3k4 | Joel Miller x fem reader | ao3
Summary: Joel comes back home after a few days away and catches up with you
Warnings: 18+ mdni. PWP. Established relationship, spitting, spanking, allusions to somnophilia, size kink, praise kink, oral (f/m), ball sucking, rough sex, dirty talk, cum eating (m), rimming, ass play.
No age specified, no outbreak
a/n: same couple : 5 days collection but can be read alone
@not-a-unique-snowflake-blog thank you for correcting me, and for being here for me, always 💕🫶🫂
series masterlist | Masterlist
Joel opens the door of the house, making as little noise as possible, returning home after 5 days of absence for a construction site. He locks the door behind him, walks towards the bedroom and pushes the door. You’re asleep on the bed, on your back, with a book open on your stomach. He takes off his sweatshirt and approaches the bed. Gently, he brushes the strand of hair covering your face behind your ear and you moan softly.
His cock twitches.
He watches you sleep and he hesitates.
Does he get undressed and lie next to you, holding you close until you wake up?
Does he spread your thighs with his shoulders before eating your pussy?
Does he take his cock out and settle between your legs, brushing your folds with his dick? Sinking into your pussy little by little, until you wake up feeling filled, without immediately understanding what is happening?
He’s fucked you in your sleep so many times, taking advantage of you like you both agreed to long time ago.
He sighs and puts the ideas aside. As if to punish himself for having had to leave. He goes into the bathroom then closes the door behind him, turns on the softest light, so that the ray of light under the door doesn't wake you up. He undresses, gets in the shower and turns on the water. He puts his face under it and lets the water relax him.
***********
You wake up to the sound of water running and you smile when you understand he’s back. You walk through the bathroom, before opening the door. His back is turned, and the sound of the water prevents him from hearing you come in. You move closer to the shower and he turns just as you step in to join him.
You wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle your nose against his cheek.
“I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t want to wake you up.” He caresses your back with his hands, while the water runs down both of your bodies.
“I missed you, Joel. I didn’t want to fall asleep before you got there but I couldn’t stay up any longer.”
“I missed you too, baby. Let me hold you.”
You nod and kiss his cheek. You know each inch of his body, but you can't help but run your fingers over his shoulders, along his back, before hugging his waist. You feel his cock against your lower stomach.
“Joel?”
“Yes baby?”
“Wanna feel you inside me…”
He smiles and says “I’ll tell you what. We shower, then we go to bed, and I’ll take care of you.”
“Wanna feel you now, Joel…”
He pushes you against the shower wall and holds you there. He looks at you and kisses your lips “I said”, your earlobe “we shower”, your neck “and then”, your collarbone “we go to bed”. He turns you around, pins you to the wall and bites your shoulder “I’ll take care of you.” He presses his pelvis to you, and feeling his cock against your ass makes you reel.
“Understood?”
“Yes… Yes, Joel, understood.”
“Good.”
He grabs the shampoo and washes your hair, massaging your scalp. You let him wash you afterward, resisting the urge to beg him again. Then, you wash him. Running the soap over his body, his cock, and letting your hands trail on his shaft for a little too long.
“Sweetheart…”
“I’m just washing you, Joel…”
You smile at him in a way that contradicts your words.
You get out of the shower and dry each other off. You feel his hand lingering between your thighs and on your ass, but you don't say anything. You know that soon he’ll fuck you, and so you’re ok with waiting. That way you can enjoy him, his touch and his skin for as long as possible.
And it’s like Joel is taking his time too. He brushes a strand of wet hair behind your ear, and kisses the delicate skin just below.
You moan as he kisses you, his hand on your neck. His tongue brushes against your lips, playing with them, then slips in between. You hear him breathing harder, as your tongues caress each other, and he presses his cock to you, pushing you with his whole body against the wall. You can’t help but moan as he now presses kisses down your neck.
He grabs your thighs and lifts you up, your legs hugging his waist. You slide your hand between your two bodies to grab his cock but he stops you “no, not yet.”
You look at him, and you don't know if you want to mumble, kiss him, or impale yourself on his cock. You sigh and resign yourself, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and you let him lead you to the bedroom. He sets you down at the foot of the bed and kisses you again, then says “lie down, sweetheart.”
You lie down on the bed and he kneels on the floor, pulling your thighs towards him. He places his hands on your inner thighs, and spreads your folds with his thumbs. “Shit…this pussy is drippin’ for me.”
You let him touch you, spreading your folds with his thumbs. He does it in an almost perverted way while once again, like dozens of times before, you think that you have never felt so confident with a man as to let him do what you let him do with your body.
He leans down, eyes fixed on yours, and drops his saliva onto your pussy. You feel it slide down to your hole which he still keeps wide open, and you feel like just this sensation is bringing you to the edge of an orgasm.
“Joel…”
He watches the saliva slide down and doesn’t even look up as you beg him. He leans down and runs his tongue slowly from your pussy to your clit. He pulls away, looks at you again and sees the look of impatience on your face. He knows that you can't wait any longer, that you missed him too much.
And he smirks. He fucking smirks.
And fuck, you love him even more when he does that.
He slides his tongue between his parted lips and places his mouth on your pussy, pointing his tongue directly into your soaking hole.
You say “Oh fuck…” spreading your thighs even further and pressing your hands against his temples. He doesn't try to fuck you gently. He laps, he licks, he devours you. His nose rubs your clit. He fucks you with his tongue, holding your folds indecently open with his thumbs. You hear him groan between your folds as he trails one thumb up to your clit. You've been on the verge of orgasm for a few minutes and his gently rotating finger makes you explode without even having time to feel it coming.
Joel doesn't release you, and his tongue doesn't leave you as your spasms still contract your core. He places his hands on your waist and holds your pelvis against the bed.
You raise your head from the bed and say “Joel? What are you-”
“Ssssh”, he says “I want one more.”
“Wait, please...”
“Nuh uh. I want one more, baby.”
“Fuck,” you say, dropping your head back.
He keeps fucking you with his tongue, delving as far into your pussy as possible. He slides his right hand up your thigh, then your ass cheek. He pushes two fingers into your pussy, joining them with his tongue for a few moments.
His tongue then slides up to your clit as he continues to fuck you with his fingers. He places his lips around your clit and sucks it gently.
“Joel please….”
“What do you want, baby?”
“I… fuck… I don’t fucking know. Keep going please.”
And you can't see him, with your head still on the bed, but you know he's smiling.
He drips his saliva again, directly onto your clit this time, and your stomach contracts so hard that your head lifts off the bed. You look at him for a few seconds before lying back down.
You press his head against your pussy, as much as possible. You want more. More of his tongue, more of his mouth. More of his fingers.
The tip of his tongue plays with your clit and swirls around it, then he sucks it again with his lips.
“Joel… ‘m gonna come...”
He grabs one of your hands and says “feel your finger being squeezed with mine as you come."”
You stick your middle finger in, joining his. He laps at your pussy one last time, his tongue tangling with your fingers.
“Fuck,” you say.
He goes up to your clit, says “be a good girl and give it to me”, and focuses his tongue on it. Your finger slides against his inside you, and it's so sensual, this sensation coupled with his tongue is so strong, that you feel like you're overwhelmed by your emotions. You let them come, you want to cum, and you want to please him, you want to give him everything. And that's what you do when your orgasm hits you, when you feel it explode inside you and send shivers through all your senses. You spread your thighs and dig your finger in your pussy with his.
“Damnit, baby”, you say.
He pulls his fingers out of you and grabs your wrist as he stands up. The emptiness inside you makes you moan, while his movement makes you sit up on the edge of the bed. The change of position is so sudden after your orgasm that your head is spinning. He brings your middle finger to his mouth and sucks it. You feel his tongue slide around your finger. Your eyes are locked on each other, and he begins to jerk off with his other hand.
You watch him suck your finger, captivated. You swallow your saliva with difficulty, mechanically. Sometimes you can't believe this man is yours.
You finally tear your gaze away from his, to look at his cock, so close to your mouth. So thick that when he refused to fuck you unprepared in the bathroom, you didn't blame him.
His wrist movement slows down, barely perceptible, and he finally lets go of his cock to grab your chin and pulls it up to his face, just as he removes your finger from his mouth. He keeps your wrist in his hand and makes you grab his cock.
His gaze is piercing, when he reads in your eyes all the emotions that are churning within you: your desire for him, your love for him. You see his jaw tighten and he says, “Blow me. Need your mouth.”
You continue to jerk him and place the flat of your tongue just above your hand, moving up to the tip of his cock, eyes fixed on him. Slowly, so you cant feel each rib, each inch of his skin. When you reach the tip, you feel him tense, and his fists clench. You surround it with your lips and collect the precum with your tongue. You want, you need to be closer to him and you kneel at the foot of the bed. You concentrate on the tip of his cock, swallowing all of it and enjoying feeling the precum flow down your throat. You suck him from the tip then all the way to your hand, a little more each time, to get used to his size. He places one hand on your head and hesitates to squeeze your hair between his fingers. Finally, he places his palm next to your ear and just follows your movement.
“It’s so good, baby. You do it so well.”
His praise turns you on, your hand tightens more firmly around his shaft and your tongue leaves his cock to wrap around his balls, one by one. With your tongue flat, you lift them and slide the tip of it up to his scrotum. You linger a little on this thin skin, before taking a ball in your mouth, then sucking it. You feel it rolling under your tongue.
“That’s it baby. Lick them. Fuck. That’s it, just like that.”
You smile and you slide your tongue to his other ball. Your hand passes under his balls and gently lifts them. You lick in here again, this skin so delicate, so soft. Even further this time.
“Fuck babe, what you doin’? You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doin’ like that.”
You move up to his shaft, because selfishly, you don't want him to cum. Not yet. You take him in your mouth, and this time, as you move down to the base of his cock, you take him deeper in your mouth. Then down your throat, until your nose is buried in his hair. And you stay like that, his cock buried in your throat.
“Shit baby… You… fuck, it’s so good.”
His hand comes to wrap around your throat, full of his cock.
“Baby… Fuck. You take all of me. All my fucking cock in your throat. Damn.”
You pull back slowly and his fingers feel your throat return to its usual size. You swirl the tip of your tongue over his slit, jerking him off again.
“Shit baby… Fuck. Stop, please. I’d die to fuck your throat again but right now… I wanna fuck my pussy.”
His possessiveness gives you chills, and you step back. He helps you up and grabs your neck with his hand, before kissing you. His kiss is hungry, your tongues search for each other and your teeth sometimes collide.
“Lie on your back,” he orders.
You do as asked and spread your thighs as he settles himself between them. He takes his cock in his hand and slides it along your folds, up to your clit.
“See how she’s drippin’ for me babe? She gets my whole cock wet.”
“Of course she’s drippin Joel. She hasn’t been fucked in 5 days….”
“Mmmm…poor little pussy. She missed that cock, didn't she?” He continues to jerk off against you and you say “please Joel…”
He places the tip of his cock against your entrance, and barely sinks in. You moan and say “fuck me, Joel…”
“Wait.”
You frown and wait.
“I want you to remember this feeling of my cock getting ready to sink into your pussy. I want you to feel how she wants me to thrust in, then how she's gonna clench when she’s ruined by my big cock.”
And he thrusts in, eyes fixed on yours, and you can’t help but take a deep breath, as he continues to thrust and force your pussy open for him. He continues to push, push, push, gently, forcing your pussy to spread as he passes, until he bottoms out.
He doesn't take his eyes off you once, while you struggle not to close yours, under the sensations felt. A mixture of pleasure and mild pain, the feelings that you would like to memorize for the rest of your life, because it reminds you that it’s during these moments you are the most alive.
He stays buried inside you and waits for you to open your eyes again. He gives you a forehead kiss, while his dick is throbbing inside you. Your stomach quivers, as your heart leaps in your chest.
He pulls back almost completely and sinks in again, slowly. He takes a slow, deep pace, and his lower abdomen rubs your clit continuously. This stimulation, his slow strokes with eye contact, make you feel a new orgasm rising inside you, while your hips roll in the same rhythm as his.
You must look like a wreck because he says “oh baby… it’s so much, isn’t it? Look at you… so cock drunk. For me and my cock.”
You whine upon hearing him, you’re so close to cumming now, and you hear him murmur in your ear “I feel it coming sweetheart, your pussy is clenching around me.”
Your moans increase and he says “like that baby… just like that. Come for me.”
And you cum, digging your nails into his biceps, while continuing to rub your clit against his lower stomach.
He murmures “Good girl. My good girl”, keeps the same rhythm during your orgasm and says “shit baby… this little pussy squeezes me so hard, she wants me to blow my load, doesn't she?”
He freezes inside you when your spasms stop and you hear him breathe slowly. You gradually come to your senses and he tells you “‘m gonna fuck you now, baby. I’m gonna catch up for the 5 days I lost, and I don’t know if you’re able to walk tomorrow morning.”
As if you haven’t just come, you think that just by hearing him you could have another one. Your pussy twitches and he adds “my pussy wants to get ruined, doesn’t she?”
He pulls away and sinks in. So roughly that you can't hold back a scream.
“Damn baby…one thrust and you’re already screaming?”
“Fuck…Joel-”
He thrusts in again and you can’t finish your sentence. He sinks further. And again. You become a rag doll in his arms. You let him set his pace while his forearms are on each side of your head, his arms under your shoulders.
“What do you wanna say, baby?”
You can’t speak.
“No? Nothing?”
Again, you can only moan.
“Oh poor baby, you can’t even speak, can you? Too full of my cock?”
He smirks as he looks at you, and adds “That’s ok. As long as you take my dick that good, I don’t need you to talk. My. Good. Fucking. Girl.” He sinks in with every word.
He fucks you less deeply but faster. You think he wants to cum but he pulls out and tells you to go all fours. You’re shaking so much that you lean on your forearms, your cheek resting on the pillow.
He smacks your ass cheek hard.
“Fuck baby… Missed your ass too.”
He thrusts in you and places his hands on your hips.
He fucks you so hard that you try to get away just a little, but he catches you with his hands and thrusts in again, saying “Oh no, sweetheart. You ain’t goin’ anywhere else than on my cock”
He accelerates the movement and if you weren't already leaning on your forearms, you would have fallen, because he's ruining you so much, fulfilling his promise.
“What’s your safe word?”
“It’s…. It’s “arrow”.
"Good. You can still talk. So you can still take it.”
“Fuck… Of course I can take it. D’ya think I’m.. shit… fuckin’ fragile or somethin’?”
He smiles and adds “I know you’re not, baby.”
He pushes you forward and you fall flat on the bed, under his weight.
“But I still want to ruin you and make sure you can’t walk properly tomorrow.”
He grabs a lock of your hair and pulls your head back “Ask me to ruin you.”
You smile, and say “ruin me, Miller.”
He holds your cheek against the pillow, and starts pounding you. The energy you still had when you answered him seems gone and all you can think about is his balls slapping against your pussy.
“Show me Joel…” You’re so tired, but you still want more.
“Show you what, baby?” he asks you, slowing down his pace.
“Show me…that I’m yours.”
“Damn baby…”
He pulls out and straddles you, on his knees. Spreads your ass cheeks and spits on his cock, before sinking into your pussy.
“Mine. No one can fuck you like me.”
He spits again, and the saliva hits your ass. He presses his thumb to your ring and pushes it inside. He fucks you, the tip of his thumb buried in your ass and he chases his orgasm. You hear him grunt “fuck… I’m gonna come.” You feel his cum squirting into your pussy and he quickly pulls out, pulls your ass up, spreads your legs and laps you up.
“Joel…”
“Don’t tell me you can’t. You can always give me another one when I ask for it.”
His nose is resting on your ass as he licks your hole filled with his cum. You grab the sheets in your fists, and then he laps from your pussy to your ass, until he pulls away and slides under you, on his back.
He grabs your hips and pulls you into his mouth. He licks and sucks your clit, and you come one last time, exhausted.
You catch your breath for a few moments, and say:
“Joel? Maybe you should leave for work more often.”
He laughs, spanks you and says “give me 10 minutes and we’ll see about this bratty attitude, baby.”
***************
Same couple: 5 days collection
****************
Thank you for reading 🙏 Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️
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Summary: You and Frankie navigate a relationship that isn't supposed to be one.
CW: smut (oral both m and f receiving, unprotected p in v but they talk about it, use of a sex toy, this is porn with very little plot). Reader is still dealing with anorgasmia, and Frankie is still being perfect about it. Frankie is a consent king, Frankie is a pussy king, this is my love letter to Frankie,
Reader is abled body and almost no physical description, she has hair that can be tied up, and that's it, but if you notice anything please let me know.
A/N: I got so many wonderful responses from La Petite Mort. I wanted to thank every one for this. And since this story also haunted me, I couldn't let these two go. This starts the day after and it will be less heavy on the mention of depression and way more fluffy. It can be read as a stand alone, I think. But you can give the first story a try.
Edit because I’m a horrible friend who deserves none of you. Thank you to @sawymredfox @iknowisoundcrazy and @petalsinblood for holding my hand and cheering me up while I wrote this (probably because I said there would be lots of smut. You depraved beautiful people)
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
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Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
"So, what's your deal?" You cross your arms and lean them on the laminated plastic table.
"What do you mean?" Frankie mimics your position. You are both staring at each other in the small family-owned diner, only a block away from your place. People around you are minding their own business, grabbing breakfast before whatever they are about to do with their day.
"Well, you know that I'm depressed and medicated, that I use sleeping with guys as a coping mechanism, that I am emotionally unavailable, as well as hard to please in bed. I don't do sleepovers, I don't do next morning breakfast, yet here I am. And I don't know what your deal is. And let's face it, single people our age usually have something. If this," you gesture between the two of you, "is going to happen again, whatever this is, I need to know what I'm getting into. So I'm asking again, what's your deal?"
He smiles, and that damn dimple makes you want to grab him by the shirt and drag him over the table to kiss him. Instead, you look dead serious, and barely move when the waitress brings your food: eggs and pancakes for you, eggs and French toast for him.
"Are you suggesting this might happen again?" His eyes are twinkling with mirth. You don't know if you want to laugh with him or wipe that smile off his face. Maybe with a kiss.
"Don't play with me, Frankie. You made me come, of course, I want to see you again." You keep your stern voice, but let your mouth tug slightly.
He laughs and starts digging into his food. You are trying hard to rattle him, and you don't know why. Well, you know why, you just aren't going to get into it right now. But you have to give it to him, he seems to take it in a stride.
"I'm a veteran, an ex coke addict, barely two years sober, divorced, and father of a three-year-old daughter. I slept with my best friend on a regular basis and still see him, but just as a friend. I was unemployed for almost two years, and just got my pilot license back, a job, and a place where I can share custody of my daughter. I'm pretty much fucked up. So yeah, that's my deal."
He looks up at you, and even if he is playing along, even if he is laying out all of this like it's nothing, smiling between bites of eggs, you can see that little vulnerability in his eyes. It's not much, and most might not see it, but you do. Because you know it's the same he saw in yours when you tried to scare him away.
"I can work with that." You simply say, before adding, "I was married, dumped after three years because I didn't want kids, and he did. After, might I add, agreeing to not having any because, of course, we talked about it before. Surprisingly, he got his best friend pregnant. Before he broke up with me. I buried myself in work, got burned out, was laid off, and had to go live with my parents for 6 months. I got a job and a place about 6 months ago." You are daring him to leave.
"I didn't know this was a competition." He sips his coffee, eyes boring into yours, unbothered with everything you just said, and you can't help but smile.
"If it were, who do you think would win?"
"Me. You can't surpass drugs and active combat."
"Damn, you're right."
"Although I have to say what happened to you was very shitty, and I'm sorry."
"Thanks. You too."
"Yeah, mine was mostly my fault, but I dealt with it. I'm good. Well, better."
You both stay silent while you finish your food. You want to see Frankie again, for sex, sure, but maybe for more. You enjoyed his company. But you don't know if you can do it yet.
"Frankie." He stops eating, looking at you, sensing by your tone that this is going to be serious. "I do want to see you again. I had fun last night, even before the amazing sex. Don't look so smug!" you laugh when you see he can't help a smirk on his face, "But–" You shake your head, trying to find the right words.
"But you don't know if you are ready for it." He supplies for you.
"Yes, that's pretty much it."
"Look, I really did have a great time last night, and sure, the amazing sex is part of it, by the way, it takes two for that, so you are allowed to feel smug." God, he is so sweet. "I want to see you again, but as you might have guessed from my many attractive features, my life is a mess. I'm still learning how to navigate co-parenting, I'm working weird hours, and I try to go to NA meetings as much as I can, because my sobriety is still fragile." He stops and sighs. "I know I'm not selling myself right now."
"How can you say that? I think those happen to be your selling points." He laughs and takes your hand." What I'm trying to say here is that I'm OK with just hooking up if that's what you want. Sure, I might want more, but I'm definitely not in a good spot to start anything serious. So what I can offer is one step at a time, and checking with each other at each one of them to see how it's going."
"Wow, that sounds so adult. Who knew communication could be so hot in a man?" You make it seem like it's a joke, but you are actually impressed by his self-awareness.
"Yeah, funny how therapy actually does help." He smirks, looking at you expectantly.
You purse your lips for a bit, thinking things over. "OK, Frankie, let's do this."
"Let's do this." You both smile at each other, letting the comfortable silence envelop you.
"You sure you want to do this, baby?" Frankie's head rolls back and bangs on the door as you take him in your mouth as an answer.
"Fuuuuuck." You love it when he swears, when he loses all composure, when he lets himself go. He's always so good to you that sometimes you just want to do everything for him.
"Babe, wait, wait–" you hollow your cheeks, swallowing him deeper, and his sentence is cut short, his hand grabbing your hair, in a motion that half pulls you back, half keeps you there. You know the conflicted feeling he is having, and it makes you smile around his cock. You slowly pull him out, your eyes on him, with the most innocent look you can muster.
"Do you want me to stop?" Your voice is husky, and you are so wet you can feel your panties getting soaked.
His eyes are closed; it feels like torture to open them and look down at you. He looks wrecked, and you feel proud to be the one who did this. He doesn't answer, just breathes heavily. You could torture him, you could give him a taste of his own medicine, and tell him to use his words, or whatever he loves to whisper in your ears whenever he has you speechless and thoughtless. But you are too greedy, instead you slowly lick his length, your tongue tracing the vein that decorates it, until you get to the tip, and you put your mouth around it, sucking it like a lollipop. You hear the small sounds that seem to come from his throat, half-whine, half-growl, and you chuckle.
One of your hands grabs his base, working him slowly, while your mouth continues to play with his tip for a moment. The small pants and noises coming from Frankie make you feel so powerful, and also needy. You take him in while your other hand motions to grab his ass to bring him as deep as you can take him.
His moan is music to your ears, and you keep the exact pace, sensing his hips moving unconsciously, thrusting his cock deeper.
It doesn't take long until he comes in your throat, whimpering "Babe, no, no, oh, I'm, I'm coming, oh my god, yes, fuuuuck, yes."
You swallow around him, as his hips jerk from the aftershock of his orgasm, until you feel him slack on the door, spent, the hand letting go of your hair, and his fingers tenderly graze your cheek, your lips, his thumb tugging your lower lip once you pull his softening cock from your mouth.
"You little minx", he chuckles, as he helps you up and pulls you in his arms, his head nestling in the crook of your neck. "I wanted to fuck you against the door."
You let out a small laugh, your fingers in his curls, that damn hat on the floor somewhere. He shivers from your touch, and you let yourself breathe him and the moment in.
Dinner was fun, a laid-back burger joint, a walk along the bay, and then he brought you home to spend the night. Technically, a date, except you both never put any words on it. Ever since that breakfast, you had been clear. No labels for the moment, no pressure. Sex and fun, and you both took it one step at a time. It's been two months, and you didn't see each other that much; he had his work and his kid, you had your own work. But you texted, you went out a few times for drinks and food, you talked and laughed, and of course, you had sex. Sex like you hadn't had in a long time. Comfortable, fun, mind-blowing sex. And orgasms. So many of them. Always with the help of your vibrator, but still. Even when it took time, even when you felt frustrated, he was there, focused, persistent, but not insistent. When you said it wouldn't happen, he didn't pressure you and always made sure you were content in any way. He made it seem like it was normal, but the bar was so low you were still surprised by his basic decency. He never felt threatened by the fact that he couldn't make you come without help. You were the one who felt frustrated by the matter, never him.
Frankie untangles himself from your arms and pulls back his pants, without bothering to close them.
"Let's get you in bed and taken care of." He pulls you toward your bedroom, his deep voice making you shiver from need.
"It's not a trade, Frankie."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm going to have as much pleasure as I intend to give you."
His mouth is killing you, expertly destroying every part of your being, one lick, nip, suck at a time. Right now, he is destroying your soul with both hands pinching your nipples, and his tongue slowly circling your clit. You don't know where you are, or what you are doing, barely conscious that your knuckles are white from gripping the sheets tight, and uttering noises that are barely human. You feel it in the periphery, the orgasm taunting you. But once again, as soon as you sense it, your mind starts acting, thinking. Why do you have a fucking brain? As soon as it acts up, like a butterfly whirling in the wind, your orgasm flies further and further away. You can't help but make a small, frustrated whine.
And Frankie, ever so perceptive, sensing the change in your demeanor, slowly stops, "Everything's OK, babe?"
"Yes, sorry, just got… almost, but then I didn't. I'm sorry."
"Hey, hey, don't worry, it's OK. There isn't any pressure." He climbs over you, his eyes pouring into yours, to reassure you. But you can't look at him, turning your head to the side, ashamed that this keeps happening over and over again. He cups your jaw tenderly and brings your attention back to him, not letting your gaze wander.
"I mean it, if you want to stop, we stop, if you want me to continue, believe me, I will," Frankie lowers his head and rasps in her ear, "if you want me to take that vibrator and use it on you, I'm fine with it, but I also have an idea I want to try."
The whirlwind in your brain is shutting off. He just knows how to make you stop thinking.
"What do you have in mind?"
"I want to fuck you with that vibrator while I eat up that pretty pussy." Sometimes, he uses words so filthy you could blush; he has no filter. But when he does it like this, in bed, pining you down with his eyes black with lust, his arm caging you, it makes you feel liquid, a boneless being of lust and pleasure.
"Fuck." That's all you can say, you push him off you so you can get your vibrator and the lube, handing them to Frankie.
"Lie down, baby, I'm going to take good care of you." You know he says it in a way that is supposed to be hot, but you can't help the rush of emotions in your body and surge to give him a deep kiss, one devoid of heat but full of feelings.
"You always do, Frankie," and you lie down, knees bent, legs wide open. For a moment, he looks slightly stunned by what you just said, a sheepish smile on his face, and when his eyes start raking your body all spread out for him, his smile turns into a devilish grin. You watch him apply the lube on the toy, and he bends down to kiss your mouth before kissing his way down your core.
Closing your eyes, you concentrate on the sensation, willing your brain to shut up with the thoughts that sometimes plague you. You hear the buzzing sound and then feel the vibration applied softly on your folds.
"Is this OK?"
"Yes." You gasp when he slowly starts pressing the toy at your entrance. You are already pretty open, his fingers have done some work, your own pleasure, and the lube is easing it in. You feel it opening you up, the vibration is on the lowest setting, just giving you a small thrill as Frankie slowly pulls it in and out, each time a little deeper, until he gets it all the way in, and you let out a low moan.
"All OK, babe?"
"Uh uh, yeah, s'good, so good." He fucks you slowly, finding a nice rhythm and sets the vibration a little higher. The sensation is oh so good, even more when he twists the vibrator up, allowing it to hit that good spot.
Frankie is an expert, a man of precision, and you just know that if you opened an eye, you would see him watching you intently, checking your pleasure response. With a twist of his wrist, he hits the spot again, and your legs shake.
"Frankie." It's a whine that comes out of you, it's even better than when it's you using the vibrator, because you know he is doing it, you know he is watching you as you abandon every last part of yourself to him. You can feel the pleasure coiling inside you, in your lower abdomen.
"You ready for more?"
"Please, I want it, please."
You feel his tongue and let out a gasp, the few licks making your whole body shiver from the pleasure.
"Oh, Oh!" He takes this as encouragement, and you feel his whole mouth devouring you. He isn't here to tease or drag it on. He is a man on a mission, with only one objective. And God, you can feel it coming fast.
His thrusting doesn't falter, and the vibration is at its max, his other hand lying on your stomach to pin you down.
"Oh Frankie, oh Frankie, oh Frankie." You are barely conscious of what you are saying, as your hand presses on his head, fingers tugging his hair, mind empty.
And then it's an explosion. Colors and lights, behind your closed eyelids, deafening sounds in your ear, from you screaming, and Frankie moaning loudly, and then your whole body trembles, jerks, and falls back. You don't even get to the point of overstimulation, Frankie turns off the vibrator, and slowly takes it out, while kissing your stomach. You are still panting, eyes barely open, exhaustion suddenly hitting you like a weighted blanket. Or maybe it's the feel of Frankie who lies next to you, pulling up the covers on both of you, and holds you close to him.
"Thank you, Frankie."
"You don't have to thank me. Was it OK?"
"More than OK." You say this in a breathless laugh, still trying to get back to this plan of reality.
"Good, that's something we can do again then." He nuzzles your jaw and squeezes you tight.
There is something in the back of your mind, but you push it away; you are too tired for it. You feel him hard against you.
"Do you want to–" Your hand goes to his cock, but Frankie pulls it away and keeps it in his.
"Shhh, don't worry, you gave me the perfect blowjob. I'm fine. Sleep." You hum in assent and fall into a deep slumber.
A few weeks later, you wake up in Frankie's house, again. Since he brought you here, you can't help but want to go there every time. His house is homey, well-loved. It's a little old and in need of renovation, but he's been working steadily on it, and you can see the love and care he puts into it and how much he is making it a place for him and his daughter. Her bedroom is the best one in the house and the one that has been totally renovated, while his own bedroom still has the old and faded wallpaper. The garden is nice and well taken care of, with a small slide and swings. It's a place that makes you feel at home more than your own apartment in downtown Tampa, all modern and new, with no real charm, even if you've moved there 9 months ago. Frankie lives in a suburban neighborhood, in the historical part of Tampa, not very far from your place. But it's drastically different, almost like a village. He knows his neighbors, it's within walking distance to some restaurants and stores (when the heat allows it), and it just… feels good.
Both of you have been exploring the eating options around his place, you spending the night, and more often than not, staying the next day. It looks awfully like dating. Even if you still don't name it.
It's Sunday morning, and it's the second night in a row you've spent together, something you never thought you would do. And even sleeping together without actually sleeping together. Last night, you came back from a day's outing, hiking the nearby trail, stopping by the beach for a sunset, grabbing some pizza on the way back, and crashing in bed exhausted after a shower, which you didn't even share.
You are fucked. Because you know this is it. You have feelings, real ones, for a nice guy, who you slept with, who has a life you never interact with, not his friends, not his daughter. And even if you did manage to get together at least once, but more often twice a week, the ease and comfort and the shared activities that had been going on for the past three months, it felt more than just sex. It has never been just sex, if you are honest with yourself.
The bed is empty, but you aren't worried. Frankie mentioned he wanted to go on an early run, before the day got too hot. You think about making some breakfast for when he gets back, so you take a quick shower, air the bedroom, make the bed, and go to the kitchen.
As you are rummaging in the fridge trying to see what you can make with what's there and contemplating the idea of going to grab something out, when you hear the front door open, and Frankie walks into the kitchen. He looks delicious in his shorts, his large and worn-out t-shirt, and his hair a little wet from the effort. He is holding a Kraft bag in his hand and looks at you with an appreciative eye. You are wearing a t-shirt and some shorts, nothing fancy, but he always looks at you that way. And you never tire of it.
"What are you doing in the fridge?"
"Trying to see if I could make some breakfast, but I have a hard time deciding what I can do with the lone tomato, the bottle of ketchup, and that old piece of cheese."
"Yeah, I know you do wonders in the kitchen, but I knew this wouldn't work, so I grabbed sandwich bagels on my way." He comes close to you, puts the bag on the counter next to the fridge, and leans in to kiss you lightly.
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer, deepening the kiss. You are hungry for more than bagels, it seems. Frankie starts wrapping his arm around you, but stops.
"Wait, I'm all sweaty and smelly." He makes a move to leave, but you grab him tighter and start kissing his neck, grazing it lightly with your teeth.
"You aren't smelly at all." He moans in answer, and you take the opportunity to pull his t-shirt. Without any complaint, Frankie helps you take it off, and you run your hands on his naked chest, feeling his hot skin on your palm, still a little humid from the exertion. Sweat should disgust you, but right now, it's a very potent aphrodisiac.
"You don't want breakfast first?" It's a question that doesn't need a verbal answer. Instead, you push him out of the kitchen, and he keeps moving toward the bedroom, never breaking away from you.
You both fall down on the bed, a tangle of limbs and clothes half discarded, leaving a trail behind you. Before Frankie can bring out the condoms from the bedside table, you stop his hand and decide to do something that you know might change this for good.
"Frankie, I, I told you I have an IUD, and we both mentioned having been checked right before we met, maybe–" You don't finish, but you can see in his eyes as he pours them in yours that there is one question that you have to answer first. He's above you, one knee between your legs, both elbows around your head, and he doesn't move. There is a hope in his eyes that makes you be brave when you finally say. "There has been no one else."
"You sure?"
"That there is no one else?" You smirk.
"No, no, that you," he swallows and looks away before saying, "that you want this?" This can mean a lot, you know, this can just mean sex without a condom, but it can mean putting a label, or maybe it's just another step, and you should stop overthinking.
"Yes." For a moment, he just stares at you, and a smile starts spreading on his face. He kisses you and reaches again for the drawer, for the vibrator he bought and surprised you with the first time you came over his place. At the time you you were stunned, that he went out to look for the same exact model to have just for you was such a beautiful act. But you stop him again.
"No, I don't want it, just you."
"You sure?"
"Yes." You don't want a complicated position, him concentrating on you, using the vibrator to make you come. You just want to feel him, you just need him. Even if you won't come, you just know having him over you, watching him lose himself, sensing him come in you, bare, will be pleasure enough.
And it is. It's slow and deliberate at first, with a lot of raw emotions as your eyes meet again and again. The feel of him pressed on you is bliss, the slow drag of his cock in you makes you want to weep, you probably do, you aren't thinking much at the moment, the way he starts to move faster, hips snapping, face pressed against your neck as he starts losing the rhythm and chasing his high, moaning, makes you feel powerful. You love when Frankie is in charge, talks dirty in your ears, praises you, or talks you through it. You just love his voice while you have sex. But you secretly love it even more when you render him speechless, when all he can do is feel and murmur incoherent words that are more noise than anything else. You relish in the feeling that he is going to come inside you so fast, just because you feel too good, this man who spends so much time bringing you pleasure, sometimes to his own detriment. You can give him that, and so you rake your fingers in his hair, let your nails scratch his scalp, down his shoulder, and you murmur all the words you feel: "Let go, baby, let me feel you come inside me. Let me make you feel good, as good as you always make me feel." And it's with a strangled cry that Frankie comes, and that you feel a pleasure that might not be an orgasm, but that is so much more in the moment. You are falling in love, and it feels terrifying but good.
As you both lie side by side, catching your breath, Frankie turns to look at you.
"Is it OK? You didn't come, I didn't–"
"Shh, it's fine, I wanted this." You stroke his cheek, looking at him fondly.
"But I feel so selfish."
"Frankie, you are the least selfish man I know. Don't worry."
You get up to use the bathroom, and while you clean up, an awful thought crawls in the back of your head, and is at once the only thing you can think of. Why does your brain do that? You are perfectly happy, enjoying a perfect moment with Frankie, and now all you can think of is, "When will he get tired of me?"
And it probably shows because when you get out, Frankie, who is still lying in bed, looks at you, concerned.
"Are you OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." You start to pick up your clothes, without looking at him.
"You sure? You don't seem. Please tell me if I did something wrong."
Warmth runs through your chest. How do you deserve someone like him? You feel like crying and know that you have to say out loud what has been weighing you down for so long.
"What if I'm broken? What if I never can come normally ever again?" You finally let it out, looking down, avoiding his eyes. He gets up to you and takes your face in his hands.
"Oh, baby. I don't think so, but even if that happens, it's OK."
"But what if no one wants to go through the trouble?"
"I want to." He looks so earnest, you want to believe him.
"And if you get tired of it? Of me?"
"I'll never get tired of you, of what we have."
"You are sure?"
"I am. I promise. I like you. A lot, and I know I agreed to no labels, but I think we both know lately it hasn't been just sex. So believe me when I say it." He pulls you into a warm hug, and you cling to him, breathing in his neck.
"I like you too. I am still scared, but I like what we have, and I want to see what might happen next." You feel him let out a relieved sigh.
"Well, that's good." He pulls you away to look in your eyes again, "Now I think we need to shut off that pretty brain of yours. See, I didn't make you come, and now you've got way too many thoughts." His tone is sultry, and he wiggles his eyebrows, you can't help but laugh. You love that he just knows how to break the tension.
"I'm serious, though. I actually have something in mind I've been wanting to try."
"Frankie, you just fucked me, you are insatiable." You say this, yet you still let him guide you to the bed.
"I don't intend to fuck you, at least not with my cock."
"How can you be so sweet and so filthy?"
"You love it, baby. Do you want to hear my idea?"
Of course you do. His crude talk makes you want to feel him again, desire pooling in your belly. You nod, and he smiles.
"Do you trust me?" He sits you on the bed and kneels in front of you.
"Always"
"I want to tie you up, put a blindfold on you, and eat you up."
The idea makes you gasp, and his smile turns cocky. "I knew you would like it. Have you ever done it?"
"Never with the blindfold, just tied up."
"Are you OK with doing both?"
"Yes."
He makes sure you are comfortable, putting a pillow under your head and around you, kissing each of your wrists before tying them up. He uses silk ties because he doesn't have anything else in hand.
"I'm surprised that you even have one, let alone two! I thought you were going to be all feral and use zip ties."
"I don't have any, but–" He stops, his voice and eyes betray his thoughts.
"Maybe we can go buy some." You were teasing, but you are even more turned on thinking about it. And you have to admit that watching Frankie walking around, confident, naked, taking care of everything, it's hot.
He takes out a black scarf from a drawer and walks to you.
"Ready?"
"Yeah."
He wraps the scarf with so much care, making sure he doesn't pull your hair, asking if you are comfortable, telling you he'll stop whenever you want. You don't think he would do otherwise, but you appreciate the reassurance. You've rarely been so vulnerable. Especially with someone you've known for such a short time. And yet, you feel more at ease, more yourself with him than with anyone else. The thought is scary but also exhilarating.
Soon, thoughts leave you, as Frankie trails little kisses and nips down your body, spending time on the places he knows make you melt.
You swear he has studied your body like an explorer mapping a territory, one first unknown, until every crevice, slope, and nook has been explored, noted in a part of his brain, and mastered. First, you neck, where you think he leaves a small mark, then a path down to your breasts, where he spends a little more time, both for you and him. He always seems hypnotized by them, loves to touch them, taste them, watch them bounce when he fucks you. Once you are a whimpering mess, once the small noises, gasps, and sighs turn to pleas, he trails to your stomach and then to the crease between your hip and thigh. But he stops when he gets to the part where you want him the most. And all at once, you don't feel him on any part of your body. A moment of unease, and your eyes that were closed under the scarf open. You see light behind the fabric, but it's still dark. You feel the panic rise, the thoughts of not knowing where he is and what he is doing rushing in your mind. Not that you don't trust him, you always will, it's more a sense of not having control that scares you. You hear a shuffle on the covers and two hands touch your hips. "You OK?" from the slight concern in his voice, you know he sensed the unease.
"I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Yes, just a little panic, but I don't want to stop." You know he will ask, so you get ahead of him. For a second, you just feel his warm hands as they grip you a little, and then, without leaving your body, one hand runs down your thigh, calf, and lifts your leg, and you feel the pressure of his mouth on your ankle, then up your leg, your knee. He settles it on his shoulder, and from the position, you know he is kneeling between your legs. He does the same on the other leg, taking his time. He is quiet and apart from the sounds of the kisses and your heavy breathing, nothing breaks the silence. You feel like you are an alter, he is kneeling and praying too, all reverent and worshipful. You feel him shuffling to lie and feel his breath on your core. A slow moan escapes him, and he murmurs, "You are so beautiful." It almost feels like he is telling himself, like it's a prayer he let escape out loud.
You feel the desire sharpening, knowing he is so close, after the time he took taking care of you, you feel the need flow out every pore, it's more: desperation.
"Fuck." That is even more reverent than any thing he has said. He says it like it's paining him, like he is suffering. And when his mouth circles your core, and his tongue grazes your entrance, sighing with contentment, it feels like you are the cure to all his ailments.
He takes time to lavish you, licking and kissing every part of your pussy, but not touching your clit. It's a slow torture that has you fighting once or twice, you restraints, you want to push his face to the place you need him most.
He can hear your moans becoming almost frustrated, the slow chuckle he lets out that reverberates against you is part bliss, part torture. But he soon puts an end to your misery, with a lick, another, oh so light, too light.
Yet you cry out from the feeling. Louder when he kisses your bundle of nerves with more pressure. You know that now he is ready for a kill, using his magic, one that makes you arch underneath him, legs trembling.
When he brings both hands to your nipples and pinches them, it's like electricity runs inside your body, a jolt of pleasure so intense his name is a ragged cry out of your throat.
You can feel the pleasure, you can feel it climbing, the peak you always want to reach, but you never do. The pressure is almost perfect, almost what you need.
Once again, you fight your restraint, you want to show him what you need, you want to pull off the blindfold and watch him take you apart. It's almost too much; you are about to ask him to stop when something snaps in your brain.
It's as if it surrenders, it just decides that since it can't fight, it will go willingly. You feel a form of tension falling out of you, and you imagine the scene painted as if you are floating outside your body and watching from above: you opened up, legs now spread wide on the bed, unable to move, vulnerable, Frankie and his broad shoulder between your thighs, large hands on your breast, and you feel a shiver course through your whole body. You can't fight; you just have to let go and surrender to it.
And then Frankie does something that makes everything go black. One large hand splays on your stomach, preventing you from moving even more, caging you on the bed, a weight that feels so good. You feel his other hand on your core, when two fingers slide inside you effortlessly, pumping a few times, until he adds a third. You feel the stretch, the curve, the thrusts, and combined with his mouth that sucks hard on your clit, lights and colors appear in your vision. It takes you by surprise. It's like you are already on the top of that mountain you were trying to climb. You were stuck mid-course, and Frankie pushed you to the top, and before you realize it, you are coming. Loud cries that sound almost surprised.
"Oh! I'm, I'm com– Frankie!"
And you jump from the summit and fly high, until you fall in bed, spasms shaking every part of your body, while you feel Frankie slowly, taking out his fingers, and kissing his way up to you, all while tracing his hands up your body.
"Oh my god, Frankie, I can't believe it."
You hear him laugh and can feel the pride in there, but also the happiness that you feel this way.
You feel him untying you, massaging your wrist and forearms, then take off the blindfold, and when you finally see, you blink to Frankie's face close to yours. He is a mess, uncombed hair, face slick with you, and a smile so big that his eyes crinkle. It makes you feel something you don't want to name yet, but you think it's too late to go back, as you wrap your arms around him to bring him close to you. He wraps his arm around you, and you lie for a while, basking in the silence.
It's too late to turn back; you have fallen deep and all the way. But you know that it's OK, you wouldn't want it any other way.
Thank you for reading ❤️
tagglist, also adding people who showed interest in the wip and the first story (please let me know if you want to be added/removed): @grogusmum @here-briefly @iknowisoundcrazyreads @javierpenaismyhusband @lillaydee @littlemisspascal @harriedandharassed @sunnytuliptime @picketniffler @sawymredfox @cuteanimalmama @berryispunk @baronessvonglitter @milla-frenchy @vindictivegranny @half-moon16 @sin-djarin @whocaresstillthelouvre @hanahleah @missadangel @simpingforjoel @aurorawritestoescape @kirsteng42 @annwrites24 @vodkaandpizza @quinnnfabrgay @littlepedrito @ingoldthewizard @petalsinblood
I loved the first part, and it meant a lot to me as someone who had been on antidepressants and experienced side effects.
I've been waiting for part 2 and it didn't disappoint! I love this couple and how they navigate their relationship and intimacy. I loved reading more about Frankie being patient, creative and resourceful at satisfying her, but also omg this scene:
"Yes." You don't want a complicated position, him concentrating on you, using the vibrator to make you come. You just want to feel him, you just need him. Even if you won't come, you just know having him over you, watching him lose himself, sensing him come in you, bare, will be pleasure enough.
🫠 I get this so much. and I loved the the mature way they approached their relationship. they felt like real people with real pasts and problems but also a lot of emotional maturity needed to navigate this well, and I hope they can find their way to a life together despite all their baggage! I LOVE them, thank you for this fic 💕
tags: MDNI, free use, smut, husband joel!miller x afab wife!reader, no outbreak au, consensual free use, dirty talk (and I mean loooots of dirty talk), reader is stressed and is taking it out on Joel, brief mention of a small argument, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v sex, reader tries not to react but that pussy does 😛 (AYYY), sweet Joel, soft dom Joel, mentions of aftercare but not shown, orgasm and creampie.
summary: a week of stress causes a brief argument with you and joel which then leads to him taking advantage of the free use arrangement you both have, quite literally fucking the anxiety out of you.
wc: 2.5k
dividers by @/tsumiinum
If you were being honest, you’re not quite sure why you’re so angry this evening.
It was just.. one of those days where nothing was going right and everything was succeeding in pissing you off. First, it was being half way through your morning shower and realising you had run out of shampoo, leading you to be forced to attend work with greasy hair. Then it was your boss deciding to show up to work late — as per usual — and leaving you to have to deal with the useless intern who acted as if they’d never used a computer in their life, and lastly, it was that stupid comment Joel made when you came home from work in a mood.
It wasn’t even particularly rude — what he said. It was just a passing a comment when you’d told him you were fine in a tone that was unnecessarily harsh.
“Okay, I was just askin’. Don’t gotta bite my head off, baby girl.”
He’d retorted back lightly. And that of course led you to kick up a stink when you were the one taking your shitty day out on him. You’d stormed upstairs, deciding that you didn’t need his reprimands and tossed yourself onto the bed, settling for some doom scrolling in your mismatched pyjamas. Usually you’d change into one of Joel’s shirts when you came home from work, but today — completely and utterly out of spite — you’d settled for your own, less comfortable clothes.
Joel decided it best to let you cool down from whatever was bothering you upstairs on your own — give you some space. It was evident that you weren’t in the mood to talk and he understood that. Sometimes even he — after a shitty day — didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him.
But he knew if it was something serious, you’d come to him. You both had that trust in your relationship. So from what he could gather, you were just in a mood. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
And that’s where the idea of your free use arrangement came into mind.
The two of you had come up with the use of this kink a couple months ago. In fact, it was a fun, sexy birthday gift to Joel that started things off. And then it just.. kinda stuck.
You both had a safe word, a colour that signalled the other that you didn’t want to continue, that you didn’t want to start at all.
And with how you were acting right now? Joel thinks you might just need a little loving from him to make you feel better. For him to take care of that pussy of yours — fuck it out of you.
So before he could debate it in his head any longer, he made a beeline for the stairs and then, your shared bedroom.
You heard him before you saw him. That damn door opening so squeakily revealing his presence to you. For a moment, Joel just leaned against the door and stared at you sprawled out on the bed on your stomach, phone in hand and completely ignoring him despite knowing he was there.
Joel takes a couple steps until he’s standing in front of the mattress facing your back and casually — so damn casually, he begins removing his clothes. Unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it off before reaching for his belt, the sound of it unbuckling being sign enough for what he was about to do.
Your clit twitches and your core heats beneath your black, cotton shorts, a shiver slithering down your spine although you kept it from showing. “Still not talkin’ to me, I take it.” Joel comments, pushing his jeans and boxers down and freeing his half-hard cock, palming it and giving it a squeeze to bring it to full erection — not that he necessarily needed the extra help of his hands though. He was certain that a couple extra minutes of just looking at you laying in that position, your pretty ass looking so inviting in those shorts, feet bobbing up and down mindlessly, would result in him becoming rock hard.
You sniff softly and turn your head to the side, acting as if you were more engrossed in the Elle article you were reading about Pedro Pascal — the actor you were infatuated with who looked eerily alike to Joel — not even bothering to acknowledge Joel’s presence, let alone the removal of his clothes.
Excitement coiled in your gut at the thoughts of what your husband was about to do to you. Of being fucked by him or touched and trying your best to act as if wasn’t phasing you.
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” Joel chuckles, kneeling on the bed behind you and gently, so goddamn gently, begins to pull your shorts down your legs and off your feet, no underwear on underneath therefore leaving you bare from the waist down. “So.. I figured I’d give ya a little TLC, Honey. Put that little arrangement of ours to good use, hm?”
You gasp involuntarily when Joel’s thumb makes contact with your clit. He briefly pauses his ministrations to manoeuvre you into a better position, gently coaxing your legs apart. He then resumes his provision of stimulation, a smug smile that you couldn’t see creeping onto his mouth at the sight of your body twitching.
“Such a pretty pussy, Angel.” Joel comments, leaning down and pressing a final kiss to your clit before pulling his hand away and pressing the head of his cock to your entrance, manhandling you up onto your knees to give him better access to your cunt. You were already starting to make a mess — coating your thighs in your stickiness despite how little Joel has even touched you.
You feel embarrassed yet don’t move your eyes from the screen in front of you, holding your weight on your arms as you scroll through the website with your thumb, your brain barely withholding any of the information written in the article. You inhale sharply when Joel presses his tip into your opening, barely giving you any time to mentally prepare for the stretch before pushing inside of you fully, holding your ass in his two, large, overworked hands.
“There it is, just like that,” Joel purrs slowly, and almost reverently fucking himself in and out of your heat in long, deep strokes that had him reaching the deepest parts of you. You can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the relief. “Nice and slow, Sweetie. Let me build ya up, kay?”
You don’t respond although your hand starts to slump a little, not holding your phone as tight as you would be if you were actually paying attention. The slow, heavy drags of his dick across your walls had your clit twitching painfully, your insides pulsing and hugging Joel’s cock appreciatively.
A small sound escapes you, something of a squeak when his tip meets your g-spot. Your phone falls from your hand and your forehead ends up connecting with the mattress before you can stop yourself. Tears spring into your waterline, a mix of pleasure and emotion from the heaviness of your day being released.
“Oh, I know. You’re tryin’, huh? I know you’re tryin’ to ignore me. You don’t wanna talk about what’s bothering you, do ya?” Joel coos at the sounds of your soft sniffles, the sound of your defeated little sounds. You don’t respond, still clinging to that scrap of stubbornness left within you. You didn’t want to give in so easily, you still wanted to make him beg for your attention, even if you were the unreasonable one.
You haul yourself back up onto your forearms, forcing your phone back into your hand and resuming your scrolling, now opting to check out Instagram. Your hand trembles slightly, your cunt fighting the urge to clench around Joel’s cock at the heavy, intoxicating pleasure he was providing.
Joel chuckles again, amused with your determination. He begins to speed his thrusts up, forcing your hips down and barricading either side of your head with his arms as he begins to fuck you harder into the mattress, your clit being stimulated with his heavy balls swinging and thumping against it. Your mouth drops open, a cry threatening to spill out before you quickly censor yourself by biting down on your bottom lip.
“Yeah,” Joel rasps, his words becoming slurred as he fights off his own orgasm threatening to consume him. “You might not be payin’ attention to me. But this little pussy is. And no matter what you do, no matter how much you look on your phone, your little cunt is tellin’ me this is exactly what you need.”
His words hit you right in the core, heating your body up even more, sending your eyes rolling back with the mixture of his cock and words. He continued. “This pretty ass in my hands, and this perfect, perfect pussy milking my cock. S’so special, baby. Letting me use you like this — bein’ my little fuck dolly.”
Your mouth began to move before you could stop it from doing so — before you could yourself back. “Joel, p-please.” You beg softly, not even entirely sure what you were begging for. Him, his cock, his soothing words, maybe. You push your hips back, allowing your phone to fall from your hand once more. Not bothering to hide from the pleasure anymore.
“Yeah, I’m here, Angel,” Joel soothed to your plea and you can almost hear the relief in his voice when you succumb to him. The relief that his plan was working. “Just feel it, baby. Don’t worry about that phone of yours. Just feel my cock on that spot. My balls slapping that pretty clit.”
Joel’s head suddenly drops down to pepper kisses and love bites on the back of your neck. He leans forward just enough to trail his tongue up to your pulse point, sucking and nipping and the thrum of it before soothing the slight hurt with this tongue.
That was your weakness.
Any remainder of control you had over yourself was severed completely, a deeper, more intense moan erupting from your throat along with a; “fuck, baby,” that came out high pitched and sudden. Gasped out, more like.
Joel chuckles into your neck, speeding up his thrusts at your sudden burst of enthusiasm, moaning at the way you tightened around him, your slick walls hugging his sensitive dick. Abruptly, he reached down and gently — yet still firmly — wrapped a handful of your hair around his fist, tugging on it to force your back into an arch, his cock hitting so much deeper with this angle. Your moans turning pornographic as he began to speak.
“Yeah, you’re payin’ attention now. So deep like this, isn’t it? My cock all up in your belly, baby girl.” Joel grits, the obscene skin on skin slapping and the loud moans being ripped from your chest making his mind go hazy. He feels his cock start to pulse, his abdominal muscles tightening as he desperately holds back his orgasm. “Is this what you needed?”
You nod frantically, tears now freely flowing down your face, the release of your emotion cathartic as your climax neared. That was also part of the reason for your tears. “Yes — yes, baby. Just — just needed you to — to make me feel better.” You cry. And he could tell it was the truth — that you weren’t just agreeing with him because you thought that it was what he wanted to hear.
And something in Joel’s chest cracked at that. The sheer honesty and rawness in your words. He slows his thrusts slightly but keep the hardness of it. Gently, he pulls you up against his chest, your back flush to it so you were in a more comfortable position, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I know. I know you did, Angel. I’m here now,” he starts, kissing a tear away from your cheek with a crane of his head, his fucking of you making the both of you breathless as he did it. “You’re gonna feel so much better when you cum for me. Just gotta let it all out and give it to be. Let me deal with all that stress, huh? And then you know what I’m gonna do?”
You can barely say more than this through your hiccuping sobs; “What?”
But Joel continued on anyway, a smile laced in his words at your fucked out state, your orgasm on the brink of washing over you. “I’m gonna get you nice and comfy after, and I’m gonna clean you up. Make you a little dinner and grab you some snacks and just pamper my baby girl. I know she needs it.”
And you didn’t deserve him. His sweetness, especially after you’d torn the head off him earlier over a tiny comment. More tears slip from your eyes. More of emotion.
And just as you feel yourself about to come undone, it’s ripped away. Joel pulls himself from you gently, groaning softly at the loss of your heat as if this brief loss was as agonising for him as it was for you.
You whine in protest, confusion. But he quickly hushes you by rolling you onto your back and shifting you back against the pillows, ensuring your neck was supported before raising your legs onto his shoulders. “Shh — s’okay. Just wanna see that pretty face when you cum for me, baby.”
And then just like that he slams back in, resuming his thrusts perfectly and it wasn’t long until you were back on the edge. Tipping over it, tipping, tipping, tipping until finally — it hit you.
A yelp is forced from you that turns into soft, blissful whimpers as you writhe beneath Joel. His lips connect with your forehead through it. Then your nose, then your cheeks, chin and finally, your lips, kissing your swollen mouth until you were out of breath and pulling back frantically.
You drop your legs down from his shoulders and wrap them tightly around his waist, pressing you foot against his ass to pull him even closer to you. Inside you.
You see it in his face he’s close. Just as fucked out as you.
“Please — ple-ase cum inside of me, Joel,” you beg, eyes pleading, glimmering with desperation. “Need to feel it.”
Joel slows his thrusts to ensure he didn’t hurt you considering how sensitive you must be after that release, yet they still stutter — his hips. An amused laugh falls from Joel’s lips, his eyebrow cocking upward in surprise. “Oh? You’ve changed your tune.”
And despite your state — your dreamy haze. You laugh, right from your belly. The kind of giggle that just bubbles out of you. And Joel does the same with you. Just happy to see his baby girl smiling as he marked you from the inside with his release.
Thank you for reading lovely!! Comments, asks and reblogs of your thoughts are greatly appreciated :)
summary: sent to kill the very man who once scorned you many years ago, one long look at him peacefully sleeping makes you question everything.
cw: 18+ MDNI, enemies to…?, fem reader, working for robert, no tess mentions, guns, nonsexual knife play?, joel forcing you to cut him, angst about the past, miscommunications, BLOOD, bad wound care, evil yearning, suicidal tendencies, joel and reader running away from their problems, skin slicing, stonewalling, readers crazy but joel is even crazier, manhandling, crying, descriptions of said blood, riding him so yall can continue arguing, slightly choking joel, clitoral stimulation, apocalyptic birth control aka NONE!, creampie, optimistic ending
wc: 4.6k
The delicate sounds of heavy breathing rumble in the quiet of the room, once dull and bleak; now recklessly drumming in the atmosphere. The ringing in your ears is almost distracting, the bubbling warmth of your blood pounding similarly to each robust step you take on the hardwood flooring, inching closer and closer to your target.
‘Ksshhhk!’
Glass shattering beneath your tattered boots immediately grabs your attention. Already so on edge from the rapid adrenaline coursing throughout you, you can’t stop the sudden impulse to jump, the hair on your arms standing straight up.
Grabbing your chest tightly as if you could protect yourself against the curious sound you sigh, eye-line grazing across the torn apart room, something heavy sticking out from the sole of your boot.
Looking down between your feet you see it, cluttered in the fallen pieces of insulation and dry wall, an aged photoframe lays collapsed on the ground, the dusty image of a couples portrait looking back at you.
Their faces, once clean and left in spectacular condition, now appear unkempt with splattered hues of dehydrated blood. Although the glass seemed distorted, the image collecting dust behind the cracked glass looked as if it was frozen in time, an era before all of this—before the world collapsed.
They looked happy.
On the left sat the woman, a smile gleaming brightly towards the lens. Her eyes practically shimmered in contentment, the yellow circles of the professional lighting ever so slightly visible in her sclera’s. Her lips were just as stunning, soft pillows appearing plump in a glittery maroon gloss, her body clad in a ruffly floral dress that effortlessly complimented the warmth surrounding her.
You could almost see the aura pouring out of her skin, like she had an invisible wreath of peace surrounding her relaxed shoulders, her confidence protecting whatever future lies ahead of her.
She was everything you’re not.
The man stood behind her widely smiling appeared to be her husband. Dressed in a forest green button down which complimented the stems of the florals on her dress, his own gaze as soft and relaxed as the woman. The circular tortoise shell frames hid the crows feet on the edge of his eyes, yet the didn’t hide the pure look of gratitude on his cheeks.
The pure excitement radiating off the couple was one you haven’t seen in years. They were so excited about what the future may bring to their lives, so young and optimistic, you couldn’t believe in a mindset like that anymore.
It’s hard to fathom the past lives of people living like that, the similar morals you once shared with that couple turned sour, your mindset growing distorted each year you survive this ‘new’ life, your own dreams and beliefs now only being that of survival.
Survival.
Why you’re here on this mission in the first place.
You, along with a presumed tight knit group of people were looking for something—or technically someone. A man who’d wronged Robert over a deal gone wrong, it was your job to finish the business deal, in whatever way you saw best fit, “cutting loose ends” as he’d call it.
Never being a follower, it was no surprise you planned to venture out on your own, secretly hoping you’d be the one to confront the man instead.
You advance on, slowly but steadily focusing your senses on the sounds of that repetitive breathing, your movements so quiet it would be impossible to hear you. With each step, you get closer; firearm loaded and tightly held to your chest, you head towards your sound asleep target, eying the doorway to the living room.
And for the first time in years, you finally see him.
Joel Miller.
You haven’t so much uttered his name since that day you screamed for his help, the syllables refusing to roll off your tongue, too sour—too painful.
You remember that day clearly, the foggy skies blissfully unaware of the twisted scene unfolding across the streets in America, the population dipping and dipping, families dwindling into nothing but memories. The streets flourished with depravity, each time you’d set foot outside of the secured quarantined zones you were met with the something you’ve never quite experienced before, let alone prepared yourself enough to endure.
Joel was there of course, keeping his distance and staring you down like always as if he was the one scared to let his guard down, like he believed you’d be the one to screw him over.
He always made you doubt yourself, always a little too quick to make a scene, your hands always holding your gun like you were scared to shoot it, your stance always a little too rigid for his liking.
But you weren’t that way around anyone—just Joel.
You’d be lying if you said he didn’t scare you, his comments and glaring hazel eyes always made you feel as if you wore a target on the small of your back, like he was waiting for a moment to finally get rid of you.
Weirdly quiet for a man of his stature, he was never loud or aggressive unless he absolutely needed to be. Joel was meticulous, his mind set on a plan before you even set out for the day, already figuring out every which way a supply run or trade could go horribly wrong, his level headed mind ready to take a gamble on a good haul.
He protected you up until that very day, and you felt as if you could depend on him, like if something went horribly wrong Joel would be there to save you. His intentions very clear from the very first meet up with him, whether it be a hand over your chest to protect you, or a large palm placed on the small of your back to help guide you, Joel was always there.
Until he wasn’t.
You don’t remember much about that day, the assumed to be abandoned city hall was a building you had no other choice but to trek through, the roads blown up and cluttered with uneven rubble, it was the safest bet and you placed full trust within him to protect you just in case things went south.
And when they did? Joel ran.
You saw in the corner of your eye how his gun jammed, how his usual steady stride became hollow, his shoulders tucked into himself with a flurry of curses spilling from his lips. He took one last look at you before he found a fast escape route out of the wide room, not bothering to look back.
You’re unsure how you came out of it alive, bodies after bodies of infected piling up on the tiled ground as you shifted your way through them, legs shaking and eyes blurring, it was that day you swore off helping him ever again, making him your enemy.
After that you floated around solo, dabbling with the fireflies, partially believing in their ‘cause’ but you quickly began to run with the wrong crowds, working with men even sicker than you. It wasn’t before long you started to do the dirty work you never would have been caught touching in the past, your morality tethering on practical insanity.
Whether it was smuggling pills, dealing weapons, or ending the lives of living breathing human beings, you went completely numb to the consequences, praying some nights you’d never wake up.
Joel never came to find you even though he knew exactly where you stayed, instead he successfully avoided you through the barely there quarantine zone, himself quickly finding another partner to replace you with.
And you’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t absolutely destroy your trust in strangers and in people you’d call friends.
The bright sunlight crept its way through the boarded up window, reflections of fluttering dust particles blowing around aimlessly, freely. The blinds that remained, sheer and broken in on themselves from countless fingertips lifting and slamming the glass windows, were left battered and uneven, white vertical slats yellowing like the pages of an old book.
He looked to be sleeping, hands remaining softly crossed over his waist, large dirt-clad fingertips resting on the cusp of his belly. Peacefully, your own breathing began to flow with his, matching the soft rise and fall of his abdomen to your own, ignoring the frantic shaking of your chest each time you exhaled.
Your stomach acid jumped in a confusing sequence, body unsure how to feel about seeing the very man who broke you in to pieces. There was a part of you deep inside that craved to be part of his life, the soft relaxation in his bones was one you could’ve easily gotten used to, yet the other part fluttered in your belly ached differently.
It was a pain you haven’t felt since that fateful moment of betrayal, the painful memories replaying in your mind as if they had just occurred, making your skin flush.
Joel somehow looked the same after the time apart. He was a little older, a couple more wrinkles and many more silver grays kissing the rounded apples of his cheeks. He even slept sitting up with a gun resting on his lap, always waiting, always watching.
Staring at him so peacefully resting shattered something carnal inside of you, the last piece of your tattered heart falling from its glass case. All those memories—the ones that made your stomach flutter and the ones that made you want to sob effortlessly swirl into one, making everything around you blur.
Your buzzing fingertips shivered when you pressed them against the barrel of your gun, your thumb stilling as it slid down the metal, the cold biting your finger prints. It was slow enough that if someone was watching you, they’d believe you were hesitating, your hand nervously racking it with a soft ‘click’.
The noise caught you off guard, your body shaking with enough pressure on the tattered flooring to make it creak, the vibrations more than enough to shake the heaviest of sleepers wide wake.
But before you could shoot—or hide behind a wall, his mahogany eyes instantly fluttered open, a large hand reaching out for yours.
His breathing stuttered as he realized he wasn’t fighting a man or a ravenous clicker, his wild gaze suddenly sharpening on you, the girl who he never thought he’d see again.
Joel couldn’t speak right away, the shock too heavy to swallow all at once, instead choosing to quickly slap the gun from your hold, the heavy weight tumbling on that damned creaky flooring, far out of reach.
Joel gripped your wrists so hard it burned, his calloused fingertips easily searing their marks on you, claiming your flesh with a superiority. He easily engulfed your hands in a stern hold, easily jerking you forward to face him.
“No!” Your voice hitches, a panicked hiccup falling from your lips. “Fucking stop!” Trying your best to get out of his trap, your wrists uncomfortably press together, the feeling of your soft bones almost bruising with each thrash your limbs flared, his grasp only tightening.
Clearing his throat, he spoke quietly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
It’s easy to tell he’s bewildered to see you standing before him. Although his voice is hoarse from his slumber, that same damn raspy tone shows its self, the slight southern tick in his dialect still just as dreamy as you remembered it.
You shake as you finally make eye contact with him, smelling the dirt on his clothes. “W-What I should’ve done years ago you piece of shit!”
Scoffing, Joel lunges forward, hands easily finding their way up your arms, slipping from your wrists to fold tightly beneath your armpits. In one swift motion he twists you over to the couch with a thud, thrashing body landing on his thighs.
You’re too close to him now, and it all feels suddenly too real. “L-Let go of me!” You scream, looking around the boarded up windows in hopes for anyone to hear your struggles, yet Joel’s hold on you makes you feel so small, so useless.
Your fighting movements cause your knee to graze slightly into the barrel of his gun, the metal thick and heavy and way too close for your liking. “Fuck! Stop!” You plea, arching your back. The firearm only presses tighter to you, feeling the cold material inch past the hem of your t-shirt down to your stomach.
All it would take is one click, accidental or not, to instantly end your life—
“—Quit movin’! Y’ain’t thinking straight.” He abruptly cuts off your line of thought, but you’re already moving.
You wrap your l feet around his thighs, boots digging deeply into his flesh, you roll with all your might. With a groan he falls to the floor, your limbs a tangled mess of flesh, bodies tumbling hard down to the ground.
It was as if everything moved in slow motion, a messy cocktail of emotions and weapons all fall heavily with a puff of dust. Thankfully, Joel’s gun flies to the edge of the room, leaving plenty of room between him and the firearm, you can finally breathe again.
Joel attempts to turn towards your own bag that fell just beside his head, yet the distraction only gives you an opportunity to grab at his arms. “Clearly you’re the one not thinking straight if I can do this.” Smirking, you pin them down to the ground, using your full body weight to attempt to subdue the stronger man, his limbs so heavy, body so strong.
Joel’s head snaps back to look at you, brown hair shaking, he eyes the aluminum protruding object in your sleeve, instantly knowing it’s a knife.
But of course, you’re quicker.
Maneuvering a clammy hand into your sleeve, your fingertips pull out the jagged dagger fully, a ‘flink’ noise ringing in the steady heavy panting shared between the two you as you pinch it wide open, the reflecting staring back at Joel.
With one hand, you struggle to grasp his large palms in your grip, anxiously wondering why he isn’t fighting back like he should, or why he isn’t trying to kill you first.
“All this time without me, you could’ve been working on yourself, maybe try and at least get a little stronger.” You laugh, a manic giggle soaring through the back of your throat, nervousness showing its wobbly head through your suddenly dry vocal cords.
You can tell your words caught him off guard by the way his moments stutter, his head leaning to the side in an attempt to avoid you. It gives you the perfect leeway to place the sharp grain right to his throat.
Joel gulps, slightly twisting back to peer up at you and his dull eyes speak a thousand—no, a million words. Once beautiful hues of amber and autumn tones swirls appear dull and bleak, as if you’re the one who’s rid them of their hues.
The memories suddenly flow back into Joel’s painful mind, those damned hazel eyes shell shocked over your features, focusing in on your lips—and not the knife shakily held in your grasp.
“Do it.” He gulps, licking his bottom lip. “If you think I’m worth something. Do it.”
The grip on the blade falters, unable to grip the knife as confidently as you’d like, you clumsily press the blade even deeper into the tanned flesh, watching his adam’s apple bob at the sudden pressure.
Joel’s ready for all of this to end, large legs jumping beneath you, attempting to roll you off of him. “Well shit! What are you waitin’ on.” He chides, his words laced with venom and something unusual you can’t place.
“You don’t get to tell me when to do it Joel!” Screaming, the faltering in your voice surprises even you. You’ve waited for this moment for years, but now you’re not so sure if you can fully commit to it. Your waterline pricks with tears, the reminiscent thoughts breaking your resolve. “You ruined my life—m-my reputation. You b-broke my trust.”
“I…People make mistakes. Don’t let this be one of ‘em.”
You close your eyes, pressing the blade deeper into his warm neck, slightly drifting it down the wide plane of flesh. “Y-You’re not being fair.”
Feeling him move, your eyes suddenly pry open in horror, watching as he lifts his head to further meet the metal, inadvertently cutting his own skin. “Shittt—Always needed help didn’t ya.”
“F-Fuck you.” Stuttering, you watch as the deep blood slowly begins to trickle down his tanned skin, deep mahogany collecting at the edge of his covered collarbone, soaking through the fabric of his shirt.
“Killin’ me won’t do shit to fix that issue you’ve got. And I don’t know who set this up ‘n shit—maybe you did your damn self but…” He presses the knife even deeper, stopping at his jugular. “…But I ain’t stoppin’ you. It’d be doing me a favor darlin’.”
You groan in pure frustration, quickly lifting your hand away, to gaze at the mess you’ve—he’s created. “Stop! I know what you’re doing! You’re just trying to make me pity you, make me stop—”
“—That’s far from the truth and you know it. I ain’t got nothing left to give.”
You almost want to roll your eyes at the bloodied man, if he has nothing? you’ve never had anything. “And you think I’ve got it? Joel I’ve got nothing—not one person cares about me, the only thing I can count on is myself.”
He scoffs. “You could have came ‘n found me, coulda sorted all this out.”
“Bullshit! You ran...” You pry, pushing your hands into his chest. The warmth exerting from his body makes your own frame tingle, as if he’s feeling the same thing you are. “…Ran from me and didn’t care about what happened afterward.”
Suddenly his head jolts forward, his mouth inches away from yours. “You jus’ don’t get it do ya?” He whispers, and although his words say otherwise, your mind is crystal clear, body language dead set on one person.
Him.
Before you can blink, Joel’s mouth crashes into yours so fast it knocks you backward, mouth gasping at his beard scratching your cheeks. You can smell the fragrant blood that drips down his neck, the strong metallic scent hitting your senses in a way it makes your knees buckle.
Groaning in disapproval, Joel’s hands snake up your back, pressing you back down to his body. “Ain’t no more runnin’… you’re staying right here with me.” He mumbles, placing a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, greedily running his tongue down the skin.
“Wha—” It takes you a moment to catch up, mind so focused on the pain he’s caused, the pain you’ve inflected, his neck now bleeding onto your balled up fists that collide with his chest. “What are you doing!”
“What I should’a done a long time ago.” He instantly replies, placing his lips back down against your own.
Joel kisses like it hurts, the years long pain and devotion instantly coming up to the surface of his stone heart, every smack of his lips, every swipe of his tongue, you quickly devour it; the depravity the kind you’ve never felt before, his energy almost electric.
Ten minutes ago you would have pushed him off, maybe dug the even blade deeper and finished the job you’d sought out to complete, but the way his lips move against your own, wet and supple, it’s impossible to stop.
His hips feverishly buck beneath you, the growing tent in his jeans swelling up easily between your legs, cockhead dripping through the denim and up to your heat. “Joel!” You hiccup, hands dragging further down to his chest, feeling his heart rapidly beating against your fingertips.
“You think I wanted to lose ya? Wanted to lose someone else?” He mumbles between your lips, his hands easily falling to your waist, forcing your hips to rock against his own. “I still think about ya. Every damn night. Can’t sleep cus of you.”
It’s as if the pain was something worthwhile, the distance between the two of you only increasing the pure drive of lust and hunger. Each roll of his hips catches your jeans perfectly against your clit, body already becoming a puddle on top of him.
“Think you're confusing your emotions Joel, y-you’re supposed to be mad at me.” You mutter, voice barely above a whisper.
And he should be mad, should’ve tried to kill you before he gave you the chance to have this conversation, let alone experience whatever what the two of you are about to do, yet Joel can’t bring himself to care, needing you in every way—even if it kills him.
Joel guides a hand down to his pants, forcing your digits to squeeze his covered cock. “Oh my god Joel!” You gasp, shocked at the feeling of his warm shaft throbbing beneath your touch.
“Thinkin’ I’m jus’ doing what I should’ve done a long time ago darlin’.” He groans, his own hands coming up to your top, easily popping the buttons apart. “Shoulda made ya mine.”
“J-Joel! You’re not thinking straight.” Frenzied, your wild eyes find the dripping blood not slowing down its urgent stream, your hands meeting his to lift your shirt off your body.
But instead of throwing the garment on the floor, you rip a thick strip of fabric from the hem, fingers shakily knotting it around his throat with just enough pressure to slow the bleeding.
“You don’t need to do that, don’t need to worry ‘bout me.” He chides, greedy fingertips finding solace between your shoulder blades, easily pinching the metal clasps together, ridding you of your bra.
“I’ve known what I’ve wanted for a while now.” He continues, not letting you get any words of uncertainty in.
“Fuck!”
He lets out a breathy laugh as you gasp at the sudden exposure of your breasts, bra falling far behind you. “Hell—I got guys keepin’ tabs on ya, making sure you’re still alive.”
You furrow your bros at his admission, hands stopping their movements on his zipper, the heat blooming from his cock practically suffocating. “Bullshit.”
But Joel only continues, running his hands down your waist, fingers playing with your jeans. “Know your shackin’ up with some Fedra fucker, ‘n how he gives ya access to all sorts of shit to smuggle. Know you’re workin’ with Robert.”
“Jealous?” You pry, unable to hide the sinful smirk plastered on your heated cheeks. Your shaking hips uncontrollably jerk up at his touch, your golden zipper opening easily at the angle, your body almost fully bare for the man you swore you hated.
Joel only looks up at you, lips swollen and pupils dilated. “Nope. ‘Cus I know you’ve been watchin’ me too.”
“You wish, shoulda known I was coming sooner or later.” You pull off from his body briefly, just enough to wiggle your legs free from your jeans, the thin soaked fabric of your painties easily sliding down with the denim, your body bare and laid out for him like a gift.
“Yeah. And I’ve been waiting.” He swallows, and suddenly his angry tip reveals itself, burning a deep shade of red, the throb droning allllll the way down to his tanned shaft, thick veins decorating him beautifully.
He lazily jerks himself off with his hand, a large fist wildly gripping the spongy flesh, knuckles white at the sensation. “You don’t think I’ve thought about apologizin’? How bad I wanted to make it up to you, make all this better.”
You’re so close to finally getting a chance to make him yours, your sopping cunt crying out inches away from his very own thick inches, your words rapidly stuttering. “M-Make this better? You should’ve done that years ago.”
“Ain’t that what ‘m doing now?” Questioning you, the man sighs, swiping a fat thumb over the sugary precum weeping out of his slit.
Furrowing your brows, you can only stare at him stupidly. “What? Letting me watch you play with your dick is an apology?”
“No, but I think lettin’ you cream on it ‘s a pretty damn good start.” He grunts, his non-dominant hand coming up to grip your hip, forcing you to hover above his thick cock.
He’s the only man in your life that can bring this out of you, your body almost possessed by the man you once hated, mind now controlled by the deep hidden desires you confused for hatred.
Your hand shakily grips his cock, angling him right up against your sticky entrance. You coat him in your essence, his cock rapidly lapping at your chilling slick.
Beginning to sink down, you fold your lip beneath your teeth, holding back the hiss that rumbles from your chest. “Y-Yeah, a good start if I can even get you inside of me, ‘s been a while.” And that’s the truth, mentally counting Joel’s inches, you know it’s going to be a big stretch, your body definitely not used to being stretched out like this.
“Fuckkk,” you mewled, the feeling easily filling you all the way deep. His cock hitches in your insides just right, shaft easily stretching and expanding your walls that it burns deep, an urgent reminder of why you’re here, who you're doing this with.
“Now go slow, gonna work yourself up.” He orders, his once strong voice beginning to teeter on the edge of ecstasy. Each inch is a promise, a guarantee his presence will remain—he will allow you to take him, as long as you’ll have him.
Looking down at Joel, he’s in just a similar predicament to you, eyes slammed shut, knuckles roughly pressing into the fat of your hips, it’s clear he needed this as much as you did.
“I know how to fuck Joel. L-Like I said—Shitttt!” You scream wildly, Joel’s hips suddenly taking advantage of your sensitive cunt, bucking into you.
He slots the last of his shaft deep inside of you, feeling it throb around your gummy core, inches unable to move at the tight grip you choke him in. “Y-You don’t know nothing about me.”
“Yeah nothing I won’t find out sooner or later.” He grits out through his teeth, jawline tensing at the strong feeling of your pillowy velvet gripping him like a vice. He can’t help but begin to rock you against him, hands lifting you uppp, then plopping you right back down, your whines only egging him on. “Or right now… now I know how much yer’ liking when I fuck ya like this.”
It’s almost embarrassing how wet you are for him, sopping pussylips gushing each time he throws you around, arousal seeping down the insides of your thighs.
“Jesus Joel!” Toes curling in pleasure, his cock notches itself right up against your g-spot, gummy tip shamelessly making out with your cervix, drinking every last drop of slick from your aching cunt.
It’s hard, but you finally let go, deciding you can’t hold back on how good he feels filling you up. You allow yourself to feel good, the metal chains are released from your torn heart and saddened body, your memories once guarded by the past are met with ones of lust, ones you can’t wait to devour.
Meeting his thrusts, the strong ‘plap!’ ‘plap!’ ‘plap!’ of your wet cunt meeting his cock fill the room, his hipbones searing into the bottom side of your pebbled thighs, goosebumps wildly erupting at the feeling.
“F-Feels good,” murmuring, you bite back a moan. Clammy fingertips grab a hold of his heaving chest, fingertips etching the crescent shapes into the collar of his shirt, digits daring to touch his wounded neck.
The slight graze makes Joel’s cock twitch, voice growling. “Ride me. Choke me. Take whatever the hell ya want from me.” Lifting his legs, he slots your cunt even deeper against him, your ass flush with his heavy balls, aching from the years of being full of seed. “Can’t ever walk away from this—you, again.”
Absentmindedly, your hand begins to drift upwards, touching his neck—the frayed scrap of your shirt hitting your skin. You press down once on the side that remains uncut, wrapping your digits around it.
“I don’t understand!" You scream, voice wobbling as you press down on the pressure point, briefly cutting off his rapid breath. “H-How can someone l-like you have this hold on me.”
Like your cunt has a hold on him, walls clamping down on his cock with a crushing weight, trading in the feverish circling of your hips for tight grinds against him, his wiry pubes catching on your clit.
He looks up at you, eyes wide. “You think I wanted to leave ya like that? Let you die out there?”
“You didn’t just think about it Joel, you did.”
The last part falls from your lips like a whisper. You feel weak, paralyzed for letting him take control of your thoughts for so long, debilitated from the years of torment of that very scowl on his face, the one you want to kiss from his irritating mouth.
Sitting up, Joel grips the back of your neck, angling you close to his face. “Now I never woulda taken you out there if I knew it was a damn suicide mission.”
You laugh, feeling his heavy breathing against your flushed cheeks. “A suicide mission? One you left me to finish? By myself?”
“Ran off because…” He trails off, gripping your hips into a steady rhythm, your gushing pussy coating his cock in soppy sap, giving him just enough space to plant his calloused thumb flush between your folds, pressing into your clit. “…I couldn’t see it happen. Again.”
You can’t respond, his thumb perfectly tracing subtle shapes to the round ridges of your clit, each circle driving you closer and closer to the edge. “Mmph! G-Gonna make me…”
His forehead hits yours, forcing your fluttering eyes wide open, blown out pupils connecting to your fucked our gaze. “You wanna cum? Show me—let ‘er prove she’s mine.” He forces his cock righttt into your g-spot, ramming your tired frame into it, giving your cunt a big ‘ol smooch with his veiny head, the ridges forcing your orgasm out of your reluctant core. “Shit honey I can feel it, keep squeezin’ and I won’t be far behind ya.”
His thumb presses hard into your sensitive bundle of nerves, instantly shooting shockwaves throughout your nervous system. The pleasure feels like a feverish thunderbolt of electricity hitting a freezing cold wave in the middle of the ocean. Each part of your body clenches, the pleasure so overwhelming you feel like you're drowning.
Like the sea, your eyes begin to prickle with soft ripples of tears, the salty water drifting down the corners of your etched eyes, drifting down in a shaky river to your cheekbones, one Joel quickly notices.
“Yeah that’s it,” he coos. “Ride it out baby, breathe for me.”
“T-To much—shit!” You scream, head falling to his shoulder, body jerking each time your clit feels the pressure of his pelvis.
“God honey-I’ve missed ya so damn much.” He’s so gentle, lips pressing to the corners of your eyes to wipe the tears, licking the skin so soft you almost break. “Always been waitin’ for you.”
The action does it for you, a sob pouring from the back of your throat and into the stale air, rattling the floorboards with your shockwaves.
“G-Gonna cum. Can’t help it—makin’ you mine like I always w-wanted ta’.” Voice so soft one could confuse it for a whimper, Joel pleads, his cock twitching at the idea of filling you full, marking you forever as his.
“Joel! I—You’re not thinking.” And you aren’t either, body shaking and soul sobbing, you can’t help the tears rapidly painting your face, the first time you’ve cried in decades.
He shakes his head in disapproval, his hands grabbing your squishy cheeks. “You k-keep sayin’ that everytime you want something from me.”
Looking into his blow out gaze, you nod. “I-I want everything from you—all of it.”
“Let me.” Joel groans out, his own resolve slowly dwindling into nothing. “Let me take care of you.” Like sugar dissolving into water, he melts into you; his cock finding a home in your hard cervix, his seed spilling inside of you.
You’re drowning in him, a rapid crescendo of emotions and fluids going haywire, you fully unlock the door to your soul, letting Joel inch his way inside, cockhead nuzzling its way all the way up to your heart.
He crashes onto the ground with a huff, mind dizzy, neck dripping, but none of that matters to him, his arms gripping you tightly to his chest like he’s scared you will find a way to slip out of his grasp once again.
Joel doesn't push you away nor does he bother with cleaning you up, instead; his softening cock stills inside of you, keeping you securely locked up against him so you can’t leave.
The same sunbleached blinds begin to filter in the slow beams of the setting sunlight, orange hues gleaming against the pale patterned wallpaper peeling off the walls, yet all you can focus on Joel, his soft panting mellowing out.
You have many past regrets, the ghosts hidden deep in your closet hallow and chilling, it would be foolish to believe this wouldn’t be one of them, laying with the man you hate, the one you used to despise. Yet when you open your eyes to peer up at his sunken face, his eyes are already on yours, hazel hues promising you the future.
With or without him.
a/n: …. when the neighbors argument sound good asf o.O
Based on this amazing request, I had so much fun writing this!! Enjoy :)
Marcus Acacius, the respected general of Rome shares his wife with his friend Joel Miller.
Contains: smut, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex (m & f receiving), ddlg dynamic, threesome (F/M/M), praise, dom/sub dynamic, sub!reader, softdom Joel and Marcus, controlling Marcus, name calling (bunny, princess, sweetling), controlled threesome, possessiveness, physical restraint (consensual) overstimulation, patriarchal society, ancient rome, aftercare, fluff
Wordcount: 12,092
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Joel approached the table with long strides, gleaming with confidence and self-certainty.
You looked him up discreetly, your cheeks flushing with every step he came closer to you.
"Do not stare too extensively, my darling girl," Marcus whispered in your ear, effectively cutting through the mist that had been surrounding your brain up until now. His comment only made it worse, and you nearly choked on your own spit.
"You're going to make them talk. Look at them."
Your husband forcefully made you avert your gaze from the most handsome Joel Miller, now about halfway across the room, to look at all the other people in the room.
Senators, highly influential politicians, businessmen, and generals, just like your husband himself. The tavern was crowded with more heads than you could count, so Marcus actually had good reason to reprimand your noticeable behavior. All it took was for one of those men or their wives to catch a glimpse of you glaring at Joel with such hunger in your eyes, and word would have spread within a day. Or perhaps the night would be long enough for every last merchant, baker, servant, and handmaiden to find out that the wife of the honorable, deeply respected Marcus Acacius was letting her eyes wander over a man who isn't her husband. Even worse, while that very man was sitting right next to her.
After all, you were a woman. Society would not blink an eye if Marcus was the one to take mistresses into his bed, of course. He was allowed to impregnate as many women as he liked as long as his formal wife were to provide him an heir. What a good thing, Marcus had never voiced any desire to be with women outside your marriage and had sworn his loyalty to you alone many times before. No, the contrary was the case.
Because Marcus was about to do what every nobleman and woman, everyone from common gardeners to the emperor himself, would look down on, or even worse, condemn. General Marcus Acacius was about to share his wife with another man, merely for their pleasure. What other men were afraid would happen all their lives, he was doing consciously and purposefully. Hadn't he even been the one to put that idea in the room in the first place? Hadn't he been the one to run the thought through his mind many times, thinking that Joel was the perfect match for you?
Suggesting such absurdity was scandalous, but acting upon it? It was downright suicidal. If anyone were to find out about this, the only question was who of the three would be hanged first – you guessed it would be Joel since he wasn't of high birth like Marcus and you. Still, he had agreed to it without the blink of an eye. At least that was how your husband had told the tale.
According to his report, Joel had smugly twisted his lips, drumming his fingers on the table in front of him, his eyes sparkling with a dark grey shimmer. Marcus had said to you that he knew in that moment that his friend would agree to his proposition, but Joel had waited for another minute, asking follow-up questions and details about how your husband had planned all of this in his head before finally agreeing to meet the two of you in a tavern three days later.
To say you were curious was an understatement.
You were quite literally buzzing with excitement, all your nerves on full alert with a mixture of joy and nervousness. You had been like that since the first sunrays had touched the horizon and dipped the sky in an orange sheen, and had nearly annoyed your husband with your constant rambling about Joel, your questions about his person, and your expressions of your doubts and mirth at the same time.
What were you getting yourself into? Would it be worth it? Was Joel just as delighted to make your acquaintance, or were you about to humiliate yourself in a conversation with him? Truthfully, you had met the handsome Joel before, but it had been a brief contact that hadn't even allowed Marcus to introduce the two of you to each other.
Weirdly, all you could remember from the encounter were his hands. Those long, thick fingers, the hair on his forearms, the veins twining around his wrists, and his neat nails. You felt so ashamed about that specific part of your memory that you hadn't even told Marcus about any of that and had instead highlighted how very smitten you had been with his tall figure and kind eyes.
Right now, those eyes were curiously scanning the crowd until they found your husband and briefly lit up. You couldn't blame him for taking a few more seconds, as the place really was busy, the air charged and droning with chatter and laughter. You just hoped that none of those drunk senators to your left were listening too carefully to their environment, but one glance at their red faces and uncontrollable laughter was enough to make most of your fright dissolve into the stuffy air.
"Good evening."
Joel was close enough to speak to your husband and you now, his head briefly giving Marcus a nod before he took your hand.
"My lady."
He looked rather gorgeous, with his dark locks threaded with silverish strands that reminded you of your husband's salt – and – pepper hair. You knew that he was a couple of years younger than Marcus, and frankly, he looked like it, since he had fewer wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Nevertheless, there was a distinct crease between his brow, faded now as his features were relaxed and friendly, but it was enough to make it clear that, just like your husband, the man in front of you was of a stoic and strict nature. A leader and a man that people obeyed and listened to without him having to say much to establish his authority. Perhaps that was why Joel has been one of your husband's best friends for years.
"It is a pleasure. We've made our acquaintance at my husband's birthday last year, but I'm very much fond of meeting you in a more private setting."
Marcus's hand, which you hadn't noted resting on the small of your back up until now, became firmer, pressing into your skin as if to say that you were doing well.
"So am I, my lady… So am I," Joel chuckled deeply, rubbing his beard like he was still scrutinizing you and making his judgement of his friend's wife. You very much hoped that he would like you as much as you did him.
At the end of the day, that was the most crucial condition of it all. Apart from Marcus's permission for him to touch you, of course. That, you already had obtained. Your husband and you had gone through everything in detail, agreeing on what Joel would be allowed to do and where Marcus was going to draw the line.
Initially, you had been vastly surprised by his assent at all, since he was a highly possessive and jealous person who couldn't even stand leaving you alone at the emperor's yearly summer feast. Why would he willingly watch his friend touch your most intimate body parts, and even find pleasure in it?
The only explanation that you were able to make your peace with was that Marcus might have a secret preference that the two of you had not yet been able to explore in the bedroom, which was why you had had no idea about it so far. Or, and you actually liked that thought better, his bond with Joel was so tight that he didn't consider his hands on your body as the touch of a stranger who had no business being so close to you.
"Sit, my friend," Marcus offered and pulled back a chair, which Joel sank into with a deep groan. His legs were slightly parted, his gaze steady and his eyes flashing as though the wildest ideas were already running through his mind.
"Thank you very much, general."
"Oh, enough of those formalities," Marcus grinned and put a cup of wine in front of Joel. "You know me better than to call me that. And you'll be finished calling her my lady as well. I should hope to hear you call her all sorts of other things before the night is over."
Your cheeks immediately heated up, and you quickly dropped your gaze before either of the men would spot your embarrassment. Not fast enough for Marcus, though.
"Oh darling… Look at you, all blushed and abashed. Weren't you the one who could barely hold back her excitement five minutes ago?"
He waited for you to answer him, but for now, you refused to. Not until the blood in your face had subsided.
"I do apologize for my wife's behavior," Marcus said but didn't sound apologetic at all… rather… amused, and you couldn't blame him. You were acting like a little child, unable to look at your opposite just because something had been said that you hadn't expected.
"Do not apologize, my friend." Joel's coarse voice made the air around you vibrate, and you realized that he must be closer than you had noticed. "She is simply embarrassed. Mockery is not going to help her, isn't that correct?"
A beat passed, and you shyly raised your eyes at last. Joel's hand, placed on the table in front of him, twitched as though his body wished to reach for you, but manners got the better of him at the last moment. Good, you thought. That surely would be one too much. Touching a married man's wife in public was more than improper. Even if it was only her hand.
"I apologize," you whispered, drawing a gentle breath as you felt Marcus stroking up and down your back.
Joel's mouth curved, but he said nothing, instead observing you through those dark, shimmering eyes, his head slightly tilted to the right. There was something unsettling and enthralling about his stance, though you couldn't decide yet which emotion outweighed the other.
A minute later, Marcus and Joel were engaged in a conversation about politics and the war, which you cared not to take part in. For once, you hesitated to enter a field that was mostly intended for men and not for women, and also, you were quite happy exploring the hard lines around Joel's face further.
And then there were those veiny forearms… the little curls at his temple… his beautifully curved lips… In spite of all grace and modesty, you had involuntarily bitten down on your bottom lip at his sight, which you only realized when both men's eyes bore holes into your face.
"Oh, I – Forgive me – " you began, quickly shifting your attention to Marcus's knowing gaze. His arm slung a little tighter around your center, his hand patting your waist before he cleared his throat.
"I assume we should get going. Before my sweet wife does something that will draw other people's attention to us even more."
Oh gods. You hadn't even thought about that part.
"Forgive me, husband, I – " you whispered in his direction, but he shut you up with a soft squeeze of your hand, helping you up simultaneously.
"Do not worry, sweetling. As soon as we have entered our bedchambers, you won't have to hold back anything at all. Until then, you better keep your eyes on me."
You felt like you were floating on a cloud while Marcus led you out of the tavern, closely followed by Joel's heavy strides. As soon as you approached the villa Marcus and you inhabited, Joel took his place next to you, which made you feel even smaller and more intimidated than before. Both men were broad and tall, towering over you and seemingly making you shrink between them. It was no surprise, since they were both used to hard labor and working with their hands on the battlefield. You could sense their strength and mercilessness right off them, and considering you were on your way to be alone in a room with them, with all the possibilities and doors open, you asked yourself whether you were mad or brilliant.
You trusted your husband with your life, but what you were doing here was a sin, a crime neither of you would be able to recover from. Especially you. And the image of walking between them, their bodies hard and coiled to your left and right, made you only more aware of the plans Marcus and you had made for tonight.
Not many words were exchanged on the short walk back to the villa.
Joel complimented the front garden and let his gaze wander over your frame when you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, but he still visibly restrained himself from doing anything that could be denoted as rude or impolite to your husband.
That was until the three of you set foot into Marcus's and your shared bedchambers. Joel didn't devour you like a greedy animal at once; he was far too courteous for that. That much you had figured out about him by now. Yet, something in the way he held himself altered. His eyes became even more predatory, his fingertips briefly pressing against each other as he sat down on a chair which your husband had offered him.
"Finally, we are gone from the people's stares and curious noses. I can't stand them. The constant zealous glances, the judgement, and hopeful whispering. It seems to me as though they are only waiting for one to take one wrong step so that they can destroy their reputation for all time and drag their name through the mud. Isn't it hideous?" Marcus scrunched his nose, then gestured for you to come closer. Thus far, you had merely tangled your fingers, your hands dangling in front of your body, but your heart jumped at the vague motion.
"It is, Marcus," Joel answered him, but his eyes were glued to your moving figure. "They are lurking animals… Waiting to strike and tear their prey to pieces."
You internally had to laugh since that was exactly what he looked like to you at that moment. The only thing missing was the drool trickling down his chin, and the picture would be complete.
"Sit down, little one," Marcus's deep, brassy voice cut through the mist around your brain, making you widen your eyes. Was he actually expecting you to…
"Go on. I want my princess to be comfortable."
With shaky knees, you lowered yourself onto his lap, gasping when your husband adjusted your position. Perhaps you should be grateful, because you couldn't imagine that your legs would have carried your weight much longer.
"You look gorgeous, my darling," Marcus hummed while his fingers clasped around the barrette in your hair that was holding your strands up at the back of your head. A heartbeat later, your locks were falling down your shoulder blades freely, and the hair slide was placed on the glass table in front of you.
"Thank you," you giggled, scarcely even remembering the other man in the room with the two of you. How could you possibly focus on anyone else while Marcus was using his most tender voice on you, easing you into a quiet embrace that couldn't be reached from the outside world?
"Don't mind me…" he growled next and suddenly untied the knot holding your dress up at the back of your nape. You hadn't expected Marcus to move so fast, putting an end to the gown covering your frame so soon, which was why you instinctively placed your palm on your chest, which prevented the fabric from coming down and widened your eyes in shock.
"Sweetling…" Marcus purred and planted his much larger hand on top of yours. You couldn't see what Joel was doing, whether he was amused or pitiful with the sudden change in your demeanor, but for now, he was secondary.
"Do not look at me like that. Do not look at me like I am some lout who steals from a woman what is not his to take. Nothing is going to happen in that room tonight that you do not wish for. I thought I made that clear. So you tell me right now you don't want me to undress you, and it is not going to happen. Just look at me. Please."
You obeyed and could just fight back tears at his sight. Marcus was a harsh, uncouth man from the outside, with his massive shoulders, thick arms, and huge hands that had seen more blood than most of the hands of the Romans collectively. But right now, that very same man couldn't have seemed any gentler or kinder.
All of the stiffness and brutality that Marcus surely evinced on a usual day as the general of the Roman army was gone. What was left was your respectful husband who had always done nothing but show you appreciation and patience. Like on your wedding night, when he had spent hours holding your hand because you hadn't felt prepared to do more than that.
After all, Marcus's and your marriage had been an arranged one, so when you had stepped in front of the altar that day, you hadn't had any idea what you were getting yourself into. Although you had never told your husband about it to that day, you could remember clearly crying into the crook of your mother's shoulder two hours prior. If only you had known that the actions you had been about to take would lead to the happiest version of your life that you could imagine.
Certainly, Marcus was significantly older than you, and you had needed a few weeks to get to know him before you had felt ready to let him bed you, but he had complied with your wishes without the blink of an eye and had taken extra good care of you when he had finally taken your innocence at last.
In other words, he might not seem like it, but he was the nicest, most caring man a young girl could dream of. On the battlefield, he fought hard and with every ounce of ruthlessness and savagery a man could possess, but when he came home to you, he held you in his strong, blood-covered arms as long as you needed it and would never dare lay a hand on you or even just raise his deep voice against you.
"No. I want it to happen," you whispered with a steady voice to ensure Marcus knew that you meant it. His hand lingered at your neck, an inch above your fervent skin, but he was yet to continue his process of stripping you of your clothes.
"But you want it to happen slower?" Marcus tried to help you, and it worked. You nodded slowly, realizing only in that moment that it was precisely what you needed.
"Yes. Yes, I just… I would like to see you first."
Marcus's body vibrated with laughter, which made little tingles rush through your core, titillating your clit and sensitive skin. You would never grow unimpressed by how quickly your husband was able to ignite your whole body, even though you had to admit that he had had plenty of time to discover every inch of you, as well as what you liked and disliked. And by now, it certainly wasn't a secret to him that you reacted especially keenly and sensitively to his rough, low voice.
Marcus planted his hand on your lower back again and slightly turned you to face his friend, who had casually leaned back in the chair.
"I see, princess," your husband muttered in your ear, his own hands flying to the draping of his tunic. "Whatever my darling girl wants."
As if this had been a mute cue for Joel, the other man started to remove his clothes as well, stripping down to his breeches with a certain calmness which baffled you. You were cast under their spell, watching them in turns with your lips parted a sliver and your breathing staggering.
Marcus's broad, stout torso wasn't an unfamiliar sight to you, which was why your curious eyes lingered on his friend a bit more extensively. He was a trifle slimmer than your husband, though his muscles flexed just as deliciously, leaving it no secret that this man's everyday tasks consisted of hard physical work. His chest was embellished with dark, dense hair that led from his collarbone down to his lower abdomen. The only reason why you couldn't see where the locks ended was that he was still wearing his cotton breeches, which provided a little bit of decency as your gaze took in his strong frame.
"Was that how you wanted it, sweetling?" Marcus whispered in your ear, but he had to say it a second time before you reacted.
"I… Yes, Marcus, I…" your voice broke toward the end, making both men chuckle softly. Fortunately, the noise didn't sound teasing, let alone condescending, but genuinely cheerful.
"Everything is well, my dear. Would you like to touch him?" His calloused hands enclosed around your bicep, ready to lift you to your feet in case you agreed to his proposition. Which you did, with some delay.
"I would… I would like that. Yes," you panted, then suddenly felt the ground beneath you again. The three steps toward the other man felt like you were crossing the whole building, but when you were finally in reach, Joel thrust his hands out. They hovered inches from your hips, but before he touched you, he raised his eyebrows in question.
"Would you like me to touch you?"
Out of pure instinct, you turned around to Marcus, who was just twisting his mouth, eagerly watching the two of you interact. At your quizzical gaze, he smiled and drummed his fingers on the surface of the table.
"Go on, sweetheart. Answer truthfully."
"Yes," you muttered, exhaling gently when Joel's hands made contact with your clothed hips.
"Yes? Does that feel good?" He pulled you forward a little, your kneecaps brushing against each other.
"Yes."
"Do you want to take a seat?"
It felt strange at first to climb onto a stranger's lap. You could barely fight the urge to turn around again and ask for Marcus's permission once more, but you assumed that what he had just said counted for most of the things that were going to happen in this room tonight. Besides, he could put a stop to this the second he liked, and you would blindly follow his voice.
Once you were seated on top of him, your legs on either side of his hips, Joel carefully took your hands and positioned them on his hairy chest.
"My friend is a very lucky man… You're a sight. A very pleasing sight."
Flustered by his compliment, you pressed your lips together, shyly running your palms down his upper body until they came to a stop a few inches above the waistline of his breeches.
"You can do whatever you like, sweetling. All I want for a pretty girl like you is to feel satisfied. So you take what you want, alright?"
You nodded, even though it must not have looked very convincing, considering Joel smirked mischievously and rubbed your ribcage soothingly.
"We will get you there, I'm sure. But for now… am I going to have to ask your husband what you like?"
Thumb grazing his happy trail, you pursed your lips, almost mewling like a cat at how incredibly strong and imposing he looked. The idea of Joel fighting off and killing his enemies on the battlefield, his competence, his strength, his viciousness when it came to his combat… it sent you spiraling.
That was when you remembered that you still owed him a reply.
"I… I don't know," you murmured and squealed softly when Joel pushed up his thigh a little.
"She likes being touched on her thighs. And on her nipples. Push two fingers deep inside her, preferably middle and ring finger, and just keep them still. Maybe occasionally curl them the slightest, but she will probably already soak your hand just from that."
You shuddered at Marcus's precise reports, which pretty much summed it up perfectly. Your reaction didn't go past Joel, who cupped your face in his hand and bundled a bit of the fabric of your gown in his other.
"Is that right? Would you like me to do that?"
"Yes," you breathed, this time with no reluctance.
"Will you let me take your gown off?"
You nodded again, but then flinched when an unexpected pair of hands landed on your shoulders.
"Marcus…" you giggled quietly, rocking back and forth just to create more friction against his skin.
"I know… Just stay still for him, alright? I know Joel is going to love what he's about to see… Let's grant him the joy, what do you think?" Marcus's lips were right at your ear, his warm breath making the hair on your nape tingle and stiffen.
"Yes…" you whispered, since you couldn't find anything that spoke against allowing him to proceed.
Joel's rough hands shoved the fabric down so forcefully you feared that the dress might rip, but the tearing noise didn't set in. Only when a cold breeze made your nipples harden did you realize that you were sitting on Joel's lap with your bare chest right under his nose and his eyes savoring every single curve and contour of your breasts.
"Gods in heaven…" Joel cursed under his breath, almost helplessly running a hand through his hair as though he was overwhelmed with all the options laid out in front of him.
"Just wait until you see her," Marcus laughed and reached around your body to cup your right breast before his friend could. His massive hand made your chest look pathetically small as his palm swallowed most of your flesh effortlessly.
When Joel's hand followed as well, your breasts disappeared fully, and when you looked down your body, you could only see the backs of their hands. Your husband and his friend seemed content with what they had, though. Joel growled, the sound bubbling in his chest before spilling over his lips, his hand gripping you tightly without hurting you.
"Shit… She is… breathtaking."
"Yes, she is," Marcus agreed, kissing your bare shoulder from behind while you couldn't stop regarding their hands and how they touched your chest so confidently and assertively, you stopped doubting the propriety of Joel's touch entirely. A man's skin against yours couldn't feel so right and natural if it was a wrong thing to do, right?
"A dream come true," Joel continued his raving and leaned in as well, only that he began kissing your neck and chin. His lips were more eager and faster than Marcus's, but the fact that he had a beard as well made both your front and back sting a little as strands of their hair poked into your sensitive skin.
"Do not get too jealous, my friend," Marcus said, his voice thick with a mixture of pride and possessiveness.
"Oh, I've been jealous from the start, Marcus. She is perfect. Like a fresh breeze… Or the first tulip in spring."
Although Joel wasn't even coy about hiding his affection for you, Marcus didn't seem to judge his words as very concerning and just continued playing with your breast, pinching and circling your nipple in turn.
"Tell us how you're feeling, my love. Is it too rough? Just right? Do you need something else?"
You weren't new to Marcus extensively communicating with you during your intimate time together, but with Joel's presence, the words seemed harder to leave your mouth, your mouth drier than usual.
"I… It's good. Really good," you answered in the end without knowing whether you wanted to lean into Joel's touch or move back from him to get closer to your husband.
"Spit, my dear," were the next words reaching you, and again, it was Marcus who had grunted them.
At first, you were confused and didn't understand the necessity behind his demand, but when you dropped your gaze again, you noticed his palm under your chin. Even though you weren't entirely in the clear yet about what he needed your drool for, you trusted him without second thoughts and gathered some saliva behind your lower teeth and let it drip onto his hand.
Marcus just smeared it all over your chest, coating your nipples in a thin layer of wetness, which made their swift rubs and swirls around your buds easier for them and more comfortable for you.
"Ohh…" you whined after a while, your nipples pulsing distinctly as both men continued to toy with them and flick them to the side rapidly.
Joel's growing arousal was visible in the intensity of his touch as well as the bulge beneath you. You had never seen, let alone touched, another man's erection, which made you even more nervous about what was waiting for you right there, only a few sparse layers of silk separating your hot core and Joel's manhood.
Your excitement caused you to shift a little more on top of his lap, which ended in a dangerous vicious circle of you grinding against Joel's length and him pushing you down on him with more firmness.
"Shit… Someone is very eager," Joel grunted, his voice sounding absolutely different than it had before. There was an edge to it, a threatening warning that you were playing with fire, that you were tugging and pulling at a thread which was close to snapping. But you didn't seem to mind the risk.
"My little bunny can't help herself around a hard dick," Marcus mumbled in your ear, which made you doubt if his friend had even heard him, and whether that fact mattered.
"How about we lay you down, hm?" Marcus's hands settled on your flesh under your arms, gently dragging you backward until his strong chest met your back.
"Yes…" you whimpered, deeply grateful for the fact that your husband was carrying you instead of pulling you to your feet again.
He effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing, hauled you up in the air and brought you to the bed nimbly. But as he placed you in the middle of the mattress, you didn't feel like a worthless nothing. Marcus treated you like something delicate that would break at the slightest pressure on your bones. He laid you down on your back, then adjusted every single limb to his taste, brushing back your hair when he was done.
"Look at her," Marcus commanded his friend, who had approached the bed by now too and sat down on the edge of it. "Sprawled out like the perfect gift…"
"Yeah, she is. And I can't believe you're sharing her with me tonight." Joel drew patterns over your knee, your skirt bundled around your hips from the movement.
"Yeah… Me too," Marcus chuckled, prompting you to sharpen your ears. Maybe you were finally going to figure out what advantages your husband exactly had from letting Joel take part in the pleasure. Except for the thrill and forbiddenness, of course.
"You better enjoy it, Joel. I don't know if this is going to happen again. She is still mine. I'm the lucky bastard who got her hand in marriage because I was the most ambitious and hard-working one."
"Yes…" Joel snorted and pushed the fabric of your skirt up to reveal your upper thighs. "You are a lucky bastard. I can't believe something so precious and… and sweet is with—"
"You better not end that sentence," Marcus huffed without coming off genuinely upset or offended.
"Someone so cruel."
Marcus, to your left, rolled his eyes and kissed your hairline at the same time, watching his friend tug down your dress until it reached your ankles.
"Not to her," he defended himself, his lips remaining pressed against your brow for as long as he talked. "I'm never going to be cruel to her. She deserves kindness and love, nothing else. Because she's the greatest gift I could ever receive. Greater than any title or… or medal from the emperors."
As your husband slowly pulled back, your eyes had even grown wider. A hint of wetness glimmered in them, but you quickly blinked the tears away before Marcus would spot them. Although it clearly was evidence of joy rather than pain, you didn't want to risk losing their touch, especially because things were about to become even more heated and intense with Joel pushing your legs apart.
"May I?" he asked, but since you didn't know whether he was speaking to you or Marcus, you said nothing at first.
"Talk to him, sweetling…" Marcus added and faintly brushed over your face with so much delicacy your heart cramped.
"Yes," you pressed, without being sure what was going to happen, but a voice inside your head was fully convinced that whatever it was, it was going to be good. Satisfying. Perhaps it was even going to end the pulsating ache upon your pearl.
Joel didn't need more than that to crawl beneath your legs, his wide shoulders holding your thighs open for him while he scrutinized what awaited him in between. You had no idea what you looked like down there right now, but you could guess that your folds must be sticky and wet after their long-lasting play with your sensitive nipples, which had left its marks not just in the swollenness of your skin but also your slit.
"Smells so fucking perfect… Do you know what you're doing to me, sweetheart?"
Kissing the inside of your thigh, Joel didn't look away for once. You met his gaze with uncertainty, unaware of what he wanted to hear, so in the end you just sighed a raspy "please" and buried your hands in the silken sheets beneath you.
"You're going to get what you want, princess, I promise," Joel rambled on, a few pleasant waves rippling through your spine at one of your favorite nicknames from his mouth.
"You think any man with a mildly clear mind could resist this?" Joel grumbled and got closer to your center with every word. When he finally pressed his lips to your mound, you suppressed a high-pitched shriek even though he hadn't even so much as lightly brushed over your most sensitive spot.
Meanwhile, Marcus had settled next to your head, his knees slightly spread. You struggled to concentrate on two things—or rather, persons—at the same time, but when your husband's hard cock came into your view, you had to avert your eyes from Joel's teasing between your legs.
He was going to let you suck him.
Marcus sometimes liked to let you put your mouth around him after he had a particularly long day and felt too exhausted to do the simple work of holding himself up on top of you, but on most days, he immediately lifted you from the ground whenever you intended to get on your knees for him. You had heard other ladies talk about such deeds, which was why you had wanted to try it as well, but Marcus had quickly put an end to such imagery.
"You do not get on the floor for me, sweetling," you could clearly remember him saying. "You will only ever be on the same level with me. My wife, my perfect girl won't scrub her knees open while doing something that is so absolutely unnecessary."
Therefore, you could count the times that he had let you take him into your mouth on one hand. At times, you had feared that his displeasure with the action was rooted in your inability to please him, but on the days that he had let you, he had spilled his seed on your tongue within a few minutes. So, you assumed that his nature actually prescribed him to prefer giving you pleasure with his mouth rather than receiving it, because he was generous with that. Only tonight, it seemed as though he was transferring that task over to his friend, who was finally kissing your pearl for the very first time, eliciting a quiet moan from you.
"Open your mouth, my love," Marcus demanded calmly, combing through your hair and tilting your head slightly. "I'm going to be gentle… But you still tell me if it's enough. I don't want to lose myself in how good you feel, you understand?"
He rubbed his tip against the tight slit between your lips, which nearly made you lose all ability to speak.
"Yes," you whispered nevertheless and avidly parted your lips to allow him entrance.
"Just be careful, sweetling. Don't bite down when Joel makes it feel good."
Marcus fed you his cock inch by inch. Just like every other part of his body, his dick was grand. Not that you had any comparison, but you couldn't imagine that every man in Rome was walking around with such a massive member. If that was the case, no lady and her husband would ever be able to do anything productive since they would be busy bedding each other all day and night.
Marcus had been right with his caution.
As soon as he had inserted half of his manhood inside you, his shaft snugly between your lips, Joel's kisses on your clit became a bit more rhythmic and intense, his tongue drawing tight patterns over the nub and his lips sucking it inside his mouth.
The sudden spark of emotions within you nearly made you want to tighten your jaw, which probably would have caused the most horrible pain for Marcus. Fortunately, you could hold yourself back and just converted the flinch of your muscles into a squeak.
"Good girl…" Marcus groaned, keeping a firm grip on your hair without hurting you.
As always, when he allowed you to take his length into your mouth, he didn't give you much room to move but rather held you a few inches away from his center, ensuring that you wouldn't gag or choke around him. Instead, he let you suck on his tip, whirl your tongue around it, and kiss it.
"Good girl. You're doing so well for me… Very good."
Marcus's tone shifted toward something darker, his voice controlled. The muscles in his thigh flexed, the thrusts of his hips were forceful and yet not too far into your throat.
At the same time, Joel became louder as well, or more precisely, the wet sounds coming from his lips around your clit.
"She tastes divine," Joel's low voice growled as he wiped over his mouth with the back of his hand. When he planted them back on the inside of your thigh, you winced under his vigorous grip, which made him rub the skin soothingly.
"Sorry, darling… I became a little too eager."
After that, he dived back in until you couldn't see anything of his face, just his dark, greyish locks crowning his head.
"Ah," you moaned around Marcus's cock, propping yourself on your forearms to get a better look at Joel, but your husband put an end to it in no time by gently pushing against your chest.
"Stay down, my love. We don't need you to do anything, you see? We just need you to be our good girl. You think you can do that?"
You nodded and greedily lapped up the drop of precum that was leaking from Marcus's tip. It always tasted a little salty and musky, making you so much hungrier for his seed than you already were.
"Good…" His hand was in your hair again, twisting your strands around his finger and firmly pulling you back when you threatened to take him too deeply. "Don't hurt yourself, sweetling. That doesn't help anyone. Just kiss the tip. Like that, yes…"
His words only barely made it through to you, and most importantly, they didn't have the effect on you that Marcus had hoped. You simply adored it too much, feeling the head of his impressive manhood twitch in the back of your mouth whenever you glided it down one more inch. He must love it as much as you did, because if not, why was his dick pulsing and quivering like that?
"Little bunny…" Marcus grunted after a few more of your attempts and completely pulled you off his cock with a plop. His teeth ground, his eyes flaring with something that you usually would have considered a good sign, but in that moment, he looked rather angry with you.
"Does our princess not behave well?" you heard Joel speak from between your legs, sliding a hand up your side to cup your breast.
"No… she doesn't," Marcus answered him, causing your eyes to widen with worry. You hadn't meant to upset him or disappoint him; you had just wanted to make it even better and more arousing for him.
"I just…" you started, twisting your neck to peer up at him.
"I know. You wanted to be good, isn't that right, my sweet?" He cupped your chin, brushing his thumb over the corner of your mouth, which was glistening with his precum.
"Yes. Yes, I – I thought you liked it."
"I do like it. But I don't like it when you hurt yourself. So I'm warning you. If you continue to consciously try to make yourself gag around me and take my cock deeper than you can handle, I'm going to stop you. I'm going to pull you off my cock and not give you anything at all, is that clear?"
He didn't smile, which really made you realize how serious this was.
"Yes, Marcus," you muttered through clenched teeth, embarrassment creeping up on you.
"Good. Lay back down, darling."
You only now noted that Joel had stopped his play on your cunt as well and eagerly curled your toes. All you could hope was that your disobedience wouldn't affect Joel's skillful mouth stimulating your clit so nicely.
Thankfully, it didn't.
Perhaps he had just taken a moment to catch his breath, because within seconds, his lips were back on your pussy, sucking on your bundle of nerves like his plan was to help you reach your high as quickly as possible.
You hummed softly, licking the warm skin of Marcus's dick while pleasure spread in your core, reaching from your knees up to your torso. Your muscles felt like jelly, your flesh palpitating, and you were positive that you wouldn't be able to stand right now if either of them demanded it.
"That's it, little bunny," Marcus praised the way you closed your lips around his tip, clearly more content with you than before.
You were really holding yourself back, even though you couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to take all of him so deeply, you would feel the hair around his base tickling your nose. Would it make everything ten times more thrilling for him? Or would it make no difference, as the most sensitive part of his manhood was the head?
"Now, if you want to be not just my good little bunny but my perfect little bunny, you're going to look at me."
Obviously, your eyes instantly found his, evoking a deep chuckle within your husband.
"Good girl… I know, you're my perfect princess. Always so eager to be good. Forgive me, to be perfect."
"Marcus," you cried out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your legs shifting unrhythmically.
"She's close," Marcus said to his friend, who was just raising his head to watch your parted lips and how your chest heaved on the bed rapidly.
"Can I fill her?"
"If you're going to be gentle? Yes. And if you're not going to spill your seed inside her."
"I will not," Joel agreed, breathing heavily while he sat up on the bed, his head red and primal lust swimming in his eyes.
"Then proceed. Is that fine with you, darling?" Marcus whispered in your direction in a tone that made you think that he already knew exactly that you would agree to his proposal.
"Yes. Yes, Marcus," you whimpered, missing Joel's tongue circling your clit and his thumb prodding your entrance even though he had only just withdrawn from you.
"Let's sit you up a little."
Your husband's heavy body positioned itself behind you, with your lifeless form lying against his strong chest. He wrapped his right arm around your stomach, effectively trapping you against him as his left hand roved over your neck.
"Are you ready for it, bunny?"
"Yes… I want it, Marcus," you mindlessly babbled and nudged your head closer against your husband's shoulder that felt like a wall behind you.
"Then I need you to relax, my sweetling. I need you completely still and relaxed for me… Can you do that?"
Well, you should hope so.
"Yes. Yes, I can do that," you quietly whispered and focused on loosening the muscles in your thighs and core without really knowing what Marcus was trying to achieve.
"Good girl."
He pulled you up a little, massaging your breasts and waist as Joel came into your view again. Or at least now the cloudiness in your brain had abated to an extent where you could perceive other things besides the magnetic touch upon your clit.
"Be careful, my friend. She can take a lot… But she might not always speak up when she can't." Marcus kissed the top of your head, then suddenly placed a hand over your mouth. "Use your mouth, alright? I don't want my princess to hurt. And Joel doesn't want that either."
Removing his hand as quickly as it had come, Marcus put his heavy arm across your chest, holding you in place and stroking your arm in a careful manner.
"Are you ready, my sweet? Is she wet enough?"
Whereas the first question was directed at you, and you were quick to answer it with a yes once more, the second question was for Joel, who was trailing the tip of his cock through your slit right now.
"She is soaked. She is even soaking the bedsheets, Marcus. Poor thing… She needs it really bad."
"Then we shall give it to her. Do it. But do it slowly. And by Jupiter, you pull out when she cramps the slightest!"
Marcus casually rested his hand on top of your arm, yanking you closer to him until your whole body was utterly swallowed by his large frame.
"Do you think of me as an animal?" Joel scoffed and brought his tip to your opening, circling it a few times to estimate how tight you would be around his thickness and whether he needed to open you up more extensively before easing into you.
"I wouldn't like to see her in pain… She looks far too pretty smiling at me like that."
His index finger connected with your face, tracing along your cheekbone, which made you giggle. But that noise hitched in your throat when you felt pressure build up in your core. Joel had begun entering you, and although you were relaxed and beyond ready to be filled by him, you couldn't deny that his dick was massive.
You would guess that he was about the same size as your husband, who took a long time opening you up with his fingers every time he fucked you. Since Joel had only played with your entrance for a little while, you were missing that kind of preparation today, which was why the process was slightly more painful.
"Breathe, princess…" Marcus calmed you, laying his hand flat across your chest as though to help you take the necessary breaths of fresh air. "Do you need him to stop? Be honest. Does it hurt?"
"No," you quickly stated, grabbing Marcus's wrist and rolling your hips forward. Technically, you were not lying to him, since the faint sting brewing in your lower tummy definitely didn't fall into the category of pain. You were thankful for the time Joel gave you to get used to the stretch, but you absolutely didn't want him to stop. No, perhaps that would make you sob in discomfort rather than the thickness of his cock.
"What a greedy little bunny," Joel murmured, sounding far less cocky and amused than before. He seemed to be losing control as well, barely holding onto the thread which was keeping his composure together.
By the gods… you loved this. You loved hearing him grunt between gritted teeth while you gripped him like a vice.
"You're doing so well, my love," Marcus muttered in your ear, bringing one hand below your chin to make you sit upright.
"M-Marcus," you stuttered as Joel fed you inch by inch of his cock. You couldn't count how many times you believed that this could be it, that he had already inserted his whole girthy length inside you, but you learned your lesson every single time. Because every time, Joel just groaned deeply, his hips stirring, and more of his cock disappeared inside your greedy hole.
"How is that, mhm?" your husband spoke quietly.
"G-Good?" It sounded like a question, which Marcus immediately picked up on.
"You think it feels good? Or it does feel good?"
"Feels… good. Funny. But good."
The broad man behind you sighed at that, slowly removing his fingers that had been twisting your nipple up until now to shove his index and middle fingers inside his mouth and wet them. Then, he reached between your legs and found your thumping clit at once.
"You didn't prepare her enough, Joel," he criticized his friend and kneaded your bundle of nerves so lovingly, you jerked forward, your face muscles tightening under the pleasure. "Next time, I'm going to take care of it."
"Next time?" Joel grinned, not really bothered by his mistake.
"If she is going to give us a release and if she tells me that she enjoyed it afterward, I will consider it. But only if you go by the rules."
"Oh, always…" Joel twisted his mouth, driving his length out of you before slowly pushing back inside.
"Huh," you hummed, your body rippling and getting pushed up Marcus's chest by the force.
"She feels incredible. Tight and… warm. You're such a good girl. And you take it so—wonderfully."
He brought his palm to your face and lovingly caressed your skin, which was blushing at his praise or his deep pounds, you didn't really know yourself.
"That's it," Joel panted, holding onto your hips as he entered you over and over, the wet smacking noises growing louder and more frequent as time passed.
Meanwhile, to adjust to his friend's fast pace, Marcus's fingers became more rapid as well, rubbing your tingly pearl and quenching some of the uncomfortable pressure lying upon your center. Not all, though. The only thing, and that you had learned over time, that could actually help your needs was a release, which was already in sight right now.
You could taste it on your tongue, and it even became clearer as Marcus lightly tapped on your swollen clit, which made you shudder and shake between his thick arms caging you in.
"Marcus…" you yelped, throwing your head to the side as Joel buried his thick length within you for a moment, savoring how deep he was reaching inside you.
"Yes. Yes, princess, I know. Do you want to release for us? Are you going to let Joel hear how sweet you sound?"
You wanted nothing more than that, and the fact that you might even do both men a favor by letting that tension uncoil spurred you on even more.
"Yes. Yes, Marcus," you whined, your body winding again when Joel found his initial pace again, your velutinous walls giving way to his thick cock every time he thrust back in.
Soon, you were seeing stars, and you had forgotten what time of the day it was. Night and day coalesced; so did heaven and earth, and sun and stars. Even as you began to tremble and vaguely saw Joel pull out of you to pump his cock in front of you, Marcus's finger didn't come to a halt. He coaxed everything left in your body before the air was suddenly knocked out of your lungs and the world froze, just for five or six seconds.
You fell back against your husband, but of course his wide shoulders caught you. More so, he held you closely against his front, cradling you against his chest and whispering sweet nothings in your ear.
"That's it, princess… That's it."
"Aww… Oh, Marcus, I – " you panted, your lungs rapidly working to provide enough oxygen for you to breathe properly.
It felt so profoundly good to finally feel the strain in your muscles disappear, but what you savored most of all was Marcus's attention, his muscular arms slung around you like he was trying to protect you from something. That something most certainly couldn't be Joel, who was just spurting ropes of his cum over your thighs, his face grimaced and his brow coated with a layer of sweat.
"Fuck…" he cursed and ran a hand through his hair as his chin dropped to his chest. "Ah fuck…"
Then, the handsome man dropped to his knees on the bed, crawling a little closer to you to take hold of your face.
"You're impossible to resist, do you know that? Just watching you breathe… Watching you cum."
Joel kissed your forehead, the simple gesture heavily loaded with awe and admiration.
"Pretty girl…" he then added, drawing a few circles over your cheek. "Just tell me if you're satisfied. If you enjoyed this as much as I did."
You nuzzled yourself closer against Marcus without shying away from Joel. Sure, his brown eyes lay upon you intensely, but you felt safe and comfortable being so close to him. And if you were being truthful with yourself, his coarse hand reminded you of Marcus's touch. Perhaps every soldier's skin was that rough and hardened after years of combat and a firm grip around a sword's handle.
"Yes… I did."
Marcus, behind you, cleared his throat, though you couldn't see the gentle smile playing around his lips.
"She came beautifully. Just how I like it." Pride was resonating in his voice, his hands affectionately roaming up your side and stopping at your chest.
"She did…" Joel agreed, then his eyes came to rest on the cum he had spilled over your thigh. "Do you want me to – "
"It is fine, my friend," the general said and gave Joel a nod. "I will see to it. I'm not done with her yet, anyway."
"I see…" Joel slowly crawled off the bed, reaching for his clothes that were spread all over the floor. "Do you want me to give you some privacy? Is that correct?"
By now, you had curled yourself into a small ball, breathing steadily, which prompted your husband to chuckle with amusement.
"I wouldn't mind some privacy… yes. She deserves a second portion of cum. And after that, I'm going to prepare a bath for her to relax her muscles. You wore her out quite a lot, Joel."
"Sweet thing…" Joel purred and couldn't help himself, patting your head and scrunching his nose against your hair. "She did remarkably. I could get used to feeling her every day…"
"Don't you dare!" Marcus scolded, eliciting laughter from his friend.
"I'm joking. Though I wouldn't mind receiving another invitation like this one. After all, I haven't felt her mouth yet. I'm sure it's just as sweet as her cunt."
Marcus pursed his lips, tucking your hair behind your ear. "It is. But I doubt her mouth is an option. I don't want my princess to lower herself to such a degrading action. But we will see when the time comes. For now, I kindly ask you to leave. I… have some business to attend to."
Joel's lips curled, his eyes flashing with delight.
"I can imagine… Just kiss her brow for me once she is a little clearer in her head. And tell her… tell her what a sweet girl she is. That I was very fond of meeting her more… intimately."
With that, Joel left the room.
The past minutes had passed so quickly, there was no way you could possibly determine how much time had passed since your apex. You had barely heard anything of Joel and your husband's conversation, but now that the door fell shut, Marcus stirred behind you, sitting up on the bed.
"No…" you whined, wanting nothing more than to stay positioned like that, but he had different plans.
"Shhh, it's fine, my darling. Everything is fine. How are you feeling?"
"Tired. Sleepy," you answered shortly, snaking both arms around one of his and clinging to him like a monkey.
"I know. I figured… You see, I need some relief as well, my sweetling." Marcus tenderly gripped your chin, making sure your eyes were open and you were listening to him. "If you don't want to be doing anything, I will take care of it myself. I will run you a bath, take care of it, and then join you. But I want to give you an option…"
You shifted in his lap, blindly reaching for Marcus's rock-hard length that felt heavy and bulging beneath your grasp.
"It… It's so big," you breathed, pupils dilated with current pleasure or with the effects of your orgasm, Marcus couldn't decide.
In response, he laughed dryly, placing his hand on top of yours. "It needs some relief. And if you want to, you can have it. In your belly, on your hand… or on your beautiful chest."
"Also in my mouth?" you eagerly asked, earning yourself a strict shake of his head.
"No, pretty girl. Not in your mouth. But anywhere else."
Your shoulders slouched in disappointment, but you were still pondering his offer. You always liked to feel his seed fill your pussy, but lazily pumping his manhood in your hand and eventually having his semen drip down your wrist had something seductive about it as well.
"Inside," the words eventually broke out of you, driven by an invisible force that had told you it was the right thing to say.
"Inside your tummy?" Marcus repeated and softly pressed down on your lower belly, his fat digits digging into your flesh. "Right here?"
"Yes…" you murmured and tried to squirm in his hold in order to kiss him, but he was simply too strong, which made you mewl in frustration.
"What is it, darling?"
"I want to… kiss you."
"Well, we can take care of that," Marcus chuckled and helped you turn around, your chest flush against his. After your husband had ended the kiss, licking his lips which were almost as swollen as yours, he patted the space on the bed next to him.
"You want to lie down for me? I don't expect you desire to be on top."
As if it was your greatest fear in that moment, you shook your head and quickly climbed off his lap to lie down.
"Princess?" Marcus said the moment your back touched the bed, your eyes scurrying to him.
"Yes?"
"How about you get on your stomach. I'm very keen on trying something new."
Although you relished looking upon his face while he drove his huge cock in and out of you, you obeyed his request with no hesitation and moved to kneel on your hands and knees as fast as your aching limbs allowed it.
"Not hands and knees," Marcus corrected you and tapped on the cushy bedsheets. "Stomach, little bunny. Just lie down and let me take care of the rest."
Now, you were confused since the two of you had never tried such a position. Marcus had taken you on all fours a few times before, even though both of you certainly preferred to face each other during such intimate moments.
"Alright…" you muttered and lay down face first. The blankets rustled, the mattress creaking under Marcus's body, and then you felt his heavy form on your back. He supported most of his weight on his knees and elbows, but pushed you into the bed with enough force to keep you motionless beneath him.
"Just stay like that, little one. Just be good…"
Running a hand down your spine, he parted your legs a little with his knee, creating enough space for his cock to have access to your sopping hole, which still seemed to be highly sensitive to his touch.
"Marcus," you shrieked at the first contact, causing him to lull you with his low voice.
"It's alright. It's going to be better in a minute, just trust me."
While the head of his cock touched your opening, he let his hand drop lower to your clit but stopped his light teasing after a few seconds.
"Marcus…" you howled, your tone laced with frustration and despair, which made his eyebrows shoot up.
"You don't want me to touch you, princess?"
"I just… It hurts. And – And I don't want to release a second time."
Your husband had the oftentimes rather pleasant habit of wanting to see you shatter for him multiple times a night, which you usually enjoyed. But something about being with two men tonight had been especially exhausting, which was why you preferred to just feel Marcus pound your hole without having to focus on releasing the tension in your body once more. You just wanted to lie still, savor the feeling of his thick cock moving inside you. That was all.
"That's okay, sweetling… However you want it."
He drew a heavy breath through his nose, probably regarding your naked form, and then carefully, without twisting your wrists, grabbed your hands to pin them down above your head.
"Just relax… It's going to feel so good. I'm going to go all the way inside there, alright? So that you feel me everywhere… In your pretty pussy, your thighs, your stomach, your chest, and even in your pretty little head."
You gasped when he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. Due to Joel's cock ramming inside you earlier, he went in effortlessly, inducing nothing more than a quiet whimper in you.
"That's it," Marcus grunted once he was sheathed within your vagina walls, which were deliciously fluttering around him. "That's it. You feel that? I'm so deep inside you. And that's all because of this position, you see? It allows me to nudge against your cervix like that."
It was true. Although Joel's cock had been impossibly far inside your cunt, Marcus's new technique was even more extraordinary and breath-stealing. Perhaps it really was the new angle with which he kissed your insides, his hips squeezed against your butthole.
"It's – it's – good," you panted, sweat relentlessly pooling on your temple. Your head was slightly lifted as your body somehow urged to move, stir and do anything at all, but as Marcus shoved you back into the pillow with calm firmness, you remembered his words. There wasn't anything you had to do right now, except take it and keep your legs open for him.
Therefore, you loosened up again, your left cheek resting on the silken pillow while Marcus set a steady rhythm with his deep thrusts.
"Marcus…" you whimpered after a while, your head floating in a beautiful haze which made you feel like you were dreaming, reality and imagination melting. His breath titillated your nape, and you realized that your husband had pushed your hair aside to get to your bare skin.
"Yes, my love…"
"I want to – Please, I want to – feel you."
"You want to feel me?" he laughed deeply, the noise thrumming in his chest. "I assume you already felt me quite well…" He delivered a pointed, forceful push into your cunt to emphasize his claim, but then went back to his sensual rhythm.
"Yes, I – I just want to feel all of you. On… on me."
He seemingly understood what you were referring to, which was the fact that you wished he would stop holding his weight up but press you into the bed with it. You imagined it to feel heavenly, his stomach situated on top of you, which would drive all the air out of your lungs and heighten the thrill of it all. And it did. It felt so good, you winced at the sensation and even briefly considered telling Marcus that you had changed your mind and wanted him to help you climax a second time. You decided against it, though.
"Like that?" he grunted and unhurriedly rolled his pelvis into your butt, each push shoving you up the bed slightly if it wasn't for his weight upon you.
"Y-Yes," you stammered, eyes filling with tears at how full and swollen you felt everywhere. His supposition had been oddly correct. You did feel him, his scent, his taste, and warmth everywhere. Your pussy was utterly consumed by his cock, your stomach bulged under the way he hit you so incredibly deeply, and even your mind could only call for one name.
"Marcus," you squealed, your hands struggling a little under his grip, which was still holding them down above your head.
"You want me to let go?" he asked calmly, his right hand slinging around your body to apply light pressure on your lower stomach, right where his cock was meeting your cervix a few layers underneath your skin.
"N-No," you mumbled and sniffled into the pillow. In truth, you liked being pressed into the bed like that. Marcus was never rough with you, never. He would never even lightly spank your butt, even if it was just for the heat of the moment. His mantra was never to lay a finger on you, never to cause you any harm or pain, and that included the bedroom as well.
The most violent man on the battlefield was the most tame and peaceful within the comforts of his home… You definitely didn't mind him gripping you a bit rougher as long as you felt fully in control of what was happening to you. The only times when you had the privilege to experience such sides of him were when he lost himself in pleasure and held you harsher than he usually would have. He never hit you of course; he wouldn't even do that at the peak of his pleasure. The single thing that could possibly occur was for his touch to grow slightly more passionate and for his voice to become more dominant.
"My sweetheart…" Marcus groaned into your nape, kissing the hardened skin and sucking on your neck every few seconds. "I'm going to explode in you, my dear. Like only I can. No one else. This perfect cunt is mine to paint from the inside and outside. You know that, don't you?"
As if you could ever forget that. And as if you would ever want anything else.
"Yes. Yes, Marcus, please – please fill me up."
He squeezed your stomach with more force while his hold around your hands remained unwavering. He had you at his mercy in the kindest and softest way that only your husband was ever capable of.
"That's all I ever want to do… Claim you as mine every night until dawn… Because I love you and you're mine. My beautiful, perfect, sweet girl. You were made for me, you know that? The gods have sculpted you for me."
You nodded eagerly, your breath coming out in scarce portions. You wished you could possess the strength to meet his profound thrusts that he pistoned right into your core, but you lacked the energy after that stirring night. Fortunately, Marcus was able to find what he sought either way, and a few minutes later, something warm flooded your pulsing pussy walls.
"Oh, by the gods…" he snorted darkly, his face buried in your nape and his arm holding you tightly at your waist. "Oh fuck… Bunny, I… You're incredible. So fucking good…"
You blushed at his foul language, which only spilled from his lips in such instances, when his whole being was devoured by lustful hunger. Normally, he was the most polite and well-composed man in Rome, you were sure of it.
"Oh sweetheart… You have no idea what you're doing to me, do you?"
He lifted himself up a little, which you commented on with a displeased whine. Couldn't he just remain on top of you for the rest of the night? You were certain your bones and muscles would sting incredibly badly in the morrow, but there was no doubt that it would be worth it.
"Marcus," you purred and stayed in the exact same position, even though he had also released your hands on the pillow.
The next thing you felt were his finger pads at your entrance, slowly pushing in, which made your overstimulated cunt quiver.
"M-Marcus," you repeated, fisting the bedsheet with so much force your knuckles turned white.
"Just a second, princess, just give me a second… I need to make sure my seed stays inside, don't I?"
His words made sense, and yet you pinched your eyes shut while he shunted his creamy semen back between your clamping walls, which were not at all fond of the ongoing intrusion.
You needed some rest, and Marcus seemed well aware of it too. After he was done with your spent pussy, his seed now securely tucked within the depths of your hole, he kissed your spine and adoringly, as though you were made of fragile glass, touched your shoulders.
"I'm so proud of you, bunny, you hear me? You took it like the bravest, toughest little bunny. I love you, little one."
Your lips uncontrollably flinched at his words, your face gleaming with pride at his praise. Compliments out of his mouth always sounded so genuine and earnest to you, which was why you carried them close to your heart and never forgot a single one of them.
"I love you too," you murmured and blinked a few times when Marcus rolled you onto your back to check your face. He spotted the dampness underneath your eyes and quickly wiped your skin with his thumb.
"Are you quite alright? Nothing I have to worry about?" he whispered against your temple, utterly unbothered by your sweaty, salty skin.
"No. No, I – it was so good. I felt so full and – and whole that I just couldn't help it. I swear it."
"And I believe you, princess," Marcus smiled and cradled your head in his hands, his chest heaving under a heavy sigh.
"I'm going to run you a bath now, my love. Don't worry, I'm going to join you."
He had quickly added the second part of his sentence after sensing your eyes widening and your mouth opening. Now, your eyes flared with joy and bliss, your little fingers tangling with his.
"Will you carry me?" you smiled so softly, Marcus's heart cramped and the butterflies in his stomach did somersaults.
"Yes. Whatever you want, little wife."
Your smile deepened at the nickname, which your husband only used for you so rarely, which was actually a shame, since you adored it.
The broad grin remained on your lips throughout the whole process of Marcus calling for a servant, whom he ordered to fill the bathtub with hot water, him bringing you into the bathroom, and the long, extensive bath the two of you took together. Even an hour later, when you were tucked beneath an endless amount of blankets, lying next to your husband, your expression hadn't changed.
"I would like to do that again," was one of the last things you whispered to him that night. He was facing you, his lips hovering an inch above your still wet hair.
"Yes… Whatever you want, bunny."
"Mhmm," you murmured, satisfied, fully loosening under Marcus's lips which connected with your brow in a gentle kiss.
| summary: (dbf!joel x reader) After spending days planning the perfect party, of course your dad had to go and ruin it all. He hurt you. And who else is there to call other than Joel? He always makes it all better. In more ways than one...
| warnings: MDNI 18+, physical abuse, alcohol abuse, blood & violence, age gap (mid 20s - 40s), porn with plot, piv sex, oral sex, praise mixed with gentle degrading
| notes: hey everyone! this idea came to me last night and i can't wait to share it. i love me some dbf joel, so i hope you enjoy! :) "daddy issues" by the neighbourhood was on repeat.
| word count: 6.5K
A sharp wind blows through your damp hair as you take a drag from your halfway finished cigarette. Specks of mascara sting your tear stained eyes, but the physical pain is outweighed by the mental.
Dad got drunk again.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Usually, he would drink himself to sleep. Maybe break a few things when he would slip into his inebriated rage. But this time was different. You hadn't seen this side of your dad since you were a little girl, cowering behind the door as he beat your mother.
She had left, years ago now. She couldn't handle the third entity that had infiltrated her crumbling marriage; the alcohol. And she couldn't handle being a single mom to a ten year old with no sense of anything besides violence. She just couldn't do it. And, honestly, you couldn't blame her.
You had tried to bring back a sense of normalcy this summer. Fresh out of grad school, you had no choice but to move back to your childhood home. If you could even call it a home.
You spent months cleaning, your dad certainly wasn't going to do it. You scrubbed the floors and repainted the chipped walls and even asked your dad’s best friend, Joel, to help you repurpose the dock that sat on the lake behind the house.
Mm, Joel.
He's always been a touchy subject for you. Joel was the kind of man to bring you flowers on your birthday, make you pancakes every morning, hold you when you cry. The exact opposite of your joke of a father.
You don't even know how they managed to become friends in the first place. Maybe your dad used to be that kind of guy. A flowers, chocolate chip pancakes, hug kind of guy. All he is now is a drunken fool who takes his anger out on his grown daughter, just like his wife.
And of course Joel had no problem helping you, of course he didn't. He's always been good to you. A silent, brooding kind of good, but nice nonetheless.
Although, this summer, he felt different. Joel kept his distance from you, only coming around when you called him for help. When your father invited him over for dinner as repayment for his hard work, Joel could barely even look you in the eye and only responded to you with grunts.
You dwelled on it for days afterward, wondering what you did to piss him off so bad he couldn't even look at you.
What you didn't notice was how Joel stared holes into the back of your head every time you turned around. How he'd trace the curves of your body in those frilly dresses you like to wear.
He almost slipped up, took you in his arms right there in the kitchen when you bent down in front of him to pick up a fork you'd dropped while setting the table.
He fought every instinct in his body that night, every instinct to throw you up against the wall and touch every part of your body. You were his best friend's daughter, and much younger than him at that. What would you want with an older man like him? You probably have boys lined up to take you out, he had thought to himself.
So, the next time you called him to fix the lights around the dock, he kept as much physical distance between the two of you as he could. He finished as fast as his hands would let him and he vanished before you could even thank him.
Once the house was finally fixed up enough to look halfway decent, you decided to throw a barbecue. When you were a kid, your mom would host a party almost every weekend in the summers. The whole neighborhood would come, all of the kids squealing as they ran into the lake, only coming out to eat when their moms called for them. And the adults would gather around the fire and talk about their more youthful days.
You wanted to feel the happiness you felt back then. You knew it'd be good for you and hopefully good for your dad, too. You spent days cleaning up the backyard, stringing lights along the tall trees, bringing tables and folding chairs out, setting everything up perfectly. Just how you remembered it.
After you finished, you took the handmade flyers you made to the corner store and started hanging them on every tree you could. And sure enough, your phone rang more times than you can count.
All of your mothers old friends, your old highschool classmates, and even some of your dads football buddies were going to be there. You spent a fortune on food and even some alcohol, which you'd come to regret by the end of the night.
You slaved away in the kitchen all morning making every dish you could think of; salads, desserts, and a big pitcher of iced tea. Your dad even helped, cleaned up the grill and started flipping burgers as everyone started filling into the backyard.
And it was perfect.
All the littles were screaming and laughing as they splashed each other in the lake, their moms yelling at them to put on sunscreen. Your dad was laughing with his old friends, and for a moment, you felt happy for him.
Your mothers old friends were especially pleased to see you, all grown up now. They asked about her and you had to awkwardly reply that you haven't heard from her since she left almost fifteen years ago now.
Everything was going smoothly until you heard a crash come from inside the house. Most of the guests had left now, the sun starting to set on the blue lake. The few that were there were too wrapped up in their own conversation to notice.
Making your way up the back porch and through the sliding door into the kitchen, your blood boiled when you saw your dad swaying back and forth. Shattered glass covered the floor, his boots crunching it further into the tile as he walked over to the fridge for another beer.
“Dad, I think you've had enough,” you said to him from behind the dining table.
He turned around and looked at you like you just stabbed him right in the gut.
“You don't get to tell me what to fuckin’ do, you little slut,” he snarled.
Memories of those same words being said to your mom infiltrated your head. Fists clenched, chest tight, you marched over to him and slapped the beer bottle out of his hand. When he looked at you, a cold fear ran through your warm body as you backed away slowly.
His hands wrapped around your throat before you could scream. He choked you harder as he threw you against the glass door, your head hitting the back of it hard enough to make you see stars. Your father dragged you to the ground, the glass on the floor leaving cuts along your legs as you gasped for breath.
The stragglers outside heard the commotion and a man started up the porch.
“Hey, is everything okay in here-”
“Get the fuck out!” your dad screamed through his clenched teeth.
You hoped the man wouldn't let up, that he'd drag you away from your drunk father who you were sure was going to kill you. But instead, he simply held his hands up in surrender and left.
You screamed out when you felt your fathers boot dig into your ribs as he kicked you. The noise that came out of you didn't even seem human. You tried to crawl out of the house, drag yourself into the lake and float away. But your dad grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you to your feet, stopping your attempt to get away.
When his fist hit your face, it knocked the air out of your lungs, as you could taste the blood pooling on your lip. He threw you into the door one more time before releasing you, letting you fall to the ground as you cried out in pain.
All you could hear was his boots on more glass as he grabbed his keys and walked out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him.
You sobbed into the floor as you clutched your chest where he had kicked you. How did it go so wrong so fast?
Sure, your dad’s yelled at you before, maybe smacked you upside the head a couple times when you acted up. But never like this. He never left you on the verge of death, with not a sliver of remorse in his body.
You stared through the window at the swaying trees, the sound of water lapping up the shore soothed you as much as it could. Tears pooled on the tile as you grabbed a hold of the dining chair next to you, pulling yourself up slowly. The room spinned as you regained your balance.
Everyone was gone now, red cups scattered across the yard, smoke still coming off of the grill. Holding onto the railing for support, you stepped back outside. Cicadas chirped loudly, the warm breeze stung your swollen cheek as you made your way down the steps.
You grabbed your jacket and a bottle of vodka before slowly walking to the dock. The sun had set, flashes of orange riddled the horizon as a million stars came into view. Sitting down on the edge, you let your bare feet rest in the water as you grabbed the pack of cigarettes from your jacket pocket.
Your lip burned as you took a slow inhale, releasing the heavy smoke into the air.
You sat there for hours, alternating between chugs of vodka and drags of tobacco. Your head was emptier than it should have been, no thoughts of your mother or father, no guilt. Maybe it was the concussion you undoubtedly had or maybe the alcohol was doing a good job of numbing you.
The only thing on your mind was Joel.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Water sloshes against your feet as you finish your last cigarette, stuffing the butt into the empty pack. It's been quiet for hours, no sign of your dad. Checking your phone, you let out a groan.
10:26 PM
Your lock screen showed a long line of notifications, messages from people who were at the party.
“The kids and I had such a wonderful time, we’ll have to do this again!”
“Oh, my husband just loved catching up with your father. Send him my love.”
“The food was amazing, dear! Thank you so much for having us.”
At least everyone had a good time.
Sliding your phone open, you open your messages. Ignoring the flood of “thank you’s”, you scroll to the conversation with your dad.
No new texts. No apologies, no checking to see if you're alive.
A tear falls down your swollen cheek, resting on your split lip as you take another sip from the bottle. He really doesn't care.
You close your phone and attempt to stand up, falling back down when you feel the effects of the head injury you sustained. There's no way you're getting back to the house like this. Part of you, the sober part, just wants to lay down on the dock and sleep it off.
But the other part, the drunk one, opens your phone back up and dials Joel’s number. It rings a few times and you almost convince yourself to hang up, but before you can, that southern drawl is on the other line.
“Hello,” he says into the phone, his voice soft.
“Hey, Joel,” you whisper, your words slurring more than you mean them to.
He must notice because you hear him shift a little and let out a sigh before speaking again.
“What's wrong? Are ya’ okay?”
You don't really notice when you start crying, you just stare out into the water as your chest tights, throat closing up. Your voice comes out more of a squeak than anything as you reply.
“No, no I'm not okay. Can you- Can you come get me? My dad he,” you cut yourself off before you can say more and you hear car keys jingling on the other line.
“I'll be there in ten,” Joel mutters before hanging up.
Setting your phone down, you let out a deep breath. The tears are falling heavier now, your chest heaving up and down as you gasp for air. You hate this feeling, this helpless, stupid feeling.
Why is Joel the one person who can make this all okay? He's seventeen years older than you, for fucks sake. He has a life and a job and daughters not much younger than you. He's so good with them, he's a real dad; something your father could never be.
You take a few more swigs of the clear liquor before tossing the empty bottle towards the grass. Cold drops of liquid soak into your jacket and you look up at the sky, rain drops falling onto your bruised face. It almost feels good, the cold rain soothing the heated parts of your cheek.
You hear the sound of a car door slam shut and you suddenly get nervous. He's here. You know you can't stand, but you try anyway. You barely move a few inches before Joel's boots hit the dock.
“Hey, honey,” he says softly as he stands with his hands on his hips.
Looking up, you take in the sight of him. Hair messy from his hands running through it, his jeans covered in a layer of sawdust, his flannel sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks good. Too good. You're drunk, you can't be thinking of him like this.
“Hi,” you respond, no louder than a whisper.
When Joel steps closer to you, the moonlight catches your face just right and he can see the blood on your lip. Scanning over you, his brows furrow and his jaw tenses.
“What the hell happened,” he asks firmly.
“I fell,” you lie.
“Bullshit. Who did this t’ya?”
Lifting your head to look at him, Joel’s face is riddled with concern. You’ve never seen him like this, so angry. His fists are clenched and he looks like he wants to punch the air as if that’d do anything.
“It,” you pause, letting out a deep sigh of frustration. “It was my dad. He had too much to drink, I tried to stop him, but it- It got out of hand.”
There's a long pause. The only sounds filling the air is the soft current under the water and frogs croaking on the shoreline. You bite your lip so hard more blood coats your tongue as you fight back the years forming in your tired eyes. After a few minutes, Joel finally speaks again.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know. He ran off after. I was on the floor, I couldn’t-”
“He left you layin’ on the fuckin’ floor?!”
Joel’s eyes are almost fully black now, the rage seeping out of his body as he steams in the cold breeze. The rain starts picking up and your wet jacket is clinging to your shivering arms.
Your body tenses as he walks over to you, his work boots sloshing water off of the dock. Joel hesitates before cupping your cheek in his rough, calloused hand. He positions your head to get a better look at your injuries and he feels like he’s going to be sick.
His heart races as he takes you in; blood pouring out of the slice on your bottom lip, your right cheek swelling so much your eye is almost shut, bruises around your neck in the shape of your fathers hands.
He could kill him. He could track your father down, his best friend of almost twenty five years, and he could kill him with his bare hands.
Joel’s thumb rubs slow circles on your uninjured cheek, sending shivers down your spine. He’s never touched you like this, held you like this. His warm hand against your freezing face causes butterflies to burrow in your stomach. You can’t tell if the tingling between your legs is from him or the vodka.
You shouldn't be feeling like this around him, especially not for him. But you can’t help to look at his lips, the gray and brown hairs surrounding them.
He places his thumb on your lip, pulling down on it softly to part the two. The slice stings at his movement, but you don't move. Not an inch.
This is wrong, so wrong on so many levels. But you’re frozen on this little wooden dock that Joel helped you fix. Your mind's racing, your ears are ringing; it’s all too much. This isn’t right.
You don’t realize how close you are to the edge when you step back, and your hands grip onto nothing as you fall backwards.
The cold lake envelopes your body as you sink slowly to the bottom, streams of moonlight flickering through the ripples above you. Your brain hasn't even registered where you are, submerged in the clear water and your limbs are frozen. Maybe this is how it ends for you; drowning in the same body of water that brought you so much joy your entire life. The last person to touch you is the man you’re hopelessly in love with, even if you never got the chance to admit it.
And you’re okay with that. It’s a good way to go, poetic even.
Closing your eyes, you submit to the current pulling you to the ground.
Your peaceful end is interrupted by strong hands wrapping around your waist, dragging you up towards the surface. Water rushes down your throat when you open your eyes to see Joel. When your head is finally above the water, you cough out about a gallon of liquid as he clings onto you like you’re going to break.
He looks pissed, and you can’t blame him. Your concussed, drunk ass is the one who fell into the lake in the first place. You both cough and pant as Joel treads water, holding you up with him.
“Christ, I need to take you to a damn doctor,” he spits.
“Absolutely not,” you yell, shaking your head so hard you see stars.
He groans and starts swimming towards shore, his hands never leaving your waist.
“Then I’ll patch ya’ up my goddamn self.”
Getting out of the lake is a struggle to say the least. Water sloshes around in Joel’s boots as he holds you up, your legs giving out before you take two steps. He grumbles something you can’t hear before scooping you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style through the backyard to his truck. Your cold hand grips at his sopping shirt the whole way.
“I’m sorry, Joel,” you say into his chest.
He simply shushes you as he opens up the passenger door of his truck, placing you in the seat like you’re made of glass. You close your eyes, leaning you head against the door to try to drown out the thoughts of Joel and memories of your father.
What you don’t see is the sadness creeping up Joel’s face. He pauses before opening the driver side door. He knows this is wrong. He shouldn't be taking you to his house, he shouldn't be allowing himself to be alone with you, he shouldn’t be bulging through his jeans from simply touching you. But if he doesn't take care of you, who will?
He climbs into the truck, looking at you one more time before turning the keys in the ignition and driving off.
The ride is peaceful. The warm summer breeze blowing through your hair, cooling your warm cheeks as you rest your head. It’s still throbbing, your lip stings as you run your tongue over it softly to clean the blood off of it. But through all the pain, you can't help feeling anything but safe as you sit next to Joel. The wind whips through his hair as well, his brown waves falling in front of his eyes. His forehead rests in his hand that's perched up on the window as he drives.
You study his face; the creases around his soft eyes, the salt and pepper in his scraggly beard, the veins lining his forearm. Moonlight and streetlights illuminate his aged face as he drives, some old country tune playing softly on the radio. You’ve never seen something more beautiful than Joel at this moment. The way he’s so focused on the road, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so hard; yet his eyes are soft with worry mixed with something else you can’t quite put a name too.
You suck in a breath when he pulls into his driveway, the house seemingly dark and empty besides the stovelight in the kitchen.
“Where’s Ellie and Sarah?”
“At a friend's,” Joel responds. “Won’t be back for a few days.”
You nod and fiddle with your seatbelt as he exits the truck, walking around to your door. His hands are on you again when he opens it, wrapping around you gently as he pulls you out. You stumble over your feet, causing you to fall into him. The both of you stay there for a moment; his hands around your back to hold you up, your fingers wrapped tightly around the collar of his shirt. It feels as if you’re the only two people on Earth, and you swear you can hear his heart beating faster.
His eyes flicker to your lips so quickly you almost miss it. But you don’t. You see the way his eyes widen when they make their way back to yours, staring so deeply into your soul it’s like he’s reading you like a book.
Ending the moment, he places your arm around his neck and leads you up the porch steps.
“Easy,” he mutters as he places you onto the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
The room spins as you lean onto the soft cushion. God, how did this all happen? Today was so good, it was perfect. And now you’re battered like you’ve been at war, your dad’s missing, and you’re on Joel Miller's couch. Some fucking party.
He reappears with a first aid kit in his hand, a glass of water in the other. Handing you the glass, he sits down next to you and turns you to face him. The water burns your sore throat as you sip on it before placing it on the end table next to you. When you turn around, Joel’s face is two inches from yours, eyes scanning you once again. His hand moves your face from side to side before he opens the kit.
Taking a piece of gauze, he opens up the rubbing alcohol and soaks it.
“This is gonna sting. Just breathe,” he whispers.
You flinch as he wipes the scratch on your forehead gently, the liquid burning into your skin. Instinctively, you grip onto his thigh, your nails digging into the denim. Joel’s free hands rests over yours, squeezing it gently. He continues to clean your wounds, making sure to be extra gentle when he reaches the gash on your bottom lip.
The room is spinning less now, your eyes solely focused on him as he finishes up.
Kiss him.
Shaking away the ridiculous thought, you push the hair out of your face. He’s seventeen years older than you, for Christ’s sake. What would he want with a girl like you? The girl who gets beat by her drunk dad and gets so drunk herself she falls into a lake. Plus, he probably has a wife or something you don’t know about. Although, you don’t notice a ring on his finger.
“‘Kay, that’s good for now. You should shower, warm up,” he says as he looks over your face one last time.
“I don’t have any clothes.”
“I’ll find ya’ somethin’. Come on.”
Joel’s knees crack as he rises from the couch, holding his hands out towards you. Taking them, you notice he’s holding you up more gently than before, almost as if he’s scared to touch you. He leads you up the stairs slowly, resting his hand on the small of your back when you lose your footing. Every time you do, he squeezes softly, and your breath hitches. Once you make it to the bathroom, he sets you down on the counter and runs the water.
You analyze his back; his muscular build visible even through his shirt. That relentless tingling between your thighs comes back at full force, your nails digging into the leg as you look away. You need to stop thinking about him like this. How would he taste with his tongue in your mouth, how would his hands feel if he touched you through your clothes, how would he look in between your legs where you needed him the most.
“Hey, you okay?”
Snapping out of your trance, you realize Joel has called your name several times.
“S-Sorry, what?”
“I said, the water’s warm. Can ya’ shower by yourself?” he says, a puzzled look on his face.
“Yeah,’ you blurt out.
You know you’re probably too weak to clean yourself alone, but being naked around Joel doesn't exactly seem like the best idea in your current state.
“‘Kay, leave your clothes by the door and I’ll dry ‘em for ya’. Call me if ya’ need me, okay?”
You nod and smile softly as he retreats from the bathroom. Once he’s gone, your head crashes into the palms of your hands. So fucking stupid, Jesus Christ. I mean, you really need to pull it together. Fantasizing about him while he's four feet away from you, really? The mix of the alcohol and concussion must be making you delirious. You’re not actually attracted to him. And you're not actually falling for him. Right?
When you finally manage to strip out of your wet clothes and make it into the shower, it’s nothing short of a struggle. The warm water’s making you dizzy, you lose your footing every few seconds and almost crash into the wall. You hear movement at one point, but you don’t dare peek out of the shower. You can’t risk him seeing you naked, he probably wouldn't even be attracted to you.
Outside of the bathroom, Joel is seated next to the door. His back aches against the hard wall, but no way in hell is he moving. He has to make sure you’re safe, he says to himself. After he changes out of his wet clothes, he leaves one of his work shirts and a pair of his boxers on the counter. He definitely doesn't think about what you’ll look like swallowed in his shirt. Or how you won’t have any panties on. He definitely doesn't think about that.
When you’re all clean, you make your way out of the shower and spot Joel’s clothes.
Oh my god.
You dry yourself off slowly, wringing out your hair before tossing the towel to the side and slipping on the grey t-shirt and plaid boxers; “Miller Construction” printed in bold letters on the front.
Looking at yourself in the mirror, you finally see how fucked up you are. Neck bruised to hell, cheek swollen, lips puffy, eyes sunken in. You look like shit. But when you emerge from the bathroom door, Joel swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.
He stares at you for longer than he should, tracing your body with his eyes like he’s storing the sight of you in his memory for later.
“Earth to Joel,” you say, waving your hand in his face.
He shakes his head as if he was stuck in a trance, a trance of you.
“Sorry, let’s get you to bed. I’ll take the couch,” he mutters.
“I can’t just kick you out of your own bed, Joel. Just stay in there with me, it’s fine.”
You can’t believe what you're hearing come out of your mouth. Why the hell would you even say that? You were just thinking about him fucking you twenty minutes ago, surely sleeping in bed with him was a fantastic idea.
The two of you make your way down the hall into Joel’s bedroom, and it’s exactly how you pictured it. A flannel blanket lays on the bed, an empty beer bottle sits on the nightstand. His desk is lined with wood workings and you wonder if he did all of them himself. They’re actually really impressive.
Sitting down on the bed, you tuck yourself under the blanket and immediately turn over to face the wall. Maybe if you don’t look at him, you won’t think about him. But that hope is crushed the minute you feel the bed shift with his weight, hearing him sigh heavily as he rests his head on the pillow next to you. All you can think about is how warm he is, how his rough hands felt on the waist, the way he pulled your lip down with his thumb. Your core buzzes with need as you attempt to fall asleep. It’s just the vodka, it’s just the vodka.
It’s not the fucking vodka.
Turning around, you see that Joel’s eyes are closed, but from the way he’s breathing, you can tell he’s still wide awake.
“Joel,” you whisper before you can convince yourself not to.
He shifts as if you just punched him in the gut, like it pains him to look at you like this; in his bed, in his clothes.
“Yeah?” he huffs out.
You take his hand in yours and he shoots his gaze over. His eyes are wide, chest heaving up and down like he just ran a mile. Your lip stings a little less as you take it between your teeth.
“Am I crazy?”
“What do ya’ mean?” he says, his face looking anything but confused.
Leaning closer, you rest your hand on his chest. Joel’s heart is beating so fast it rattles through your fingertips. You look to his eyes, then to his lips, and back up again.
The way he’s looking at you, it’s as if you’re having a conversation without words. His jaw is clenched, his eyes showing the hunger he’s fighting so hard to push back. And without another thought, you press your lips to his. The kiss is short, more of a statement than anything. His hand is gripping the sheets so hard they might rip.
“We can’t. Your father would kill me and you-”, he starts before you cut him off.
“What about him, Joel?”
You look up at him through your eyelashes, and he stares back in search of an answer only you can give him. And as if he can read your thoughts, his lips are on yours before you can blink.
This kiss is rougher, full of hunger and pent up longing. His hand is gripping your waist, the other threaded through your wet hair as he kisses you like it’s what he was born to do. He explores every part of your mouth as his tongue crashes against yours. It’s wet, and needy, and hungry, and you’re throbbing.
Joel shifts and wedges himself in between your legs as he lays you onto your back. His lips kiss and suck down your neck as his hands roam every inch of your body.
“Tell me we shouldn't, tell me to stop, baby,” he snarls against your ear, the vibrations from his voice making the ache in your stomach grow stronger.
“No,” you whimper out, hands tugging at his hair. “Please, Joel. Please.”
He looks up at you like you’re the only thing in the world, like if he died tonight he’d be okay with it if you were the last thing he ever saw.
Joel’s lips find yours again, his tongue running against the cut. But you don’t care, you don't care if it hurts; it just makes you need him even more than you already do. Your hips grind up against him looking for any friction you can get to soothe the need in between your thighs. He must notice this, his hand running down your body, gripping at your legs to spread them further. He grinds his rock hard bulge against you and you let out a pathetic moan into his mouth.
“So needy, darlin’. I’m gonna take my time with you, been thinkin’ about this for a long time.”
You’re breathless as he kisses his way to your neck again, nipping at you softly. You tug at his shirt, signalling for him to take it off. Joel obliges, revealing his broad chest marked with various scars. Maybe he’d tell you how he got them at some point. Your curiosity is cut short when he pulls his shirt off of you, palming at your breasts as he takes you in.
“So fuckin’ beautiful, babygirl,” he mutters against your skin before taking your hard nipple in between his teeth.
Your back arches and you groan as he licks and sucks, his hand finally going where you need him the most. He cups your throbbing cunt through his boxers as he moves to your other nipple, sending shocks throughout your body.
“So wet f’me. You've been thinkin’ about this, too? Hm?” he asks as he slips his fingers under the waistband.
“Yes, Joel, yes,” you say, lifting your hips up as he pulls them down.
You shiver underneath him, completely bare now. His fingers meet your throbbing clit and he rubs slow circles as you moan his name through staggered breaths. Joel continues kissing down your stomach, stopping when he reaches just above your pussy. He removes his hand from your clit and drags his finger through your soaked folds.
“Jesus Christ, baby. This all for me?”
You nod as you push yourself against his hand, craving any sort of relief you can find. You moan out loudly when he licks a stripe from your entrance back up to your aching clit. Your body shivers when Joel places a wet, open mouthed kiss to it.
“Oh my god,” you huff out, hips rising as he pushes them down, holding you still with one hand as the other teases your entrance.
He slips a finger in slowly as he continues sucking your clit, immediately hitting that spot inside of you no one else can seem to reach, not even you. You cry out, hips bucking up against his hand as you tug at his hair. He thrusts in and out of you at an agonizing pace while he works his tongue.
“You gonna come f’me, baby? Come on, come on my face,” he says against your pussy.
When he goes back to licking your clit, he adds another finger and your vision almost blacks out. You throw your head back as you scream his name, hips stuttering as you come harder than you ever have. He doesn't let up while you ride through your high, his tongue staying planted on your overstimulated clit while you come down. He gives it another wet kiss before pulling his fingers out of you and moving up to kiss you again. Tasting yourself on his mouth arouses you all over again and you’re practically begging for more.
Joel kisses you softer this time, groaning softly into your mouth as you palm his cock through his pants.
“Are you sure, darlin’?” he asks between kisses.
“Please fuck me, Joel,” you moan into his mouth.
Something snaps in him. The hesitance he had at the start is out the window as he quickly removes his pants and boxers, revealing his throbbing length. He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and nervousness creeps through you as you ponder how all of him will fit. He cups your face as if he can read your mind, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.
Resting on his arm, he pumps his cock a few times before lining himself up at your entrance. He leaves soft kisses over your face as he slowly nudges himself into your tight walls. The stretch is so much it almost hurts and you bite down onto his shoulder, digging your nails into his back.
“Shh, baby, relax. I’ve got ya’,” he whispers into your ear.
He pushes himself in, inch by inch, splitting you in half until he bottoms out. Joel holds himself there for a minute to let you adjust to his size before pulling out to the tip and thrusting all the way into you. An obscene sound escapes your mouth as he fills you completely. He sets a slow, deep pace as he begins to fuck you, his hand never leaving your cheek.
“Oh, such a good- fuck. Such a good girl, takin’ my cock like this, baby.”
His words only add to your arousal and you clench tightly around him, coaxing a low moan from him. Joel sits up a little, gripping your waist tightly as he fucks into you harder. The sound of his skin slapping yours fills the room, along with your loud moan and his deep grunts.
“Oh my g-god, Joel,” you whimper as you grab onto his arm.
“God, I’ve wanted- this- forever,” he groans out, thrusting into you deeper with each word.
You feel boneless in this moment, your hands barely strong enough to hold onto him as he fucks you faster. That familiar knot builds in your stomach as the tip of his cock hits that spot inside of you repeatedly with every thrust. Joel licks his thumb before placing it on your clit, rubbing fast circles on it as he thrust, and you know you’re going to tip over the edge any second.
‘J-Joel, I’m gonna-”
“Come f’me, honey. Come on my fuckin’ cock, let it all go.”
Tears fall from your eyes as your second orgasm takes over, your walls clenching around him so tight it borders on painful. Cries fall from your slack jaw as his thrusts become sloppier, his hand gripping your waist tighter than ever.
“Come in me, please,” you beg. “I'm on the pill, p-please.”
“Okay, baby. Fuck…”
His hips stutter before he thrusts into you balls deep, his seed painting your walls white as he pushes further in. You could come again just from the sounds escaping his mouth, rubbing his arm softly as he stills inside of you.
Joel rests on top of you, his head laying in the crook of your neck as he softens inside of you. Finally pulling out, the loss of fullness pulls a soft whimper from you. He kisses your cheek gently before placing a soft peck on your mouth.
Getting up to clean you, he grabs his shirt from the floor and wipes his cum from in between your legs. Completely out of energy, you roll over onto his chest as he wraps his arms around you.
“Was that okay, babygirl?” he asks while pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“More than okay.”
He plants a kiss on the top of your head before resting his back onto the pillow. Your mind is finally empty as you doze off on his chest.
So what if your dad had something to say? No way you were ever letting go of Joel after this. And there was no chance in hell he was letting go of you.
Summary: Bills are high; your dad’s boss wants to help. How you pay him stays between you and him—for now.
Warnings: 18+. Protected piv. Explicit power imbalance in an exchange of sex for money, so dubcon, technically. Soft dom!Joel. Sex toys. Squirting. Oral (f!receiving). Overstimulation. Daddy kink. Age gap. Praise kink.
Note: Bohanan’s is a steakhouse in San Antonio, TX.
Word count: 8.4k
You wanted a car. Joel needed to cum.
It wasn’t the arrangement a girl your age should’ve made, but what could you do? Your dad drank half of your college funds away, and your mom was long gone.
The next best thing was Mr. Miller, your father’s boss. He’d understood better than anyone what money could buy. What it might do. For him, it was pleasure. For you, it was a future—or what little remained after bills and loans and exorbitantly-priced car repairs bled you dry.
You took the job at the firm on a whim. You didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore, though your dad and Joel were. You didn’t want to be done with law school, though 3L had already long since ended, and that dreaded so-called ‘minimum competency’ test was drawing close on the horizon. In short, you couldn’t afford to pay for bar prep.
With Joel, you could.
It was true that tax law paid pretty well, but a part-time job would never really be enough when your family was treading water at all times. Your dad liked to gamble and drink, and your brothers got all of their brains from him.
You got the short end of the stick, plus the receiving end of another. Lucky for you, Joel’s felt pretty good going in.
Today you were somewhere south of Austin. Your truck wouldn’t start last week, so you’d agreed to come along on this business trip knowing full well what you planned on asking your boss as soon as you had a moment alone.
“CDP hearing at…9:45.” You checked the itinerary twice.
“Alright.” Joel nodded.
“Lunch with Javier, Ezra, and Dave at twelve.”
“Mhmm.”
“Phone call with Revenue Officer Acacius at 3:30.”
“For the…?”
“Martells.”
“Okay.”
“I finished Lucien Flores’ Form 433-F for your review and left notes—” You stopped to tap your finger on a short white pile of papers between you and Joel on the desk, “—in the margins. Still need bank statements from him.”
“Lovely.”
Joel eyed the stack at first, but his gaze strayed a little.
“You should probably plan to talk strategy with my dad before Mayor Garcia’s audit tomorrow, too. Looks like a couple non-cash contributions are being disputed now.”
For a second, your eyes flitted up to him, too. It was brief.
“Sure. When’s your daddy free?” he said.
You blinked, then scanned the schedule.
“Looks like five…or six, maybe. He’s got a consult with—”
“I wasn’t talking about your father.”
You looked back up. Joel was smirking, of course. His hand had drifted a comfortable, innocent distance past the papers and across the table, to you. The pair of you happened to be in one of the glass-paneled conference rooms nearest the hotel lobby, so he had to be discreet.
He never let his fingers stray too long on yours in public. Presently, his thumb grazed your knuckles extra slow.
Posing a question, maybe.
You didn’t have the time to be tactful now, unfortunately.
“I need $2,700.”
Joel, your boss, your daddy, whatever, had to pause at that. He didn’t move his hand immediately, but he did stare harder. Longer. He searched your face for the joke.
“$2,700?” he repeated.
“Yes sir,” you answered out of habit, wincing only a little, “My truck stopped running last week, and it’s just…a lot.”
The cost. For Joel, it wasn’t even a drop in the bucket, but in your world, it was a make-or-break, fuck-your-whole-budget-for-the-next-six-months kind of bad. Suddenly, your cheeks felt warmer than they did before, and you forced yourself to look away. Peering out across the wide and gently rolling terrain of San Antonio and trying to pretend there was something thrilling to see. You’d almost forgotten how much you hated asking this.
“I can make the deposit tonight—” Joel started.
“No,” you interrupted. You wanted to turn but couldn’t. You just shook your head and kept staring out there, “Not now, I mean…I need to earn it over time, I just…”
You stumbled over the words. It was like your lips, your tongue, and your teeth were all suffering from the same sort of embarrassment pervading the brain, and you couldn’t bring your mouth to form the sentences right.
I’m not asking for a handout. I need to earn the money.
However ‘earning’ may have been grossly misconstrued in the context, it was a labor all the same. You didn’t love it, but you didn’t hate him, either. Joel was nice, albeit old enough to be your father, and it didn’t seem that he was nearly as predatory or perverse as he could’ve been. You’d been working for him for two months now, and the idea had been your own when the cash had gotten tight.
Back in April, you’d explained to him, calmly, that you couldn’t take the bar exam unless you got some extra money quick. That you wouldn’t accept his charity, but you’d pay him back in other ways. Joel had been against it at first—you were the daughter of his best friend, after all—but eventually, his carnal needs won out over his sense, as every other man would’ve done, you guessed.
At first, you’d started slow, but that hadn’t lasted very long. You fucked him regularly now, though never had you asked for an amount of cash this big out of nowhere.
Joel blinked and put a hand on his hip, like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say. The silver in his soft, dark locks shone more in this light. He’d lost the smirk.
“You’ve done…plenty.” Now sounding sheepish.
You tried to protest again; Joel stopped you.
“I mean it. Hey, look at me,” he said next.
You did, hesitatingly. You turned from the window, and out of instinct, folded your arms over your chest. Joel paced closer to you and then he was watching. Pausing.
Brushing your arm with his and glancing once over your shoulder to make sure no one else was around to see.
He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.
When he pulled away, your skin was practically ablaze.
“Mr. Miller—”
“Joel,” he corrected, quiet, “And you’ve done enough. Let me cover the car just this once, okay? Sweetheart?”
You didn’t realize you were pivoting again. That your gut was doing somersaults and your heart was ready to climb up and out of your throat. Your neck was burning.
It wasn’t even anger you sensed was simmering under the skin until you turned back to him, and your eyes flashed with ire before the words were even spoken.
“I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller. I said I want to pay.”
“It’s Joel. And I said you’ve done enough, so—”
Ire morphed to something more in a blink.
You didn’t mean to say it, but you did.
“Fine,” you huffed, suddenly exasperated, “If you’re so fucking opposed to me paying my way for this one simple thing, I’ll get another guy. Forget I asked.”
It was a low blow, for sure. Joel knew how badly you’d wanted this to stay between just you and him—and he would never dream of seeing you ‘earning your keep’ with anyone else. His expression said as much as soon as he’d heard your words; his whole face hardened at once.
But then you’d turned to leave. You didn’t care what he wanted to tell you, and if you did, you certainly weren’t brave enough to stick around to hear Joel say it then.
So you left. He had a full, busy day ahead of him anyway.
You woke up wet.
In an effort to avoid your boss, you’d run errands all day. Buried your nose in a sea of Civil Procedure notes as soon as you got a second alone, almost vomited seeing the Erie Doctrine, and went back to your hotel room to try and study there. Once you had, you napped instead.
Now your clothes stuck to your skin; the sheets around you were soaked. You peered over the big white duvet holding your body interred and saw smoke overhead.
Or steam.
Yes, definitely steam. It was drifting from the bathroom, where the door was thrown open. You shifted up to sit.
“Tess!” you yelled, “Shut the goddamn door, I’m boiling.”
As a law clerk, you weren’t afforded the luxury of a suite to yourself, so you shared it with the other new grads on work trips like these. Tess Servopoulos loved long, hot showers and never closed the fucking door. You groaned.
And, feeling depleted of all energy from your studies and the stress and the steam searing every inch of your skin, you flopped back in the bed. You kicked the covers off your legs. You’d just lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from your forehead, when an awful, fresh realization dawned.
You glanced at the clock—3:37.
“Fucking hell,” you hissed.
You were supposed to meet your dad at two to get some paperwork signed. You needed to have that filed with the court by four. He was probably engaged somewhere else by now, whether it be a client, a conference, or a couple white lines in the bathroom of a partners-only club downtown, and you wouldn’t have a hope of reaching him here. You rubbed your face and groaned again.
You’d set an alarm for 1:30—you knew you had.
Where the hell was your phone? Why was it so warm? What if he’d called? Aw fuck, he’s probably blown that thing up to hell and back by now. Maybe he was drunk. He had to be. Where was Tess? Where were your pants?
You’d made it up to your feet, clumsily, and faced a full-length mirror. Your bottoms were gone. You closed your eyes and screamed inside, remembering why they were.
“Glad you’re getting some use out of this.”
The second you heard it, your lids flew open. You turned.
And, standing in the warm yellow glow of the bathroom light—holding the culprit, your vibrator, like a prize—was Joel. Naked as the day he was born, save for one thin towel around his hips, and grinning. Moisture glistened on his chest and pooled about his feet, and his hair was smooth, tamed, and combed back neatly from his face.
He waved your silicone toy in the air, and immediately, you regretted giving him your room key the other day.
“I thought we agreed you’d wait for me—”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Your voice was thick with sleep. Joel’s own was slow, dulcet, and kind as it always was, even when teasing. When you grit your teeth, he just set the toy aside.
“I’m sorry. Bad timing. I saw your—”
“No.” You threw up both hands at once, suddenly out of breath and fucks to give, “You know what? I don’t care. You need to go. I have to be down at the courthouse—”
In twenty minutes. You cut yourself short and hurried off to find shoes. You could wear other pants. Ask another attorney to sign the forms if you couldn’t reach your dad. Forget that his boss and yours had just caught you with the vibrator he’d bought you last month and try not to feel too humiliated knowing he knew what you’d been doing. It didn’t matter—Joel didn’t matter. You slid on a mismatched pair of slacks and set off toward the door.
Then you had to stop. Joel beat you there, quick as ever.
“Listen. Hey.”
“Will you stop?!”
You pushed at his big and wet, stupidly broad chest. You felt the small grey hairs on his pecs tickle your palms, and for a second, you thought you heard a chuckle.
“You’re gonna make me late—”
“Hey, hey,” Joel said again. Of course it sounded fatherly, “I already signed the POA for Morales, hon, you’re good.”
You’re good.
“You what?” You stared at him in disbelief. How did he even know you needed Frankie’s power of attorney signed in the first place? You figured your dad would’ve mentioned it, but still, it wasn’t really Joel’s form to sign.
“The case is mine now,” he clarified, reading that look, “Wasn’t my first pick, but it is what it is. And your dad—”
Your dad was probably lagging wildly behind on his own caseload, so he’d pushed one off on his friend. Again.
“You can’t keep picking up his slack,” you gritted out, “One of these days it’s gonna bite you both in the ass. You know he shouldn’t be forcing these jobs on you.”
“I offered.”
“You caved.”
“He’s my best friend, what do you expect me to do?”
“Not let him use you! He’s making you feel bad for him.”
“And what if I did? What if I did pity the bastard?”
You scoffed. Then winced, inwardly.
I don’t need your pity, Mr. Miller.
From the look on Joel’s face, he seemed to be remembering the same. He shook his head.
“That’s not…” he trailed off. He rubbed his jaw with his hand and started to move from the door, deflating some.
His other arm extended to you, wordlessly, and already anticipated what was sure to follow. You swatted him off, then walked to the bed. You considered sitting but didn’t. Instead, you crossed your arms like you always did and turned away, facing the window with a cool, flat affect.
By now, Joel knew better than to take that for what it seemed. He crossed the room to you, treading softly.
His voice turned gentle again, like an apology: “Honey…”
But your gaze was already fixed outside. You frowned.
“Darlin’,” Joel continued, undeterred, “Come on.”
And you didn’t need to see his face to hear the rest: ‘Look at me, please,’ with eyes all comfort and warmth.
“Don’t you have a phone call with an R.O. or something?” Briefly, you recalled Acacius and a stream of other items from the checklist you’d covered that morning, and you had to stop yourself then from straying too far. You blinked once, just as Joel was approaching from behind.
“I cancelled,” he said.
You sighed, “Mr. Miller…”
You knew he hated doing that.
“Joel,” he pressed. Adding, “Something came up.”
You wouldn’t even ask. You shouldn’t care. You felt him standing there, fanning hot breaths across the nape of your neck, and you really couldn’t have taken that worse. You visibly tensed, hands balling into fists at your sides, and—hell, he wouldn’t quit moving now, would he?—Joel bent down. He hesitated, as if gauging your reaction in time, then descended further. He kissed your shoulder.
You cracked; it never took much from him.
For all your inane, ancillary plays at feigning indifference, one movement of Joel’s mouth and your resolve was lost. You clung to words, weakly, but all the rest fell away.
“We don’t…want your charity. Me or my dad. Alright?”
“I know.”
Joel kissed your skin again, then pulled at the strap of your blouse. It fell limply away, and his lips reattached.
Exactly when he’d walked you back to the bed, you couldn’t be sure. By the third or fourth kiss, your stomach was tight, knees weak, and your eyes drawing closed; it didn’t matter to you or to him what had passed before. Your bodies found the bed and blended together.
Tangling, in a way. Tearing blindly at clothes and not saying too much apart from Joel’s soft, sweet words:
“That’s it.”
“I know.”
“Good girl.”
Good girl when he kissed you. Good girl when he stripped you bare. Good girl when his hands roamed the broad, naked expanse of your body and let your own do the same to him. Good girl when your fingers hooked the outline of the towel and tugged it away, your vision filled with a sight you’d come to like more and more each day.
“That’s my girl,” Joel murmured. He cradled your head while you gripped his base, “‘S’yours, baby. All yours.”
Yours. Mine. You weren’t sure you had the sense or self-possession to even know what that meant, especially here. Joel wasn’t a boyfriend. He wasn’t a lover, at least not in the traditional sense. He wore dark wool suits like your father and worked from dawn until dusk every day, practicing law for longer than you’d been alive. Still, the smile above you was sweet. It coaxed you gently as you slid your hand up and down his length, like he sensed this was more like a lesson for you. Learning experience.
“Remember, spit a little first,” he instructed. Then, to demonstrate this point, he brought his fingers to his mouth and wet them quickly. He slipped his touch down to yours and met your gaze while he joined you there.
He rubbed and slicked himself up and he did it with ease. You followed his lead and watched his face contort—crow’s feet pinching even tighter at the sides of his eyes as pleasure began to pool in his gut. He looked pretty. You’d never thought to tell him this, but Joel really had an unparalleled face. It was an old and beautiful thing. For this reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your gaze away, maybe to wet your own fingers. Instead, you slipped your hand between your legs, where his hips had come to rest. You worked a slow, light touch against your folds; you were drenched, and it didn’t take long for your fingers to be, too. You moved them back to Joel’s cock.
“Like this?” you ventured.
The man answered with a grunt, at first. Then a grin.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Joel nodded, quiet but emphatic. Trying not to smile too big as he let your touch take over for his, “Just like that, sweet pea. Get it nice an’ wet for daddy.”
You wanted to whimper at that. Something must’ve flashed in your eyes at the intonation of the last word, and the look must’ve suffused your whole expression, because the next thing you knew, Joel was lowering his body to yours. Petting your hair, letting you rub on his shaft as fast as your soft, lithe hands could manage.
“Feel that, baby? Feel how much daddy missed you?”
You did.
Your brow pinched, and you wanted more of that. More from him: those tender, edifying words of praise being mumbled your way while your touch worked him over. Maybe you could’ve helped it, but then again, in this state, maybe you couldn’t—you whimpered for him.
Wriggling your hips against the bed to get your warmth pressed flush with his own, and squeezing him tighter:
“In me, daddy. Please.”
You angled his cock in your trembling grip to plead as much. You knew he liked being the one to push in the first time, so you didn’t move too far with that push, but you begged him with your gaze. You felt him tense a bit.
And just when you sensed he might let you have your way, he moved off. Down. Sliding his torso away from your own, to go lower on the bed, and smirking again.
“I think she needs my tongue first, doesn’t she?”
You wanted to nod. Instead, you flinched. You crawled away from his hold before it could secure itself firmly on either one of your legs, and you had to snag your bottom lip between your teeth to contain that blossoming need. It almost spilled from your mouth in a moan before Joel’s could reach your lower half. Then you scrambled to sit up
“No,” you choked out.
This wasn’t new. While you shook your head, Joel lifted a brow and stood from the bed. He reached behind him.
The night stand.
You closed your eyes.
“This isn’t…supposed to be for me.” you sighed.
In a second, Joel was back where he started, and you didn’t have to steal a glance through your lids to know what he was holding. Slotting himself gently into place.
“Don’t,” he started, sharp, “—say that. I mean it.”
You knew he meant it, but you also knew better than to accept at face value what he said, moving down on you.
This wasn’t part of the deal. Joel’s money was meant to serve his pleasure, not yours. Letting him take you any other way seemed to blur the lines between transaction and affection, and though you’d done this before, it still didn’t feel right. You couldn’t bear having his focus here.
Evidently, though, he could. He’d snatched your vibrator from the night table and lowered his torso to your legs, lips twitching the tiniest bit. ‘Open up. Let me see her.’
Joel was on his stomach, eyes glowing with intrigue.
“Let me see how much she’s missed me, baby.”
The grey matter in your brain might’ve trickled through your ears—the whole thing went to mush at his words. You pushed at his hands, then the top of his head, but clearly, your will was weak. You wanted this. Needed it.
“That’s a good girl. Let daddy have it,” Joel drawled.
You wanted to cry. Or maybe hide. His index and middle fingers prodded at your folds, pulling them apart, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you’d stopped breathing. Joel kissed the slope of your mound with a quiet kind of reverence. The salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin brushed your clit, and your back arched reflexively. Then, remembering why you’d come to this arrangement in the first place, you felt a wave of guilt supplant that pleasure.
You clawed at his head and shook your own, weakly.
“No. W-wanna make you feel good,” you choked out.
Not me.
Not here.
Just let it—
“Fuck,” you keened through your teeth. Joel’s lips made contact with your slick, drooling cunt and, in a second, sucked your nub in between them. He flicked his tongue.
Joel groaned, then pulled away to meet your gaze.
“Feels plenty good f’me,” he assured you in a murmur. Eyes glossy, “She’s so fuckin’ sweet, honey. So pretty.”
Then, as if to punctuate his point, he slid his tongue down the whole wet mess of your slit, and he moaned. He curled the muscle and invaded your sticky, sensitive, precious warm flesh with vigor and force—maybe a little desperation—and you whined at the feeling. Your toes curled tight. It was doubtlessly a sight to see: Joel’s old and weathered head against your young and supple skin, the wiry greys of his chin rubbing your cunt like no man’s his age should’ve been. He took you gently. Forked his fingers over your folds to hold you open for him and then, over and over and over again, just licking stripes. Squelching noises only seemed to goad him on while he buried his nose and savored your taste without reserve. Your stomach clenched with that pleasure, then swelled.
“That’s my girl—so good for me,” Joel said, as though reminding you, gently, it was okay to relish the feeling.
Once more, he suckled your clit in his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue in a quick back-and-forth motion, and the next sensation hit without a breath of warning.
Your belly twisted again, then flushed with hot pleasure.
“My— fuck,” you cried, shuddering with a climax you didn’t know was coming. You held his head and whined.
Joel’s tongue didn’t stop. Your vision blurred. Whatever reprieve you might’ve hoped to find came in the form of his lips drawing back, momentarily, only to sponge little kisses on your still-pulsing heat. Your body jolted back.
“I c— I’m done. I’m done,” you blurted out.
Joel nodded against you. Humming through his kisses:
“I know. Keep going.”
Keep going.
So simple.
Still, you couldn’t breathe. Your sight was inundated with stars. You felt Joel’s stubble on your slit again, only this time, the pleasure was tripled. Your legs trembled, and your hands made fists in his hair. Joel kept on kissing.
And kissed again, again, and again, until your fingers in his locks pulled taut to the roots and your hips were bucking up in his face: ‘Too much, t—oh fuckfuckfuck.’
Then came a buzz. Skirting your legs in a blink, before diving to meet Joel’s mouth on your clit. You shrieked.
“I know, I know,” Joel joined, as though soothing a wound while he maneuvered the vibrator. Lifting his head and then kissing your thigh, “I know. You’re alright.”
You wanted to sob; you felt ready to burst. You trusted Joel’s judgment but had never been subjected to this sort of pleasure. What if it was more than you could take?
“I’m here.”
Joel’s words were slow to crawl off his tongue, but their intent was clear. You writhed once more, and he was kissing your skin, rubbing your thighs, and taking the toy to your clit with a warm, devoted touch. He wasn’t cruel.
He had a glint in his gaze when you met it, like he knew you wouldn’t accept this feeling alone—but he wanted you to. He wanted the indulgence to be your own and an end in itself. There was care in his touch, tender praise with every caress, and you guessed this was intentional. Joel needed you to know this was more than only his.
You felt more naked than you’d ever been: soaking the sheets with your last release, fresh arousal trickling out, Joel’s spit mixing with your nectar and sweat and pressing you down in the bed. And nudging you, gently.
“‘S’okay, baby. You’re alright. That feels nice, doesn’t i—”
“Kiss me.”
It came out faster than you could even try and stop it. You weren’t sure why you said it. The words were acerbic on your tongue—you hated ever sounding needy—but then your mind and your mouth and your worries were all silenced at once when Joel came clambering up for you.
His lips were wet and grinning as he kissed you. He held the vibrator hostage between your legs while his body pressed tight against yours. His movements slowed.
Then, as if he’d crawled in your head and read your mind:
“It’s okay to need me, baby. It’s okay to want this.”
His hips made that assurance even clearer. Joel reached down and took the vibrator again, increasing the friction between your groin and his while he pressed the buzzing toy to your clit. You whined into his mouth at the feeling.
Your eyes rolled back, and the pleasure soared. This morning, you might’ve bristled at the words he’d just spoken, but here, in this bed, it felt okay. It felt safe.
Joel felt safe, for once, and you weren’t sure how to keep that idea from sticking—how to reconcile the notion of swapping sex for cash with a man for months on end, and then this. Your stomach churned. He held your face and kissed you more, and your clit throbbed and ached. Before you could ponder your thoughts a second longer, a white-hot pleasure washed over, and you came again.
“Good girl,” Joel cooed.
Throbbing even more this time.
“That’s a sweet girl. That’s my baby.”
All but aching with desire. Feeling it double.
“Cum for daddy, that’s it. Keep going.”
Feeling it trickle down your legs.
“She’s feelin’ real good, huh?”
You could barely breathe.
You whined. Felt something splinter between your thighs and then more of it, more of you and that slick, oozing pleasure and Joel’s groans, overjoyed—‘Making a fucking mess’a daddy, isn’t she? She feel that good?’—and by ‘that good’ you guessed it was more than normal.
This was more warmth than usual. Somewhere in the midst of your own mind-numbing pleasure, you’d let out a spurt, sticky and wet. It now coated the hairs on Joel’s tummy, and while his skin shone, his eyes were brighter. He flitted a look to you, gaze flaring, and slid down. Low.
Back to where he was before. Moving the buzzing pink bullet aside and letting his mouth assume its place.
Of course, you yelped.
“Joel!”
You winced, both from saying his name and feeling so raw. Joel grinned at the sound and suckled your clit.
It was drenched. You and Joel, too, were doused all over and practically gleaming under the rays of late afternoon sun then pouring through the window. For a second, you cast a look outside like you had before, but it was only to brace your body for the bliss at hand. You stared and felt a crude, carnal shockwave seize you head to toe. It traveled fast and made you release, again, or else just continue the same flow as before—and this time, into Joel’s waiting mouth. He lapped at you feverishly now.
He squeezed your legs and licked you dry. He worked in merciless circles, like his life might have depended on making you stay at this peak. All the while, you were tearing at his hair. Riding his face as your body fell apart.
That was alright. This pleasure was yours for now, but there was still time yet to make it worth his while, you reasoned in a half-intoxicated state. Your legs vibrated as you started to crawl—limp—back up in the bed and, numb with elation and a desperate need to please, you stretched your arm toward the night stand. You huffed.
You reached blindly but got it. The box. Weak fingers found the first plastic strip and tore yourself a square. Then, lifting it to Joel, you ignored the last stabs of pleasure between your legs. This was fun, but still his.
“Go on,” you told him, breathless, “Fuck me.”
Joel quirked a brow. He took the condom, still panting himself. He brought the latex to his tip out of habit, then:
“Yeah? Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
Your head was swimming. Somewhere entrenched in the furthest recesses of your brain you could feel it, that dizzying, self-centered pleasure. You pushed it back.
You suffocated it, and you spread your legs wide for him. You let him lay you down and tug the rubber over his cock, then nudge at your hips to situate himself in just the right way. How he liked it. He seemed to be content, and your heart swelled. In this airy, buoyant state, you felt more at ease to speak, sure that he’d understand.
“This should cover some of it, right?” you panted out.
Joel slowed.
“What?”
You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, eager to keep going. But you steeled yourself, just barely, then.
“Sex. Now,” you said, “It’ll cover some of my car repairs.”
Instead of nodding like you’d expected, Joel only blinked. Then you opened your mouth to speak again, and his body stopped you cold. He planted a hand beside your head on the pillow and raised his hips; you felt his heat leave with it. You reached for his backside immediately, to try and pull him back into that pre-missionary position he’d held, when Joel brushed you off. His face was hard.
“Money?” he quipped.
“Yeah,” you started, then remembered how you talked outside of the bedroom, when he seemed more serious, “We’ll go again. All week. You can even put it in my—”
Joel balked, like you’d just slapped him across the face.
“No,” he said, sharp.
“No,” he repeated, more to himself this second time. Almost as though he couldn’t believe what you were suggesting—and making him guilty by association.
Joel clenched your pillow like a vice and shook his head.
“You’re not getting paid for this,” he finished, and when your gaze penetrated his, confused, he squeezed harder.
“Thought you wanted it.” Joel added, almost shamefully.
“I do! I do…I just—” you sputtered.
“What? Think you need to offer up a week and a half of fucking to make it worth my time? Is that what this is?”
Well, in a way, maybe.
You weren’t sure what to say. Former dizzying bliss was dwindling fast, and now you were facing him cold. Sober.
Increasingly irritated, again.
“I just need money, Mr. Miller—”
“It’s Joel, hon,” he bit back, for the fourth time that day. His eyes flared with something more, maybe annoyance, but then he was tempering it just as fast. He ran a hand through his damp grey hair and shook his head, pausing, “It’s Joel. I know you need the money, baby, but it’s—”
“It’s what we agreed,” you protested, “What I need—”
“Well it’s not what I want!” Joel barked.
Anger surged again, and this time, evidently, the feeling was harder to keep at bay. He was scarcely able to rein in his features, settling on a grave little scowl instead of a frown, and he sucked in shorter, shallower breaths through his nose. You felt him let your pillow go.
“Forget it—the cash.” Joel grit his teeth even tighter, “Forget these payments and the goddamn allowance I’ve had you on. I can’t do that anymore. It’s not right.”
Your heart sank.
You didn’t know what to say.
Luckily, Joel’s voice resumed on its own.
“Whatever you want, whatever you need, sweetheart…”
He stopped. Silence followed, then stretched on for one full, terrible minute. In that interim, you could see his chest rise and fall fast. He was trying to slow it down.
“Whatever you need paid off, I’ll do it. Anything. You don’t have to touch me again. It was wrong of me to allow that in the first place,” he rejoined, tone cooling.
Sounding guilty, too.
Above you, Joel didn’t seem keen on holding your gaze, so he fixed his stare someplace on the headboard instead. Then he moved off your body, slowly.
In spite of the distance he attempted to give, he was still crowding your space. Looming large and bare and weary as you’d ever seen him, knees shuffling back awkwardly through a mass of cotton sheets while his eyes shifted low. Away. The rest of him filled your lungs with a heady cologne scent and your stomach with a thousand tiny blades—you were hurt that he wasn’t sticking to his end of the bargain. You were mad that he was trying to claim the moral high ground now, after everything you’d done.
Mostly, though, you were just upset that you felt like you were losing someone close. That Joel Miller was more of a confidant, friend, and father figure than your own dad had ever been, and that got all fucked up over money. Your lips pursed, and something stung behind your eyes when you reached for him again. Your throat stung, too.
“The reason I agreed to do this,” Joel went on, and the ache in your head worsened when he winced from your touch, “was ‘cause I didn’t want you getting ‘help’ from anyone else. I was selfish. And that’s not an excuse…”
He started to move off, hand dropping from yours.
“…but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”
At length, Joel found your gaze, and the eyes said it all over again: I’m sorry. You might’ve believed them, too.
But you were you, and you couldn’t help but press:
“Why?”
Your voice was small. Joel was trying to stand from the bed, but you grabbed at his hand again and made him meet your eyes. Confusion was painted across his own.
Kneeling in front of him, curious, you tried to clarify.
“Why’d it have to be you?”
Judging from Joel’s expression as soon as you did, you got the sense that this question made him feel dumb. He frowned, but he held your stare and answered anyway.
“Because I wanted you first,” he replied, “Before all this.”
Your stomach twisted. He did?
You didn’t need to ask twice to know what that meant. What he’d said, in words and with a look, was enough. Still, it was always in you to know more, to be sure, so you crept a little closer. You let your hands roam up and—
“No,” Joel said, as soon as your fingers reached his side.
You’d just wanted to feel him, maybe prod him further on what he’d just said through acts that didn’t require verbal articulation, but he refused. He backed up in bed.
“This isn’t about—” he started, low.
“Sex. I know,” you answered for him. Then your touch grazed his thigh, and you were dying to have more. To be told in a way you both knew and understood. To touch, “You want me to believe you really…liked me before?”
“More than you know.”
There was that blunt, open pragmatism in the Joel you’d always known. Perhaps guided by natural inclinations, or else your hand on his leg, drawing higher. Moving closer.
Showing skepticism through your eyes and the hint of a playful, disbelieving smile starting to curl at your lips.
“When you met me?” you teased.
You’d known of Joel for years, and had met him a couple times as a teenager at various firm holiday functions. You probably hadn’t exchanged more than ten words altogether before starting law school a few years back.
“Hell no,” Joel answered, fast, “When you started work.”
His gaze was timid again. It was fixed on his thigh where you’d started to slide your index up the warm, muscled expanse of his skin, and though you could tell he was more than hesitant, you wanted to know. Wanted to feel.
It wasn’t so easy convincing a man you’d been working for—and fucking, largely without feeling—to pay bills that you wanted him here and now. But you needed to try.
That maybe, somewhere along the way, you’d come to want him, too. That cash wasn’t the only thing at stake.
You crawled between his legs, then straddled his hips.
Your lips smiling still as you did: “How much?”
Joel blinked back. Dazed.
“What do you m—”
“How much did you like me? When did it start?”
Joel sighed when your heat rubbed his. He tried grabbing ahold of your hips, when you glanced down and saw he’d already discarded the last condom. You couldn’t have that if you wanted to continue this talk.
You reached back and grabbed another.
“Darlin’,” Joel said, strained, “We shouldn’t…”
“Says who?”
You’d already worked the rubber halfway down his length when his heavy-lidded gaze locked with yours. You saw lust there, mixed with worry. Curiosity. You kept going.
“Says your dad, if he ever finds out what I’ve done to his little girl,” Joel replied, closing his eyes at the feeling.
You had the latex worked down to the base of him when you smiled. Felt him seize your hips, lids fluttering open to find you in their soft, glossy stare, and you felt better. Like clockwork, you went together and joined, at last. You felt Joel squeeze your backside and groan when you first sank down to take him whole. You shuddered, too.
But you tried to steady your voice as you spoke.
“Semantics, Miller,” you told him, only faltering a little, “Things you are ‘doing’ to his little girl. Not just ‘done.’”
There, you had a point. Surely your father would have had some choice words for his business partner and best friend if he knew how far Joel’s cock was currently stuffed inside your tight, wet cunt. It might even piss him off, if he weren’t too drunk to receive the news himself.
Joel blinked hard, signaling that he knew this too, and presently watched your body swallow all eight inches at once, after you’d raised yourself up to just the tip and sank back. Your ass fell to his groin with an obscene sort of squelch, and your walls involuntarily clenched. You both let out sounds of pleasure, and held on tighter.
Your hands on his chest for stability, while one of his own held your hip and the other fumbled around for your clit, gliding through the sheen of your arousal on his front. You rocked your hips and felt how much it really was—how you’d drenched his whole abdomen with your last release. You smiled at this and stared, pleased with the pretty, sticky display you’d laid bare all over Joel’s belly.
When Joel wasn’t watching you ride, he stared there too.
“Not so ‘little’ anymore,” he mused quietly. Then he looked up to find your eyes, seeing them as glazed as his, “And I ‘like’ you, hon. Present tense. Not just…‘liked.’”
Alright.
“How much?”
You wanted to say it with some confidence. Nonchalance. Then Joel’s cock nicked a particularly sensitive ridge inside your walls, and that thought was gone as quick as it had come. You gripped the flesh of his upper chest and rolled your hips harder. Let out your breaths in little fractured whimpers while you rode him more. Another sweet feeling twisted low in your gut.
With just a glimpse of that, Joel moved his hand from your heat up past your hips and waist, to squeeze one of your breasts. His fingers were wet. You could feel them, equal parts warmth and wanton yearning as the pads pinched your nipple and gave it a firm tug. He grunted.
Clearly, there was more to it than just the touching and feeling for him—Joel’s eyes drank in the sight of your skin as it glistened with the arousal he’d just smeared. He thumbed at the wet, stiff peak and swallowed. And, just as you were about to adjust the rhythm of your hips bouncing on him, his free hand joined the first and pulled you down. You cried feeling his cock wedge deep; your hands fell to either side of his body when he yanked your face down to his. He fucked up into you from underneath
You squealed, soft, “Joel!”
He kissed your open mouth. Made you lay flat overtop him while he fucked your dripping hole. You whimpered.
“Joel—” Again.
“I like you so much, sweetheart,” he said, in answer to your last question, lips close, “Does she like me too?”
As if to save him the trouble of a swift reply in words, your body told him instead. You squeezed around his cock, and with another desperate cry, bit his shoulder. He hammered your poor, aching pussy with a groan of his own, and he held your body down to his. Grinning.
Kissing the side of your head while he pounded away. Stroking your hair, “Is that a ‘yes’? She like her daddy?”
Drool was bound to slip out of your mouth any second. Your lips were locked in a permanent ‘o’ while he drilled from under you on the bed. Still, you managed to nod.
“Uh-huh—oh, fuck, fuck, da-ddy. Yes, daddy.”
You squeezed your eyes shut as another blistering wave seared your insides. Joel was relentless with his thrusts now, driving himself in and out without stopping or slowing. He must’ve known you were close. He was too, judging by the sounds of his grunts and hushed tone.
“Let daddy take care of her then, baby. All of her. OK?”
His words trickled through your ear as sweet as honey. His cock was less kind, but that was okay—you liked it.
You loved him here. Taking care of you. Her. Everything.
And, in this half-coherent state of fuckdrunk pleasure, you were tempted to give in to whatever he begged.
It would be so easy. Joel cradled your face in his hand, practically beaming with pride while he fucked you over and over, and your legs were spread, walls were stretched, eyes practically rolling back, and you felt more secure than you’d been in ages. Joel could care for you.
He rubbed his thumb over your cheek and hummed.
“Daddy’s got you,” he said, voice all warm assurance.
Nudging you closer and closer to your peak—and perhaps some other form of surrender. Release.
Submission?
Joel wouldn’t be so bad for that.
He could fuck you well and leave you content. Make you forget what it meant to be strapped for cash and saddled with guilt and worry over bills every month. Joel could provide, for now. His eyes said as much; his fingers threaded through your hair and rubbed your scalp. He cupped your face, all fifty-six years in his own looking as handsome as they’d ever been. He felt good. He felt safe.
You were hot. Your legs trembled and ached.
“Is that something you’d want?” he pressed.
And, still holding Joel’s gaze with a heavy-lidded, fucked out look of your own, you surprised yourself by nodding, slowly. Your body was spent, but the curve on your lips, then his, was sincere; Joel nodded back as he grinned.
“Yeah? You mean it, sweetheart?”
He flipped you both over and got on top, never breaking apart. You wound your legs around his back and let him cup your cheeks again, and from this angle, you felt it. You wouldn’t try and fight it now; you just kissed him.
Then you came for a third time, walls clenching and squeezing and gushing again, smearing Joel’s front as he fucked you right through it. His groans were a little more subdued than yours, but in their timbre, you could hear his desperation. He emptied himself inside you, in the condom, and kept holding your face all the while.
You felt a low pulse between your legs. Then another. And another. And another. Joel’s hips began to still, his hefty greying belly bumping lightly against your skin while he drained what was left in his balls, and you swore that his bones might’ve creaked from the sheer force of those final thrusts. He seemed exhausted. Somehow, though, the man looked even better in this state—haggard and worn as he was, the face above your own was soft. Smiling, faintly, and kissing you constantly.
You couldn’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it; you were far too tired and fucked out of your mind to protest right now.
Joel trailed a path with his lips from your chin to your ear. He kissed the hinge of your jaw and sank himself deeper.
“Mr.—” But you caught yourself, shortly, “…Joel.”
He lifted his head, not apologetic in the least.
“Maybe just one more—” he started.
“No,” you finished for him, sharp.
Still smiling, but with your eyes on him in a thinly veiled threat. Joel accepted that and kept his dick where it was.
What followed was gradual but natural enough. A little awkward as you broached that uncharted territory of remaining in the other’s presence after the deed was done, but Joel didn’t seem like he wanted to leave the bed, and you had nowhere else to go until dinner with your dad at eight. There was a moment you wanted to separate your body from Joel’s, if only to slip off to the bathroom by yourself, but the man just held you closer.
“You think your old man will mind if I joined tonight?”
Here the fuck we go.
“He’ll kill you.”
You pushed hard against his hold without getting so much as an inch of give. Joel had to fight back a chuckle.
“Oh, yeah? Why?”
“Because,” you began in a huff. Wriggling with very little success in his arms, while you were pinned in missionary, “I smell like you. You smell like me. My dad’s a drunk, but he can sniff stuff like that out in a heartbeat. Too risky.”
You punctuated those words with a still more serious look, but before you could nudge at his chest again or say something more, you were forced to swallow a scream. Joel’s grip tightened even more, and he moved to stand up from the bed—with you still in his arms and impaled on his cock. He started to walk to the bathroom.
“Great. Shower’s got plenty of room for the two of us.”
“Joel!”
“Glad I don’t have to keep reminding you of my name.”
His voice was smug. Your gaze was hard. Joel was still hard himself, amazingly, and you almost groaned when you felt the head of his cock bump somewhere soft and sensitive inside. He toted you into the big, bright room.
“If not tonight, how ‘bout tomorrow? Just you and me.”
He would never stop this shit. He reached for the faucet.
“Still too dangerous. You know that,” you chided. Your resolve only wavered a little when you felt the hot water start to pelt at your back. Joel closed the glass door, “Besides…I need to focus on figuring my shit out right now. Work and bills and getting myself a rental car soon.”
Joel paused. He turned, still holding you.
Then, just as swiftly as he’d stepped inside, he carried you right back out of the shower. You whined in protest.
He took you over to the bed and set you down. He left to find his wallet and keys. You might’ve been tempted to voice your displeasure in some other way—namely, by marching back to the bathroom, locking the door, and bathing alone—but before you could speak a word, Joel was back. He looked down at you and held out his fist.
“What’s—”
“Your dad and me’ll be up to our eyeballs in bullshit working the Garcia audit tomorrow—and I know you don’t want him seeing us leave together anywhere—so we can meet at Bohanan’s at six. How does that sound?”
You blinked.
“I don’t…have a car.”
Joel opened his hand. Keys dropped out.
In a single glance, you could see they weren’t his.
Joel drove a garish Super Duty F-450, not an Audi. The cogs were quick to turn in your head, but clearly not fast enough, because Joel was closing your fingers over the keys before you could breathe so much as a syllable to him. When you did, it came out more like a stutter. Palpably mad but far too rattled to get much out:
“Joel, I-I can’t—”
“I’ve been meaning to buy one anyw—”
“You’re insane,” you started to push the keys back, and for some reason, your heart was thudding extra hard as you did. You went on, unblinking, “You don’t…need to.”
“I want to.”
Joel’s hands were warm when he pressed both of his palms to secure yours between them. He could probably feel the way it shook a little, but he didn’t seem to care. His gaze was too busy trying to find, and hold, your own while you swallowed and stared and racked your numb brain for any words of defiance. At length, nothing came.
All you could do was meet that look. In the soft brown irises above, you could see it all—the need to comfort, and care, and provide where he could, offer better than the hand you’d been dealt and maybe, interspersed with those feelings somewhere, a simpler need in him to give.
For once, you wanted to believe it.
Fun fact: This fic was inspired by true events‼️💯 My life 😫🤪😤😈 Like reader, my truck is also busted as SHIT and needs $2,700 in repairs!!!! Unlike reader, I will not be sucking and fucking Joel Miller to recoup my losses (not asking for donations, just wanted to give y’all a giggle at my misfortune LOL)
I’m sorry it’s been a while, new job plus life gets in the way, along with cinema & other writing but I think you’ll forgive me with some Stabby Stabby on a Saturday.
Synopsis:- Daves never confirmed you are a couple but every time he’s away with the Army you wait for him. But this time Dave really wants you to wait for him.
Word Count:-7700
Warnings:- DONOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18! PIV Sex, sex in public, skinny dipping, teasing, being possessive, swearing, scars, angst, army trauma, basically if you’ve read a Dave York fic before you know he is a menace & comes with his own warning.
Thanks as always for reading peoples. See you soon.
“Did you hear?” Courtney asked, already halfway through her mimosa as you stabbed into your pancakes, maple bacon on the side like always.
“What?” Lydia sighed, not even looking up from her phone.
“The special arms unit, our boys, they’re coming home.” Courtney wiggled her brows, clearly far too excited for this instead of the Sunday morning girls brunch.
You tried not to react. Tried to keep your fork steady, your face blank. Secretly butterfly’s were forming in your stomach.
“Yeah, apparently something went sideways at their last station,” she continued. “Lost someone. But they’re all heading home now. At least that’s what Jess from base reception says.”
Courtney kept talking, rambling about who she hoped to run into & who she hoped not to. Most of the guys on deployment you all knew from school or college, you cared about them all as they were from your town, but her voice faded to static in your ears. Because all you could think about was him.
Your childhood sweetheart. The boy who kissed you at fourteen, took you on your first real date at sixteen, & took your innocence on your eighteenth birthday in the backseat of his truck while rain hammered the windshield as you parked next to the lake.
David Christopher York.
Deputy of specials team. A title so big for someone so young. He’d excelled quickly.
The man who always swore he couldn’t settle down, not with the army owning every part of him. Said it wasn’t fair to make a wife wait by a silent phone, praying he wasn’t zipped into a bag somewhere overseas. That’s all she’d have left would be dog tags, a flag & maybe a few memories.
& yet… every time he came home, every single time without fail, he ended up in your bed like it was the only place in the world he could exhale. Neither of you had been saints, he said you weren’t exclusive so you both had a fair share of other sexual partners, but when he was around? You never looked at anyone else. & he never gave you a reason to doubt him.
“You okay?” Courtney says & you realise you’ve been tuned out, the rest of the table looking at you.
“Sorry” you said before picking up your drink “mind was wandering” & as you sip you slightly blush.
Six days after brunch, you were curled on the couch in your tiny flat watching a cookery show on a Saturday morning, when someone knocked. You’d taken a parcel in for the neighbor upstairs, so you didn’t think twice. You got up, swung the door open…& nearly hit the floor.
There he was. Full gear. Boots dirty. Hair longer than you’d ever seen it in year, stubble wild across his jaw, new scars cutting sharp lines into his neck. He looked bigger somehow, broader, dangerous & exhausted yet somehow still heartbreakingly familiar.
Dave stood there shaking…Just like you.
“Afternoon, sweetheart.” He said with a gulp.
That deep, rich voice slid right down your spine. Those brown eyes swept over you, softening, burning. You were wet before you even registered the thought.
“Guess I’m gonna be hangin’ around for a little while now,” he murmured, that small, sinful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You didn’t wait. You launched yourself at him, & he caught you instantly, hands gripping your thighs as your legs wrapped around his waist. He carried you back in. The door slammed shut behind you as the two of you crashed into the hallway wall, mouths fused, desperation pouring out of every kiss.
Your man was home & it was clear the passion was still very much alive.
“Welcome home… my hero,” you breathed against his lips, voice trembling with relief. You couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop confirming he was real.
Eventually you peeled yourself off him, grabbing one of the three bags slung over his shoulder.
“Wanna come in?” you asked, like this wasn’t your entire world flipping on its axis.
Dave chuckled low in his chest.
“I’m already in” you blush & start to tug on his belt.
“Well you look exhausted, let’s get you comfortable & out of these clothes.” His own hand was squeezing your arse above your tight shorts.
“Only if your gonna give me a proper home coming”
“A service I’m happy to provide”
Neither of you left the flat for five days. Neighbours banged on the walls. Someone yelled about calling the landlord. Dave even got up & answered the door naked to a pizza delivery guy. A sight you will never forget.
Neither of you cared. Dave was home, & he wasn’t letting go. & somehow this felt like he’d be staying a while longer.
Ten Months Later
Dave’s house still didn’t feel like yours.
Sure, his army retirement lumps sum meant he bought something only fifteen minutes from your flat. Sure, you had a toothbrush in his bathroom, one drawer in his dresser, & a hoodie you stole that he pretended not to miss. But he was stubborn, always mumbling about “not dragging you into his world,” about “keeping you safe,” about “not making promises he couldn’t keep.”
So you slept over sometimes. Not enough. Not as much as either of you wanted not that he’d really admit to anyhow.
Last night had been one of those night where Davewas ravenous, pulling you into his bed like he couldn’t breathe right without you there, your legs tangled, his face buried in your neck as he drifted off like he hadn’t slept in weeks. The sex was always glorious but there was something about hearing him snore as his sweaty body clung to you, thst made you feel adored even more.
But when you woke up, the bed was cold. You blinked, disoriented, reaching for him out of habit. Nothing. Just the imprint of where he’d been, sheets kicked messy from where you’d crawled into his arms.
“Dave?” you called softly.
No answer.
You slipped out of bed, rapped a silk dressing gown around you & nothing else, padded toward the back window, rubbing your eyes, & froze.
Dave was outside. In the garden. Barefoot, shirtless except for loose grey pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, pacing the length of the yard.
His phone was to his ear, face tight, posture straight, that military tension you’d hoped was fading with time. His free hand kept raking through his now short again hair, agitation rolling off him like heat.
You cracked the door just enough to hear him.
“Understood,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Timeline?”
Your heart twisted as it missed a beat.
Because you knew that tone.
You’d heard it too many times when you were younger, when he’d get those dreaded deployment calls.
But this was different. This wasn’t the army anymore.
This was darker. Sharper. The world he refused to talk about with you. The world of using his skills in the private sector.
He paced again, jaw clenching hard enough you could see the muscle flex from the doorway.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ll handle it.”
Another pause. Your heart now making up for the missed thud.
“No, I don’t need anyone else. Just give me the file.”
You pressed a hand to your stomach, nausea pooling.
His First mission. An Assassination.
The thing he’d been dreading & pretending didn’t exist for months. But Dave knew he was the best & that he could do this job.
Dave ended the call, dropping his hand slowly, like the phone suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. He turned his face up to the sky, breathing hard, you recognized that breath. The one he took before telling you something he didn’t want to.
You stepped outside onto the deck, the cold morning air biting your bare legs.
“Dave?”
He whipped his head toward you, & the expression on his face… God. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t shock. It was heartbreak. Like he’d already imagined losing you. It’s the first time you’ve seen him look like that before he had to leave you.
He swallowed, throat bobbing.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Your chest tightened at how gentle he sounded.
You took a few slow steps closer.
“How long have you known?”
His eyes flicked away.
“I’ve known it’s been coming but…” he rubs the back of his neck “…They just gave me the actual assignment.”
You reached out, fingers brushing his arm, he closed his eyes like the touch hurt. He was actually memorising the feeling, something to calm him down when it got too much.
“Is it dangerous?” you whispered.
“It’s all dangerous,” he answered honestly. “But… yeah. This one’s high risk, but they think I’m up to it.”
Confidence & vulnerability coming out of his mouth in one sentence.
You stood there, shivering in the dawn chill, staring at the man you’d loved half your life. The man who always came home. The man who never let you move in because he didn’t want you waking up to news that he wasn’t coming back.
It dawned on you suddenly as to why he paced the yard. Why he’d called you sweetheart in that soft, broken voice. Why he looked like the world was about to end.
You stepped close enough your chest brushed his.
“Dave,” you breathed, “talk to me.”
He looked down at you, eyes terrified, jaw trembling just slightly. In that moment, you knew exactly what he was about to do. Because when Dave York was scared he wouldn’t survive something… Dave didn’t answer you at first. He was planning for every outcome.
He just brushed past, barely grazing your arm, heading straight for the kitchen like he needed something to do with his hands before they started shaking. You followed slowly, watching the way his shoulders were locked tight, his breaths too controlled.
He grabbed the coffee tin. Then the kettle. Then two mugs.
That was his tell, doing things in threes when he was spiraling. It was regimented, a routine drilled into him for years.
“Well I guess…” you said carefully, leaning against the counter. “…Congratulations.”
That made him freeze. The spoon mid-air, knuckles white around it. Wondering how you were being calm. But you have been through this before. Deep down every time Dave left on deployment you accepted he might not walk back through the door.
“It’s… it’s a big deal, right? First mission already? They must trust you so much & see your potential.” You gave a small, shaky smile. “I’m proud of you baby.” Your smile is genuine.
He didn’t turn. Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe for three long seconds.
Then he stirred the mug once like nothing was changing. Twice. Too hard the third time.
“Don’t say that,” he muttered quietly.
Your brows pulled together. “What? That I’m proud? Dave, I…”
He slid the mug toward you without looking up. His hand shook just once before he snatched it back against his thigh.
You stepped forward. “Talk to me, please. It might be good to get it out of your system.” Your voice trembled showing you cared.
He finally looked at you & there was a startled shadow hanging over him. Fear. Real fear. On a man who rarely flinched at anything. He knew this would just be him, no team to fall back on.
“Sweetheart…” He swallowed hard. “This job isn’t something you should congratulate me for.”
You opened your mouth but he suddenly stepped back, one hand running roughly through his hair, pacing a tight line between the fridge & stove. A trapped man in his own kitchen.
“Dave,” you whispered, “you’re scaring me.”
That stopped him. He turned. Slowly walked back toward you. Put the coffee down.
& then, with a rough exhale & no prior warning, he dropped to one knee on the cold tile.
Your breath caught. Your heart stumbled.
“No,” you whispered, barely a sound, “Dave…”
He reached for your hands, gripping them like they were his weapon of choice.
“Marry me,” he said, voice raw, low & shaking in a way you’d never heard from him. “Please.”
Your mouth fell open.
“What…Dave, this is…”
“I need you safe.” He said bluntly like it was matter of fact as he squeezed your hands tighter. “I need you secure. I need to know if something happens, you’re looked after. That you have my name, my benefits, my everything. I should have done this years ago.”
You blinked rapidly, tears already threatening.
He shook his head, eyes never leaving yours.
“This mission… it’s bad. Worse than what I’ve done before. I have no support no team & I can’t…”His voice cracked. “I can’t go into it wondering if you’re gonna be left alone. I can’t do that to you.”
“Dave…” your hand shakes as he holds them.
“I love you,” he said, the words exploding out of him. “I’ve loved you my whole damn life but I was scared it was too real. Thought I’d wait until things settled, or maybe you’d find someone better than me. But you waited, always waited, for the mess that is me.” He took a shaky breath. “So I’m asking. Right now. Today.”
He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching your stomach. Eyes closed.
“Be my wife.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. Your hands were trembling in his. He looked up at you his eyes wondering if he would hear the answer he hoped for. Dave was man ready to die for something but terrified he’d lose the one thing more important to him than anything else.
“If the worst happens,” he whispered, “I want to know I gave you everything I could.”
Your chest shattered. You cupped his face in both hands, thumb brushing the scar on his cheek. The scar from the last mission he refuses to talk about.
“Dave,” you breathed, voice breaking, “yes.”
His eyes widened in relief so pure it nearly dropped him.
“Yes?” he repeated, like he needed to hear it again. If he was a puppy his tail would be wagging.
“Yes,” you said, louder, steadier. “I’ll marry you.”
He surged up, pulling you into a kiss that was desperate, grateful & claiming, like he’d been drowning since the phone call & you were the first breath he could finally take. His hands fisted in your shirt, your fingers tangled in his hair, both of you shaking with the weight of it all. You’ve kissed him a thousand times but this just felt like the first ever kiss you had. Raw messy but true.
When he finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot and unsteady.
“Thank God,” he whispered. “Thank God.”
He held your face in his palms, eyes burning into yours.
“We’re getting married today.”
Not a question. A promise.
“What?” You respond “did you say today”
Dave kissed you once more, quick & fierce, then pulled back with a sudden surge of determination.
“My minds set” he said, breath still uneven, “go get dressed.”
You blinked at him. “Wait…now?! Dave…”
“Today.” He stood up fully, jaw set, eyes blazing in that way that meant he’d already decided. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today, sweetheart.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“Dave, I don’t have anything here. I don’t have a dress, or shoes, or makeup, we haven’t told friends or family who would…”
“I don’t care what you wear. We can get 2 witnesses” He shook his head, cupping your cheek with one rough, warm hand. “I just need you to be my wife before I walk out that door & risk my life, because I belong to you”
Your breath hitched. He wasn’t being dramatic. He wasn’t being romantic.
He was afraid. But this was how Dave York handled fear, by claiming the thing he loved before the world could take it. Usually if he couldn’t it would be eliminated.
You stood there & the smile crept across your face.
“Best go have a rummage then to find something appropriate.” he smirked at your response.
You hurried into his bedroom, rifling through the few things you kept there. Nothing. Not a single dress. Nothing remotely wedding style.
So you grabbed one of his oversized shirts, the soft navy one you slept in sometimes. You belted it at the waist, tying the fabric neatly so it fell almost like a casual, breezy dress. A bit scandalous, a lot rushed, but your heart was pounding too fast to care.
Dave appeared in the doorway ready to put on his on outfit. He stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes swept over you slow & reverent, pupils blown wide.
“That’ll do,” he murmured, voice thick. Trying to calm his erection.
He stepped closer, slipping a hand around your waist to pull you in for one more quick, grounding kiss.
Then he moved away, taking everything off. His arse peachy for your eyes only. Black jeans went on with no boxers. A white shirt & a grey jacket, casual not smart. This was a Shotgun wedding by definition.
You exhaled shakily.
He looked… heartbreakingly handsome. Like a man about to run into a burning building.
“Let’s go make you a little wifey” he said, grabbing his keys.
The truck smelled like him, cedar, aftershave, & that faint trace of gun oil he could never quite wash away. You chose to believe it came from hunting trips with the guys. Nothing more.
Dave kept glancing at you across the seat, his thumb brushing over your thigh like he needed to make sure you were still there. Still real.
Butterflies filled your stomach, wild & constant. You couldn’t take your eyes off him.
Part of you wondered if he’d regret this.
But a bigger part,the part that had waited years, was quietly, overwhelmingly happy.
You swallowed.
“Are we really doing this?” you whispered.
Dave didn’t even hesitate.
“We’re doing this.”
Simple. Certain. Final.
Your fingers curled around his on the gear stick, holding on like it anchored you. A breath left your chest, easing some of the tension, but not all of it.
Because this was real.In a matter of minutes, you’d be Mrs. York.
Til death do you part.
Whether that meant a week…
or fifty years.
You burst through the doors together, breathless, reckless, completely underdressed.
The registrar’s building blurred around you. White walls, tall columns, the faint scent of lilies in the air. People milled about, smiling, chatting, normal life carrying on while yours tilted on its axis.
The clerk looked up from her computer, eyebrows lifting slightly.
Dave caught it. Took your hand & pulled you forward like he was on a mission. Because he was.
“Hi,” he said, steady, direct. “We need to get married. Today.”
The woman blinked. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid we require at least three days’ notice & a licence…”
“But…”
“People can’t just walk in and demand to be married,” she continued, polite but firm. “There’s a process…”
“He doesn’t have three days.” The words flew out of you before you could stop them. Dave turned, just slightly, surprise flickering across his face but he didn’t interrupt.
The clerk softened. “I’m sorry?”
Your throat tightened.
“He’s… terminal.”
Dave went completely still beside you. You squeezed his hand, committing now.
“He wanted to do this while he still can,” you said, voice shaking. “I only just got back from overseas &… &…”
You wiped at your eyes, & this time, they actually stung.
The clerk’s entire expression shifted.
“Oh…oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” She stood quickly. “Just… give me a moment. I’ll see what I can do.”
She disappeared into the back.
Silence fell. Dave looked at you.
“Terminal?” he muttered under his breath. “Really?”
You shrugged, heart still racing.
“You said we weren’t leaving without a marriage certificate.”
A slow grin spread across his face a mix of surprised & impressed. Then softer. Warmer.
His hand came up, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your skin.
“Sweetheart…” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “Remind me never to test you.”
You huffed a breathless laugh, leaning into his touch. But his eyes…Still glassy. Because beneath the joke, beneath the moment… This did feel like life or death to him.
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“We’re doing this,” he whispered.
You nodded, tears slipping free, real this time.
“Yeah, Dave. We are.”
“Excuse me…”
You both startled slightly as the clerk returned.
“I’ve got a couple of forms for you to fill in,” she said gently. “If you wait here, a magistrate should be able to see you within the hour.”
Your face lit up. Dave pulled you into him instantly.
“You’ll be my wife soon, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair.
By the time you were called you had both fully formed you lie of Dave being terminal if you needed to bring it up. The magistrate was informed of the situation & was kind. Soft-spoken. Didn’t ask questions he didn’t need answers to. He brought you both into a small side room that looked more like a forgotten school office than a wedding chapel. A few people sat at the back who were assigned witnesses.
Dave’s hand never left yours. He kept rubbing his thumb over your knuckles like he needed the contact to stay upright.
“Alright,” the magistrate said gently. “You can say a few words to each other if you’d like.”
Dave inhaled sharply, the kind of breath you knew cost him something.
He turned to face you fully, hands sliding up to hold your waist, eyes locked on yours.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice thick, “I don’t know how to do fancy vows. I don’t talk pretty. But…” He swallowed hard. “I promise you this: I’ll always watch that god awful movie we saw on our first date. Even though I still don’t understand the plot, & the sound system was broken, & we ended up making out for half of it anyway.”
You tried not to laugh, but it bubbled up anyway, cheeks warm, heart aching. You remember that date like it was yesterday despite it being years ago.
He smiled, soft & genuine.
“& I promise to kiss you like I did behind that dodgy takeout place on 8th Street. The one with the neon sign that always flickered like it was about to explode.”
You covered your mouth, heat rising in your chest. “Dave…”
“That was the first time I realized,” he continued, voice quieter now, “I was in real trouble with you. I should have told you I loved you every day, &I promise…” He paused, breath shuddering. “I promise to love you the way I did then, &more. Every damn day.”
The magistrate nodded at you.
Your turn.Your throat tightened.
But you took his hands, grounding yourself in his warmth, his scars, his whole impossible presence.
“I promise,” you whispered, “to always keep a stash of maple bacon at my place because you steal it every time you visit.” He huffed a small laugh. “& I promise to keep wearing your shirts even when you pretend you don’t notice.”
He smirked, & looked you up & down in his shirt you were wearing right now to marry him.
“& I promise to love you the way I did when we were kids,” you said, voice trembling but certain, “but also the way I do now,with everything in my soul.”
Dave blinked fast. You felt his fingers tighten around yours.
The magistrate smiled.
“Well then… by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband & wife. You may kiss…”
Dave didn’t wait.
He stepped forward, grabbed your waist in both hands, & kissed you deep & slow, the kind of kiss that made your knees buckle & your fingers curl into his jacket.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just… everything he’d never said, poured into your mouth.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours & whispered, “Mrs. York.”
A shiver ran through you.
“Finally” you replied.
You then left the building registration in hand. Mr & Mrs York were now official & headed to the truck. The second the truck doors shut, Dave exhaled hard, like the world was finally letting him breathe.
He glanced over at you, at the belt cinching his shirt around your waist, at your bare legs curled on the seat. He then slid off the ring he always wore on his pinky & slid it onto your ring finger. Your smirk grew.
His expression changed. Darkened. Deepened.
He leaned one arm on the wheel, the other hand sliding up your thigh, slow & warm.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
You nodded, breath catching at the way he was looking at you.
His lips curved into that sinful, boyish, dangerous smirk you hadn’t seen in a long time.
“You know…” he murmured, thumb brushing circles on your skin, “we could be eighteen again.”
Your pulse jumped.
“Eighteen?” you echoed.
His voice dropped to a low, teasing rumble.
“I could drive us somewhere quiet. Real quiet.”
Heat scorched down your spine. You knew exactly what he meant. He gripped your thigh a little firmer.
“Say the word Mrs York…”Dave whispered, eyes locked on yours. “& I’ll take my wife somewhere nobody will hear a thing.”
Your breath broke.
“Well if that’s what my husband wants…” you winked.
Dave smiled, slow, wicked, loving, like he already knew this was going to be an unforgettable day.
Dave didn’t hesitate once he turned off the main road. He drove deep into the forest, the kind of place only locals knew. Narrow dirt tracks, branches brushing the sides of the truck, sunlight breaking through the trees in long, golden ribbons.
You recognised it instantly, so did he.
You could tell by the way his eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, like he could see flashes of who you used to be. Eighteen. Carefree. Laughing in the backseat like nothing in the world could touch you.
Imagine telling that version of yourself that one day… you’d be back here. Married to him.
Eventually, the trees opened up into a quiet clearing.
The lake shimmered ahead, still & glassy.
Dave pulled up near the shoreline & killed the engine. Silence settled around you.
He looked at you, really looked, like he was trying to memorise every detail.
“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s cool off.”
You laughed lightly. “Seriously? We didn’t bring swimsuits.”
He smirked as he stepped out.
“Didn’t ask.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already racing as you followed him out into the warm air.
Dave stripped without hesitation. All of it. Completely naked Standing there like he belonged to the place, sun catching on his skin, every scar telling a story he never fully shared.
Your breath caught. He looked… unreal. Like something carved out of the very life he was trying to leave behind.
“You staring, sweetheart?” he teased.
“Always,” you shot back. That earned you a grin.
You pulled his shirt over your head, letting it fall, leaving you in just your underwear.
Dave went still. Something in his expression shifted, softer, almost reverent.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
You stepped into the water first.
Cool against your skin, ankles, thighs, waist.
Dave followed close behind, the water rippling around him as his hands found your waist beneath the surface, pulling you back against him.
Solid. Warm. Certain. For a while, you just… existed. Floating. Laughing. Splashing each other like you hadn’t in years. The world felt far away. Just sunlight. Water. & your husband.
His chin rested on your shoulder.
“This…” he whispered. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”
You turned in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck.
“& you have it,” you said softly. “You have me. You always did.”
He kissed you then. Slow. Deep. Certain. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just everything he couldn’t quite put into words. When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Let’s get warm,” he murmured.
Before you could answer, he lifted you clean off your feet. You laughed, clinging to him as he carried you back toward the truck, water dripping from both of you, sunlight catching on his skin. Just for a second, It felt exactly like it used to. Only this time… You were his wife.
You climbed into the cab together, soaked & laughing, dripping onto the old leather. Dave wiped a strand of wet hair from your face, his touch tender, slow.
Then he leaned in, kissing you again,deeper this time, hungrier, his hand sliding to your waist as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.
You shifted closer, straddling his lap, your fingers in his damp hair. He gasped softly against your mouth, hands splaying across your back like he needed to feel all of you.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, voice rough, “I want you.”
There was nothing hurried about the way he touched you, just reverence, emotion, &the kind of love that made your chest ache. You lifted up slightly as he peeled your soaked panties (for lots of reasons) from your, lowering you into his length.
“fuck Dave” you moan as he pushes deep inside you. You’re fully seated on him, waiting the passion to take over. His chest still glistening with water from the lake.
The world outside the truck blurred, the windows fogging softly as his hands held you, grounded you, worshipped every inch he could reach without rushing.
You felt his breath hitch, felt the truth of how badly he needed this, needed you, before he left.
Your forehead pressed to his.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m yours. Let’s take all the time in the world” Dave kissed you again, deeper, slower, until the rest of the world disappeared & his hips started to thrust.
Dave kissed you again, deeper, slower, like he was trying to lose himself in you before the world could take him away again.
Your breath caught as his hands steadied your hips, guiding you, grounding you, like he needed to feel every movement, every second, every moan. The Forest groaned with you both as he started to build a rhythm of passion.
“Sweetheart…” he murmured, voice breaking slightly, like even this was almost too much.
You moved together, not rushed, not frantic, just learning each other again in a way that made your chest tighten. Like you did that first time here in the lake. You enjoyed the stretch as to how big he felt. He praised you, he always did, but this time the word wife leaving his lips as his eyes got wider with each bounce, that made it even more special.
The truck creaked softly around you, the windows fogging, the outside world fading into nothing but blurred light, distant water & a future, which was still uncertain, but now bound together as a married couple.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as your forehead rested against his. He’s panting as you moan, wondering how long you can both do this for.
“Don’t rush,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly. “We’ve got time.”
He let out a breath against your lips, half relief, half disbelief.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah… we do.”
His hands traced over your arse again, slower this time, more deliberate, like he was committing every inch of you to memory.
You felt the shift then to something deeper.
Something that wasn’t just about wanting,
but about holding on.
His hips started their rollings. Your own pleasure contracting as you dug your nails into his shoulders.
“Fuck” you moan.
“Say it again” Dave says in his bedroom voice eyes filled with desire. He is really pounding you now. So much for not rushing it. Daves tongue poked out the bottom right corner. Wave upon wave of pleasure cascading with each thrust & bounce.
“Oooh fuck Dave…Dave”
“You gonna cum sweetheart, gonna cum for daddy” he’s growling.
“No! No” he looks confused & then you smirk & whisper in his ear “I’ll cum for my hubby” that’s all it takes, it sets Dave off & he is rampant & relentless. You grab onto the back seat head of the car & brace.
“Yes yes yes “
“Oooh fuck sweetie”
“Fuck Dave”
“Yessssss!!!!!”
You’re not sure who moans what for the next few minutes but it’s loud & any dog Walker for the next mile would have heard you both cum. Glorious & satisfying. Sweat dripping down you both as you rest your head on Daves shoulder & your body’s are skin om skin. Your heart beats as elevated as they had been in years. The teenage night from all those years ago now updated with a new memory for the newly weds. Blissed out & high on life.
“Fuck” Dave whispers after a few moments of silence. You lift your head & he moves a sticky bit of hair off your face. “Well that’s one way to consummate a marriage” you giggle & go to move off him but he keeps you there, you can feel him softening.
“I agree” you say as he kisses up your neck.
“Well then mrs York” Dave says locking his big brown eyes with yours. “Why don’t we head back to my place so we can repeat this in every room until neither of us can move?” The glint in your eye is the only answer Dave needs.
You woke first. For a second, the world felt perfect, sunlight filtering through the half open blinds of his bedroom, the scent of pine still clinging to his skin, his arm heavy & warm around your waist.
You could still feel the soft ache of the night before. Once you’d got home shower sex was high on the list followed by the bed creaking. You could still feel him.
But then Dave inhaled sharply behind you. The kind of breath a man takes when he’s putting his armor back on.
You turned to face him. His eyes were already open, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to memorize it. Or avoid looking at you.
“Dave…” you whispered.
He blinked once. Then twice. Then forced a small smile, leaning in to kiss your forehead.
“Morning, wifey.”
You didn’t smile back. Because his bag was zipped and ready at the end of the bed. Because his jacket was already draped over the chair. Because the sun wasn’t even all the way up & they wanted him for his mission.
You swallowed, your voice trembling.
“You’re really leaving.”
He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closing.
“I have to.”
Tears welled instantly. You grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer like he might disappear if you let go.
“Don’t go. Please don’t go.”
His arms came around you, strong & warm, keeping you pressed against his chest. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, because he didn’t know how to lie to you. Didn’t know how to pretend this wasn’t what it was.
When he did speak, his voice cracked.
“If there was any way out… I’d take it. You know that.”
You nodded against him, tears soaking into his skin. Yet some part of you knew this was a lie. Dave was a trained killer this was what he knew.
He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek, eyes soft, pained & full of the love he’d tried so hard to deny for years.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You did.
“Mrs. York,” he said softly, reverently, like it was the only thing keeping him upright, “I will come back.”
You shook your head, a sob catching. “You can’t promise that is…”
“I bloody can.” His hands cradled your jaw, his forehead pressed to yours. “& I am. I’ll return to you. You have my word. I swear on your life!”
“Dave…” He shushed you gently, brushing your tears away.
“I’m coming home. To my wife. Nothing’s gonna stop me from doing that.”
Your heart fluttered in your chest, terrified & hopeful all at once. He pulled you into one more kiss. Slow. Deep. Memorizing.
Then he broke away, breathing hard, & whispered against your lips the words he’d never had the guts to say before when he left:
“Wait for me.”
You nodded, even though it hurt.
He stood. Fully dressed, Shouldered his bag from the bottom of the bed. Gave you one last look, the kind that said everything he was too scared to speak out loud.
Then he walked to the door. Paused. His Adam’s apples wobbled.
“Mrs. York,” he said again, voice thick, “I love you.”
& before you could answer, he slipped out of the bedroom door into the morning light.
Leaving you in bed, the words still in your throat wanting to say them back, smelling of him, the ring shining on your finger, praying with everything in you that he’d keep his word. That your husband would come home.
One Week Later
His house felt too big without him. You’d been staying there since the morning he left, partly because he told you to, partly because sleeping in his bed made it easier to pretend he was coming back any minute. Every night you curled up on his side, wearing one of his vests & boxers, breathing in what little scent of him was still lingering on the pillowcase.
But this morning… you needed something hopeful.
So you pulled out his frying pan, the one he claimed “did bacon right,” & made the breakfast he always teased you for loving, pancakes stacked high, maple bacon on top, syrup dripping down the sides. You even put it on the table by the window where he liked to sit.
The house was still quiet.
Too quiet.
You wiped your hands on a towel and took a shaky breath.
“Come home,” you whispered to the empty room.
The back door clicked. It echoed. Your heart stopped. Literally stopped.
Boots stepped across the threshold. A creak of the hinge. A heavy exhale.
Then…
“Well,” a familiar voice drawled, warm, low & devastating. “If that’s not a welcome home, I don’t know what is.”
You spun around so fast you nearly tripped. There he was, your husband.
Dave stood in the doorway, sun behind him, looking exhausted & rough around the edges, thicker stubble, sunburned nose, dark circles under his eyes, but he was smiling. Actually smiling.
You didn’t move at first. You were afraid he wasn’t real. To often had you dreamed of him in the last week.
But he opened his arms & said one soft word:
“Sweetheart…”
You launched yourself at him. His bag thudded to the floor as he caught you, lifting you clean off your feet like it took no effort at all. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt like he needed to physically feel you to believe you were real.
“You came back,” you choked out, burying your face in his neck.
“Told you I would,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Mrs. York, you think I’m gonna break my first promise to my wife? Not a chance.”
You laughed & sobbed all at once, holding him tighter.
Dave pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, his eyes shining in a way he’d never let anyone see.
“I missed you,” he said simply.
Then he looked past you, toward the table, the pancakes, the bacon, the little homemade welcome you’d tried so hard not to hope he’d see. Your mainfesting had worked a little too well.
“You trying to spoil me, darlin’? ’Cause it’s working.”
You sniffed, smiling through tears.
“Sit down. Eat. You look like you haven’t slept.”
“Mm.” He leaned in, kissed you slow, lingering. “Later. First thing I want is you.”
Your breath caught.
Then he pressed his forehead to yours. His lips tasting of glory, both your bodies trembling as he lead you out of the kitchen. Breakfast would be cold by the time you returned.
Dave barely made it halfway to the bedroom before he had you pulled into his arms again, kissing you like the week apart had carved a hollow he was desperate to fill.
“Oooh sweetheart, you’re my drug” he moaned as you both fell through thw bedroom door, peeling his tshirt off. You tugged him toward the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, his breath breaking against your mouth as he whispered your name like a prayer he’d been holding onto since he left.
The rest happened in a blur, it always was when Dave came home, clothes half off, sheets twisted around your legs, Dave above you, against you & holding you like he couldn’t believe you were here, real, warm, alive.
Moans bounced off the wall. The bed moved as the two of you renewed your love for each other. Making love was fun but having hot sex with your husband was even better. Each brush of his fingers against your nipples had you shaking. He jolted each time you bit his lip. It was primal & it was a need.
When it finally quieted, when his chest was pressed to your back & his arms locked you against him,he exhaled this shaky, broken sound into your shoulder. A sound that said I’m home. I’m safe. You’re the reason.
You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling him unwind inch by inch.
After a long stretch of silence, you whispered, “Dave?”
He hummed softly, nuzzling into your neck. “Mm?”
“You’re really back.”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “& I’m not losing another second.”
He shifted then, gently rolling you to face him. His hand slid along your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye where a tear had dried.
That’s when his whole expression changed. Something settled in him. Something decided.
“Sweetheart…” he started, voice low, certain. “I need you to listen.”
Your heart fluttered.
He took your hand, lifted it to his lips, kissed your wedding ring.
“Sell the flat,” he said quietly. “Quit that job you hate. Move in here with me.”
You blinked, stunned. “Dave…”
“I mean it.” His fingers tightened around yours, not harsh, but firm, anchored. “I want you here. Safe. Looked after. Not walkin’ home at midnight from some shift that doesn’t deserve you.”
Your breath caught. He wasn’t done.
“I’ve wasted years pretending I couldn’t give you the life you deserved.” His voice cracked a little. “But you’re my wife now. My home. My future. & I’m done holdin’ you at arm’s length.”
You stared at him, dizzy from the softness & the certainty in his eyes.
He cupped your face fully, thumbs stroking along your jaw.
“Be here,” he whispered. “With me. Let me protect you. Let me give you everything I should’ve given you a long damn time ago.”
“Dave…” Your voice was barely audible.
He leaned in, kissing your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, slow & reverent.
“Be the real Mrs. York,” he murmured against your lips. “Not just on paper. In this house. In my life. Every day.”
Your eyes filled, your breath catching on a half-laugh, half-sob.
“You want me to be a housewife? A little wifey?” you teased softly.
His smile was small, crooked, absolutely wrecked with love.
“I want you to be mine,” he said. “Completely.”
You kissed him again, slow, deep, full of every answer he needed.
When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“So?” he whispered. “You gonna say yes?”
You took a long breath, your fingers still tangled in his.
“Dave,” you whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that since I was sixteen.”
Something in his face softened,like years of tension finally, finally let go. You cupped his cheek, smiling through the tears gathering in your lashes.
“Yes,” you said. “I’ll move in. I’ll sell the flat. I’ll be yours.”
Dave inhaled sharply, pulling you against his chest in one fierce, shaking hug.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, “you just gave me the only thing I ever wanted.”
You felt him breathe against you like the weight of the world had finally shifted off his shoulders. He kissed the top of your head, slow and sure, then pulled back just enough to look at you properly.
“Because I’m done living like you’re temporary. You’re my wife. My home. And it’s about damn time you lived here.”
You laughed softly, leaning into him.
“& you’re sure about this?”
He nodded once, steady & certain.
“I’ve never been surer of anything. I’m just so sorry it took me so long to work it out.”
The two of you lay tangled up in each other for a while longer, the morning sun slowly creeping across the bedroom floor. Eventually he kissed your forehead and whispered:
“C’mon. Let me carry you downstairs before those pancakes turn into bricks.”
You rolled your eyes playfully as he lifted you into his arms.
“Those pancakes are probably freezing.”
“I don’t care,” he said, smirking. “We’re here together . That’s the only thing that matters.”
Slowly you untangled your naked bodies &went down stairs. Neither of you dressed you both know today you would be feral & needing each others bodies
Downstairs, he set you gently on the counter while he reheated the food, slipping his arms around your waist as the microwave hummed. You leaned into him, breathing him in, the safety of him, the warmth of him.
He pressed a kiss to your cheek.
“Mrs. York,” he murmured, “we’re gonna make this place ours. All of it.”
You smiled, fingers brushing through his hair.
“We already are baby”
He grinned & rubbed his hands up & down your bare thighs.
“Something inside me knows that I didn’t need a ring or anything to make you mine” he says as microwave stopped. “Because you have always been my home & where ever you are is safe to me”
Rating: Explicit, MDNI
WC: 6,6k
Summary: Joel gets a batch of pills with strange side effects. He decides that it would be a shame to waste them. After all, he can use them to get something: you.
Tags: non-con/dub-con, Joel’s pov, smut, masturbation, manipulation, kinda love bombing, drugging, brief dry humping, unprotected p in v, nipple play, fingering, introverted reader, slightly naive reader, she's a grown ass woman but there's still non specified age gap between them, she's not described besides having hair long enough to be tied up in a bun, she's described wearing jeans and t-shirt, liar!Joel, mean!Joel, dark!Joel, he acts kindly but he has no good intentions, sex pollen vibes but slightly different, orgasm denial, praising, dirty talking, pet names, a little bit of somno, oral (f receiving), Sarah, Tess and Tommy mentioned but they’re either dead or went away, I’m sorry. I changed the dynamic and the tl a little bit, sorry, we're like 10 years into the outbreak but Tess is already gone, mention of morning-after pill.
A/N: The idea sparked reading a Reddit post and a conversation with @aurorawritestoescape helped me figuring out what I wanted to write 🤭
Thanks honey for your help and for being the best beta-reader, I couldn’t have done it without you♥️ I haven't written Qz!Joel and non-con / dub-con in a long time and I'm a little nervous to share this. He's probably not as gruff as you'd expect. He's mean though. Please be kind, I really hope you like it! English is not my first language, any mistake is still on me!
“Hey Miller!” the guard approaches him.
Joel turns and, to his surprise, finds a rifle pointed at him. Taking the usual shortcut home, a narrow back road that smells of piss and remorse, wasn’t the best idea today.
Joel clenches his jaw as he looks at the guard and then hisses, “Get this rifle out of my face.”
“Those shitty pills you sold me yesterday don’t work”.
Joel shrugs “What the hell do you mean?”
The guard slams the barrel of the rifle into his cheek. “They didn’t get me high and when I tried to fuck my woman I couldn’t cum!”
Joel turns up his nose at the unsolicited information. “It’s not the pills’ fault your dick doesn’t work”
The guard is furious, holding the rifle an inch from Joel’s nose. “My cock is good, you asshole, I know for sure it was those nasty pills. I want a refund.”
“No refunds, it’s your business,” Joel gruffs, but the guard doesn’t seem persuaded at all to let it go.
“Listen, do you want me to report you? I’m sure my boss would love to know how you sneak out of the QZ to get the fucking drugs, don’t you think?” he barks, shoving the rifle into the other man’s flesh. “What do you say, Miller, I have to put a stop to your nice black market, huh?”
Joel shifts the rifle, holding the barrel with two fingers.
“What the fuck do you want? I don't have any more pills.”
He'll break his jaw, a moment's distraction is enough to disarm him. These spineless guards don't scare him.
“I know you have more. Give them to me,” the guard orders. Joel weighs his options. He doesn't feel like breaking his knuckles and disfiguring this guy's face, and after all, he's one of his best customers. And he can't lose his cards. He needs them to get anything in this godforsaken place until he manages to slip back out into the outside world.
Joel has just returned so he should have waited at least a month to avoid drawing too much attention.
He snorts, pulling a plastic bag full of amphetamines out of his pocket - pills he would have preferred to keep for himself.
The guard catches them and threatens Joel, “Try to screw me over one more time and I’ll break your fucking bones. You can keep this crap.”
He tosses the bag of pills at Joel, spits on the ground and walks away.
Joel looks at the pills. They seem fine. The guy who sold them to him is new, he’d never done business with him before. He met him outside Bill’s house after picking up some ammo. Long, curly, graying hair, big round glasses. He looked a bit like a mad scientist, spouting big words and formulas that Joel couldn’t make heads or tails of, but at some point he mentioned Bill’s name, and Joel trusted him. Bill never talked to anyone; if he knew him, he must have some credibility. At least that’s what Joel thought, so he agreed to sell the product the guy was offering. But clearly, he was wrong.
Joel heads home, weighing the packet in the palm of his hand. He thinks back to what the guard told him—that he hadn’t been able to come all evening. He didn’t mention any other problems, so probably everything else had worked, it was just the climax that was missing. Was it some kind of edging? Joel comes to his apartment and sits in the kitchen, wondering what on earth he could do with them and whether he could make use of them in some way.
Joel pours himself a glass of whiskey and sips it while watching the sky grow dark.
What if the guard had told him a lie just to get the amphetamines? He can't stand the thought of being scammed.
So Joel takes one, swallowing it with a sip of whiskey, just to see if that idiot tried to rip him off.
He hops in the shower and goes to sleep.
After tossing and turning in bed for a couple of minutes, he starts to feel strange.
A sudden wave of heat washes over him, his blood seems to be racing through his veins, his cock stirs beneath his boxers and grows hard, without him even touching it, stimulated by nothing more than that stupid pill he swallowed earlier.
His hand slides down into his underwear, trying to jerk off, but after several minutes, all he’s managed to do is get even harder, with no happy ending.
It feels like hell, just like that dude said.
He pulls down his boxers and tries to hump the mattress, rubbing his cock against the crumpled sheet.
No matter how much effort Joel puts into it, no matter how much precum he’s dripping onto the sheets, climax never comes.
Joel is in disbelief, frustrated, and drenched in sweat, his painfully hard cock shows no sign of softening.
He stays awake almost all night, in agony, lying on the mattress and hoping that the drug’s effects will eventually wear off.
By the time dawn breaks, his cock finally begins to soften.
When Joel gets up, he still hasn’t decided what to do with the pills. He hides them under a floorboard where he keeps his contraband, gets dressed, and leaves the house. He is tired, but insomnia often haunts him and he is now used to it, even though he shouldn't be.
A full day of work in the dining hall awaits him. Ever since word got out that you could get extra ration cards by shoveling out the sewers, everyone wanted to do it. The stench didn’t matter, what mattered was the gnawing hunger that gripped everyone.
As soon as he walks into the kitchen, he sees you peeling potatoes in a corner of the long metal counter.
He says hello to you, and you reply in a whisper, barely looking him in the face.
You seem very shy, reserved, and not very talkative. Joel likes that, he has no desire to listen to anyone’s chatter.
You’re gorgeous, and Joel likes that too.
He puts on one of the aprons left on the counter and grabs a knife.
He stands next to you, starting to help you peel the huge pile of potatoes in front of you.
Your hands move quickly, the sharp knife glides effortlessly between the flesh and the skin, your gaze is focused and attentive.
Every time you drop a peeled potato into the large plastic container filled with cold water, you let out a small sigh, so faint it’s barely audible.
The more Joel looks at you, the more delightful you seem to him—your eyes, your lips curled into a slight pout, your hair tied back in a bun, the scent of vanilla filling his nostrils, likely emanating from your skin.
You look exhausted, like everyone else in the QZ, but there is something ethereal and sweet about you that captivates Joel’s gaze and slows him down at work.
The surreal silence in which you are immersed is broken by a rough, boisterous man who bursts into the kitchen introducing himself as the head cook.
Joel doesn’t even listen to what he’s saying, he nods while the man’s mouth moves, babbling about stews and soups—the only bland and utterly unappetizing dishes that have always been served in the QZ dining hall.
For the rest of the day, his eyes are all over you. Kitchen isn’t so bad after all, if it means he can spend his time looking at someone as pretty as you.
He doesn’t care about other people working around him, the heat from the stoves that’s making his face flush, the smell of onions and meat that’s soaking into his shirt, or the rough-mannered man barking orders at everyone. As he’s standing next to you, as you stir the giant pot of soup with a ladle, a thought grows stronger in his mind.
________________________
Joel needs to be careful. He has to earn your trust first, and to do that, he starts showing up in the kitchen more and more often, peeling potatoes, doing the dishes, serving food. Anything to be near you. He greets you as soon as he walks in, when he finds you already there working, and throws a few jokes to which you sometimes answer shyly and other times simply giggle so softly that your laughter sounds like a symphony in his ears.
Day after day, watching you work with your head down as if you were afraid to look people in the eye, so inexperienced and vulnerable, he feels increasingly compelled to win you over.
He starts with simple questions that seem innocent, like how you ended up in the QZ, if you have any living relatives, if you live with anyone. You reply that you ended up there when you were just turned 19, and this explains to Joel your vulnerability and fragility—you didn’t have much experience of the world before, and in this one you realized it’s much better for someone like you not to draw attention.
Abuse by the guards is a daily occurrence, the fireflies are portrayed by the government as subversives and criminals, people are desperate and hungry, and on every street corner you can be robbed of the few ration cards you managed to scrape together—or worse. Much worse.
Your parents died on the day of the outbreak in a car accident while you were trying to escape, you and your brother managed to reach the QZ before he became seriously ill and died due to the lack of medicine and medical care available.
You were left alone in the world, moving like a ghost through the dirty, foul-smelling streets, trying to survive as best you could in a bare, dilapidated apartment that had been assigned to you.
Living there alone was tough, you missed your relatives and had no one who could help. But you grew accustomed to the silence broken only by alarm sirens and the screams of people in the streets.
You're a rare find, and Joel knows it.
He pretends to be genuinely sorry about your loss, praises your strength, and showers you with compliments that seem to make you melt a little more with every passing minute.
You probably haven’t really spoken in depth to anyone in years, and Joel is the first person who’s taken an interest in you in this hell.
It’s easy. He acts like a perfect gentleman, taking the heavy lifting off your hands, helping you get a few extra cards from the gruff head cook, and offering to walk you home after work to keep you safe.
“QZ sucks, I’m glad to help a friend any way I can,” he says and your face brightens so delightfully.
Every now and then he touches you, making it seem casual, a hand brushing against your hip as he passes behind you to pick up a potato peeler, your fingers casually touching as you talk, walking side by side in the street. Just a hint, but it shakes you every time. Joel is amused to see you unconsciously trembling as your lower lip disappears behind your teeth.
Day after day, he notices how you open up to him, how your smile spreads across your face when you see him, how you start the conversation yourself to find out more about him.
One morning, while peeling yet another sack of potatoes, you even venture a joke about how incompetent the head cook is.
Joel smiles smugly, watching your every reaction, metaphorically rubbing his hands together at each of your genuine attempts to get closer to him.
You're so grateful for everything he does, so amazed that he goes out of his way to protect you.
One afternoon, as he’s walking you home, he suggests you go to his place.
Just to chat, he says.
“I’ve got CDs, some tea, and I managed to snag some chocolate I found in the pantry. We could eat it together.”
“I haven't eaten chocolate since... all this started,” you say shyly, your sad eyes dropping, and Joel can't help but notice once again just how attractive you are, without even realizing it.
“Well, you work so hard, you deserve it,” he says, winking at you, and when you reply with a smile, he knows he's got you wrapped around his finger.
“Okay, thanks. I'll come by someday after work.”
When he gets home and steps into the shower, thinking about your breasts nestled in your worn-out T-shirt—which barely manages to hide your bra—about the beads of sweat he sees trickling down between them as you sweat over the stove, how they glisten on your skin, and the delicious scent you give off despite everything, his cock stirs and demands attention.
He can’t wait to have you all to himself, to feel just how tight your inexperienced pussy is, to see how wet he can make you and how you will moan beneath him as he thrusts deep inside you, your completely naked body a toy he can use for his pleasure.
Before Joel can stop himself, his cock is already in his hand, he’s jerking off hard, until he comes against the chipped tiles of his shower.
He has to make his move on you as soon as possible, he won't be able to hold out much longer.
He collapses onto the bed, exhausted, with your smile and your innocent eyes burned into his mind, and falls asleep only after coming one more time, soiling his pajamas and the sheet, losing consciousness covered in his own semen.
He doesn’t even care to acknowledge just how depraved he’s become, now that life has stripped him of the last shred of humanity he had left. He must have you, whatever the cost.
Sarah, then Tommy, then Tess. Everyone he cared about was either dead or miles and miles away from him.
He tried to protect them and he failed, every single time.
He tried to be good but life kicked his ass so hard he thought about ending it all.
He's cried enough, he's suffered enough, there are no more tears left to shed.
He’s alone in this filthy world, thoughts screaming in his head, pounding against his temples. They can be dulled with alcohol, sometimes with pills, but the only thing that guaranteed him a full night’s sleep lately was you.
Planning how to play with you is the only thing that stops him from thinking about what he’s lost, what he’s become, and how doomed his fate is.
_____________________
“Are you tired?” he asks you as you two are leaving the dining hall.
“Not much. I slept well last night.”
“Good,” he smiles softly.
As you’re walking, a man approaches you.
He’s dirty, smelly, visibly drunk, his greasy, matted hair hangs around his face.
“Hey, sweetheart, how about giving me some of your honey? Hmm?” he mumbles, his saliva flying in all directions, his arms stretched dangerously forward, reaching out to touch you. He gropes your breast and tries to pull you closer, almost touching your ass.
You pull back, instinctively clinging to Joel’s arm.
At this moment Joel can’t believe his luck, it’s the perfect opportunity to prove you can trust him.
“Get the hell out of here!” Joel growls at the man. “You better stay away!” He backs up the threat with a hard shove that sends the man staggering.
The guy raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, calm down, man. I didn't know she was your wife.”
He walks away, muttering to himself.
When Joel turns to you, your eyes are filled with gratitude, as if he was a knight in shining armor who came to save your life.
“Thanks,” you whisper, and Joel shrugs. “No problem, we’re friends, aren't we?”
You nod, struggling to hold back the wide smile spreading across your face. Your eyes sparkle, your arms are still wrapped around his, your tits pressing against his shirt.
He’s been so smooth with you that by now you’re hanging on his every word.
“Want to come over to my place and try some of that chocolate?”
You agree enthusiastically.
The rest of the walk to his house is fairly quiet. The sun is setting, the streets are slowly emptying, and the soldiers on patrol are urging everyone to go home before curfew.
When you arrive in his apartment, Joel invites you to sit on the couch.
“I'll be right back,” he smiles at you. “I'll make you a cup of tea.”
He goes into the kitchen, grabs an old kettle from the pantry and a few tea bags he picked up at Bill’s house.
Once he’s filled your cup, he dissolves one of the pills he’s been saving in the drink.
_____________________
While you’re drinking tea, he lets you pick the music, flipping through the CDs he’s collected over the years. “I don’t know,” you say, “I’m not really a music expert.” You laugh nervously as you read the names on the spines.
“Okay, let me see... this is perfect.”
He pops it into the dusty CD player, and trip-hop fills the thick air of the room.
“Oh, I know this song.” A smile lingers on your lips as you sit down on Joel’s couch reaching for your cup of tea on the coffee table.
“Yeah? You like it?” Joel is methodically lurking you in, trying to ease your nerves. He can see the tension in your shoulders melt away and your whole body relax.
Just what he always wanted.
“Yeah, I do.”
"I can lend you this CD whenever you want. Massive Attack is a great band,” Joel suggests, sitting down on the couch next to you.
“Unfortunately…,” you look at the mug in your hands, “I don't have anything to listen to it on. Actually, I don't know how long it's been since I listened to music, to be honest.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry,” he touches your arm lightly. “Well, then... you can come over here whenever you want to listen to it.”
And once again, you give him that look. Grateful, almost moved by his thoughtfulness toward you.
“Thanks, Joel, you're the first real friend I've made here.” You smile and he’s quick to respond, “no problem, dear, it’s my pleasure. You should drink up, it’ll get cold.”
You take a long sip, finish the cup, and set it back down on the table in front of you.
Joel waits. He lets you talk, asking you more about your past life, your education, and what career you wanted to pursue, as well as what you liked to do in your free time.
You don’t seem to notice the time passing as you’re talking. You’re spellbound, completely captivated by him—so much so that your hands brush against his forearm more than once as you tell him about your dreams and hopes.
Dreams and hopes that no longer exist.
When Joel tries to kiss you, you pull back for a moment, confused.
“Are you sure? Me?”
And that’s when he pulls out his final move, confessing that he’s always liked you and was just hoping for you to like him back. He tells you he was afraid of ruining your friendship, but at the same time, you’re so beautiful and sweet that he couldn’t help himself.
And you believe him. You fall right into his trap.
You’re the one who kisses him first right after, your hand sliding behind his neck, your fingers playing with his curls.
He reciprocates with a sense of victory spreading in his chest, feeling your body melt for him, all pliant and needy, like he was the man of your dreams.
“Oh baby, you don't know what you're doing to me,” Joel whispers as he moves down your neck, planting little kisses on your soft skin.
And you moan, timidly, as if you can’t believe it.
“Can I keep going?” he asks, looking into your hazy eyes.
“Yes, please.”
“Come here,” he invites you, taking your hands and pulling you to straddle him.
He grabs your hips, pushing you against him, kissing you again, patiently, delicately, without forcing you.
You start to move your hips, likely driven more by drugs than by your own reasoning.
Your clothed pussy brushes against his bulge and you gasps, surprise all over your face.
“It’s so good…,” you whisper and Joel strokes your cheek, so gently.
“I know, baby. Take more…”
He adjusts his position on the couch so that you get more friction. You nod, rolling your hips again, your arms around his neck, Joel’s hands holding you tightly while you’re seeking your pleasure, grinding against him, the seam of your jeans stroking your clit just right.
You're so beautiful like this, completely captivated by him and by your newly awakened desire.
Mouth agape, your body hot, hitting the tent beneath his jeans over and over again until you squeeze your eyes in pleasure so hard Joel thinks you’re about to burst.
But you can’t. You’re on the edge and can't break through it.
Your eyes flutter open, uncertain and burning, and Joel hurries to reassure you. “It's okay, honey. Do you want to go to bed? We'll be more comfortable there.”
You follow him without hesitation.
Joel undresses you, crouches to take off your shoes, lets your clothes fall to the floor—careful, gentle, slow, as if it were truly an important moment for him.
And it is, but not in the way you think.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Joel whispers to you, his husky, seductive voice runs into your ears and down your spine, your nipples hardening instantly as he drinks in your figure, his eyes gliding over your curves, your breasts, down your hips, until they reach between your legs.
Your tight, delicious pussy throbs for him, and the urge to fuck you hard until he can’t catch his breath hits him like a bolt of lightning.
But no, he has to be careful, you mustn’t notice, you mustn’t know how badly he wants to break your will forever.
He takes your hand, helping you lie down on his bed, and undresses in front of you. He sees longing in your eyes, your desire growing as he reveals every part of his body to you. Your body writhes on the mattress, eager, impatient. “Please, Joel,” your voice pleads, nervously, as if all you feel right now is pure want.
Your mouth twitches as his semi hard cock finally springs free, a loud gasp roaring in the back of your throat.
Joel struggles to hold back a smirk as he lies down next to you, impossibly close but not yet towering over you.
His hand cups one of your breasts, testing its softness and weight, feeling your nipple press against his palm.
You arch your back as if struck by an electric shock, moaning loudly under his touch.
“I’ll go slow, baby,” he promises you.
But you don’t want him to go slow. He can see it in your eyes, in your desperately tense muscles, in your lower lip trembling like a leaf in the wind.
“I...” you try to say, but his fingers twist your nipple and all you can do is let out another helpless moan.
Oh, the drug is working so fine.
“What, sweetie? Use your words, I know you can,” he coos, gently caressing you, his fingers sliding down the valley between your breasts.
“I... I never do things like this. I don't know what's happening to me. I... I need you, Joel, so badly.” Your voice is almost a sob, hoarse and broken.
He reassures you. Of course.
“There's nothing wrong with you, sweetheart.” he says as his hand moves up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “That’s completely normal, you know.”
“It burns under my skin, it’s so heavy and hot it actually hurts…oh my God, Joel, please, help me!” Your voice is a cry, your eyes are filled with tears, your pupils dilated, you seem to be in turmoil just from a little touch.
Joel stops himself from breaking into yet another wicked grin while his fingers wander over your jaw, down to your neck, whispering, “I’m going to make you feel better, honey.”
Joel kisses you, and the moment your lips meet his, you cling to him as if he were your only salvation, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as tightly as you can pull him toward you with an urgency that makes Joel’s chest swell with pride.
Your tongue immediately seeks his, swirling and chasing his taste and his touch.
You moan into his mouth so eagerly Joel thinks you're about to lose your goddamn mind.
It’s carnal, messy, sloppy and it makes his head spin a little.
He moves on top of you, his hands sliding over your torso and hips, gripping you there, holding you steady as you tremble beneath him and your body arches to seek friction.
Pulling away from his lips, you start begging him again—to touch you, to kiss you, to lick you...again and again.
Joel doesn’t even know how certain things are coming out of your mouth, but he doesn’t need to be told twice. You’re making him rock hard. His lips trail down your neck, pausing at your breasts, eliciting goosebumps all over your skin. He sticks out his tongue and gently licks one of your nipples. To his great surprise, you push it into his mouth so hard that he almost bites you.
“Fuck, honey, I could’ve hurt you,” he warns you but you're as wild as an animal right now, and you cry out, “Bite me, Joel, suck it, please, I need it!”
And he does.
His lips close around your nipple, his teeth gently tug at it before he begins to suck greedily.
Your body trembles, covered in sweat, naked and vulnerable beneath his weight. Joel almost struggles to keep his composure at the stubborn way you demand to be used.
How lucky he was to have discovered that drug—he must remember to thank and give that guard a discount for this revelation.
Your skin is hot, it smells wonderfully, it feels so good under his palms, so soft as he plays with your nipple, making it hard and swell.
“Fuck, you’re so damn sweet,” Joel grumbles against your skin and all you can do is whimper.
His fingers trace a path down your thigh, brushing against it, moving upward toward your center.
He locks eyes with yours—adoring, desperate, pleading,
“May I?” He asks and lingers with just his fingertips on your mound, waiting for your all-too-obvious answer.
“Yes. Please.”
That’s all he needs.
His fingers descend to meet the mess between your legs.
It’s hot, wet, completely enveloping his fingers as he sinks them between your lips, up and down along your slit.
You writhe like a woman in heat at the sensation, your hips bucking, one hand clenching his forearm while the other clutches the sheet.
“Yes! ohmygod just like that!” You cry and it sounds like honey in his ears.
He moves up toward your clit, tracing circles slowly, applying pressure now and then, using your sweet juices as lubrication. It’s swollen and throbbing beneath his fingers, deliciously stiff and demanding attention.
His mouth focuses on your other breast, nipping at the soft skin there, his tongue swirling around your nipple.
“I need more..,” you breathe and he looks into your eyes, searching for a confirmation as he prods, “do you want my fingers, hun?”
You eagerly nod, mouthing a yes, your voice broken and trapped in the back of your throat.
“I’m gonna give you that,” he smiles, as softly as he can because he needs you to think he’s doing it all exclusively for you. He's just fulfilling your wishes.
He lingers on your slit with two fingers, while his thumb keeps working on your clit.
You take his wrist and press his fingers against your opening.
Joel chuckles, feigning surprise. “Easy, baby.”
“It feels so empty, please…I need…”
He doesn't let you finish your sentence, he slips a finger inside and feels your pussy clamp down on it like a vice, before it adjusts to his intrusion and lets him thrust deep inside you. “That's it, good girl...”
He curves the tip of his finger toward your sensitive spot, testing it, pressing there briefly before asking, “think you could take another one?”
Your “please” is barely audible but the grimace of need painted all over your mouth is eloquent enough for him to add his ring finger.
The more he pushes you, the more you beg for it, crying, without realizing there’s no way for you to cross that line.
And Joel relishes it. He relishes seeing you desperate, he relishes hearing your voice break, he relishes watching you strive for that pleasure with all your might while knowing it will never come—and that, at the same time, you’ll never stop asking for it.
“I can't... I can't, Joel,” and he knows exactly what you mean.
He caresses your sweaty face, trying to make his voice as sweet as he can, whispering, “Hey, it's okay, it's all okay, baby.”
You close your eyes, letting out a frustrated moan, and look at him as if asking for help. “No, you… you’re so… God… and I can’t…”
“You’re perfect. You’re perfect, sweetheart, you’ll make it.”
You’re convinced it’s your fault that you can’t come, you can’t even look at him anymore, your gaze drifts to the ceiling, to the bare walls, anywhere but Joel’s face.
He takes your chin between two fingers and draws your gaze back to him.
“Hey, look at me, baby.”
Your pout speaks volumes: discomfort and mortification.
“Maybe it’s me…” he says, working his fingers gently inside your pussy, “maybe I’m not filling you up enough like this… do you want to try with my cock?”
“Yes, please, yes... I... can't”
“Shhhh, it's okay, baby, don't worry, I'll take care of it,” he lies.
Joel pulls his fingers out of your pussy and bites his lip at your protests, he’d burst out laughing if he could. They’re soaking wet with your juices. He uses them to lubricate his cock, mixing your essence with his precum in a few lewd, squelching strokes, before lining up with your opening.
Your eyes are fixed on his cock as you exhale, “God, it’s huge”
Warm tears stream down your cheeks, trailing across your face and glistening on your skin.
“Yeah, baby, I know. It will take some time,” he tells you through this, “you know?”
You shake your head, your hands clinging to his back as you press him against you, “I can’t wait…fill me, Joel, fill me now.”
“Are you sure?”
Holding back this much isn't easy for him either. He just wants to shove his cock into your tight little pussy, ruin your hole, pump his cum inside you, but he doesn't want you to notice. He doesn't want you to think it's his fault or that he's taking advantage of you.
So he plays innocent, praising you,
“You're so good, honey, so good to me. I love that you want me so much, but I need to be careful. I can’t risk hurting this perfect pussy, babe, I want to keep sinking into her for a long, long time, yeah? And to do that, I need her to be okay.”
You give in, a faint, pleased smile playing on your lips as you agree, sobbing, “okay”
He pushes the tip inside—just the tip—while trying with all his might not to come right there, and at that moment, your pussy tightens around him, sucking him in, dripping more juices down his shaft.
“Fuck, you're so tight,” he murmurs, and you look at him with hopeful eyes, hazy with tears, so sweet that for a moment he almost feels bad about what he's doing. But he can't tell you the truth. Not yet.
The deeper he thrusts into you, the more his cock throbs against your walls, its length stretching you out, inch by inch, your body tenses and relaxes, your hips writhe, and your breath grows shorter. And yet, you’re still teetering on the edge, in that limbo he’s put you in, unable to say “enough” and with no hope for a climax.
When he reaches the bottom, your face is distraught, your lips swollen from all the biting you’ve been doing, your body twitching with lust and craving.
And that’s when Joel feels you’re about to break completely, just babbling “please” and “need you to move” and his name like a chant over and over again.
“Damn, baby, m’not gonna last if you keep doin’ this.”
“Just… fuck me, Joel. Fuck me hard.”
And with that, he starts to move, well aware it won’t change a single thing for you.
His cock is sliding in and out of you, pounding harder as you adjust more around him. You’re so wet it’s a fucking river between your legs at this point and he’s able to feel every single flutter of your cunt, sucking him in like you’d like to swallow him whole.
Your hard nipples brush against his chest with every thrust and you whine, you whine so incessantly Joel thinks it’s almost too much. He loves it though, the way you never stop asking for him to split you open.
Two of his fingers move back to your clit, circling and applying pressure over your swollen bundle of nerves.
“Fuck,” he growls. “it’s been a million year since I had a pussy this good, honey. I swear you’re fucking incredible.”
You’re convulsing underneath him, incoherently, sweat drenching your hair, glistening on your eyebrows, running down your neck where his tongue savors it, salt, vanilla and the inherently unique taste of you dancing on his tastebud.
He’s near, he can feel it in his every fiber, his chest burning, his back tensing, his cock pulsing.
His load paints you a few thrusts later, filling your warm wet cunt, sticking to your walls like you asked him to.
Joel collapses down next to you on the bed to catch his breath and hears you moaning softly, now so desperately confused about what’s wrong with you.
He props himself up, resting his cheek on one hand, the other stroking your belly up and down, trying to comfort you.
“You make me feel so good, Joel. No one has ever made me feel this way, but I...”
“Can't you cum?”
Your eyes fixate on a crease in the sheet, your hand trying to smooth it out as a coping mechanism, as if fixing that could fix you.
“I just don't get it...” you say, feeling down, while his hand plays with a strand of your hair.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
“Yeah, a couple of times, with my high school boyfriend, before it all went downhill…he was nothing like you but he made me… you know”
“No need to be worried, babe. We can try again tomorrow,” he suggests “Maybe we should get some sleep.”
“Do you still want me?” you ask hesitantly, meeting his eyes again.
“Of course, I want you, baby.”
Your eyes glisten with tears, and your hand unconsciously clings to his wrist. “Oh, Joel, I'm broken,” you whisper, as if you can't believe it.
“You're not broken, sweetheart. You'll see that you can do it, and I'll help you.”
He takes you in his arms, stroking your back, comforting you, hiding a sly smile as he kisses your forehead. “Sleep, honey, I'm here.”
He can feel your pussy throbbing against his leg, dripping with his cum and your unrelenting arousal, your whole body is still tense and shaken by that limit you’ve never managed to break through.
Finally, you fall asleep, exhausted.
__________________
The next morning, you wake up with Joel’s face pressed against your pussy, his broad shoulders holding your legs apart, his large hands clinging to your thighs.
During the night he thought long and hard, as he struggled to fall asleep, lulled by your breathing finally returning to normal. He looked at your face, finally relaxed, and thought that maybe it was better to make you come once. To give you a little treat before making you swallow another pill.
Wake you up with an orgasm, make you believe you were just nervous, let you reach the peak as you desired, and then deny it to you again without your knowledge.
It could work.
So at the first light of dawn, he moves between your thighs, his legs dangling off the mattress as he looks at your sweet pussy.
It’s still wet, irresistibly swollen, and worn out from the sex the night before.
He starts slowly, using just the tip of his tongue, testing your sensitivity. You stir in your sleep, letting out a moan, a small smile on your lips.
He tries a longer lick and you seem to take it well, so he picks up the pace, tasting you on his tongue, drinking from you greedily, your juices beginning to drip down onto his lips, chin, and beard.
There’s nothing better than going about his day with your taste and scent on him.
When his nose brushes against your clit, you open your eyes.
He looks up at you, smiling, “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Your expression quickly shifts from surprise to delight.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you reply, running a hand through his dark curls, your eyes fixed on his mouth, wet with you.
You’re not annoyed that he’s started touching you while you sleep, quite the opposite. You seem relieved.
The fear of being rejected by him probably overshadows everything else, and that’s exactly what Joel wants.
Bringing you to orgasm this time is very easy, as soon as he closes his lips around your clit and sucks it, your body tenses, your legs wrap around his head, and you moan.
“Oh my God, Joel, I’m so close.”
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Come for me”
And you do. After a few laps he closes his lips on your clit and that's when you explode, wetting his chin, his neck and the sheets beneath you.
The room is filled with your moans, you convulse on the bed, pressing your hips against his face, your hands clenching the sheets, your head back on the pillow and your eyes squeezed shut.
Joel licks eagerly, feeling your pussy clamp around nothing, his fingers dig into the tender flesh of your ass as he holds you in place for him.
“I knew you could do it, you did so good for me, baby,” he whispers, resting his cheek on your thigh.
You two stay in bed a little longer before heading to the kitchen, where Joel offers you a cup of coffee. “Don’t worry about yesterday, I have plenty of pills I can give you.”
You nod, smiling gently, probably thinking about how much he cares and worries about you.
“Thanks, Joel.”
“No problem, sweetie, I’ll get them for you right away.”
He reaches into his stash, pulling out a morning-after pill that he usually sells.
“I’ll give you another one tonight. That’s how this pill works,” he lies. “Go take a shower while I make breakfast, okay?”
You thank him again as you head to the modest bathroom, closing the door behind you.
Joel smirks, putting the morning-after pills back in their place and counting his supply of orgasm-blockers.
A full bag, at least a month’s worth of sex. Just enough to turn you into what he wants. His little pet.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mum would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
jack omg i love him and the yearning! wants her so bad he’s essentially working 16 hours shifts just to see her😩 where is this man, because i need him exponentially
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Robby's wife!reader (with a sprinkle of Robby x wife!reader)
Words: 3.2k
CW: explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: perv!Jack Abbot, objectifying thoughts and feelings towards reader, falling for his best friend's wife, age gap, lowkey cheating, panty stealing, masturbation (m), voyeurism, piv sex, breeding kink
Summary: Jack wants you...Robby's wife.
a/n: perv!Jack Abbot I love you
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.
"Hi Jackie."
His heart does a flip the second his brain processes your sweet voice.
He knows he shouldn't react this way but my God he can't help it, can’t will his body to feel anything other than a deep, perverted desire for you.
You, the sweet angel baby who always packs an extra meal for him.
You, the precious ray of sunshine he gets every night before he starts his shift, accompanied by a hot earl grey that you make him in a ceramic travel mug.
You, the beautiful and gorgeous and sexy vixen that slides your hands over his chest on your way to hug him unapologetically, overly familiar, definitely not appropriate for the workplace.
You, who holds him tightly, pressing your cheek against his chest as you catch up with Dana. You, who he can’t stop himself form hugging back because that would just be plain rude.
You, who looks up at him with stars in your eyes and a smile so dazzling he’s unsure how his heart hasn’t given out from the strain of how fast it beats for you.
You, who a few months ago slid a ring on your finger and vowed to love and protect till death makes you part.
You, who loves and cares and adores him, almost as much as he does you.
You, who immediately slip out of his embrace when Robby finally shows himself, bag swung over this shoulder, lunch box and huge as water jug in one hand.
You, who get up on your tiptoes to wrap your hands around his neck and kiss him softly, eliciting chuckles and teases from the day and night shift around.
You, who giggle into the mouth of your husband as he uses his free hand to throw a middle finger around to everyone, erupting the ED into a warm glow of playfulness that has never been felt before.
“Hi honey,” he mumbles against your lips and you beam, your warmth no longer on Jack.
The chilliness settles right down to the bone, unforgiving and cruel, but he can’t look away. Can’t help the pit of jealousy that burns a cold ember in his stomach, that makes his heart constrict, that causes him to feel shame.
Because who the fuck does he think he is, looking at his best friend’s wife like this? Copping a feel every time you give him the chance to? Holding you tightly like he too is lucky enough to call you his whenever you wrap your arms around him?
“Night brother.”
Robby pats Jack as the two of you walk past.
“Have a good shift!” You call out to everyone but your gaze is fixated on Jack, a soft, comforting smile directed only at him.
He gives you one in return and you instantly slide your hand over his arm until it catches between his fingers. He squeezes, almost losing the battle to pull you back into him and tear you away from Robby.
But common sense wins.
Luckily.
And before he knows it, you’re walking out of the ED and he loses your figure to the night.
Dana lets out an amused chuckle beside him and he chooses to let it go, to not question her on it, to swallow the bitter taste of defeat because he knows she’s right.
He wants you.
Needs you.
Desperately.
Like a drowning man needs air.
But he can never have you.
So he’s going to have to get comfortable with lungs full of water.
Unfortunately for Jack, the next time he sees you, you’re…
Fuck, why do you do this to him?
He knows it’s gonna be you who opens the door.
Duh.
It’s your house too.
Your house where he’s going to be spending the next week living while his place gets some work done.
Your house which your husband dotingly bought when he proposed to you.
Your house where you now live together.
Of course it’s you, because he just left the ED after handing it over to Robby, your husband, his best friend.
And you?
You should’ve known he’d be coming over too.
So why the fuck are you only wearing a shirt three sizes too big for you, no bra or top or whatever the fuck you call it underneath, and some skimpy, riding up your ass, shorts?
“Morning.”
He tries to sound normal, not desperate or disgusting or like he wants to absolutely lift you over his shoulder and take you back to bed and ravage you.
You hum in acknowledgement, stepping aside so he can come into the house.
You’ve redecorated since the last time he was here.
It feels different too. Cozier. Like an actual home, not just a house.
He turns to face you, to ask where he should set up camp when you decide to stretch, back cracking slightly.
He’s certain he’s stopped breathing as the shirt rides up ever so slightly, exposing your tummy. But it’s the sounds that spill out of your mouth that give him pause.
The little groans.
The whines.
The satisfied hum as the tension alleviates, even if it’s just for a second.
He doesn’t blink until you speak but he hears none of it, his ears ringing.
His brow furrows so you come over, closer, too close for comfort.
Yet it’s not weird for either of you.
It’s normal. Familiar.
You turn his head around so his “good” ear faces you.
“Do you want breakfast?”
He smiles, placing his hand over yours and for a second he can pretend, he can—
And then you lace your fingers with his, something that you’ve done a million times before because that’s just the kind of person you are, and this is just the kind of relationship you have.
Yet this time it almost breaks him.
He peels your fingers from his face and turns back to face you, pathetically trying not to scare you with just how much hunger has ignited in his belly, one that can’t be satiated by something as silly as food.
“Please.”
You smile brightly again.
He knows you love this, taking care of people, taking care of him…
Taking care of Robby.
He watches you skip into the kitchen, fully awake now at the prospect of coffee and food. You ramble on about something, he honestly doesn’t know what and he wonder how Robby is able to even think when you’re around him.
But it doesn’t matter, because he’s not here right now, and for a few hours before you inevitably have to sit down to get some work done and you force him to lie down to get at least a few hours of sleep, he can pretend.
Pretend he came home to you.
Pretend he got to slide into bed next to you and wake you up with his face between your thighs.
Pretend that you came on his tongue so hard you could barely think.
Pretend that he pulled your panties to the side and slid himself inside of you so snugly, burying his face in the side of your neck as he slowly, lazily fucked you on your side.
Pretend he came inside of you, filled you up to the brim with his spend and stayed there long enough for it to take, plugging you up until you simply had to get up due to forces that neither of you could control.
But that’s all he can do.
Smile and nod and pretend.
The first few days everything works out perfectly.
The three of you settle into a routine that scares him.
It’s easy, it’s simple, it’s…just right.
He sees Robby at shift change every night. He tells him what mood to expect from you when he gets home in a joking, teasing tone, but whatever his friend prepares him for is never what he walks into because the second he steps through the door, with his own keys now, you greet him in the nicest way possible.
At first Jack thinks you’re faking it, but whatever you’d been feeling while with Robby is always long forgotten when Jack arrives.
You make him breakfast. The two of you eat together. He goes to sleep. You go to work.
It’s halfway through the week when you’re working from home.
He can hear the faint humming of your voice coming from the living room as you talk to someone on the phone.
It’s errand day, as Robby put it. Grocery shopping, prescription pick up, post office run, laundry.
Jack wakes up earlier than he’d like, pulled out of slumber by the lull of your honeyed voice and frantic pacing.
The second you see him you still, fuck no, don’t—
“I’ll call you back,” you say to whoever’s on the other side of the line as you frantically pull out your earbuds. “I’m so sorry Jack, did I wake you?”
He smiles softly. Honey, you could do whatever you wanted and I’d still never be angry at you for it.
“No,” he murmurs. “It’s all good.”
You sigh in relief. “Good, cause I actually needed you to wake up.”
He chuckles, pouring himself another cup of coffee before joining you in the living room.
“Can you do me a favor and start the laundry? I’ve gotta go into the office for a bit.”
He’s taken aback for a second, not because he doesn’t want to do it, he’s a guest here, if anything he should be scrubbing this place clean, on his knees, with a toothbrush, for all of your continued generosity.
No, it stills his heart because it sounds so…domestic.
He nods his head. “Of course.”
“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver.”
You continue your franticness, grabbing your work bag and, like instinct, coming over to him and—
It all happens so fast.
You grab his arms to lift yourself up, muscle memory doing more heavy lifting than your brain apparently, as you lean up to kiss him.
You’re so close, your lips hovering a breath away from his own.
His heart skips a beat.
His body tenses under you and it snaps your last remaining neurons into working.
You still, heat instantly consuming you whole as you practically throw yourself back and away from him.
You stumble backwards, his hands quick to catch you before you fall on your ass.
“Oh my god Jackie I’m so sorry,” you giggle, hands coming up to hide your face in shame.
He laughs, soft and understanding, as if his heart is not about to beat out of his chest.
“’s all good,” he soothes, gentle movements across your back to let you know he’s not upset.
But god you’re so embarrassed. And your cheeks are so flushed. And he’s…so fucking hard under the thin cotton of his pajamas.
You huff one last giggle, taking a deep breath in before you’re finally brave enough to face him. His cheeks must be pink as well because you smile brightly, mischievously, like you do every time you know you’re winning at Uno.
In a surge of bravery, however, you rise to your tiptoes again and place a kiss on his cheek instead.
“I’ll see you later,” you tell him before you’re practically scurrying out of the house.
He stays still for far too long after he heard the lock click in place, praying to every god in existence that you didn’t see the absurdly monstrous hard on that not even his boxers can tame down anymore.
Laundry, he’s supposed to be doing laundry.
But he simply can’t focus on anything.
Not when he’s so fucking sensitive and every graze of the fabric against his tip has him hissing into the empty house.
No, he’s not gonna do anything about it.
This is your home.
He may be disgustingly turned on by what just happened but he’s definitely not going to—
He lasts three seconds after he grabs the laundry basket from your bathroom, spilling the contents on the floor and he finds a pair of your panties.
What you don’t know cannot hurt you.
And by god does the scratchy lace feel so good against his aching tip.
It’s all getting washed anyway. Might as well take advantage while he still can, right?
He spits on his hand, using it and the precum that has already started to leak from his tip to moisten the fabric enough so that he’s not irritating his dick more than he wants to.
The slight tinge of uncomfortableness mixes with the pleasure of relief as he pumps himself in slow, even movements.
He thinks of you wearing these to bed. It definitely has to be a part of a set. He knows because Robby loves sets. He admitted as much a few months into the two of you starting to go out, how he’d surprised you with a little green number from this place you mentioned you liked. Expensive. Luxurious. And he’d been treated to a show as you tried it on for him.
He didn’t share how that story ended, but Jack’s imagination could easily fill the gaps.
That’s where it all started.
Back then it was nothing more than a faceless infatuation for companionship.
For a warm body next to his that he could bury all of his stress, frustration, pent up energy and desires into.
And then he’d met you.
With those round, curious eyes. That bright smile and even sharper tongue. You kept up with Jack all night, throwing back quip after quip, fact after fact, all cited and well researched.
Fuck, Jack had never felt more jealous in his life.
And when you stood up to go to the bathroom, not so subtly leaning in to say something to Robby, who followed after you exactly half a minute later, not before shooting Jack a knowing look, he knew he was utterly fucked.
His groans flow freely across your home as he spills himself all over his hand, painting your panties in white streaks.
His heart is thunderous. His mind even more so as all he can think about is having you walk in on him like this, pathetic and ashamed, and dotingly getting down on your knees to lick him clean like he knows you did to Robby that first night you met.
In your defense, he should’ve been back much, much later.
In his defense, you should’ve closed the fucking door.
Part of him is aware that it was only a matter of time before this happened.
If the calendar taped to your fridge was any clue, you’re meant to start ovulating this week, and with Robby finally having a day off, he should’ve known that’s exactly what he’d be walking into.
But no.
He’d decided to play dumb.
To pray that the two of you would be sane and normal and not engage in what sounds like aggressive sex while you know he’s staying with you.
But you’re young. Younger than them at least. And Robby’s an insatiable old man who will stop at nothing to give you what you want.
Jack knows as much as Robby asked him to write him a little prescription for that blue pill he’d dreaded taking his entire life.
But he can’t play dumb any longer.
He should. Definitely. But he doesn’t.
He’s methodical in his approach.
Silently deadly as he creeps up towards the back of the house, towards the little sliver of light shining through the open door of your master bedroom.
You must’ve both forgotten to close it. You’ve never had to in your time as a newly wed couple so why should you now?
He stops for one second. One last moment to hesitate. To pull back. To go back to pretending.
But curiosity wins in the end. He just hopes it doesn’t kill the cat.
He steps into the line of sight, hiding his body as best as he can just in case. But he doesn’t need to do much hiding thankfully.
Robby’s on his back, most likely spent from making love to you a few times already. He can tell by how the only thing the old man is capable of doing is holding your hips to rut back and forth against him.
And you—
Fuck, you are a vision.
There’s a thin sheen of sweat over both your bodies as you lean down over Robby’s legs, clearly spent and overstimulated already.
You’re on top of him, ass facing his face and Jack can only curse under his breath as you slowly pull yourself to sit back up, letting out a shriek at the stimulation. He can see the faint outline of Robby’s monstrous, yes, monstrous, cock against your tummy, and when the man forces your body to rut against him, you let out a moan so delicious Jack can’t help the way his hand just reacts, making contact with his bulge.
A whine escapes him, swallowed by your own as you’re about to start moving.
But you don’t.
You freeze.
Your eyes land on Jack, holding him hostage.
This is it. He’s so fucked.
Time becomes heavy, thick in the back of his throat.
He’s preparing himself to run. To bolt. To never see the two of you again, to change his name and leave the state.
“Honey,” Robby cuts through the noise. “You okay?”
Without releasing Jack, you nod. “’s so big, Mickey.”
The man under you chuckles darkly, possessively, but you don’t react, at least not like Jack expected you to.
“You’re a big girl, honey, you can take it.”
You giggle at that, higher than anything Jack has ever heard come out of you, and you nod, not at Robby, no…at him.
Jack’s brow furrows for only a second but instead you reward him with a roll of your hips, causing Robby to moan behind you.
Jack’s brain completely shuts down. No more thinking. No more hesitating. No more pretending.
He pulls his scrubs down, enough to pull out his raging erection from inside his underwear.
You moan at the sight, picking up the pace, the wet, slapping sounds driving Jack crazy.
He doesn’t even spit in his hand, doesn’t have to. He’s already so close that his dick has decided to just ooze precum continuously.
He rubs himself in tune with your movements, not once breaking eye contact.
And then you start to run your hands down your body. One grabs a hold of your breast, fingers pinching your nipple while the other snaked down between your thighs to rub your clit.
“‘M so close,” you whine and that’s Robby’s cue to take over.
His grip digs into your plush skin, strong arms practically using you like a fleshlight as he bounces you on him.
“That’s it, honey,” he groans. “Such a good girl for me. Gonna look so fucking good all round with my baby, huh? No one else can make you feel this way. No one else can fuck you this good, right?”
You don’t answer.
Can’t answer.
Not as Jack steals you away into your own little world.
Your own little secret.
You come apart around Robby, your eyes snapping shut as your body trembles and your moans fill the house like a choir.
Jack empties himself on his hand next, followed by Robby whose groans attempt to grab your attention once more but they’re unsuccessful.
You open your eyes again, catching Jack’s fucked out expression and beaming.
Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader (Reader is a teacher in Jackson, has long hair.)
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: It’s your birthday, Joel takes you out to the Tipsy Bison, kisses (and does more to) you in the rain, and takes you home to give you a gift (it's sex, the gift is sex). Also, the thought of Joel spitting whiskey in someone's mouth happened and I had to write it out. 🤷🏼♀️
Warnings: smut, drinking, consent first, degradation second, followed by so much praise, hair pulling, spitting, Joel calls you a slut, fingering against a brick wall, F receiving oral, I watched that doggy style Narcos gif (for research) a lot, unprotected p in v, apocalypse birth control (pulling out), Joel’s canon age, Reader’s in her 30’s.
Words: 4,300
A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first published fic. I'm currently working on a grander scale fic with these two, I hope to have the first chapter out within the next couple of weeks. I just really wanted to get this out there! Thanks for reading and a big thank you to @ohheypedrito for all of her help and also to our phones for not overheating when I send 40 texts at once with ideas for fics. Hope you enjoy, can't even blame the feralness of this on the full moon.
Edit: I posted the Masterlist for Elks, my work these two are included in.
***
“Was turning 21 as fun as they’d show in movies back then?” You’re cuddled in next to Joel on his couch sketching in your notebook while Joel reads a book about Native Americans that you found him. You always do this, a random question or thought to break the comfortable silence.
“Not for me, bought a 12 pack of Bud Light and split it on my porch with Tommy. Sarah was only a toddler then and I had work in the morning. Didn’t have the money or the time to go to a bar. ‘Course I don’t think a lotta people did anything the way they’d show in the movies.”
“I always wanted to have my 21st birthday at a bar, ya’ know? Wait until the clock strikes midnight and order a weird named shot.”
“Well, I reckon we could do that at the Bison tomorrow night. Might not be your 21st but I’ll get you whatever you want to drink, and the best part is you can drink before midnight.” Joel pulls you in closer and kisses your forehead, “What do you say, let me take you out for your birthday sweetheart.”
“Yes, please,” you sigh into his shoulder, “sounds amazing.”
“Wear that little blue dress I know you have hanging in your closet.”
The drinks flowing through you making you downright giddy, alcohol making you bolder, your body and your inhibitions becoming looser, your hands becoming addicted to touching Joel, first his leg, then his thigh, now his lower stomach, right at his waistband. You haven’t been this tipsy in a long time, your face feeling flushed and red more from your desire than any drink you’ve had tonight.
“You better knock that off before I take you outside in the rain and fuck you against the building, darling,” Joel huffs into your ear. His fiery warning massaging your neck causing your heart rate cooled by your inebriation to pick up.
“Sooo, keep going?” You slur back.
“If that’s what you really want,” Joel puts a forceful squeeze on your upper thigh, a layer of your dress laying between his skin and your skin. If you weren’t both sitting at the bar, and maybe in one of the more darker corners of the saloon you’d surely hike your skirt up and let him learn just how bad you want him.
It feels so good to let go with him, to giggle openly at his jokes, stare at his profile as he talks with a friend or two who stop by to say hello, or place your hand on his broad back just because you want to touch his soft blue denim shirt.
You watch as his tongue darts out and licks the leftover whiskey off his top lip, Joel’s movements becoming a little slower thanks to the amber liquid he’s been drinking all night. Some droplets glisten on his mustache, you fight every urge inside yourself to not lean over and lick them up.
“It’s what I want,” you respond as you move your hand back and forth across his waistband.
“Jesus Christ, I’m about ready to throw you over my shoulder and run home,” Joel says as he takes your hand into his and pulls it away.
“Not so fast. You told me you’d fuck me in the rain, that’s what I want for my birthday,” you whisper into his ear with a breathy giggle.
“Can’t fuck you out here in public. Small town ‘n all, but I’ll make you feel good,” Joel takes a last swig of his drink, puts the glass down and knocks his fist on the bar to let the bartender know you two are leaving. He leans forward and drawls into your ear, “Now finish your drink if you want me to show you just how happy of a birthday I can give you.”
You nod and gulp your drink down. You’re so wet, you don’t know if you’ve ever been this turned on before. Joel grabs your arm with the perfect amount of pressure, you’ve never been so happy to get outside into the pouring rain.
——
It’s absolutely storming outside, your footsteps sloshing in the puddles on the ground. The rain pelting your’s and Joel’s bodies as you walk through late night Jackson. It feels like you’re the only two people in the whole town as you make your way farther away from the bar. The bulbs of the string lights reflecting off the water gathering on the sidewalks making your path towards Joel’s house golden. You don’t rush, the two of you not scared away by the downpour, the drops cooling your burning skin. Joel turns down the street before his, pulling you behind one of the storage buildings, it’s darker back here, practically pitch black thanks to the rain clouds blocking the moon and the nearest light source being three buildings down. You’re pushed up against the brick, Joel’s hand gently cradling your head to block it from hitting the wall, he’s such a gentleman.
“Happy birthday baby, I need you to tell me you want this, ‘n you’re okay with this, I have plans for you and I need you to tell me you want it.” Joel instructs you, all you can see is his eyes and the faint lines of his facial hair, the rest of him camouflaged by the darkness surrounding the two of you.
“I want it, more than anything. Please,” your voice straining as you beg.
“Tell me you want me to have my way with you,” Joel speaks into your slack mouth as he rubs his arched nose against yours.
“I want you to have your way with me,” you moan against his wet shirt, “so bad.”
“Good girl, now, m’not gonna fuck you here, because I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop and I need to have you in my bed tonight.” Joel starts to move his hand down your body lifting the hem of your dress. “But, you are going to cum for me right here.” Joel captures your mouth with his. His hand starts to trace the outline of your panties, you mew out a cry as his fingers slip through and begin to pet you right where you ache the most. His hands are so big, his fingers so long and thick, always putting the right amount of pressure, moving the way you need him to move. Joel Miller is a capable man, everyone knows that, but nobody, except for you, knows just how capable he is.
Joel sticks a finger in you, though his finger is thick and feels so good, you need more to fill you.
“Another,” you instruct in between fevered kisses. Your pussy clenches as Joel pushes another finger in you. “Yessss,” you moan out against his lips.
“That’s my good girl, gotta get you stretched out f’me.” Joel begins to kiss his way down your chin and neck stopping at your chest, your hard nipples jutting through your wet dress. Joel takes one into his mouth, sucking the fabric and your tit deeper into his mouth. The sloppy wet sounds of Joel’s suctions making you want him more.
“Another finger,” you shudder out.
“Three? You really want it tonight, don’t you?” Joel mumbles against your chest as he sticks a third finger in. It burns, it burns in the best way. You’re ready for him, it’s what you’ve been waiting for all night. You bite down on your lip as your legs begin to shake, Joel can tell you’re right on the edge and twists his fingers inside of you as he finger fucks you harder.
Your orgasm bursts forward your whole body going stiff as you try not to wail out into the night.
“That’s iiiiiit baby,” Joel pulls his fingers out of you and softly pets your pussy from hole to clit.
He removes his hand from between your legs bringing it up between the two of you resting his finger tips against your lips, you open your mouth and begin to lick. His tongue meeting yours as you both clean his thick digits covered in you. He takes his hand away leaving just your mouths to taste each other. His kiss turns tender, your kiss turns desperate.
Joel pulls away resting his forehead against yours. “My beautiful birthday girl. Let’s get you home, my gift’s not done.”
——
Your body practically chills with the promise of what is left to come. Joel grabs your hand and you take it depending on him to lead you to his home. Every step you take you feel your wet core heavy with lust, you’re soaked from the rain and from Joel, if you could drown like this, you would go down with the sinking ship. His house comes into view, your body tingling in anticipation at the site as the both of you speed your footsteps up in perfect agreement.
He throws open the gate, you’re following so close you almost trip on his heels making your way up the walkway and steps. He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the doors, you take the opportunity to run your hands all over his back and sides, rubbing the wet cloth of his shirt as it molds to his body. The door swings open and you both shuffle into his living room gasps escaping your mouths, both out of breath from your dash home and your mutual want for each other. You step out of your wet shoes and shake your hair out.
“Take your dress off, right now.” Joel huffs out as he tosses his keys on the console table and begins to kick his boots off.
You strip yourself of your baby blue frock as fast as you can. You’ve never had a reason to wear such a revealing piece of clothing. You don’t know why you held onto it, let alone grabbing it from the communal clothing rack, never thinking anything, or anyone, would be worthy enough for you to dress up for. Joel’s worthy, so worthy.
“Feel like I’m a little underdressed here…” your words grab Joel’s attention as he moves his hands up to his chest to begin to unbutton his denim shirt. He gets one button taken care of before he rips it open. Shame, it’s your favorite shirt, you'll have to fix it for him later. You watch as a button rolls underneath a table, before you can note where it lands, your attention turns back to Joel to find him stepping out of his jeans and underwear leaving him completely naked.
What a sight, what a fucking sight. There’s only a lamp on in the room, Joel’s body being cast in amber color and shadow, one side of him on full display glowing in the light, the other more difficult to discern. He moves forward stalking you. “Now I’m the underdressed one here. Take them off for me,” he says as he moves to pick up a bottle of whiskey from his shelf.
You follow his instructions shucking your underwear down your legs and leaving them pooled at your feet.
“Good girl,” Joel says as he begins to walk towards you unscrewing the lid off the bottle. He stands in front of you and takes a drink. “Open your mouth,” he orders as he grabs your hair and tips your head back. He takes another pull from the bottle, this time he raises his mouth over your mouth and begins to dribble drips of whiskey down from his mouth into yours. A moan raises from your throat, causing Joel to tighten his hold on your hair and arch your head back even more. He spits the rest of the whiskey straight into your mouth, you happily swallow his spit and liquor down. He unwinds his hands from your hair, takes another drink and kisses you, the whiskey and his tongue spilling into your mouth. Joel pulls back and takes his last swig before resting the bottle on the table. “Get upstairs.”
You don’t think you’ve ever run so fast in your life, tripping over your feet as you rush your way up, Joel’s naked form hunting you like prey up each step.
The sight of Joel’s bed brings a new wave of goosebumps to your skin.
“Bend over on the bed darlin,” Joel turns on a lamp in the corner and pulls it closer. “Need to lick and fuck you with my tongue.”
You move over to Joel’s side of the bed and bend forward, your ass sitting high in the air and your face in the sheets, you inhale the smell of Joel on his sheets. You swing your hips in giddy anticipation of what’s about to happen.
You feel his body lean over yours, his erection laying over your lumbar. “Okay baby, once again, need you to tell me you’re good with me having my way with your body,” he tempts into your ear.
“Fuck, y—yes, fuck, of course I am good. So good.”
“That’s my girl,” Joel’s heavy body lifting off of yours as he kneels between your legs. You feel his hot breaths on you where you’re aching for him the most, you widen your stance egging him on to touch you. “Look at you,” Joel licks your thigh, “so fuckin’ wet you’ve spilled out into your thighs.”
You scream a pleasured yell as Joel’s teeth bite down into the flesh of your thigh and sucks your skin into his mouth. The pain is perfect. He loosens his bite, kissing and licking the spot, the sensation making your body quiver.
“Okay baby?”
“Y-y-yessss,” you answer.
“Whaddo you need sweetheart?”
“Lick me,” you beg out, “please.”
“‘Course. Where do you want me to lick you?” Joel questions as he nuzzles his head against your ass cheek, giving it a small bite.
“My pussy. Pleeeaaase,” you’d say you sound pathetic but you couldn’t care less, your lust overshadowing any type of pride.
“Mm, you sound so needy baby, you sound like you really need my tongue on you, huh?” His teasing drawl drives you crazy, your body won’t stop moving, absolutely radiating tensity from your want.
“Please,” you implore, sobbing out.
“Alright baby,” his hands grab your cheeks and spreads them, widening his view of you. “Prettiest thing I ever seen, love your pussy.”
This act feels so depraved, everything on display for him, legs and cheeks spread wide, your pussy exhibited for him like it’s an art piece.
You literally scream into the bed, biting down on Joel’s comforter as his tongue finally meets your core. This, thiiiiiiis is what you’ve been wanting all night. Joel moans against you, not being able to hold himself back as he tastes you, his fevered licks exploring your cunt, his large tongue mapping every inch of you. He’s absolutely conquering you, the noises of his lips and tongue smacking against your wetness soundtracking his journey.
He can feel you getting close your hips beginning to cant as your orgasm begins to crest. You knew it wouldn’t take long, between the alcohol buzz and Joel’s tongue lapping up your wetness and cum from earlier, you knew you’d be a goner.
“Mmf, cum for me,” Joel speaks against you, his mouth full of you, too busy to pull away to clearly speak. You don’t think he can get any closer to you, his tongue working your orgasm up in intensity with each swirl and dash against your clit. You feel it, it’s here. Your legs instantly collapse, thankful that the rest of your body is resting on the bed. Your eyes tightly squeeze shut and then begin to rapidly blink as your orgasm shatters through you. Joel flattens his tongue against your clit as it pulses. You’re too turned on to make a noise, Joel stepping in for you and groaning as your juices seep out of you.
“Did so good baby,” Joel says leaving one last kiss on your clit before standing up behind you. You want to flip over to look at him, you haven’t seen his face since you laid down on the bed. You have no energy, you’re just a shell of a woman, the only sensations you can feel is the pool of wetness in between your legs and your light inebriation.
Your attention gets pulled to the sound of Joel spitting in his hand, followed by a hiss coming out of his mouth. When you realize exactly what he’s doing, you summon the strength needed to turn over. You flip over, your back thudding on the mattress your legs still spread wide, feet resting on the floor. And there…. there…. THERE he is, standing in the middle of his room, one large hand wrapped around his hard cock softly stroking as he watches you with hooded eyes. You know you just came, but the sight makes your pussy clench with desire.
Joel jerks himself off as his eyes roam your exhausted form. “Been thinking ‘bout this all day. You all laid out in front of me heaving for air after cummin’ all over my tongue,” slow strokes matching his lazing words. “Just about canceled our night out when you opened your door in that little blue dress, looked like you were wearing the sky, baby.”
You bite your lip as all of your senses are so overtly overwhelmed by lust. The sight of Joel’s handsome face watching you, the hazel flecks in his eyes twinkling in the golden light of the lamp. The smell of the rain on your skin mixed with the heady scent of your arousal and Joel’s sheets. The taste of Joel’s whiskey tongue still in your mouth. The sound of Joel’s fist pumping along his hard cock. The feel of the aftershocks of your orgasm still quaking your body. It’s so fucking much, you need Joel inside you. The thought of feeling him stretch you causes a whimper.
“Yeah baby? Havin’ a hard time over there?” Joel stops stroking his hard length, his hand pauses on his shaft. “You want me to fuck you now?”
“Pleeeease,” you keen out.
“Alright sweetheart.” Joel confidently strides over to you, dick still in hand. He stops right at the edge of your feet. “Turn back around ’n get on all fours in the middle of the bed f’me.”
You follow his instructions eager to please. The sooner you get this done, the sooner you can feel Joel enter you.
“Good girl,” he praises as the mattress dips lower with his weight behind you.
Your heart is pounding so loud, your whole body thrumming, you gulp down a breath of air trying to calm your need. You feel Joel’s cock brush against your ass cheek, he’s so close to fucking you.
“Sweetheart, I’m gonna fuck you real good and hard now. Happy birthday baby.”
And just like that, Joel buries his cock inside of you, you’re absolutely stretched around him. Your clit already worked over by Joel’s tongue, now your hole deliciously stinging while it flutters around his cock. He begins thrusting, tender and slow full strokes. Entering and exiting, swirling the head of his cock right at the entrance before plunging back in because he knows you love the feeling. Joel’s groans and your cries join in song as he begins to pound faster, the sound of your bodies slapping together match the rhythm.
“Feel so fucking good, always so perfect for me. S’a good girl, always take it so good,” Joel grits out.
He grabs your hair and wraps it around his fist as he pounds into you. “No one knows how fucking slutty you get for me behind these walls. They think you’re one of those innocent little teachers.” Joel pulls your hair harder causing a scream of ecstasy from you. “You love this, don’t you?”
You do. It’s so rough, so different from how gentle he always is with you. It feels like a luxury to be treated this way by him.
“Y-y-y-yes, God I love it,” you whimper.
“That’s right. That’s what I like to hear. So pretty so smart. So much smarter than me, now I’m makin’ you stupid with my cock, right baby?”
Everybody knows Joel Miller as the strong, silent type, a man of few words, somebody who doesn’t do chit chat. But with you in his bed naked and wailing as he slams into you, Joel Miller won’t shut up.
“Doin’ so good for me. So pretty, so perfect f’me. So wet for me.”
“You made me so wet earlier, I was afraid I was going to leave a mark on the barstool.” Your words coming out as tortured weeps, so lost in your ecstasy you struggle with every word spoken.
“Fuuuuuck.” That got him good. He pounds you even harder, the bed frame shaking violently against his wall, your body and cunt acting as if it’s the only barrier between Joel knocking a hole in the plaster. “Had I fuckin’ known I would have made you stick your face on that chair and made you lick yourself up as I fuck you against it.”
That’s it, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. Joel’s deep timbered accent grunting those deviant words as he grabs you and begins to roll his hips into your cunt. Your body is strung so tight and rigid in all places besides your hips and core, pumping and rolling along with Joel’s as he fucks you. You’re close again, your panting breaths letting Joel know.
“Baby, if you gotta cum, cum,” his grip on your hips pressure into you.
“Going … going.. going to,” the only words you can say as your third orgasm radiates out of your body, your pussy is the epicenter, tingles firing through your veins, your hands fisting the blankets at your detonation. Slack jawed and fucked senseless you rally the strength to not disintegrate and fall into Joel’s bed. Your world has been shattered by Joel, but your body survives for him, your legs and arms shaking under gravity and your weight as they deal with the fallout.
“C’mere baby, lemme help you.” Of course he can tell you’re struggling. He reaches his hands around, clutching your stomach and pulling you up against him. Your back up against his chest, his hand seeking out your breast, the other wrapping around your torso and clutching you to him. He holds you as he fucks into you, his nose brushing against your ear as he puffs and grunts against your neck. “Fucking. Love. You. So. Much.” Each word matching a thrust into you. Your hands find his and grip them, you’ve never felt more loved and protected. Joel Miller has got you.
You feel the familiar shudder in Joel’s movements as he edges close to his climax. His labored breaths getting louder and more fevered against your neck. You’re absolutely wrecked, but the angle of Joel’s cock inside of you mixed with the feeling of the shudder in his movements as he edges himself brings forth another orgasm. Words are gone, just sounds, whatever your throat can muster up and out of your mouth.
“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it,” Joel repeats. His hands squeezing yours so tightly, his chest heaving against your back, his strong thighs straddling yours, his nose pressing into your ear. You feel his body tense as he pulls out. His release coating your pussy as his whole body surrounds you. Hot breaths huffing against the side of your face in between featherlight kisses. “Love you,” a whisper in your ear so delicate and sweet as he lets go of your hands. Your body falling forward without his support, your arms catching you before crashing down on the bed. Joel gets up with a groan as you lay yourself down on your stomach, taking the opportunity to stretch your legs out before rolling over on your side to watch Joel. He stands arms akimbo in the middle of the room. He’d look like a Greek statue if his shoulders weren’t rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath. He’s gorgeous and he looks just as wrecked as you feel.
“Probably shouldn’t have gotten up as quick as I did,” he chuckles. “Damn well feel like I’m standing in the middle of a earthquake.” You love the casual banter he puts forth seconds after being deep inside you, his cum still covering your core. This is love.
You smile at him, your cheek resting on your hand as a makeshift pillow. You’re exhausted… the whole night and your four orgasms catching up with you. Eyes feeling heavy, matching your limbs you begin to drift off.
A wet sensation in between your legs jerks you awake. “Sorry baby, just want to clean you up,” a whisper just as light as Joel’s tender attention as he washes you lulls you back to sleep.
——
“Baby,” Joel’s low voice gently wakes you up along with a soft kiss to your forehead.
You groan as you stretch your sore muscles under the sheet, opening your eyes to find Joel gazing down lovingly at you. He’s backlit by the filtered morning sunlight shining in through his bedroom windows. What a way to wake up. “Happy birthday sweetheart, I’d let you sleep all day but I need to give you my present.” His face is so bright and cheerful, a boost in your confidence provided by just how happy he looks when he’s with you.
“Thought you gave me your present already last night,” you yawn.
“Sweet girl, that was a present for both of us. Now come on, get up.” You grab his offered hand and reluctantly get out of bed. Joel wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, his hands splayed across your back as you nuzzle your face in his warm chest. “Happy birthday.”
A/N: THANK YOU for reading my first ever fic. My inbox is always open. :)
summary: It's the early days of the outbreak, and while your group clings to the rules of before, Joel is a man fit for the times. You see the human in the weapon.
pairing: Joel Miller x Reader
warnings/tags: 18+, set during the first few weeks of the outbreak, canon typical graphic violence, death of an animal, death of a person, dark!Joel (but is he really?), you can fix him he doesn't need fixing, smut, dub-con, rough PIV, riding and talking him through it, spooning a killer, the dynamic is unhealthy so please don't apply to non-apocalypse situations
wc: 7.6k
a/n: I was sure I'd never write a fic set during the outbreak but this idea possessed me (thank you @ctrlaltthea for letting me yap about this) and here we are. my most random inspirations for this are cormac mccarthy, the walking dead, my country's ministry of defense sending us a 'security handbook' in case WWIII happens
“He’ll be fine, right?” the small boy tugged on the woman’s sleeve.
“His leg just hurts a little. Remember when you broke your arm?”
“It doesn’t work that way—” the man standing next to them scoffed, but he was stopped mid-sentence.
“Shhh. He’ll be fine.” She turned back to the boy and smoothed his hair.
For weeks, the horse’s lame leg had been dragging behind the brown gelding as he carried supplies or a rider. Today, the limp had grown so bad that he refused to move, no matter how many men tugged on the rope. His head hung low, his weight heavy on three good legs.
It was still midday, and the sun filtered through the crowns of the trees as the group gathered around the animal.
“We have to get Joel.” An older man rose from his spot.
“No.” A young woman stood up, blocking his way. “You won’t.”
“Then what the fuck do you expect me to do?”
“We wait. We give him a week.” The young woman in the turtleneck sweater looked around, scanning the group’s faces. “Feed him some more.”
Some people nodded.
“We waited a week already,” the man said, lowering his voice. “The horse is dead.”
“Then we wait one more.” The woman was joined by a young man at her side.
“He won’t get better.”
“So what, we just kill him?” a young girl standing beside the horse wailed.
“We don’t.” The man muttered and pushed past the woman, marching toward the edge of their makeshift camp.
Leaves rustled under his boots as the group held their breath.
When he returned, he was not alone. The crowd fell silent as they approached; some lowered their gaze, others stared. The man was tall and broad, but that wasn’t what made him who he was to them. There was no excess muscle, no supernatural strength.
And yet, they all stared. The woman pulled the boy behind her.
He walked toward the horse, the group parting before him. He swept a look across the crowd. Several people dropped their eyes.
The gelding’s head was close to the forest floor now, warm nostrils almost touching the ground.
When he reached the animal, he looped the rope around his hand and tugged its head up to hold it in place. He reached into his pocket, and the silver blade glinted in the sunlight.
“Aren’t you supposed to shoot it?” someone in the crowd asked.
“’m not wastin’ rounds on a horse,” Joel muttered, not taking his eyes off the animal, the blade pressed flush against its skin.
The horse didn’t move, either unaware of its fate or too tired to resist.
“We’re not slaughtering him like this!” another voice shouted.
“Sure. Gimme my gun then.” He held out his hand, and someone turned to fetch it. “Just keep yours ready for when the horde hears this.”
The crowd fell silent. The man who had moved for the gun straightened and looked away.
Joel turned back to the horse and laid his hand on its neck, pressing against the warmth of its hide and the steady beat beneath it. With a single sharp motion, he drove the knife deep into its neck.
The horse’s neigh came out weak as it thrashed, Joel’s arm straining to keep its head in place, but no one dared step closer.
He sawed the blade deeper into the wound. The horse flailed once more before collapsing, its knees buckling beneath it.
Blood pooled beneath its neck as it seized one final time.
Someone gasped. A child began to cry, its mother shushing it quickly.
A girl reached out to touch the horse’s still-warm nostrils, but a hand caught her shoulder and pulled her back.
Joel crouched beside the body and leaned over it. The blade pierced the skin again, slicing along the animal’s abdomen.
“What the fuck,” the tall man near the scene whispered through clenched teeth. “What the fuck are you doin’?”
“Take him away, there are children here!” a woman shouted.
Joel’s movements didn’t falter, his hands skilled as he cut clean lines through skin and flesh, separating tissue.
“Calm down, guys,” a voice said. “He’s right. We need to skin it quickly before it rots.”
“Do you hear yourself, Tommy? Why would we skin our horse?”
“’Cause we need the hide, and we need the meat, Janet. I’m sorry.” Tommy placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, both to comfort her and to keep her from lunging at his brother.
“But this is Bill.” The woman pointed at the body with a trembling hand. “We had him for weeks. He carried us and the supplies.”
“And now he’s gonna feed us too. Let it go, Janet.” Tommy pulled the crying woman into a hug. Then he looked at the others. “Show’s over, everyone.” He gestured for the group to scatter.
***
Tommy seemed to appear out of nowhere. He checked once more to make sure no one had followed him before announcing himself.
Joel’s back was turned, seemingly unaware, but Tommy knew better. If he couldn’t hear him, he could at least sense him.
“You scared ’em today. Again.”
“What the fuck did you expect me to do? Put him in a splint?” Joel asked, washing the blood from his hands in the stream.
“No. Just… take it easy on them. They left their office jobs less than three weeks ago and—”
“Well, too fucking bad.” He rose and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I hope they enjoy dinner.”
“You don’t have to be like this.”
“It’s better for you if I am.”
***
Bill’s flesh simmered above the fire, portioned and made into stew.
The group gathered around and shared a meal. They told stories from before. Someone sang a song. The pieces of meat no longer resembled the animal.
One bowl was set aside, and when the feast ended and the group dispersed into their tents, Joel emerged from his.
He took the bowl and headed back toward the edge of camp.
Once there, he crouched and shoveled the food into his mouth, eating quickly, glancing left and right as he did.
***
By Thursday, Bill’s lifeless body seemed long forgotten. The remaining flesh was cooked and dried, and his hide cleaned.
Apart from the affection the group had for the horse, his absence posed a more pressing problem. It was now impossible to travel farther from camp to hunt, secure the perimeter, or haul game.
There was the car, its tank still half full, but it wasn’t practical in the woods and would attract too much attention.
Most of the group fell into a lull, unaware of the danger the situation posed. Life carried on—clothes washed in the cold stream, food cooked over the fire, someone laughing.
On good days, it almost felt like a camping trip.
The day was quiet. It was getting warmer, and the group lounged outside the makeshift tents.
It happened quickly.
Something rustled in the leaves, and before anyone could react, a small figure appeared in the bushes.
It was a child. Frail, a girl judging by the braid.
Jessica and Adam noticed her first, freezing in their tracks.
“Hey, baby girl,” Jessica cooed. “Where’s your mama?”
The girl twitched but didn’t step forward.
“Are you alone?” Jessica crouched and extended her hand.
The child took a step forward, her body shaking as she moved.
“She’s got it,” Adam said. “She’s bit.”
“You don’t know that,” Jessica replied, still facing the girl.
“She’s twitching already.”
The girl inched toward them. Leaves cracked beneath her shoes.
Her neck twitched slightly, and Jessica flinched but didn’t move.
“We gotta do something,” Tommy urged, his rifle now raised and pointed at the girl.
“Definitely not fucking shoot her,” Jessica scoffed, rising to her feet.
“Guys, decision time.” Tommy’s finger lingered just above the trigger.
“Where the fuck is Joel?” someone yelled, and heads turned around the camp.
Suddenly, leaves crunched under a heavier weight.
A shriek cut through the woods.
A grunt.
A gush of blood.
A loud but stilted „No”.
The child struggled briefly, held in large arms, then went limp. Her pale body looked like a rag doll held up by its neck.
Joel stood behind her, his blade buried deep in her neck.
Once she stopped thrashing, he let her body fall to the ground with a thud.
Jessica gasped, frozen in place, her arm still stretched towards the scene.
Tommy moved the rifle back over his shoulder, but there was no relief in his eyes.
The group dispersed in silence.
***
The group settled into this life as best they could. Old habits died hard, and the outbreak had not waited for anyone to harden.
You sat by the fire one night, warming your palms near the flames when a familiar face appeared beside you.
“Hi, Tommy.”
“Hey, you.” He nodded toward the fire. “Sorry, I need to put it out soon.”
“That’s okay.”
You moved your hands closer to the flames, the heat prickling at your fingers.
“You’re a tough one,” he said suddenly. “You don’t look it. But you are.”
You weren’t sure what he meant. You couldn’t recall any acts of bravery on your part in the past weeks.
“It’s either this or you die.”
“Yeah, I don’t think everyone got that memo.” He chuckled.
Your thoughts drifted back to David, who felt he was too good to spare to take watch or hunt. He was of the strong belief that the experience gained in the position he held at the city council would prove very useful when the group built an actual settlement.
You snorted, though not everyone had found it amusing. Janet said it made sense.
“Where does he go when he’s gone?”
“You mean Joel?”
You nodded.
“Keeps to himself.”
You fixed your gaze on the flames, then shifted it to him. Thirty, at most, he already looked older than when you first met him. The crease between his brows had deepened, but there was still warmth in his eyes.
“They don’t like him.”
He snorted, but without humor. “Yeah. He’s… too much for them sometimes.”
“He protects them.”
“Mhm.”
You wondered why Tommy didn’t stay with his brother or force him back to camp. You had a sister, too, somewhere. If she were still here, you would stand by her no matter what she did.
“You don’t agree?”
“Joel has his way of doin’ things. It works, but it’s not always pretty.”
“Who cares what’s pretty?”
“I reckon we should care. We should never stop carin’ about it.”
“What? Keeping appearances?” Irritation crept into your voice.
“Bein’ human. Gettin’ dressed in the mornin’, sayin’ please and thank you, bein’ kind.”
“He’s human,” you shot back.
“He doesn’t want to be, I think. Not anymore.”
You wondered what had split the brothers so differently. Why saying please and thank you still mattered to Tommy, and Joel stopped concerning himself with it from the very beginning.
“Was he a soldier?” you asked.
Tommy shook his head. “No. I was.”
“You?” You stared at him.
“Yep. He built houses.”
You imagined Joel’s hands building something instead of breaking it.
***
Two days later, you moved the camp deeper into the woods. The infected shrieks woke the group in the dead of night, and just like that, it was decided.
On the way to the new spot, Jessica found an abandoned backpack. It was full of cans, and it felt like a gift from the universe that had betrayed you. Janet thanked the Lord, and someone scoffed loudly.
That night, everyone sat by the fire again, the warmed cans emptied into bowls and mugs.
You remembered when Joel still approached the group without being summoned, when he shared meals with you. Mothers ushered their children away from him. Men subtly positioned themselves between him and the women. One day, someone spat on the ground in front of where he stood. After that, he stopped coming altogether.
You hesitated at first, but it felt right. You picked up the bowl they had set aside and, careful not to draw attention, slipped away from the fire.
His sleeping bag wasn’t far from where the others slept, but it was separated by a line of bushes. He sat on the ground, focused on something in his hands.
You approached quietly and saw him carving a small shape with his pocketknife. Your steps were light, deliberate—but when you came close, his eyes snapped up to meet yours. His brows were drawn tight, his body coiled, ready to lunge.
You extended the bowl toward him and set it down carefully, your movements slow, cautious—as if feeding a wary animal. His eyes never left yours as you stepped back.
Once you were out of his sight, you turned and ran.
***
It became a habit then. Every day, it played out the same. You slipped away from camp with the bowl and brought it to him, his distrustful eyes tracking your every step.
You stopped running back. Instead, you watched from behind a tree as he ate.
One day, you didn’t retreat at all. There were two bowls in your hands now, and you moved closer to him than before.
“Don’t,” he said.
You stayed where you were. You didn’t move any closer. You crouched, set one bowl on your lap, and nudged the other toward him.
“What do ya want from me?”
“Nothing,” you said, digging into your food.
He waited, watching you. When you didn’t budge, he finally reached for the bowl. He ate more slowly than before, but his eyes never left you, his body still coiled, ready to run or fight.
***
You shifted closer each day, and he pretended not to notice—but of course he did. His eyes scanned the surroundings constantly, alert to everything.
“Can I sit here?” you asked once you reached the spot where he usually sat.
“I ain’t gonna tell you what you can or can’t do.”
You sat beside him. The sudden proximity overwhelmed you, but you didn’t let it show. The bowl was back in your hands, food shoveled into your mouth.
You could see him clearly now. He had sun-warmed skin and hazel eyes—like Tommy’s, but sadder. His dark curls had grown long enough to tuck behind his ears. You had the sudden urge to thread your fingers through them.
No one spoke as you ate.
***
The next time you finished your meal, you didn’t retreat immediately. He sensed the shift.
“You want somethin’?”
You hesitated. Maybe you had overstayed your welcome. Maybe you didn’t belong here. Maybe the rest of the group was right, and your defiance was juvenile.
You reached into your pocket, your fingers closing around the scissors. He tensed, the bowl slipping from his hands and hitting the ground.
“I can cut your hair. If you want.” Your voice sounded thin, uncertain.
His mouth twitched. He looked down, then scanned the trees again.
You pulled the scissors out slowly and held them in your open palm so he could see.
He looked at the tool, then back at you. The nod he gave was so slight you thought you might have imagined it. But when you stepped closer, he didn’t move.
You stood beside him and reached for his hair—carefully, slowly—but he still flinched at your touch. You tried again.
His hair was soft, and you had expected him to smell bad, but he didn’t.
Your fingers moved through the strands of his curls, the dull office scissors trimming away the excess length. You had never cut a person’s hair before, but it wasn’t so different from grooming a dog.
When you finished, you allowed yourself a small breath. He looked more like a person now, and only now you noticed he was much younger than you’d thought.
You kept your hands in his hair for a few moments more than necessary, and you were surprised to see he didn’t move away from your touch—instead, his head pressed up slightly against your palm, in a movement so minuscule, you wondered if it was deliberate.
His eyes didn’t walk you back to camp.
***
You moved camp again, chased off by sounds you couldn’t place but instinctively wanted farther away from. Joel took down two infected while you were on the move, and the sound of the blade sinking into their necks still rang in your ears.
Food was scarce, and tempers were short.
When you finished your food—a sorry excuse for a meal—you set the bowl aside and rested your hands on your knees. Joel looked at you expectantly. There was a quiet understanding between you now. You ate in silence, sitting close. He let you mend his shirt.
“Can I stay here?”
His brows furrowed, and he shifted away from you.
You dragged your sleeping bag closer to his. He gave you a displeased look as he lay down, but he didn’t say anything.
In the morning, you slipped away before the others could notice—but Joel was already awake, watching you leave.
***
The other night, surrounded by chilly air and distant sounds of the hunting animals, you edged closer to him, holding your breath so you wouldn’t startle him.
He shifted but didn’t turn toward you.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
You were close enough now to smell him.
“I’m no good.”
“You don’t have to be.”
He didn’t say anything. And you stayed.
***
The day was warm, but the stream’s water was icy as you wrung out the freshly washed shirts.
Jessica was doing laundry beside you, but instead of her usual humming and chatter, she kept her distance. Every so often, she looked at you assessingly when she thought you wouldn’t notice.
“What’s your problem?” you asked, your hands straining to twist the water from a pair of jeans.
“I know where you’ve been.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
You twisted the fabric again.
“You’ve been whoring yourself to the older Miller.”
Your fingers froze on the wet denim.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She huffed a laugh and stepped closer, stopping just inches from your face.
“Was it your idea?” she asked with a smirk. “Think you’ll be safer now?”
“You’ve got it wrong.” You didn’t move.
“Stupid fucking girl. He’ll start expecting this from all of us.”
“He demands nothing from us.”
That seemed to amuse her.
She leaned in closer, her lips nearly brushing your ear. “So you’re just a whore then.”
Your fingernails dug into your palms, but you didn’t budge.
Finally, Jessica stepped back and grabbed the basket of laundry. Before heading toward camp, she turned to you once more.
“Wait until he’s done with you. Used up or pregnant—and he’ll just take another. Wonder how pleased you’ll be then.”
***
You fell into your sleeping bag with urgency and didn’t even look at Joel before zipping yourself up.
You were furious and didn’t know at what exactly. Was it the accusation? The fact that it was not true? Your lack of reaction?
“Somethin’ happen?” His raspy voice suddenly sounded.
You were so unaccustomed to him speaking that it startled you.
„No.” You shot back. „Night.”
You tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. You inched closer to Joel in your sleeping bag, crawling like an oversized worm.
You scooted close, but not nearly close enough to touch. He didn’t stop you.
***
The voices stopped when you approached the fire. You didn’t pause. You kept walking toward the simmering pot.
You glanced around. A few of them turned their faces away.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Janet said.
“Me?” You looked around. “Why?”
“You know why.”
You searched for Tommy’s eyes, but he looked away. His arm was wrapped around Jessica, who pressed her face into his chest as if afraid of you.
“Look at me, Tommy,” you demanded. “Tell them.”
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he whispered.
He finally met your gaze. There was an apology in his eyes—but it was hollow. It didn’t matter anymore.
You straightened and took two bowls.
***
You woke up close to him, your bodies covered in blankets, almost touching.
Without thinking, you reached for him, burying your fingers in his hair.
He flinched, startled by the sudden touch. He turned to face you, and even after realizing there was no danger, he scrambled to move away.
“Don’t do that,” he grunted.
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t damn yourself.”
You shifted back, and he slowly lay back down, farther away, but facing you for the first time.
***
One night, not long after, he almost chased you off.
Emboldened by the previous nights spent in close proximity—close enough to smell each other and hear each other breathe—you edged even nearer.
This time, you didn’t reach for him. You only positioned yourself close enough that any shift of his body would press him against you.
You waited for what felt like an eternity, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Apart from that, his body remained still.
Sometime in the night, you jolted awake when his body trembled against yours.
In a matter of seconds, he pulled away, widening the space between you. The sudden absence of heat made you feel cold.
“It’s not safe for you here,” he rasped.
You frowned in confusion. “Where else would be safer?”
He lay back down and turned away from you again.
You stayed awake for a long time, watching his broad back rise and fall with each breath.
***
The day started with him, your every day did lately—but this time he moved fast, slinging the rifle over one shoulder and his backpack over the other.
You checked your pocket for the scissors — the plastic handle firm and reassuring in your grip.
He turned back to you, one brow raised in question.
“I wanna come.”
He shook his head. “Ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”
The forest was quiet, the snap of sticks underfoot the only sound around you. He walked ahead, steady and tall. He never looked back, but you knew he was aware of your footsteps falling close behind his own.
You moved far from camp and deeper into the woods. Despite the midday sun, the canopy thickened overhead, the path growing darker with each step.
“What are we hunting?” you asked, tired of the silence between you.
“Whatever we can.”
You were surprised he answered at all, even if it was dismissive. He didn’t slow down or turn.
Something loomed ahead. You stayed behind him without a word, though if he’d been anyone else, you would have pushed forward to see first.
It was a cabin—small and weathered, more a hunting shack than a home.
Joel stopped so suddenly you nearly collided with his back. He held out a hand, signaling you to stay.
You’d spent the last five weeks in the woods, growing accustomed to its rhythm—the stream, the trees, the animals. No matter how unprepared the group had been, this felt safer. The alternative—other people, other groups, the army—was what you all knew you had to avoid.
The cabin could mean people.
It could also mean food. Guns. Ammo. Tools.
Joel stood still, scanning the clearing in silence, then finally stepped forward. You moved close behind him.
He gripped the rifle as he approached the shack. Your fingers closed around the scissors in your pocket.
The door resisted at first, but when Joel finally kicked it open, there were no obvious signs anyone had been there in weeks.
You scanned the room. Bare wooden walls. A table with six chairs still around it. Shelves. Cabinets.
“Oh my God,” you whispered as your hand closed around a can stored high above your head. You brushed your fingers over the cool metal. There were more.
You stood on your toes to pull them down.
Bolognese sauce. Canned peaches. Baked beans. Your mouth watered as you stared at the labels.
Later, when you tried to recall what happened and in what order, you were never able to.
One moment Joel stood beside you, reaching for the cans.
The next, for the rifle.
A thump against the door.
Two men.
Pain—as you were shoved into the cabinet.
A scream.
A gush.
A chair crashing to the floor.
You froze, scissors clutched so tightly in front of you that your knuckles turned white. You were there—right there—but it felt distant, as if you were watching it from somewhere else.
He looked even bigger now as he drove one of the men into the wall. Blood poured from the man’s neck where Joel’s blade was buried.
A grunt. A twitch. Still.
The other one—taller, broader, furious, Joel’s equal in all the ways that mattered now—lunged.
His fist was raised but empty. It was just hands now. Flesh against flesh.
They grappled until Joel forced him backward, out the door, and onto the cabin steps.
One wrong step. A snap.
Joel’s hand clamped around his head.
He drove it down against the wooden step.
Once.
Twice.
The sound of bone cracking.
Again.
The body went limp, but Joel’s grip didn’t budge, smashing the battered head against the wood again.
Blood pooled across the step—thick, dark, spreading. Flesh and bone reduced to mush.
A face that was no longer a face.
Your body was still frozen, scissors pointed—at who? At them? At Joel?
His body heaved with strain. His fingers loosened, and the mangled head dropped to the ground. The sound was wet, and somehow that was the thing that made your stomach turn.
When he straightened and turned toward the inside of the cabin again, his face was freckled with specks of blood, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. He looked almost high on the violence, breathing heavily through his mouth as he walked toward you.
His bloodied fists were still clenched tight, as if ready to take on another threat.
“Joel.” Your voice came out barely a whisper.
He walked toward the point of your scissors until they pressed against his chest.
For one breath, you stood like that—his broad frame towering over you, your back against the wall, the dull blade digging into his shirt.
Your fingers loosened around the scissors, and you let them fall to the floor with a thud.
It was inevitable. There was no version of this moment in which it didn’t happen.
His body caged yours against the wall, the weight of him pressing you harder into the wood.
“Joel.” You mouthed it, but no sound came out.
You gasped as his hand grabbed the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, pulling at the roots. Your faces collided—not in a kiss, but in shared breath, a clash of foreheads, a hungry look.
You could smell the sweat on his skin now, all strain and adrenaline and man and killing. It should have repulsed you, but instead you breathed in deep, desperate for more.
Pull. Turn. Push.
You almost tripped as he walked you back toward the table. The edge dug into your thigh as he pushed you on top of it and pressed you flat onto your back.
His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding as he hovered over you.
Your head throbbed with adrenaline, pulsing with blood as he reached to unzip your jeans, tugging them along with your underwear from your hips until they hung around your ankles. He seemed to expect you to struggle—you expected it too—but your body moved on its own, raising your hips to help him undress you, kicking the jeans off your legs to spread before him.
You were left spread open, exposed for him, right on the bloodied table, right next to the body lying against the wall.
He pressed you hard against the table, and you wondered why. You did nothing to stop this. Nothing to escape him. You didn’t tighten a single muscle to struggle.
He didn’t let you go for a moment, even when he struggled with his own jeans, big, shaking fingers fumbling with the button. His teeth ground harder as he finally freed himself.
Your body pulsed—your head, your fingers, your cunt. Fight or flight or fuck.
He guided his cock—thick, red, already wet at the tip—against your entrance, and his large palm rested on your face, holding it against the table so you’d look away from him.
The first stretch of him was painful, your body barely accommodating his girth.
Your breath hitched as he pulled back out, only to bury himself to the hilt again. Soon, the table creaked beneath you with every fast, sharp thrust he gave you, the constant burn of the stretch soon starting to mix with raw pleasure as your body molded itself around him.
“This what you wanted?” he grunted, not slowing his brutal thrusts. “’Cause this is what I am.”
The weight of his hand pressed your cheek harder against the table, and you raised yours to cover it, turning your head to look at him, despite the weight of his palm. His bloodied fingers on your cheek twitched, but he didn’t force it back.
Your eyes met, and immediately, he turned his gaze away, fixed it on the wall instead, forcing you to stare at his blood-stained jawline.
His cock drove into you at an unforgiving pace, hips crashing into yours, the other hand harshly holding you down, and you thought you were supposed to be scared, but now trapped underneath him, it was the first time in a long time you were not scared at all.
“Joel.” You reached to cup his jaw, and he flinched, but didn’t brush it off.
Guided by your hand, he turned his face back toward you, finally looking into your eyes.
His face cradled with your hand. His palm still on your jaw.
The sharpness of his thrusts against the pain in his dark, haunted eyes, the deepened crease between his brows.
He looked deep into your eyes, beyond them, inside you, and your eyes burned, but you didn’t even blink, desperate to see inside too.
The moment didn’t last long—his thrusts turned erratic and soon he pulled out, leaving you empty, and with a low grunt, he spilled on the ground between his feet.
Heavy breaths. A bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. Cool air between your wet thighs.
Your fingers tightened on his face, but he yanked himself out of your grip.
“Fuck.” He spat it out, turning away from you, already zipping himself up.
He paced a tight circle in the middle of the cabin, running a hand through his hair. Finally, he turned to the shelves and stripped them bare, sweeping cans and supplies into your backpacks with sharp, efficient movements.
Your legs shook as you lowered yourself to the floor, pulling up your jeans with trembling fingers.
He didn’t look at you again, not in the cabin, not when you stepped outside. Not the entire walk back to camp.
***
The backpacks hit the ground, and three women immediately crouched beside them, rifling through the contents and pulling out the precious cans.
Janet clasped her hands and tipped her face toward the sky in silent prayer, thanking the Lord for the path he never walked, the people he didn’t kill, the food he didn’t provide.
Joel slung his pack over his shoulder and walked away without a word. No one commented on the blood on his hands or clothes—whether they didn’t notice or simply chose not to ask.
You moved to follow him, but he stopped you, his arm shooting out the same way it had when you reached the cabin.
“Don’t,” he said, and stepped away.
You were left standing beside the cheering group, your face still marked with the blood of the man whose skull had been smashed against the cabin steps.
***
You spent two days on the edge of the campsite, lingering near the tree line, trying to be invisible.
They didn’t acknowledge you, but let you slip past them when you washed your bloodied shirt in the stream and when you grabbed a bowl to eat near your sleeping bag, away from the fire.
You didn’t grab one for Joel. And for two entire days, you didn’t dare go see him. You lived like an animal, alone and without words, the same way he did.
On the third morning, you woke to screaming—shrieks of terror tearing through the woods.
Still groggy, you pushed yourself up and hurried toward the noise, careful to stay far enough away that no one would think to stop you.
You recognized his broad frame immediately, standing among the group like something half-man, half-bear—burly, immovable.
“John, please, you know we have to—” Tommy held his hands out, trying to calm the other man.
“Move the fuck away, Tommy.”
John lunged at him, but Tommy caught him and held him back, struggling to keep him from breaking free.
You stepped closer, needing to see what had driven him to this.
John’s son, Steve stood a few feet away, gangly and young, his eyes wide with fear. You didn’t know them well. You hadn’t cared to. You wondered if you cared now, seeing him at gunpoint.
Joel’s gunpoint.
“Tommy, please.” Jessica stood nearby, looking like a college girl trying to break up a bar fight. “Please, there has to be another way.”
“There’s no way, baby.” Tommy’s voice softened, though his grip on John stayed firm.
The crowd gathered tighter around them. Someone shouted. Someone else began to cry. The noise swelled into a mess of wails and pleas.
“Dad.” Steve’s voice cut through it all. “Dad, stop. Stop it and let them.”
“I won’t let this fucking monster near you,” John growled, still straining against Tommy. “I won’t fucking let it.”
“I’m already fucking gone!” Steve’s shout commanded silence—even from his father. “Do it now. Do it before I turn.”
He straightened his back and lifted his chin, turning toward Joel.
From where you stood, you could see Joel’s face clearly. The crease between his brows. The tight set of his jaw. His gaze flicked to Tommy, to John, down to his own hands, then back to Steve.
Before anyone could move, he stepped forward, lowering the gun to drop it on the ground.
One hand came up to cradle Steve’s face.
The other drove the blade into his exposed neck, and with a gushing sound and a gasp, the young man fell.
John’s wail cut through the woods, Tommy holding him through it. You wondered if his embrace was meant to comfort the man or shield his brother from him.
Joel wiped the blade on the ground and tucked it back into his pocket before taking in the scene—the horror on the faces of the crowd, John’s devastation—and walking back to his corner of the edge of the camp.
***
There was a slight tremble in your hands as you carried both bowls in front of you, step by careful step, moving farther from the camp.
The night was dark and quiet, marked by the heavy weight of the first death since you’d settled in the woods. A death by the hands of one of your own—though you wondered if Joel could even be called Steven’s killer and if he was truly one of your own at all.
He was carving a piece of wood with his knife, but he sensed your presence the moment you came close.
Without a word, he set the wood aside and lowered the blade.
He seemed too tired, too pained to fight you off or send you back. Instead, he silently accepted the food.
With the bowls empty and the meal—hearty, warm, worth the two lives lost in that cabin—sitting heavy in your stomachs, you inched closer to him. His face was wary but exhausted, and his body didn’t move when you approached.
You cupped his face. Instinctively, he flinched—but he stayed.
His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark, sad. So fucking sad and ashamed.
Your hand slid to his chest, pushing gently until he leaned back. You kept pressing, slow and steady, until he lay on his sleeping bag.
You straddled him carefully, determined not to spook him. Moving slowly, as if there could be movement slow enough not to be detected until it was too late to retreat.
He let you.
You held his gaze. When he tried to look away, you steadied his jaw again, urging him to stay with you, to see you.
His palms were flat against the ground, pressing hard into the soil as if anchoring himself, restraining whatever instinct told him to move.
You reached down, palming the growing hardness beneath his jeans, coaxing him fully awake under your touch.
His brow lifted slightly, confusion flickering at the corner of his mouth, but he stayed still—letting you decide what happened next.
You unzipped him and freed his erection, drawing a surprised, stilted gasp from his throat.
You pushed your jeans down your legs and kicked them aside, the hem of your shirt the only thing covering you now.
Before you could think it through—before doubt could creep in—you guided him toward you, notching him at your entrance. You dragged the tip of his cock through your wet folds, coating him in your slick.
His expression tightened, almost pained. His arms twitched against the ground, fingers digging slightly into the soil.
You sank down slowly with a soft whimper, taking him inch by inch until he filled you completely, stretching you the way you’d needed since the violence-stained day in the cabin.
As you began to move—slow, deliberate—it became harder and harder for him to remain motionless. Still, he forced himself to stay grounded, limbs tense, face set in concentration.
When you reached for his hand, he flinched again. It was heavy, its weight burdened by restraint and shame. He tried to pull it away, but you held on, guiding it to your waist beneath your shirt. You pressed his fingers into your skin, urging them to curl there.
He gave a slight shake of his head—a silent protest—the first real movement he’d allowed himself.
You pressed his palm harder against you.
“I want it. Please, I want you,” you whimpered.
He shook his head again, the crease between his brows deepening.
“I’m no good.” His voice was rough, strained thin.
“You’re good.” Your hand softened on his cheek. “You’re good for me.”
He looked as if your touch burned.
“You’re making me feel so good,” you whispered, keeping your hips moving slowly against him.
His eyes closed — not to escape, but to feel — and a quiet whimper slipped from his mouth.
Your rhythm changed, rising and sinking with more intent, lifting until only the head of him stretched your sensitive entrance before taking him deep again. Another choked sound left him.
His hand tightened on your waist, not possessively, but with certainty, with choice, and you slowly moved your hand from his, trusting him not to let you go.
His rough, calloused fingers were gentle against your skin, holding it with care and reverence, with fear of breaking.
“See? You’re gentle with me.”
You leaned forward until your bodies pressed together, your hands bracketing his face for balance.
The scent of him—his skin, his sweat—hit you hard, almost electric.
Your foreheads touched. Your noses brushed. You shared breath.
“You make me feel safe,” you murmured, moving against him. “I never feel safe here. But you make me safe.”
A sound tore from his throat — something between a groan and a wounded exhale. His eyes squeezed shut again, but his hand never left you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his other arm twitch beside him, as if fighting the urge to rise. You reached for it quickly, pulling his hand from the ground and dragging it up your body.
“I want you to touch me,” you whispered against his jaw. “I know you won’t hurt me. You’d never hurt me.”
This time he didn’t resist.
You placed his palm high on your thigh, where it met your ass. He cupped you immediately, stroking without guidance.
You whimpered into his neck.
“So good. Feels so good.”
His hips began to move beneath you—small, careful thrusts that met your rhythm.
His hands roamed more freely now.
You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were open—barely—but enough to meet yours as you reached down between you, circling your clit in time with your movements.
Nose to nose, forehead to forehead, lips brushing but not quite kissing—just shared breath and quiet sounds.
Your legs began to tremble. Pleasure coiled low in your belly, tightening until it snapped, a wave breaking through you and pulling the air from your lungs.
You didn’t look away.
As you lifted off him, he slipped free, and you stroked him quickly, watching his face as release overtook him. He spilled into your hand with a muffled groan, eyes still locked on yours.
***
You knew your quiet life in the woods would one day end one way or another—a horde attack, wolves tracking you down, raiders pillaging through your camp. Danger was abundant, and you couldn’t outrun it forever.
What you didn’t expect was how it happened—and how anticlimactic the dissolution of the group would be.
One day, things continued the way they always had. Next, a girl was picked off by a stray infected. John didn’t come back from a hunt. And soon, the rest of them grew restless.
“It’s been weeks. They must’ve figured it out already, and we’re hiding in the woods the entire time.” David extended his hands as if preaching, a small group gathered around him. “We just need to find the army. They’ll lead us.”
“There is no army, David. No one’s gonna fucking lead us anywhere,” snapped a young man you didn’t know well.
They argued in circles until the group was divided. David and the others who still believed the army had things under control packed their belongings and left the campsite, led by faith in a new settlement that was surely waiting for them once they emerged from the trees.
Others stayed—but not for long. The group was vulnerable now, its numbers depleted, and it felt like something was ending whether they admitted it or not.
It was a shock to everyone but you and Joel when Tommy announced he was leaving.
“I caught a radio transmission. There are people tryin’ to make their own place out there. No army. No government.” He shoved his things into his backpack as he spoke. “Y’all can come with me. But I gotta leave now, while they’re still close.”
You saw the tears in Jessica’s eyes and the war in her head as she watched him. Someone called it a ruse. A trap. A pipe dream.
So Tommy left—with another man who had always been eager and reckless, the same way Tommy had always been eager and reckless too.
He came by before he went, lingering at the edge of the camp, his eyes searching until they found Joel.
“What do you want me to say?” Joel asked. “I ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”
Tommy nodded at him. Then he glanced at you, as if in question.
And that was the last time you saw him.
You didn’t wait to be the last ones left. You packed in the morning—what little you had tucked neatly into your backpacks—and you left without goodbyes.
You never discussed where to go or where to settle.
But once you distanced yourselves from the camp, your legs led you in the same direction.
***
You were already standing on the doorstep of the cabin when he emerged from the trees. He took longer than you’d expected.
There was fresh blood on his sleeves and his hands, and as soon as it became clear it wasn’t his, you didn’t ask about it.
Once the door was closed behind him, you picked up the bucket of snow you had melted earlier. When he sat down—heavy and slow—on the wooden chair, you knelt on the floor between his legs.
His face was drawn tight with pain and exhaustion as he let you take his hands in yours, gently scrubbing away the blood and dirt.
His eyes never left you while you worked, even as you dried his fingers carefully with a cloth.
You ate dinner in comfortable silence, your elbows brushing against each other at the small table. The stew you’d made from the rabbits he brought you the day before tasted like something far finer than it was after weeks of hunger. He hummed in quiet appreciation as he shoveled it into his mouth.
At night, he lay down first, his body tired and heavy against the bedroll, while you stayed behind to tidy the makeshift kitchen—careful to dispose of any scraps that might draw animals back to you.
When you finally joined him, you were certain he was asleep, but the moment you shifted close to his broad back, you felt him tremble.
His eyes were closed, yet his body was still fighting something.
You moved closer, folding yourself around him—your knees curling into his, your chest pressed flush against his back, your arm reaching around to rest your palm over his heartbeat.
You buried your face in his hair and inhaled—the scent of woods and winter air, sweat, and faint iron beneath it.
He trembled again.
You held him there, anchoring him to you.
You mouthed soft, inaudible words against the nape of his neck—telling him he was good, that he kept you safe, that he did what had to be done.
tags (I need to start keeping track bc I’m sure I’m missing someone): @mcthsman, @isabellaboo2025 @rosharanfiction
Summary: Joel is heading home after another long haul when he pulls into the travel center for the night. He's been struggling with his attraction to the waitress that works at the diner there, and is tempted to avoid you completely. The promise of coffee and an opportunity to stretch his legs, however, lures him in on a night you just so happen to be working the graveyard shift.
CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie + related innuendos that may or may not be cringe but I had to commit to the bit, oral f!receiving, a metric fuck ton of dirty talk, implied but unspecified age gap, (Joel is in his 50s, reader's age can really be anywhere from 20s-30s), rough and tough fuckin' with trucker Joel (he's lowkey a bit of a perv), exhibition, dumbification, hairpulling, overstimulation, wee bit of pussy pronoun usage. [No outbreak AU]
Note: the demons took over... and I'm gonna be honest, this is 100% pure smut, no additives. It's got the cheesy porno plot and everything. I've been picking away at it for a week, and it's the longest smut I've written thus far!! As always, this was written with my beloved, game Joel (Goel), in mind. Also, reader is written to be plus size/chubby cause I felt like it!
Comments, reblogs, and likes are all so incredibly appreciated! I'm always overjoyed to receive feedback. It means a lot to know that people have taken the time to stop by and read my fics. Lot's of love to y'all and happy reading!
Word Count: 5.1k
Ao3 Link: read here!
For a moment, Joel thinks about retreating into his bunk and winding down for the night, but his eyes dart back to the diner. The welcoming light that pours from the large windows, and the flickering neon open sign. Goddamn does a warm cup of coffee, and the opportunity to stretch his legs after a long drive sound good right about now.
His eyes dart back to the beat up blue hatchback parked around the side. He recognizes it, or rather, he recognizes who it belongs to. He feels like a teenager—you make him feel entirely out of his depth, and he’s not sure why. There’s nothing between you.
You’ve never been anything but friendly and accommodating toward him. You know exactly how he likes his coffee and make for good conversation. The problem lies in what you don’t know—in the moments between a sip of coffee in the diner, and before he passes out in his bunk. The secret between his fist and his cock when all he can think about is you—you in that fucking dress, you with that gorgeous smile, you who treats him with genuine interest. He’s pathetic. As mindless as a moth to a flame. As dumb as a fool to his execution.
When he finally finishes stewing in his guilt, staring blankly at the blinking amber lights of his dashboard, he musters up the courage to leave the comfort of the cab of his truck. He makes the walk across the parking lot a quick one—beneath the light drizzle of rain drops prickling his skin. He forgot his jacket in his truck, but he knows if he returns to his rig now he won’t be able to convince himself to venture back out.
Joel shoulders open the door with a huff as cool air rushes inside with him. The door falls shut and warmth envelops him in its place. He dares a glimpse at his reflection in the smudged glass and cards a hand through his unkempt hair. Turning, he surveys his surroundings for the first time, tamping his boots on the door mat.
Booths are nestled along one wall, their red pleather upholstery spiderwebbed with fissures that reveal the foam cushioning beneath. Chips and scratches litter the table tops, the varnish worn around the edges where elbows have often come to rest. The checkerboard floor is weathered all the way down the aisle, certain tiles marking the well trodden path. The walls are covered in all sorts of dusty relics; old license plates from various states, road maps, and flags. Posters peel away from the wall at their corners and photographs have yellowed with the years.
He’s certain that this place hasn’t been renovated since its opening. It’s dingy, and unremarkable, and most things here have been wasting away for decades. The diner itself isn’t why he keeps coming back, though. He could just as well head over to the convenience store next door for a quick meal and a drink.
His eyes land on you. You’re standing behind the counter that runs the length of the room, chrome stools with red tops line the other side. You wipe down the surface with a damp rag. The radio crackles, crooning some tune that you’re too busy humming to notice his entrance.
It’s late and the place is empty—as desolated and deserted as the parking lot outside—a far cry from the bustling morning rush on those days when he’s barely able to get a word in while you rush around, topping up coffees or balancing trays of food. But now, you’re lost in your own world, and Joel finds himself hanging onto every second that you’re unaware of his presence because the view is a bit like art; a painting that he wouldn’t mind having hung in his home, or permanently etched into his mind’s eye.
You’re entirely unlike everything else in this tacky, run down diner. You are bright. You radiate warmth. You are something to be admired, cherished, and held dearly, or placed upon some pedestal. And he thinks that he might’ve spent an eternity memorizing every facet of you—every line that makes up your face, every contour that shapes your body—if you didn’t look up just then.
The smile that lights up your face is nothing short of a privilege to witness. He has half a mind to throw a glance behind him because it certainly can’t be for him—he can’t be the reason for something so beautiful. He doesn’t warrant that kind of look, but he’s the only one here and he doesn’t want to make himself look stupid, so he gives a curt nod.
Clearing his throat, he takes a stilted step towards one of the tables before settling into the booth. He watches as you disappear into the kitchen, and return with a coffee pot and mug in your hands. Dutifully, you set the mug in front of him and pour him a cup. The steam curls up into the air and one of his hands wraps around the ceramic mug, feeling its warmth. He glances back at you. You’re still standing there and you look a little antsy. He gets the feeling that he might be your only customer for the night.
“Workin’ the graveyard shift, huh?” He asks, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. He pulls a bit of a face and sets it back down. The coffee is just okay, always has been, but the coffee isn’t why he keeps coming back. Again, his eyes flit to you.
“Yeah, I needed the extra shift,” you say as you set the coffee pot onto the table before sitting down across from him. He feels your knee brush his beneath the table and his jaw clenches. “And you? Heading home or heading out?”
You lean forward, bracing your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands, as if preparing yourself to cling to each word he has to say. The angle provides him the perfect vantage point. His eyes naturally snag on the pillowy tops of your breasts and the hidden valley between them. His fist knocks the table as he leans back against the seat, shifting uncomfortably. They look about ready to spill out of that dress with the first two buttons undone. Fuck, had it been unbuttoned when he’d first walked in? Surely.
“Home. Gotta week ‘fore I’m on the road again,” he grumbles, lifting his gaze away from where they definitely shouldn’t be. It means a week before he has a chance at seeing you again. For some reason that thought stirs an ugly feeling within him, twisting and unfolding in the pit of his stomach. The silence stretches between you, and neither of you reach to fill the void. He notices your nails are painted a baby blue to match your dress. Cute.
The quiet becomes too much and he decides to put an end to it. “What’s the pie of the day this time?” It’s a question that he’s made the habit of asking, but he’s never made the habit of ordering a slice. A little routine between the two of you, and one that instantly has a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
You hum as you think it over, making an effort to recall it, and the moment you do, your eyes light up. “It’s banana cream pie.”
“Ah? S’it any good?”
“Oh, um, I’ve never tried it before,” you say and your leg jolts against his, your bare skin grazing the denim of his jeans. “Does my opinion matter? Unless you’re actually planning on ordering it this time?”
There’s something about you then—that glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smile, the teasing lilt of your voice. You’re adorable. He wants you all to himself. But he can’t have what’s out of reach. He’s struggling to keep up this act around you. The facade that he’s normal about you because he’s anything but normal about you. There’s nothing normal about his feelings for you at all. He is a beast that wants to swallow you whole and you are too naive to see it. Right? He blinks, eyes catching on the low dip of your top again, and then he feels your leg rub up against his once more. The touch feels almost purposeful, but he tries to convince himself otherwise. His imagination, his desire must be conjuring things—gleaning want where there is none. His throat goes dry and he swallows hard.
“Nah,” his eyes lower to his coffee, still full, but he stands anyway, and you’re standing up with him, looking confused. “I should get goin’, it’s been a long day.”
“Really? Stay and finish your coffee at least, Joel,” you say, stepping closer. He locks up, muscles going rigid. It’s both a curse and a blessing to have shared his name with you last time. The way it floats from your lips, something wispy and reluctant, and in that dulcet tone. It’s euphonic. It does things to him—terrible, awful, thrilling things.
He swivels around and you’re mere inches from him, peering up at him all doe eyed. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with this right now, but you look up at him like that—like a lost puppy trailing after him, and he knows deep down that he never really stood a chance. Not when it comes to you. It’s just been a matter of time—of how long he can manage to convince himself of his own lies and turn the other cheek.
”Did… Did I do something that bothered you?” Your voice wavers. It makes him feel like an ass for ever making you question yourself because there’s not a single thing you’ve done to upset him. The only upsetting thing is the way he feels about you, the way want and desire roil in his gut the moment he so much as sees you, or remembers the fact that you exist. It’s purely impulsive and frustrating, and the most blissful feeling. He never wants to feel this way again and he never wants to stop feeling it simultaneously. Two opposing outlooks at an impasse within him.
“No- No ‘course not,” he says, waving his hand dismissively but you still look so unsure, and his hand lands on your shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. His thumb rubs a gentle circle there because he can’t stop himself. “Like I told you, just been a long day.”
You blink, your lip wobbling as you search for your next words. “Oh… it’s just that I was really enjoying your company.”
The last thread of his restraint pulls taut, the flame of tension between you whittling it away, and singeing one tiny, miniscule fibre at a time. You look upon him like he’s something worth a dime—someone of value who merits praise and admiration, but he isn’t. He’s sure that he isn’t anything more than a dumb, pathetic bastard too far ahead of himself to turn back now.
He knows that he’d be a fool to mistake your kindness for interest but, hell, if the way you bat your lashes at him, and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, and sway your hips with every approach isn’t interest, he’s not too sure what is.
So the thread snaps, giving way to that searing fire and he surges forward, all but stumbling into you. His lips are on yours, clashing with yours—hot and heavy as he licks into your mouth. His breath is hot and laboured, fanning over your face.
You shake in his hold, your hands hovering and unsure of what to do. He pulls away and takes in the sight of you. Flushed and warm with those glossy, wide eyes staring at him in surprise. But you shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen this coming, haven’t you?
“You’re just a little fuckin’ tease, ain’t you?” He asks, and you have the audacity to look bewildered, lips parted in a soft exhale. You are good at this innocent act, he’ll give you that. “Knew what you were doin’ the whole damn time, I bet.”
“Yeah, bet you like havin’ that kinda control over a man like me, huh?” He questions, taking a step forward and into you, crowding you against the table. You’re stunned and locked into place, hands falling to grasp the lip of the table. You make no move to push him away. And that’s the confirmation he needs. He’s right. He knows he’s right and it only emboldens him. “Well, are you gonna say somethin’ or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”
“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He’s sapped the air right out of your lungs.
“Bullshit, you’ve had me dreamin’ ‘bout this cunt for weeks now,” he scoffs, spinning you around and pressing a hand firm to your back, bending you over the table's edge. He’s got you pinned there.
“Joel…!” You squeak, gasping out.
“Fuck… been achin’ to taste it,” he says as he sinks to his knees behind you, and flips the back of your skirt up. His hands skim up your legs, lingering on the plush of your thighs in gentle up and down motions before grabbing a hold of them and prying them apart. His fingers graze your cotton panties—they’re that same baby blue, he notes. He clicks his tongue when his fingers come away damp. “Yeah, you’ve been drippin’ since I walked through that damn door, haven’t you?”
Your reply comes out as a weak, wavering sound—somewhere between a whimper and a mewl. Not very talkative, huh? There’s none of that denial anymore. No, he’s worked you into submission in a few measly seconds. But this is what you’d wanted. It’s what you’ve been getting at—been wanting some grizzled, old man like him to fuck you until there isn’t a single thought left floating around in that pretty little head of yours. Blissful oblivion.
“You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you, sweet girl?” He asks, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and dragging the flimsy fabric down your legs. He smacks the side of your thigh when you don’t reply.
“Mhm!” You hum, not so subtly pushing your hips back toward him. Eager little thing. But he’s not one to make things quick. He won’t give you what you want just ‘cause. He’ll relish in it—in the things he can do to you not only with his touch, but the things he can do to you with the absence of it.
“Gotta use your words f’me…” he coos, his thumb pressing into the tender skin where your thigh meets your most intimate place, parting your lips gently. He exhales sharply at the sight—pink and glistening just for him. Precious. “C’mon, be a good girl.”
“Please-! I need you,” you keen above him, and he can hear the unadulterated desperation dripping from your words. It feeds into him and into his ego—into the beast you’ve created of him.
“Need what? Oughta be specific. ‘M no mind reader,” he murmurs, moving his hand to slide two fingers along your slit as he asks his next question. “D’you need my fingers?”
“My mouth?” Next, Joel leans in close to press a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of your pulsing heat. He feels your legs quiver at the daring proximity—so achingly close to where you need him and, yet somehow, incredibly far. “Or does this greedy cunt need somethin’ more…?”
He is rock hard in his jeans, uncomfortably so. His erection pushes against his zipper but he ignores it, keeping his sole focus on you—the object of his desire, already weak and warbling from a few infinitesimal touches.
“Uh huh- please, anything…!” You beg so pretty, and how can he deny that? He has you in the palm of his hand, your muddled mind incapable of making a simple decision. You’ve relinquished control and deferred all choice to him. He relishes in it and he takes the responsibility in stride.
“Poor thing can’t even make a decision for herself,” he says as he draws nearer to lay a kiss over your dripping folds. He flicks his tongue out and his thumbs part you at your seam. You squirm and a moan falls from you. He can’t see your face right now, but Christ, does he wish he could. He’ll just have to settle for his imagination which is something he’s not entirely unfamiliar with.
“That’s okay. You don’t gotta think too hard when I’m here, just have to sit there and take what I give you, right?” He pulls back to whisper, the bridge of his nose ghosting over the sensitive skin. “Just gotta stand there bein’ good and dumb for me…”
Joel doesn’t bother waiting for a response before returning his mouth between your legs. He marks a trail of kisses all the way back to your cunt. And when he tastes you again, he lets out a languid groan, tongue flattening over your clit. He laps and suckles at it, siphoning shuddering moans from your lips. Your hips jolt and he moves higher, prodding at your entrance, flicking his tongue there.
He doesn’t belong here. Nothing he’s ever done renders him deserving of this blessing, but he’ll earn it. You whimper above him—tiny, bitten-off whines tumbling from you over and over as he licks into you, laving over your clit again and again. The sounds are downright obscene, filling the empty room as he feasts on you like it’s his final meal and he’s to die tonight—his last will and testament. His fingers dimple the flesh of your thighs, wrenching you open wider and nudging your entrance again.
You’re close. He can tell in the way your legs begin to tremble and your knees threaten to buckle. His hands lower to brace you, a silent gesture, as if to say ‘I’ve got you.’ And he does. He’s not letting you go until you’ve reached that peak and then some. He returns all his attention to your clit, swirling his tongue and suckling—working you up, up, up and coaxing you over that crest.
“Oh…! Nghh, Joel-!” You wail. Your orgasm is a wavering, jittering thing. He can feel your muscles convulsing against his tongue. He grunts and works you through it, drinking up every last drop.
It’s too easy to push you down and wind you up. Your body is pliant, willing, and accepting of everything he gives you. Even as it spasms and jerks, a weak sound of protest falling from your lips as he refuses to let up.
This moment, right here in this empty diner, is limbo—a space between two destinations in which time ceases to exist. He can’t get enough of you. He never will. He’s addicted, so he continues to take and take from you. The pleasure he imparts unto you is his own, his cock twitching in his pants.
Joel mouths at your pussy. He does not stop to breathe. He smothers himself in your wet, messy folds, teasing and licking—pushing and pulling. Raising you up and bringing you back down each time he diverts his attention to another sensitive place.
You are a mess. A heap of shaking limbs, sinful sounds, and babbled words—garbled and disjointed pleas. He doesn’t think you realize your own contradictions. A quiet ‘I can’t-’, a stuttered ‘no more’, followed by a ‘please don’t stop!’
He won’t. He will not stop until he’s torn another orgasm from you. He knows that you’re capable—you’ll give him what he wants and comply with his whims because you’re his good girl. You will give him another whether or not it’s dredged from you weeping and tremoring.
And you do. Your body coils like a spring, his hands move to your hips, tugging you closer against his face. One more pass of his tongue and your body unravels, unwinding and releasing all that tension.
“Oh God! Ah- Joel… fuck!” you cry out. When he pulls away, his face is slick with your arousal, droplets clinging to the scruff of his beard. He stands up behind you, his hands coasting up your sides as he does. You’ve gone limp, still folded over the table.
Shucking off his belt, Joel pushes his pants down alongside his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock. It’s flushed and leaking, aching to be inside you already. He shuffles behind you, guiding his cock between your legs and dragging it over your seam, and slipping it between your pussy lips.
“You let any man have his way with you?” he questions, tapping the bulbous tip against your clit before sliding it back and notching it against your entrance. “D’you spend weeks practically beggin’ for it? Temptin’ any bastard that happens to pass through?”
“No! No, just you, only you.” you say, breath hitching and eyes watering.
“No? Just me? That’s damn right.” He grins and begins to sink inside, drawing a ragged moan from the both of you. Your pussy hugs his cock as it cleaves you open. “This cunt belongs to me.”
He starts off slow, bringing his hands to rest on your waist as he eases in and out of you, feeling your warm, tight walls clutch and flutter around his shaft, seeming to cling and suck him back in each time he pulls out.
“Fuck yes, baby…” he croons, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to set a faster pace. The mug and coffee pot rattle with each thrust that jolts your body against the table. The mug inches closer and closer to the edge. His hips meet your ass, bottoming out with each drive forward. Opening his eyes, his gaze lands on the window in front of you. The two of you look out onto the empty parking lot.
“Would you look at that, darlin’…” he remarks, giving your hip a squeeze to grab your attention and direct it forward. “Anyone could walk on past and see you gettin’ railed… you like that don’t you, though?”
There’s truth to his words. The looming threat doesn’t take away from it. No, your cunt contracts around his shaft, dragging him deeper at the acknowledgement of such an indecent thing. You enjoy the risk—you both delight in it.
To be caught now would be so easy. You’ve been put on display, vulnerable and exposed, beneath the glaring lights reflecting off the glass. Rivulets of rain water slip down the wide, open pane. All it would take is one lone traveler pulling into the parking lot, or the convenience store cashiers switching shifts, and a singular glance in the diner’s direction.
Just like that, and they would know that you’ve let this man defile you at your place of work. They’d know what a dirty girl you are. But it’s not off-putting in that way that it should be. It’s exhilarating.
“Mhm, you get off on it, filthy girl,” he teases, rolling his hips into you. You’re a wordless, mindless jumble of nothingness beneath him. Completely and utterly drunk on his cock, and unable to string together a single thought, let alone form a coherent sentence. You speak only in helpless mewls and keening moans. His focus is trained on your dazed, dumb expression in the reflection. You look fucking divine.
“Well, go on, look.” He reaches for your hair, tugging it and forcing you to face your mirror image. “Watch me fuck you.”
Joel knows he shouldn’t be so rough with you. You’re fragile and teetering, but he wants you to witness the sight—to face the image of what you’ve been taunting him with for weeks. You’re a work of art. He wants you to know that and remember the reflection in the glass in case this is the last time he bears the privilege of having you in such a manner.
“Joel, please!” you whine over the wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts, your hands grappling with the flat table top. He’s not sure what you’re pleading for and he thinks that you might not even know yourself.
He hums, rubbing his hand up along your spine and then back down to the knot of your apron. He tugs it loose, and pulls you upright and against him, tossing the apron aside. Sliding his hands around you he undoes the rest of the buttons of your dress in quick succession until your breasts spill out.
“My beautiful, fuckin’ perfect girl,” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of your neck and then another one as his hands cup your tits, kneading them and feeling the way you shudder against him.
Joel tips your head back, running his fingers along your jaw in a tender caress. They curl there as he thumbs your bottom lip, prodding and encouraging you to open up before tucking two thick digits inside. Obediently, your mouth closes around them as though it’s a habitual act. He smooths them over your tongue, unable to stifle the strained noise that escapes him.
The silky heat engulfs them and you practically purr, dissolving further into his arms. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a schlick. His hand then slithers down your body and slips between your legs.
He feels the way you’re stretched wide around his girth, wedged open in a way he’s certain you haven’t been before. He continues to rock up into you as he seeks out your swollen clit, fingertips circling the bud in small, vigorous circles. His head drops to your shoulder, feeling that tight, delicious clamp of your pussy. Quiet utterances and muttered curses stashed under his breath flitter over your ear.
“So good… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby…” He drawls, fighting to keep his eyes from clenching shut because he wants to savour this moment and you. Blissed out and empty-headed, taking each inch of him. He adores you—everything about you. Every curve, and dip, and extra bit of plushness.
“You’re so damn perfect,” he moans, his thrusts turning sloppy. If he had the time to dedicate to worshiping every aspect of you he would. He’d spend hours working you through orgasm after orgasm, but you haven’t got the time, and he can feel himself inching closer and closer to his own.
“Shit, I’m close-!” he mumbles, folding you over the table again and following suit. His chest is pressed to your back, and his cock sinks deeper somehow, hips bumping yours against the lip of the table. You slap a hand over your mouth in an effort to suppress your moans.
His arm winds around you, curling beneath your stomach. His hand, large and roughened, fans over the plumpness there—so often hidden by the flared skirt of your dress. He squeezes gently. Groaning, he saws his cock in and out, feeling the unhurried, slick glide as the crown passes over that delicate and sensitive spot inside you. He feels you tense beneath him, another one of your sweet sounds is muffled against your knuckles. His free hand grabs yours and shoves it flat to the table.
“None’a that, darlin’. Lemme hear every damn sound,” he grunts, pressing his palm firmer against your stomach. “Ya feel that? Feel me right fuckin’ here?”
“Yes! Yes, feel you so deep, mmph…!”
“Where do you want it?” he asks, feeling that pressure brim and ache. “Tell me or are you too dumb and drunk on my cock to make up your mind?”
You babble beneath him—a jumbled mess of pleas and yesses, but no definitive answer to the question he has posed. He’s right. You’ve been reduced to a brainless, insatiable, needy thing. Hopelessly keening for more and more even when your body can’t take it.
“It’s alright, baby… I’ll just have to give you a taste of that cream pie you said you’d never tried,” he murmurs, continuing the staggering rhythm of his thrusts.
“Inside’s where ya need it, filling up this greedy cunt, hm?” His voice is hushed, dropping low and husky. The words are like a secret for your ears only. He feels you tense beneath him, a strangled cry is pulled from the depths of you as your walls convulse around his cock. He moans at that sensation. It’s addictive. It’s incredible. You’re writhing and unfurling for him—fracturing into pieces atop quaking legs. “Uh huh, can feel her sucking me in. She’s begging for it, ain’t she?”
“Please, give it to me…” And that’s all the permission he ever needs—that breathless, resigned request.
It’s uncontrollable. The pressure erupts as he bottoms out one last time, nestling deep. His cock swells and twitches, balls drawing tight as relief finally sweeps over him. His hips involuntarily jerk as the first jet spurts inside of you. He sucks in air through his teeth, suddenly feeling deprived of oxygen as his head spins and his mind goes blank. His pelvis spasms, grinding into you. His eyes fall shut and a groan tumbles past his lips. He stays there, shooting warm rope after rope, until he has nothing left to give and then a few moments longer.
When Joel peels himself from you, he slides himself free. Instantly, his eyes catch on your cunt and the way your entrance contracts around nothing. His spend oozes out in what can only be described as an obscene display.
You lay there panting until you find the will power to stand up and face him. Your legs wobble and you lurch, but he’s there to catch you, propping you up against him. “Easy now,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to brush back a stray hair.
“Right, sorry,” you say with a giggle, hands braced on his shoulders as you look up at him. You’re damn near delirious. He’s the one who’s brought you to such a state. His stomach churns. His eyes dart between yours and your lips then out the window to his rig in the parking lot. It doesn’t feel right to up and leave, so he makes the decision that he won’t. Not yet.
“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he murmurs, cupping your face and tilting your chin. You smile up at him. It’s set in stone. He’s set in stone. There’s no pulling him from this moment anytime soon.
“I could go for another cup of coffee,” he says, glancing at the abandoned mug settled right near the edge of the table, its contents now sitting cold, “and I think I’d like to try a slice of that banana cream pie too.”
Summary: You and Joel used to be in a situationship, but because of the differences between the two of you, you had to put things to an end. Now, you were seen with another man, Jason, and Joel doesn't like seeing what's his with someone else.
Content Warnings: MDNI 18+, unestablished relationship, oral (male receiving), unprotected pinv (wrap it before you use it), deepthroating, Joel is jealous, rough sex, dirty talk, degradation, choking. Apologies if I miss anything!
Word Count: 2.0k
A/N: This fic was inspired by this & this song. I just couldn't get a jealous Joel idea out of my head after these. Enjoy 💕
AO3 | Main Masterlist
His Girl
The QZ always had a way of making everything feel smaller.
The alleys were too narrow, the buildings were too close together, the air was thick with the smell of damp brick, metal, and the body odors coming off the many people trying to make a life worth living.
Joel had gotten used to it years ago.
But what he hasn’t gotten used to is seeing you around someone else. He noticed this for the first time near the ration line after the day’s work.
You were leaning against the wall outside, just near the lineup, arms crossed, talking to Jason like the two of you had known each other forever. Jason stood a little too close, one hand resting against the brick beside your head as he said something that made you laugh.
He didn’t like the feeling that was building up in his chest.
A few other times followed. The ration line, the cafe, or when he’s walking you back to your apartment room.
Each time, Joel got the same feeling of overwhelming jealousy.
The most recent time he’s seen you with Jason is at the small cafe-style spot you introduced him to. You were sitting with this man, looking cozy and comfortable. Joel’s gaze lingers on the way Jason’s hand was on yours, and that shifted something inside of him.
Later, when you returned to your apartment room, you walked to the door and shut it behind you. Once you kicked off your boots, you hear the familiar voice of Joel coming from behind you, not realizing he was sitting on the couch.
“You seein’ him now, are you?”
You hesitated for a long moment, simply looking over at him. When he finally registered your lack of an answer, his jaw clenched as he stood up, slowly stepping closer to you. “I asked a question.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“What?”
“What does it matter to you?” You repeated, raising a brow at him as you looked for an answer. “We weren’t anything for you to be jealous over, Joel. You made it clear from the beginning that it was just sex.”
His jaw clenched as he looked away, his arms crossing in front of his chest. The motion was tight and defensive. The same way you’d seen a hundred times.
“You said it in the beginning, you don’t do relationships and you don’t do promises,” you continued, your voice steady even though your chest feels tight from the sudden confrontation.
“You’re not seein’ him,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for arguments.
You raised a brow, about to protest, when he stepped closer, bringing his hand to your chin to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You ain’t lettin’ that man put his hands on you.”
“He was just holding my hand,” you retorted, and Joel shook his head.
“You’re still not lettin’ his touch you anymore.”
“That isn’t up to you.”
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, a silent, possessive gesture that made your breath hitch. The air in the small room crackled with a tension that was as familiar as it was infuriating. You wanted to push him away, to scream that he had no right, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch just a fraction.
"Isn't it?" he murmured, his voice a low growl that vibrated through you. His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. "After everything… you think I'm just gonna stand by and watch him touch what's mine?"
Before you could form a retort, his lips crashed down on yours. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a claiming kiss that attempted to erase the memory of any other hands, any other lips. He tasted of whiskey and something uniquely Joel, and you hated how much you'd missed it. You hated how your own hands flew up to grip his shoulders, not to push him away, but to pull him closer.
He walked you backward until your back hit the cool wood of the door, his body pressing flush against yours. The hard length of him was unmistakable against your stomach, a primal declaration of his desire and his anger. He broke the kiss, both of you panting for air, his dark eyes boring into yours.
"You're gonna show me who you belong to," he stated, his voice rough. He released your neck, his hand trailing down your chest, over your stomach, until he reached the button of your jeans. "Get on your knees," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
It was the same tone he used when giving orders in the field, and your body responded instinctively. You sank to the floor, the rough wood scraping your knees through your thin pants. He watched you, his chest heaving, as he unbuckled his belt and freed himself.
He was thick and heavy in his own grip, the tip already glistening with precum. He guided himself to your lips, smearing the wetness across them. "Open up," he rasped. You obeyed, parting your lips and letting him slide into your mouth. He groaned as your tongue swirled around his head, your hands coming up to rest on his powerful thighs.
He started slow, letting you set the pace, but it didn't last. The sight of you on your knees before him, your lips stretched around his cock, seemed to snap what little control he had left. His hands tangled in your hair again, holding your head steady as he began to thrust into your mouth. Each push went deeper than the last, testing your limits.
"Relax that throat for me, darlin'," he grunted, his hips snapping forward. You did your best, swallowing around him as he hit the back of your throat. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn't pull away. This was a battle of wills, and you refused to lose. You wanted to take all of him, to show him that you could handle whatever he gave you.
He let out a harsh groan as you took him all the way in, your nose buried in the coarse hair at his base. "Fuck, yes… just like that," he praised, his grip tightening in your hair. He held you there for a moment, savoring the feeling of being completely enveloped by you, before pulling back to let you breathe.
He set a punishing rhythm, fucking your mouth with a desperate intensity. It was messy and raw, the sounds of his grunts and your gagging filling the small room. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming more erratic. His thighs were tense under your hands, his breath coming in sharp pants.
"Look at me," he demanded. You looked up, your vision blurry with tears, and met his intense gaze. The sight of you, so submissive and eager for him, was his undoing. With a final, deep thrust, he came, spilling himself down your throat. You swallowed it all, your tongue continuing to work him gently as he rode out his orgasm.
He slowly pulled out, his cock softening against your lips. He leaned down, his hands bracing against the door on either side of your head, and captured your lips in a surprisingly tender kiss. It was a stark contrast to the roughness of moments before, a brief, confusing moment of softness before the storm returned.
"You're mine," he whispered against your lips, his voice hoarse. "You hear me? All mine."
Before you could even process the words, let alone respond, he hauled you to your feet. His grip was bruising on your arm as he spun you around, slamming your front against the door. Your cheek pressed against the cool wood, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. He kicked your feet apart with his own, his body pressing hard against your back.
"Look at this mess," he growled in your ear, one hand fisting in your hair and yanking your head back. "Already droolin' for my cock. You're just a desperate little thing, aren't you? So fuckin' needy." He shoved your pants and underwear the rest of the way down your legs, leaving them pooled around your ankles.
His free hand slid between your legs, his fingers roughly parting your folds. He let out a dark, mocking laugh. "Christ, you're soaked. Did gettin' your throat fucked do this to you? Or is it the thought of me puttin' you in your place?" He didn't wait for an answer. He lined himself up with your entrance and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
You cried out, a pained gasp that was swallowed by the pounding in your ears. He set a punishing pace from the start, his hips driving into you with an almost violent force. Each thrust slammed your body against the door, the wood groaning in protest. His hand left your hair and wrapped around your throat, his grip firm but not yet cutting off your air.
"This is what you needed, wasn't it?" he snarled, his lips brushing against your ear. "To be reminded that you're just a tight, wet hole for me to use." His thumb pressed against the side of your neck, testing the pressure. "This pussy belongs to me. You understand? No one else gets to feel it clench around them like this."
Then, he tightened his grip, cutting off your airflow completely. A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you, so intense it made your knees buckle. Your cunt clenched around him, a flood of slick arousal coating his cock as your body responded.
He felt it immediately. "Fuckin' hell," he grunted, his voice laced with dark triumph. "You like that, don't you? You get off on bein' choked like a cheap whore." He held you there, suspended in that blissful, airless state, your vision tunneling as your entire world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you and his hand around your throat.
Just as you thought you might pass out from the sheer pleasure, he released you. Air rushed back into your lungs in a desperate, noisy gasp. "That's it," he praised, his voice a dark chuckle. "Breathe for me. Look how much wetter you got for me when I squeezed your pretty little neck." His hand moved from your throat to your hip, his grip bruising as he pulled you back to meet his even more forceful thrusts.
"Gonna come for me, baby?" he taunted, his other hand snaking around to find your clit. He rubbed it in harsh, tight circles, the stimulation almost too much to bear. "Gonna soak my cock while I remind you who you belong to? Show me you're my greedy little slut who loves to be choked."
The combination of his rough words, the brutal pace, the memory of his hand on your throat, and the insistent pressure on your clit sent you over the edge. Your orgasm tore through you with a violent intensity, your body convulsing and clenching around him. A strangled cry escaped your lips as waves of pleasure washed over you, leaving you trembling and weak.
He fucked you through it, his own control finally snapping. With a guttural roar, he buried himself deep inside you, his hips stuttering as he filled you with his release. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you struggling to catch your breath.
Finally, he pulled out, and you slumped against the door, your legs barely able to support you. He turned you around, his expression unreadable as he looked down at you. He gently cupped your face, his thumb wiping away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen.
"You're mine, darlin'," he says quietly, a stark difference to the gruff tone he used moments earlier. "Remember that."
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Tags from WIP Thursday: @ess-evo, @baronessvonglitter, @time-for-my-weekly-spanking, @aurorawritestoescape, @milla-frenchy.
Summary: After confiscating Ellie’s pot, you and Joel (your friend and neighbour) get high. It’s your first time, and unbeknownst to you, you experience a body high.
TW: USE OF CANNABIS, reader is an OB-GYN, no describing features aside from having hair, dirty talk, flirty banter, fingering (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, pet names (sweetheart, baby).
AN: Okay fiiiiinnnee, I wrote it! And, for once, I didn’t write a sub/dom dynamic OR an AU...who am I?! Thank you @for-a-longlongtime and @lotusbxtch for indulging me in these two little cuties. Thank you to everyone who commented and shared my initial idea post, I haven’t gotten that much interaction since I posted BDSMaid. Full disclosure, I have never rolled or smoked a joint (I'm an edible girlie), so just disregard any inaccuracies there haha. Nothing makes me happier than orgasms and flirting, but seriously…what do we think Joel’s middle name is?!
Word Count: 7.4k
You
You hear them as you walk up the newly refurbished porch steps, a comic book wrapped in brown paper tucked under your arm. Joel and Ellie; her voice angry, his deep and calm. You can’t make out their words, just mumbled tones.
I should turn around, you think to yourself. But you know Joel has always tried to make birthdays a big thing for Ellie. Plus, it’s not like you’re popping by unannounced. You’re their neighbour, have been since the day they got back from whatever little excursion they went on and Ellie invited you for cake this afternoon. Her exact words were “once you get done dealing with the freak show that is pregnant women, come have some cake. Even though I’m not sure how you eat anything after seeing all of that”.
You and Joel had laughed, shaking your head at her perversions around pregnancy and childbirth. As an OBGYN pre-outbreak, and now in Jackson, it’s never bothered you.
You stop on the third step, one hand around the railing that you painted an eggshell white last weekend while Joel started replacing the railing on the raised back deck. Their voices grow louder, they're close enough now that you can make out their words.
“Ellie, stop. Just listen for one second -“ Joel’s voice is almost pleading.
“I said it’s not mine, Joel! Give it back, I will take it to whoever gave it to me.” You hear Joel sigh in response. Ever the firecracker, Ellie continues. “See! You don’t believe me. You’re accusing me. And what’s the big fucking deal anyway? Everyone around here does it!”
“Listen, it’s your birthday. This ain’t…” he sighs again and you can almost picture him; one hand on his hip, the other rubbing at his beard, a habit you’ve noticed when he’s stressed or flustered. “Look, it’s my job to look after you. Impart some sort of wisdom. We don’t know how this shit will affect you long term.”
Ellie’s laugh is cold. “Long term. It’s a fucking apocalypse, man. We could all be gone tomorrow. We could all be gone in the next ten fucking minutes.”
“That’s enough,” Joel starts, his tone firm. You decide to turn around, one of them will come get you if the original plan is still a go. Just as you’re about to head back down the steps, the metal and mesh screen door flies open and Ellie storms out.
“I, ummm, I can come back,” you stammer, taking in the angry teenage flush of Ellie’s cheeks. She’s gotten taller over the winter, her hair longer than you’ve ever seen it. She’d hate that you can’t help but think how adorable she looks when she gets angry, little pieces of hair flying loose around her temples.
“Just go in. He’s on his fucking high horse today,” she says in a grumble as she barrels down the stairs.
“Well, wait. Take this,” you hold your gift out and the scowl softens a little, an almost smile tugging at her cheek. “Happy Birthday, Ellie. I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you,” she replies, running a hand over your wrap job. “Hey, think you can get my pot back?” She asks, her still childlike innocence burning on the surface.
You laugh softly, “I thought it belonged to a friend.”
She groans, throwing her head back as she takes the last few steps, mumbling to herself, “Having a dad is a pain in my ass. Worse than a FEDRA camp.”
“It’s because he cares,” you call after her, not accusatory, just a fact like the grass is green. Ellie stops, and in the most Joel-like fashion tilts her head back and pinches the bridge of her nose. Her eyes fall shut, her head slumping forward as she shakes it from side to side. Then she makes a statement that almost makes your heart break.
“That’s what makes it worse than a FEDRA camp. The caring. I don’t want to disappoint him, but I am.”
“Oh, Ellie,” you say reassuringly. “You aren’t. This is part of being a teenage girl. Trust me, you are not disappointing him, or anyone else. Go, I’ll talk to him.”
As Ellie walks off, tearing the brown paper from her gift, you turn back toward the house. You and Joel have been friends since the day after he got back. You were fixing the shared backyard fence, and he came out and helped. The residents of Jackson weren’t thrilled when they first arrived, even less so when they got back. But it’s been a few months now, Ellie is settling in, Joel has been an active member of the community, and you know Maria put him next door to you - the well-loved town doctor who delivers all the babies - for a reason; if you were friends with Joel, others would follow. So that’s what you are. Friends.
You pull open the screen door, the old metal rubbing against itself. You make a mental note, another thing for the two of you to fix in the old home that sat abandoned for years.
“Heard there’s a big mean drug confiscator in here,” you joke, toeing off your shoes at the front door. You’re met with silence. You peek your head around into the family room, empty. As you wander into the kitchen you see the back of Joel sitting on the edge of the still unfinished deck, his legs dangling off the drop. The sliding screen is quieter as you exit. You pad barefoot, the wooden boards warm under your feet from the spring sun. You sit beside Joel, the full length skirt of your strapless sundress blowing wistfully in the breeze.
“Hey,” he rasps, and you both look over at each other, his coffee and bourbon eyes shifting from lost to content when he sees you.
The single or widowed women of Jackson have asked you about Joel, saying how handsome he is. Truthfully, a few years ago you probably would have thought the same thing, but this world is too uncertain, too harsh and cruel. All it does is take, so you keep your heart to yourself now. You cherish the friends you have and that’s where it ends. Loving someone only to lose them is something you can’t do…again.
“Hey. That was a joke, just by the way.” You give him a thin-lipped smile.
“Huh?” He asks, kicking his shoes off, watching them fall the few feet to the slowly greening grass before leaning back onto his elbows. You turn to face him, tucking one leg under the other.
“What I said when I came in. It was a joke.”
“Oh,” his voice is sad, face lined with defeat. “I didn’t hear it.”
You pat his denim-clad thigh and joke, “Getting old.”
He snorts, lightly shoving your hand away. “Careful, Doc. You ain’t that much younger than me.”
“Still younger,” you say with a laugh. “So, you wanna talk about it? I wasn’t trying to listen in, just…timing.”
“No, I know,” Joel reassures and then takes a shaky breath. “Honestly, I just feel like I’m lettin’ her down. Ya know? Bickering all the time. Tellin’ her no.”
“Joel,” it’s a soft whisper, full of compassion. His brown eyes find yours again, glossy and wide now, back to being lost.
“She just deserves a life away from all this. It’s not fair. FEDRA camp then gettin’ stuck with my cantankerous ass.” He shakes his head.
“Hey, listen. This is part of being a…well, dad-like figure to a teenage girl. Trust me, you are not letting her down.” Joel lies flat on his deck, staring up at the clouds with one hand behind his head and the other resting on his stomach. You follow suit as you continue. “Just talk to her. Don’t parent her, just talk. She probably feels the same way you do. You’ve both been through horrible things. Together and separate. She’s going to make mistakes, she needs to know she can go to you for support. Just be there.”
For a few seconds, it’s just the leaves rustling in the warm breeze, the smell of grass and damp soil wrapping around you. Spring is slowly erasing any remaining remnants of a particularly harsh winter. Life almost feels back to normal as the two of you lay here, not this new normal of fungus and death, but the before normal.
“Ain’t so good with words,” he murmurs beside you, his breath warming your neck so you roll your head to face him.
“You just used the word cantankerous, so don’t give me that,” you say with a light laugh, your knee knocking his gently.
“You called me that one of the first times we met,” a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he says it and your stomach does a weird flip thing. That must be what he does to the other women here to get them all…bothered.
You look back up at the sky, protecting yourself from feeling any sort of way aside from friendly towards this man. “I remember, you were being cantankerous. Just tell Ellie you’re sorry, that you don’t want to fight and you want to be there for her.”
“You sure you aren’t older than me? Wisdom beyond your years,” he praises and your heart now joins your stomach in its weird stutter-and-shutter era.
“I’m sure,” you breathe. “I was a teenager once too. Oh, that reminds me. Give Ellie back her pot.”
Joel sits up straight, no grunt or effort, for fifty something that seems impressive, and you shouldn’t wonder if he has abs under that heather grey cotton t-shirt, but you do. He spins to face you, eyes wide and lips parted in shock.
“What?” You ask, coming up onto your elbows and looking around like you missed something.
“Doc! Were you a bit of a rebel in your youth?” The teasing disbelief of his voice causes you to blush.
“No!” You reply quickly, fast enough that his eyes narrow as he tries to decipher if you’re telling the truth or a lie. He clearly settles on the second option when he responds.
“Don’t worry. It’s just us back here. I won’t alert the town that the goody goody Doc was a bad girl nearly forty years ago.” He pokes jovially at your ribs, electricity jolting from where his finger met your dress to your belly button.
“Gah! That tickles!” You laugh, shifting your body away as you sit up. “I’m being serious, Joel. I’ve never done it.”
“Never?” He questions in disbelief. “We were teens of the nineties grunge era. You never got high off your tree and listened to Pearl Jam or Nirvana in someone’s basement?”
“Joel Angus Miller!” You feign shock. “You little hypocrite!”
“Angus?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes at yet another failure attempt to win your ongoing game to guess his middle name.
“I’m gonna get it one day!” You proclaim before continuing. “You took away a sixteen-year-old's pot, meanwhile you were smoking it at sixteen yourself!”
“Well, Angus is the furthest away you’ve ever been. But okay, I get it. It’s just, I was young and dumb and in a world that’s not as…” he waves his hands around, “well, as fucked up as all this. What if something happens and she’s high and impaired? It’s not like we have phones anymore, she can’t just call me if she needs me.”
You reach out and rest your hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Both of you look where you’re connected before locking eyes.
“You’re scared,” you say simply and he nods once. “Tell her that, but you’ve got to relax a bit. I know you don’t want to admit it, but she’s right too. None of us is guaranteed a tomorrow and this is the safest place we can be in this, as you said, fucked up world.”
He nods again and sighs, leaning back to reach into his pocket. He pulls out a clear packet of what looks like crushed dried green leaves, little flecks of silvery purple mixed throughout. He moves the marijuana around through the plastic then laughs softly looking over at you while wiggling the bag.
“So…never done it, hey?” His smile is devious yet playful.
“No. My father was a cop -“
“Same.” He cuts you off.
“Rebel,” you quip. “My mom was a nurse.”
You pause, waiting for Joel to maybe open up about his mom. When he doesn’t, you continue. “Anyway, I always wanted to be a physician. Deliver babies into the world. So I was focused. Studying. Pushing. Learning. We were also incredibly religious. Neither of my parents even drank.”
“Huh, not nearly the same then,” he rasps. You glance over at him, his fingers still playing with the bag, he seems sad. You know enough about him not to push, so you keep talking.
“So yeah. Just wasn’t something in my circle, I guess. And then once I was a doctor and had finished my specialty training and had established myself in a clinic and could finally relax the outbreak happened.”
He glances towards you, “Got anywhere to be today?”
You squint at him suspiciously. “No, why?”
Joel doesn’t answer, just stands up, this time with a grunt because of his knees. You watch as he goes into the house, you hear the slide of drawer or two opening before he comes back outside.
“Hold out your hand,” he whispers, an edge of conspiracy and mischief in his voice. You listen though, turning your palm up for him. He places a lighter and a pack of Zig-Zags in your hand, his calloused fingertips brushing against the soft skin of your palm. “Wanna try it?”
You gasp dramatically, your empty hand coming to your chest as you look up at Joel. “I cannot believe that Joel Bartholomew Miller is going to smoke pot he confiscated from a teenager.”
“Onto the B’s now?” You nod, humming a yes. “Still wrong. More wrong than Angus. And I ain’t smokin’ nothin’. You are…if you want.”
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating and not missing the quick dip of Joel’s gaze to your mouth and then back to your eyes.
“I’m not doing it unless you do,” you whisper.
“Alright,” he breathes, sitting down beside you, legs dangling over the edge of the deck again. He takes the papers from you and you watch as his thick fingers work deftly to roll a joint. Something deep in your core flexes when his tongue peeks out to lick a careful line along the paper. He smiles over at you, his handiwork pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Ready for everything to get a little funnier?”
“Hopefully Maria doesn’t go into early labour,” you joke with a nod.
He brings the rolled paper to his lips, cupping his hand around the bottom of his face. The unmistakable click of a lighter sounds and he sucks, holding in the smoke then blowing it out.
“You, umm, you might wanna go easy on that one. Little bits at a time.” He turns the joint to you. It feels weird and foreign in your hand. You want to chicken out but he only did it because you wanted him to. Plus, you have been curious, so you bring it to your lips. Sucking just a bit, holding the smoke in your mouth then blowing it out.
You raise an eyebrow at Joel. “Nothing happened.”
He laughs, taking another hit. “Give it a minute, and try to actually inhale some.” He blows the smoke out, coughing a little.
As you take your second attempt the gate to the yard clicks open. “Shit,” Joel huffs, grabbing the joint and putting it out the edge of the deck. His reaction startles you, and you sharply inhale a large drag of the smoke before he rips it away. Immediately you begin to cough as Ellie comes into view.
“Smells an awful lot like pot back here,” she huffs. You cough again, smoke passing your lips. The expression on Ellie’s face is one you’ve never seen before, shocked and smug, “Doc!!!”
“I swear,” you rasp, throat hoarse from the smoke, “it’s my first time.”
“Same,” Joel quickly adds.
Her wide eyes swing to his. “Her, I believe. But you, not so much.”
You try to hold it in, you really do, but you’re now slightly high, and even if you weren’t the situation is pretty fucking funny. You burst out into laughter, covering your face and lying back onto the deck.
“Joel! What if someone goes into labour? She’s so fucking high.”
You can’t see him through your hands but you can picture the cocky shoulder shrug he often does. “No one is goin’ into labour. Here…catch.”
The unmistakable sound of a plastic bag being caught by Ellie fills your ears. “Really?”
“Yeah. Just be smart and careful. And if anything goes wrong, come right back home. Okay?”
“You won’t be mad?” Her voice is quiet, so unlike the vivacious girl you know.
“Ellie, I’m never mad. I’m jus’…” his voice trails off. When you peek through your fingers, he’s looking right at you. You twirl a finger in the air, urging him to say it. “I was scared, okay?”
“Ya big softie,” she teases. “I’ll be careful. Can I go with Jesse and Dina for a bit?”
“Home by ten,” Joel warns, his voice dad-like.
Ellie huffs, “Eleven? I’m sixteen now.”
“Eleven, but not a second later because we gotta be up early for that birthday hike. Big surprise, remember?”
“Deal,” she says, her voice further away as if she’s running for the gate already. As soon as the latch clicks closed you break out into laughter again and this time, Joel joins you. His laugh is light and warm, and it might be the single greatest sound you’ve heard in a long time. The weed has made every muscle in your body feel light as air.
“Well, fuck. Guess we got caught,” Joel says through his laughter, standing and extending his hands to you. His large palms swallow yours as he takes them, pulling you to your feet.
You stumble into his chest, one of his hands steadying you at the waist. Not too low, not too high. The perfect and respectable place for two friends to touch. “Whoops. Might be high now.”
“You don’t fucking say,” he laughs. “You inhaled almost the entire thing.”
Once he’s sure you’re steady, he brings the rest of the joint back to his lips, lighting it again. As he’s lost in the haze of his hit you keep your hands on Joel. Mostly because you feel like you have new legs. However, you realize that you’ve never touched Joel like this, so you let yourself linger, deciding you can blame it on him and pot, and not the fact that he is made of warmth and stone. Hard chest and abdomen lined with defined muscle, smelling like thunder and granite.
As your hands trail down his sides he looks at you, his hand coming to your chin, pulling gently to part your lips. Every touch sends sparks along your skin. Sparks you’ve never felt before. Sparks that could gather, fester, grow into something bigger.
Friends, you remind yourself as he tilts his head down and blows the smoke into your mouth. You remember this from a movie that was popular in your post-college years. Shotgunning.
Joel pushes at your jaw, closing your lips and you hold the second hand smoke in your mouth. You’re sure it’s the high, but it tastes sweeter coming from him. Sweeter, yet dangerous.
As you blow out he winks at you, “You okay?”
“Mmmm, yes. Very okay.” You hum, eyes fluttering shut as he pulls you towards the swing at the end of the deck.
“Let’s get you away from the edge,” he sits, his strong legs keeping the swing steady as your muscles move languidly to lie on the three-person seat, your head on his lap. A gust of wind blows your skirt down, the fabric pooling at your hips. But you don’t care, you let it land where it wants. Between the sun and the breeze every inch of your skin feels alive. Joel clears his throat nervously and you peel your eyes open to see him studying you.
“What?” You breathe.
“Nothin’. Never seen you like this before. All free and relaxed. It’s nice. You deserve it.” He smiles at you, the same smile he gets every time he sees you. The only difference between then and now is the way his fingers twirl around the loose strands of hair near your face.
“Sadly, I think the last time I was this relaxed was when I went to Cuba after graduating med school.” Your arms feel heavy, the left one falling off the edge of the seat, the right one tucked between you and the backrest. Your barefeet are planted; knees bent, swaying in time with Joel’s push and pull of the swing.
“Want me to make ocean sounds?” Joel jokes, laughing to himself but keeping his eyes on yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the crinkling skin around his eyes. There must be something wrong with that pot, because while Joel isn’t unattractive you’ve never been drawn to him like this.
“Yes, actually,” you say, calling his bluff. “I’m gonna close my eyes, you make ocean sounds.”
Everything goes dark as your lashes meet your cheeks, and then he starts, soft, staticky noises passing his lips. It’s sweet really, him trying to imitate such a core memory from before the apocalypse. You fight the smile.
“Don’t laugh,” he whispers. His breath feels like it’s skittering over your skin. “I’m tryin’ here.”
“Sorry,” you say back, the hushed tones of your voice matching his.
“Jus’ keep your eyes closed and relax. Feel the sun, there’s a margarita on the way for you.” He continues the soft whooshing sounds.
Any thoughts of hospital supply shortages, of the woman who didn’t make it through childbirth a few months ago, of the real and imminent danger outside of these walls fade away. You’re wholly and utterly relaxed.
“There you go,” Joel hums softly right before the heat of his palm meets your knee. Regardless of the fact that the patella is not considered an erogenous zone, the feeling of his rough finger tips along your smooth skin sends a rush of heat up your inner thigh, burning even hotter as it settles at your clit. You can’t stop the way your body reacts. Back arching off the recently sanded and stained wood, lips parting, a mix of a gasp and moan - sounds friends aren’t supposed to share - leaving your throat.
Both of you freeze, embarrassment overtaking you. You do what you do best, you decide to run. Run and hide, and protect what little peace you have. But your limbs are heavy, and you refuse to open your eyes to see what you’re sure is going to be a horror-stricken look on Joel’s face. It’s clumsy and awkward as you try to navigate your high, the swaying of the swing, and Joel’s hand still clamped to your leg, and the other one now guiding you to lie back down.
“Shh,” he hushes. “Jus’ take a breath. You’re gonna fall.”
As if someone with strings controls your hands they fly up haphazardly and land on your face. “I’m horrified. I’m so sorry. I need to go.”
Your name is a firm whisper on Joel’s lips, lips that you now wonder how they'd feel on your skin, “Look at me, please.”
You shake your head, “No, I’m so sorry Joel.”
You can feel the tremble in his finger, still frozen around your knee. His voice is rougher as he repeats himself, “Look at me, please.”
Unwillingly, you lower your hands, biting the inside of your cheek to stop from making this worse. Not that you think that’s even possible.
“You have nothing to be sorry or embarrassed about,” his voice is soft and kind, but his expression is not one you’ve ever seen before, because much like the sound you made earlier, this too isn’t an expression friends share.
“You said getting high would make things funnier but…” You trail off, you’re a doctor, you shouldn’t be embarrassed to say that you’re overwhelmingly turned on right now.
“Lemme guess. All your muscles feel heavy, every touch feels heightened?” As he says it, his finger traces down the cartilage of your ear.
“Yes,” you breathe, turning your face towards him, exposing your neck in hopes he’ll continue his caress. He pauses at your lobe, pinching it gently. You mumble an airy ‘Joel’ into his t-shirt.
“We can ask each other for anything, remember?” He murmurs, his fingers meeting your neck, eliciting the same response as before; an arch of the back, a throb of your clit, a hum of pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” you groan. His cock hardens along your cheek.
Joel’s rough fingertips dance along your neck and shoulder, each scratch feeling like heaven. Your brain can’t seem to catch up to the pleasure and you melt further into the solid mass of a man and his earthy, damp rock scent.
You can feel him looking down at you, so you peel your eyes open to see a soft smile and dark eyes. His voice matches his innate Joel-like musk - jagged and unpolished - you can tell he has asked this next question before, but probably not for a long time, “Is this still okay?”
“Mmhmmm,” you nod your head, soft cheek scraping against the ever-growing bulge behind his rough denim. “You smell nice.”
His cheeks pink, a small dimple indenting his beard. “So do you.”
“I do?” You question. “What do I smell like?”
Joel's smile goes from serene to downright devious. “Tell me what you need and I’ll tell you how you smell.”
You slip your bottom lip between your teeth, his nearly obsidian eyes tracking the pinch immediately. You study his face. Any time you mentioned an eligible and interested woman to him he’d say she wasn’t his type or that he’s not looking for anything. You’ve seen him talking to women around Jackson, in the dining hall or at the stables, but he never looked at them as he’s looking at you now. He’s also never hauled his toolbox over to their houses after a long patrol to fix a light socket, or brought them the last slice of apple pie to their workplace. It dawns on you now that you’ve always been the one to say you’re friends, and he’s always been the one that agrees.
Joel
“Aren’t we just friends?” Her voice waivers, almost as if she’s finally putting it all together.
I never had the chance to go to the ocean before the outbreak, yet I tried to imitate the crash of waves on rock for her. I have never baked pies, but when she got called away to the hospital on Thanksgiving I took over, watching them carefully and making sure that she got to taste the fruits of her labour.
I clear the recurring lump she causes in my throat. “We can be just friends if you want. But friends help each other.”
The high is making me feel emboldened, so I drag my fingers from her knee, drawing a swirling, irregular line down her impossibly soft thigh. I keep my gaze locked on hers. In my periphery, I can see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts under the stretchy white cotton of her sundress. I know she’s not wearing a bra, and it fucking kills me.
When my fingers get closer to the apex of her thighs her hips buck forward, gifting me with a glimpse of the baby blue cotton panties she has on. My cock presses painfully against the zipper of my jeans and I will it to soften. She doesn’t need to do anything for me. I just want to care for her. However, when she gasps needily all hope of my erection going down is lost.
“No pressure,” I reassure, “but if you want, or need, to come…all you have to do is ask.”
You
Joel’s fingers continue their abstract patterns on your inner thigh. You know he’s seen your baby blue panties, probably has noticed the darker hues of the soaked-through gusset.
Friends help each other.
His echoed words feel as good as his hands. You haven’t let a man please you since shortly after settling in at Jackson. As the single years passed so did the urge for touch.
“Joel Bradley,” you tease, the hand you’ve since re-tucked along the bench reaching up and finding purchase at the nape of his neck. “Tell me what I smell like while making me come.”
“You got a long way to go in that alphabet, sweetheart.” He guides your left leg, pulling your foot so the sole meets the back of the bench then pushing your knee down. Next, he guides the other leg up and over the back of the swing. You’re squirming with anticipation. If the innocent touches feel this good you can’t even begin to imagine how the not-so-innocent ones will feel. “Fuck me, you’re already so wet.”
“You were touching me,” you state, blinking up at him.
Joel’s tongue peeks out, wetting his lips and you wonder how he’d taste. “I love that you’re drippin’ for me. Like I said, you deserve to be relaxed. Deserve someone to care for you. ‘Specially since all you do is care for others.”
He shifts his body slightly, his hand now massaging your left inner thigh, kneading the muscles gently. Fire practically explodes up your leg, and you’re almost convinced you could come without him even touching you. Joel moves his hand in a calculated and methodical rhythm. You gasp and sink further into the feeling.
“How are you feeling?” His voice is tender, yet another side of him you’ve never seen. Unfortunately, in your languid state, your brain can’t seem to think of words.
“Melty,” you sigh, nuzzling into his covered dick. He laughs silently through his nose.
“Good. You’re stunning like this. All soft and free,” his firm but soothing caresses finally meet the crease of your thigh.
“God, that feels so good.”
“Jus’ Joel will do,” he teases, his thumb pressing deeper into your hip, immediately causing you to pant and your hips to flex forward. “If you change your mind, you can tell me to stop.”
You nod again, closing your eyes, fully unable to form words at this point. His cock gets harder - and somehow bigger - with the friction. Then you finally feel a light brush along the seam of your pussy through your panties. You cry out, your left leg coming up to the backrest as pleasure ignites through you.
“I got you,” Joel murmurs. “Open your legs. You’re okay.”
“Just keep talking,” you ask, leg going boneless and falling open for him.
He plays with you again, one finger running up and down again and again. You can feel yourself getting wetter.
“I’ve noticed that you have two scents,” he begins, keeping his part of the deal to tell you how you smell while making you come. “The first is when you’re at work. The hospital smells sterile, but you smell like winter. Icy, but not cold. Fresh. Like a change is coming, and what’s going to bloom after the snow is going to be more beautiful than you could ever imagine.”
He swirls your clit now. Tight little circles with the pads of two of his fingers. “Oh fuck, Joel.”
“Look at me,” he rasps. When you peel your eyes open he continues, “Tell me how it feels.”
“So good,” you mumble, eyes hooded with pleasure. The sun is lower in the sky now, no longer hot on your skin and instead just a golden warmth. “Just a little harder.”
Joel listens, keeping the pace the same but pressing down and you swear you see stars. “Just like that - hnnng, Joel, fuck. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I know, baby. I won’t. Not until you tell me to.”
Baby. No one has called you a pet name like that in years and it causes your eyes to roll back into your skull. He’s consistent, steady and assertive, in the way he plays with you. Those are the things you like about him and your friendship.
“J-Joel, I-ohmygod -“ the pleasure is building low in your stomach, spreading around your back and down your legs. Even though the two of you live away from the bustling Main Street of the commune, you worry that you will not be able to keep quiet when an orgasm finally takes you. Your muscles clench, your hand that’s still on his neck cards through his soft hair, tugging gently. Your other hand finds his corded, muscular forearm connected to his hand that’s still gingerly stroking your neck.
“Jus’ relax.”
“I…I can’t,” you bury your face into his stomach, he hisses at the friction along his cock.
“Yes you can, just let go. Then I’ll push these little panties to the side and give you another one. Explain what you smell like when it’s just the two of us.” His voice is encouraging, praising almost. “Take a breath, sweetheart. Jus’ relax.”
You suck a trembling breath in through your nose, exhaling slowly through your parted lips, sinking back into Joel. He said he’s got you. If anything, Joel Miller is a man of his word. He’s proven it time and time again.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers gruffly, then speeds up his delicious assault of your clit. Before you have time to overanalyze it again a quick, yet intense, orgasm slams through your body. You gasp into Joel’s shirt, legs trembling. “There she goes. Let me make you feel good.”
“Holy fuck,” you exclaim, rolling your head back to look up at him. He slows his ministrations, keeping the pressure while your hips cant back and forth. Joel smiles down at you, the late afternoon sun glinting off the greys along his temples and beard. The amber glow gives you a preview of the tan you know he’ll have soon. “I want to take care of you now.”
Joel chuckles under his breath. “I made you a promise. Or were you too engulfed in the feeling of my fingers on your clit that you didn’t hear me?”
Your cheeks flush. In your experience, men say things in the heat of the moment that are erased more easily than a whiteboard the second they’re offered a turn. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth before you hum, “I heard.”
After carefully tucking the loose strands of hair he’s been playing with behind your ear, he twists at the waist, reaching down, fingers playing with the edge of your panties. “These are soaked through, sweetheart.”
His rough fingertips pull your panties to the side. “You know I woulda taken care of this for you a long time ago if you had asked. Been waitin’ for a while now.”
“I didn’t know,” you gasp, a mixture of the breeze hitting your soaked cunt and the whimper that leaves his lips when he sees you bare for him.
“So damn pretty,” he says quietly, as if it were just for him.
He holds your panties to the side, the other hand prodding gently at your entrance, then sliding along your pussy. He touches you everywhere, testing all the areas that make you whimper or squirm while coating his fingers in your arousal.
“Please, Joel. I’m so wet for you.” You're panting. The buildup and anticipation are almost too much.
“Say please again.”
Even though you can’t see his face now that he’s turned his upper body for better access, you know he’s smirking. That little tug of the side of his mouth that didn’t seem to have any effect on you until today. Now, you don’t want anyone else to get that smirk.
Joel pulls his fingers away, using his thumbs to spread you further. He murmurs to himself again, but you’re too lost in the feeling of him to hear it.
“Please, Joel,” a stream of cool air hits your clit and your pussy throbs and clenches around nothing. Everything melts away, you feel like you’re floating. “Please!”
“All you had to do was ask,” he hums and in one slippery push, two of his fingers are buried to the hilt inside of you.
You can’t breathe, unsure if you ever want to breathe again. Especially if it means you get to feel like this for eternity.
Joel
I can’t remember the last time I had my fingers inside of someone I had a connection with. Sure, there was an occasional hook-up here or there. And Tess was willing when I was in Boston. But this is different. Bigger. This woman cares so deeply for others. Deep enough that she befriended my stubborn ass and then went around Jackson singing my praises. Even though I don’t believe there’s a god anymore, so help me god that this woman will be paid back in my praises for as long as she’ll let me.
I move my thumb to her clit, rubbing it back and forth gently as she adjusts to the intrusion of my fingers. She writhes beautifully at my touch as she relaxes around my digits, short little puffs of air passing her perfect lips. I should have kissed her, slowly stripped her of every piece of clothing before doing this. If she lets me have access to her like this again, I’ll be sure to take my time; be sure to make her feel as special as she makes everyone else feel.
You
“S’too much,” I mumble.
“Do you want me to stop?”
I roll my head from side to side rushing out a no and he responds with that quiet little chuckle that sets my skin on fire. “Talk to me.”
His thumb dances lightly along my clit, the walls of my pussy relaxing at his reverence, the pinch of his finger filling me turning into euphoria. I can’t even remember how long it’s been since someone else has touched me, but I know that no one has ever touched me this…completely.
You feel the fingers holding back your panties tremble as he takes a breath. He’s not hesitating, just preparing; though you aren’t sure what for until he starts to speak.
“Moments when it’s just the two of us you smell like freshly ground coffee beans and sugar-crusted banana bread. Both of which seem impossible since we don’t have coffee or bananas,” he curls his fingers forward just a touch. More fire, more electricity, more being floaty and melty all at once. “You’re the coffee shop I used to go to every morning before I went to work. Before weekend soccer practices or dance recitals. You even somehow manage to drown out all the noise, turning it to comfortable background coffee shop chatter.”
His words hang in the air, heady and welcome. You remind him of before. Of a place he went every day. His routine. He once told you he’d do horrible things for a good cup of coffee. You’re his cup, his coffee, his lifeline.
Joel pumps his hand up, keeping the tips of his strong fingers firmly pressed to your G-spot. His hand moves with expert precision, thumb moving along your swollen clit with the motion. Once, twice. Again and again, wholly focused on you. While you know it’s the high making you feel him this intensely, you also think that Joel just might be that good at all of this.
You whimper, burying your face into his side. “Fuck, fuck. Please don’t stop, baby.”
“Never,” he whispers, just as unfazed as you were for being called by anything but your first name. Soft lips ghost along the inner knee that’s over the back of the swing; his beard both tickles and scratches, and you wonder what it would feel like along the rest of your body.
‘All you had to do was ask.’ His words from earlier trickle along your spinal cord.
His pace picks up, pressure behind your belly button becoming almost unbearable. The fire building from his touches evolves; you feel like you’re being dunked in lava. Your hips try to buck forward but you’re trapped by his strong body.
“Joel,” you breathe, your desperation carried away by the breeze.
“I can’t believe how pretty this pussy is. My hand is drippin’. So soft. So tight.” Even with the rough gravel of his voice his words are light and full of praise.
“I’m gonna come soon,” you moan, your hands scrambling to reach for him, desperate to feel his skin under your palms to ground yourself. It feels like an orgasm might rip you in two, singe every nerve ending, leaving you in a heap of trembling nothingness. A husk that only exists for this. For Joel.
“I know, baby, I know. Squeezin’ me so tight, bein’ s’good for me. Relax again. Relax and let it take you.”
As he speaks, a chill runs from the back of your neck to your tailbone, temporarily cooling your overheating flesh before the taunt muscles behind your navel and snap. You muffle your pleasure filled sob into his side.
“That’s my girl,” he says over his shoulder, his dark brown eyes meeting yours as you fall apart for him. “So beautiful.”
Your hands ball into tight fists, holding onto his t-shirt as you moan and gasp, sucking in oxygen in hopes you won’t pass out from how fucking good Joel is making you feel. He adjusts himself, pressing the heel of his palm to your clit and giving your body the room it needs to take over. You fuck yourself into his hand, moving in time with him. The pleasure starts to ebb, and as if he can read your mind he stops his movements, letting you ride it out without pushing you into a state of overstimulation.
He smiles at you, “It’s all you, baby. All you.”
Your hips slow as your orgasm starts to subside. “Oh my god.”
His smile grows, big and beautiful, all dimples and teeth. He looks at you with a benevolent glow, like you single-handedly found a way to end the apocalypse and then hung all the stars in the sky just for him.
You melt back into the swing, sated yet craving more. With his fingers still inside of you he says, “Are you okay? You’re trembling.”
You bob your head and hum an agreeable sound. His fingers slip free easily, coated in your slick. After putting your panties back in place he cups your pussy with his large, warm hand then sits up straight again. His eyes dance around your face and you laugh low and shy.
“Stunning,” he whispers, pushing some hair away from forehead.
“All I had to do was ask, hey?” You tease, chewing on your cheek.
“I’m just following your lead, baby.” The new nickname said not in the heat of the moment makes you blush. “You want to be friends, I’ll be friends. You want to be more, I’ll be more. You want to never speak to me again, I’ll move.”
You gasp, “No! Not the last one.”
“It’s whatever you want, sweetheart.”
You shake your head, “I prefer baby.”
He pulls you to sit up, “Why’s that?”
Joel stands in front of you, grasping your hands as you answer, “Because you call everyone sweetheart…baby is just between us.”
His cheeks pink a little as he pulls you to stand. Your high has lessened a little but the exertion of your orgasm has your legs feeling like jelly.
“Whatever you want…baby.” He says the last word with a wink before pulling you into his chest. He continues, “Anything else you want?”
You smile into his shirt, taking in the stony, earthy scent of him. “Your middle name, and for you to take me to your bed and fuck me.”
His thumb and forefinger grip your chin, tilting your gaze up to his. He dips his head, nose running down yours before he kisses you softly. A lingering press of his lips to yours. He kisses the side of your mouth next, your jaw, your cheekbone, the soft spot below your lobe, then whispers a name into your ear.
“It would have taken me years to get that,” you murmur and he chuckles.
“I was hoping that would be the case,” his fingers link with yours before he guides you into his house and up to his bedroom.
I'm going to tag anyone who commented on or reblogged the original story idea, but I'm not starting a tag list again. So please follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates and turn on notifs for future stories!
Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader
Rating: 18+ Explicit
Wordcount: +1.6K
Summary: There’s something wrong with Din.
Warnings: Very rough smut. Implied Anal. Din being weird. Some gore. A lil blood kink.
A/N: Haunted DarkSaber Din has continued to live rent free in my mind all morning. It’s kind of a mess, but we are here. I know a Discord started this trope so I don’t know who to cite for this masterful idea, but it is certainly not mine.
There’s something wrong with Din.
You blame it on a lot of things.
The absence of Grogu. The stress of the last few months. The responsibility that has been laid at Din’s feet: the promise of a kingdom he does not want.
He sits at the edge of their bed - staring listlessly into the void of their new ship. The tiny blinking lights paint the hull in a dull red glow. His sharp profile - so angular and familiar - is blurred to shadows. It is almost as if the sweep of his body is being pulled forward - stretched into the black, formless mass of the dark.
“Din,” you whisper, poking your toe into his hip. “Come sleep.”
“I’m so tired,” he murmurs before his face falls into his hands. “I’m…I’m tired.”
