Bella

21 she/her

[bit3mebabyx]

guys i’ll be so real i fkn hate ethel cain not for any real reason (those old posts validated me) just i hate her song crush it’s just so bad. like seriously chat do you like do you actually think it’s good it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me

[bit3mebabyx]

Father Figure

🕊️coming home after college was supposed to be chance to repent, find your way back to god, how could you stray so much further🕊️

warnings: 18+, religious themes, eventual smut, slow burn, forbidden relationship, big but legal age gap (joel is in his late 40s reader is early 20s), power imbalance, slow burn, small town/ conservative vibes, no outbreak au, no ellie, tags will update as story progresses. not proofread + im literally illiterate lol

a/n: this is so short and poor. my greatest apologies uni burnout is real

Part 2: Want to Want

0.6k

The sun hangs high as you start your walk to church, sweat already dripping down your nape, hair up as your mothers words reverberate in the front of your mind. Your trainers kick dust as you trail, each step feeling slow, delaying the inevitable.

You approach the church, its superiority dawning above you. Inside is cooler but the quiet feels so much louder. You linger outside of the office door longer than needed, attempting to smooth the wrinkles from your top, ignoring the tension building at your sternum, just beneath your ribs.

You knock, quiet and sheepish, comparable to a church mouse.

Then it opens.

Joel, Father Miller. One hand still on the knob as he gestures you in. His palm landing on the small of your back. Firm, solid pressure. A guide. Probably friendly, reassuring.

But still your breath catches, and like every moment before, he sees it. You know he does.

His office is rather bare, boring. A wooden cross adorns the wall above his desk and bookshelves crowd either side of your seat. He smiles when you sit. “Thanks for coming.”

You nod. “Of course.”

A pause. A slight tensing of his jaw. His tone following the shift. “Your mother seems to think you’ve strayed.”

You breath halts, panic stretching up and towards your neck. . “I- she’s just worried. It’s been… hard. Being away.”

“You’ve struggled.”

You nod. It's not untrue. “I tried. I really did. College was just…” you trail off, looking down. Index finger starting to pick at the cuticle on your thumb. “It didn’t feel right anymore; faith. Not when everything around me was so… loud, so different.”

He studies you, not with judgement, it's analysing.

You look away. “I still believe,” you lie.

He leans forward slightly. “Do you?”

You don’t answer.

It's too direct, the real answer too honest. You feel as if you're being ripped open, just without the touch.

You're unable to decipher if it's the pressure, the knowledge that he seems to know everything, but for some reason you just want to tell him everything.

Every slip, every sin, every time you cursed god for not existing in the way you felt he should.

But you can’t.

“Pray with me,” he says softly, drawing you back and away from the eternal battle waging in your head.

You look up.

He nods toward the rug between the chairs.

Your knees hit the floor before your brain fully catches up. You don't know why you do that, but every time Joel Miller commands, you obey. Your palms rest together. Your lashes lower.

His voice is deep and steady beside you. But, words don’t register. Just the tone. Just the warmth.

The whole thing feels like a dream. Fucking surreal.

Sunday comes fast. Too fast.

You sit in the pew, your newly bought pale pink dress sticking to your thighs, modest. The sermon begins.

Every word feels like it was written for you.

Because it was.

He speaks of return. Of the ones who want to want to be good. Of grace not being earned, but sought. Of shame and surrender.

You can’t lift your head. But you don’t have to. You can feel his gaze. You don’t think he’s looked away from you once.

Your mother practically vibrates with joy after service.

“Oh, wasn’t that perfect?” she beams. Before you can answer, her hand is around your wrist, tight, practically dragging you toward him. “Father Miller, I just—what a gift that was today. Exactly what we’ve been praying for.”

He barely acknowledges her. But hums in agreement.

He turns to you. His eyes soft. Steady.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Eleven.”

Your mouth opens. Some half-formed excuse rises; something about errands, or plans, or…

But it dies on your tongue.

You nod. “Tomorrow.”

[bit3mebabyx]

at work i served a guy that looked a little bit like pedro in a reed richard’s kinda way. i crashed out so hard an hour later my manager was still telling me to pull it together

i literally screamed

[bit3mebabyx]

Father Figure

🕊️coming home after college was supposed to be chance to repent, find your way back to god, how could you stray so much further🕊️

warnings: 18+, religious themes, eventual smut, slow burn, forbidden relationship, big but legal age gap (joel is in his late 40s reader is early 20s), power imbalance, slow burn, small town/ conservative vibes, no outbreak au, no ellie, tags will update as story progresses. not proofread + im literally illiterate lol

Part 1: Homecoming

2k

The tires pull to a halt, crunching beneath the gravel of the driveway. You stare up at the same old house, unchanged. The same porch steps you tripped up and broke your wrist on when you were nine. The same old planter filled with herbs still with a slight crack on the side.

You had forgotten how still it is here, how unchanging small town Texas can really be. And hot. God, so hot. That dry heat that burns and leaves your lips cracked and bleeding. You definitely didn’t miss that.

You also didn’t miss the subtle judgment wrapped in a saccharine bow from your mother. She envelops you in a tight embrace. You can tell she did miss you, even if her concerns about you straying from your faith were evident in her words. “We’re glad you’re back, sweetheart,” she says. “Service tomorrow starts at 9 a.m. sharp. Don’t think you’re sleeping through it either.” There it is. The reminder that this small town hasn’t changed, and neither has she.

Your father walks up the porch steps, a suitcase in each hand. You turn and smile at him, comforted by the knowledge that your college diploma is safely nestled inside one of them. “Go upstairs and try and unpack, honey,” he says gently. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow.” You nod and head to your childhood bedroom.

Sunday morning comes like an old ghost, one you had managed to mostly avoid at your East Coast school. It’s not like you didn’t try to retain your faith at college, but the local pastor there was just so... rigid. Even more than the late Father Rodgers. It all felt hollow. Tight around your throat like you were suffocating.

You sit on the edge of your childhood bed staring at your suitcase, open and taunting. You have nothing to wear. Every dress is wrong. Too short. Too low cut. Too loud in design. Dresses you wore with confidence hundreds of miles away now seem to echo that maybe you made a mistake coming back.

You settle on a white cotton dress. High neck. Ends just above the knees. Boring. But that’s what you needed.

You smooth the fabric down one last time, trying to ignore the way it does little to hide your figure.

The hallway is still dim, the morning sun not yet hitting this side of the house. You pause by the mirror outside your room, the one framed in gold, speckled with age. It’s always been there.

Your fingers lift your hair. It feels heavy today, the heat making it appear (at least to you) unkempt. You twist it into a bun just above your neck, holding it there.

The curve of your throat looks longer this way. Your collarbone more pronounced. Your lips part without you noticing.

Maybe you look—

“Down,” your mother says behind you, voice clipped.

You jump, caught like a child.

“Hair down for church,” she adds, walking past. Her shoulder grazes yours. “You’re not trying to turn heads in God’s house.”

She doesn’t say more. She doesn’t have to.

You let your arms fall. Let your hair shroud your shoulders again. You follow her out the door.

The church is the same. Canary yellow bulletin board out front, faded announcements. Inside, the air is stale and heavy with heat. The pews are packed, though, just like they always are. Nothing has changed.

You sit beside your mother, hands folded in your lap. Your father mouths along with the opening prayer.

You try. You do. You mouth the words, but they fall flat. You count the beams in the ceiling, the organ keys, the seconds until it ends.

Your fingers move restlessly, picking at the hem of your dress, rubbing at a frayed edge you hadn’t noticed until now. When that gets tired, you switch to nibbling on the cuticle of your thumb. Teeth grazing the skin. Biting and pulling.

You feel young again. Not in a good way.

Another prayer starts. You bow your head. Everyone does. But your mind wanders. You wonder what your friends are doing. If it’s just as hot in New York. You doubt it.

Is this what penance feels like? Dry and long and so fucking boring.

Then. A shift. Not sound. Not movement. Just a feeling. Heavy and sudden.

Like the heat of the sun through stained glass.

Someone is watching you.

You don’t lift your head. Instead, your eyes shift just enough to see through your lashes.

He’s standing at the pulpit.

Broad-shouldered. Dark tie. Bible open in one hand.

Father Miller.

Joel.

He’s speaking, but you don’t hear a word. Because his eyes are on you.

Not a glance. Not passing.

Held.

You've stopped biting. Your thumb rests against your bottom lip. A ghost of pressure. Bringing half-comfort.

His gaze drops, then lifts again.

You pull your hand away. Quickly. Fold it into your lap like you’ve done something wrong. Heat creeps up your neck.

You look down. You try to listen. But you can feel him watching. And you don’t think he’s praying anymore.

The rest of the service passes the same way it began. Dull. Stifling. Predictable.

Except him.

You can’t escape it. His voice. His eyes. The weight of him like a hand between your shoulder blades.

You keep looking. Every time you do, he’s already looking.

Commanding without effort. Like he’s the only one who knows you don’t belong here anymore.

Like he sees everything. The drinking. The nights you said you were studying. The hands that slipped under your clothes. The way you only pray when someone else is watching.

He knows.

And it makes your skin burn. Not just from shame.

From being seen.

The service ends. Fans flutter. Your mother exchanges God bless yous in the lobby.

You stay quiet. Barely present.

The ride home is slow. The AC rattles, fighting the heat.

Your father glances at you in the rearview mirror. “It was good to see you back in church,” he says.

You nod. A smile that barely lands.

Your mother adjusts the radio volume. “You know, Father Miller’s new in town. Came from Austin. Thought it’d be nice to invite him for dinner. Proper welcome.”

Your eyes lift. “Dinner?”

“Tonight,” she says. “You’ll be on your best behavior.”

“Man like that,” your father adds, pulling into the driveway, “giving his life to the Lord? Deserves a warm meal.”

Your stomach tightens. Not just with nerves.

Something darker.

Something warm.

You lay the table in silence. Forks left. Knives right. The linen won’t sit flat. Your chest feels tight again. You smooth the fabric. Adjust the centerpiece. Ignore the tick of the hallway clock.

Then.

A knock.

Not the doorbell.

Heavy. Intentional. Like someone who knows you’ll answer.

“Get the door, sweetheart,” your mother calls from the kitchen.

You wipe your hands and cross the hall.

You open it.

He’s there.

Joel Miller. Father Miller.

White shirt rolled at the sleeves. Dark slacks. That serious face softened by something you can’t name.

His fingers wrapped around the bottle neck—a Beaujolais, rich and dark and deep as blood in the right light. The label clean. Elegant. His grip easy, like it belongs there.

“Thought I’d bring somethin’ for the table,” he says.

You step aside. His shoulder brushes yours as he enters. You can smell him. Clean. Warm.

Dinner starts. Roast. Green beans. Cornbread.

The wine is poured. It gleams, almost purple.

You sip. Smooth. Earthy. Complex.

Everything else is loud. Chair legs scraping. Glasses clinking. Your heartbeat.

You keep your eyes down until he speaks to you directly.

“So, what’d you think of service?” he asks. Voice low.

“Bit of a homecoming, huh?”

You glance up. “It was fine... Father Miller.”

“Call me Joel. We’re not in church now.”

Your mother tuts. “Don’t tell her that. Give her an inch, she’ll take a mile.”

He doesn’t look at her. Just at you.

“That right?”

You blush. Try to speak. Nothing comes.

He notices.

Then your mother again, halfway through her bite.

“I just hope this return home brings her back to the path. College life’s changed her. We worry.”

You freeze.

“Not that she’s lost,” she adds. “But sometimes the Lord needs to remind us who we are.”

Joel sets his fork down. Wipes his mouth. Looks at you.

“Well,” he says. “Discipleship can be a powerful thing.”

Your mother nods quickly. “Exactly what I was saying.”

But he’s still looking at you.

“Sometimes guidance just means being willing to walk beside someone. Close. Patient. Let them speak when they’re ready. Tell you what they really need.”

You swallow. Your hands in your lap, tight.

“If you’re open to it,” he says, “I’d be happy to offer it. One-on-one.”

Your fork scrapes the plate.

Your stomach flips.

Not from fear.

But because, for the first time since you’ve been home, you feel something.

[cuntyhunty22]

What a time to be alive

[littlejoels-deactivated20260202]

“bad girls get punished”

synopsis: you tried to escape the camp, but joel decided that you needed a punishment, a very explicit lesson. word count: 2,3k warnings: +18 minors dni, mean!joel, dubcon, smut (explicit), joel slaps reader, violence, blood, forceful!joel, reader doesn't listen and it makes joel mad, detailed violent clicker scene, sex on the ground, joel continues to call reader 'mine.' please let me know if i have missed anything!

you hear a bone snap before you see anything. a sick, wet crunch from somewhere deep in the trees like someone twisted a chicken wing the wrong way, meat tearing off the bone. you freeze halfway through your step, boot caught in a knot of roots, your breath catching behind your teeth.

joel’s hand is already clamped tight over your mouth before you can scream. he shoves you down into the dirt, pinning your back with his forearm, hard enough to make your lungs stutter. “don’t make a fuckin’ sound,” he hisses low into your ear, voice like sandpaper, eyes fixed ahead. you nod or atleast try to. his fingers are calloused, digging into your cheek like he could silence your heartbeat too if he wanted.

through the gaps in the bushes, you see her. she’s young, maybe your age. younger, even. someone who thought she could sneak out, just like you did. she was barefoot, bleeding, limping—looks like she tried to run. the clicker moves slower than you thought they would. deliberate and grossly confident, its fungus-masked face jerks toward the sound of her sobbing, its legs twitching, head cocked.

you should look away. but you couldn’t because joel won’t let you. his other hand moves from your ribs to your jaw and grips it tight. keeping your face turned and your eyes on the scene unraveling just beyond the trees. 

“watch,” he says, just above a growl. “you wanna sneak outta camp? you wanna act grown?” you try to close your eyes. he presses harder, his fingers bruising. “no…keep ‘em open.”

you see the girl trip, blood gushing from her calf where something tore. you see her try to crawl. you see the clicker leap; it lands on her back, she’s screams outloud before it cuts out. her body jerks. she kicks once, then again, then nothing.

the clicker’s face buries into her neck, and the sound is worse than anything you’ve heard since the outbreak. it’s wet, sucking noises, like it’s chewing through a tendon, like it’s drinking her.

you feel your stomach heave, bile burning your throat. you cry out into joel’s palm, and he shushes you like he’s soothing you. “you need to see this,” he says, voice hoarse. “you need to fuckin’ learn.”

you’re shaking, not because of the cold or the horror only feet away. but because his breath is hot against your ear, and his body is pressed very tight against yours; which is making your cunt is wet. you’re disgusted with yourself, but he feels it. his thigh is slotted between yours. his hips are pressing down just enough while your clit is pulsing against the denim of his jeans, cruel friction. he doesn’t pull away or shift position.

you try to twist out from under him. trying to scream, or beg, or run. but his hand stays clamped around your mouth, and you go nowhere.

“she thought she knew better, too,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and guilt. “probably thought no one would notice if she slipped past the patrol.” the clicker’s still chewing. joel leans down closer, his nose brushing your temple. “they fuck ‘em, sometimes,” he whispers. “when there’s still enough brain left.”

you sob at that, your whole body trembling in his arms like a leaf underfoot. “you wanna see what that looks like? you wanna be next?” you shake your head violently, tears soaking into his palm.

he finally lets go of your mouth. his hand slides down to your throat, thumb resting over your pulse. “you scared?” he asks.

you nod making him hum low and satisfied. you hear the clicker lumbering off, dragging what’s left of her. you’re still under him, still trapped in the dirt, pants soaked through—cold, sweat, or arousal, you can’t tell anymore.

joel finally shifts his weight. his hand doesn’t move. “good,” he says. “then you’re finally fuckin’ listening?” you don’t answer. so he slaps you; a clean, backhand across your cheek that leaves your ears ringing and your teeth aching. not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough to stun you. 

“answer me when i speak to you.” “yes” you choke out. your voice is cracked raw. “yes, joel.” 

he growls then grabs your chin and forces your eyes on his again. his pupils are blown wide. his brow is knitted with rage. lips curled, and his jaw clenched so tight you hear it pop.

“you wanna be safe?” he asks. you nod. he leans in, nose to nose now, the stench of sweat and old whiskey coming off his skin. “then you fuckin’ listen to me.”

his hand slides down. over your throat, down your chest, between your breasts. he doesn’t ask permission. you were so wet that he probably felt the heat before he touched you. his fingers glide over your belly, then down—pressing between your thighs.

he swear. “gotdamn.” your face burns with shame and need. he grips your hair and yanks your head back. “you get wet watchin’ that?” he hisses.

“no,” you whisper, but it’s a lie, and you both know it. he slaps you again. this time you moan. his mouth drops open just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

his fingers slip under the waistband of your pants. your breath hitches. he finds your pussy wet and puffy. “this what you want?” he sneers. “you wanna see blood, girl? you wanna feel the difference between them and me?” you whimper. “answer.” 

“i want you,” you say, barely audible. his hand stills, then, not even a second passes before he rips your pants down in one sharp pull, cloth tearing and buttons snapping. your thighs squeezing together instinctively. “too late for modesty now,” he mutters, and forces them apart.

he doesn’t undress or ask, he just unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other still shoved between your legs, two fingers pumping into you now.

he kneels over you, thick cock already hard and angry, precum at the tip. it was large, veiny, and curved with an angry tip. bigger than anything you’ve had before. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a ragged moan.

he grabs your jaw again and turns your face to the side. pointing at the result of the clicker scene. “look over there,” he growls. “look at what they did.” you see the blood trail. a smear through the dirt. you start to cry again.

joel lines himself up, presses the head of his cock against your cunt and watches your expression twist. he doesn’t push in yet. just he holds it there. “you think this is cruelty?” he asks, tone gone strangely quiet. “you think i’m the monster?”

you don’t answer, forcing him to he slap your cunt. you jolt, crying out. it hurts, but it feels good. he pushes in, the stretch is delicious. but, your pussy wasn’t ready—your body wasn’t ready for that thick cock. you scream into your arm, biting down to muffle it.

he bottoms out anyway while your world goes white. joel leans down, lips at your ear again. “this,” he growls, “is what real protection looks like.”

he doesn't move for a second. just stays buried inside you, deep, like your cunt belongs to him now. his hand spreads wide across your belly, thumb brushing the curve where his cock is pushing you out from the inside. you wonder if he wants to feel how deep he is.

your legs twitch under him, trying to close, to pull away, but he pins them open with his knees. “no, no,” he murmurs, almost soft and sweet. “lesson ain’t done yet.”

he starts to move. pulling halfway out just to fuck back in deeper.

“feel that?” he says, breathless. “feel how deep?”  he’s all the way in, balls flush against your ass, cock splitting you open with every thrust. your slick is everywhere now—slick and dirt, mixing into something that shouldn't feel good but does. shame coils up your spine like smoke, like barbed wire.

he fucks you harder. you choke out a pleasure-filled sob. “hush now,” he grunts, teeth bared. “you wanna cry, you cry for her.” his hand moves back to your jaw, forcing your head to the side again. 

“you remember her face,” joel snarls. “you remember what happens when you think you can survive without me.” his cock slams into you as you gasp, tears leaking down your cheeks and into the dirt.

he doesn't stop. “they’ll take you like a piece of meat,” he growls, each word punctuated with a thrust. “they’ll rip you open and fuck the holes that ain’t even there yet.”

your pussy tightens at the thought. joel feels it, hears the slick slap of skin against skin grow louder. he laughs. low and mean. “you like that, baby?” he breathes. “dirty little thing, scared and wet.”

“you run off again, baby,” he says, soft like a promise, “and next time i let ‘em have you. i sit back and watch while they tear you up.” you whimper. “but not before i get mine first.”

you moan, choked and hoarse as his pace speeds up. the thrusts get faster, his balls slap against your ass, his cock driving so deep you can’t breathe.

your pussy makes that filthy sound now, every thrust louder than the last. he kisses your cheek and licks the tear off your face and growls, “that’s it…take it.”

his hand snakes under you, between your thighs again, finds your clit. you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted. “please—” you gasp as he rubs harder. two fingers circling, pressing, working your clit in tight circles while his cock fucks you raw. “please joel, let me cum.”

“you come on my cock, baby, right now.” he snarls. your body goes tight, clenching around him, your cunt squeezing like a vice.

joel groans and grabs your throat. you cum so hard your vision whites out. your hips jerk and your pussy pulses so hard around him it drags a filthy curse from his lips.

“so—fuckin’, you’re tight—” he slams in one last time, then holds. his cock twitches, and you feel his warmth. his cum spilling inside you; he was leaking out already as his hips rock slow, pushing it back in. “that’s it,” he breathes, panting. “mine now.”

he stays inside you, breathing hard, holding your neck. licking sweat off your skin; your whole body’s gone numb except for the ache between your legs and the thick stretch still buried in your pussy. joel finally pulls out and you feel your hole gape open, dripping cum.

he crouches next to you. grabs your chin again. turns your face to his. “you learn your lesson?” he asks, quiet but firm. you nod. he taps your face this time less harsh, more like a reminder. “say it.” 

“yes, joel,” you whisper. “i learned.” he grins. 

he stands, buckles his belt, eyes still on your used body. “good,” he says. “get up.” you try to move, but your legs won’t cooperate. he sighs and kneels, scoops you up like you weigh nothing. you cling to his chest. he walks past the blood trail and doesn’t even glance at it. “next time,” he says, voice low, lips against your hair, “you wander off again, the next lesson will be worse.” your cunt clenches.

he carries you like you're precious, even though you feel filthy. your pants torn halfway down your thighs, cunt leaking a mixture of his cum and your own shame onto his arm. he doesn’t flinch. his grip is so sure and possessive, one arm tucked under your knees, the other pressed firm against the sweat line of your back. your body curls into his chest without thinking. 

he doesn’t speak the whole walk back. you feel the pulse of him, steady and slow under his shirt, every step vibrating up your spine. your thighs stillache. your pussy’s still twitching, open, sensitive to the wind. every step jars you, jostles your used hole, and his cum dribbles out, warm down your ass, coating your thighs. you can feel the smear of it every time your legs shift in his arms.

and still—your body doesn’t want to leave him. that part’s worse than the rest. the part where your cunt is already sore and fucked full and yet you want more—more of him. the weight of him on top of you again, the sound of his belt hitting the dirt, the press of his hand on your throat when he growls mine through clenched teeth.

he doesn’t put you down when he reaches the edge of camp. he walks straight into his shack, boots heavy against the floorboards, one after the other, until the door creaks closed behind you. only then does he let you down. he places you on the clean mattress—draped in a wool blanket. it smells just like him. your thighs stick to the fabric when he lets go, and you wince when your pussy brushes against it.

you lie still, blinking up at the ceiling. joel stands at the foot of the bed, watching you with careful eyes. he shrugs off his jacket, then pulls his shirt over his head. you’ve never seen him bare like this before—not fully. you saw pieces of him in glimpses, in flashes between thrusts—his stomach flexing, his chest damp with sweat—but now there’s no distraction. just raw, lined muscle and thick, grizzled skin.

he leans on you and sinks onto his elbows some what like a plank. his nose brushes your cheek. his voice is soft now, terrifyingly tender. “you think i wanted to scare you?” you blink up at him. vision blurry.

he kisses your eyelid. “i wanted to teach you. i wanted you alive.” you breathe, chest heaving under him. “you’re mine now, kid.” you nod. he kisses you, not rough or harshly, and that’s the worst part because you kiss him back.

[bit3mebabyx]

dear lord…

[vampiranewmix]

joel lost weight in five years due to all the sex we started having after returning from salt lake city

[bit3mebabyx]

yeah…

[bit3mebabyx]

devil i know is so Javier Peña coded it has me fucking reeling. like seriously listen to it and tell me it’s not him. sigh, gonna have to write something based on it

[bit3mebabyx]

i love being a girl cos wdym i went on a date with a guy and slept with him cos he has a similar body type to pedro in narcos and a moustache

[bit3mebabyx]

got my period today :((( on the bright side that means some hella self indulgent time of the month hurt/ comfort writing is coming later :))

[bit3mebabyx]

Made of glass

🪽you knew joel could be controlling and cruel yet you pushed your luck anyways. stupid, stupid girl…🪽3k

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), smut, jackson joel, established relationship, age gap, power imbalance, fem reader, afab reader, punishment (belt/ spankings), mentions of pain, profanity, unprotected p in v, degradation, praise, edging/ denial, orgasms, creampie, fingering, daddy kink, consent non consent (i think??? at the very least it’s dubious), emotional manipulation, man handling, angst, toxic! joel, possessive! joel (find me a version where he isn’t lol), sex used as a form of control, aftercare, nicknames, brat reader, dom/ sub dynamics, no y/n, dark joel

basically a whole lot it’s dark shit, let me know if i missed anything as i haven’t really written a whole lot of stuff like this!

reminder: you are responsible for your own internet consumption please do not read if any of the above contents are not appropriate for you 🤍

authors note: this came to me to me in a depraved vision, it’s real messed up but i’m obsessed with it.

Kicking at the snowbank with the toe of your boot, muttering under your breath. Joel stalked a few feet ahead, heavy steps crunching loud enough to cover up the steady stream of curses you aimed at the back of his head.

"You gonna pout the whole way home?" His voice cut through the cold air like a whip — rough, worn, irritated.

You didn’t answer yet, just sped up until you were walking at his side, shooting him a look from under your lashes. "Maybe if you weren't such a hardass, patrol wouldn't be so damn miserable."

Joel stopped dead in his tracks. The sudden halt made you stumble a step before you caught yourself.

He turned toward you slow, eyes narrowing as he held your gaze. "You wanna run your mouth, fine. But you pull one more stunt like that back there—" His voice dropped, dark and dangerous, "you ain't leavin' Jackson again."

You crossed your arms, heart hammering against your ribs. "I handled it. You act like I’m made of glass."

Joel stepped closer — close enough that his body heat cut through the winter chill. Close enough that when he looked down at you, it made your knees want to buckle.

"You ain't made of glass," he said lowly. "You're just young enough it, it makes you act stupid."

Your stomach twisted, heat pooling low and tight. You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to apologize — but Joel cut you off by grabbing your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your eyes up to his.

"You listenin'?" he rasped. His grip wasn’t painful or hard, but it was firm. Commanding.

You nodded, pulse thrumming wild.

Joel’s gaze dragged over your face, slow and simmering. "Next time you disobey me like that... I won't be so fuckin' patient."

There was a dark promise in his tone. Not cruelty — control. Care that was delivered as dominance. You felt it in your chest, your belly, all the way down.

He let go of your chin and took a step back. You almost whimpered at the loss of contact.

"Get movin'," he muttered, turning away. "We’ll finish this conversation somewhere private."

The house was cold when you stepped inside. Joel locked the door behind you with a heavy clunk, the sound final, and for a moment, you just stood there — the air thick between you.

“Take off your coat,” Joel said roughly. “Boots too. Don’t want you runnin’ anywhere.”

You swallowed, hands fumbling at the buttons of your jacket and, kicked off your boots, toes curling against the worn rug. Joel watched you the whole time, his arms crossed, jaw set.

When you were standing there, smaller somehow without all the layers, he jerked his chin toward the center of the living room.

“On your knees,” he said.

Your breath caught — but you did it. Dropped down onto the rug, knees pressing into the scratchy fibers, your hands awkward in your lap.

Joel stepped closer, boots heavy against the floorboards. He loomed over you, looking down at you like you were something he owned, something he was deciding the fate of.

"Now," he said, voice like gravel, "you're gonna tell me exactly what you did wrong. And you're gonna tell me why you're sorry."

You wet your lips, heart pounding. "I—I didn’t listen to you on patrol. I rushed ahead when you told me to wait. I... I could've gotten hurt."

Joel said nothing, just stared down at you, waiting.

You blinked up at him, throat tightening. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "It won't happen again. I promise."

For a second, you thought maybe that would be enough. That he'd sigh, drag you up into his arms, kiss the top of your head and let it go.

But Joel shook his head slow, disappointment etched deep into the lines of his face.

"That easy for you, huh?" he muttered. "Say a few words, think that erases the risk you took?"

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to beg — but Joel crouched down in front of you, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to make you feel it.

"Sorry ain't good enough, baby," he said low and dangerous. "Not when it’s your life on the line."

You whimpered, heat flashing through your whole body. You leaned into his touch without meaning to, desperate for it.

Joel’s thumb brushed along the side of your throat, like he could feel the frantic pulse there. His eyes softened just a fraction — but it didn’t change his next words.

"You need a real lesson," he murmured. "One you ain't gonna forget."

He stood up again, towering over you, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he moved.

"Take off your pants," he ordered. "Now."

You hesitated, hands trembling as you undid the button of your jeans. Joel just stood there, arms crossed, watching — no mercy in his face, no softness.

When you awkwardly peeled your jeans down your thighs, shivering when the cold air hit, Joel finally moved.

He pulled the thick leather belt from around his waist with a slow, deliberate motion — the snick of it sliding free made you clench around nothing, thighs instinctively pressing together.

Joel folded the belt in his hand, testing the weight of it.

"Hands behind your back," he said quietly. "Kneel up, head down."

You obeyed instantly, heart hammering. The floor scratching at your cheek as you rested against the time-worn surface, hands locked behind you. Vulnerable. Waiting.

Joel circled you slowly like a wolf deciding where to sink his teeth. His fingers brushed your clothed back, trailing up to the back of your neck grabbing your attention so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You’re gonna take ten," he said. "One for every second you ignored me out there."

You whimpered — ten felt like an impossibly painful number. But you nodded, desperate to please him now, desperate to fix what you’d broken.

"And you’re gonna count every single one out loud," Joel said, voice a dark rumble. "You lose count, we start over."

Before you could answer, the first crack of the belt landed across the curve of your ass.

You yelped — the sting blooming fast, white-hot and deep.

"One," you gasped, blinking hard against the prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Another lash — harder this time — snapping against the top of your thigh.

"Two!"

Joel didn’t say anything. He just kept going, slow and methodical, each strike placed with brutal precision.

Not enough to leave you bloody — but enough that you felt it. Felt it in your skin, your bones, your pride.

By six, you were sobbing. Knees wobbling. Cheeks burning from the combination of scratchy carpet and tears. Joel paused just long enough to wrap his free hand in your hair, dragging your head back so you had to look up at him.

"You think you’re tough?" he rasped. "That how you acted out there? Like you don't need me watchin' your back?"

"N-no," you choked out, tears slipping down your cheeks. "I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry."

He growled low in his throat — a sound of frustration, and something darker.

"You ain't sorry yet," he muttered.

The last four lashes came faster, sharp and punishing — and by the end, you were sagging forward, gasping for air, thighs trembling.

Joel tossed the belt aside and dropped to one knee in front of you. Pulling you up so you were kneeling straight. His big, calloused hand cupped your face, thumb brushing roughly at the wetness there.

"Look at you," he said softly. "Pretty little brat. Thinkin' you can do whatever you want."

He trailed his hand down your throat, down your chest, over your trembling stomach — until it rested just above your soaked panties.

"You ain't learned a thing yet," Joel murmured. "Still so fuckin' desperate for me."

You whimpered, hips tilting toward him without thinking.

Joel smirked — but it was cruel, slightly twisted.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and ripped them down in one savage tug.

Then he leaned back against the couch, spread his legs wide, and patted his thigh.

"Come here," he said.

You crawled to him on sore knees, climbing shakily into his lap, straddling him.

But when you tried to grind down, seeking any kind of friction, Joel grabbed your hips hard — holding you still.

"Nuh-uh," he said lowly. "You don’t get to use me. Not yet."

He slid two fingers through your wetness, gathering it — but didn’t sink them in. Just traced slow, teasing circles around your clit, light enough to make you whimper.

"You're gonna sit here," he said. "You're gonna take what I give you, when I give it. You’re gonna ask for permission and wait ‘til I give it."

You nodded frantically, desperate, needy beyond words.

Joel smiled, slow and mean.

"Good," he murmured. "Now beg me, baby. Beg me nice. Maybe I’ll decide you earned it."

You squirmed in his lap, trembling, your hands still locked behind your back like he told you — but it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed him.

Joel’s fingers circled your clit slow, lazy, never enough pressure. Barely there, just a cruel little brush that made your whole body jerk.

"Poor baby," he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Look at you. Cryin', squirmin', makin’ a mess all over my jeans."

You whimpered, rocking your hips helplessly, but Joel's hand tightened around your hip, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"You thought you were grown out there, didn't you?" he said, tilting his head like he was talking to a naughty child. "Thought you didn’t need me tellin’ you what to do."

"Please, Joel," you gasped. "Please, I'm sorry, I swear—"

He chuckled low in his chest, your pathetic attempt at an apology amusing him.

"Sorry?" he echoed, sweet and cruel. "Baby, you don't even know what sorry means. If you did, you'd woulda been on your knees beggin' me to teach you better out there."

"I am," you sobbed, hips jerking. "I'm begging, Joel, please, please, I'll be good, I promise, I’ll listen next time, I’ll do whatever you want—"

Joel's thumb flicked your clit a little harder — still not enough to send you over, but enough to make your back arch, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

"Mm. Sounds pretty," he drawled. "But you said a lotta pretty things before, didn't you? Promised you'd behave out there. Look how that turned out."

"Different this time," you gasped, babbling now, too desperate to think straight. "I mean it, I’ll be good, I need you, I need you, Joel, please—"

Joel smiled — a slow, wicked, almost fond thing.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

"You’re so fuckin' pretty when you're stupid like this," he murmured. "Mouthy little thing turned into my sweet cryin' girl again. Bet you'd promise me the fuckin' world just to get a little relief, wouldn't you?"

You nodded frantically, tears spilling freely now, shame and need tangling so tightly you couldn't tell them apart.

Joel kissed your temple — so gentle it almost hurt worse than the teasing.

"Poor thing," he whispered. "Didn't even know what you needed ‘til I gave it to you."

You were falling apart in his lap, soaked and aching and dizzy with it.

"I’m sorry, Daddy," you sobbed without thinking, the word slipping out wild and raw. "Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m yours, I’ll listen, just—please, Daddy, please."

Joel went still for half a second — like the word lit something inside him.

Then he hummed low, pleased. His hand cradled the back of your head, pulling you in so your forehead pressed against his chest.

"There she is," he murmured. "There’s my good girl."

You shuddered in his arms, still hovering on the edge, broken open and waiting for him to decide what you needed.

Joel slid his fingers back between your legs — this time with real intent. Real pressure. Real promise.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, the mocking edge finally gone. "I know you’re sorry."

He kissed the top of your head, steady and sure.

[bit3mebabyx]

omg not me only posting half the fic what a dumb bitch, let me add the rest

[bit3mebabyx]

Made of glass

🪽you knew joel could be controlling and cruel yet you pushed your luck anyways. stupid, stupid girl…🪽3k

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), smut, jackson joel, established relationship, age gap, power imbalance, fem reader, afab reader, punishment (belt/ spankings), mentions of pain, profanity, unprotected p in v, degradation, praise, edging/ denial, orgasms, creampie, fingering, daddy kink, consent non consent (i think??? at the very least it’s dubious), emotional manipulation, man handling, angst, toxic! joel, possessive! joel (find me a version where he isn’t lol), sex used as a form of control, aftercare, nicknames, brat reader, dom/ sub dynamics, no y/n, dark joel, hair pulling

basically a whole lot it’s dark shit, let me know if i missed anything as i haven’t really written a whole lot of stuff like this!

reminder: you are responsible for your own internet consumption please do not read if any of the above content is not appropriate for you 🤍

authors note: this came to me to me in a depraved vision, it’s real messed up but i’m obsessed with it.

Kicking at the snowbank with the toe of your boot, muttering under your breath. Joel stalked a few feet ahead, heavy steps crunching loud enough to cover up the steady stream of curses you aimed at the back of his head.

"You gonna pout the whole way home?" His voice cut through the cold air like a whip — rough, worn, irritated.

You didn’t answer yet, just sped up until you were walking at his side, shooting him a look from under your lashes. "Maybe if you weren't such a hardass, patrol wouldn't be so damn miserable."

Joel stopped dead in his tracks. The sudden halt made you stumble a step before you caught yourself.

He turned toward you slow, eyes narrowing as he held your gaze. "You wanna run your mouth, fine. But you pull one more stunt like that back there—" His voice dropped, dark and dangerous, "you ain't leavin' Jackson again."

You crossed your arms, heart hammering against your ribs. "I handled it. You act like I’m made of glass."

Joel stepped closer — close enough that his body heat cut through the winter chill. Close enough that when he looked down at you, it made your knees want to buckle.

"You ain't made of glass," he said lowly. "You're just young enough it, it makes you act stupid."

Your stomach twisted, heat pooling low and tight. You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to apologize — but Joel cut you off by grabbing your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your eyes up to his.

"You listenin'?" he rasped. His grip wasn’t painful or hard, but it was firm. Commanding.

You nodded, pulse thrumming wild.

Joel’s gaze dragged over your face, slow and simmering. "Next time you disobey me like that... I won't be so fuckin' patient."

There was a dark promise in his tone. Not cruelty — control. Care that was delivered as dominance. You felt it in your chest, your belly, all the way down.

He let go of your chin and took a step back. You almost whimpered at the loss of contact.

"Get movin'," he muttered, turning away. "We’ll finish this conversation somewhere private."

The house was cold when you stepped inside. Joel locked the door behind you with a heavy clunk, the sound final, and for a moment, you just stood there — the air thick between you.

“Take off your coat,” Joel said roughly. “Boots too. Don’t want you runnin’ anywhere.”

You swallowed, hands fumbling at the buttons of your jacket and, kicked off your boots, toes curling against the worn rug. Joel watched you the whole time, his arms crossed, jaw set.

When you were standing there, smaller somehow without all the layers, he jerked his chin toward the center of the living room.

“On your knees,” he said.

Your breath caught — but you did it. Dropped down onto the rug, knees pressing into the scratchy fibers, your hands awkward in your lap.

Joel stepped closer, boots heavy against the floorboards. He loomed over you, looking down at you like you were something he owned, something he was deciding the fate of.

"Now," he said, voice like gravel, "you're gonna tell me exactly what you did wrong. And you're gonna tell me why you're sorry."

You wet your lips, heart pounding. "I—I didn’t listen to you on patrol. I rushed ahead when you told me to wait. I... I could've gotten hurt."

Joel said nothing, just stared down at you, waiting.

You blinked up at him, throat tightening. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "It won't happen again. I promise."

For a second, you thought maybe that would be enough. That he'd sigh, drag you up into his arms, kiss the top of your head and let it go.

But Joel shook his head slow, disappointment etched deep into the lines of his face.

"That easy for you, huh?" he muttered. "Say a few words, think that erases the risk you took?"

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to beg — but Joel crouched down in front of you, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to make you feel it.

"Sorry ain't good enough, baby," he said low and dangerous. "Not when it’s your life on the line."

You whimpered, heat flashing through your whole body. You leaned into his touch without meaning to, desperate for it.

Joel’s thumb brushed along the side of your throat, like he could feel the frantic pulse there. His eyes softened just a fraction — but it didn’t change his next words.

"You need a real lesson," he murmured. "One you ain't gonna forget."

He stood up again, towering over you, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he moved.

"Take off your pants," he ordered. "Now."

You hesitated, hands trembling as you undid the button of your jeans. Joel just stood there, arms crossed, watching — no mercy in his face, no softness.

When you awkwardly peeled your jeans down your thighs, shivering when the cold air hit, Joel finally moved.

He pulled the thick leather belt from around his waist with a slow, deliberate motion — the snick of it sliding free made you clench around nothing, thighs instinctively pressing together.

Joel folded the belt in his hand, testing the weight of it.

"Hands behind your back," he said quietly. "Kneel up, head down."

You obeyed instantly, heart hammering. The floor scratching at your cheek as you rested against the time-worn surface, hands locked behind you. Vulnerable. Waiting.

Joel circled you slowly like a wolf deciding where to sink his teeth. His fingers brushed your clothed back, trailing up to the back of your neck grabbing your attention so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You’re gonna take ten," he said. "One for every second you ignored me out there."

You whimpered — ten felt like an impossibly painful number. But you nodded, desperate to please him now, desperate to fix what you’d broken.

"And you’re gonna count every single one out loud," Joel said, voice a dark rumble. "You lose count, we start over."

Before you could answer, the first crack of the belt landed across the curve of your ass.

You yelped — the sting blooming fast, white-hot and deep.

"One," you gasped, blinking hard against the prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Another lash — harder this time — snapping against the top of your thigh.

"Two!"

Joel didn’t say anything. He just kept going, slow and methodical, each strike placed with brutal precision.

Not enough to leave you bloody — but enough that you felt it. Felt it in your skin, your bones, your pride.

By six, you were sobbing. Knees wobbling. Cheeks burning from the combination of scratchy carpet and tears. Joel paused just long enough to wrap his free hand in your hair, dragging your head back so you had to look up at him.

"You think you’re tough?" he rasped. "That how you acted out there? Like you don't need me watchin' your back?"

"N-no," you choked out, tears slipping down your cheeks. "I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry."

He growled low in his throat — a sound of frustration, and something darker.

"You ain't sorry yet," he muttered.

The last four lashes came faster, sharp and punishing — and by the end, you were sagging forward, gasping for air, thighs trembling.

Joel tossed the belt aside and dropped to one knee in front of you. Pulling you up so you were kneeling straight. His big, calloused hand cupped your face, thumb brushing roughly at the wetness there.

"Look at you," he said softly. "Pretty little brat. Thinkin' you can do whatever you want."

He trailed his hand down your throat, down your chest, over your trembling stomach — until it rested just above your soaked panties.

"You ain't learned a thing yet," Joel murmured. "Still so fuckin' desperate for me."

You whimpered, hips tilting toward him without thinking.

Joel smirked — but it was cruel, slightly twisted.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and ripped them down in one savage tug.

Then he leaned back against the couch, spread his legs wide, and patted his thigh.

"Come here," he said.

You crawled to him on sore knees, climbing shakily into his lap, straddling him.

But when you tried to grind down, seeking any kind of friction, Joel grabbed your hips hard — holding you still.

"Nuh-uh," he said lowly. "You don’t get to use me. Not yet."

He slid two fingers through your wetness, gathering it — but didn’t sink them in. Just traced slow, teasing circles around your clit, light enough to make you whimper.

"You're gonna sit here," he said. "You're gonna take what I give you, when I give it. You’re gonna ask for permission and wait ‘til I give it."

You nodded frantically, desperate, needy beyond words.

Joel smiled, slow and mean.

"Good," he murmured. "Now beg me, baby. Beg me nice. Maybe I’ll decide you earned it."

You squirmed in his lap, trembling, your hands still locked behind your back like he told you — but it wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed him.

Joel’s fingers circled your clit slow, lazy, never enough pressure. Barely there, just a cruel little brush that made your whole body jerk.

"Poor baby," he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Look at you. Cryin', squirmin', makin’ a mess all over my jeans."

You whimpered, rocking your hips helplessly, but Joel's hand tightened around your hip, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"You thought you were grown out there, didn't you?" he said, tilting his head like he was talking to a naughty child. "Thought you didn’t need me tellin’ you what to do."

"Please, Joel," you gasped. "Please, I'm sorry, I swear—"

He chuckled low in his chest, your pathetic attempt at an apology amusing him.

"Sorry?" he echoed, sweet and cruel. "Baby, you don't even know what sorry means. If you did, you'd woulda been on your knees beggin' me to teach you better out there."

"I am," you sobbed, hips jerking. "I'm begging, Joel, please, please, I'll be good, I promise, I’ll listen next time, I’ll do whatever you want—"

Joel's thumb flicked your clit a little harder — still not enough to send you over, but enough to make your back arch, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

"Mm. Sounds pretty," he drawled. "But you said a lotta pretty things before, didn't you? Promised you'd behave out there. Look how that turned out."

"Different this time," you gasped, babbling now, too desperate to think straight. "I mean it, I’ll be good, I need you, I need you, Joel, please—"

Joel smiled — a slow, wicked, almost fond thing.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

"You’re so fuckin' pretty when you're stupid like this," he murmured. "Mouthy little thing turned into my sweet cryin' girl again. Bet you'd promise me the fuckin' world just to get a little relief, wouldn't you?"

You nodded frantically, tears spilling freely now, shame and need tangling so tightly you couldn't tell them apart.

Joel kissed your temple — so gentle it almost hurt worse than the teasing.

"Poor thing," he whispered. "Didn't even know what you needed ‘til I gave it to you."

You were falling apart in his lap, soaked and aching and dizzy with it.

"I’m sorry, Daddy," you sobbed without thinking, the word slipping out wild and raw. "Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m yours, I’ll listen, just—please, Daddy, please."

Joel went still for half a second — like the word lit something inside him.

Then he hummed low, pleased. His hand cradled the back of your head, pulling you in so your forehead pressed against his chest.

"There she is," he murmured. "There’s my good girl."

You shuddered in his arms, still hovering on the edge, broken open and waiting for him to decide what you needed.

Joel slid his fingers back between your legs — this time with real intent. Real pressure. Real promise.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, the mocking edge finally gone. "I know you’re sorry."

He kissed the top of your head, steady and sure.

"Cum for Daddy."

You shattered.

Your whole body locked up, a ragged sob tearing from your throat as you came hard, soaking Joel’s jeans, clinging to him like he was the only thing holding you together.

He held you through it, murmuring soft, filthy praise against your hair.

"Good girl. That’s it. That’s my baby. Knew you had it in you."

You didn’t stop shaking for a long time — and Joel didn’t let you go.

You were still trembling in his lap, forehead pressed to his chest, gasping for air like you’d just survived a war.

Joel rubbed slow, steady circles into your back — not saying anything at first, just letting you come down enough to feel how wrecked you were.

Then he hooked an arm under your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifted you like you weighed nothing at all.

You whimpered — from sensitivity, from trust, from the way your body just gave itself up to him completely.

Joel carried you through the house, the floor creaking under his boots, until he reached the bedroom.

He laid you down on the bed — but didn’t leave you long.

He followed you down, covering your body with his own, caging you in with his weight.

"You did so good for me," he murmured against your ear, voice low and thick. "Took your punishment like a big girl. Cried real pretty too."

You whimpered, squirming under him, already aching for more — even after everything.

Joel reached down, undoing his jeans, dragging them down enough to free himself. His cock was heavy, flushed dark, leaking at the tip.

He caught your chin in his fingers, tilted your face up to his.

"You ready for me, sweetheart?" he asked, voice soft but commanding. "Gonna let Daddy fuck that attitude outta you real gentle now?"

You nodded frantically, tears still clinging to your lashes. "Please, Joel. Need you. Need you inside."

Joel smiled — slow, dirty, affectionate.

"Course you do," he murmured. "You’re mine baby. Ain't goin' anywhere without me."

He lined himself up with your entrance — soaked and ready for him — and pushed in slow, steady, giving you every thick inch.

You gasped, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders, still clad in that flannel that was so... Joel.

Joel groaned deep in his chest — a rough, needy sound.

"Fuck," he muttered. "So fuckin’ tight still. Made for me, baby. Made for Daddy’s cock."

He bottomed out and stayed there, letting you feel every pulse of him inside you, every inch stretching you wide, filling every part of you that needed it.

Then he started moving — slow, deep thrusts that dragged the head of his cock right against your sweet spot, over and over, until you were keening under him.

Joel held your hands above your head with one big hand, the other gripping your waist, using your body like it was his right — and it was.

You wanted it to be.

"Look at you," Joel rasped, thrusting slow and hard. "Took your beltin', took my fingers, now takin’ cock like a good little girl."

You moaned, helpless, clenching around him.

Joel leaned down, kissed your open, gasping mouth — slow and claiming — then pulled back just enough to murmur:

"Say it again. Say who you belong to."

"Y-you, Daddy," you sobbed. "Belong to you. Always."

Joel groaned again — a filthy, wrecked sound — and fucked you harder, deeper, his control slipping just enough to make it rougher, just enough to make you sob his name again and again.

"You’re mine," he growled, voice shaking. "Mine to take care of. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep safe."

You were close again — so close it hurt. And he could fucking feel it.

Joel kissed you hard, swallowing your cries.

"Cum for me again, sweetheart," he panted against your lips. "Wanna feel you. Wanna make you fall apart on my cock."

It took barely a few more thrusts before you shattered — clenching around him so tight it milked his cock right over the edge right after you.

Joel fucked you through both your orgasms, his mouth pressed to your ear, murmuring broken praises:

"That’s it, good girl, so fuckin’ good, Daddy’s so proud of you."

He stayed inside you after, cradling your body against his, still pressing soft kisses to your hair, your forehead, your cheeks — his calloused hands never leaving your skin.

Like he had to remind you, over and over, that you were safe now. That you were his.

Joel rose above you, still and steady just enough to look at your face properly, letting your racing heart slow. His breath was warm against your temple as he wrapped his arms tighter around your trembling body.

“You did good,” he whispered, voice rough but gentle. “Real good.”

You clung to him, tears still slipping free — not just from the intensity, but because you finally felt it. The way he cared so damn much it scared you a little.

Joel kissed the top of your head slowly, as if committing every trembling inch of you to memory.

“I ain’t never lettin’ anything happen to you, you hear me?” he murmured. “You’re mine — all of you — and I’ll take care of you better than anyone else ever could.”

You sniffled, nodding against his skin. “I’m sorry, Joel. I mean it this time.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, those rough, scarred hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I know, baby,” he said, voice soft but sure. “And I ain’t just sayin’ that ‘cause I wanna hear it. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I believe it. You’re mine. And I’m gonna keep you safe—no matter what, I never wanna hurt you but, I just can't risk it.”

He kissed you again—this time slow and sweet, full of promises and fierce protection.

You melted into him, the fierce heat and the gentle care tangled into one perfect, messy feeling.

Joel smiled, a rare softness breaking through his usual gruffness.

“Now,” he said, voice low and teasing, “you gonna behave on the next patrol? Or do I gotta remind you who’s really in charge again?”

You giggled—a shaky, relieved sound.

“Promise, Joel,” you whispered. “I’m yours. Always.”

He kissed you one last time before settling beside you, holding you close as sleep finally claimed you both.

[bit3mebabyx]

Honeymoon Suite

🐚while out of town on a surveillance mission for the DEA, you stupidly left Javi to book the hotel room. aka the classic one bed trope. 🐚

warnings: 18+, slowburn (i’ll be real half the fic is the both of you pretending to be asleep), co-workers to lovers, teasing/ flirting, Javi being the perv/ sleaze we all know he is, cannon violence lightly mentioned, afab reader, fem reader, no smut really (yet?), whole lotta sexual tension though

authors notes: first post on this account (ew). first time writing for a pedro character, but my obsession has been reborn and is overwhelming me.

The motel was the kind of place that charged by the hour and didn’t bother to change the sheets. Javier dropped the keys onto the dresser and glanced around with a raised brow. “Charming,” he muttered, tugging the curtains shut. “Really went all out on this one.”

You crossed your arms, backpack slung over one shoulder. “You booked it.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, smirking. “Didn’t realize we’d be getting the honeymoon suite.”

Your stomach dropped slightly when your eyes landed on the single, sad old mattress in the middle of the room. One bed. Of course. What a pervert. “There’s only one bed,” you said flatly.

“Wow. Thanks for the update, Agent Obvious.” He winked, peeling off his jacket and tossing it onto the chair.

You gave him a sharp look, trying not to let his easy charm get to you. “Don’t get any ideas, Peña.”

“Oh, I already had a few,” he said smoothly. “But don’t worry, I’m a gentleman. I’ll take the side closest to the door—so if someone comes in shooting, I get hit first.”

“A real gentleman would take the floor.” you commented. His eyes drifting to where you were pointing and scoffed. “How romantic,” you deadpanned.

Javi just grinned, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the wall, watching as you dug around in your bag. His eyes didn’t leave you. You felt them, the way they skimmed your legs, your waist, your mouth. He always looked at you like that. Like he was waiting for the game to begin.

“You gonna stare all night or actually do some work?” you asked, tossing your gear on the table.

He took a slow drag. “Depends what kinda work you’re offering, cariño.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw stars. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“You love it.”

With a huff, you grabbed your pajamas and locked yourself in the bathroom. You wished you'd packed an oversized shirt and long pajama shorts, something boring and forgettable. Instead, you picked out your regular sleeping attire, a tank top that barely covered the curve of your breasts and shorts that clung too tight to your thighs. Great.

You debated staying in the bathroom all night, but that would be giving him too much satisfaction. You were a federal agent, for Christ’s sake. You could handle one Javier Peña and his stupid perfect mouth.

You opened the door and stepped out casually, pretending not to notice his eyes immediately zoning in on your tits.

“Well, well,” he said, tongue resting behind his teeth. “Didn’t know this was a sleepover and a show.”

You snorted, trying to brush it off. “They were the only clean clothes I had left.”

Javi tilted his head, smirking like the devil himself. “Sure. You accidentally packed the outfit that guarantees no man within ten feet of you gets any sleep. Very believable.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, crossing the room quickly and slipping under the covers.

He soon followed after returning from the bathroom, the mattress dipping as he laid down next to you. So close. Warm. You could smell his aftershave and cigarettes, barely masked by the minty toothpaste. You could feel him.

“Just so you know,” you said, trying to sound breezy, “if you try anything, I’m a better shot than you.”

He let out a low chuckle and turned on his side to face you. “Duly noted. But I’m more interested in where you're hiding a gun in this little outfit.” His eyes floating down to your form barely covered by the thin sheet acting as a blanket.

“Stop it.”

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, voice like molasses, “you need to relax, you've been flustered since the minute we walked in here.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Not with your pulse hammering like this and your body way too aware of his.

The silence stretched.

“You snore?” he asked eventually.

“Only when I’m sleeping next to assholes.”

“Guess I’ll find out in a few hours.”

It was nearly pitch black except for the glow of the motel sign leaking through the thin curtains. The hum of the air conditioner rattled in the background, but all you could really focus on was the man lying inches away.

You hadn’t moved much. Neither had he.

You were both pretending to be asleep.

And failing.

Javi let out a breath. “You always sleep this stiff or is it just ‘cause you’re in bed with me?”

You scoffed, facing away. “It’s because I’m thinking about all the diseases in this mattress.”

He shifted closer—close enough that the heat of his body bled onto your back. “Sure it’s not because of the tiny shorts and that tank top that keeps riding up every time you breathe?”

“Peña,” you warned, trying to pull the blanket up higher.

“Mhm?”

“I will throw you out this window.” You quipped.

“In those shorts?” he teased, voice low and scratchy. “That’d be quite the view.”

You whipped around, ready to snap, but your face ended up inches from his. His nose almost brushing yours. That cocky smile just barely visible in the dark. His hand slid under his head lazily, showing off the veins in his forearm. Completely relaxed. Like he wasn’t taunting you on purpose.

“Admit it,” he murmured, his breath brushing your lips. “You wore that just to mess with me.”

You blinked, then tried to retort. “I—I didn’t. It's hot in Columbia. I just—”

Javi chuckled. “You always this good at lying?”

You hated how warm your face felt. Hated the knot in your lower stomach even more “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes on your mouth, “but I’m right.”

There was a long, heavy pause. You could practically hear both your heartbeats.

Then, with a smirk, he reached out—just one finger, brushing the hem of your tank top where it had ridden up, grazing your waist. Barely touching. Still smug.

“You should get some sleep,” he said, pulling back like he hadn’t just flipped your entire nervous system inside out. “Big day of surveillance tomorrow. Long hours. Hot sun. And if you keep wiggling in those shorts, I’m gonna have to get creative with how I handle the tension.”

You stared at him, open-mouthed.

He grinned like the devil he was.

“Night.”

You were still lying there, hours later, eyes wide open, pulse doing sprints.

He hadn’t said a word since his “creative tension” comment, just settled in beside you like he hadn’t casually set you on fire and walked away from the wreckage. And the worst part?

You hadn’t moved, Turned, yes. Not away.

If anything, you’d shifted closer without even realizing it. Just a little. Just enough that your leg brushed his. Javi noticed, of course he did.

“Still awake?” His voice was rough now, a little sleep laced. Lower.

You didn’t answer.

“You’re no good at pretending to sleep, cariño.”

He moved closer again—slower this time—and your bodies aligned like they’d done it before. He was so close. Too close. The kind of close that left no confusion.

“What do you want, Peña?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

He reached out, knuckles grazing your cheek. “Right now?”

You hummed, heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“I want you to admit you didn’t just wear this to sleep,” he said, fingers sliding down to toy with the hem of your tank again. “I want you to say you wanted to drive me crazy.”

You swallowed. “And if I did?”

His hand paused. “Then I’d tell you it worked.”

There was a long moment where the silence stretched thin.

You turned around, the retort that had taken too long for you to come up with died when he kissed you. It wasn’t gentle, nor slow. It was hot, impatient, domineering all tongue and teeth and the kind of pull that had been building for months. You grabbed his shirt like it was anchoring you to earth, and he groaned against your mouth when your legs tangled together.

“You’re such a cocky asshole,” you breathed between kisses, gasping when his hand slipped beneath your top, spreading fire across your skin.

“You like that about me,” he muttered, lips trailing down your neck. “You like this.”

You did. God, you did.

And the way he touched you—like he’d been memorizing every curve since day one, like he’d waited for this—was making your head spin.

“You’re not gonna be able to look me in the eye tomorrow,” he teased, fingers skating towards your breast.

You bit his lip, just hard enough to make him growl. “We’ll see who breaks first.”

He smiled against your skin, already tasting victory.