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live forever | j.m. x f!🦽!reader

masterlist | notifs blog pairing: jackson!joel x f!wheelchair user!reader summary: the years since you met joel miller, from when you crawled into jackson wyoming unable to stand to him making your legs weak. warnings: (18+ mdni) fix it fic: smut, fluff & angst this is a chili's triple dipper (HEA), reader is an ambulatory wheelchair user and deals with a severe chronic pain condition, fic spans several years, big ass age gap: reader is anywhere from 19-early 20s (anxieties about losing mobility at her age are a theme) & joel's age is reader's choice, self indulgent the secret history (1992) references, bring dei back to fiction (everyone in this bitch is disabled), mutual pining, joel calls reader kid, falling in love, did i mention smut? yeah, smut. f!masturbation, getting caught, f!oral, fingering, joel miller's filthy mouth, joel COMES IN HIS PANTS!!! word count: 9.1k a/n: this was supposed to be half of a fix it fic, but for the purposes of disability pride month i've chopped it in half. turns out the fix it part of this fic was too much for me to handle mentally at the time i was writing this. reader's experiences closely mirror my own. reader is young and sexually inexperienced because those were the themes i felt most concerned with as someone disabled at the time. maybe someday i'll pick up the 'fix it' part, but for now, this is reader and she means a lot to me so be nice to her, kay? happy disability pride-- you're wanted, needed, and loved. it's hard to be proud of the parts of yourself that might feel unsavory, but if you're disabled, it's part of what makes you, you. try to embrace it this month. i love you all. p.s. to my able-bodied friends: feel free to read this! you r so very welcome here and to put yourself in our shoes is a great way to get to know our experiences.

SPRING, 2024

The first time Joel saw you, he thought he was hallucinating.

He was heading back into Jackson with Tommy fresh off of a patrol, exhaustion having properly sunk its claws into his eye sockets. Hell, it makes more sense for you to be a hallucination.

It’s not until Tommy asks, “Got an eye for Hot Wheels?” that he realizes he hadn’t just been making shit up.

He didn’t think there were any of… your type… left around after the end of the world. It’s hard enough for men like him to survive when there’s always a clicker snapping just shy of his neck or raiders whaling bullets on his tailbone.

“What now?” Joel gives Tommy a narrow look.

“She’s real sweet, y’know. Works at the library, always tryna get the teenyboppers to read.” Joel makes a noncommittal noise.

“Oughta get to know her. She’s a new arrival like you.” New arrival? How the fuck were you living out there before this? “It’d do you some good. Maria worries, the townsfolk talk–”

“I’m doing my part,” Joel says as if it’ll change a thing.

Tommy’s always spinning his tires with him. Just last week he was on about Refacing the General Store as if they hadn’t just finished refurbishing Tommy’s patio. Joel’d rather acquaint himself with a hammer, God forbid Tommy suggest setting him up again.

“Right,” Tommy says. They watch you brace your hands on the wheels of your wheelchair, rolling along the porch of the bookstore. You straighten displays and get chatty with a customer. You talk with your hands, Joel notices. “Matter ‘a fact, I do have a project for you.”

Joel asks, “Yeah?”

“We put her up in Winnie’s old house, God rest her soul. Problem is, it ain’t… shit, what’s the word…” Tommy snaps his fingers.

“Wheelchair friendly?” Joel asks.

“Wheelchair friendly. She’s been sleepin’ on that raggedy ass old couch ‘a hers ‘cause the bedroom door’s too small. Not exactly comfortable for her… condition. I’m thinkin’ you put in some grab bars in the bathroom, maybe a walk-in tub. A better ramp than what we’ve propped up outside. Widen that doorway for her.”

Joel chews at the inside of his cheek. “That’s a big job. You sure we got the equipment for that? Couldn’t we throw her in with Janet?”

“Janet’s only got one bedroom, and she’s stubborn as a mule. Doesn’t like havin’ her cheese moved. Supplies, though, we’ve got those in abundance.”

He looks at you again. You’ve woven little dandelions into the spokes of your wheels and there’s a knit bag hung from the back. You flash a winning smile at the customer you’re talking to and flip through a book, pointing out a specific line. You’re young — too young to be in a wheelchair. He has to wonder what horrors you’ve seen. Did someone do this to you, or were you always like this? You must be miserable. He knows what it’s like to be off of your own reins.

“Fine,” Joel says. “I’ll handle it.”

You wake up with your switchblade in your hand.

It’s dark, clouds having spread like butter over the gunmetal sky. Rain pitter-patters against the roof of this house you’ve inherited from a dead woman. You blink the sleep from your eyes as your front door death-rattles on its hinges. Someone’s knocking. You crane your neck to the analog clock on your coffee table — 7:03. Who the fuck comes over at 7:03.

“I’m coming,” you shout when the door clatters again. Finally, the knocking stops.

Agitated, you ruffle your clothes into something semi-presentable and rub the sleep from your eyes. You get up, legs protesting with each step. Pain spurts like a live wire up your muscles; 7:04 AM and you already know it’ll be one of those days.

You slump into your wheelchair (the best thing about Jackson by far, surpassing running water of a shower you have to sit on the cold floor of, or food from the canteen that Maria has to hand deliver to you) and wheel your way to the front door. It’s slow going. You never had the privilege of one of these things before finding the cozy town. It’d been just you and your switchblade and your pistol, gritting your teeth and fighting back tears between each runner you’d stabbed in the eye.

You keep the same switchblade in your hand, just in case, but the most likely scenario is that Tommy Miller’s come to bug you again. Maria puts him up to it, you’re sure.

You have to move up to the left side of your door since it opens inwards, fumbling with the creaky gold handle. The door squeaks as the wind pushes it inward. You lean forward, eyes traveling up to the man in your doorway.

He’s a Miller alright — just not Tommy Miller.

“Oh. Joel, right?” you ask, a small pucker between your brows.

He invites himself in.

“Hey now, what the hell do you think you’re doin–” You look down to the dented red toolbox in his grip. Metal clangs around inside with each step he takes. “You know, most people ask for permission before they barge in.” Where Tommy is open and gentle, Joel is standoffish and scowling.

“I’m renovatin’ your house,” Joel says, voice firm and nonnegotiable.

“And Tommy didn’t tell me this why?”

“Spur ‘a the moment thing. Wanted to come and grab some measurements, figure out what supplies I need, how much supplies–”

“You don’t need to fix the backsplash,” you say. “Really, it’s fine. There’s just some mild chipping, no big deal.”

Joel slows and looks over his shoulder at you. His lips pinch together. “You think I walked out here at seven in the morning in pissin’ rain to fix your fucking backsplash?”

“I dunno. You kinda walked in without saying anything, so.”

“Tommy said you’ve been sleeping on the couch.” You nod stiffly. “I’m gonna fix that.”

“What?” you blurt out.

At his side, he starts unraveling a measuring tape. “You ain’t stupid, Tommy said you’re some kinda librarian. I’m fixin’ your house up. Makin’ it more suitable for your…” he waves a hand in your general direction.

“You don’t need to take pity on me,” you say. “You clearly don’t wanna be here. You can just go home. No skin off my back.”

“Well, Tommy won’t quit bitchin’ in my ear until it’s done. So it’d be skin off my back, kid.” Joel walks further into your house, boots thunking against the hardwood. He squats and measures out your door. His notepad has a sticker on it that says NASA, whatever that means. He wets his thumb with his tongue and thumbs through the notepad to mark down the measurements. You sit silently next to him, glaring.

“Lookin’ at me like I shot your dog. I’m doin’ you a solid here.”

“You could be a really shitty renovator,” you say. “And then bam. My whole house falls down and my arms get fucked up too.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Joel rolls the tape measure back up. “Where’s your bathroom?”

You point down the hall and follow him there, parking yourself outside while you watch him take the measurements of your toilet and bath. You cross your arms, trying not to mock his scowl.

“Are you gonna be waking me up at the asscrack of dawn every time you get inspired to play demolition?”

“Not demolishing anything. You got a rudimentary idea of this, don’t you?”

“It’s almost like I’ve never seen carpenters before.”

He gives you a look that tells you he thinks you’re full of shit. You return that look in confidence. “Well, your doorways have a more cosmetic frame. Just gotta shave some inches off and pretty it up a bit. Might take a while to find a door, but you could hang a curtain if you’re worried or anything. Your chair ain’t that much bigger, though. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Right,” you say. “Well, if that’s all you need.”

“I’ll be back to ‘demolish’ stuff tomorrow. Two o’clock instead. Got patrol, and clearly Sleepin’ Beauty needs her shut-eye.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, already wheeling back towards your couch. Your eyelids are sinking as if draped with dumbbells.

He watches you as you strain to push your weight into your forearms, dragging yourself onto the couch. You fluff up the flat pillow you’ve been sleeping on and flick your quilt over your lap. He’s thinking about it — obviously he is. Everyone in the entire town thinks about it. They look at you, too, as if they can understand where the invisible shards of glass in your legs come from and where exactly they pierce. Sometimes, if you’re especially unlucky, they’ll fondle the handles of your wheelchair as if they’re some bastardized nurse.

Joel doesn’t do any of that.

Just gives you a jerk of his head and walks out of the door.

You think you like it better that way.

The next time he comes over, you’re ready. You unlock the door beforehand and tidy up what’s become your belongings. A basket of yarn and knitting needles from the previous resident of this house, a stack of books you’d found during your travels to get here, and… not much else. You’d found some postcards of Jackson in what used to be the visitor’s center and hung them up on the corkboard. Anything to make it feel more like home.

You settle in on your couch under your quilt — also the handiwork of the previous owner — and crack open one of the novels you’d found. You’re halfway through your reread of it. The cover and pages are coarse like sandpaper, but soothe the rattling in your head.

“Come in!” you call when Joel comes knocking at your door.

He grunts a greeting to you as he heads towards your bedroom door. You don’t pay much mind to him as he begins to etch into your wall with tools you don’t recognize.

You flip the page.

“You’re the quiet type, ain’t ya?” Joel asks.

“So are you.”

A beat, punctuated by a pry bar meeting your wall. “Got me there.”

You skim through a couple more pages, scribbling an annotation down onto a sticky note. You wouldn’t dare take ink to the pages of this already beaten and busted book. You’re pulled out of the atmosphere by Joel’s panting, and the wiping of sweat from his brow.

“I’d offer to bring you a glass of water,” you say. “But it’d probably be quicker if you get it yourself.”

“Uh huh,” he says. “I’d put my book down if I were you.”

“Wh–”

A shrill whirring noise fills the air as he begins to saw into your doorframe. With a groan, you flop onto the couch on your stomach and cover your ears. Your cheek is smushed into the spine of your book.

After what feels like forever but is more like five minutes, the sawing cuts, and he tosses ripped up slabs of wood on your floor. He nods between you and them as if to tell you ‘That’s why’.

This is going to be a long few weeks.

/

Most days, Joel Miller is easy to ignore. You’re quiet – he’s quiet. You stay busy – he stays busy. It’s an easy ebb and flow that you two fall into. Three days into the process, he opens up your bedroom door for you entirely. It’s nice being able to lift yourself into a real bed, a luxury you haven’t had in over a decade. You spend most of your time in your bed, across the hallway from the bathroom.

The bathroom fixes, he says, will take longer. Complications with the plumbing and the like.

About a week into renovations, he knocks his tool box shut and lugs it out. He leans against your newly widened doorway and nods at you. “You’ve read that book three times since I first talked to you.”

“You’re observant,” you say, eyeing him over the creases in the pages.

“‘S your favorite or somethin’?”

You nod and hold up the cover. “The Secret History.” A small grin hitches on your lips.

“I was never a big reader,” Joel says, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand.

“This doesn’t seem like your speed. You seem like you’d prefer… I dunno. Hatchet, probably.”

Joel nods, and your gut tells you it’s more of a courtesy. He doesn’t know a damn thing about what you’re talking about. “Why do you like that one so much?”

“It feels like what my life would’ve been,” you say. You stare at the ribbing of the pages, the blur and bend of ink. There’s a water stain in the southeastern corner of the bottom hundred page, bleeding into the page numbers. “They’re Greek students, but they read the literature. I would’ve liked to be a classics student, I think. Maybe teach at some schmoozy top university, give lectures, whatever. Except in the book… all of it goes wrong. They wanted too much, and for a moment, they had it. But it could never last. I guess it's as sobering as it is what I yearn for.”

Joel’s face softens. “Yeah. You never got to live in the real world, didja?”

“This is the real world, Joel. There was just a before, and then the after. Us poor bastards are in the after.”

“Yeah,” he says, backing away from your room. “I guess we are.”

You seal another faded sticky note onto a page with another observation you had when you hear the knock on your door. Maria must be over with your food. You inch across the bed and plop down into your chair before rolling yourself to your doorstep.

You open the door and blink in surprise when you see Joel standing above you with two plates in-hand. “Hey, uh,” he says, face red from the sweeping cold. “Maria was busy, so… thought I’d take over. Mind if I–”

“Yeah, sure.” You scoot out of the way and he kicks your door shut. Your dinner table only has one chair at it, since there’s no need for you to swap between two seats. You slot yourself in across from Joel and pick up the spoon he’d brought over, inhaling mouthfuls of stew.

“Slow down,” he says with a half-glimmer in his eyes. “Gonna get a bellyache.”

Through a mouthful of carrots and potatoes, you say, “‘M hungry.” When you finally slow yourself down, you look at him. He blows gently on his stew and scratches at his scruff. “Thanks. This is… nice. Usually nobody eats with me.”

“What?” He puts down his spoon. “Seriously?”

“Well, I really only know Maria and Tommy, so they alternate days to wheel me over to the library. It’s hard with all the snow and ice to get myself over there. They also take turns bringing me food.”

“That’s… a damn shame,” he says.

“I don’t hate it.” You don’t. It’s worse anywhere else — hell, you might’ve found the last safe haven left in the world. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to look out of your window and see people your age hanging out or heading off on patrols.

Joel looks at you as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Really. It’s… it’s not that bad – and, I have all these books to keep me company, so really, what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one,” he says as he goes in for another bite of soup.

There’s a problem, not that Joel would ever admit it aloud or to himself.

The problem is you — of course it’s you. He should’ve known you’d be a goddamn thorn in his side the moment Tommy proffered the job to him instead of just doing it himself. There was a problem when you sassed him on day one, a problem when you appeared completely indifferent to his presence in your home, and a problem when he realized just how alone you were. He finds himself looking at you while he’s chiseling out parts of your bath. Watching the curve of your shoulder or the sprawl of your legs while you lay face down reading your books. Not because he’s ogling you, either — that’s a long-dead version of himself that respects you too much and disrespects himself too much to even consider eyeing you up. He’s more enamored with how you got here. Did you claw and tear your way through hordes of infected? Were you the final member standing of a group? How much blood had you drawn? Did you fire pistols, rifles, shotguns? Outrun raiders on your bad legs?

You’re a survivor. Too much like him. And now you have a chance to fix all of this — just like him.

Tommy was right. He should get to know you.

So for the second night in a row, he shows up at your doorstep with hot food and a performatively detached expression.

And when the third night in a row comes around, when he still smells like sawdust from working in your house until six in the evening, he walks inside to find the table’s already been set.

“Thinkin’ I’ll widen this doorframe, too,” Joel says, slapping at the curvature of it from where he’s sat on the bathroom tiles. You’re curled up in your wheelchair, chin cupped in palm. “Don’t need ya crawling’ everywhere.” He nods definitively.

“I’d appreciate that,” you say.

“You should read to me.” He rummages around in his toolbox. “While I work.” He’s about three fourths done with your bath, from what he’d told you this morning. Today, he’s installing a compact shower bench. He shifts over to it, working with metal bits and bobs you can’t quite identify.

“Joel Miller,” you jest. “literature aficionado.”

“Could be,” he shrugs. “You can be the next person in line to try teachin’ and old dog some new tricks.”

You do. You thumb and read through the pages until your voice goes scratchy and he runs you some tap water to soften it up. You occasionally ask Joel to tell you the parts you’d never been able to understand. (‘Joel, what’s an SAT?’ ‘Joel, tell me about Disneyland.’)

“Joel, did you go to college?”

“Nah. Not my blood. Went to trade school. Was blue collar.” He senses the question before you can ask it. “I worked with my hands. Contracting stuff, like what I’m doin’ now.”

“Lucrative?” you ask.

He snorts. “Fuck no.” He drills at the wall some. “I planned to start up a business. Me ‘n Tommy, just workin’ jobs. Got pretty close to havin’ the savings to do it, too. Then…”

“This,” you fill in for him.

“This,” he nods. He slumps against your bath and dabs at his brow.

“Like I said,” you say. “You want too much, and for a moment, you will have it.”

Sun slices in through the rectangular window at the top of your bathroom. You can see dust buoyant in the air as Joel tidies up the window sill, dust mites floating on nothing. His sleeves are rolled up, arms tensing as he shifts to tug at the bench now secured to your wall. Your mouth feels a little dry as you begin to read from the sunlight, eyes skidding across words.

Your voice is breathy, undercut by a little shiver of raspiness on your tongue as you wade through the first fifty or so pages of your copy. He’d relented to you reading it to him, interspersed with small commentary on lines he doesn’t quite get, references you would never understand without him to underline them. 

“‘Cubitum eamus,’” you read, a tiny grin needling at your lips. “‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’”

“Hell’s that mean?” Joel asks, drawing out a little measurement on your bath.

“Will you go to bed with me,” you say, voice airy. Joel looks over his shoulder at you, a pucker between his brows.

“Doesn’t sound that sexy,” he says. You only shrug.

The next few pages are uneventful, apart from the sandpaper noise of Joel’s work. You fall into the melodic nature of reading. It’s nice to read something aloud that isn’t some picture book that Maria approved for the littles.

You read, “‘And if beauty is terror,’ said Julian, ‘then what is desire? We think we have many desires, but in fact we only have one. What is it?’ ‘To live,’ said Camilla. ‘To live forever,’ said Bu–”

“That’s bullshit,” Joel says. “Who wants to live forever?”

“Some people, I guess.” You weigh the book in your hand. “Don’t read too far into it. Camilla is heavily alluded to fucking Charles. They’re not really part of the exterior world, they’re all too trapped in their own morbidities to realize how strange they are.”

“She– what? Ain’t he her fuckin’ brother?”

“Brother she’s fucking, unfortunately. Hey, I never said it was a book about good people! Just that it was a good book.”

“Jesus.”

“The Greeks were obsessed with immortality. In a way, all of us are. We don’t know when we will die. In another way, our lives are indefinite until they aren’t.”

“You would’ve made a good classics student, that’s for damn sure.”

You cock your head. “How come?”

“You think too much.” You pull a face. “Not in a bad way. It’s… endearing, kinda.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m endeared by how little you think.”

He rolls his eyes. “Cute.”

You pick up where you left off at the same time Joel does. A drill spinning in time with each word spooled out of your lips. You carry on with that until sunset, when the light in the bathroom is fraying and he works by flashlight. Not wanting to strain your eyes, you resign yourself to watching him work. 

You watch his thick fingers traipse around the bath, his broad muscles tensing beneath his taut white tee. How his hands hitch across plaster. It’s impossible not to let your mind wander, to envision the drag of his hands under the hem of your shirt, up to your tits. He’d be so doting, how he always is, a caretaker at heart. Maybe he’d muster the vulnerability to nuzzle into your neck, or you into his. You don’t notice your drifting thoughts or your sifting thighs until he taps against the rim of the bath. 

Joel turns around. You go shock still. “Think that’ll be enough for tonight.” He takes a second, absorbs the sight of your panting breaths. “You alright?”

“Uh huh,” you say. “Perfect.”

You try to explain it to yourself. It doesn’t work.

He’s practically in your house from sunup to sundown, and you only ever see others if you’re working a shift down at the library. Of course you’re antsy. Besides, when you’re out in the woods with only a gun and your own, traitorous body for survival, there’s no time to slip your fingertips into your panties. No time to chase any pleasure besides that of seeing another sunrise.

You blame it on the fatigue because that’s easier. Except can you really blame something that’s always there? A hardened, concrete exhaustion that suctions around your bones. Your body doesn’t seem too tired to react to Joel. It’d been too tired to react to the people you used to travel with, even though they were all you had. And now, with so much more in arm’s reach, your body still ravages you spitefully dormant despite what you want. 

When you’re on the verge of sleep, you feel Joel at the base of your spine, hand slipping between your legs while he grinds himself against your ass. You crook your legs, fingers wiggling down to your clit, but —

Nothing. Your legs spasm with shooting, weblike pain, and you collapse in frustration and agony. Every. Single. Time. Whenever you try to do something even as banal as self pleasure, it rusts within your grasp.

You want something or somebody or maybe you just want him. Maybe you want your own touch, too. Maybe you want to feel like a person because right now you feel like nothing. A nobody who came out of nowhere with no real use to the community because anyone could take your place. Anyone could know more about books than you and be able to work harder than you and then what use do you have apart from filling up this big, big house that wasn’t made for you? Mooching off of Joel Miller himself. You wonder if he calls you a lazy ass behind your back because that’s what you are, a lazy fucking bitch who probably feels the same as anyone else in this goddamn town. But they don’t mope around in wheelchairs. Don’t mope around in bed. Don’t have to crawl to get places. Hell, it’s the apocalypse, everyone has their thing, you’re just being a fucking drama queen. You are fine. You survived outside the fence for long enough, you should be just as capable as everyone else here.

But you aren’t.

Your arousal turns to tears and your face tilts to bury itself in your pillow. You taste saline. You wish you were normal wish you could walk wish you could just fucking move for once. You’ll never be what you want to be. That version of you, if it existed at all, is buried somewhere outside of Jackson.

You have a chance here. At life, at being something. And you are wasting it. 

Leaking at the slit, chomping at the bit for someone who is never going to want you. That much is certain. He’s got several decades on you and is still more active and spry than you. You’d tried to pass him his hammer once on the job and had dropped it, leaving a warped dent into one of your floorboards. He’d soothed the ache with an understanding gaze, hand rounded out over your wrist, soft little, “It’s alright, ain’t hurtin’ anyone.” But you saw it, then, that glaze of pity that you get from everyone. 

You don’t want him to pity you, you want him to want you.

But the illusion will be broken soon, you’re sure. When he’s done fixing up your house, has had enough of you and all of your fucking baggage, you’ll only see him in passing. You’ll go back to eating alone. Those waterworks in your eyes and between your legs will re enter a drought. You’ll reread every book in the library again. Read The Secret History to the walls. Wait for them to respond, and sit in the silence.

He doesn’t come over the next day.

Of course. He saw you fidgeting and now he knows you’re a pervert. Just your luck. Squander what little you have here. Would Tommy and Maria kick you out for this? No. Not for the crime of being hot under the collar for Joel. …Right?

You set the table anyway, and it sits frighteningly bare as the shadows of noon stretch through the windows then stretch into darkness after dusk. You lay on the couch, waiting for him, eyeing where you’d stuffed the bookmark into the preloved pages.

You can’t bring yourself to hop back into your wheelchair and wiggle through the doorway he’d widened for you, so you curl into your couch and quilt like a snail wrapped up in its shell. Then, a ratchety cough bursts through the still, quiet air, followed by the jiggling of a doorknob. Your hand lurches behind you onto the side table. You knock over a ceramic coaster, hear it shatter as your hand locks around your gun.

You heft it, aiming it at the door, and —

“Woah, woah, Jesus, kid, put that damn thing down now–”

You exhale, slowly lowering it onto the coffee table. “Joel? Jesus, it’s…” You crane your neck. “Two in the fucking morning.”

“Sorry, patrol… ran into some marauders. Dealt with some marauders. Why you ain’t in bed? And you know you oughta be locking your door. I know it’s safer here, but I don’t like that boy down the street. Never been fond ‘a him.”

“Was… waiting for you,” you mumble. Jesus, you even sound pathetic.

“Shit. Did you eat? Sorry, kid, I can run back and find somethin’ canned, heat it up for you…” Kid. Another blasé reminder of exactly how he perceives you. Young, but lacking any light in your eyes that might indicate it.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, jaw clenching as you scoot up against the couch. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

“Always gonna come,” he says. “Don’t want you goin’ hungry.”

You swallow, saliva swishing between your teeth. “Right.” You pat the spot next to you. “C’mon. We have another chapter, if you aren’t too tired.”

“So long as you don’t mind me smellin’ like the woods.”

“There are worse things to smell like,” you tease, and then the couch is slugging down with his weight as you tug the chain of your lamp. It takes forty-five minutes to get through this chapter, and you’re halfway to bed by the time you close the book. You yawn, stretching out with a grimace.

“Want some help?” Joel asks.

“Huh?” you ask groggily.

“Gettin’ tucked in,” he says.

“Oh, no,” you say. “I quite like it here. Just… turn out the lamp before you head out.”

“‘Cubitum eamus,’” you read, a tiny grin needling at your lips. “‘What?’ ‘Nothing.’”

“Hell’s that mean?” Joel asks, drawing out a little measurement on your bath.

“Will you go to bed with me,” you say, voice airy. Joel looks over his shoulder at you, a pucker between his brows.

“Doesn’t sound that sexy,” he says. This time, you don’t shrug.

This version of you is airbrushed. There are no bruises from trips and falls she has taken. She is confident and sure within herself, that vain swing of her hips. The push of her breasts together by shoulders hunched forward, but not too far forward. She hefts a leg over the lip of the bath, straddles Joel upon the shower bench. A shaky breath guttered out of his nose, chest rising.

She presses the warm mound of her cunt against his cock, already half-hard through his stained work jeans. “Do you want it to be, Joel?” she breathes. Rocks her hips, enough to make his head fall back against the hard wall with a sharp thud. “Cubitum eamus,” she whispers as she thumbs the zipper of his pants down. “Cubitum eamus,” she exhales into his ear as she works him with a twisting, wanting fist. “Cubitum eamus,” as she spreads her legs wider and sinks upon his lap, rocks her hi—

You wake up drenched in sweat. “Fuck. Fuck.” You’re still curled up like a roly poly on the couch, except this time, you can feel the slick beading the insides of your thighs. You can feel the phantom tickle of Joel’s warmth at your side. Just trying to adjust mashes your thighs closer together jerks your swollen clit between your legs. “Mmph,” you muffle your noise into your pillow.

The pain is further away now, like a fan the next room over. The longer you’re awake, the closer it’ll get until it rises to the sharpness of a siren in your ear. If you’re quick, you might be able to get off. Even if you’re clumsy, even if you haven’t done this in forever, you want it bad enough to try.

You prop one bent leg up against the back cushion of the couch. Your other leg drapes off the edge. There’s no exquisite buildup to this. Your body is far too topsy turvy for that. If you were to work from your neck to your cunt, pain may strangle you by the time you hit your midriff.

Your hand slithers beneath the seal of your shorts’ waistband. Hips cant up into the radiating heat of your fingertips.

This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. Waxing poetic to Joel about the life you wish you had when he’s probably seen the same amount of shit as you. Nobody wears a broken watch without a reason, just how nobody knows how to find a gun in their sleep without a reason. Getting off to the man who’s shown you nothing but kindness when you’ve done nothing to earn it. Rubbing your clit as you are now to the man who has done you boundless favors. It’s too saccharine to resist, though. That treacle drip between your thighs, the mash of your fingertips against your nub. 

You reach down to your hole — which has never felt so empty before — and gather enough slick to smear along your mound. A feathery whimper splays out of your lips as you toss your hips into your hand. Ecstasy sutures whatever pain rises in your joints, muscles, organs. It’s been years since you’ve felt this good, been able to let your walls down enough to do so. Sweat leaks from your pores; you feel your body slick and slippery within your blankets. You can’t make yourself care.

You surrender fully to pleasure with a little whine. Your fingers rub quickly, harshly, needily against your bundle of nerves. Your hips meet each upward stroke. It doesn’t take much, not when you’ve been deprived for so long. Face burning hot, you feel blood rush within your ears. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Your limbs shake, wanting, wanting, wanting. You’re right there, finally, on that razor-thin precipice–

“Oh good lord!”

You squeal, yanking your soaked hand out of your panties. Your fingers have pruned from the moisture, and your wetness stretches in drapes from your nail beds.

You blink away the pleasure-blurred film over your eyes, vision going from spotty to clear. You hurriedly wipe your fingers on your shorts and crane your neck.

Joel stands, facing the now-shut door. His hands cover his eyes even though he’s noticeably looking away from you. His shoulders are hunched, posture slumped. “I t-told you you needa start lockin’ your damn door!” he says.

“You need to start knocking!” you say. With a grimace, you cross your arms over your chest. You wish the couch cushions could expand and swallow you whole. Tears glisten at the corners of your eyes. This is the worst case scenario. He’s never, ever going to speak to you again and you’ll eventually die alone in Jackson the same way you were going to die alone out there, except this will be a far more merciful and prolonged way to die out, like the final burn of a wick in a nearly empty candle instead of an explosion. The rumors, God, you can hear them now, slithering through the cracks in your windows. “I’m sorry, Joel,” you choke out, throat grating from the words. “Fuck, I’m really sorry, you didn’t deserve to see that—”

“‘S fine. We all got needs, but Jesus fucking Christ, girl. In broad goddamn daylight? With the blinds open? I don’t know what you were gettin’ up to out there, but here, we got people. Coulda been anyone else walkin’ by and getting an eyeful.”

“I don’t usually–” you start before shutting yourself up.

“Don’t usually get off with the blinds open and your front door unlocked? I’d sure fuckin’ hope not.”

You cringe. “Don’t usually get off at all.” It’s a hoarse, muttered thing under your breath.

He stills and then shakes his head. “Don’t needa be hearin’ this.”

“Sorry. My body, it just… it… it’s not… it doesn’t work right, okay? When it comes to anything. Was just trying to take advantage.” You can already feel it surging up from your ankles up, concrete hardening in your calves. 

“Poor thing,” he says, and his low timbre shouldn’t make your clit jerk, at attention all over again. “Jus’ wanted to feel good. Now I feel like a dick for walkin’ in on ya. I’ll leave you be.” He turns back towards the door, reaching for the knob. The angle exposes the curve of his body to you, how his abdomen slopes into his bulge down the thickness of his thig– wait.

His bulge.

He’s hard. Why the fuck is he hard?

That flush of warmth in your groin returns, burning all the hotter. 

“Joel,” you rasp. From the way he tenses up, you know he can tell that you’ve noticed. He dips his head. He scrubs a hand along his textured, grizzled face. “I’m sorry, kid, I just – like I said, I’ll get outta your hair–”

He wants you. Or maybe he’s just as pent up as you are. You aren’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. “Joel–”

“Don’t,” he says. His voice leaves no room for argument.

You being you, you argue anyway. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Bullshit,” he grouses. “You’re too young for me, I’m too old for you, and that’s that. You hear me?”

If the evidence of his need weren’t pressed against his thigh, now strategically angled away from you, maybe you’d have given up by now. “It’s biological, Joel. Come on, when was the last time you got laid?” His silence punctuated by the tick of his jaw is an answer enough.

“When was the last time you got laid?” he shoots back.

Your silence is far more deafening than his. You roll over with a groan, burying your face into the same pillow you’d been drooling into. Footsteps crunch along the creaking floorboards of your living room. Joel taps at your shoulder with the backs of his knuckles.

“Kid.” There it is again. “C’mon. Talk t’ me.”

Your eyes flick up. You watch him through your brow bone and lash line. “It’s hell, you know? Except you don’t. Before the outbreak you were probably some sort of sex magnet heartthrob or something. I mean, look at you,” you say with a vague gesture at him. The face he pulls tells you that might not be entirely true, but that’s not a wound you’re interested in poking right now. Not when you’re flayed open beneath him.

“I’ve never had that. That… the old group I was with before they all died and before I got here, there were a couple of eligible bachelors, I guess you could say. All my energy went into surviving. But I was limping back into the compound. Not many of them were interested in a girl who couldn’t put out. One of them even told me they weren’t interested because I ‘walked like I’d already been run through’.” You wince at reciting the memory. “And… eventually, I gave up on ever being wanted. I felt too goddamn shitty to even think about putting my hand in my panties. Couldn’t even spread my legs at the time. So, yeah, Joel. I’m a goddamn virgin and you don’t need to rub it in. You don’t need to be a dick about it because I’m enough of a dick to myself about i-”

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. I knew plenty ‘a people at your age who weren’t havin’ sex.”

“For this reason?” you ask. “It fucking sucks, Joel. Not having any control at all whatsoever over my body, being demeaned whenever I try to. I… I just want–”

“Wanna feel good?” he asks, voice low and scrappy.

You swallow. Nod at him.

He takes you in. Your curled up, wretched form that has betrayed you ten times over. Those legs of yours that never work, the arms you struggle to weave through your shirts. His pupils consume his irises, and his jaw is clenched tight. Eventually, he says, “On your back, sweetheart.”

Your heart stutters. You freeze, looking up at him. You’d asked for it, would’ve even begged for it, but Joel, as stoic and straightforward as he always is, says, “Don’t make me repeat it. Already crossin’ too many lines with you than what’s good for either ‘a us. So turn your ass over and let’s get this over with.”

You swallow, throat tight and constricting. “Jeez. Guess romance isn’t dead.” Joel rolls his eyes. “That ain’t what this is.”

“Right, I know.”

You roll over for him, body stiffer than a board and not for the usual reasons. You have no idea what he intends to do with you. No idea how to position your limbs. This couch is already cramped enough for you alone. You can’t imagine how he’s planning to fit himself up here with you. You stare at the popcorn ceiling, trying to stop your vision from swimming. It’s hard when you could take a dip in your panties.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, hand landing upon your thigh. “Don’t have to go through with it.”

“I want it,” you say in a rush. You’ve wanted Joel for longer than you’ve been consciously aware of, you think. And now he’s offering to touch you, to make you come, to make you come at someone else’s hands for the first time. “I just… I dunno. What if I’m… bad?” you cringe.

Joel snorts.

“It’s a real concern!”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what smut you’ve been readin’ at the library, but let me tell you this. Sex ain’t perfect. It’s gonna be gross ‘n messy ‘n kinda awkward. It’s about mutual trust and respect. You don’t need to be arching like a Playboy bunny, you just needa relax. Let me take care ‘a you.”

“That’s the hard part, dude,” you say, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets.

“We’ll take it easy,” he says, hand slipping tenderly up to your waist. “Can I hop up there with ya?”

You nod. With a groan, he hefts himself over the lip of the couch to get between your legs. The sight of him between your thighs is nothing short of erotic. You squirm. “Needy,” he chides, sending electricity skimming up your spine.

“So… you don’t touch yourself often. Ever give yourself an orgasm, honey?” You bite on your lower lip and nod hesitantly. “Good, ‘s good.” He nuzzles into your thigh, lips tracing over the gooseflesh there. “What do you usually think about?”

“I… stuff, I guess,” you mumble, tucking your chin to your chest. It’s not exactly polite to say oh, yeah, I was jerking off to you before you interrupted my solo session! Sorry! At least… you think it’s impolite. You aren’t quite familiar with the etiquette. “How do you usually make women come?”

“Kissin’,” he murmurs. “Rubbin’. Lickin’. Talkin’.”

“Really painting me a picture there, Miller.”

In response, he pastes an open-mouthed kiss above your knee. Your free leg kicks out, nearly nailing him in the jaw. Joel chuckles. “Okay, maybe you are bad at this.”

“Oh, fuck you, too.”

“Just playin’, kid. But c’mon, you gotta cooperate with me on this if you want it to work. Alright?”

You nod, releasing a shaky breath. “Okay. It’s mechanical, mostly. Just… trying to release some tension, I guess?”

“Mmm, you poor thing. Gonna let me make it all better?” He croons, cupping the back of one of your knees. You nod, scarcely even knowing what you’re asking for anymore. “Gonna kiss that sloppy ‘lil slit ‘a yours. Fuck, can smell ya through your shorts.”

You shiver, hips jerking instinctively towards him. He hums as he starts peppering kisses up the insides of both of your legs. “J-Joel,” you whine. He glances up at you. “What if it tastes–”

“What if it sounds a whole lot like I don’t give a shit. What I wanna do is kiss that pretty fuckin’ clit. Bet it’s twitching, all swollen… poor thing.” Your back bows at that, which draws a pained grunt through the grids of your teeth.

His eyes flick up to yours. “Shh. Don’t gotta wiggle. Let me take care ‘a ya, yeah? That’s what this is about, sweetheart. Can I take these pretty things off?” His thumbs tweak the hem of your shorts.

They definitely aren’t pretty. They’re boxy and hang loose on your hips, held up only by a double-knotted drawstring that’s fraying at the edges. Still, he regards you as if all of you, even your worn clothes, are pretty. It makes your heart flutter against your ribcage, a frantic thing. He tugs them down your legs and shimmies them away from your calves, discarding them somewhere over the couch’s armrest. 

He continues leaving lazy, open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thighs. It takes everything in you not to flail out and kick him again. It’s such a foreign sensation, such a foreign situation, that you don’t know what to do with your hands. When he looks up at you, he seems to pick up on this much, puzzled facial expression falling into something laced with understanding.

He kisses the fold of your thigh into your pelvis. “What’s got you worried, sugar?”

“I…” I’m scared that I’ll end up in pain. Bedridden for days just because I let myself feel something good. Because I don’t have a body worth feeling anything except for pain. This busted, messed-up vessel I’m trapped in.

He seems to read your mind, eyes silently searching yours until the furrow in his brow becomes less pronounced. “Alright,” he says. “What’s comfiest for you?”

You shuffle until your legs bracket his neck, ankles splayed out somewhere along his spine. “Is that – I don’t want to choke you–”

“You can,” he says, and he sounds serious. You sputter out a laugh that doesn’t seem to land. “Try…. But you ain’t gonna. No offense, but–”

“Yeah, yeah, no core strength, worse leg strength, I know.”

He smiles wryly at you. “Now gimme your hands.” You hold them out, palms up. He cradles them both in one hand and guides them to his fluffy, full head of hair. You sigh as you sink your hands into the curls that naturally sprawl out at his ears. Your thumb strokes his temple, and he hums at the touch, a whirring noise in his throat. “There ya go. Pull as hard as you need to. Gotta know what feels good for ya.”

Your knees almost lock at the sight of him, the beautiful, debauched vision that he is between your legs, the arch of his nose nearly cradled between your clothed folds. He goes the rest of the way, nuzzling his nose against your clit. Your hips jerk, accompanied by a faint whine. “Fuck,” he groans. “Sensitive ‘lil thing.”

You expect him to tug the gusset of your panties out of the way and bury his face between your thighs — but he doesn’t. He licks a long, slippery stripe up the center of your clothed slide. You whimper, head sliding back against the pillow. Your toes curl a tad, fingers tightening in his hair already. He lets out a breathless laugh into your core. He spits on your center and smears it with spiralling twists and turns of his tongue. You feel yourself gush in your panties.

You know what your clit is. You’ve heard the former members of your group talk about how the guys around you were useless at finding it, you’ve slid your own hand in your panties not too often, but enough times to be able to clumsily mash your finger pads against what you think is it. That swollen, twitchy nub between your folds. Joel finds it as if it’s a mere extension of his tongue. His lips latch around it and suck through the soaked cloth of your panties. You buck against his mouth.

Hands nestling into his hair, you drag his face against your cunt, whining. Joel groans, shaking his head side to side. It tugs your clit, sucked raw between his lips, side to side. You shudder, tugging even harder at his hair. “Jesus- fuck, Joel, God–”

He pulls up and gives you a loopy grin. “Jus’ me, honey.”

“If I had tomatoes,” you say. “I’d be throwing them at you.” He gives a halfhearted nip at your clit, hardly enough to even feel it. 

“No you wouldn’t.” He kisses the inside of your thighs again, drags his tongue along the crease between your thigh and your groin. “Be outta a goddamn good orgasm if you did.” He tugs at the seam of your panties, snapping them against your leg. “Gonna let me take these off? Make ya really see God?”

“Yes,” you say, winded. “Yes, Joel– anything you want.”

“Anything you want,” he reminds you, palm open above your knee. His thumb rubs circles against you. 

You nod vigorously. “Well, I want. So get to it.” He pins you with a cocky look. “Please?”

“Can’t deny ya,” he murmurs into your skin. He shuffles your panties down. Takes a deep, trembling breath of your musky-sweet scent. Nudges the tip of his nose into your clit. It’s enough to make you keen. Then, his tongue plunges inside of you without wavering. He curls it upwards, nudging it against that spot you never have been able to reach on your own (only if you bend your legs like rolled dough under a pin, only if you reach around yourself hard enough to make your bones crack). The pressure skims across your body, making you quiver. You jerk at his curls even more, driving him against your cunt. His jaw is opened wide as he eats you, almost as if he intends to swallow your cunt whole and then some. The salacious slurp and suck of his lips catching on your folds is enough to make your fingertips tremble in his curls.

“Ah- fuck. Joel — Joel,” you whine, hips twitching against his mouth. He explores your cunt with a fervor you’ve never been able to exact upon yourself. You’re careening towards an orgasm faster than you’d like to, calves tightening, arms shaking. Blood roars in your ears. Your vision goes spotty. Joel moans into your pussy and you’re done for.

You come harder than you ever have in your life. Thrashing as much as your muscles will let you. Grinding yourself against Joel’s face, his stubble scraping against your bare skin. His lips rise to suction against your clit, giving you a wave to ride along the course of your orgasm. You whine and moan and make sounds you hadn’t thought yourself capable of making. The comedown is just as hard, smacking into wet concrete and trying not to sink. You clutch at Joel’s curls, yanking him out of your cunt when it crosses the line from pleasurably overwhelming to miserably overwhelming. He looks just as wrecked as yours, taking heaving pants. His hair is swept out of his eyes by your grip, pupils dilated, skin slick with sweat, beard webbed by your cum.

“Fuck,” you exhale.

“You’re telling me,” he says. He gently pries your hands out of his locks and presses tiny little kisses along your thigh, up your clothed stomach, along your shoulder blades. He may be straddling you, but he holds himself so tenderly that it’s as if he isn’t there at all. For a moment that leaves your stomach riddled with yearning, you feel nothing but pleasure ribboning through your limbs. There’s no glass-shattering of pain between your bones. It’s just you and him, wrapped up in each other.

His eyes meet yours, pupils slowly shrinking. Your eyes widen as you survey him again. “Wait—” He squints at you. “Gotta be equitable.” With a clumsy hand, you start snaking your way down to his waistband. Before you get there, he snatches your wrist.

“Nope,” he says. “Don’t ‘gotta’ do anything. Didn’t do that so I could ‘get mine’. Did that so I could taste your sweet cunt when it comes.”

“But–” You know how excruciating it is when you’re needy and can’t get yourself off. “I want to.”

“‘Fraid my refractory period ain’t what it used to be.” He scratches the back of his neck, face pulled into a taut grimace. “‘S been a long time for me, too, y’know. Busted in my fuckin’ pants like a goddamn teenager.” His cheeks are apple red, rounded out below his eye bags.

“Oh,” you say.

“Prolly for the best,” he says, hand falling to cup your cheek. “Like I said – can’t say no to ya. And if you started beggin’ me to give that pretty, needy ‘lil pussy my cock? I’d fold in a heartbeat, sugar. And that ain’t good for either ‘a us.”

You toy with the curl around his ear, now moist with sweat. “What if I said I wanted it to be you, Joel?” Joel’s face tightens with a self-loathing that is all too familiar to you. You see it every morning in the mirror.

But Joel, who you feel safe with, Joel. Joel, always at your house at the ass crack of dawn all the way to when the dinner bell rings. Whether he be cracking at your door frames or sliding a poorly-arranged plate across the table to you. Joel, dozing off on your shoulder while you read him Tartt. Joel, who likely against his better judgment, had just given you your first orgasm at the hands of someone else, all because you’d asked. “I trust you,” you say.

“You shouldn’t,” he says. He nuzzles his head into your neck. Your hand goes up to cradle the back of his head, scratching at it. “Ain’t done anything to earn it.”

“In your eyes, maybe. I…” You hesitate.  “enjoy your company.”

Joel takes a deep breath. You feel his exhale fan out on the arch of your neck. He smells like you. Like your cunt. It makes your stomach twirl. “You ain't so bad yourself,” he says.

It’s a while that you both lay there. The sun has gone from a sliver in the window to a beam across your living room, warming both of you as much as you warm each other. His hands play with the hem of your shirt, all the loose, spindly seams that have unraveled over the years. It’s this basking in the afterglow as much as it is basking in the budding heat of something new. 

“What do you want with me?” he asks.

You falter at that, tongue sealed to the roof of your mouth.

Everything, you want to say. But that’d be foolhardy and wrong and stupid. You’ve known him for a few weeks, but it feels like it’s been a few years. He sees you — not as the youngest cripple in town, not as a sexless posable doll, not as the librarian who almost fell out of her chair trying to do a wheelie in the snow. He just sees you.

You want to see him, too.

You settle on, “Anything you feel like giving me.”

He looks up at you through his lashes, pupils gone back to normal. Eyes still soft. Face still rough and smooth at the same time. “Anything, huh?” You nod. “Think I can do that.”

[valneedsvalium]

can we talk about how coke and beer is such a horrible drink order

[valneedsvalium]

Can you throw it back?

u forgot to turn on anon baby...

[valneedsvalium]

guys I swear ill write sum when I can im broken rn...

[valneedsvalium]

VETTY GOOD GODDDF OH MY GOD.

so just loving u for that little bit about pavlovian reponses because yes Jackson!joel and reader are all over eachother like dogs and I love that.

also thigh humping reference perhaps??? am I reading into this too much or am I right??

either way I love this so so much AND I LOVE JOELS LITTLE CLOSING LIKE like woah this made my hole weak.

beneath the window | j.m. drabble

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader summary: you suck off joel by his workbench. warnings: 18+ mdni. smut/pwp. deepthroating. sucking cock. praise. ball worship. joel miller is affectionate. he's also ever so slightly subby while maintaining slight dominance. oh and implied age gap. throatpie. word count: 1579 a/n: i wrote this in an hour i'm so so so so sorry. the new photos ruined me it's probably bad. i'm horny. down horrendous. want to please him. etcetera. enjoy in lieu of being sad. he lives on in our hearts blah blah blah. @ovaryacted this is for u.

Anyone passing the window of Joel Miller’s workshop would be none the wiser to what you got up to beneath the window sill.

It’s a lazy, idle Sunday morning. Dust motes float through honey-colored shafts of light coming in through the muddled glass. There’s not a sound except for the scuff and scrape of sandpaper on Joel’s latest woodworking venture.

The door is closer to his bad ear, and your footsteps are muffled by a pair of fluffy socks you’d nicked off of Ellie. He doesn’t hear you, shows no sign of noticing you until you’re right next to him. His breath cinches as you press a soft kiss into the plane of his neck. One hand rubs at the knobs of his broad shoulders, the other trailing down his abdomen to preemptively flick the button on his jeans wide open.

“Whatcha doin’, honey?” he croons as soon as you’ve sunk to your knees. You let out a soft little noise as you kiss down his clothed abdomen. It tightens under your ministrations. The scraping at Joel’s desk stops as he reaches a hand down to cup your cheek. A calloused thumb brushes at your parted lips, luring a breath out of you.

“Nothing, Joel,” you say, an innocent glaze slicked over your wanting eyes.

“Mmm, don’t look like nothin’ to me.” His thumb tugs at the petal of your lower lip. You nudge the corner of your forehead into his pudge, feeling him. Breathing him in, that smell of pine burning in a hearth. His eyes shoot shut when your nose taps at the tip of his cock through his jeans. “Been missing me, sweetheart? ‘S that what this is? I ain’t been lovin’ on ya enough.”

“You love on me plenty, baby. Gotta let me love on you.” You bully the zipper down with a simper crooking at your lips.

His cock is already half-hard. He’s told you it’s pavlovian, whatever the hell that means. Something about how whenever you’re around, he can’t stop himself from needing you. From the heat between your thighs that feels like a startled sunburn, from the slick already leaking into the gusset of your panties, you suppose you’re pavlovian too. 

You spit hastily into your hand, giving him a quick pump before you circle your hot mouth around his head, flushed and wanting. Joel groans, hips giving a shallow jerk against his stool. You give him a chastising glare — he’s already had to put the seat back together three times after… incidents.

“Alright, alright,” he relents. His hands leave you altogether, returning to the clutter upon his desk. You hear a knife scritching at wood, the wet suckle of your mouth against his tip. His breaths are choppy as you suckle on him, tongue working at the vein below his cock. Your fist, as small as it is compared to his wide girth, tries its best to wrap around the base, now fully hard and solid. He lets out a jagged pant as you dip your head deeper, urging his cock further back in your throat. More saliva meshes between your mouth and his cock, and he gives a bit of a jerk between your tongue and the roof of your mouth.

A shaky breath tumbles out of him. “Shit,” he exhales as you hear a noise a little too similar to the prick of his carving knife against his thumb. He might be crafting, but you see the blister of his gaze on you, two hot coals searing through your skin. Looking through you, seeing your basest desires. 

“There ya go,” he rasps as you bob your head at him, swirling your tongue around where he stretches your lips wide open. You tug back, tongue slipping out to lave at the precum oozing from his slit. “So pretty,” Joel says, eyes only on you. 

You smile as you dip below the curve of his cock. You raise a slippery palm to his balls, already within arms reach on account of how low they hang. With a little squeeze, his hips cant up again, and you arch a brow at him. Joel groans, hand fumbling down to the back of your head. It’s too gentle to urge, but just stern enough to cradle you as your lips lock around one of his fuzzy balls. Your tongue swipes and spirals along the thin skin as your hand goes to join, toying with the other. You all but fondle him, working him over, under, and around; all of the ways you’ve gotten to know him in your relationship. You suck at his sack.

You shouldn’t be all too surprised to hear his strained whimper, but he does. His cock twitches from the lack of attention. You pout at him. “You’re so needy, Miller.”

“For you, darlin’? Hell, I’m lucky I ain’t already creamed in that tight little throat ‘a yours. Keep goin’.” You whine at the praise, a low keen in your throat as your thighs stitch together again. You give him an all but wanton look, diving back into his sack.

You suck and tweak and slurp at his balls, alternating between the two. He seems to forgo all attempts of woodworking as he has one hand wrapped with an ironclad grip around the ledge of his desk, and another, much gentler hand, wound against the back of your head.

You give an especially hard suck to the ball in your mouth, a rush trickling through you as you feel it tense up between your locked lips. “Fuck me, honey, ‘s so good. You’re so good.” His head dips forward, eyeing you as you tongue at him. You hold eye contact with him, absorbing that heaving in his chest, the jump of his Adam’s apple, the crook in his brows that you’ve kissed so many times before. His eyes are blown wide above you, breath torn in his lungs. 

You swish saliva in your mouth as you draw back and loosen a string of it along the bulk of his cock, all the way to his slit. He flinches, entire body drawn tight and loose at the same time. His nails dig into the back of your skull, nudging you forward. “Oh, goddamn. C’mon, honey, suck it. Know you wanna suck it f’ me.”

You only languidly pump him, smearing the saliva you’d just spread all over him. You flick your tongue over the tip, followed in close succession by your thumb. You tuck your head lower, determined to take him as close to the base as you can get it. You make room for him in your throat, nudging him deeper and deeper with each shattering breath he takes. His cock almost springs into the back of your throat, tapping at your gag reflex, cozying up beyond it. You gag, sputtering. Spit hangs out of your lips, drags along his length. His groan is debauched.

His voice is hoarse and roughened with desire as he says, “Pretty fuckin’ thing, gagging on my cock. So damn good at that.” You would smile around him if not for how much he stretches your mouth out.

You settle for bobbing your head faster, letting him barge against the back of your throat again, again, again. You choke and heave lightly against his cock, which serves to only quicken his breathing. From where you are on your knees, you can see the clamping of his abdomen. You pull back only to sink back down, taking him from his swollen, leaking head all the way to his base. You nestle your forehead against his stomach, a tiny little whine stumbling out of you. Your fist tightens around the part of him that can’t fit into your mouth.

Joel’s hips jerk. Ragged groans spill from his throat. His hips buck at every single swivel of your tongue against him, even more so at every grasp your throat takes around him. He whimpers. Your eyes burn and you aren’t sure why until a crystalline tear leaks over your waterline. Precum tickles down into your throat and you swallow it instinctively.

Joel makes a noise as if he’s been punched. His cock jerks in your throat, balls tighten under his base. His cock catches at the back of your throat. He gasps out, “Blowin’ me like it’s your fuckin’ job, goddammit, oh honey that’s, shit, baby, I’m coming, I’m comin’—”

His tip bumps the back of your throat. His moan is subdued and so, so breathy. Your navel sinks with heat as he breaks in your mouth, hands clambering against the desk, against your head, wherever he can find purchase as his cock spews cum down your throat. You whine, swallowing him down through his peak. His hips buck and jerk, thighs tightening and loosening. His body loosens, slumping against the desk. His gasps and the glucking of your throat is all you hear. 

“G-good girl. Thas’ a good girl for me,” he exhales. He pulls back, fully spent and heaving from pleasure.

“Mhm, you’re welcome,” you quip, smirking. 

His thumb reaches up to swipe a tear from your eye. He pats his thigh as he gets up, tucking himself into his jeans. He hisses from oversensitivity. “C’mon girl. I might be done, but I can smell that sloppy little slit from up here.”

He clears his desk in one swipe, and based on that dark glint in his eyes, you’ll be lucky if he lets you stop at two.

[valneedsvalium]

vetty.... vetty you've done it again. even when i hate everyone and everything i don't hate the way you write joel. he's so nasty here and it's very much like dbf!joel to turn it on us 😭

girl next door tongue fucks dilfs ass | pervy!dbf!joel x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog | tlou & palestinepairing: pervy!dbf!joel x f!reader summary: a mix-up leads to joel finding your search history. turns out he wants a starring role in making the cheesy pornos you watch a reality. warnings: (18+ mdni) same joel as fair's fair, but you don't need to read that fic for context, porn without plot tbh, smut, degradation, humiliation, porn mentions, rimming/ass eating, exhibitionism mentions, f!masturbation, jerking joel off, joel calls reader kiddo, i wrote this in 2 days and had a blasst, asshole!joel gets his asshole eaten, cheesy title based on porn (sorry) word count: 5.2k a/n: was not expecting my last ass eating fic to be so divisive. sorry for writing another — it will happen again <3 thank you to @lovesickonmybed for curating the moodboard, sitting on the doc with me, and being wonderful in general. @ovaryacted & @joelsdagger for being ENABLERS. hope y'all like this <3 mwah mwah mwah. if there r any typos pls ignore i proofread a bit but im wiped out.

You’ve never been known for virtuosity. Growing up in the south, many of your classmates were raised with pewter purity rings beneath their knuckles and Mary Janes glued to their feet. You were the one all the sweet Catholic girls were forbidden to be around, as if your presence would ignite the Lord’s distaste. You never grasped why you were excluded from their birthday parties, never invited to playdates, or always talked about as a miscreant — but now, you think you might have a hunch.

Maybe those WASP moms could see through to the version of yourself that you are right now, taking full advantage of your time home alone. Phone in one hand, with your other shoved haphazardly beneath your lacy waistband to flick at your slippery clit. You whimper, hips rutting against the pads of your fingers, eyes fluttering. Heat ribbons through your veins and around your spine. You eye the trashy porn currently playing out behind your cracked screen protector — VIRGIN SLUT DEVOURS DILF’S ASS. You try to tell yourself it’s because the ‘virgin slut’ in question has your body type, but the DILF in question is… topical.

Three short days ago, Joel, your dad’s infamously perverted best friend, had finally taken the initiative to make things sexual with you. As much as he’d been smacking your ass lately and not-so-subtly eyeing you up, none of that cold hold a needle to the time he’d cupped the back of your head and shoved you face first into his armpit. You’d licked and sniffed at his musk until you’d come completely untouched. Later, you’d watched him fuck his own fist, back arching off of his mattress, and that’d been that.

Except… it really wasn’t just that. You’ve been glued to your phone watching the nastiest, raunchiest stuff you didn’t used to be into — until you’d imagined Joel being the one to do them to you. (Hell, you didn’t know wedgies and tickling were kinks. But you’d sure as shit stumbled across the pornstars making a living off of them.)

Rimming is the most recent of your fascinations. The star of this video, a beefy middle-aged man with thick thighs and a plump ass, is just as domineering as Joel had been. He’s on his knees with his ass up, body braced on one folded elbow while his other hand cups the back of the woman’s head. He holds her down as she whines, tongue circling around his asshole. The camera zooms in, capturing the little smatterings of hair along his cheeks. “Just like that. Get in there good, girl,” the DILF says. You whimper, closing your eyes and imagining it’s Joel saying that. Joel’s skin on your tongue. His hips hitching under your mouth. His thighs tensing as he paints his belly with cum.

A new surge of slick rushes down your fingers and you whine as your stomach tightens into a double knot of pleasure. You’re so close, teetering over that precious edg–

The doorbell rings.

Your dad wasn’t supposed to be home until five. It is midnight.

With a frustrated groan, you chuck your phone facedown and scrub your hand along your face. You tug your hand out of your soaked panties, breath still sawing in and out of you as you wipe your juices off your hand with a tissue from your nightstand. The doorbell rings again. “Jesus, I’m coming!” you shout. You should be coming. You shove your phone in your pocket and head downstairs. 

You unlock the door between cluttered grumbles and yank it open. “You should have a key by now, dude,” you start telling your dad. Except it’s not your dad’s figure blocking the doorway, eclipsing the simmering Texan sun. It’s the very object of your degenerate fantasies — Joel Miller himself.

Joel had tried everything to avoid going to your place. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at your house, only able to think of the moment you two had shared in the garage. When he’d defiled you, right underneath your father’s roof. His eyes feel gritty from the thought, how all those degrading words had rolled off of his tongue like they belonged there. His best buddy’s little girl, licking and nipping at his fucking armpit. He squashed that thought quickly. The memory makes his blood rush south all over again.

When his phone ran out of juice as he was putting in a request for supplies he needed ASAP, he’d grabbed his charger. Except after he plugged it in, the battery only sporadically caught a charge. It made that irritating pinging noise repeatedly. He adjusted the angle enough times that he felt like he was taking measurements on a job site before giving up.

He prowled around Sarah’s room for a spare, except she must’ve stuffed hers in her duffel bag for her sleepover at Emma’s house tonight. After that dead end, he unplugged her galaxy light. It wasn’t the same shape. Port. Contact. Whatever the hell it is. He remembers vividly three years back when Sarah had seen some sort of viral video about making a charger out of a potato. She didn’t shut up about it for a week until he came home with two potatoes. One ended up as a failed charger, and the other had been dinner. With no spare wires in this house, Sarah at Emma’s, and every single store within fifteen miles closed for the night, it’s looking like he’ll have to wait for the morning.

Except he’s got a packed week. The prissy nepo baby’s ‘dream house’ he’s working on wants everything done quickly and well. She had them install the tiles for her kitchen only to decide when they were halfway through with the marble tiles that she wanted rose quartz. God forbid she throw another fucking temper tantrum.

Joel looked at the potatoes on the counter, then to your bedroom window. The lamp was on. He sighed.

He had never before wished potatoes could emit electricity, but he was now. Then, he’d toed on his Crocs and shuffled next door. He rang the bell, waiting with bated breath.

“Jus’ take your sweet time,” he says to your porch as he hears you thunking down the stairs. “Ain’t like the skeeters ain’t eatin’ me alive out here,” he grumbles.

“—should have a key by now, dude,” you say as you tug the door. You blink at him several times. He can see your shock through the screen door in the furrow of your brows. “Fuck are you doing here?”

“Real warm welcome for a neighbor,” Joel says, shouldering past the screen door. He scratches at the back of his neck, swallowing. He eyes the soft curve of your lips and the squint of your eyes. In the porch light, your sweat-slick complexion shimmers. You’re panting. Must’ve run a hell of a marathon to get down here, even if you were slower than a turtle. Unless–

No. He’s gotta get his brain outta the gutter, which seems to be his dick’s place of residence. 

“My charger’s busted. Needa do some work stuff. Was hopin’ I could snag yours.”

“Well what if I’m charging my phone?”

Joel points to the suspiciously phone-shaped outline in your pocket. “Chargin’ your phone my ass. C’mon, do me a solid, I’ll owe ya.”

“You already owe me.”

“Yeah, for what?”

“That time I tutored Sarah when she had a C in–”

“Alright, alright. I’ll owe ya twice, how ‘bout that?” You roll your eyes and turn, already heading back for the stairs. “Wait,” Joel says, snagging you by your wrist. A week ago, he would have snapped your bra strap against your skin to get your attention. Now he feels nauseous at the idea. He’d already disrespected you so wholly once before. It’s not as if he has any further left to go. “Could I borrow yours in the meantime? Y’know… mine kinda takes a second to get some juice. I want to get a jump on looking for what my client needs.”

“That washed up producer’s daughter with five thousand Spotify listens per month? Yeah, dad told me about her. I’ll let you. But only ‘cause I pit you. She sounds like a nightmare.” You fish around for your phone, type in the pin, and smack it against his palm. “No snooping,” you say, holding a finger in front of his face.

“‘Course not,” he says. “Thanks, kiddo.”

You pull a face at that. Before he can apologize, you’re already halfway up the stairs.

Joel resists the urge to kick himself the entire way to the couch. He curls up against the arm rest. He hears you kicking and rifling about upstairs as he searches your phone for any sort of search engine. He wishes he would’ve brought his readers over, too, but that much foresight had been lost on him. Settling for squinting at the glowing screen, he taps on Chrome. A tab whooshes open. Immediately, Joel’s bombarded with artificial, keening moans, the ragged coaxing of, ‘C’mon, honey, doing so well for me’ blurring out of the speakers. His eyes widen as he scrambles to lower the volume. He’s about to slam the phone down and never make eye contact with you ever again when he spies the title of this particular porno.

VIRGIN SLUT DEVOURS DILF’S ASS.

Heat wobbles up his face, ripening his cheeks. His thighs warm and stir, enough to harden his far too attentive cock. Jesus Christ. 

Did you mean to do this? No — you don’t have that kinda foresight. You’re crafty and a goddamn temptress, but that doesn’t make you some sort of mastermind who’s scheming to get back into his pants. If you were, though — this would be a good way of doing it. You must’ve been right there before he’d shown up on your doorstep. You had still been panting. His head hadn’t been in the gutter. He’d been right. Nasty little slut.

His eyes land on the woman who’s advertised as a ‘virgin slut’ but is about 100 videos past virginity if her channel bio is telling the truth. She’s built a lot like you — has the same shoulders, same hips. Her tongue hungrily swirls between the DILF’S cheeks. He’s pretty sure he knows who you’re imagining that to be. 

They share the same skin tone, the same bow in their backs, the same scattered patches of hair along the backs of their thighs and cheeks. He envisions you with a hand stuffed in your dangerously tight shorts, rutting against it. Tongue lolling out as you imagine rimming him. He smothers a groan at the thought.

The video keeps rolling as he stares in disbelief. The man groans, spreading his cheeks wider and pushes back onto the woman’s face. She slurps his asshole. Joel imagines holding your head in place, stroking your jaw as you work your tongue on him. Your lips, your tongue, doing exactly what he just watched, but to him. His cock twitches at the thought of you between his legs, licking, sucking, wanting.

All his attempts to shut you out of his brain come bursting out of the floodgates. A dam breaking, fattening his cock. 

Joel’s eyes flick to the stairs. He can still hear you rummaging around. Curiosity kills the cat as he presses your history button.

Naughty whore punished with ass eating humiliation. girl next door tongue fucks dilfs ass. DESPERATE BITCH BEGS TO EAT ASS. 

It shouldn’t surprise him. After you’d finished licking his pits, you had a geyser in your panties they’d only found in Yellowstone before. You’re a fucking freak, and goddamn if it doesn’t make the gears in his head turn.

Joel adjusts his bulge, raging tight against his boxers. He swallows the newly formed lump in his throat. His stomach burns. The things he could do to you, if he were to let himself. You’re practically fucking begging for it. If he were to slip his hand along your abdomen, past the gusset of your panties, and cup your mound, would you already be ready for him? The way he’s ready for you?

Upstairs, he hears a loud bang, followed by a resounding “FUCK!”

After wrestling with your extension cord, you’d finally grabbed your charger for Joel to borrow. Not without escaping unscathed. A swollen pit throbs on your head, and you rub it absently with the heel of your palm as you trudge downstairs. “The shit I do for you,” you remark under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. You plod across the living room, tossing your charger Joel’s way. “Can I have my phone back yet, Miller?”

He quirks a brow at you. “If you answer me a question.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms, planting your feet. This dick. “You usually get off watchin’ shitty three-star pornos?”

Cold slithers around your gut as you stare blankly at him. Oh fuck. Shit. Son of a– “Excuse me?” You’re an idiot. All hat, no cattle. Lights on, nobody home. Joel had seen–

“‘Virgin slut devours DILF’s ass’,” Joel reads out in a monotonous voice. He wolf-whistles. “A little on the nose, ain’t it? But hey, whatever gets ya goin’.”

“G-get the hell out,” you say, snatching your charger off of his lap. Your eyes stall on his straining, blatant hard-on. A new wave of slick spills out of you. You have to bite your tongue not to lick your lips. “You’re a fucking… pervert. Nasty. You’re nasty, Joel.”

“And you ain’t? Got a whole waterfall in those britches of yours, I bet. I mean, this guy looks a whole lot like me, don’t he? Got the DILF thing going on too. Yeah, you’d be into older men. Look at ya,” he all but croons.

You look down at yourself, gesturing at nothing in frustration. “I told you no snooping. Guess your selectively hearing ass heard go snooping.” You swing in close to snatch your phone, but he holds it out of reach.

“Answer the question, kiddo. You like watching porn all the time, or just when you’re tryna imagine your daddy’s buddy?” He smirks up at you. You make another grab for your phone, and you’re not sure why. The damage is already done. But Joel — Joel makes you feel so, so out of control.

“You’re being an asshole, Joel,” you say, too exasperated to police your word choice.

“Yeah, but you like eatin’ ���em. Don’t you, sweetheart?” You sputter, dragging your hands down your face. As if letting him debase you in the garage, no matter how good it felt, wasn’t enough. This is ten thousand times worse. “Gotta say. You’re a ‘lil sick in the head for that….” He tuts at you, clicking his tongue.

“Not as sick in the head as you. Going through my search history. Taunting me about it. And— and— the whole pitcident.”

“Pitcident?” he asks, raising an amused brow. “Thas’ a new one.”

“Would you rather I say the whole thing? That you held your buddy’s daughter down against your musky ass armpit and made me lick it clean? That you liked it so much that you jerked yourself off after knowing I was getting an eyeful of it?”

His throat bobs. He seems to think about it for a moment before he tilts his head at you. “Kiddo, you woulda creamed all over me if I took a breath in the direction of your swollen little clit. Didn’t even have to do that to get that pussy droolin’ for me. Bet it’s doin’ it now.” He gets up, dropping your phone onto the couch cushion. It bounces before sliding against a throw pillow. “Tell me,” he says, voice low. “You touch yourself to this shit, honey?”

“Why?” you ask, holding eye contact with him in defiance.

“Seems like a waste… when you could be gettin’ the real thing.”

Your mouth goes dry. Uncontrollably, your cunt pulses between your legs. “Jesus, Joel–”

“Been wonderin’ since you put your mouth on my pit how your tongue would feel on my cock. On my ass…. Same thoughts as you, I’d bet. Yeah?”

You swallow, forcing breaths back into your too-tight lungs. “Yeah,” you say. “I… fuck.”

“Ask nicely, kiddo. I’ll consider indulging you.”

“Seriously?”

“‘S that what you want, kiddo? Want your pretty face between my cheeks while I laugh at you for how desperate ya are for it?” Your vision swims. Joel is heady, alluring. You can’t pry your eyes away from him. It’s easy to remember how you bent to his whims last time. “Yeah, thought so,” he hums. “Already in this habit ‘a mouthin’ off at me. Ought show some respect. Could be a whole lot meaner to ya. Or we could do this the easy way, sugar. Your call.”

Your face feels scalding hot, eyes watering with something like arousal. Your thighs clamp together, squeezing in attempts to get some friction on your neglected, weeping cunt. “Please,” you rasp, voice more animalistically needy than you’d expected.

Joel rolls his eyes. “You askin’ for the table salt or to lick my ass, kiddo?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re picky. Okay, your royal highness. Please, can I lick your perfect, majestic, incredible ass?”

Joel reaches out and grabs your chin. You whimper as skin prickles under his calloused touch. He presses his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks, teeth shelving against the insides of your mouth. “Like I said. Mouthy. I’ll fix that, kiddo. Probably won’t ever wanna open your mouth again after you get what you wish for.” He gives your face a light slap, hardly enough to feel the thud of his palm against your skin. Still, your head rings.

Joel grabs you by the back of your neck and shoves you down onto your knees. You grunt at the whirlpool of colors blurring around your head, at the wood grains of the floor meshing into your kneecaps. He stands, facing the back of the suede couch. “Go ‘head, kid. If ya want it so bad.” 

You balk, staring at what you’re now face-to-face with. Joel’s ass, plump and thick and covered by his boxers and a thin layer of sleep shorts. He shuffles, sticking his ass out a bit.

“Don’t be chicken. Put your money where your mouth is.” He taps the back of your neck, urging you on. You tug at the stretchy waistband of his shorts and let them slide down to his ankles.

You scrutinize his choice of footwear. “Crocs? Really?”

“Do what you’re good for and kiss. My. Ass,” Joel says.

You probably should’ve expected that.

You lure his boxers down, breath hitching when you see how his cheeks come together. He’s warm, with a physique made for worship. Your mouth works as you swallow, mouth watering at the thought of getting your tongue in there. Instead of going for the throat, you start slowly.

You plant a kiss where his left cheek meets his thigh, tongue peeking out to stir at the soft patch of skin there. You press sloppy little kisses along the globes of his ass. One here, one there, a couple nearing his cleft. The very tip of your tongue pokes out of your lips to do a sweep of the inside of his right cheek. At this, Joel lets a breathy sigh out. 

“Got a perfect fuckin’ mouth.”

“I know,” you quip. You lean in and take a deep breath of a scent that’s so undeniably Joel. He’s cleaner this time, not fresh off of the lawn mower. He smells more like the Dr. Squatch soap you’d usually find in a Walmart aisle. You know from visiting his house that his bathrooms are stocked with the stuff. It’s woodsy and outdoorsy, a gingery pine aroma that wafts up your nostrils. You sigh and nuzzle into his skin.

“Ain’t a Bath and Body Works.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble.

“Like I said. Sick in the head, likin’ all this odd shit.”

You spit into your palm and reach around, giving his cock a quick pump. It twitches in your head. His head tips forward, groaning and shoving his ass closer to your face. You smother a laugh. “You like it too, old man.” As you tug your hand down, you give his balls a generous squeeze. Then, you reach to spread him proper.

You damn near get heart eyes as you eye his pucker. Tan and blending into the rest of his skin, wrinkled and in dire need of attention. You lean in and throw him into the deep end with a broad stroke of your tongue along his hole. His hips jerk, a stunned noise ripping out of his lips.

“Fuck. Yeah, attagirl.” You groan into him, starting to swirl your tongue around. It whorls around his hole. You sweep softly along the inside of each of his cheeks, spit dribbling down his skin and along his taint. “Knew you’d make a good ass wipe. ‘S what you’re good for. Cleanin’ me up…”

You whimper, legs squeezing together needily. Your tongue swoops along the bend of his hole. Your thumbs dig into the insides of his cheeks so you can really nudge your tongue in there. Shallowly, you fuck your tongue in and out of his hole. Joel groans, hips thrusting against your face. “Goddamn,” he says through a hiss. He looks over his shoulder at you. Your eyes are needy and lidded, tongue hanging out as you work it against him. “Look atcha. There ya go, kiddo. Needy ‘lil slut for me…”

You hum in agreement as you flick your tongue up and down, left and right. You bob your head, determined to work him up properly. You slobber all over him. Little whines and whimpers hitch out of your mouth as you slurp and suck on his asshole. “Oughta keep you down there all day. Fuck, looks like it’s right where ya belong. Nose squished under my balls, breathin’ in my musk while you drool all over my ass. Be nice, havin’ a little cushion while I watch some ball games, do my work.” He cuts off into a strangled moan when you thrust your tongue inside of him properly, swirling it as deep inside of him as you can get it. 

You reach up to cup his balls, work your grip along his length, but he snatches your wrist when it’s halfway there. “Nuh uh, sweetie. Ain’t deservin’ of this cock. Gotta earn that privilege back after bein’ a naughty whore. Watchin’ all that porn. On your daddy’s WiFi. Got no shame, hm?”

“N-not my fault you left me high and dry–” you stammer out between kitten licks at his hole.

“Didn’t leave ya dry. Left you wetter than a fire hydrant. And if you wanna be high, I’m sure I could get a sex swing off ‘a Facebook Marketpla–”

“Jesus Christ, shut up and let me eat your ass.” He laughs, head hanging low towards the couch. You keep your palms splayed along his cheeks, baring him to you so you can pleasure him in a way that has long been foreign to both of you. He makes a choked noise as you purposefully twist and flutter the point of your tongue into his opening. His hips jerk, holer quivering around you.

“Goddamn, kiddo— shit, thas’ good…” he tapers off into a frayed moan.

Your thighs, spread against the floorboards, heat like furnaces. Slick drools out from your pussy lips, twitching and aching, needing so badly for him to fill you. You whine an unintelligible curse into his skin, hand fumbling past the elastic band of your shorts. Your fingers nudge past your panties, finding your clit wet and wanting from your interrupted session earlier. Your fingers work a slippery circle onto your puffy clit. A moan bends out of your lips as they work and suckle at his hole.

Joel cranes his neck over his shoulder, dark, half-closed eyes tracing your pathetic figure. You’re shrunken down on the floor as you serve him, so zeroed in on his pleasure. Yours is an afterthought, but your hips still chase after your wandering, fleeting touches. “Can’t believe this gets you off. Touchin’ yourself…. Does my ass really get ya this worked up?” He groans, grasping the back of your head and holding you into his cheeks. As if you’d ever pull away.  “Someone’s gotta–” he exhales. “gotta get you a fuckin’ vibrator. Gonna rub that sweet pussy raw.”

You whine at the thought, tongue traveling lower to give his taint some attention too. “Shit. Thereeeee ya go. Embarrassin’ kinda kink to have, y’know? Oughta get you an audience. Some folks from work… Tommy too, maybe. Bet you’d come twice as fast and twice as hard.” 

You nod in agreement, swiping your tongue all along his hole. Fingers snapping along your clit, a moan is drawn out of you. Languid strokes steadily quicken into sweeping jabs that leave his hips stuttering against the air, cock dripping pearls of precum onto the floor. “Hngh,” you whine into him, putting your full neck, head, and tongue into your efforts. Joel rocks back against you, rolling his asshole along your exposed tongue. You whimper, reaching up for his cock again with your spare hand. This time, you meet no resistance. You wrap your hand around him properly, stroking him in time with the circles you draw along your clit.

A flurry of curses sling off of his tongue, sharp and stunned by your vigor to bring him to the edge. Your lips lock around his asshole, sucking him, getting him there. Your thumb brushes along his twitching tip as your tongue slides in and out of his clenching hole. “This what you been wantin’?” he taunts, gripping the back of your neck. You keen in response, the noise vibrating along his ass. “‘Course it is. Pretty slut like you… meant to be on her knees with ass in her face.” His other hand slips back too, one around your nape and the other at the back of your skull, urging you to lick deeper, faster, more.

You whisk your tongue hungrily along his pucker, whining into him. Your fingers tweak at your clit, hips grinding into your hand with each upward stroke of your tongue. 

“Shit, kiddo. Gettin’ me close–” he rasps. Your hand slips down to squeeze at his balls, middle finger slipping along his shaft. You let out a high-pitched whimper as your hips roll down to meet your hand. “Fuck, I ain’t the only one. You really gonna come from this?” he hisses, digging his fingers harder into your skin. You let out a piercing, whetted moan. “Embarrassing. Thought it’d take mo–” He cuts himself off with a moan. “Goddammit, more. But I shoulda known you’d be easy. Came just from grindin’ on your inseam last time. Jus’ call you a slut and let you lick me clean and your panties are done for.”

Your eyes water with humiliated arousal. You drip all down your fingers, feeling wetness leak down between your legs. “Joel,” you moan into him through gasping breaths and slithery licks. Your clit twitches against the pads of your fingers. Your pelvis jerks. With each clench, your cunt salivates along your fingers, wanting. All you can taste, feel, hear, is him. His musk on your tongue, his skin under your hands and his cock between your fingers, his moans ringing in the air like a song. 

Joel grinds down your face. You lick up between his cheeks, landing another sloppy kiss on his hole. With a determined thrust, you twirl your tongue inside of him at the same time your hand twists around his cock. You know he’s coming from his sounds alone, something you’d been deprived of from just watching him across the street. You never would’ve taken Joel Miller to be loud in bed, but you are glad you are wrong. His whines and grunts heave out into the emptiness of the living room. “Fuck, hngh — good slut. Yeah. That’s my girl. Good ‘lil ass kisser. Gonna cream those fuckin’ panties for me like those girls do in your videos, aren’t ya? ‘S alright, kiddo. Come for me. Go ‘head.”

 Your tongue works him over diligently, fingers scuffing along your clit until it damn near chafes. His noises, the way he grinds, his words are enough to send you plummeting over that edge. You’re suspended on the precipice of your climax as you hover in time, but then the pestle of your fingers presses against your cunt. You’re done for, spiraling as juices leak out of you. Tiny, hitching moans hiccup out of you. You repeat his name like a mantra, “Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel,” hand still wrapped around his softening cock. Your tongue hangs out, forehead pressed against his cheek. Panting in the comedown, in that warm-lit afterglow of release, you slump back onto your haunches. Your chest heaves, stomach unknotting from that peak of pleasure. 

“Fuck,” you say articulately, looking up at him with glazed-over eyes.

“Fuck,” Joel says, in an entirely different tone. You follow his gaze to the back of the couch, splattered with pearly ropes of cum. Unable to stop yourself, you smother a giggle into the back of your hand. His panicked look only makes you giggle more before you burst into an entire laughing fit, clutching your gut as you wheeze at him.

Instead of fussing, Joel laughs too, shaking his head. “Goddamn, kid. You’re trouble.” He reaches down and squeezes your shoulder anyway. He bends down and tugs his shorts up, groaning as some of his bones snick from all of the bending. “Your dad keep any shock around?”

“Under the sink,” you say through your giggles, bracing yourself on your elbows. It takes until Joel comes back with an orange spray bottle and a rag that you manage to pull yourself up, dusting yourself off. You can still taste him on your tongue, a lingering musk that sits on your tongue. The bottle squeaks as it sprays foaming cleaner along the couch. You cross your arms and toe the ground, waiting for him to finish up.

“All that,” he says as he runs the rag under the faucet. “and we didn’t even plug my phone in.”

“Keep the charger,” you say. “I… think I have a spare. Somewhere. Besides. Won’t need to do another late-night viewing tonight.”

“Yeah,” Joel says with a content nod. “Guess you won’t.” He toes back on his Crocs that had come off somewhere in the fray. He runs a hand back through his hair. “Well, kiddo. Sleep well,” he says. “And get better taste in porn. You’re better than the cheap shit.”

You roll your eyes and wave him off. “Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Joel.”

“Night,” he says, voice a tad stilted as he slips out of the house to go back next door.

Your eyes chase him down the sidewalk into his front door, then follow his silhouette upstairs until his lamp flickers off. When you head to bed, it’s with an entirely different type of video playing in your head — one starring you.

[valneedsvalium]

Dark Room | Javier Peña x F!Reader | ~4.9k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Accidentally getting locked in the photo developing room with Javier.

Tags: reader really doesn't like javi, co-worker vibes, era typical sexism/misogyny, he's kind of a smug dick but isn't he always?, smut, oral (f & m), reader has never had her pussy ate so javi changes that, unprotected p in v sex, quick blowjob, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, little to no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: another javi one shot, what's new?! lol this is a follow up to this ask/prompt i got a few months ago and i just thought this would be very fitting for these two 🖤 thank you to my prima @ovaryacted for reading over this 🖤 hope you enjoy and as always, let me know what you think!

“We need some photos pulled from the photo lab…” Carillo’s voice drones on, his explanation fading into the background as the weight of Javier’s stare settles over you, dragging over your body unabashedly.

He’s slouched over a desk that’s cluttered with maps and reports, an overfilled ashtray perched precariously on the corner, its contents spilling over as evidence of long hours and bad habits.

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up just enough to show off those strong, brown forearms, veins subtly bulging as he drums his fingers against the surface.

The air is perfumed with cigarette smoke, the stale scent clinging to everything. It’s honestly a wonder you haven’t choked on it yet.

Weeks have passed since your lapse in judgment in the parking garage—letting Javier fucking Peña slide between your thighs to take the edge off this godforsaken sexist job that you still haven’t quit.

Nothing’s changed, obviously. The men in the office are still assholes, continuing to treat you like an afterthought, but you just tune them out because at the end of the day; you know you’re better than all of them combined.

Except it’s hard to ignore Javier. Harder than usual when he’s flashing you those round and soft brown eyes that should be illegal for a man like him to possess. 

He’s tried cornering you—more than once. The break room, after meetings, even the damn staircase when you were in a rush to head home.

Each time, you shut him down. Telling him to fuck off and take whatever cocky, insufferable game he’s playing and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

You’re actually kind of proud of yourself for pushing back more than usual, even if you do get hit with a wave of horny nostalgia for the way he’d taken you that day. Quick, ruthless, licentious.

You keep your expression neutral as Carillo wraps up his instructions. Nodding politely, you don’t spare a glance at the other agent before turning on your heel and making your way down to the lab.

The room is lit by a red bulb, casting everything in a hazy, bloody glow. You’re sifting through the folders, squinting at the labels, when you hear it—the soft click of the door shutting.

You spin around, and there he fucking is.

Javier leans against the doorframe, the silver watch on his wrist catching the light, his tie loosened around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt habitually undone.

With his arms crossed and broad frame filling the space of the doorway, he’s the picture of amusement—of quiet, dangerous persistence.

You hate the way your pulse downstairs stutters at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his jaw shifts, a muscle ticking as he weighs his words, like he’s carefully considering how much trouble he wants to get himself into.

It annoys the ever-loving shit out of you.

When he doesn’t reply, you just huff out breath. “I don’t have time for this. Carillo needs these photos,” you snap, as if he doesn’t already know that. As if that’s why he’s really here.

Your fingers tighten around the folder you managed to locate, flipping through the contents to confirm it’s the right one. It is. Thank goodness. Now all you have to do is get the hell out of here—away from him.

“You’ve been doing okay?” He finally speaks, tone deceptively casual. “Your car’s fine?”

You bark out a laugh, loud and incredulous, because really? That’s what he’s opening with?

“What is it that you want, Javier?” You slam the filing cabinet shut, the sound echoing in the small lab.

And of-fucking-course—he’s closer now. The ruby luminescence of the room carves sharper angles into his face, deepening the contours, making his already unfairly handsome features look even more severe.

“What do you think?” he asks with a tilt of his head, tongue dragging slowly over his bottom lip.

“I think you just want to get your dick wet,” you accuse in a quip. “But I’m really confused as to why you’re so adamant about coming to me for that. Don’t you have a list of whores you can call? I’ve got about a dozen of their numbers written down at my desk. Just for you.”

Javier smirks—slow, lazy, irritatingly attractive. “S’not as fun. Not the same.” He shrugs. “I like to work for it sometimes.”

Your brows lift in disbelief. “Work for it? Wow, this really is just a game to you. To all of you.” Immature, arrogant, government assholes. You can feel yourself getting worked up, reminiscent of the last time you were this close to him. 

You don’t give him the chance to reply, instead brushing past him toward the door, reaching for the handle and twisting—nothing. 

You try again. And again. It doesn’t budge.

You exhale sharply, pressing your forehead against the door for half a second before pulling back. 

Right, so this door has been busted for as long as you can remember, locking from the inside at the worst possible moments, clearly.

You should have snagged the spare key, just in case. This is on you.

And since you’ve got unwanted company, the space feels a lot smaller.

“Please tell me you have your stupid phone on you,” you’re still facing the door, voice tight, manilla folder clenched in your hands.

The sound of dress shoes sliding over the floor, measured, deliberate, breaks the momentary silence.

Your body lights up, tensing as warmth ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

“I don’t,” Javier murmurs, too fucking smoothly.

And then his hands—those beautifully large hands—press against the door on either side of you, arms caging you in.

You turn slowly, back pressed to the door, looking up at him as your breath catches somewhere in your throat.

He smells like cologne and Marlboros, an intoxicating combination that does something dangerous to your resolve, sinking its talons into whatever shred of control you thought you had left.

You can already feel the telltale weakness creeping into your knees as he stares down at you, the red hue truly making him look sinful in all the right ways.

This is exactly why you’ve been dodging him, shutting him down at every turn.

Because he makes it so easy to give in if just given a second to lay it on thick, no pun intended. Not only have you experienced his sexual bravado first hand, you’ve also seen the way he works his personality and charm with everyone else.

You wanted to be different, you really did. To not be another person to fall for him. Not after the way he treats you in the office, like you’re barely worth acknowledging unless you’re useful to him. Not after the way he just lets the other agents walk all over you.

It’s really not fair that he looks the way he does or that he fucks like he knows exactly what his partner needs. Like he’s got some weird, kinky sixth sense. 

It’s definitely not fucking fair that your pussy is flexing at the memory of him cuffing your wrists behind your back, growling filth into your ear as he took you against the side of his Jeep.

You inhale sharply, attempting to shove the thoughts away.

“I think there’s a landline in here somewhere,” you tell him, grasping at something—anything—to keep your wits about you. “We need to call someone to get us out.”

You try to step away, but Javier moves faster.

He blocks your path effortlessly, stepping into your space like he belongs there, his chest brushing against yours, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

“Not yet, baby,” he murmurs, tone laced with that familiar, knowing drawl. It’s so rich that a little bit of his Texan accent slips through. “Let’s have some fun.”

You let out another laugh, except this time it’s thinner, shakier than you want it to be.

“Fucking someone you don’t like isn’t really my idea of fun,” you bite out, but it doesn’t come out as bitchy as you intended.

“Didn’t stop you last time…” He says smugly and you grit your teeth. “It just makes it that much better,” he sounds so indulgent. Like he’s already won.

You open your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“C’mon,” Javi coaxes like he’s the devil himself. “You’re always so tense. You work so damn hard, dealing with assholes like me all day. Let me make it worth your while.”

“I thought I told you last time that good dick wasn’t the solution to my problems.” 

“I’m not trying to solve your problems.” 

He ducks his head, the tip of his nose dragging up the side of your neck, a featherlight touch that sets your skin on fire.

You should push him away and slap him. But instead, you just… let him. Frozen, paralyzed by your own traitorous lust.

His soft pouty lips find your jaw, pressing kisses, each one getting you wetter. 

His tongue traces a languid stripe up to your ear, the wet heat of it making you gasp and your thighs press together. When his teeth graze your lobe, you can’t suppress the way your breath stutters.

“Javi—” His name escapes before you can catch it, barely more than a whisper.

You feel his grin against your skin.

“Say it again.”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut, as if that will somehow lessen the ache beating at your cunt. As if you can pretend you’re still in control of the situation. Like you ever were.

His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing slow, teasing circles over your ribs. The heat of his palms sears through the fabric of your top, burning away the resistance you were clinging to.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he breathes, lips dragging along the shell of your ear. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

You should. But you can’t.

Your fingers fidget with the folder, aching to grab hold of him and pull him closer. You let out a shaky sigh, your resolve finally crumbling to dust.

You really are a weak bitch.

Javier pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression knowing—victorious.

The folder falls from your hands and to the floor as you grab him by the tie, yanking him down, crushing your mouth to his in a kiss that is nothing short of desperate, full of frustration, hunger and irritation.

Javier groans into it, gratified, his grip tightening on you as he presses you harder against the door, molding his body against yours. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming and demanding, and you let him, moaning into the kiss, your nails scraping against the back of his neck as his hands start to wander.

You were always going to give in and you both knew it.

You don’t even remember when his hands started working at the buttons of your shirt, but you feel the fabric coming undone, feel the cool air chilling you as he exposes your chest. His lips chase the newly exposed skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your neck, trailing lower… lower…

You gasp when he undoes your bra’s front clasp, his fingers ghosting over the swells of your breasts before he palms them fully, kneading, teasing, thumbing at your nipples then tugging them until you’re pathetically whimpering

“Mmmm,” you utter, your head tipping back against the door when his lips wrap around the aching peak and he sucks.

Javier chuckles against your skin.“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, yanking his mouth back to yours, swallowing any other egotistic remark he was about to make. 

You feel the hard line of his thick cock straining in his slacks as he grinds against you like a rutting dog, his hips rolling in slow, instinctive motions that have your pussy clenching around nothing.

Maybe resisting him was always a losing game. 

It’s not like you’re drowning in offers elsewhere, and hell, you should own the fact that a man like Javier Peña—arrogant, infuriating, dangerously handsome—wants you more than any of the easy lays he could get with a single phone call.

Your confidence grows, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

One hand slips from the back of his head, trailing down between your bodies, fingers pressing against the rigid length of him through his pants. You squeeze, applying just enough pressure to make him hiss against your lips before he retaliates, biting your lower lip.

The pain blooms deliciously, sparking something even darker inside you. You reward him with another slow stroke, palming him, feeling his dick throb under your touch.

He flips you around quickly after that, pressing you hard against the door, your cheek and tits flattened against the cool surface.

A startled whimper escapes you, but he doesn’t give a damn, too lost in his own haze of desire as he works the button and zipper of your pants.

You quit dressing in cute skirts and delicate blouses to work. You weren’t about to continue to be an office fantasy or easy target for sexist bullshit.

But even in your practical wear and stoic demeanor, you knew damn well these men would find any way to sexualize you regardless. And they’ve proved your point plenty of times.

However, all of your carefully constructed defenses and feminist arguments about power and autonomy crumble the moment Javier Peña drops to his fucking knees behind you.

Your breath stutters, eyes widening as you try to push back against the door, a weak attempt at stopping him—but his grip is firm, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he tugs your pants down, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin behind your knees, making your back arch.

His calloused palms knead into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping handfuls of your ass like he can’t decide whether he wants to spread you wider or keep you all to himself.

He does both—squeezing, parting you open just enough to make your pussy feel completely exposed, heat licking at her like a slow burn, anticipation curling around your clit.

“Javi—” His name barely leaves your lips before you suck in a sharp breath, body jolting as the wet heat of his mouth presses against the thin fabric of your panties.

Oh shit.

The damp lace does little to shield you from the deliberate drag of his tongue as he licks a slow stripe over the barrier, teasing, tasting, promising you things that make your head spin.

A moan slithers its way up your throat before you can stop it, your fingers twitching against the door as your knees threaten to buckle.

It’s such a foreign feeling.

“Nervous?” he asks, his voice dark, amused, but also curious.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly against the overwhelming sensation of it all. No one’s ever done this to you before. No one’s ever wanted to. And yet, here’s Javier, on his knees in this dingy basement like this is what he was made to do.

“Just—” You suck in a breath. Fucking hell this is so embarrassing. “No one’s ever…” Your cheeks get hot, making you want to crawl inside yourself.

He stills for a moment, as if letting your words sink in, your panties now pulled down around your ankles. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, at the realization that he’d be the first to eat your pussy. His fingers flex, digging into the plush curve of your ass. “That just makes me want to ruin you even more.”

And then he does.

His mouth is everywhere all at once—tongue eagerly dragging through your folds, circling your clit dexterously and it’s a miracle you don’t melt entirely then and there.

His aquiline nose notches between your cheeks and the pressure makes you yelp in surprise.

Your fingers claw at the door like a rabid animal, trying to find something to hold onto, something to ground you as Javier devours your cunt.

He works you open by lapping thirstily and sucking on your wet flesh, groaning against you like he can’t get enough.

It’s otherworldly, a kind of pleasure so overwhelming that frustration bubbles up inside you. Why the fuck has no man ever done this for you before?

Your hips jerk when his tongue slides inside your hole, his mustache scraping against your soaked skin, his nose pressing against your asshole.

The contrast of soft and rough, teasing and taking, has you whining loudly, your forehead pressing against the cool wood as your eyes close tight.

The tension in your stomach twists tighter, hotter, tears spilling from your waterline as he sucks your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue until your knees finally do give out but he holds you steady, keeping you from falling as you hit the wall of your orgasm. 

“Oh my god!” The words spill from you in a breathless, wrecked moan, your body pulsing, shuddering, before slumping as pleasure melts into boneless relief.

He takes his time with you, his mouth slowing to match your come down, his tongue kitten licking at your oversensitive sex like he relishes the taste of you.

He presses one last, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before pulling away.

His whispers are hushed, sweet words murmured against your trembling thighs until he stands, rising up behind you, his broad frame looming over yours.

You feel him—his chest, his shoulders—so solid and manly, pressing against your back. You’re still panting, skin heated, body humming, when you finally turn your head to look at him.

Javier Peña has never looked hotter in his goddamn life.

“Hard to believe no one’s ever tasted you, baby. Sabes tan dulce.” The praise sends a violent shudder straight to your freshly ate cunt.

He’s quickly working his belt open, the soft clink of metal making your thighs quiver in anticipation.

He fists his cock, stroking himself languidly, dragging his palm over the thick, velvety skin before his fingers dip between your legs, gathering the slick arousal dripping from your pussy.

Thankfully the door is thick enough to muffle the desperate, broken moans spilling from your lips, and that this basement is hardly ever visited—because the last thing you need is an audience for this shameful, filthy indulgence.

Yet once the lust settles, that same isolation won’t feel so convenient. You’ll be more than eager to get the fuck away from him.

He smears your sticky wetness over his shaft with a groan, eyes hooded and hungry as he watches your body react to him.

All you can do is continue to writhe, legs shaking as you kick your pants and panties off completely, giving yourself room to spread and bend over for him, expecting him to take you as he did last time.

But before you can brace yourself against the door again, Javi moves fast, flipping you to face him, his large hands cupping the backs of your thighs.

It’s instinct to wrap your legs around his waist, your ankles locking behind him as he hoists you up, pinning you against the door.

His lips crash into yours, hot and urgent, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you flick off his tie and work open the last of his buttons.

His shirt hangs open, exposing his warm, taut chest to your greedy fingers, and you run your hands down the hard planes of his torso, reveling in the contrast of smooth skin and how human he feels despite the sex god aura he emits so effortlessly. 

But it’s his neck that has you dizzy. That sharp jawline, his defined Adam’s apple, how his pulse pounds just beneath the thick muscle.

You make eye contact for a brief, charged second before your mouth latches onto his neck, tongue dragging over salt and cologne, teeth nipping at the tendon.

The way the red light paints him—his bronzed skin darkened by shadow, eyes heavy-lidded with hunger for you, lips slick from your kisses and pussy—it all makes you dizzy with need.

Javi growls low in his throat, shifting his hold to steady you against the door, angling himself just right before pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch is immediate, slow and torturous as he sinks into you inch by inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion of his dick, the burn mixing beautifully with pleasure.

Your jaw falls open, but no sound comes out, only ragged breaths and a strangled whimper as your cunt struggles to accommodate around his girthy cock.

His gaze is locked onto yours, dark and molten, his lips curling at the way you tremble in his hold.

You’d slap the smirk right off his face if your hands weren’t too occupied with digging into his shoulders to keep you sane.

“That’s it, puta madre,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Your pussy feels so fuckin’ good.”

“S-Stop talking and just fuck me,” you breathe as you yank him closer, pressing your tits against his bare chest.

Javier doesn’t need to be told twice.

With a sharp thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, slamming you back against the door, the impact rattling through your bones and knocking the air from your lungs.

The obscene sound of wet skin slapping against skin echoes through the cramped room as he sets an unforgiving yet utterly satisfying pace.

Every stroke of his cock against your walls, every graze of his pelvis against your swollen clit, sends you spiraling higher.

The heat of the red light, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air, the filthy sounds between you—it’s all too much, too good.

His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you right where he wants you as he fucks you hard and deep.

He plants one hand next to your head while the other slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, teasing circles, you break.

Your body seizes, nails raking down his back as your orgasm slams into you, pleasure blinding and unbearable.

Javier groans, hips stuttering as he chases his own release, as he fucks you through your climax. “That’s it. Fuckin’ come for me—mierda, so fuckin’ pretty pinned up on the door like this, fallin’ apart all over this dick—”

“D-Don’t finish inside.” The words spill from your lips between gasps, your foggy mind barely catching up to the reality of what you’re doing.

You thank whatever shred of sanity is left in you for speaking up before it’s too late—because fuck, you almost forgot.

A part of you chastises yourself for even letting it get this far, for not making him wear a condom either time he’s had you.

You know better. You know Javier gets around, that his reputation in bed is just as legendary as his skill with a badge and gun.

He groans, a deep sound of both pleasure and frustration. He wanted to finish inside you. You can tell by the way his thrusts falter, how his fingers dig into your hips a little harder.

The idea of filling you up, of making you take all of him, has him on the edge, his control hanging by a thread.

“Fuck,” he grits out, and suddenly, he’s pulling out of you, his cock slipping free with a wet, lewd squelch that makes your empty walls clench around nothing. Before you can catch your breath, he’s pushing you onto your knees, the roughness making your head spin, your lips parting in surprise.

He takes full advantage.

Javier’s hand grips the back of your neck as he guides himself between your lips, pushing his thick cock into the heat of your mouth with a sharp hiss.

You barely have time to react before he’s thrusting in deep, the heavy weight of him stretching your jaw, his scent overwhelming your senses.

Your hands fly to his thighs, nails digging in as he fucks your mouth the same way he just fucked your pussy: relentless, desperate, filthy.

Your tongue flattens beneath him, taking him as best as you can while he pants above you, his breath ragged, his curses slipping into Spanish as he chases his release.

And then you feel it how he stiffens, the pulse of his cock against your tongue before his salty release spills hot and thick down your throat. Javier groans as he holds you there, making sure you swallow every drop.

“Goddamn baby,” he rasps hoarsely, his fingers easing from your hair as he strokes your cheek, his softening cock still twitching between your lips.

When he finally pulls out, you’re left breathless, your mouth swollen, your body still thrumming with pleasure and exhaustion.

You look up at him, and the sight alone makes your stomach flip—his chest rising and falling, his shirt completely undone, his tie hanging loosely around his neck,  hair falling in front of his face and gaze hooded and dark as he stares down at you.

He looks wrecked and you’re the reason why.

The fog of lust dissipates all at once, replaced by a feeling akin to cold water washing over you. Your lips are swollen, your knees ache from the hard floor, the unmistakable taste of him lingers on your tongue, and your pussy is sticky with the remnants of his pleasure.

You rise quickly with a sharp breath, ignoring the way your thighs still tremble. He offers a hand, fingers curled in that lazy, confident way that suggests he thinks you’ll take it.

You don’t.

Instead, you swat it away, reaching for your discarded clothes with sharp, jerky movements, yanking your panties up, stepping into your pants, and shoving your feet into your shoes without grace.

Every button fastened, every piece of fabric back in place feels like reclaiming a part of yourself, like stitching together the resolve that had crumbled the second he put his mouth on you.

You allow yourself moments of weakness—you’re only human, and he’s too good of a fuck to deny. But moving forward, you’ll have to be more resolute.

This? This was a mistake you can’t afford to keep making. The last thing you want is for him to think he has an in with you just because he’s made you see stars with his dick… and tongue… and fingers. Goddamnit. 

“You gonna keep this little act up,” he drawls, redressed himself, half ass fixing his belt, “or am I gonna have to chase you down just to get you to fuck me again?”

You snort, shaking your head as you adjust your bra and start buttoning your blouse. “You do realize how predatory that sounds, right?”

He just smirks, unfazed, and leans against the desk nearby as if he’s lounging. “And that whole thing about no one ever going down on you… That true, or were you just trying to get a reaction out of me?”

You ignore him, not about to stroke his already inflated ego by admitting he’s the first and only person to ever taste you so intimately.

Instead, you snatch up the forgotten folder from the floor, shooting him a glare through the red lighting of the room. “Help me find the landline so we can call someone to let us out.”

Javier just chuckles, shaking his head as he finishes tying his tie. “Won’t need to.”

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the spare key.

Your jaw drops. “You had that with you the entire time?”

His only response is a shrug, like it’s no big deal. Which, truth be told, it isn’t. But the realization that this was all orchestrated is enough to make your blood boil. You wonder if Carillo was in on it too. 

Your teeth clench, fingers curling into a fist at your side as he pushes off the nearby table and steps forward, unlocking the door with an infuriating lack of urgency.

He swings it open, then leans against the frame, motioning for you to go first with an exaggerated flourish.

“After you.”

You consider punching him, it had felt so damn good doing it last time. You don’t, however, instead storming past him, ignoring the way your skin still hums where he touched you, ignoring the smug chuckle that follows you out into the hallway.

You’ll let this go, you have to if not it’ll prick at you until you snap. You really don’t know how many more crash outs you have left in you before you do something more reckless than fucking the DEA agent.

Though one thing becomes sparkling clear in this moment—you’re going to have to find a way to resist Javier Peña. Even if he’s dead set on making that impossible.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7 . @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @biapascal .

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Mouth on bulge through the fabric. You agree. Reblog

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The dad stance

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PEDRO PASCAL | via katesantos327

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PSA FOR ALL OBX WRITERS

the user @alt3000298 is currently trying spreading misinformation about myself and others in tags— i know the content i write isn’t savory but i can promise, i have never done what they’re claiming. they have accused many friends and mutuals of deplorable behavior as well and have sent threats & gore, and i bet if you disagree with them they’ll do the same to you. this is a clearly sick person so blocking and mass reporting their accounts as they’ve already made several alts at this point is encouraged to keep our community safe and sane.

please boost if you’d like

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PEDRO PASCAL as Reed Richards/Mr. Fantastic THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS 2025 | dir. Matt Shakman

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if this oneshot was ice cream and i dropped it on the floor, i would lick it off. JOEL IS SO ADORABLE WITH HIS SMILE AND U WRITE HIM SO PERFECTLY FREYA

ONE NIGHT EARLY

a secret santa surprise for @talaok ! ✨ as part of @pedrostories' #pedrostoriesgift24 event ✨

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.2k | CW: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, brief reference to canon-typical violence / danger / the end of the world, but you're safe.

SUMMARY: You vow to find out where Joel hides his Christmas gifts while he's away on patrol.

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It has to be here somewhere.

In the three years since you moved in with Joel—hell, even in the two years before that—you have never found your Christmas present before the day. The man’s determined, sworn to his secrecy. Takes great pride in catching you snooping around, digging, scurryin’, as he once muttered under his breath, shaking his head with that charm and smirk you can’t help but fall for. Every year, you swear you’ll find it, and Joel just crosses his arms with a shrug, cheek dimpled and eyes dark with affection, and tells you good luck, darlin’, confident you won’t.

This year, though. This year will be different because for the whole week leading up to Christmas, Joel is away with Tommy on patrol and you have the house to yourself. Seven days of freedom to pry and stick your nose where it probably doesn’t belong.

It takes you two days to tear the house apart. Every dish yanked from his cupboard, every shirt and worn pair of jeans thrown from the closet, every pocket turned out—you flip the mattress and unbundle his socks and rip the covers off all the couch cushions and find fuck all. One old, oxidized penny. Dust bunnies, dryer lint, wood shavings. Spent matches, a bullet case. A fossilized receipt robbed of its printed contents.

You spend two more going through everything again. The place is a dump; when Ellie swings by to borrow his guitar she lifts one eyebrow at you from the doorway, weary of the tornado you’ve left scattered across the first floor. Says, “Good to know four days is all it takes for you to lose your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit,” you say, one hand waving dismissively as you climb the stairs. 

Quick on your heels she mutters, “Whatever you say, grandma,” just loud enough for you to hear. 

When she’s gone, you take a deep breath. The living room is a slaughter, more disastrous than the aftermath of any raiders or weather event. Couch cushions stand mountainous and stripped naked, the carpet’s rolled up against one wall, all the charcoal and half-spent logs have been scraped from the fireplace onto the floor. You’ll admit that might not have been strictly necessary, but you’ve looked everywhere, checked everything, and uncovered zilch. No gifts. And at the very least, Joel has—with his handsome, freckled, silvered face proud and smiling—conceded that his hiding spot is in the house. Doesn’t stash nothing at Tommy’s or in Ellie’s garage. It’s here. Somewhere. Driving you up the goddamn wall.

It’s not like you even know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know when you see it—of this you are sure.

Room by room, you reassemble the house, shuffling all the knick-knacks you’ve each cautiously assembled in this bizarre second chance at a life into their proper positions. His carvings are your favorites, and you rehome them on their shelves with care. You slide the few photographs each of you has into line on the mantle, behind the string lights. It ain’t the same as the world that for nearly thirty years has been dead and gone, but now and then you get flickers of that long-absent comfort. The day the Christmas lights go up in Jackson. The snowmen built by your neighbor’s kids in the street. Jars of homemade strawberry jam. 

Ellie and Joel playing guitar, his deep timbre humming along to her clumsy chords. 

The tight squeeze of your chest when his boots croak the porch and you know he’s finally home. 

The softness of his face first thing in the morning, scarred and weathered, kind. All the long tresses of his graying hair slumped out of place.

As you restore the house’s comfort and clutter over the shrinking days of his absence, you recheck and recheck and recheck and continue to come up empty. At night in the black veil of your shared bedroom, you sleep on his side of the bed with your face crushed in his pillow, breathing him in. 

On the 24th, you wake prepared to wave the white flag when he returns in the evening. You’re going to pout about it, but you’ll give in. Surrender to the superiority of his stupid, squirrelling mind, and admit once and for all that he’s bested you. You have no fucking clue where he hides his gifts. He wins. But you sulk as the day bleeds by, and more than once catch yourself affixed with a frown as you trudge through the crunch of Jackson’s snow-packed streets. As you groom the horses due for the next patrol shift and eat your dinner in the mess hall across from folks you’re only half listening to as they regale you with tales of their day, too distracted by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the emptiness of your hands.

Greedy, that’s what you’re being. Wanting all of him for yourself. You just miss him. You hate when patrol stretches this long, leaving you alone with your cloying worry.

After the sun has set and bowls have emptied, Jackson goes blue. All the snow piled to frame the gravel roads glitters with fresh frost and ice. On your way back to the house, you watch your shadow slide and flicker as you pass beneath the warmth of streetlamps. Someone down the road has a window open, letting the notes of their piano ribbon through the air. 

Even with all the lights and the chatter that tonight could bring fresh snow to the valley, you can’t help but feel a hollowness that you’ve only managed to shake when Joel’s around and the two of you are alone. It’s not all the time, but it happens—a magic you’d believed impossible before you stumbled across this Eden half-dead and were brought inside. Impossible until you met him, and everything latched into place. 

You’ve loved before. Almost got married once, in the world that’s gone. But there’s no comparing how it felt to fall slowly, clumsily into Joel. 

You’re not sure when he’s due to return tonight. Hopefully soon.

Shedding layers as you tread into the hollow house, you light a weakling’s fire in the hearth you know he’ll tease you for, then ascend to your bedroom to change, flicking the light on upstairs so he knows, whenever he gets back, that you’re home. Waiting for him, empty-handed but no less relieved. But as you cross the gold-lit bedroom, a floorboard near the foot of the bed wheezes strangely. This whole house croaks and groans just like everything in Jackson—that sure ain’t new—but this sound is different. You’re not sure you’ve heard it before. Not sure you’ve ever stepped in this exact place.

A grin slips sharp across your face at the smell of victory. You kick back the corner of the rug to bring your heel down hard against the board beneath it, and pop. Up comes the plank, perfect as a seesaw, revealing the black cavern beneath. 

In the shadowed hideaway, a small box lies in the dark beneath the floor.

There it is.

But all the world beyond this room, this box, disappears the moment you set it in your palm.

You don’t hear the porch steps’ announcement, nor the turn of the latch. You don’t hear the squealing door or how the heavy footsteps soften as he removes his boots to leave outside. Not even your name, often intoxicating on his tongue, reaches you in the bedroom—nor when he repeats it on the stairs. 

You’re too busy staring at what you’ve found after all you’re searching.

Then Joel’s in the doorway behind you, and you wake from what you’ve just now begun to believe must be some strange dream.

“Stubborn,” comes his voice, and at the sound you smack the box against your chest to hide it as you whirl around, still on your knees. Stupid you know. Useless. He can see the rug peeled back and the hole cut out of the floor, slender as a piano key. He knows you’ve won.

Broad in the door’s wooden frame, pink-cheeked and snug in his leather coat, Joel stands with the frosting of fresh snow clinging to his hair. He’s been growing it out, to your great pleasure, letting all his silver and curls go free. “I didn’t—” you start to say, but the words thin out and crumble. Your head’s not on quite straight, your heart not yet settled. Eyes still nickel round with shock.

You hadn’t considered how he might react if you succeeded. Maybe he’ll be mad. Take it back. 

But as you stare up at him, all bambi, Joel shakes his head and one snow-dotted curl slips out from the shell of his ear. As he rights it, his scarred hand rising, you see the dirt under his nails in the warm light. The stain on the knee of his jeans. You see too his lips, plush and touched by winter’s aridity, as they twitch in one corner, curling into his cheek. Curling up. Smiling as his eyes hold yours, not mad. Not shy. He’s been inside long enough now that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the color in his cheeks might even be a blush. 

“Are you mad?” you ask, your voice soft enough to call a whisper.

He shakes his head again, steps over the threshold, and amber light from the lamp falls over him like Midas, turning him from man to gold. One step more and his mouth pulls wider, cuts that wink in his cheek you can’t help but stare at. “Course not,” he says gently. “Knew you were lookin’. Y’can have it one night early.”

It probably doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re surprised to discover you’re hoping as you swallow hard, blinking some of the shock from your eyes. He’s here; you ought to get up and hug him—welcome him home, your person here, safe and whole—but you’re too scared to move. Terrified that any flinch will make the box and its contents disappear. 

“Is this for me?”

Wry, he rolls his eyes. “Think you know it is.”

“I feel bad,” you say. “I got you a shirt.”

He’s generous enough to chuckle, and the low, earthy sound of it strikes flames along the column of your neck. “Could use a new shirt,” he says, smirking a little. “This one needs a wash.”

“Shut up,” you chide, but the words come out weak. He’s not allowed to joke right now because if you laugh, you might start to cry.

“Darlin’,” he says too softly. That’s the tone that makes honey of your insides, cruel in the gentle way it asks you to let him in.

Though your vision starts to puddle, you wrestle the feeling back. “S’pretty.”

The slightest nod. Then he unzips his coat to lay over the armchair in the corner of the room and you watch him, pinned to the floor despite the ache in your knees. “Was hopin’ you’d think so,” he admits with his back to you, the blades and muscles in his shoulders and back sliding gracefully beneath his flannel like waves on a lake. Antithetical to the thunder of your heart, Joel moves with a patience you can’t quite believe. In no rush at all, like you’re not holding what you’re holding in your shaking hands. Like some little band of metal doesn’t mean what it did before the world bit the dust and fell away.

The question sits like an icicle on your tongue, slowly melting, pooling behind your teeth. 

Joel lumbers back, the soreness of his body just barely visible in his bow-legged stride, to sit on the edge of the bed just behind you. The mattress squeaks. One hand cards through his hair. Slow is his next breath. Steady. But on the exhale, you swear you hear the tiniest shake, a tiny tremble. 

Realization strikes down at you like lightning: electric and tingling, zipping skull to spine to fingertips, blinding and white. He’s nervous. 

Which means the ring in your hand isn’t just a ring.

Lamblike, you force yourself to your feet and the mattress mouses as you sink against his side. Igneous is his body against yours—such a familiar warmth. Rigid and walled to all but a few. Open to you, in moments like these, when he lets you glimpse the whole of him in his eyes and you swear you might be capable of reading the thoughts straight from his mind. Joel nudges his arm harder to yours, and you see the question coming before it slips from his tongue. You see it brewing in the gilt of his eyes just as clearly as you hear your own answer ricochet in your head. 

You don’t cut him off, jump to yes. Instead you lower your hands from their hold against your chest at last, letting the box sit in your lap, open to his regard. Evening lamplight makes ice of the clear stone set squarely on its ring, and the heat of his breath kisses your cheek as he leans in to mumble,

“Y’gonna make me get down on one knee?”

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[valneedsvalium]

the more pedro publicly leans into his socialist son of political refugees roots the more i wanna suck his dick

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i love men. i love women. i hate men. i really love women. i hate myself. i hate women. i love men. i hate everyone. i love women and men.

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