed. Face turned into the pillow, blanket rucked around his waist.

You tiptoe out.

Naked, dripping. You reach the edge of the bed, your fingers brush the hem of your clean shirt, but that’s when you hear the shift of sheets. Then the low and scratchy sound of a man clearing his throat.

You freeze. Like a deer caught in the center of a long, empty road. Joel is awake. Very awake, actually.

Sitting up, eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. His gaze drags over you, his hands clenching in the bedsheets like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. Heat floods your whole body. You can't move. Can't think.

You're naked, soaking wet, standing in front of a man you met less than 15 hours ago. "Shit—" he rasps, dragging a hand over his mouth, looking away fast. "Shit, darlin’, I thought you were still in the shower—" You scramble backward, grabbing your shirt against your chest, face burning hotter than the sun. "I—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep—!"

Joel swings his legs over the edge of the bed, palms raised like he’s trying not to scare you. "It's alright! Ain’t your fault." He keeps his eyes carefully averted, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.

You hurry back into the bathroom, slam the door shut, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You lean against the wood, gasping, mortified.

But for a moment you pause. With your palms flat on the door, heart still hammering, you call out to him. "Joel?"

"Yeahㅡ" you can hear the hesitation in his voice. You squeeze your eyes shut as your cheeks burn. "Will you come wash my back...please?" The quiet drags out for a second too long. You almost lose your nerve. Then the floorboards creak and his rough voice come through again.

"Yeah, s-sure 'Course I will." he stutters. This giant hunk of a man was blushing, and you could hear it in his voice. The door opens. Finally. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. You turn away, back into the shower, giving him your back, the damp curve of your shoulder blades. You can feel his stare.

When he finally touches you, it’s like fire. His hands are rough, careful, sliding soap over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. Everywhere he touches, your body lights up. And when his hands slip around to your front and you don’t stop him. You don’t want to stop him. You turn in his arms.

Still slick and warm and trembling. Finally he lifts your chin and kisses you like he’s been dying to. Soft at first. Then deeper, needier, like he’s finally giving in.

Joel kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His palms flatten against your hips, fingers spreading wide like he wants to memorize the feel of you. You clutch at his shirt, the old cotton clinging damp to your palms, dragging him closer without thinking, needing to feel him, needing more.

He groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your chest, and suddenly it's like something inside him snaps. He picks you up, just lifts you like it’s nothing, your bare thighs hooking around his waist, your wet skin sliding against the denim of his jeans.

You gasp into his mouth, and he carries you, stumbling, until your back hits the cool tile wall. "Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, "Fuck, you’re killin’ me, baby..." You can feel him, hard and aching pressing into you, and it sends a desperate heat spiraling through your belly. Your hands roam up under his shirt, tracing over rough scars and thick muscles, greedy and shy all at once.

He shudders under your touch, dropping his forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath. "You sure about this?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, sweetheart."

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a shaky whisper."I want to. IㅡI want you." Something shifts in his face. He kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s worshiping every little gasp, every brush of your lips against his. One hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingertips skimming the inside of your thigh then finally finding its way to your wet fold, and you whimper into his mouth.

He smiles a little at that, a small crooked thing that makes your knees even weaker. You can barely hold on. "S'alright," he murmurs, soothing, "lemme take care of you, little girl."

He touches you with maddening patience, two fingers deep in you, dragging every tiny sound out of you until you’re shaking in his arms, crying out against his neck. "good girl, so pretty, you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart —" and it wrecks you even worse.

You want to cry so bad.

You manage to push yourself off of him, sinking down to your knees and looking up at him through tearstained lashes. A little gift, you said, for taking care of you. He groans, his head all over thinking how is this even real. You looked straight out of one those pornos he used to rent back when he was about your age, face flushed and mouth full of cock. "Shitㅡ Atta girl...Y-eah, please keep goin'" he whimpered through bared teeth, hands roughly gripping your hair. His hips were barely kept from snapping like he wanted to. He wondered how it'd feel to fuck your throat, but he didn’t want to force you right now.

Your tongue swirled and lapped around his head, saliva and precum mixing and dripping down onto the shower floor. Your jaw hurt, and knees even more, but you didn’t want to stop. Not until you made him unravel.

Your thoughts are cut short by Joel, pulling you off and up. "Don't make me come yet, baby. Gotta feel you around me first." Oh, how your heart twisted. When he finally sinks into you, slow and careful and thick, your head tips back against the wall with a broken sob.

Joel curses under his breath, clutching you tighter, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your temple, your throat. "Shhh," he breathes, rocking into you with aching sweetness, "I got you, baby. I'm right here." And you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe someone. You cling to him like a lifeline, gasping his name over and over, as the whole world narrows down to just this.

His cock slides in and out of you rapidly, reaching places you didn’t know felt this good. He fucks you deep and hard, and for the first time you're actually not faking anything. It's all raw, and beautiful and sad at the same time. You cry and he kisses you hungrier, eating up your sobs as his length throbs inside of you. You're all broken again, in his arms, body jolting as he bites your shoulder.

Maybe you'll regret it later. But who cares about later when it seems like today is all you have. When he is all you have. Maybe he's a murderer on the loose, maybe he'll hurt you. Maybe it's the pain controlling you, but it feels right. Just right.

Your vision is blurry, and your head is fuzzy with him, that familiar feeling in your lower belly blooming again. Finally you come undone in his arms, shaking, crying and moaning all at once. He holds you closer, if thats even possible, and spills inside of you, his soft groans filtering through the ringing in your ears.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let you go. Just holds you there, cradled against his chest, both wet and sticky. Dirty and clean. Ugly and rough. "Was real brave of you," he whispers rough into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "Comin’ out here. Trustin’ me."

You smile against his skin through tears, small and trembling.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just stupid luck. But you found him. Or he found you. Either way, you hope he won't let go any time soon.

[tokkiwrites]

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Heartbroken and lost, you find your peace in the strangest place — or maybe, in the rough hands of a stranger who feels more like home than anything you've ever known.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ trucker joel miller x fem reader, no outbreak au, afab reader, strangers to lovers, hurt comfort, soft joel, age gap (mentioned like once), slight angs, found family themes, reader is in a vulnerable mental state, themes of family problems, abandonment themes, sex with a stranger, shower sex, unprotected p in v, head m receiving, some fluff.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: wooow who is this??? guys i just have so many ideas like i want to keep on writing sm i hope you wont get tired. idk what this is but i craved some trucker joel so yeah. this is not proofread soo...lmk if u want a pt2!!! hope u enjoyyy 🎀🐇🌟

You hadn't even known they were leaving.

No call. No letter. No warning.

Just gone.

The late afternoon sun beats heavy against your back, turning the asphalt into a slow, shimmering sea. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks once. It sounds lonely.

You stand there on the cracked sidewalk, a single suitcase dragging heavy behind you, staring up at the place that once tethered you to the earth.

It looks smaller now.

Older. Sadder.

The windows are dark. The porch swing hangs lopsided, one chain snapped clean through. The garden is wild now, strangled with weeds.

And then there's the sign.

Staked crooked in the dry grass.

FOR SALE.

Faded letters, rust blooming along the edges like sickness. Your mouth is dry. Your throat is tighter than it should be. You step closer, slow. One foot in front of the other, like maybe if you just knock on the door, they’ll open it, laughing, some cruel surprise party for the daughter they forgot.

Maybe they’re inside right now.

Maybe.

But you can already feel the lie breaking apart inside you. No car in the driveway. No porch light left burning. Not even a note tucked into the mailbox.

Nothing. They’re gone.

They left without a word.

Your palms are sweating. Your heart hammers helpless against your ribs, each beat growing louder, louder, until you can’t stand it anymore. You sit down hard on the curb, scraping your palms against the concrete. You barely feel it.

The ache opens up inside you like a sinkhole. A hollow thing, sharp around the edges. You drag in a broken breath and press your fists against your eyes but it’s no good.

The tears come anyway.

Hot. Ugly. Unstoppable. Not the pretty kind you see in movies. No trembling chin, no single glistening tear. Just sobbing, red-faced and snotty, body hunched in on itself like you could somehow hide from the shame of it all.

You must look ridiculous. A full-grown girl weeping into her hands on a shitty little sidewalk in the middle of nowhere.

A few cars roll past. None of them slow down. The sun keeps sliding westward, pulling long shadows behind it, and still you sit there. Too heavy to move.

By the time the low rumble of a truck grinds into the gas station across the street, the sky has cracked itself into a thousand bruised colors. Orange. Violet. Sickly gold.

You don't look up. You don't think you could bear it.

Not until you hear boots and the slow, heavy crunch of them over gravel. You freeze.

Instinctively shrinking into yourself, holding your breath.

"Figured you might need these." A voice. Rough. Warm. Older. You look up through a curtain of tear-blurred lashes. A man stands over you. Sunburnt skin. Faded jeans. Sleeves rolled up to thick forearms. Hair gone silver at the temples.

A stranger. A trucker, maybe.

In his hand there's a fistful of gas station napkins, crushed and slightly oily, but clean enough.

You blink at him. The late sunlight outlines him in gold, makes him seem almost unreal.

Some part of you wants to tell him to go away. That you’re fine. That you don’t need anybody. But you’re not fine. And the kindness in his face is so rare it slices you right open. You reach out and take the napkins with shaking fingers. "Thanks," you whisper, voice breaking apart like wet paper.

He crouches down without being asked, one knee cracking softly under the strain. "Didn’t mean to scare ya," he says, low and careful. "Just saw you sittin’ here lookin’ all broken up." You try to smile, try to pull yourself together, but a fresh sob bubbles up before you can stop it.

The man frowns softens. He shifts closer, careful like he’s approaching a scared doe. "Hey now," he says. "Ain't no shame in it, darlin’. World kicks hard sometimes." You wipe your nose, mortified. Your skin burns with embarrassment.

"IㅡI didn’t know they were gone," you choke out, the words spilling uninvited. "I didn’t knowㅡ they never even told meㅡ" His mouth draws into a thin, grim line. He doesn’t say Jesus or what the hell’s wrong with them or any of the things he could say.

He just nods. Understanding. Like he’s seen this kind of hurt before.

"Families," he mutters, almost to himself. "They can gut you worse’n any knife." You let out a strangled laugh. It sounds ugly, broken, but it’s better than crying. He huffs out a soft breath, like he’s relieved to hear even that.

You’re staring at him before you realize it. At the steady set of his jaw, the faint scar running through his eyebrow, the careful way he holds his hands.

Like he knows what it’s like to hold something fragile. And for one aching second, you lean forward and try to kiss him. It’s clumsy. Salty with tears. Desperate in a way you don’t mean it to be. You feel the scrape of his stubble against your cheek, the stunned heat of his mouth, but just as fast his hands are on your shoulders, gently pushing you back.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight. "Hey. No. Not like this." You stumble backward, cheeks flaming, tears stinging anew. "Iㅡ I’m sorry," you stammer. "I wasn’tㅡ I didn’tㅡ" He’s still crouched there, breathing hard, dragging a rough hand over his face like he’s mad at himself. "You’re not thinkin’ straight," he says. "You’re hurtin’. That ain’t the way this should start."

You press the napkins to your face again, wishing you could disappear. The shame is thick enough to choke on. He hesitates. "My name's Joel." He looks out toward the highway, then back at you. "You got somewhere to stay tonight?"

You shake your head miserably. His jaw tightens. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "I got a room down at that old motel, just off the 45," he says finally. "It ain’t much. But it’s safe. Two beds. Nothin’ will happen you don’t want, I swear it."

You stare at him, every nerve screaming at you not to trust a stranger.

You nod. "Okay," you say, small. Something eases in his face.

"Alright then," he says, rising to his feet with a grunt.

He holds out a hand. You hesitate then reach out and let him pull you up. His hand is big and rough and calloused, but it holds you carefully.

Like you’re a porcelain doll. You follow him toward the truck, the sky bleeding itself dry behind you.

The motel is even sadder than you pictured.

A squat strip of rooms sagging under their own neglect, washed in the sickly orange of buzzing neon lights. Joel pulls his truck into a cracked parking spot and cuts the engine. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve.

"You sure?" Joel asks, voice low. "Last chance to change your mind, darlin'." You glance over at him. The dashboard lights throwing sharp shadows across his face. There's no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

You nod. His mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile, but almost. He gets out first, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. Comes around to your side and opens the door like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You slide out, clutching your suitcase tight, trying not to feel like a little kid lost at the fair.

The motel office is locked up for the night, but Joel already has a sad looking brass key. Room 2. He leads the way down the sidewalk. He opens the door, steps aside to let you in first, giving you space.

The room is as bad as you expected.

Scratchy bedspreads. Faded floral curtains. A humming mini-fridge in the corner that sounds vaguely threatening. But it’s clean enough. And it's safe. The first thing Joel does is toss his duffel bag onto the bed nearest the door.

"You can have the other one," he says, jerking his chin toward the second bed. Sheets still tucked in tight. Untouched. You set your suitcase down and stand there awkwardly, wringing your hands. Joel watches you for a long moment.

"You want somethin’ to eat?" he asks. "I got some stuff in the truck. Nothin' fancy, but it's somethin’."

You shake your head. Your stomach feels twisted into knots. "Water, then," he mutters to himself.

He crosses to the mini-fridge, crouches down with a soft grunt, and pulls out two water bottles.

He cracks the cap on one and hands it to you. "Here you go, darlin'," You take the bottle and sip gratefully. Cool water rushing down your raw throat.

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the window and the old wood creaks under his weight. He stretches his long legs out, resting his forearms on his knees, and looks over at you.

"You got anybody you can call?" he asks. You shake your head again. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the rasp of it loud. "That’s a damn shame," he mutters. "You don’t deserve that." Your chest squeezes tight and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. "Thank you," you whisper. It’s all you can manage.

It feels stupid and small and nowhere near enough. Joel tips his head like he heard you anyway. For a while, the only sound is the hum of the fridge and the distant buzz of the neon sign outside. The whole world feels like it’s folded itself down to this one room and this one moment.

You sink down onto the bed across from him, clutching the water bottle in both hands. "I'll take first watch, if you want." You blink at him, confused.

He smiles, just a little. "Ain’t no locks on these doors worth a damn," he says. "Rather keep an eye out. Make sure nobody bothers you." Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach. A rough, tender kind of feeling, one you didn’t even realize you were starving for until now.

You curl your legs up onto the bed, tucking yourself into the smallest shape you can make. "Thank you," you whisper again, voice cracking. Joel just leans back in the chair, arms crossed loose over his chest, boots planted solid on the floor.

You wake in the dark.

For a second, you don’t know where you are.

The room is still. But you remember Joel.

Your heart calms a little. You lift your head from the pillow and squint across the room.

He’s still there.

Sitting in that same battered chair, not really asleep. The lamp on the nightstand is still on, dim golden light painting the sad looking walls. You sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist.

Joel stirs when he hears you move and lifts his head.

His eyes find you instantly, bleary but alert, making sure you’re alright. "Sorry," you whisper. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"You didn’t," he says. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the soft gray at his temples catching the light. "You need somethin', sweetheart?"

You open your mouth then close it again, suddenly too shy to say it. But Joel waits, patient as ever. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket and breathe in slow through your nose.

you whisper, "Will you come sit closer?" Joel goes still. Some battle raging behind his eyes.

Then he stands up, slow. He lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, careful to leave enough space between you that you could still escape if you needed to. If you wanted to.

You shift, just slightly, letting your knee brush his thigh. "You sure?" he murmurs. It would be so easy to say no. But you nod again instead.

The tears come out of nowhere. One minute you're fine, the next you're crumbling. Crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces. "Hey, hey," he murmurs, shifting closer. Without thinking, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his worn flannel. He wraps his arms around you.

You sob into him. Ugly, gasping, hiccupping sobs and Joel just holds you through it. His hand rubs slow circles over your back as his mouth brushes your hairline. When you finally pull back, Joel lets you go without a sound. Your face is a mess, tearstained, flushed, swollen but you don’t even care. He tips his head down to meet your eyes.

"You alright now, darlin'?"

You nod. But you're impulsive, so you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Not a kiss that asks for anything or a kiss that demands.

Just a thank you. Just a please stay.

And he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell you no.

Not this time. He just presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in slow and shaky.

You wake a little before the sun. The cheap motel curtains let a little light bleed through. Joel is still sleeping. Or at least, his eyes are closed.

You slip out of bed quietly, your body aching in ways you didn’t even realize from the long day before. Sticky with sweat. Heavy with sleep.

You need a shower. Desperately.

You gather the little toiletries you bought from the gas station last night and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The water comes alive with a groan of old pipes and a thin hiss of steam. You step under the spray, shivering a little at first, then sighing when the heat seeps into your skin. Washing away the grime, the dust.

You’re half-done, shampoo stinging your eyes, when you realize you forgot your clean clothes. They're still folded neatly by the bed, in the other room.

Shit.

You wrap your arms around yourself, but there's no towel in the tiny bathroom either. Just bare skin and dripping hair and a racing heart. "Fuck this..." you whisper. "He’s still sleeping. Just real quick." You crack the door open and peek out. Joel's heavy figure is still sprawled across the bed. Face turned into the pillow, blanket rucked around his waist.

You tiptoe out.

Naked, dripping. You reach the edge of the bed, your fingers brush the hem of your clean shirt, but that’s when you hear the shift of sheets. Then the low and scratchy sound of a man clearing his throat.

You freeze. Like a deer caught in the center of a long, empty road. Joel is awake. Very awake, actually.

Sitting up, eyes wide and dark and fixed on you. His gaze drags over you, his hands clenching in the bedsheets like he’s holding himself back with everything he’s got. Heat floods your whole body. You can't move. Can't think.

You're naked, soaking wet, standing in front of a man you met less than 15 hours ago. "Shit—" he rasps, dragging a hand over his mouth, looking away fast. "Shit, darlin’, I thought you were still in the shower—" You scramble backward, grabbing your shirt against your chest, face burning hotter than the sun. "I—I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep—!"

Joel swings his legs over the edge of the bed, palms raised like he’s trying not to scare you. "It's alright! Ain’t your fault." He keeps his eyes carefully averted, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump.

You hurry back into the bathroom, slam the door shut, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.

You lean against the wood, gasping, mortified.

But for a moment you pause. With your palms flat on the door, heart still hammering, you call out to him. "Joel?"

"Yeahㅡ" you can hear the hesitation in his voice. You squeeze your eyes shut as your cheeks burn. "Will you come wash my back...please?" The quiet drags out for a second too long. You almost lose your nerve. Then the floorboards creak and his rough voice come through again.

"Yeah, s-sure 'Course I will." he stutters. This giant hunk of a man was blushing, and you could hear it in his voice. The door opens. Finally. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. You turn away, back into the shower, giving him your back, the damp curve of your shoulder blades. You can feel his stare.

When he finally touches you, it’s like fire. His hands are rough, careful, sliding soap over your back, your shoulders, the nape of your neck. Everywhere he touches, your body lights up. And when his hands slip around to your front and you don’t stop him. You don’t want to stop him. You turn in his arms.

Still slick and warm and trembling. Finally he lifts your chin and kisses you like he’s been dying to. Soft at first. Then deeper, needier, like he’s finally giving in.

Joel kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His palms flatten against your hips, fingers spreading wide like he wants to memorize the feel of you. You clutch at his shirt, the old cotton clinging damp to your palms, dragging him closer without thinking, needing to feel him, needing more.

He groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your chest, and suddenly it's like something inside him snaps. He picks you up, just lifts you like it’s nothing, your bare thighs hooking around his waist, your wet skin sliding against the denim of his jeans.

You gasp into his mouth, and he carries you, stumbling, until your back hits the cool tile wall. "Fuck," he breathes against your jaw, "Fuck, you’re killin’ me, baby..." You can feel him, hard and aching pressing into you, and it sends a desperate heat spiraling through your belly. Your hands roam up under his shirt, tracing over rough scars and thick muscles, greedy and shy all at once.

He shudders under your touch, dropping his forehead against yours, trying to catch his breath. "You sure about this?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked. "Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, sweetheart."

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a shaky whisper."I want to. IㅡI want you." Something shifts in his face. He kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s worshiping every little gasp, every brush of your lips against his. One hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingertips skimming the inside of your thigh then finally finding its way to your wet fold, and you whimper into his mouth.

He smiles a little at that, a small crooked thing that makes your knees even weaker. You can barely hold on. "S'alright," he murmurs, soothing, "lemme take care of you, little girl."

He touches you with maddening patience, two fingers deep in you, dragging every tiny sound out of you until you’re shaking in his arms, crying out against his neck. "good girl, so pretty, you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart —" and it wrecks you even worse.

You want to cry so bad.

You manage to push yourself off of him, sinking down to your knees and looking up at him through tearstained lashes. A little gift, you said, for taking care of you. He groans, his head all over thinking how is this even real. You looked straight out of one those pornos he used to rent back when he was about your age, face flushed and mouth full of cock. "Shitㅡ Atta girl...Y-eah, please keep goin'" he whimpered through bared teeth, hands roughly gripping your hair. His hips were barely kept from snapping like he wanted to. He wondered how it'd feel to fuck your throat, but he didn’t want to force you right now.

Your tongue swirled and lapped around his head, saliva and precum mixing and dripping down onto the shower floor. Your jaw hurt, and knees even more, but you didn’t want to stop. Not until you made him unravel.

Your thoughts are cut short by Joel, pulling you off and up. "Don't make me come yet, baby. Gotta feel you around me first." Oh, how your heart twisted. When he finally sinks into you, slow and careful and thick, your head tips back against the wall with a broken sob.

Joel curses under his breath, clutching you tighter, pressing kisses to your damp cheeks, your temple, your throat. "Shhh," he breathes, rocking into you with aching sweetness, "I got you, baby. I'm right here." And you believe him. For the first time in a long time, you believe someone. You cling to him like a lifeline, gasping his name over and over, as the whole world narrows down to just this.

His cock slides in and out of you rapidly, reaching places you didn’t know felt this good. He fucks you deep and hard, and for the first time you're actually not faking anything. It's all raw, and beautiful and sad at the same time. You cry and he kisses you hungrier, eating up your sobs as his length throbs inside of you. You're all broken again, in his arms, body jolting as he bites your shoulder.

Maybe you'll regret it later. But who cares about later when it seems like today is all you have. When he is all you have. Maybe he's a murderer on the loose, maybe he'll hurt you. Maybe it's the pain controlling you, but it feels right. Just right.

Your vision is blurry, and your head is fuzzy with him, that familiar feeling in your lower belly blooming again. Finally you come undone in his arms, shaking, crying and moaning all at once. He holds you closer, if thats even possible, and spills inside of you, his soft groans filtering through the ringing in your ears.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let you go. Just holds you there, cradled against his chest, both wet and sticky. Dirty and clean. Ugly and rough. "Was real brave of you," he whispers rough into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "Comin’ out here. Trustin’ me."

You smile against his skin through tears, small and trembling.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just stupid luck. But you found him. Or he found you. Either way, you hope he won't let go any time soon.

[tokkiwrites]

𝐂𝐇.𝟐 → 𝐀𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭. 𝐀𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬.

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. The days slip by in golden blinks, time is faster here. Feedbags, hoofbeats, heat heavy on your forehead. But when you're with Joel, time forgets to move at all, like even it is trying to look at him a moment longer.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ cowboy!Joel x fem!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, age gap

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: HEY YALL!!!! part 2 is here! it took some time cuz i wanted the first part to get at least 100 notes, see if u all really like it. ANYWAYS here's joels part!! hope u enjoy p.s hope u enjoy my short poem at the beginning 🐇🎀🤠 (short taglist: @thoughts-of-bear @chewingbunny @mukeovernetflix )

𝐂𝐇.𝟏 | ...

❝The sun dips low, but I am still away

Fingers brushing against the edge of night

Do you hear the wind?

Saying things I don’t yet know how to say?❞

ㅤ ♰

It's been three weeks.

The days unfurl like parchment creased by dust, smoothed by sun. Mornings begin before the world stirs, with dew on the grass and coffee already steaming in the kitchen. The wind blows softly, the animals still asleep in their stalls. It starts to feel normal.

Joel’s already outside, like always. You see him through the kitchen window, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, that same weathered flannel unbuttoned just enough to show the curve of his throat, his skin sun-warmed and golden. He’s fixing something near the paddock, hammer in one hand, a cigarette dangling loosely between his lips.

You don’t mean to watch, but you do.

Later, when you’re washing dishes, he comes in. You feel it before you hear it, his presence always lands first. "That casserole last night," he says, setting down his gloves on the counter. "Think I died a little."

You glance over your shoulder, smile twitching at the corners. "Didn’t know you cowboys were so easy to please." He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. "We’re not. You just got a touch." And maybe it shouldn’t feel like that. Like that praise is wrapped in flint, but your heart catches fire anyway.

That evening, you're sweeping near the porch, dust swirling at your feet, when Joel walks past you. No words. Just a low, amused hum in his chest. You speak before you think.

"Do you ever smile?" He stops. Turns just slightly. The brim of his hat hides most of him, but his voice is all gravel and molasses when it comes. "Only when I mean it." Your stomach flips.

He doesn’t linger, but he doesn’t go far either. Just sits on the edge of the porch as the sky burns pink and gold behind him. You finish sweeping slower than you need to.

Later, you join him, bare knees brushing the wood, the air between you hotter, a little awkward. You offer him half an apple, and he takes it, fingers brushing yours. It’s nothing he thinks.

It’s everything for you.

“You ever miss the city?” he asks. You shake your head. “No. It started to feel like rot. Like everything I touched would turn to mold.” He nods like he understands. Like he feels it too. The slow erosion of something once bright. "You don’t talk much," you murmur. He chuckles low. “Don’t need to, usually.”

You turn to look at him then. Really look. “I like that about you."

He meets your eyes, and it hits you like a nail through soft wood. A glance that stays long after it ends. There’s silence after that, but your heart is singing and dancing.

And maybe that’s the danger of him, you think. Not the calloused hands or the scars on his forearms, not the steel-toed boots or the pistol always clipped to his belt. It’s the quiet. The steadiness. The possibility. Like a fire that hasn’t yet caught. But God, how it wants to.

ㅤ ♰

Another day comes and passes by just like that.

Joel was already outside when you wandered past the barn. The sun had dipped low, all melted honey and tangerine spilling across the sky, and there he sat, on a worn stool beside the horse sheds, one boot pressed into the dirt, the other knee drawn up. A guitar rested on his lap.

You didn’t speak, not at first. Just stayed by the fence post, your once bright yellow sweater sleeves half pulled over your hands. He didn’t look up, but you could tell he knew you were there. His fingers moved across the strings like a prayer, coaxing out something low and slow. “You play beautifully,” you said at last, voice soft as the dusk around you.

Joel glanced up, shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Ain’t nothin’. Just somethin’ I picked up years back.” He replies, almost shy. “Helps the horses settle. Helps me settle, too.” You stepped a little closer, your shoes crunching quietly on the gravel. “Mind if I stay?”

His eyes flicked toward you. “S’pose not.”

So you sat on the low fence rail, watching his hands more than his face. Big, calloused fingers that could fix broken hinges, wrangle cattle, and still pull music from a six-string like it was made of breath and bone. You didn’t realize how close you were until the last chord faded into the evening air. He looked over at you and you felt your face burn up again.

“Y’got quiet all of a sudden,” he murmured, voice rough but not unkind. You swallowed. “Just…Umㅡ thinking.”

“‘Bout what?” You didn’t answer right away. What were you supposed to say? There was a breeze, and it tugged a strand of hair across your cheek. Joel reached out and tucked it back behind your ear. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Your eyes met and his thumb hovered near your jaw. Close. And for a moment the world stopped. So close.

But the moment passed.

Joel leaned back, dragging in a breath like it hurt. And in a way it did. “Should head in. Gets cold out here once the sun drops.” You nodded, heart a thudding mess beneath your cardigan. “Right. Y-yeah.”

He stood, brushing dust from his jeans, and offered a hand to help you down from the fence. When you took it, you swore you felt something pulse between your palms.

“Night, darlin’,” he said. You smiled, cheeks warm all over “Goodnight, Joel." And when you walked back toward the house, his song still hummed, wrapped around your neck like a locket.

ㅤ ♰

That night, you can’t sleep. You twist in the sheets until they feel like ropes and chains. You are restless. You slip outside barefoot, cardigan tugged over your nightdress, and the door creaks behind.

The moon is high. Everything glows in that strange pale way, like the world’s been half-remembered. The grass is wet under your feet. You walk without thinking, past the porch, around the old woodpile.

You don’t mean to go far. Just to the old swing hanging from the crooked oak out back, weathered rope, wood worn smooth by years of use. You find it in the dark by memory, settle onto it softly, fingers curling around the fraying edges.

The stars are out tonight. Scattershot and trembling. You breathe deep and slow. Peaceful.

The swing creaks again under your weight, the night folding heavier around you. Then a sharp crack from the treeline. You jolt upright, heart lurching. The swing groans as it rocks back without you, and in your panic, you stumble straight into the solid warmth of Joel’s chest.

Strong hands catch your arms before you can tumble backwards. His palms are rough, steadying you like it’s nothing. “Hey, hey,” Joel says low. “Easy, darlin’. Just a branch. Wind picks up, things snap.”

You realize, belatedly, how close you are, pressed so near you can feel the heat coming off him in waves. His flannel is open over a thin, worn t-shirt, and you can smell soap and pine and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, mortified, trying to pull back.

But he doesn’t let you go right away. His grip softens but stays firm. He’s grounding you. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, girl.” he murmurs. His thumb brushes, barely, against the inside of your elbow.

You stare at the open collar of his shirt, too shy to meet his eyes. Your pulse stammers at the base of your throat. “I guess…” you start, voice too small, too breathless. “I guess I’m still not used to it being so quiet. City was always loud. Noise kinda...filled up all the spaces.” Joel huffs a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. “Out here, you hear yourself think more. Sometimes that’s worse.”

You manage a tiny smile. “You don’t seem scared of the quiet.”

“I ain’t.” His voice drops even lower. “Learned a long time ago it’s better to listen to what the quiet’s tryin’ to tell you.”

You finally dare to glance up at him. His hat’s pushed back a little, shadows painting the sharp lines of his face, the cut of his jaw. His eyes are unreadable. You wish you could drink the moonlight off of his face.

The swing creaks again behind you, swaying lonely on its ropes. Joel’s hand slips from your arm slowly, like he's giving you the choice to stay close or step back. You should probably move away. Put some space between you.

But you don’t. Neither does he. The wind picks up a bit. The night deepens, crickets singing somewhere out in the dark. You think he might say something else. You think maybe you should.

Your hands twitch at your sides, desperate to fidget. He notices, of course, and without thinking, Joel reaches out brushing his thumb against the edge of your sleeve where some srings are unraveled.

It’s a tiny thing, but it undoes you anyway.

“Y’cold?” he asks gruffly.

You shake your head. “No. Just...nervousㅡ I guess.”

Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. Like he knows exactly what you mean. He leans just a fraction closer, enough that you catch the shift of his shoulders, the way his breath catches. And for one reckless second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Joel’s gaze drops to your mouth. You don't breathe.

But he stops.

You see the moment he reins himself back, muscles pulling taut, a low sigh escaping through his nose like it costs him something to let it go. He steps back, hands sinking into the pockets of his jeans.

“You oughta get inside,” he starts, “Gonna get colder once the moon’s up.” You nod, heart knocking against your ribs. “Yㅡeah. Okay.”

Neither of you move right away.

Joel tilts his head toward the house, a silent nudge, and you finally force your legs to work, stepping backward toward the porch light. Your skin still tingles where he touched you.

When you reach the door, you glance back once. He’s still there, standing in the dark, his hat low over his eyes, the swing swaying slow behind him.

Watching. Waiting.

You step inside, closing the door with a soft click. Press your back to it and try to catch your breath. Outside, the wind picks up again.

In the dark of your room, you peel off your sweater with shaky hands. Crawl under the covers and stare at the ceiling, wide awake, the swing still creaking in your mind, the ghost of Joel's hands still warming your arms.

You tell yourself it’s fine. It was nothing. Still, you wish he hadn’t pulled away.

Downstairs, Joel lingers in the kitchen longer than he needs to. He taps his fingers on a half filled whiskey glass, and stares out the window into the blackness beyond. He can see the swing from here. You were trying so hard to be brave. Like you’d have let him if he just leaned in.

He brings the glass to his lips but doesn’t drink. Instead, he presses the rim against his bottom lip, eyes narrowing.

Christ.

He should’ve kissed you.

It sits heavy in his chest. It coils hot in his gut. That faint sadness he caught in your eyes when he stepped back. He sets the glass down harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face.

He’s too old for this. He knows better. Knows what it would mean if he crosses that line. You’re young. New to this place. You look at him like he hung the damn moon some days, and he feels like a goddamn fool for wanting to reach out and take what you don’t even know you're offering.

Still, he can’t forget about you not even for a second. Since you got here it had been torture. Joel sighs, and pushes off the counter.

In his room, he doesn’t bother with the light. Just sits heavy on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floorboards like they might give him answers.

He can still smell you. Soap and summer and something soft. He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll put more distance between you. Stop hanging around so much. Stop looking so damn hard. But even as he thinks it, he knows he’s lying.

He knows. He’s already too far gone.

[tokkiwrites]

📌 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ˊˎ- perv professor! joel miller × fem student! reader, age gap, infidelity, power imbalance, manipulation, mentions of masturbation (male), forbidden relationship, sexual themes, p in v, talk of pregnancy, obsessive joel, possessive joel.

• professor!joel, who used to pride himself on his professionalism, but ever since you started showing up to his lectures he’s been fighting a losing battle.

• professor!joel, who spends half the class pacing behind the podium just to hide the way his cock strains against his slacks whenever you lean over your desk.

• professor!joel, who has to lock the staff bathroom door after every one of your classes because he’s so hard it hurts. Gripping the sink, panting your name under his breath as he fists his cock, imagining your pretty lips wrapped around him.

• professor!joel, who leaves messy, shameful stains in his boxers on the days you wear that dress that barely reaches your mid thigh.

• professor!joel, whose marriage is hanging on by a thread, but it doesn’t stop him from twisting his gold wedding ring when you smile up at him, mind filled with the filthiest things he wants to do to you.

• professor!joel, who starts staying late on campus, just in case he can catch you alone.

• professor!joel, who watches you out of the corner of his eye at that shitty college bar one night, sweet, innocent little thing, so pretty, and alone.

• professor!joel, who corners you against the wall, fists his hands in your dress, mutters against your mouth, "Been thinkin' 'bout you for fuckin' months, baby. Can't — can't pretend no more."

• professor!joel, who drags you into the backseat of his truck and fucks you for the first time — sloppy, hungry, desperate, still wearing his wedding ring.

• professor!joel, who tells himself it was only gonna happen once, swears up and down that night was a mistake but two days later, he’s dragging you into his office, locking the door behind you, and bending you over his desk.

• professor!joel, who fucks you slow and deep with his hand pressed over your mouth so no one hears you whimper and moan out his name. "Y’want them all hearin’ how bad you need it? Huh?"

• professor!joel, who comes home to his wife after work and has to pretend he isn’t thinking about you the whole time he’s touching her.

• professor!joel, who fucks you hard and mean sometimes, just to punish you for making him fall apart like this. But then stays buried inside you afterward, kissing your temple, "Didn't mean that, baby, didn’t mean none of it. Just— fuck, love how you feel, love you so much."

•professor!joel, who thinks about getting a tiny shitty apartment in another city, letting you move in with him, keeping you full of his babies.

• professor!joel, who buys you little gifts he could never give you openly: a lacy pair of panties, a necklace you wear everyday.

• professor!joel, who presses his forehead to your bare stomach after he fucks you raw, voice breaking "Ain’t ever gonna let you go, sweet girl. You hear me?"

• professor!joel, who finally snaps when he sees some punk TA giving you too much attention, grabs your wrist after class and says, "Don't need t'be around these boys no more. Let me take care of you."

• professor!joel, who gets you to drop your classes and holds you into his lap while you cry about it.

• professor!joel, who finds a shitty little house near the edge of town and moves you in.

• professor!joel, who keeps you home in nothing but soft camisoles and panties.

• professor!joel, who makes you breakfast and picks your clothes for the day, leaves you with kisses and promises to come home early and then ruins you again against the front door the second he walks back in.

[tokkiwrites]

"Cookies, sweetheart?" Joel Miller x reader — NSFW!

♡ You just broke up with your boyfriend and moved out of his house, buying one of your own in a peaceful little cul-de-sac. Though, you still felt the need to make a good impression on your neighbours, putting your baking skills to use, you whip up some cookies. And deliver them to the brooding older man around the corner.

cw: afab reader, age difference, creampie, fucking creampie back inside(?), fingering, jealousy if you squint, awkward reader, slight aftercare and praise towards end.

word count: 3183...

You're not 100% sure how you got here, on his couch, cock deep into your cunt lubed with nothing but cum and folded over like a pretzel. You swear you had good intentions, cookies were harmless, right? I mean, you didn't think you were the one getting pumped full of cream cum.

The sun was barely setting, casting the sleepy cul-de-sac in a warm, orange haze, when you padded down the sidewalk in your slippers, balancing the still-warm tray of cookies between your arms.

Your cotton tank clung to you in the thick evening air, thin little straps digging into your shoulders, damp hair sticking slightly to your skin from your post-shower sprint to get these cookies finished. Your sweatpants hung loose on your hips, swinging with every careful step, and the scent of vanilla and sugar drifted around you like a halo.

You must’ve looked a sight — bright-eyed, freshly scrubbed, standing there awkwardly at the dead end where the Miller house sat tucked behind a line of low shrubs. You shifted the tray up higher with a little huff, peeking around the side, trying to spot him.

You didn't have to look long.

Joel was there — hunched over by his driveway, fiddling with the hood of an old truck. His gray T-shirt clung to his back in the heat, shoulders broad, arms flexing as he wiped his hands off with a rag.

You cleared your throat awkwardly.

"Uh, hi!" you chirped, wobbling slightly to stop the cookies from tumbling into a crumbling little mess. "Mr. Miller?"

He looked up — slow, almost reluctant, tired, unbothered— and when he did, his gaze stuck.

Eyes dragging up the bare skin of your arms, your damp, shiny hair, the way your sweatpants clung to your hips. The tray of cookies trembling slightly in your hands.

You tried not to fidget under the way he was looking at you — like he wasn’t sure if he wanted your brief company.

"...You're the new neighbor," he said, voice a low rumble that made your belly flip. He set the rag down on the truck hood and straightened up, wiping his palms on his jeans. If he looked big hunched into the bonnet, he looked even bigger standing up. It was sort of scary. Probably the type of neighbour that minded when your plants shifted into his garden, but didn't care enough to say anything.

You nodded, flashing a nervous smile. "Yeah. I, uh... I made cookies? Wanted to introduce myself," you babbled, heat prickling your cheeks.

Joel let out a soft huff — something like a chuckle, almost like he was laughing at you. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, bare toes curling in your slippers.

"You gonna stand out here all day?" he drawled, jerking his head toward the front door. "C'mon. Looks like you're about to drop those damn things."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. You scurried to follow him, balancing the tray awkwardly as he swung open the door, stepping aside to let you slip past him.

And as you brushed by, his hand hovered — like he had to stop himself from grabbing your hip, pulling you back against that solid, warm body.

Inside smelled like cedar and motor oil and something dewy that made your knees a little weak.

Joel closed the door behind you with a soft thunk.

"You always hand-deliver cookies dressed like that, sweetheart?"

You whipped around, quickly dropping the tray onto the kitchen counter, the clatter louder than necessary in the quiet house.

"Uh—" you laughed, too high-pitched, shoving your hands into the pockets of your sweatpants like you could disappear into them. "Yeah! Totally! I mean—uh, just came out the shower, you know... unpacked all day, needed to freshen up—"

You were babbling, and you knew it, words tripping over each other faster than your brain could catch up. "A shower was good. Really good. Like, really good—" you added lamely, voice trailing off as you caught the look on his face.

Joel stood there arms crossed, leaning lazily against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised in quiet, unimpressed amusement. He wasn't necessarily mad, but slightly amused. He was just watching.

And you were burning.

You swallowed hard, fumbling for something else to say, something to save yourself.

"I should, um... shut up," you mumbled, pressing your palms flat against the counter with a tricky smile, "So... what about you?" you blurted suddenly, flailing for normal conversation. "Do you, uh... live alone? Or—"

You visibily winced, instantly regretting that question.

Joel's other brow arched up to join the first. He tipped his head a little to the side, like he was humoring you.

You couldn't tell if the little twitch at the corner of his mouth was a smile or a scowl.

"Suppose I do," he said slowly, voice rumbling in that deep, dry drawl. "No wife. No one breathin' down my neck."

You nodded way too fast. "Cool. That's cool."

Joel stared a moment longer, the easy slang sticking out in the slow and definitely older rhythm of his brain, making him drag his tongue across the inside of his cheek before muttering, "How old are you, sweetheart?"

It slipped out rougher than he meant it to. His mouth thinned a little right after, like he half-wanted to suck the words back in.

You, oblivious, straightened up a little — clutching your damp hair together in one hand, like it was some kind of shield. "Twenty-four," you chirped, a little too cheerfully. "Just bought my first house! Around the corner—well, you probably figured that out. Since I’m... you know. Here. With cookies. In my pajamas. Acting like a weirdo—"

Joel let out a soft grunt. It might have been a chuckle. Might have been something else.

Twenty-four.

Jesus Christ.

A few more years and you could’ve been his goddamn daughter.

He shook the thought out of his head like a bad itch, rubbing a palm roughly over the thick stubble on his jaw. His voice came out even gruffer than before when he said, "Alright then, sweetheart. Let’s get these somewhere safe before you end up droppin' 'em."

You followed him, nervous as a rabbit, watching as Joel carefully slid the tray of cookies into an old tin he pulled from a cabinet. His hands were steady — broad, calloused, moving with a slow kind of care that made your stomach flip over.

He picked one out of the tin and bit into it. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed.

Then gave you a simple, almost begrudging nod.

"Good," he said, voice low. "Real good."

It wasn’t much — barely even a compliment — but it made your heart thud anyway, heat blooming across your chest under the thin straps of your top. You wondered if he noticed. You had the awful, burning feeling that he did.

You shifted awkwardly, pulling your sleeves down your arms a little like it might cover you more. "I should, um... I should probably go," you said quickly, stepping back toward the door, almost tripping over your own damn slippers.

"Hold on," he said — slow, low — something thick curling under the words. "You really gonna just... run off like that? After bringin' a man cookies, lookin' like..."

He stopped himself. Shook his head a little like he couldn't believe what was about to come out of his own mouth.

You turned around, heart flipping, mouth dry. "Like what?"

Joel's jaw flexed. His arms dropped from their loose fold, hands bracing heavy on his hips.

"Like that," he said simply, voice scraping a little raw. "Like a fuckin' dream walkin' around in slippers and sweats and smellin' like soap..."

He said it almost angrily — like it was your fault. Like he was furious at himself for noticing.

The air between you crackled. You barely registered yourself moving. Joel was on you before you could even second-guess it, crowding you back against the door with a low grunt, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face rough and sure.

His mouth didn't find yours — not yet — just hovered close, hot breath fanning across your lips.

"Say the word," Joel said, voice a tight rumble. "You tell me to stop, I'll stop."

You swallowed thickly, your hands already fisting in the front of his flannel without thinking.

"Don't stop," you whispered.

That was all it took.

Now you're on his couch — somehow, through the haze of greedy hands and stumbled kisses, he'd half-dragged you there — one of your legs slung over the armrest, the other bent open at the knee where Joel's broad hand held you.

Your cotton shorts were bunched at the side of your thigh, damp where his fingers had already been toying with you, slow and easy at first — but not anymore.

Now he had two thick fingers deep inside your cunt, curling slow, dragging against that spot that made your breath catch and your thighs tremble.

"Jesus Christ," Joel muttered under his breath, watching the way your body gave around his fingers, your little cotton tank riding up, the slope of your hips framed in soft sweatpants pulled halfway down your legs. It did feel a bit wrong, no, really wrong—

You were a goddamn vision. So young. So sweet. So fucking wet already.

"Look at you," he said roughly. "Barely even fucked you yet and you're squeezin' my fingers like you’re about to come."

You whimpered, rocking your hips up into his hand shamelessly, greedy for the friction, the pressure, the desperate fullness.

Joel grunted, thrusting his fingers deeper, rougher, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him.

"That's it," he murmured, low and urgent, leaning closer — mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "C'mon, sweetheart."

You were gasping, one hand scrabbling against the leather of the couch for purchase, the other clinging to Joel’s wrist as he fucked you through it, steady and relentless.

The room spun. The pressure inside you coiled tighter, tighter—

And then you were cumming, hips stuttering, thighs trembling around his broad hand as he coaxed you through it, slow and patient, low praise rumbling in his chest.

"There you go," he breathed against your temple, the faintest hint of a smirk curving his mouth. "Knew you had it in you."

You were still twitching around his fingers when Joel finally pulled them free — slow and glistening, a sticky string of slick clinging between your thighs and his knuckles.

You barely had time to whimper before he was dragging your sweatpants all the way off, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder with a rough grunt.

"Fuckin’ mess," Joel rasped, voice rough as gravel. His hand smoothed over your bare thigh, free hand was already fumbling with his belt buckle, jerky and impatient. The clink of metal on leather filled the heavy air, followed by the drag of a zipper.

"You that needy for me? Fucking your neighbour the week you moved in?"

Your head dropped back against the couch cushion, a helpless little whine slipping out, "I— that's not my... fault, I promise."

He let his cock drag against the inside of your thigh — hot, hard, leaking at the tip. "But it is, ain't it, sweetheart? Walking in here looking for a good fuck?"

You gasped, hips jerking up instinctively.

Joel chuckled low in his throat. "Easy, sweetheart." He ran the blunt head through your folds — slow, lazy — gathering up the slick there and groaning deep in his chest.

"Goddamn," he muttered. "So wet I could slide right in without even tryin'." He tapped his cock against your swollen clit once — twice — savoring the way you shuddered under him. God, he's so pent up, but still felt the need to ask—

"Don't got a boyfriend, do you?"

You paused. No, you didn't. You hiccuped, propping yourself up on your elbows a little, "I—bought the house here after we broke up. Maybe a month ago."

Joel genuinely pause for a moment.

Your eyes widened and you sat up a little straighter, shaking your head frantically, "I—I ended things with him clearly, you know? Um, it was quick, you know uh," You swallowed, almost whispering, eyes begging, "Still on the pill and all..."

Joel sucked in a breath, raising an eyebrow with an amused groan, "So you were looking for a good fuck, sweetheart?"

You shut your eyes tight, maybe in embarrassment. God, mentioning the pill and all. it did sound like that didn't it?

"Bet this tight little pussy's gonna be the death of me, huh?" Joel murmured, voice so thick with want it barely sounded like words anymore. "Bet you're just fuckin' made to take me."

You sobbed, back arching off the couch, one hand fisting in the front of his t-shirt.

Joel hissed — grabbed your knee, forced it back against the couch arm, opening you wider.

"Gonna ruin you, sweetheart," he said, almost gentle, almost sweet — until he gripped his cock at the base and pushed inside in one slow, brutal stroke.

You cried out — half a gasp, half a sob — feeling every thick, aching inch of him stretch you open.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Joel grunted, head dropping to the crook of your neck. "Tight as a fuckin' vice."

He stayed buried deep for a moment, breathing hard against your skin, letting you adjust with his teeth and lips occupied around your nipples. His stubble grazed the skin of your tits and it make you shiver until you had goosebumps.

Then he started moving. Hard, deep, filthy drags of his hips against yours — the couch creaking under the force of it.

Your whole body rocked with the force of each thrust, little mewling sounds spilling from your lips without your permission.

Joel groaned, low and wrecked, dragging his teeth against your shoulder.

"That's it," he panted, fucking you harder, deeper. "Take it, sweetheart. Take every fuckin' inch."

Your nails raked down his back, desperate, clutching like you couldn't help your head loll to the side, shifting away from him. Big mistake.

Joel caught your face in one rough, calloused hand — made you look at him, made you see how wrecked he looked, hair mussed and jaw tight.

"Lookin' away? You look so fuckin' pretty gettin' stuffed full of cock," he rasped. "Gonna fuck you stupid, sweetheart. Fill you up so good you won't even remember your own goddamn name or that stupid fuckin' ex-boyfriend of yours."

You whimpered something — something akin to a choked "Mr. Miller—!" or maybe just a desperate little cry.

The slap of skin, the slick, obscene sounds of him fucking into you filled the room.

"Fuckin' perfect," Joel grunted, watching you unravel under him.

You cum hard— again — walls clamping down around him so tight he almost saw stars, his hips stuttering as he cursed low and vicious against your throat, losing himself completely in the tight, wet heat of you.

Joel barely managed to hold himself back when he felt you clamp down on him again, spasming around his cock like you were trying to milk him dry.

"Fuck," he growled against your throat, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He stayed buried deep as he came — thick, hot spurts spilling inside you — groaning low and ragged into your skin.

You whimpered at the feeling, so full, so hot, and Joel just groaned again, sounding wrecked. "Takin' it so fuckin' good, sweetheart. Gonna keep you plugged up huh? Didn't expect an old man to make use of that sweet lil' pill, huh? Thought it would be y'boyfriend? "

He stayed there for a beat — pulsing deep inside you like he had something to prove — before finally pulling out with a wet, obscene noise.

You gasped, feeling a hot, slippery rush of him leak out between your thighs.

Joel watched it — pumping lazily at his cock as last spurts of cum released just down your slit in thick, messy blobs.

"Christ," he muttered under his breath, watching cum stick to your lips like icing.

And then he gripped the base of his cock — still achingly hard, still desperate — and dragged his slick, sensitive tip through your soaked folds, smearing cum across your swollen slit.

You cried out, hips twitching helplessly.

Joel grinned — dark and satisfied — and not a second later, he pushed back inside, fucking the load on your pussy deep back into you.

"There you fuckin' go," he muttered, voice gone hoarse, grabbing your hips roughly. "Can't let that go to waste."

You could barely breathe, the sensation too much — your pussy raw and throbbing, still twitching from the aftershocks, but he was already thrusting again in deep languid strokes.

"Gonna fuck it all back into you," Joel panted half breathless, snapping his hips in slow, brutal slams. "Gonna fuck it back into y to remind ya'— Y'better not get back with your boyfriend, you hear? Know how you young girls are..."

You whimpered, toes curling where your leg still hung off the couch arm. Shit, you couldn't even fathom ever getting back with your boyfriend, your eyes rolling, mouth drooling as felt his cum lubing your insides, sliding sinfully easily in and out of your cunt.

Yeah, you don't care how old he is, now.

Joel groaned, watching the way your body struggled to take it — stretched sore, red and glistening around his thick cock, already sloppy and spent but still squeezing him so desperately.

"Goddamn," he muttered against your mouth almost with a laugh, one thumb rubbing at your clit. "Ain't never gonna let you go, darlin'. Not after this. Y'gonna have to come around more often, hm?"

You didn't mean to, but you had tears in your eyes, your mouth open just slightly, flimsy straps of your tank now near your elbows where Joel had tugged them down, the soft cotton bunched around your middle.

Joel finally pulled out of you with a low grunt, your pussy twitching at the sudden emptiness. You curse softly, breathless and blinking up at him.

"Shh," Joel murmured, voice softer now, coaxing. "You’re alright, sweetheart. I got you."

He brought one broad, calloused hand between your thighs again — but this time it was gentle, soothing, two fingers sliding through the mess between your folds, slow and easy, his thumb circling your swollen clit with barely any pressure.

Your hips twitched at the touch, still so sensitive, but Joel just kept whispering low praise, brushing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

"Such a pretty girl hm?" he rasped against your skin. "Took it so good for me. So fuckin' pretty like this."

His other hand ghosted up your trembling side, rough fingertips stroking the tender curve of your waist, your ribs, then higher — palming your tits, thumbing over your pebbled nipples so carefully you could barely stand it.

You whimpered again, arching weakly into his touch.

Joel huffed a low laugh against your throat, the sound warm and almost fond. He kept petting you — slow strokes along your hips, gentle tweaks of your nipples, brushing his thumb back and forth over your sore clit until your breathing steadied and your body sagged heavy and limp against the couch. You cum just weakly, almost pathetically against his gentle hand, clit twitching under the pad of his thumb

"There you go," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your open, gasping mouth. "Just like that, sweetheart. Makin’ you feel good. That’s all you gotta do. That and visit more often, alright? Call me over if y'need help settling in."

God, yes, yes yes you were gonna call him over more often. And maybe bake him something else next time—cake or pie? You were already deciding.

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @enchanthings-a

[tokkiwrites]

nsfw 18+⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ minors dni!

pairing : older!joel x inexperienced!fem!reader

warnings : smut, established relationship, praise, use of pet names (darlin’, baby, good girl), inexperienced reader, fingering, unprotected p in v, jackson!joel, shy/nervous reader, fluffy, it’s implied that joel & reader are fairly new in jackson (having travelled together), joel has a filthy mouth and talks SO MUCH, appearance from tommy at the end, this is literally 3.7k words of pure pornography im sorry

summary : joel was your first. your relationship has blossomed since then but you’re still inexperienced and he is certain to let you experience everything when it comes to intimacy although you still may be nervous to try new things.

an : ik this account has been exclusively cod characters but i’ve wanted to write for joel for soo long. kinda wanna rebrand and start writing again!!!!

“c’mere,” he murmured, holding his arms out to you, effectively compelling you into his lap. you straddled his thighs and looked down at his lustful gaze, feeling your chest tighten at the sight.

he didn’t seem to care about the fight he’d just had with tommy; you hadn’t even remembered what it was about this time, but what you did remember was tommy storming out of his own house, calling joel a “fuckin’ asshole” and leaving you and him in tommy’s living room like this.

you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and play with the hem of his t-shirt. you hear him sigh above you and lean back against the sofa, instinctively resting his hands on the small of your back as nosed at the side of your neck.

“you smell real good from that soap they let us use,” he murmured, his gruff voice in your ear.

you smile a little, “i do?”

“mmh,” he hummed, his hands reaching to fidget with the ends of your hair, “don’t know about you, darlin’, but i could get used to this life o’ luxury.” he leans down to press a kiss to the exposed skin of your neck, inhaling as he does.

the flesh on the back of your neck erupts in a shiver, feeling his breath fan over you as he exhales. you stay there, on his shoulder, wanting him to continue; he does. he paves a line of light kisses down to your shoulder as he pulls the neckline of your shirt to the side. a gentle hand runs under your shirt and over the skin of your back. he grins into your skin as he hears you exhale a sigh - a happy sigh - beside his ear.

joel shifts you in his lap, bringing you closer to where his hips bend and gently pulling you from the crook of his neck.

“joel..” you murmur shyly, to which he replies with the raise of his eyebrows in questioning. “you’re um… i can feel you..”

he gives a light chuckle in response and traces his fingertips over where your hair falls over your face, “that right darlin’? you feel what y’re doin’ to me?”

you give a shy nod, feeling your cheeks grow hot. he notices how you avoid looking at his face.

“don’t be goin’ all shy on me now, baby. ‘s alright to feel things.”

you nod again, glancing down to his lap where his jeans seemed much too tight and constricting. he notices but doesn’t say anything, his hands moving to your hips and gently up your sides beneath your shirt. they rise just beneath your breasts; he softly thumbs over your nipples, watching your face intensely for a response. you almost squirm at the delicate touch as you watch the shape of his hands moving beneath your shirt, and exhale a quiet sigh of his name.

“we haven’t done it like this before, have we?” he speaks softly, his hands moving back down to your hips as he sees your nipples are hardened under the soft fabric.

“what?”

“we’ve never fucked with you… on top o’ me,” he repeats. a thumb comes up to trace along your jawline and your eyes flicker back up to his face as you shake your head. he smiles when you look at him, “mmm… you wanna change that, baby?”

you nod.

his smile widens and his thumb on your jaw slides down your neck, to your shoulder, where he pushes your hair back. his other hand transgresses the waistband of your sleep shorts, watching your face as he does so. his hand nestles over your centre, the pads of his fingers tracing over you through your underwear, feeling the dampness. your eyes flutter but you watch intensely as he then delves beneath the thin fabric.

“let’s open you up a bit for me baby, huh?” he says, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

you nod eagerly, his words clouding your mind with arousal.

“there y’ go darlin’.. ‘s a good girl,” he praises as you whimper at his touch. he runs a calloused fingertip through the seam of your pussy, coating himself in your wetness.

using his other hand, he finds the hem of your shirt, and slides it up your waist, exposing your abdomen. “can i take this off?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“i…” you hesitate — what about tommy? if he comes back..? joel continues to swirl his fingers over your sensitive clit, making it near impossible to articulate thoughts. “i— don’t know.. what— what if tommy comes ba-ck?” you struggle between short pants and breaths.

he shakes his head and chuckles, “tommy ain’t comin’ back anytime soon darlin’. don’t you worry.”

“but… if he does? i don’t wanna.. take it off.”

his eyes soften; his fingers slow. “you’re worried about him seein’ you like this, hm?”

you nod.

“th’s okay, baby. you don’t gotta. ‘s okay,” he reassures gently.

you nod again.

he takes his hand from your centre and moves both to your waist, pulling your shirt back down. he places soft, wet kisses along your neck again, speaking softly as he does, “‘s no worries.. we’ll just take it slow. lemme take care o’ you.”

his hand finds its way to your hair, tucking it behind your ear. he pulls away from your neck as he feels you fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, and glances up at you expectantly.

“are you.. gonna take yours off?” you murmur, afraid he’d say no and accuse you of hypocrisy.

he raises an eyebrow and smiles, amused that you’re asking. “you feelin’ shy again darlin’? y’ want me to take it off?”

you nod cautiously.

smiling wider, he laughs lightly, “all right, darlin’.” he takes the hem of his t-shirt from your fingers and lifts it over his head, exposing his abdomen and chest, and his hands find your hips again. your eyes rake over his skin, speckled with greying hairs over his chest and a trail of them that let down to his jeans. he watches you watch with a grin wide on his lips, almost with pride.

he gently runs a hand up your thigh; his touch reminds you that he is not in fact just an object that you get to stare at. you glance back up to his face, almost guiltily for the way your hungry eyes take him in.

“don’t feel bad for lookin’, darlin. y’ know i don’t mind.”

he feels you start to get restless in his lap, growing needier with each passing second. his hand slips back beneath your shorts, eliciting an almost frustrated whine from your throat, needing some real alleviation.

“shhh.. ‘s okay baby. ‘m gonna give you what you need in a bit.” his fingers softly graze your centre, wanting to see how much more he could rile you up.

you grind down into his fingers, the whisper of contact simply not enough. he pushes back against you in response.

“you need it real bad, huh?”

you nod, eyes staring to well with tears of need and frustration.

“ohh, i know darlin’, i know,“ he whispers, fingers still circling over your swollen bundle of nerves, as he glances up to you in awe. “you still wanna try bein’ on top?”

you nod.

“good girl.. tha’s my girl…. just need’a get y’ opened up a bit for me, ain’t that right?”

a whimper escapes your throat, feeling your core pulse at his words.

“oh, baby,” he muses pitifully, “…now, ‘m just gonna start with one finger, ‘kay? work up to maybe 3. that all right?”

your mouth falls agape as he pushes one digit into you, up to the knuckle and he curls it towards himself. “not 3, joel.. i don’t want—“

“shhh.. ‘s alright baby. i’ll do whatever you want, ‘kay?” he reassures as he repeatedly pumps his finger inside of you, soothing over that sweet little spot that made your head roll back. your hands move to his biceps, squeezing onto them tightly; he smiles widely as you do.

“there ‘y go.. ‘s a good girl.. lemme hear you baby,” he murmurs, adding a second finger.

you whine softly as he pushes that little bit further inside, and your pussy involuntary squeezes around him, almost keeping his fingers in place.

“j—joel..” you whimper, feeling how the bicep that is pumping his fingers inside of you strains and flexes beneath your grasp with each movement.

“c’mon baby, y’ gotta relax f’ me.. squeezin’ me so god damn tight.. ‘s like y’r try’na break my fingers or somethin’,” he chuckles, gently soothing his free hand down your side.

“sorry,” you whimper, slightly embarrassed although you know he doesn’t mind.

“‘s alright darlin’.. there y’ go, ‘s alright,” he mutters, feeling you open up as warm waves of pleasure wash from your abdomen and over your body.

“such pretty sounds y’r makin’ baby,” he compliments as you whine, mewl and babble his name, obscene wet sounds making your mind go fuzzy, “you think you’re opened up enough f’ me yet darlin’? y’ ready for me?”

he slows his fingers as you nod; with one last deep push into your aching spot, he removes them from you.

you whimper at the emptiness, shifting upon his lap and eyes darting around his face pleadingly.

“i know, i know darlin,.. y’ wantin’ more ain’t ya?”

you nod shamelessly.

“well now baby.. i need you to be patient for me then.. don’t want you hurtin’ yourself because you were impatient, now, do we?”

you shake your head, becoming aware of your neediness.

“hmmm.. didn’t think so,” he muses as he leans back into the sofa, “now.. you wanna unbuckle me or do you want me to do it?”

his fingers splay over his belt; you look between his hands and his face, afraid of disappointing him.

“um… you can do it,” you mumble

“tha’s all right. ‘s no problem darlin’,” he smiles at your bashfulness as his fingers begin to make work of his belt. he doesn’t wait to pull the soft leather from his jeans; he just unbuttons and unzips them, his self control running low.

he sees your curious gaze glancing down to his hands, eyeing his arousal through the thin fabric of his underwear. “you got me so fuckin’ hard baby,” he chuckles, palming himself through his boxers with a soft grunt.

you blush in response, unable to hide the proud smile that spreads over your lips. he grins, and his thumb moves to your lower lip, gently brushing over the delicate skin. “sweet girl,” he muses, “y’ still alright with bein’ on top?”

you nod in response, excitement building and tightening your chest.

“all right then darlin’. y’ just need’a relax for me, okay? we’ goin’ real slow, just like we’ve been doin’ so far, right?”

you nod; he holds your gaze for a little while, his fingertips moving to the hem of your shorts where he traces along their underside, “can i take these off darlin’?”

you nod eagerly - maybe too eagerly. smiling, he hooks his fingers into their waistband and tugs them down your thighs. you lift a leg out of them to help, leaving them dangling from your other. his thumbs rub over the front of your underwear, “‘m just gonna pull these to the side, that all right baby?”

you nod again, and he squeezes your thighs, shifting you closer, musing a quiet “c’mere” as you settle further into his lap, the most intimate part of you flush against his still clothed hardness. “there you go darlin’.. you ready to give it a go?”

“mhm,” you almost whimper, lifting yourself slightly as he palms himself again, before he pulls himself out - achingly hard and leaking at the tip. he strokes his hand over himself once, a small groan leaving his lips. his freehand settles at your hip, guiding you to hover over him, as you steady yourself on his shoulders and look between your two bodies.

“just do whatever feels natural, baby.. whatever feels right, okay? you ain’t gonna hurt me and i ain’t gonna judge you,” he reassures, as if he can feel your racing mind.

you nod and you let yourself fall a little closer to him, whimpering when you make contact. his tip notches at your weeping entrance; he slides the head of his cock through your slick, eliciting a small whine from deep in your throat.

“easy baby.. now, y’re nice ‘n’ wet, so it shouldn’t hurt, okay? ‘s just gonna feel real full,” he mutters with an adoring glint behind his eyes as he takes the image of you in: eyes fluttering closed, hair slipping over your shoulder, mouth agape and falling apart on his lap.

you lower yourself down a little more, his tip pushing into you and your pussy swallowing him wholly. you earn a grunt from joel; he moves both his hands to your waist, gently guiding you over him, selfishly unable to hold himself back.

“just like that baby.. yeah, feels real good.. there y’ go,” he mumbles breathlessly, feeling you lower further. you instinctively squeeze around him at the praise, your abdomen fluttering and erupting in spasms of warmth, sinking yourself down until you’ve taken him to the hilt.

he releases a guttural groan at the warmth of you clenching around his cock. on the brink of losing himself already, he tightens his grip on your hips and stills you, a series of grunts and breaths stringing from his throat. “christ, baby.. y’ gonna have to wait just a minute.. just a sec.. y’ got me seein’ fuckin’ stars sweet girl,” he speaks, his eyebrows pinched together and eyes tightly closed.

you moan out at the feeling of fullness, your head falling to rest in the crook of his neck as his dick presses into a delicious spot deep inside of you. he regains composure after a little while and begins to lift your hips slightly before pulling you back down. soft mewls and whines fill his ear, the pretty sounds travelling straight to his cock.

“mm.. there y’ go baby girl.. y’ feel that? feels nice ‘n’ full, huh?”

you nod weakly, feeling tears begin to well in your eyes at the sensation of being so full. lifting you with both hands, he slides one up your side beneath your shirt; you help him by steadying your legs around his thighs and raising yourself up, before he pulls you back down, earning a loud whine as a tear spills down your face.

he moans, head leaning back and reeling in the way you’re wrapped around him so tightly. noticing the small stream down your face, he speaks breathlessly, “you okay darlin’? you ain’t hurting on me, now, baby, are ya?”

you shake your head, barely able to concentrate on his words, “‘m fine.. just feels— good.”

his thumb wipes over your warm cheek as he grins, “mm.. well.. you’re doing so good f’ me baby.”

as you squeeze around him again, he grunts loudly, his hold on you tightening and an almost pained expression coming over his face. “i swear to christ, y’re doin’ that on purpose,” he strains.

“sorry,” you mumble, trying to relax.

he smiles and shakes his head, “don’t apologise baby.. felt real good. y’r pussy’s just so goddamn tight.”

you start to move on your own, your forearms resting on his shoulders for leverage as you push yourself up and then back down, building a painstakingly slow rhythm. your faces just mere inches apart, he grabs onto your chin and pulls you to his mouth, your lips pressing together hungrily. he swallows your whines and moans with his tongue pushing into your mouth and his lips enveloping yours as you keep up your slow pace, up and down over his cock. he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, leaving wet marks along your neck that have you whimpering his name.

“tha’s a good girl baby,” he murmurs into your skin, “just make y’self feel good.. take y’r time… that’s it, take it nice ‘n’ slow darlin’.”

you take him slow and deep, undoubtedly unable to increase your pace, but he’s patient enough to let you take him however you want to. his cock notches against that sensitive spot inside of you that only joel knows, dragging along your walls with every rut against him. you look down and watch as you take him, filled to the brim every few seconds, your clit pressed against his greying hair. his chest gleams with droplets of sweat and his abdomen rises and falls with his short breaths. your mouth stays agape and you bury your head into his neck, moaning into the skin there each time you feel him deeply.

“ohh.. ‘s that feel good sweet girl?” he asks as he looks down to you pressed against his shoulders.

“uh-huh,” you mewl, barely able to form coherent words.

“tha’s good.. doin’ so fuckin’ good f’ me baby.”

its not long before your thighs begin to ache. you slow down even further, your legs burning with fatigue. being on top isn’t as easy as it seems; you grasp onto joel with the last ounce of energy you have left.

he feels your thighs tremble and your pace begin to slow more. “you doin’ okay there darlin’?” he drawls, guiding your head out from his neck.

“i— i can’t joel,” you almost whine as you stop, his cock still hard inside of you.

“‘s okay baby. you tired y’self out, huh?” he murmurs empathetically, giving a light kiss to your cheek, “you wanna get on your back?”

you hesitate for a moment, wondering if he’s secretly disappointed, but nevertheless, you nod. “c’mon,” he muses, lifting you onto your back, his dick still inside of you. as he lays you down onto the couch, he gently soothes kisses over your neck and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. you shuffle yourself downwards slightly, getting comfortable and you exhale a needy sigh, moving your arms to enclose over his back as he holds himself above you.

“‘s that better baby?”

you nod and give him a smile, to which he returns with a grin and a tender kiss to your lips before he pulls back his hips and pushes them back into you. he starts to set a slow pace with long, gentle strokes, grunting with each movement, feeling you tighten around him as the speed of his hips gradually increases. a particularly deep thrust had your back arching with a sharp moan and your nails press down into his back. his head drops at the feeling, a series of loud groans leaving his mouth, as he caught a glimpse of your lower abdomen rising slightly with each thrust of his hips. his groans turn into a soft laugh as he continues to rut into you.

“oh.. sweet jesus baby..” he says, glancing up to your face, “gimme y’r hand.”

you take a hand from his back and hold it to him. his own hand encloses over the top of yours and he moves it between your two bodies, placing it over your abdomen as his hips move against you. you whimper at the feeling of his cock pushing against your walls from the outside, the flesh of your stomach pushing against the palm of your hand as his thrusts quicken in their pace.

“y’ feel me right here, hm? y’ feel that baby?” he almost taunts, pressing your hand down a little harder. the extra pressure has your eyes rolling closed; you tighten around him subconsciously.

“ohhh.. she likes that, huh?” he chuckles, removing his hand from yours and picking up his pace, determined to drive you closer to the brink of your high. his thrusts grow more erratic as he nears the edge himself, haphazardly pushing in and out of you as he begins to lose focus. he feels you swallowing his cock tighter with each movement of his hips.

“you gettin’ close f’ me baby girl?”

you nod, the pleasure building at your abdomen overwhelming all of your senses.

“c’mon then baby. let go f’ me darlin’. lemme feel ya.”

his ruts grow deliberately deeper and faster; he grunts grow louder and strained behind his teeth. you mewl into his ear, your back arching your abdomen into his and the heels of your feet digging into his lower back.

“joel— i’m..”

“tha’s it baby. don’t fight it.. let it happen.. good fuckin’ girl.”

his praise pushes you over the edge, the coil inside of you pulling taut and your core spasming with waves of heat, carnal pleasure shooting all the way to the tips of your fingers. your clit pulses as he continues to sloppily move inside of you, teetering on the edge of his own orgasm, until he feels he’s about to collapse over the brink with one last thrust. he pulls himself out and strokes his wet cock a few more times before he bunches up your shirt and spills himself over your stomach with a guttural groan, his hips jerking with each rope of come that paints your abdomen.

he collapses atop of your spent body with one final grunt as his head falls to rest on your shoulder. your body still trembles with the aftershocks of your high whilst you both try to catch your breath.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chuckles breathlessly, glancing up to see a lazy smile spread across your face, “you doin’ alright there baby?”

“mhm,” you hum, too tired to talk as your eyes flutter closed.

“good.. you did real good darlin’… y’ know.. i was—“

the sound of the front door opening. joel’s head drops to your shoulder again, muttering a quiet “shit”. your body is hidden beneath him; tommy must’ve been able to see joel’s back from behind the sofa. you hear what could only be tommy’s laugh.

“don’t tell me you two have just fucked on my couch.”

“uhhh..”

an : haven’t posted in likee 10 months oopsies

dividers by uzmacchiato

[tokkiwrites]

AAA thank you so so much for reading!! and i am so happy you enjoyed it <3 thank you, truly

I will make sure to tag you in the next parts!! 🎀

𝐂𝐇.𝟏 → 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞.

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Fresh out of college and aching for quiet, you trade the city skyline for wide skies and greener grass, accepting a job out on a remote ranch with three men you’ve never met. All you were supposed to do was tend to the house and find some peace. But the men you meet are nothing like what you expected, and they stir something in you. What will this new beginning bring to you? ˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ cowboy!Joel x reader, cowboy!Logan x reader, cowboy!Arthur x reader, fem!reader, reader is described shortly to be somewhat girly, age gap (reader is in their mid twenties), she’s so silly and so in danger (😈), slow burn.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey guys remember that one post i made like months ago? guess what?? ive finally decided to write it!!!! and its a mini series, yeppeeeee!!! no smut YET but i know youll love it. enjoy this first part :p love ya 🩷🌟🐇

❝ the night wears its breath in silver, and for a moment, so do we. ❞

ㅤ ♰

You found the ad on a whim, nestled between job postings you’d never dare apply to— corporate things with shiny promises and empty souls. It was printed on aged parchment, like someone had scanned it straight from 1892:

“Looking for help around the homestead. Cooking, cleaning, light tending to the animals. Room and board provided. Good hands preferred. Contact J. Miller, Three Pines Ranch.”

No photos. No email. Just a number and an address at the bottom that looked like it had been forgotten by the rest of the world. It tugged at something in your chest.

So you packed.

Left behind the heavy city, with its teeth and steel, its empty stares and plastic smiles. Left behind the noise that made your skin itch, the professors who told you that literature wouldn’t take you far, the friends who faded like chalk on pavement. You weren’t running. Not really. You just wanted something slower. Something quieter. Something that smelled like flowers and dirt and sun, maybe.

The drive out to Three Pines felt like slipping into a dream. Past towns where gas stations still had cassette players, past fields that rolled on like sighs, golden and soft. The closer you got, the more the land seemed to speak. Trees leaned in with curiosity. The air thinned out, made room for thought.

By the time the ranch gates came into view, rusted and proud, you could already feel your shoulders easing. The house rose out of the horizon, sprawling and worn, white paint peeled by sun and wind, wraparound porch with creaky planks and a lone rocking chair moving like a heartbeat. Chickens clucked somewhere to your left, and the scent of hay, woodsmoke, and something rich, cinnamon maybe, danced in the late afternoon air.

You stepped out of your car with your suitcase in one hand and a stomach full of nerves. A breeze caught the hem of your skirt, and you brushed your hair from your eyes. The gravel cracked beneath your ballet flats. Wind stirred the porch swing and made it creak in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“This is how that one horror movie starts,” you mumbled under your breath, staring up at the place.

The screen door banged open, and a man stepped out, broad-shouldered, sun-worn, built like a barn with arms crossed over his chest. He looked you up and down like he was trying to decide if you were worth keeping or throwing straight back into your car.

Two others followed.

One with hair swept back and sideburns that made him look like he’d been born in the wrong century, leaner than the first, but something in his eyes was more dangerous. Not cruel, exactly. Just like he’d seen too much.

The last looked half-feral. Not in the dirty way. Just in the way he moved, slow and tight, like he could snap at any second. His tank clung to his frame, and you could see the veins in his arms before he even got close. He didn’t smile. None of them did.

You were suddenly aware of the ridiculous pink on your nails, the soft bow in your hair and those stupid ballet flats. You pushed a smile through the nerves.

“Hi,” you said. “I’m here for the housekeeper position. Please tell me I’ve got the right address and this isn’t a setup for a murder.” The first man blinked at you, then rubbed a hand over his beard. “You’re the one who called about the ad?”

You nodded. “That’d be me.” He stuck out his hand. Rough, calloused. Solid. “Name’s Joel.” The one with the cowboy gait tipped his hat lazily. “Arthur. Don’t let the boots fool you— I only shoot snakes.” The last grunted, still watching you with suspicion, like you might burst into flames on his porch. “Logan.”

“Well,” you said, dragging your suitcase up the first step, “I can cook, clean, and I don’t spook easy. I’m pretty good with animals and I like things quiet.” You paused, then added, with a hopeful smile, “Also, I make a mean apple pie.”

Arthur chuckled. “If she’s lyin’, I’ll be the first to call her out.” Joel tilted his head. “You ever worked on a ranch before?”

“No, sir.” Your voice softened. “But I’m good at taking care of things. I learn fast.” That earned you a long, shared look between the three of them. Logan finally turned toward the door. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Joel opened the screen wide and nodded for you to come in.

The house swallowed you up in wood and warmth as you stepped inside. It smelled like cedar and dust, and underneath it all, something smokey. The dim light from the setting sun was filtering through the dust-riddled windows.

“Go on in,” came a gruff voice and you turned to find Joel his broad shoulders filling the doorway motioning for you to step forward inside. He led you down the hallway, past the creaking floorboards and faded portraits hanging crookedly on the walls. Joel stopped at a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. “This’ll be your room for now.” He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter.

You stepped into the small, cozy room, surprised at how warm it felt despite the rough edges of the house. A simple bed, an old wooden dresser, and a window that framed a slice of the sprawling fields outside. It was waiting for you to claim it. And you did, immediately.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching you with those quiet, assessing eyes. “We keep things simple around here. No need to worry about much. Just keep to the routine— help out with the house, keep things in order. We’ll figure out what’s what as you settle in.” You nodded, your throat a little tight from the nerves that still buzzed in your veins. “I can do that.” you respond quietly, still taking it all in.

Joel’s gaze softened just a fraction, and the lines on his face seemed to ease as he gave a small grunt. “Good. That’s good.” He paused, watching you a moment longer. “If you need anything, just holler. Don’t be shy.”

With that, he gave you a nod and left, the sound of his boots echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room.

You sighed and ran your hand over the bedspread, feeling the coolness of the fabric beneath your fingers. You soon started unpacking, pulling clothes from your bag and neatly folding them into the dresser. You set your favorite pillow on the bed, the one with the ducks in dresses, trying not to laugh at how utterly ridiculous it looked in this stark, rustic room. But, it f elt right, in a way. You took your time shifting your things around, figuring out where to place each item.

The sounds of the house creaked softly as you lay there, the occasional breeze from the open window making the curtains flutter gently.

But as the moon climbed higher, you found yourself unable to sleep. The soft glow from outside caught your attention again. A glance out the window revealed someone in the yard, silhouetted against the rising moon. You squint, recognizing the broad, sturdy frame of one of the men. The figure was shirtless, his back glistening with sweat as he washed his hands in the moonlight, the water catching the light in a way that made him look almost unreal.

It was Joel, you realized.

Your heart skipped a beat, eyes lingering on him for just a little longer than you probably should’ve. The sight was undeniably captivating. Strong, worn, and oddly beautiful under the cool moonlight. You shifted away from the window quickly, heart pounding in your chest as you realized just how much you were staring. You hope he didn't see you, breakfast would've been real strange.

You sank back into the bed, eyes closing as you tried to settle the buzzing in your chest. But despite the sleepiness that tugged at your limbs, your mind kept drifting back to him. And maybe to the others too, though you had no idea what to expect from them yet.

Still, you were here now, tucked away on this ranch in the middle of nowhere. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were right where you needed to be.

ㅤ ♰

The soft murmur of the world outside hadn’t yet reached your ears when you stirred awake, the edges of the night still clinging to your thoughts. The room was cloaked in a stillness that felt both foreign and intimate, a kind of quiet you couldn’t remember feeling since you were a child, tucked away in the soft folds of home.

It was still dark outside, but the faint outline of the sun's promise touched the horizon in a soft, golden hue. You didn’t need the clock to tell you it was well before dawn, a time when only the hardworking and the restless were stirring, when the world was half asleep. You pushed the blanket off, the cool air of the room creeping up your skin, and sat up, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms.

You hadn’t come here to sleep in.

You stood up, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet as you moved to the window. The moon was still high, casting its silver light over the land, stretching endlessly into the distance, as if time itself could never reach the horizon. A deep inhale. And then when you were all ready, you were moving, feet steady against the floor as you found your way to the kitchen.

The house was cold in the early morning air, but the warmth of the stove made everything feel just right. It took a moment for you to find where everything was. You prepared your breakfast quietly, smiling to yourself as you made sure everything was perfect. You reached for the heavy mug of coffee, the warm steam rising to your face, filling your lungs as you let the scent of it settle deep in your chest.

By the time you set the table, the sun had begun to rise, the sky turning the color of old gold and ash. You had prepared enough for them, the plates full and hearty, and the coffee strong enough to bring anyone back to life. The thought of surprising them and showing them you were capable gave you a little thrill. You hadn't felt that in some time.

And as you set down the last of the plates, you felt your heart quicken with a touch of excitement, half-nervous, half-sure.

You could hear the heavy thump of boots.

You took a deep breath, straightening your shoulders and dusting off your apron as you turned to face the sound. You didn’t know what to expect from them. But it felt like they wouldn’t mind you. They might even like it, who knows. You had to test the waters somehow. And then, with the door creaking open, they entered the kitchen, one by one.

“Well, look at this. Someone’s up early,” Joel said, his gaze flicking to the spread you had made. Arthur followed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, but there was a warmth there you hadn’t expected. "Trying to impress us already, young lady?"

"I hope I didn't wake you up..." you reply soflty, making the latter chuckle. Logan didn't say anything, but his eyes lingered over the breakfast you'd laid out.

Joel laughs "Now, didn't know yer an early bird like that." you smiled, trying to ignore the slight warmth spreading across your cheeks. It was all still strange. “Well, guess we’ll see how it tastes, then,” Arthur said with a grin, sitting across from you.

“So, you used to cook like this back in the city?” Logan asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

You hesitated for a moment, setting your fork down, thinking of how to answer. "Well, I mean, I tried to make things work in the city. But it always felt rushed, you know? I hope it won't feel like that anymore..." You smiled softly, leaning back in your chair. “Ain’t no better place than here for that.” Arthur reached for his coffee, giving you a sly wink. “Hell, with how much work we’ve got, you’ll be makin’ all sorts of things before long, darlin’.”

Joel chuckled, reaching for a piece of bacon. “We’ve got more food than we know what to do with. But a good cookㅡ Well, that's somethin' we don't got around here.” He stops for a moment. “Guess we’ll see if you really have what it takes, huh?” Joel teased, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening “Iㅡ suppose you’ll be the judge of that,” keeping your voice steady, though you could feel the heat creeping into your cheeks again.

Logan finally spoke up “Just make sure you’re ready for it.” His eyes caught yours, the faintest smile curling at the edge of his lips. You nodded, taking another sip of your coffee to steady your nerves.

And as you finished your breakfast, the conversation slipping back into easy laughter, you felt more at ease than ever. Maybe you'll miss the city, who knows?

But right now this feels just right.

[tokkiwrites]

𝐂𝐇.𝟏 → 𝐃𝐮𝐬𝐭-𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞.

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. Fresh out of college and aching for quiet, you trade the city skyline for wide skies and greener grass, accepting a job out on a remote ranch with three men you’ve never met. All you were supposed to do was tend to the house and find some peace. But the men you meet are nothing like what you expected, and they stir something in you. What will this new beginning bring to you? ˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ cowboy!Joel x reader, cowboy!Logan x reader, cowboy!Arthur x reader, fem!reader, reader is described shortly to be somewhat girly, age gap (reader is in their mid twenties), she’s so silly and so in danger (😈), slow burn.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey guys remember that one post i made like months ago? guess what?? ive finally decided to write it!!!! and its a mini series, yeppeeeee!!! no smut YET but i know youll love it. enjoy this first part :p love ya 🩷🌟🐇

❝ the night wears its breath in silver, and for a moment, so do we. ❞

ㅤ ♰

You found the ad on a whim, nestled between job postings you’d never dare apply to— corporate things with shiny promises and empty souls. It was printed on aged parchment, like someone had scanned it straight from 1892:

“Looking for help around the homestead. Cooking, cleaning, light tending to the animals. Room and board provided. Good hands preferred. Contact J. Miller, Three Pines Ranch.”

No photos. No email. Just a number and an address at the bottom that looked like it had been forgotten by the rest of the world. It tugged at something in your chest.

So you packed.

Left behind the heavy city, with its teeth and steel, its empty stares and plastic smiles. Left behind the noise that made your skin itch, the professors who told you that literature wouldn’t take you far, the friends who faded like chalk on pavement. You weren’t running. Not really. You just wanted something slower. Something quieter. Something that smelled like flowers and dirt and sun, maybe.

The drive out to Three Pines felt like slipping into a dream. Past towns where gas stations still had cassette players, past fields that rolled on like sighs, golden and soft. The closer you got, the more the land seemed to speak. Trees leaned in with curiosity. The air thinned out, made room for thought.

By the time the ranch gates came into view, rusted and proud, you could already feel your shoulders easing. The house rose out of the horizon, sprawling and worn, white paint peeled by sun and wind, wraparound porch with creaky planks and a lone rocking chair moving like a heartbeat. Chickens clucked somewhere to your left, and the scent of hay, woodsmoke, and something rich, cinnamon maybe, danced in the late afternoon air.

You stepped out of your car with your suitcase in one hand and a stomach full of nerves. A breeze caught the hem of your skirt, and you brushed your hair from your eyes. The gravel cracked beneath your ballet flats. Wind stirred the porch swing and made it creak in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“This is how that one horror movie starts,” you mumbled under your breath, staring up at the place.

The screen door banged open, and a man stepped out, broad-shouldered, sun-worn, built like a barn with arms crossed over his chest. He looked you up and down like he was trying to decide if you were worth keeping or throwing straight back into your car.

Two others followed.

One with hair swept back and sideburns that made him look like he’d been born in the wrong century, leaner than the first, but something in his eyes was more dangerous. Not cruel, exactly. Just like he’d seen too much.

The last looked half-feral. Not in the dirty way. Just in the way he moved, slow and tight, like he could snap at any second. His tank clung to his frame, and you could see the veins in his arms before he even got close. He didn’t smile. None of them did.

You were suddenly aware of the ridiculous pink on your nails, the soft bow in your hair and those stupid ballet flats. You pushed a smile through the nerves.

“Hi,” you said. “I’m here for the housekeeper position. Please tell me I’ve got the right address and this isn’t a setup for a murder.” The first man blinked at you, then rubbed a hand over his beard. “You’re the one who called about the ad?”

You nodded. “That’d be me.” He stuck out his hand. Rough, calloused. Solid. “Name’s Joel.” The one with the cowboy gait tipped his hat lazily. “Arthur. Don’t let the boots fool you— I only shoot snakes.” The last grunted, still watching you with suspicion, like you might burst into flames on his porch. “Logan.”

“Well,” you said, dragging your suitcase up the first step, “I can cook, clean, and I don’t spook easy. I’m pretty good with animals and I like things quiet.” You paused, then added, with a hopeful smile, “Also, I make a mean apple pie.”

Arthur chuckled. “If she’s lyin’, I’ll be the first to call her out.” Joel tilted his head. “You ever worked on a ranch before?”

“No, sir.” Your voice softened. “But I’m good at taking care of things. I learn fast.” That earned you a long, shared look between the three of them. Logan finally turned toward the door. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Joel opened the screen wide and nodded for you to come in.

The house swallowed you up in wood and warmth as you stepped inside. It smelled like cedar and dust, and underneath it all, something smokey. The dim light from the setting sun was filtering through the dust-riddled windows.

“Go on in,” came a gruff voice and you turned to find Joel his broad shoulders filling the doorway motioning for you to step forward inside. He led you down the hallway, past the creaking floorboards and faded portraits hanging crookedly on the walls. Joel stopped at a door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. “This’ll be your room for now.” He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter.

You stepped into the small, cozy room, surprised at how warm it felt despite the rough edges of the house. A simple bed, an old wooden dresser, and a window that framed a slice of the sprawling fields outside. It was waiting for you to claim it. And you did, immediately.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching you with those quiet, assessing eyes. “We keep things simple around here. No need to worry about much. Just keep to the routine— help out with the house, keep things in order. We’ll figure out what’s what as you settle in.” You nodded, your throat a little tight from the nerves that still buzzed in your veins. “I can do that.” you respond quietly, still taking it all in.

Joel’s gaze softened just a fraction, and the lines on his face seemed to ease as he gave a small grunt. “Good. That’s good.” He paused, watching you a moment longer. “If you need anything, just holler. Don’t be shy.”

With that, he gave you a nod and left, the sound of his boots echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room.

You sighed and ran your hand over the bedspread, feeling the coolness of the fabric beneath your fingers. You soon started unpacking, pulling clothes from your bag and neatly folding them into the dresser. You set your favorite pillow on the bed, the one with the ducks in dresses, trying not to laugh at how utterly ridiculous it looked in this stark, rustic room. But, it f elt right, in a way. You took your time shifting your things around, figuring out where to place each item.

The sounds of the house creaked softly as you lay there, the occasional breeze from the open window making the curtains flutter gently.

But as the moon climbed higher, you found yourself unable to sleep. The soft glow from outside caught your attention again. A glance out the window revealed someone in the yard, silhouetted against the rising moon. You squint, recognizing the broad, sturdy frame of one of the men. The figure was shirtless, his back glistening with sweat as he washed his hands in the moonlight, the water catching the light in a way that made him look almost unreal.

It was Joel, you realized.

Your heart skipped a beat, eyes lingering on him for just a little longer than you probably should’ve. The sight was undeniably captivating. Strong, worn, and oddly beautiful under the cool moonlight. You shifted away from the window quickly, heart pounding in your chest as you realized just how much you were staring. You hope he didn't see you, breakfast would've been real strange.

You sank back into the bed, eyes closing as you tried to settle the buzzing in your chest. But despite the sleepiness that tugged at your limbs, your mind kept drifting back to him. And maybe to the others too, though you had no idea what to expect from them yet.

Still, you were here now, tucked away on this ranch in the middle of nowhere. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were right where you needed to be.

ㅤ ♰

The soft murmur of the world outside hadn’t yet reached your ears when you stirred awake, the edges of the night still clinging to your thoughts. The room was cloaked in a stillness that felt both foreign and intimate, a kind of quiet you couldn’t remember feeling since you were a child, tucked away in the soft folds of home.

It was still dark outside, but the faint outline of the sun's promise touched the horizon in a soft, golden hue. You didn’t need the clock to tell you it was well before dawn, a time when only the hardworking and the restless were stirring, when the world was half asleep. You pushed the blanket off, the cool air of the room creeping up your skin, and sat up, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms.

You hadn’t come here to sleep in.

You stood up, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet as you moved to the window. The moon was still high, casting its silver light over the land, stretching endlessly into the distance, as if time itself could never reach the horizon. A deep inhale. And then when you were all ready, you were moving, feet steady against the floor as you found your way to the kitchen.

The house was cold in the early morning air, but the warmth of the stove made everything feel just right. It took a moment for you to find where everything was. You prepared your breakfast quietly, smiling to yourself as you made sure everything was perfect. You reached for the heavy mug of coffee, the warm steam rising to your face, filling your lungs as you let the scent of it settle deep in your chest.

By the time you set the table, the sun had begun to rise, the sky turning the color of old gold and ash. You had prepared enough for them, the plates full and hearty, and the coffee strong enough to bring anyone back to life. The thought of surprising them and showing them you were capable gave you a little thrill. You hadn't felt that in some time.

And as you set down the last of the plates, you felt your heart quicken with a touch of excitement, half-nervous, half-sure.

You could hear the heavy thump of boots.

You took a deep breath, straightening your shoulders and dusting off your apron as you turned to face the sound. You didn’t know what to expect from them. But it felt like they wouldn’t mind you. They might even like it, who knows. You had to test the waters somehow. And then, with the door creaking open, they entered the kitchen, one by one.

“Well, look at this. Someone’s up early,” Joel said, his gaze flicking to the spread you had made. Arthur followed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, but there was a warmth there you hadn’t expected. "Trying to impress us already, young lady?"

"I hope I didn't wake you up..." you reply soflty, making the latter chuckle. Logan didn't say anything, but his eyes lingered over the breakfast you'd laid out.

Joel laughs "Now, didn't know yer an early bird like that." you smiled, trying to ignore the slight warmth spreading across your cheeks. It was all still strange. “Well, guess we’ll see how it tastes, then,” Arthur said with a grin, sitting across from you.

“So, you used to cook like this back in the city?” Logan asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

You hesitated for a moment, setting your fork down, thinking of how to answer. "Well, I mean, I tried to make things work in the city. But it always felt rushed, you know? I hope it won't feel like that anymore..." You smiled softly, leaning back in your chair. “Ain’t no better place than here for that.” Arthur reached for his coffee, giving you a sly wink. “Hell, with how much work we’ve got, you’ll be makin’ all sorts of things before long, darlin’.”

Joel chuckled, reaching for a piece of bacon. “We’ve got more food than we know what to do with. But a good cookㅡ Well, that's somethin' we don't got around here.” He stops for a moment. “Guess we’ll see if you really have what it takes, huh?” Joel teased, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You met his gaze, your chest tightening “Iㅡ suppose you’ll be the judge of that,” keeping your voice steady, though you could feel the heat creeping into your cheeks again.

Logan finally spoke up “Just make sure you’re ready for it.” His eyes caught yours, the faintest smile curling at the edge of his lips. You nodded, taking another sip of your coffee to steady your nerves.

And as you finished your breakfast, the conversation slipping back into easy laughter, you felt more at ease than ever. Maybe you'll miss the city, who knows?

But right now this feels just right.

[tokkiwrites]

tysm for reading!!!

ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. “Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.

[tokkiwrites]

ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. “Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.