Lottie

Multifandom hyperfixated bisexual anxious real life bunny 18 🩷 ❕MDNI ❕

[diaryofateenagebunny]

Welcome to my blog

MDNI, Don't like don't read

Your local loss-of-v fanatic

AO3

Masterlist:

John Price

Such A Good Girl - Teacher x Student Series

You're 18, an academic overachiever and clueless when it comes to boys, so what happens when you and Mr Price have tension beginning to surface.

💋 The Kiss - While on a school trip you develop a crush on your history teacher, Mr Price, the night begins in a way you don't expect

🍑 Sweet As A Peach - John makes you come for the first time on his tongue and fingers

🍒 Pop The Cherry - You lose your virginity to Mr Price

🦢 Ending In Tears - John helps you through your guilt about your night together

🎀 Evolution - You adapt to your newfound relationship in school, John takes you out on that date

🌹 House Tour - You go back to John's after a date

🩰 Atychiphobia - John helps you through a panic attack

Joel Miller

☁️ Die Your Daughter - Dad comes into your room late at night

🇺🇸 Quiet In The South - Dbf!Joel lets you have one night with him

Divider: @cafekitsune

[tankhall]

perverts segment is NOT a bathroom break >:|

[diaryofateenagebunny]

This is so sad wtf 😔 justice for perverts

[diaryofateenagebunny]

Ethel you know you want to play Hard Times in Cardiff, pretty please with a cherry on top 😸 @tankhall

[diaryofateenagebunny]

Ethel you know you want to play Hard Times in Cardiff, pretty please with a cherry on top 😸 @tankhall

[diaryofateenagebunny]

Ethel you know you want to play Hard Times in Cardiff, pretty please with a cherry on top 😸 @tankhall

[littledes1re]

daddy, i’m sorry 

Pairing: Old!daddy!joel miller x female!reader

Summary: Joel sits downstairs, reading by the stove, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the footsteps of his son’s girlfriend. Trying to pretend he doesn’t remember what the two of you have done and feel. But when you appear in the dark—barefoot, wide-eyed, floaty-headed and call him Daddy like you still mean something by it, he knows you’re about to break the rules again.

Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, slight angst, age gap! (60s and 20s), fingering, praise kink, slight mean!joel, daddy kink, ddlg undertones, subspace, infidelity, power imbalance, taboo relationship dynamics, needy!reader, no outbreak,

A/N: i’m not feeling very well lately. this is just an unfinished draft that I never finished, but I wrapped it up now to kinda ease myself back into writing. I also want to finally get to some requests that have been sitting in my inbox. Things might move a little slower for now, I’m sorry about that! But i hope yall enjoy this one in the meantime: filthy, taboo nonsense that just hits right when you’re horny hehe😋

The fire crackled low in the stove, its orange glow flickering across the old wooden floorboards. The room was dim, lit only by the firelight that danced around Joel’s chair. He sat still, legs stretched out, reading glasses perched low on his nose, the spine of a thick book resting in one hand.

Outside, the wind knocked against the windows, but inside it was warm and real quiet. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and makes you forget the day.

Joel turns a page slowly, his eyes moving steady across the lines, but he wasn’t really reading anymore. Not with the fire murmuring besides him. Not with the weight of the day finally easing off his shoulders.

And then—

a sound.

Soft and unmistakable. Footsteps.

He stilled.

The book lowered an inch. His jaw tightens just slightly. He didn’t look up, not yet. Just listened. One step. Then another. A pause. Then the creak of the top stair.

Joel closed the book gently, thumb marking the page.

He didn’t need to look to know it was you.

His eyes flicked towards your figure in the hallway, dressed in white like a ghost. The room was dark, but Joel could still make out the tremble of your lips, the flush blooming across your cheeks.

He doesn’t want to know what you did upstairs with his son, he didn’t even want to think of it.

And more than anything, he didn’t want you coming to him—disturbing the only ounce of peace he ever feels, that quiet hour when the house is asleep, and it’s just him, a book, and the soft crackle of the fire.

You slip into the room without a word, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you move gently to the couch besides him. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches. Swallows. His jaw tightens. And you can already see his knuckles going white from gripping the book too hard.

With a quiet sigh, legs are drawn up as you settle besides him, eyes fixed on the way he turns the page—his hands broad and steady, the book looking small in his palm.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, thoughts wrapped in cotton. Everything feels soft, distant—like the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment is Joel.

He clears his throat, making you look up to him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and hoarse, the sound of it rumbling deep in your chest.

You shake your head. “No, it’s too quiet up there.”

“You’re not used to country,” he answers with a hum.

He was right. Staying at Joel’s farmhouse—just because your boyfriend insisted that spending the holidays at his dad’s place would help you relax—was a mistake. Instead of peace, you were face to face with the very thing you’d been trying to avoid for years.

And now you can’t keep it together anymore. Joel knows it.

He saw it already on your glassy eyes on the breakfast table. Or on the way you gently touched him when you tried to slip past him.

“Do you always read in the dark?” You ask.

“Sometimes. When my eyes get used to it. Helps me wind down, you know?”

You nod, and you feel it in your chest—knowing that once, you knew everything about him. That he once told you everything. Every little quirk he had and has.

Silence stretches between you. Joel’s head dips, trying to make something of the words he is reading, but the only thing his mind allows is to hear your little breaths and your voice looping inside his mind.

He can feel you staring.

“You should go back to bed.” He says, finally.

Your heart thuds in your chest. You tilt your head, eyes glassy looking at him.

“Doesn’t feel right,” you murmur. “Up there. Without you.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenching, hands closing the book.

“We’ve talked about this.”

You nod.

“Remember?”

“I remember.” Your voice is just above a whisper.

“And?” His eyebrows go up, reading glasses moving with them. His voice makes your skin crawl; it makes you want to curl yourself further into the couch and disappear. You just needed him.

“I-i’m not trying to start anything.” A lie.

“Bullshit.” His voice cuts through the warm atmosphere of the room—sharp, hitting right into your heart. Your bottom lip wobbles as you look at him, breath picking up.

“Look at you.” His hand sways in your direction, eyes scanning you up and down. “You look like a mess.”

“I—I don’t mean to be.” Your voice is breathy, almost like a whimper. “I just…I don’t feel right.”

Joel scoffs, his heart breaking a little too—from being so mean. He doesn’t want to be. But you two were never meant to be. What happened between you has to stay in the past, forgotten. That was the deal: to never talk about it again. To never seek each other out. To never ask for more.

“You should go,” Joel says again, quieter this time. “Ain’t right, you sittin’ here like this.”

You don’t move. Just look at him, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“That ain’t my problem.” You flinch. “You have your boyfriend right upstairs, you don’t need me.”

Silence falls again.

Neither of you move or say anything. Joel doesn’t look at you—his eyes are focused on the way the fire plays shadows on the walls and the way it lights up the place.

You, on the other hand…are almost on the verge of crying. Not because of sadness, but because you’re locked in a headspace that won’t let you think straight. One that just wants to be cradled, to be held, and to be told that everything is going to be okay.

And that should be from Joel.

Because your boyfriend doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand your headspace, your needs. He doesn’t listen, and when he does he misinterprets what you say.

Joel doesn’t. He never did.

After a while Joel releases a big breath, and rubs his forehead.

And then he hears it:

“daddy, i’m sorry.”

It lands like match on dry grass.

Joel freezes. That word hangs in the air—thick, trembling. He squeezes his eyes shut, his mind already drifting to the past, to when you laid underneath him and called him that word like he was your anchor.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re darker. But they’re not angry. Not anymore. They’re wrecked. He knows he has been fighting this way too long, and he knows that a single word can break him. And that happened now.

“Jesus,” he mutters, just under his breath.

Your cheeks flush, embarrassment runs through your body.

He drags a hand down his face, then looks at you—really looks. At the way you’re still curled in on yourself, flushed and trembling, eyes wide, lips swollen, wet and waiting for something.

“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” breathes out.

But he’s already moving. The book slides from his lap to the floor with a soft thud. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and opens his arms.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gentler now. “Come here.”

You move fast. You climb into his lap like you’ve done it a hundred times before—knees on either side of his thighs, arms already reaching to curl around his neck, face nuzzling toward the warm space beneath his jaw.

But his hand comes up, firm against your shoulder.

“Hey.”

You pause, blinking up at him, dazed and soft. Sou try again, leaning in, seeking the comfort of his chest, but his voice sharpens.

“Hey…hey. Hey.” He catches your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his. His eyes focused on your lips.

“You know we can’t keep doin’ this,” he starts, voice low. “We said last time was the last time.”

You whimper, barely a sound, but it’s enough to make his grip falter for a second. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentler now.

“Last time,” he says again, quieter. “You hear me?”

You nod, slow.

“Promise?” he asks.

You nod again, eager. But he doesn’t let go.

“No,” he says, firmer. “Words.”

“Promise.”

He watches you for a beat longer, then exhales through his nose. His hand slides from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you in.

“Good girl.”

And just like that, you curl into him, breath soft against his neck, while he can feel how far you’ve gone—how quiet, how warm, how gone. Your body’s heavy in his lap, boneless, like you’re melting into him inch by inch. And Joel knows what that means.

His hand moves slowly over your back, steady and grounding, trying to soothe you.

“You’re real quiet now,” he murmurs. “That little motor of yours finally ran outta steam, huh?”

You don’t answer. Just nuzzle closer, your lips brushing the side of his neck, barely there.

“You’re deep in it, ain’t you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even see it happen.”

He shifts slightly, adjusting you in his lap, cradling you closer. His voice drops to a whisper.

“You always do this to me,” he says. “Come in here all soft, all sweet…and I try so damn hard to be good.”

You let out a tiny sound—half sigh, half whimper—and it breaks something in him.

“Shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple. “I know, baby. I know.”

His hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“You’re safe,” he whispers. “Daddy’s got you.”

You feel soft in his lap, breath already hitching, hips starting to shift just enough to make him feel it. You need him.

Joel’s hand tightens on your hip, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to hold something back.

“Y’are needy, aren’t you, baby?” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “Figured.”

You nod, whimpering softly, and he exhales like it hurts.

“Can you tell me what you need?” he asks, brushing your hair back. “Just wanna make sure you’re still with me.”

“Want you,” you whisper. “Please, Daddy.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. You want Daddy to help you come back down.”

His hand slides lower, slow and steady.

“S’okay,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

And just as he shifts you in his lap, his mouth close to your ear, you hear it—barely a breath, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud: “This the last time.”

But his hands don’t stop.

“Y’stay real quiet, yeah? Don’t want him hearin’ that his dad’s takin’ care of his girlfriend better.”

It’s not a threat. It never is. It’s resentment, but not at you—god, never at you. It’s at the boy, his own son, who gets to have you in the daylight, while Joel only gets the dark.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard while looking into your hazy eyes. You whine again, signalling that you’re ready. Ready for him to take you. He chuckles under his breath in response.

So, Joels hand slides down, slow and warm, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, then lower. He cups you over your panties, real gentle, but firm—and lets out a quiet breath when he feels the dampness.

“Messy girl.” he coos.

You whimper, hips pressing desperately into his palm.

“Shh,” he soothes, lips brushing your temple. “I know. Daddy’s here.”

He quickly hooks a finger around the edge of your panties, tugging them aside with care, while your head rests on his chest—breathing in his wooden scent. His fingers find you, slick, soft, sticky and he strokes through the wetness, slow and teasing. His fingertip brushes over your clit gently, and you gasp.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “Let me feel you.”

After letting you settle, he eases one finger inside—only one, because he knows you need time to adjust in this headspace. His finger settles into your cunt, and you breathe out, clinging to him, as he holds you tighter.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Nice and easy.”

He waits for yuou, lets you adjust, then begins to move—gentle, curling thrusts, deep and slow, while his other hand cradles your back.

You were already feeling sensitive—like your body knew Joel was near, like your cunt could sense the weight of his big, steady hands cradling you. And you were always extra needy when you started to float.

He shifts just enough to see your face, brushing your hair back with the hand not inside you. Your eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. You look dazed, dreamy, like you’re floating somewhere only he can reach.

Joel swears under his breath. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “All gone, huh?”

You hum, barely even able to nod, and he smiles: absolutely wrecked by how beautiful you are like this.

His fingers keep moving, slow and sure, coaxing you through it, fingertip curling into that one spot that only Joel can reach. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“You stay with me, babygirl. Don’t drift too far.”

You move softly in his lap, breath hitching, but hips shifting just a little more desperately—like you’re chasing something just out of reach.

Joel notices. Of course he does.

“Still restless, huh?” he murmurs, voice still against your ear. “One ain’t enough for you, baby?”

You shake your head, your body answering before your mouth can.

He smiles knowing. “S’okay,” he whispers. “I got you.”

He eases his hand back, just enough to press a second finger to your entrance. He waits—feels the way your body flutters, how you cling to him tighter.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Let me in.”

And when you do—when he slides that second finger in, slow and careful—you sigh, your cunt fluttering around him. The stretch is deeper, fuller, and your whole body melts around him.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

Joel starts with his thrusts again. Slow, deep and grinding. Every thrust now pressing into you more fully, brushing against that sweet, aching spot inside you. You can already feel the stickiness between your thighs, the way your slick clings to him, to you, to everything. It’s warm, messy, perfect.

“Daddy…” you sigh, burying your face into his chest.

“Yea? Like that?” He asks, placing a kiss on your temple. “Daddy’s filling you up nice and slow?”

You nod your head softly, coming closer to his chin, pressing a peck on his lips and then a faint one on his stubbles.

The chair under you two groans as your hips shift, chasing the rhythm of his hand. You’re trying to stay quiet, but every slow thrust makes you tremble, makes you cling to him tighter.

His fingers continue to move slow and deep inside you, while the room is quiet, so quiet that you can hear it. That soft, wet sound each time he thrusts in. It’s intimate.

A slick little whisper between your thighs, hidden in the space where your bodies meet.

He presses in deeper, and the squelch is louder now—squelching, needy. You feel it in your belly, on your skin.

The slick sounds between you grow wetter, messier, and your breath comes in soft, broken gasps. Joel feels it—the way you’re clenching tighter, the way your body’s starting to shake.

“You’re close, yea?” he murmurs, voice thick with warmth. “I can feel it, baby.”

You can’t answer. You just whimper, pressing your face into his neck, trying to hold on.

And then you feel it—his thumb, warm and steady, sliding down to circle your clit. Gentle at first, just enough to make you gasp.

“There we go. So puffy for daddy, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Let Daddy help you.”

His fingers keep moving inside you, while his thumb works soft, perfect circles over that aching spot. The rhythm is steady and grounding.

“That’s it, babygirl. Just come for me. I’ve got you.”

His fingers find that tender spot inside you again—just as his thumb circles your clit just right, and his voice drops low in your ear. “Yes, that’s it, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then you do.

Your whole body tenses, then breaks. You cry out, soft and wrecked and he holds you tighter as your release rushes through you. He feels it immediately—the way your walls flutter around his fingers, the way your slick gushes over his hand, warm, wet and so desperate.

It runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, dripping onto his wrist and soaking into the fabric of his jeans. But he doesn’t care. He loves it.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “Let it all out. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t pull away. He keeps his fingers inside you, gentle now, nestled deep, cradling the soft, fluttering squeeze of your walls as you come down. The chair creaks beneath you, the room still thick with heat and breath and the soft, wet sounds of your release.

“You’re making such a big mess, baby girl…” he murmurs. “Daddy has to clean ya up, hm?”

His other hand strokes your back, grounding you, while his lips press soft kisses to your temple.

“Still flutterin’,” he whispers, almost in awe. “So sweet. So soft.”

You whine, your body coming down from your release—still overwhelmed, and he hushes you gently.

“I know, baby. I know. You gave me everything, didn’t you?”

He stays there with you, fingers still inside, until your breathing evens out and your body stops trembling. Even then, he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, full and warm and safe in his arms.

“You’re okay,” he says softly.

You hum, content. His scent is everywhere—smoke, leather, wood. You feel like you could stay here forever.

“You feel better, babygirl?” he asks sweetly.

You nod, slow and lazy. “Mhm. Thank you, Daddy.”

You’re curl into his lap, limp and trembling, your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers slip from you now, but his arms don’t move. One hand strokes your back in slow, grounding circles. The other rests on your thigh, warm and steady.

The chair creaks softly beneath you both again, but neither of you moves. You’re still slick between your legs, the mess of your release soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t care. He just presses a kiss to your hairline—gentle, lingering.

“You were so good,” he says softly. “So damn sweet.”

There’s a pause. Like he wants to say more. Like there’s something sitting heavy in his chest. But instead, he just holds you tighter.

“Let’s just stay like this a while.”

“Just let me have this,” he says, barely audible. “Just for a little longer.”

And you do. Because right now, in this hush, in his arms—you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Okey i’m gonna be honest…i don’t like this🫩 but i also missed writing for daddy Joel sooo…I hope you guys enjoyed it! Also this is not proofread🫣 please let’s just ignore all the mistakes and things that don’t make sense

Now i’m gonna concentrate on some requests, and then i’ll probably post ex hitman!joel! He is miserable, bleeding but still soft for her <3

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @easybbgrl @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[pricesprincess]

𐙚⋆.˚ open up | j. price x fem reader

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ wc: 8.2k ˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Your husband asks for an open marriage leading into it breaking and your life blossoming into something new. ˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ repost + 18+ only content: mdni + explicit smut + oc! husband + cheating from him + angst + I added all parts together

"I want an open marriage." Your husband's words take you off guard, the rhythmic chopping of your knife against the cutting board stops abruptly.

Crickets fill the silence in the kitchen from the open window as you look at him taken aback.

A colorful blend of emotions burst behind your eyes like fireworks. Pain, hurt, anger, sadness, and then betrayal. You've heard of men asking their wives for this to have a clear conscience while cheating to make themselves feel better.

He stands on the opposite side of the counter watching you closely, waiting for your answer.

Who does he want to fuck so bad?

Mentally you flip through pictures of your friends.

Then it hits you. He wants your co-worker, Mia. Young. Pretty. Basically flawless.

You grip the knife tighter and flip through his friends.

Mia even told you accidentally once that he is "Just so handsome!" Albeit she was under the influence, though the saying goes. 'A drunk tongue speaks a sober mind.' She isn't lying.

Your husband shifts his weight between both feet clearly anxious, his fingers drum against the counter as you resume chopping vegetables for the meal prep for both of you.

"John."

His eyebrows meet in the middle confusion written all over his face. "John?" He repeats.

"Yes, I want to go on a date and potentially fuck your friend, John Price." You simply reply.

Something between disgust and jealousy crawls into his expression. "No way. Why him?"

You hum and look at your husband, the man who promised you forever to be only with each other is now asking for a girlfriend?

For a few beats too long you stay silent and add the vegetables to the pot letting him suffer. "He's cute, also I like the beard." You say and hear your husband scoff.

He strokes his bare chin and looks at the floor. “You don't like beards. Why now?”

“I thought since we're trying new things out, why not? I'll be there tomorrow to ask him out for dinner this weekend.” You say.

Tension crackles in the room as your husband paces the kitchen. “He won't do it. Price would never agree to date you.”

His words come out sharp, aiming to make it hurt. It wasn't too surprising to find out what he wants, but now he's being a dick?

You click the lid shut to only your lunch container and put it in the fridge. “Oh, he'll want more than just to date me, don't worry.”

Monday morning came a lot faster than you anticipated, as if the universe knew what you were doing. Last night you called Mia and told her about the whole ordeal that left you feeling a storm of emotions. Part of you knew your marriage was over. The relationship grew stale and while you tried to fix it, soak up some of what used to be between you and your husband was now dried up and brick hard like a dry sponge. 

Anxiety pulses through your veins, making the spot below your neck throb visibly, the soft leather of the car seat barely feels real, nor does the sun shining through your windshield, which does little to warm the dread in your belly that quickly turns into an iceberg freezing you to your spot. But you were not about to let your husband show you up, get a date, and fuck someone else when he hasn’t fucked you in months. 

You check your reflection once more in the visor to make sure your hair and little bit of makeup are in place even though you kept the window up on the drive over, suffering from the heat because your husband refuses to fix the AC. You snap it shut with a soft sigh. John Price is inside the building in front of you, where your husband happens to work and spends a lot of time, but where does he go after? 

His words come back and hit you square in the face like a baseball, shattering everything you thought you knew about your marriage and who he is as a person. “I want an open marriage.” Who asks for one already with a person in mind? Someone with an intent to cheat but who wants permission because it's easier to beg for forgiveness than to just ask your wife to have a side relationship? 

Apparently not such a good one if he wants to fuck your co-worker, who literally squealed and gushed over the phone when you told her about him asking her out. You could hear her voice still, shrill and filled with that sort of excitement you used to get when your husband asked you on your first date. 

“Here goes nothing.” Gathering up all the courage you have, you push the door open and walk up the sidewalk, each step slower than the last as your hands fidget and smooth down your skirt. You tugged on a simple skirt and shirt, nothing fancy, or said, “Hey! I want to fuck you to piss my husband off!” 

It wasn’t just that you wanted to piss him off, it was mostly about you taking back the power and your sense of direction you lost over the last year in your marriage and well, maybe a little bit of it was you wanting to give him his own taste of medicine, hold his nose shut and make him swallow it. 

You already called a lawyer this morning because, like hell, were you staying married to him. 

John is probably in his office, maybe waiting for you already? You talked to him a few times at the holiday party they have, where he was nothing but a gentleman, paying close attention to what you spoke. He even leaned in when he didn’t hear you, and his musk was strong, earthy, and all fucking man. 

Did your husband tell him already? What would he think about getting involved? Would he? Your mouth felt like you stuffed cotton in it and it didn’t matter how many times you try to swallow to wet it or your lips, your nerves felt like they were flayed and then seared on a grill. 

A few seconds later you realize you're inside. 

The small lobby is lit up with soft buttery lamps that didn’t make your eyes strain, with a few couches in the corner and a desk. A cool breeze from the AC helps the heat that flushes through you when the secretary greets you when you see him by his office or what you think is talking to someone else, nodding his head. 

You look at her, her words not registering when John approaches, and all your blood rushes to your ears from the nerves tingling all over like tiny thumbtacks being rained down on you. “Your husband isn't here. He’s at lunch. You need anythin’?” He asks kindly with a smile that crinkles. 

You snap out of your trance and smile back, trying not to fidget with your hands too much. “I know, I came to see you actually.” You say and give him a look that all but begs for him to take you to his office. 

The secretary is now leaning in subtly, her eyes trained on the computer while listening. “Come to my office then.” John smiles and waits for you to step next to him before he walks with you down the tiled hallway, where he reaches a heavy door that has his nameplate: Captain John Price. 

When your husband enrolled in the military at the tender age of nineteen, he insisted that you two get married so he could take care of you, so young and dumb and helplessly in love, you agreed. Now it’s biting you in the ass and speaking of ass, John has a nice one, plump and very round too. 

Mentally you scold yourself and let your gaze travel up his broad body, settling on his eyes that most definitely caught you checking him out, but he didn’t say anything, just smiled and opened the door, his large palm stretching out to show you to the chairs he placed in front of his desk. “What’s goin’ on?” 

You walk inside and feel your heartbeat triple and the butterflies in your belly flap harder like a whirlwind of buttery soft wings that could make you float, your muscles like jelly as you walk to the chair that John pulls out for you, a broken thank you parting your lips, and then you sink into the cushion, now fidgeting. 

John took his seat behind his desk and leaned back, the chair creaking. His eyes stay trained on you, warm and gentle, waiting patiently for you to tell him why you’re here, a soldier’s wife? He’s always wondered what you saw in your husband, but seeing that John didn’t even have a girlfriend, he couldn’t speak on that. “Has my husband talked to you?” You ask and pull on your fingertips, watching him. 

“About?” 

That fucking bastard! Of course, he wouldn’t talk to him. 

Your thoughts unravel like yarn being spilt from a bowl, the colorful strands, each one depicting your emotions, left a mess in your skull as you blink and gather up the rest of your courage. “He…asked me for an open marriage the other night, he wants to fuck my co-worker and I asked about you.” You reply basically in one breath and opt to stand up now, the chair making no noise as it slides back. 

John wasn’t expecting to hear that. If anything, he thought it was some type of drama at home that was being brought to work, and while it was being brought to your husband's job, it wasn’t the type of drama John was thinking of. He ran a palm over his beard, watching as you paced in front of his desk anxiously. 

He stands and walks over to you, his hand resting on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. Your wide eyes meet his, your legs already quivering because what the hell were you thinking? “I think a beautiful woman like yourself deserves to be wined and dined first, yeah? Here’s my number.” 

His answer brings so much relief that floods your body your knees give out and John is right there, one strong arm hooks around your waist, holding you upright. “Okay.” Is all you manage as you rest your hands on his chest, your gazes locked for a moment as you count the dark blue flecks in his eyes when he pulls away to scribble his number on a piece of paper and hand it to you with a softer smile than before. 

“A man who doesn’t know his wife’s worth isn’t a man worth keeping around.” John whispers in your ear when he leans in to kiss your cheek before he walks out with you to your car, where you two stand, your eyes unable to meet his as his words replay in your head like a broken record. Does he like you? 

It’s been about five years since your husband started working on this base, sometimes he would be deployed to a different one, and hopefully soon he would be shipped out again, giving you the house to be alone without him talking about Mia and how well the date went while she blows your phone up. 

“Thursday at six? I’ll pick you up. I’ll tell your husband too.” John says, his voice tightening when he says "husband," and all you can do is nod again and flash him a smile before returning the cheek kiss. He opens your door and closes it and watches as you drive away, mentally doing backflips the entire ride home. 

Part of you couldn’t believe he actually said yes, that he was going to take you on a date while already married and you know this should make you feel guilty, but you can’t, not while your husband wants this. His car greets you first, gleaming under the sun. Confusion and irritation seep into you as you get out. 

He greets you by the front door, face blank and lips drawn into a thin line. “Mia had to cancel our date on Thursday. Do you want to keep the reservations?” He asks, watching as you hang your keys up and laugh. 

Full-on bladder-bursting laughter spills from your lips, the last few days of knowing your marriage was finally over have stained your sanity only temporarily, thankfully. You wipe at your eyes and pat his chest with a mock smile. “Thursday? I’m busy. John’s picking me up, by the way. Fuck you for asking him.” 

His eyes widen only for a second, then they turn into slits. “Who asks their wife for an open marriage and then, when his date has to cancel, asks her to go on it with him to a dinner set for another woman? Anyway, I came home to look the dresser for a dress, but I think I’ll go out and buy a new one.” 

You grab your keys and turn on your heel leaving your husband speechless like he did on Friday night. 

Multicolored fabric pops out at you like a magician's bad trick, nothing was color coordinated, and the sizes were a mess too, making it impossible to find yours. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, another text from your husband. Ever since last night he has been pouting and stomping.

His footsteps were literally rattling the walls while mumbling under his breath so you slept on the couch because sleeping next to him was like being in bed with a stranger. You debated texting John under the covers like a teenager staying up way past their curfew, but you didn't and fell asleep, waking up with a kink in your neck. 

John’s face flashed in your mind, and you remember how his arm felt around your waist. How would it feel to have him hold you as he stretches you out? Nasty images of riding him in his car or him bending you over his desk blurred behind your eyelids, making you flush with heat and grip the shirt in your hand. 

Before taking the couch last night, you went to the park instead and sat in your car and ordered a pizza before going home because you were too exhausted to go out in public, nor did you really want to. You weren’t ready for that and you spent most of the night crying away the remnants of what you felt for your husband. Little does he know it, but he’s giving you the best gift he could’ve ever given you. 

Now it was Tuesday afternoon and you were at the mall in one of the many boutique stores looking for a dress or at least something you could put together for your date Thursday, which felt like forever away. 

He was home and you didn't want to be around him anymore so before he woke up, you bolted out the front door, hardly getting yourself together. You couldn't stomach being around him and went to the mall in hopes of finding a new outfit and maybe a new lip gloss or something. 

All the ones in your closet were outdated and ones you wore on dates with him and your makeup was expired. Long ago you stopped using it to impress him, but you always appreciated a good lip gloss. 

Mia's shrill voice shatters your concentration, her heels sinking into the plush carpet with her arms wide open as she strolls toward you with a smile that makes your cheeks hurt. “Hi! It's so funny seeing you outside of our work!” She squeals and hugs you, a heavily familiar scent assaulting your nose. 

It was your husband's. 

A sick feeling crept up your throat like vines slowly growing, suffocating you little by little until it choked you. However, you manage to speak to her so you don't do something you’ll regret. 

“Mia. Hello. It's because we're there a lot.” You reply with a cool tone, stepping back. 

Your eyes travel up the length of her body twice because you saw the bruise on her ankle, a lovely place your husband loves to kiss on you, well loved. She giggles and waves her hand like you told her a joke. 

For a moment you stare at her, wanting to grab her shoulders and scream in her face for agreeing to sleep with your husband. The other part was glad she helped implode your marriage, exposing the snake your husband really is. Even before suggesting all this, he was slowly turning into someone you didn't recognize, taking the image of your marriage with him, what were butterflies at first was now lead in your gut. 

Dates postponed, only to never happen. Conversations shift to arguments. Kissing and sex stopped altogether, leaving you pent up over the last year basically and always taking care of yourself with a toy that could never replace the touch or kiss of someone. Yes, it made you cum, but you wanted someone to talk you through it and make you theirs over and over, something John could easily do. 

Him asking for an open marriage concreted the thoughts you were already having. 

It’s time to divorce him. 

“Are you shopping? I think that would look awesome on you!” She says, pointing at the hanger in your right hand with a grin, bringing you back to Earth. 

“It seems we have the same taste.” 

The subtle insult didn't faze sweet little Mia. Immediately you felt a twinge of guilt and gratitude because ultimately she was taking the trash out for you. “Can I join?” 

For the next hour you let Mia tag along for some reason. 

She was excited the entire time, practically glowing as if you weren't the wife of the man she was hooking up with. You knew why she was beaming like a light. Good sex with someone you love will do that. 

“I'm sorry for everything, you know.” You snap your head up from digging in your purse for your keys to look at her, it was time to part ways as she wants to go home. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I love him.” 

Mia's bottom lip trembles as she sucks in a breath. Her sentence makes your chest pulse with the memory of the same realization you had when you first met him. Now when you look at him, you feel disgust, and you’re not even sure who he is. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly. I'm a little sad, upset, and pissed, but now I know he truly doesn't want just me, and our marriage was on the rocks when he suggested it anyway.” 

Her eyes flash with regret as she suddenly takes your hands and squeezes gently. “He told me you got a date. I say, go get laid. You deserve it.” 

You try not to grin and nod your head. 

“That's the plan.” 

Mia walks you to your car and hugs you before walking off and pulling her phone out. You slid into the driver's seat and sigh rubbing your face not believing what you did. 

What the fuck just happened? 

Your emotions came swinging like a pendulum. Pissed. Sad. Happy. Shame. 

It was strange to shop with Mia after everything went down, after she confessed she loves your husband. 

A few times you almost asked why she canceled the date then. 

But you truly didn't care anymore. You checked out of the relationship a long time ago, now it was your turn to be happy. 

Your husband wants an open marriage? 

He's about to find out just how open it can get. You knew about John's friends and teammates, you've met them before and seen them around a few times. Maybe you might go on a few dates and fuck them. There weren’t any rules now. As soon as you pull in your driveway and see your husband's car, you feel all the life drain out of you. There was a point when you would've fought for your marriage. 

It wasn't like he was trying to fix it or spice it up either. This was him wanting to openly cheat. With your bags in hand, you get out and take slow steps until you're inside. 

Thankfully the downstairs was completely dark, meaning he was upstairs. Relief floods your body and you flop on the couch thinking of John. You reach for your phone and scroll through your contacts for him. 

Outgoing message

Hi. Are you busy? 

Incoming message 

No. 

You stare at the screen and decide to call him and sit up, melting on the cushion like lava, hot and bubbly from hearing his voice. 

“Are you okay, love?” 

It takes you a second to respond. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you. How are you doing?” 

“I'm a lucky bloke then. Doing right as rain, darlin’. Yourself?” He asks unknowingly, doing the same thing you are on his couch, sitting there with his free hand on his knee wondering what you were doing. 

Another wave of heat floods your veins, your body tingles with emotions you haven't felt in a very long time. “I'm okay. Today was a day. I ran into my husband's girlfriend and we went shopping together.” 

“Your husband's girlfriend? Bloody hell. How are you handlin’ this? I'm listenin’.” 

He wants to know how you're doing. 

You couldn't remember the last time your husband asked you that, or when you two had a conversation that didn't end ugly. 

“Can you pick me up?” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. 

Immediately, John says. “Yes, send me your address.” You hang up and clutch your phone to your chest with a smile. 

John's phone dings with a new message two seconds after you hang up containing your address and a few square blocks. 

His flip phone doesn't receive emojis. 

You two mirrored each other in your own homes. As soon as you hang up, you scramble off the couch and get ready as quickly as you can, stopping to check your reflection in the mirror. 

With quiet footsteps down the hallway, you go through the clean clothes in the laundry room looking for something decent. As soon as you pull it on, you dash out to the bathroom and add the final steps. You're glad John agreed to pick you up. 

John is warm and kind, but so was your husband at first too. He was charming and able to have you under him on the first date. 

No! Stop. John is different. 

You scold the negative thoughts. You fucking deserve this and your pussy ate. 

Maybe not tonight, or maybe. You wrestle with the decision as you slip your shoes on and head outside, closing the front door. 

You lock it up unsure and turn just in time to see John's vehicle pull in. 

“Hi!” You greet John with a hug the moment he steps out of his truck, gravitating to his force, you snuggle into his shirt and sigh, grateful that he came without even needing to be asked to and for how quick he showed up. 

Tears prick your eyes, and the next thing you know, you're bawling into his chest from holding everything in the last few days. John's hand smoothes down your back in comforting circles, inviting you closer. 

Everything has finally bubbled over, leaving you a mess of tears and snot. 

Your husband's girlfriend and her saying she loves him as if she were telling her best friend and not you, the wife. “Today fucking sucks.” You cry and grip onto him tightly. 

John is gentle as he guides you to the passenger side of his truck, opening the door and helping you in, making sure you're buckled. “Tell me about it then, love.” 

His door clicks shut, shutting out everything, giving you a moment to breathe as John's musky scent surrounds you like a well-worn veil. “Where to?” He asks, taking your hand. 

Everything felt so right but yet a little wrong at the same time. Getting in a man’s car and asking him to take you to his place? Maybe because you're still married, you look down at your wedding ring now, seeing a mini handcuff. 

“Your place?” 

“Off we go.” 

You slip off the glittering band from your finger, roll the window down, and throw it in the yard, letting the cool breeze wash over you. “You're better off without that arse, you deserve better than that, love, someone who will love you and only you.” 

Tears stream down your face like steady waterfalls, soaking your shirt. “His girlfriend told me she loves him, which means they've been fucking before he even asked about the open marriage. What the fucking fuck?” You mutter. 

Anger seeps into your voice now as you dry your face and lean back into the seat, daring a glance at John, who looks calm, but his jaw says a different thing. 

“He's a bloody dick for treating you that way. And her? She's as bad as he is, darlin’, you're better off without both of them." He says and squeezes your hand. 

A flutter of something kicks off in your chest and rains down into your stomach. He listens and has your back? That's a change, and it feels so good you want to kiss him. “Thank you for listening to me. It means a lot.” 

On the ride over you stew in your thoughts of Mia going to your house and fucking your husband in the bed you two used to share, him inviting her once you left without even wondering where you went probably. 

What shitty things to do. 

John pulls into his driveway. “Not a problem, love.” He murmurs, looking at you, knowing you were deep in your head. 

You lean in, giving him the go to follow your lead. Your faces are inches apart as you stare into his eyes, feeling blood rush to your ears and heat pool in your cheeks, then spiderwebsall over. “Can I kiss you?” You ask shyly. 

His lips brush against yours, warm and chapped. He tastes like mint, with each peck you deepen it, feeling the knot in your belly untie, and your tongue teases the seam of his lips. It was everything you want in a kiss, the longing that burns like hot coals in your throat. 

Just as hungry as you are, John kisses you deeply. “I couldn't stop thinking about you, darlin', since you came into my office.” His voice is soft, laced with pure adoration, making you tremble. He pecks your lips softly, his fingers curling around the back of your neck as his warmth seeps into you like a balm that heals you. 

“I can’t stop thinking about you either, since that day in your office.” 

John smiles against your lips and kisses you again, growing drunk on your taste. The way you lean into him is enough to have the poor man’s cock throbbing and twitching behind his zipper, but you don’t deserve to be fucked in his truck. No, you deserve a lot better than that. “Let’s go inside, darlin'.” 

He gets out of the driver's seat and rounds the hood to open your door, his hand warm and steady in your palm. John Price’s house was quaint, small enough to fit all of his belongings, which wasn’t much for a man who doesn’t need a lot. “Thank you for, you know,” you gesture to him and you. 

“You don’t need to thank me. Shoes love.” John crouches by your feet and slips your shoes off one by one, his fingers tracing over the bone as his eyes meet yours, charging the moment and making your insides melt and slosh around. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and lean down to kiss him again, helping him stand. Hand in hand he led you to the kitchen and pulled out a barstool. 

“White or red?” John asks, pulling out two wine bottles, both half drunk. 

“Sweet white, please.” 

Glug. Glug. Glug. 

You watch the white wine gush from the top like a rushing waterfall before John tips it back up and sets it down with a gentle thunk, then he takes the spot next to you. “Talk to me.” 

His hand rests on your back as he watches you intently and clearly interested in whatever else you might need to spill. 

“I feel so…stupid. I let her come shopping with me, and deep down I think I wanted to see what it was about her that made him fall in love with her and out of love with me like some sort of self-punishment even though I didn’t do anything wrong or for him to not want me anymore.” 

Your confession hangs like a heavy curtain, one that suffocates. “I know our marriage was over before he asked about opening it. But why not divorce me and then go fuck someone else? We…” You draw in a shaky breath and take a sip of wine, leaning subconsciously into John, seeking out more of his steady warm presence. 

“We've only been with each other in every single way, and I think he wants a new pussy to fuck, which is whatever. We haven’t had sex in months, probably close to a year, I lost track after the first month. I’m pretty and good in bed. His fucking loss.” 

It's vulgar and raw, but you can't seem to stop yourself. Wine flows easily in your blood, making it easier to tell John, who tries not to think about just how pretty you are or how good you are in bed, he is a gentleman, not a horny teenager. 

You slip off the barstool, hating how it took away John's touch, but you need to pace or you'll start screaming. Emotions burst free like squealing fireworks. 

You tilt your head back and drain the rest of your wine before letting John refill it. 

“Get it all out, sweetheart, tell me.” 

His words only encourage you further. “I can't believe I let his girlfriend tag along with me! It must've been shock, I think. The betrayal of my co-worker who knew I was married! Did I tell you that before she ran into me at the mall, they fucked in our bed? Where the fuck is the class!?” You all but shout. 

John stands and leans against the counter, crossing his arms, his jaw tight with the new information. Later tonight he would call his mates and tell them about your husband and make a plan to visit him and have a conversation. 

“They're mutts.” 

“You're absolutely right. Mia is a bitch, a sneaky little slut. I don't like saying those things about someone, but damn. She is.” You raise your hands and let them drop to your sides, then lean against John, letting him swallow you in his arms as he kisses the top of your head. 

“Let's get you on something more comfortable for you, love.” He places his hand on your lower back and guides you to his living room that scarcely has any furniture, but enough for a few people to sit on. 

You settle on the couch and sag against the cushions, thankful for John, who takes the end and pats his lap. “Feet.” 

“You're not going to tickle me, are you?” You tease and laugh, a little wine tipsy. 

John chuckles and shakes his head. “Unless you're into it.” 

You giggle and cover your mouth. “Foot massages? Yes. Feet tickling? No, unless you're into getting your face kicked.” 

He rubs his chin and shakes his head as if to say no as you perch your feet where his hands were open, waiting. “Good girl.” 

Oh fuck. 

Those words went straight to your neglected clit that throbs. You try to ignore that feeling, but John knew what he was doing as he massaged away the ache in the arch, one that you’ve been trying to get rid of yourself with cold water bottles and your own fingers that did not do the job. 

“That feels so wonderful. You’re good with your hands.” 

You met his gaze and flushed with heat as you smiled and tried to hide the fact that you felt like a damn teenager on a first day, the butterflies flapping so hard in your stomach you swore you could take flight right off John’s couch. 

For a few minutes he works on your left foot and then treats your right the same way. “Need anything else?” He asks, making sure you didn’t want for anything. It was such a difference between him and your husband. 

“Maybe another glass of wine?” 

John leans over and kisses you, barely, but enough that it makes your toes curl. You watch him, your eyes glued to his ass, round and plump. You need to ask him what it is that he does to get it like that, then you glance around his living room to see a few pictures you didn’t notice before. 

You stand and walk over to the frames that hung neatly on the wall, scanning each one, able to pick out his teammates when you see a picture of the four of them and Mia standing next to Simon, her hand tightly holding his as she stares into the camera. The look in her eyes tells you one thing: she hates her life. Because as someone who has been hating their life the last year, you knew. 

Confusion swirls like a raging winter storm in your head icing out every other thought, the howling of thoughts sounds anguished as you stare at the glaring glass that held the frame of John and his team, with Mia. 

You stumble back and feel bile rise like floodwater, the wine sloshes in your belly as you run to the kitchen to empty your stomach trash can, hunching over it as John turns around to watch with wide eyes. 

“Aye! What’s the matter darlin’?” John asks, his tone full of concern and worry and his touch is warm on your shoulder as you grab a napkin and dab at your mouth while jerking away from him with a frown. Your whole body shook as you glared at him, your lip curling in disgust. 

You point to the living room, tears welling in your eyes. “You…you know Mia! Did you fuck her too? Did she hire you to make my life a living fucking hell or something? I don’t understand her problem with me!” You spit and corner yourself against the counters watching as John’s face contorts with his emotions. 

“Mia? As in Simon’s wife?” He asks confused and clearly thrown off by your change of character, but he stays put by the wine glasses, the kitchen now thick with a different kind of tension, one that you’ve been trying to run away from in your own home, and now this? 

Simon’s wife? His words hit you like a train. Mia is married too? She’s never said a damn word. 

But it wasn’t like you two were best friends, just co-workers who idly chatted about their day, and of course, you used to gush about your husband to your few friends and sometimes Mia would listen. Has she been planning this the entire time? Your head spun like an out-of-control washing machine. 

“She’s married?” 

John sighs and rubs his beard like he didn’t want to tell you because it wasn’t his business to be telling anyone, but he isn’t going to waste time in calling up Simon to ask permission. “Legally yes, they’re separated, have been for months now love.” 

“She’s married to Simon Riley but chose my husband to fuck and fall in love with?” You ask and grip the counter for support. Your entire body feels like it is on a Weeble-Wobble while you desperately hang on, hoping you don’t fall and crash, but it was too late. You sink to the floor in a heap of raw tears. 

John is immediately at your side, his hands cupping your face, his rough thumbs wiping away the fat streams of water that stain your cheeks. His blue eyes remind you of the deep end of the pool where water cuts through. “I never liked Mia or fucked her. If she ever asked me to hurt you, I’d never do it.” 

His warmth seeps into you like soil soaking up rainwater. It reaches parts of you that have never been touched before, he shifts closer and sits on his kitchen floor with you, his hands never leaving your face as he wipes away the falling tears. 

He continues to wipe away your tears as your sobs turn into sniffles. “Welcome to the club of not liking Mia.” 

You look at him and the both of you smile then laugh and press your heads together. “I need to brush my teeth… And I’m sorry for accusing you of trying to mess with me, the last year has been something and you’ve been nothing but sweet to me and I’m sure you’ve got more than you bargained for.” 

“I understand, darlin’. You’ve been through hell and learned more about your husband’s affair. It’s only natural that you would lash out like that. I bargained for someone real, and that you are my love. Let’s get you up and get you in the bathroom. I have a new pack of toothbrushes, you can use one.” His understanding of the whole situation floods you with relief and leaves your body sagging with it. 

How he looks at you and how he listens like you didn’t act crazy is mindblowing. Your brain feels fuzzy as you take his hand and let him help you up. John never lets go of you as he guides you into the small bathroom, where he shows you where everything is. “I’ll be in the livin’ room when you’re done, love.” 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror and hate how lifeless you look. All because of a man. 

What the fuck? 

It took you a few minutes to brush your teeth and tongue before you slip out of the bathroom and back into the living room where you hear the last bit of John’s conversation. “...Mia is fuckin’ with her, and I won’t stand for it.” His eyes lock onto yours as he mutters something into the phone before putting it down. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hear that. Thank you again, John, really. You have been wonderful and I hate to ask, but can I stay here? I don’t want to go home.” You fidget with your fingers and look away from his intense gaze. 

John pats the couch and holds his arm open for you. “Stop apologizin’ love. You can stay as long as you want, I’ll take the couch and you can have my bed. Whatever you need.” It takes only a second to make it over to John, where you settled in next to him. Nuzzling your face into his side with a soft sigh. 

Silence fills the space of the living room, letting John hold you close to him, his fingers smoothing down your shoulder and arm. “You smell so good and you’re so kind. I think you're made up of husband material.” You tease and melt in his embrace thankful that you have someone here with you. 

You know it’s not John’s job to clean up the broken pieces of your life, but having him hold the dustpan was more than helpful. It was so nice to be held again that it made you tear up, the physical release is draining. “Hopefully someone someday gets to wear me then.” He teases back. 

You pull away and look at him biting your lower lip. “Will you sleep with me? Like actual sleep, I wanted to have sex, I have my favorite panties on too and everything. However, I am so exhausted.” You murmur. 

“Say no more. Holdin’ you is a privilege and havin’ you in my bed is a bloody blessin’.” 

A few minutes pass and John has you back in his arms after you tugged on his shirt in his bed where the scent of you is absorbed by his sheets and John finds out that your head fits perfectly on his chest too. 

Sleep took hold of you like a thief in the night, never moving from your spot until you felt the cold sheets under you the next morning. Light streams highlighting the dustmotes that glitter in the sun from the open curtains, the smell of food beckon you from the warm sheets as you pad down the hall and into the kitchen where you watch him for a few seconds before stepping further in with a soft smile. “Good morning.” You tell him. 

John stands at the stove, changed from last night. “Mornin’ sweetheart. Medicine and water on the counter.” He tells you with a smile that makes your tummy flutter. The last couple of days, John has been nothing but sweet to you, willing to listen, help whenever and however you need it. He’s what you want. 

His shirt tickles the tops of your thighs as you settle on the barstool and take the medicine he put on a small plate with the ice-cold water. “How did you sleep?” He asks and hands you a plate full of food that steams, the thick aroma makes your stomach growl as you barely reply and start eating fast. 

It’s been too long since someone else has cooked you food. It was either you made dinner or your husband ordered something from somewhere because he couldn’t be bothered to cook anything. “This is delicious. Thank you again for everything, it means a lot that you have my back when no one else does.” 

“You’ve been pourin’ into everyone else but yourself, time to start doin’ that, innit?” He asks and leans over to steal a piece of food off your plate making you laugh and playfully swat at his hand before you tug him closer to hook one arm around his waist while you eat and feed him in between each bite. 

You know John is right. You do need to pour into yourself. Otherwise, you’d be feeling like this for the rest of your life and you refuse to do that. “You’re a smart man. How the hell do you not have a wife?” You ask and slide off the stool to wash the plate, but John takes it from you and puts it in the sink. 

“My job keeps me busy. It wouldn’t be fair for my missus to wait for me.” He replies with a shrug that makes your heart ache. John deserves to be happy and right now that’s what you want to make him since he’s been doing that for you. He takes your hand gently and tugs you into his chest, kissing you. 

His lips taste faintly of tea, making you want more. Greedily, you peck his lips and wrap your arms around him, letting his tongue tease yours before they tangle together creating an eruption of butterflies deep in your stomach, their wings melt together to create a ball of desire as you deepen the kiss slowly. 

John lets his hands trail down your sides, feeling and teasing each inch that he gets further taking his time to acclimate you to his touch until his fingers tease the bottom hem of his shirt. "Simon's keen to meet you. Bloody hell, my whole team is dyin’ to meet the woman who's got me thinkin' of her all the time." He whispers against your lips and you try not to think with your pussy, you really do. 

Heat crawls up your neck like vines as you curl your fingers in his shirt and pull him closer until there isn’t a single inch between the two of you. “I would like to meet him too, but right now, I want to give you a little gift.” You murmur and sink to your knees, but John stops you midway and stares down at you. 

"This is somethin’ you don’t have to do.” He whispers wanting you to fully commit to this when you’re in the right headspace, the last thing he wanted you to feel was used or anything but wanted. 

“Good thing I want to.” You reply and smile as your fingers unbuckle his belt, the metal clinks together as you focus on the task, biting your bottom lip, trying not to moan at the scent of John when you pop the button to his jeans and unzip it, the sound crackling in the small kitchen space. Your nerves erupts in flames knowing this is the only second man you’ve done something with. What if he didn’t like it? 

John’s steady hands perch on the counter behind him, his cock twitches in his boxers, which did little to conceal the thick stalk. You gently peel down the fabric and inhale his musk. “Holy shit. You’re big.” You swallow the lump in your throat and stare at his dick, all girth and the perfect size at almost seven inches, maybe closer to six and a half, thick brown bushy hair covers the base with a thick weepy tip. 

Before he could say anything else and before you could stare, you wrap your fingers around the middle of him, hearing John inhale sharply. “Take your time, love, no need to rush. Just go at your own pace, yeah?” 

His words wash over you like cool water after spending time under the scorching sun. You nod and jerk him off, letting your mouth part and tongue hang out. Then you slap the head of his cock on your tongue watching and gauging his reactions. “Bloody hell, love. You’re goin’ to be the death of me.” He groans. 

The blowjob is messy and wet, the suctioning sounds fills the room as you bob your head up and down the length of his cock feeling the stretch in your lips, but you burn through the pain and grip onto his jeans making it messier. Spit dribbles down your chin and splatters on John’s shirt you wore but you couldn’t care less, not when he’s thrusting in your mouth lost in the pleasure of how good you feel. 

“Just like that. Good girl, keep goin’.” John urges you and lets you set the pace while your hands roam his body, your hand sliding up his shirt feeling the soft layer of fat with a thick mat of hair that seems to cover every inch of his body and how bad did you want to bury your face everywhere and just sniff him. 

You use everything you have, licking and sucking his cock like it was the first and last time you’d do it. Every inch of him was covered in spit as you pulled back enough to suckle just the tip. 

Something about John makes fireworks explode in your brain, the fizzles showering you with warm affection. Your nose meets his pubic bone as you deepthroat him loving the way he twitches on your tongue. It’s still such a mess as you suck him off while you squeeze his ass that you grope. 

It’s a sticky mess of spit and precum that mix together and gloss over your lips that wrap beautifully around his dick that it takes everything inside John not to ask you to marry him. His eyes cut downward and he groans, the loud and vibrating in his chest that you feel when you take him all the way again. 

John’s head tips back as he moans your name and curses before he pulls you back and off his cock with a wet pop. He jerks himself off until he cums, using the sticky essense as a lube that drips down his fingers making a mess of his fist while his gaze locks with yours. His cheats heaves as you stand and kiss him. 

Your hand covers his as you follow his movements, the pearl necklace he gave you twinkles under the kitchen light. “Bloody hell love. That was-” John broke off and groans as he kisses you back, his clean hand wraps around your waist and tugs you closer again loving how you perfectly fit against him. 

“Wonderful? Sexy? Unexpected?” You tease and ask glancing at the clock knowing you have work in an hour where you might or might not see Mia and you only wonder how you can stomach that. 

“All three of ‘em. Do you got to go?” John asks, his voice rough after his orgasm and edged with a soft vulentribiry he’s never willingly shown anyone, but something about you makes it easy. 

You nod and wrap your arms around him, squeezing before you kiss him again and wink and pull away to watch as he collects himself and grabs his keys to drop you off at home first. 

“Think of that as a thank you for everything you have done for me. You can eat my pussy tomorrow.” 

John chuckles and gently grasps your wrist to pull you back in his arms, his nose nuzzles against yours as he pecks your lips. “How about tonight? I’ll cook you dinner and have you for my dessert.” His words make you shiver as you nod and splay your hand on his chest feeling how wildly his heart is beating. 

You really have no clue just how much John Price is going to change your life. 

[diaryofateenagebunny]

This is insanely good

Very invested

[littledes1re]

Like a Stray Cat | pt. 2

➥ Like a Stray Cat pt. 1 ⊹₊⟡⋆

⤷ my Masterlist ── .✦ ⤷ want to be on my Taglist? ── .✦

Pairing: Old!joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: it feels like a dream—waking up in Joel Miller’s arms, taking care of him, building a quiet routine together. You think things might finally be okay. But then a knock on the door changes everything. Just like that, you’re back in front of your father, back in the place you swore you’d never return to. Joel tries to hold back, but when lines are crossed, he crosses them too. Now the town is whispering, and the silence between you is louder than ever. It’s your turn to speak. His too. Because this time, walking away isn’t an option.

Warnings: 18+, smut, fluff, angst, MDNI, age gap! (60s and 20s) oral m!receiving, sex ed (kinda), rubbing over panties, coming on tummy, protected sex, pinv, virginity taking, nipple play, fingering, slight grinding, praise kink, inexperienced!reader, soft!joel, pet names, real sweet!joel, outbreak, tommy and maria cameo, reader has an abusive household, abusive father, drunk father, implications of physical abuse on reader, bruises, details with blood, joel beats someone up until they’re bloody, crying, lot’s of guilt, kind of dbf!joel but not really

A/N: oh my gosh!! here it is!!! i honestly didn’t expect part one to do so well, but it meant the world seeing how much y’all loved it. thank you for every sweet comment and reblog—you have no idea how much i appreciate it. anyway… here’s part two of sweet ol’ joel and his stray kitten. this time, it’s gonna get a bit angstyy 🫣🫣

The morning light spills through the window in a hazy glow.

And in the hush of early morning, Joel hears the wind between trees and the floorboards creaking beneath the day’s first breath. His head still aches, pounds from last night, lashes heavy with sleep—but they flutter anyway, drawn to the warmth pressed against his chest.

You.

You’re curled into him, breath slow, cheek resting just above his heart. There’s softness to you now—a stillness. Not like the girl from yesterday, tear streaked face and asking to stay. Or like the girl who sat on the pillow, trembling body—trembling thighs, neediness in her voice, trying oh so hard to finally reach her high.

No. This version of you is something else—quiet, peaceful. The kind he wants to keep. You feel safe with him, even when he still believes he’s the last man who could offer that.

He keeps watching you, memorizing what he missed—your steady breath, parted lips, soft and still. And just for a moment, he lets himself wonder how it might feel to kiss you.

But he doesn’t. He won’t take what hasn’t been yet offered.

Still, the ache is there, in him. Not just in his body, but in his chest. In that one place where he keeps all the things locked away he doesn’t dare to say.

Your lashes suddenly flutter, and Joel wonders if he thought too loud—if the noise in his head stirred you. You sigh softly, shift against him, and when your eyes blink open, you smile up at him, warm and sleepy.

“Mornin’, bun,” he murmurs, voice still inked with sleep. “You had sweet dreams, hm?”

You nod lazily, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. “Yeah. Dreamed ’bout you.”

Joel lets out a deep chuckle, his hand drifting to your cheek, fingertips brushing softly over your skin as the sound rumbles low in his chest.

“Dreamed ’bout me, huh? What’d I do in your dream?” He asks, teasingly.

You giggle, cheeks flushing, and shake your head—suddenly shy, and already regretting ever telling him about the dream.

“Nothin’. It was dumb.”

“C’mon now,” he teases, nudging your side, pinching your cheek slightly. “Don’t leave me hangin’. I wanna know.”

You bury your face into his chest, voice muffled. “You let me take care of you. With my mouth.”

And maybe yesterday’s lesson in front of the mirror made you feel a little bolder. Or maybe it was just that being with Joel—feeling safe with him—made every thought in your head feel steady enough to share.

But of course, the air shifts. Joel stills. His breath catches, and he swallows hard. What else could you expect? His honey bun just told him she had a wet dream about having him in her mouth. Of course he’s going to be speechless.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice low, almost hoarse. Then, softer: “Jesus, bug.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I shouldn’t’ve said that.”You look away, cheeks burning—suddenly really unsure if what you said was okey to share after all.

Joel turns to you immediately, hand brushing your arm. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t take it back.”

“Yesterday… the way I touched you—that wasn’t just about wantin’ you. Not that I don’t want you, of course. But it was more than that. It was trust. About you lettin’ me in.” He tells you, voice soft. “And this—what you just said—it ain’t wrong. It’s just… it’s a lot. You’re a lot. And I’m tryin’ real hard not to mess this up.”

“I want this to feel earned. Not rushed. Ya know? Not like I’m takin’ more than you’re ready to give.” His hand brushes your chin. “But you sayin’ that, bun? Dreamin’ about me like that?” He shakes his head, a breathless laugh escaping. “You’re ruinin’ me, sweetheart.”

“Truly ruining me since yesterday.” He adds.

You want to react to what he says—you really do. But you glance down in that moment, and your eyes catch on the blanket—tented slightly over his lap. Your breath hitches.

Joel follows your gaze, then groans softly, dragging a hand over his face.

“Shit.” He curses. “Didn’t mean to—hell, you weren’t even touchin’ me.” Joel feels his cheeks heat up. “Old man like me, it’s been a long time since I got up just ‘cause someone said somethin’ sweet.”

Heat starts to pool—low, deep, curling in your belly like it’s wanting to get out. And for a moment, the room tilts—just slightly—like the world’s gone soft around the edges and you feel dizzy.

You reach for his hand immediately, lacing your fingers through his.

“Can I help you?” you ask, voice soft.

Joel freezes. His breath catches again.

“What?”

“I mean… if you want. I could—”

But he interrupts you.

“Bun…” His voice is thick, low, almost unsure. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

He looks at you, really looks at you. Eyes going dark and searching. “’Cause I want to say yes. God—I want to say yes.”

“Then say it.” You shrug.

He shakes his head, eyes closing for a beat.

“It ain’t that simple. I gotta be careful with you. You’re not just some girl, baby. You’re… you’re important.” Then, quieter, more broken: “I’m supposed to… take care of you. Not make you do things like this…”

His voice cracks a little at the end, and your heart starts to ache. You pull back just enough to see his face—creased with worry, eyes dark with something deeper than desire.

Guilt. Fear. Maybe even love already.

“Joel,” you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek, playing with his stubbles along the way. “You’re not making me do anything.”

He closes his eyes, leans into your touch like it hurts and he is searching for comfort.

“I know. I know. It’s just…” He swallows. “You’re young. You’re still figurin’ things out. And I—hell, I’m just some old man who’s already made too many mistakes.”

You shake your head, thumb brushing his jaw.

“You’re not some old man with regrets, Joel. You’re the man who makes me feel safe.” And you mean it.

He opens his eyes, still unsure, still worried. You nod to him.

“You’re killin’ me, bug,” he murmurs. “But if we do this… it’s gotta be slow. Gotta be right. I want you to feel safe. Always.”

You smile, small and sure. “I do.”

“I know you haven’t done other things yet… so you also never done this, right?”

You nod, eyes downcast, a little shy. Joel exhales—not out of frustration, just trying to steady himself. He tips his head back against the pillow, muttering under his breath:

“God, baby…” Then he chuckles, low and rough, trying to shake off the heat rising in his chest. “You’re makin’ me give you full sex ed ‘til you’re home again.”

You giggle, and he smiles at that sound like that’s the only thing that keeps him grounded right now. He shifts besides you, the sheets rustling as he pushes them over. Then he softly pulls his shorts down, revealing himself to you fully for the very first time.

Your breath catches and you sit up on the bed.

He’s hard, thick, flushed, the kind of size that makes your stomach flutter and your thoughts scatter. Big. And pulsing.

You blink, eyes wide, taking him in—he’s beautiful in a way that catches you off guard. Heat rises to your cheeks, and a slow, aching warmth blooms low between your thighs

Then you notice it.

A bead of…something glistens at the tip, catching the sunlight. And just as you’re watching, he twitches—just a subtle pulse, but enough to make your heart skip.

“Joel…” you whisper, voice small. “What is that?”

He huffs a breath, rough and low. “That’s pre-cum, baby,” he says, “Means I’m worked up. Real bad.”

You glance up at him, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Because of me?”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes meet yours. “All you, hon’. Haven’t been touched in a long time. And now you’re here, lookin’ at me like that…”

You reach out slowly, fingers trembling just a little.

You take his hard length into your hand, gently, real careful. He’s so warm beneath your touch—velvet over steel, pulsing with heat. You trace along his cock, watching the way his stomach tightens, the way his breath catches. He could come right on the spot just feeling your soft hands around him.

At the tip, that bead of slickness still glistens.

You hesitate, but then gently swipe your finger through it, curious.

Joel hisses—a sharp, guttural sound that makes your heart stutter. “Jesus,” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You glance up at him, eyes wide. “Did I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “No. God, no. Just—feels real good. You’re doin’ perfect.”

You wrap your hand around him, this time with more confidence—thumb brushing over the slick at the tip again. He moans, hips twitching, and you feel the weight of him pulse in your palm.

So, you start to move—slow, unsure strokes, up and down, just watching him pulse in your hand with curiosity. Joels jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling faster.

“Like that?” you ask softly.

He nods, voice rough. “Yeah. Just like that. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

Then, another drop beads at the tip, slick and glistening.

You blink. “Oh…”

Joel chuckles under his breath, voice low and ruined. “Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. “That’s all you.”

Your gaze flick up to his, and something in your chest tightens. You want to taste him. The thought alone makes your cheeks burn, but the curiosity is louder than your nerves right now.

You shift, leaning in slowly, lips parting as you hover just above him.

Joel’s hand moves fast—gentle, but firm—fingers brushing your cheek as he sits up slightly, propped on one elbow. “Easy, bun,” he murmurs. “No rush.”

You pause, heart pounding.

He brushes your hair back, thumb grazing your jaw. “Just… try kitten licks first. Gets you used to the taste.”

You nod, swallowing hard, and lean in again. Your tongue flicks out, careful, tracing a slow line along the tip. He groans—deep and wrecked—and his hand tightens on the sheets.

“Atta girl,” he breathes. “Just like that.”

You grow bolder, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and heat and something uniquely him. He groans even louder.

“God, baby…” he rasps.

You glance up, lips brushing his skin. “Is this okay?”

He meets your eyes, breath ragged. “More than okay. You’re doin’ perfect.”

Another drop beads at the tip, and you catch it with your tongue.

“That part—right there? That’s the most sensitive. Just like your clit. You touch that, I’m not gonna last long.”

You hum softly, filing that away. Your hand wraps around him again, stroking gently as your tongue explores, each movement a little more confident than the last.

“Try a little tighter at the bottom,” he murmurs.“Tightness helps.”

You glance up, lips still brushing his skin, your hand gripping tighter.

He grunts, jaw tight. “Yeah—just like that.”

You follow his lead, your fingers curling around the base as your mouth moves over the tip. The combination makes him curse under his breath, hips twitching.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice fraying. “You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.”

You pause, lips hovering just above him, heart pounding in your chest.

You glance up, eyes wide. “Can I…?” you whisper. “Into my mouth?”

Joel swears he sees heaven.

He exhales hard, chest rising with the effort to stay grounded. His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin.

“Only when you’re ready, bun,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “Just begin with the tip. Don’t rush.”

You nod, breath shaky, and lean in again—slow, careful. You part your lips and take him in, just a little, just enough to feel the weight of him on your tongue.

Joel groans, low and wrecked. “Jesus…”

You start with just the tip, like he told you. The weight of him on your tongue is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. You breathe through your nose, slow and steady, and glance up to find him watching you—eyes dark, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

His hand rests lightly on your head, not guiding, just there. A tether. A promise.

“Easy…” he whispers, voice frayed. “That’s it, bun. You’re doin’ so good.”

You hum softly around him, and he grunts. His hips buck, just barely, like his body’s moving before he can stop it.

You pull back slightly, then lean in again, taking a little more this time. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking gently in rhythm with your mouth. You feel him throb against your tongue, hear the way his breath stutters.

“The most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen, baby.” He murmurs.

You smile around him, just a little. You’re starting to understand the power in this, the way he falls apart for you, the way he praises you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel that way.

You try to take a little more of him, slow and careful, but it’s too much too fast. Your throat tightens, and suddenly you’re pulling back, coughing softly, eyes watering.

Joel’s hand is there in an instant, as he guides you away. “Hey—hey,” he murmurs, sitting up, cupping your cheek with both hands. “You okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard, blinking back the sting. “Yeah.”

He brushes his thumb along your cheek, eyes searching yours. “You can stop now, bun. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Your heart sinks. You look up at him, lips still wet, voice barely a breath. “But I wanna.”

Joel exhales, like the air’s been punched out of him. “Gosh, bug…”

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“Okey,” he murmurs. “Only if you don’t go that deep. One more choke and you’re done. Got it?”

You nod again, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Got it.”

Your mouth moves over him again, slow and steady, as you take him in again. His tip only, while your hands work with the rest of his length.

Joel lies down again, when he made sure that you’re okey.

You start by carefully bobbing your head, each bob matched by the soft glide of your hand. He’s panting now, voice frayed, whispering praise between clenched teeth.

But your own body starts to ache too—hot, tight and desperate. You can’t ignore it anymore.

Without thinking, you shift, swinging one leg over his leg. The muscle beneath you is firm, solid, and the pressure makes your breath hitch. It’s nothing like the pillow you used yesterday.

You start to move—just a little. A slow grind, testing the friction. It sends a jolt through you, and you gasp softly around him.

Joel groans, his hips twitching. “Bun…”

You pull back, lips slick, breath shaky. “I—I needed something,” you whisper.

His eyes are dark, locked on yours. “You usin’ me, baby?” he rasps, voice thick with heat and awe.

You nod, cheeks flushed. “Feels good.”

He exhales, wrecked. “Fuck.”

You smile, then lean down again, taking him back into your mouth as your hips begin to move in slow, desperate circles against his thigh. Joel’s fingers tighten on the bedsheets, and you feel it: the subtle shift of his hips, the way he starts to move with you. Just a little at first. A slow, upward roll of his hips into your mouth.

He’s trying to be careful. You can feel it in the way he holds back, the way his muscles tremble beneath your touch.

“Christ,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You feel too good, bun. Can’t—can’t take much more.”

You hum around him, and he bucks again—sharper this time, then stills, jaw clenched like he’s fighting himself.

“Easy, Joel.” he pants. “Gotta stay slow. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

But his control is slipping. You can feel it in the way his leg flexes beneath you, the way his hips twitch, the way his breath stutters every time your tongue flicks just right.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he whispers. “You and that sweet little mouth… grindin’ on me like that…”

You pull back, lips slick, breath coming fast. Your thighs are trembling from grinding against him, and your heart is pounding like it might break through your ribs. You release a moan and look at him.

“I want it… in my mouth.”

Joel’s whole body goes still.

He stares at you, jaw tight, chest heaving. Then he shakes his head slowly, voice low and rough. “Not happenin’, bun.”

Your brows furrow. “Why not?”

He sits up again and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “Because you’re not a place I finish in. You’re not a goddamn dump for me to lose control in.”

You blink, stunned by the intensity in his voice.

“I’m already doin’ too much,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gonna ruin you like that.”

You swallow hard, too dizzy to answer his words, throat tight. “Then… where?”

He hesitates, then gestures towards your belly, voice barely above a whisper. “Your tummy. If that’s alright. I just… I need to see it.”

You breathe in, slow and deep. “That’s okay,” you say. “I want that.”

He nods, still watching you like you might vanish. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll do it slow. You tell me if anything feels off. Promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper.

He eases you on your back, guiding you down onto the bed with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His hands are warm, steady, reverent as they slide along your thighs, pushing your dress up inch by inch until your tummy is bare to the cool air.

Joel settles between your legs, kneeling, his eyes drinking you in like he’s memorizing every inch.

One hand wraps around himself, slow and deliberate, and your breath catches at the sight of it—how big he is, how flushed, how desperate. You crave him in your mouth again.

But then his other hand moves—sliding between your thighs, cupping you over your underwear. You gasp, hips twitching, and he groans low in his throat.

“Still so worked up, huh?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the damp fabric, focused on your clit. “Knew you were grindin’ for a reason.”

You nod, breathless. “I couldn’t help it.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss just below your navel. “I know, bun. I felt it. You were so good for me.”

His hand moves in a rhythm, slow circles over your clothed heat, while the other strokes himself in time. His eyes never leave yours.

“Wanna see you come,” he says, voice rough. “Wanna feel you shake before I let go.”

You whimper, hips lifting into his hand, and he groans again—like the sound of your need is too much for him to bear. You start trembling beneath him now, hips bucking into his touch, breath catching with every pass.

“Easy now,” he murmurs, voice rough but soft. “Just let it build, bun. Don’t fight it.”

You moan out, eyes fluttering shut. The pressure is unbearable—in the best way. Every circle of his thumb sends sparks through you, and the sight of him—jerking himself off, eyes locked on your face—is almost too much.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re doin’ so good. Just breathe for me.”

Your fingers clutch onto the sheets, thighs tightening around his hand. He leans in, brushing his lips over your stomach, your hip, your thigh—anywhere he can reach.

“Cum for me,” he whispers. “Let go, bun. Wanna see you fall apart.”

And when you do—when your body arches and your breath catches and you cry out his name—he follows, with a broken sound and a shudder that runs through his whole body. His release spills warm across your belly, painting your skin white, while he still murmurs to you, even as he falls apart.

“Good girl… so good for me… you’re okay, I’ve got you…”

You lie there, breath shaky, dress bunched around your waist, skin flushed and slick with warmth. Your fingers drift to your belly, tracing the mess he left behind. It’s sticky, cooling, and somehow…beautiful.

Joel watches you, eyes soft, chest still rising and falling with the aftershocks.

“You’re all messy now,” he murmurs. “M’messy girl.”

You glance at him, cheeks warm, but you don’t look away. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You whisper, “Yours?”

He stills, just for a second. Then his voice comes quiet, careful. “Only if you like.”

You nod, barely a breath. “I like.”

Joel exhales, like he’s been holding that breath for years. He pulls you close, tucks your head beneath his chin, and wraps an arm around your waist.

“Then yeah,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

Then he groans softly, the sound low and gravelly in his throat as he shifts beneath you. He pulls back, eyes flicking down to the mess across your stomach. His jaw tightens, just a little.

“Hold on,” he says, quiet. “Let me get you somethin’.”

You watch him move—still bare, still sweaty—as he grabs a towel from the bathroom. He runs it under warm water, wrings it out, then kneels besides the bed. He’s careful when he touches you. Real gentle. He presses the cloth to your skin, slow and steady, wiping you clean with quiet focus.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “You did so good, bun.”

Your cheeks flush again, but not from embarrassment. From the way he says it—low and sincere, like it matters.

“So good for me,” he adds, kissing your now clean tummy. “Takin’ me like that. Bein’ so sweet.”

Then, he stretches, joints cracking, and throws the towel to the side.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m gettin’ up before I pass out right here and wake up with a crick in my back.”

He stands, bare feet hitting the cool floor, and pads towards the bathroom. Just before he disappears through the doorway, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You comin’?”

—

The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft clink of bowls and the low hum of the morning. You’re already moving with purpose, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, flipping through the motions like you’ve done this a hundred times before. The flour’s open, the eggs cracked, the pan is warming on the stove.

Joel stands besides you, fork in hand, already chewing on a bite of pancake.

You glance up at him with a smug little smile. “Told you I can do them well.”

He grunts his approval, mouth full, and gestures at the plate like it’s gospel.

The kitchen’s a mess, but it’s the best damn morning he’s had in years—and it’s not because of the pancakes. It’s because of you.

And then—five sharp knocks at the door.

The sound slices through the warmth like a blade. Joel freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. You both go still.

And suddenly, the peaceful moment shatters.

The spoon in your hand clinks against the edge of the mixing bowl, batter dripping onto the counter. Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes snap to Joel, wide and full of panic.

The color drains from your face.

“S’alright,” he says, voice low and even. “S’just Tommy.”

You shake your head, already backing away from the counter. “That’s also what you said yesterday.”

Joel’s eyes flick to you—bare legs, dress hanging loose on your frame, flour still dusted on your cheek. You look soft. Young. Like something that shouldn’t be seen in a place like this, in his house, at this hour.

He swallows hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

Another knock. Slower this time. He can hear the weight begind it—Tommy’s not just stopping by, he is sure. Joel takes a breath, rubs the back of his neck, then glances towards the hallway.

“Maybe…maybe go into the bedroom, yeah?” he says, voice quieter now. “You can never know.”

You nod immediately, already moving. Your bare feet paddle across the floor, quick. You disappear down the hall, and the bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

Joel stands there for a second, staring at the door. His chest is tight. His hands are cold.

Then he turns, walks to the front door, and opens it.

Tommy stands on the porch, hands on his belt, hair pulled back into a bun, face drawn tight with concern. His eyes flick past Joel, scanning the room behind him.

Joel steps aside, opens the door wider. “Mornin’.”

Tommy steps in, boots heavy on the floor. “You’ve seen Cooper’s girl?”

Joel’s stomach twists. “No?” he says, too quickly. “Why?”

Tommy sighs, rubbing his jaw. “She’s been missin’ since yesterday. Her dad’s losin’ it. Tellin’ everyone you took her.”

Joel’s brows pull together, he swallows. “What?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “He’s out there yellin’ at anyone who won’t listen. Said you lured her in. Said you been sneakin’ around with her.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry. “That—” he starts, but the words don’t come.

“I know—ain’t true, and he is probably just drunk again. I just wanted to let you—“

Tommy gets cut off by a sneeze.

Small. High pitched. Muffled, but unmistakable.

From his bedroom.

Tommy’s head turns. His eyebrows lift, slow and sharp. He looks at Joel.

“Joel,” he says, quiet. Flat.

Joel’s whole body lock up. His breath catches. It feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room. It’s not just that you’re here. It’s what it looks like. What it sounds like. And the truth—your truth—isn’t his to tell. You made him promise. No one could know.

But now Tommy will know.

And Joel knows Tommy would never believe he took you. He knows his brother wouldn’t buy into the lies your father’s been spreading. But when he’ll see you—dress rucked up your thighs, lips swollen, cheeks flushed—there’s no mistaking of what’s happening here.

Joel’s heart sinks at the thought.

“Tommy—” he starts, but his voice cracks.

Tommy’s already moving. Three long strides and he’s at the bedroom door. Joel doesn’t stop him. Can’t. He just stands there, frozen, as his brother turns the knob and pushes the door open.

You’re standing there.

Eyes wide. Shoulders tense. But you try to smile—bright and friendly, like nothing’s wrong. Like you can cover it all up with charm. Like Joel didn’t just come all over your tummy only thirty minutes ago.

“Mornin’,” you say, voice light. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Tommy stares at you. Then back at Joel. His face hardens.

“God damn it, Joel,” he mutters, grabbing your hand—rough, and firm—pulling you towards the kitchen. “She’s a damn kid.”

Joel’s lips part, but no sound comes out. His throat tightens. His lip trembles. It feels like every word Joel knows, just disappeared in seconds.

He wants to say something. Anything.

So, you voice cuts through the silence.

“Ain’t no ‘damn’ kid.” You pull away from Tommy’s grip and mimic his cursing with your fingers. “We were just hanging out,” you say, loud and clear. “Joel was showing me how to carve wood. Because I always wanted to learn it.”

Joel’s chest aches. He can’t believe the kind of fool he is being right now. He wants to kiss your skin. Wants to hold you. Wants to thank you for being so brave when he can’t even speak up.

Tommy exhales hard through his nose, hands on his hips. “Well, I promised your father I’d bring you home safe, so…”

Joel’s eyes flick to you. He sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your jaw tightens even as you try to look calm. He knows what’s waiting for you on the other side of that door. He knows what your father is capable of.

His throat works around the words he wants to say, but they just don’t come. Only a shake of his head.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I’m coming. Wait for me at the door.”

Tommy mutters something under his breath—something Joel doesn’t quite catch, but it’s laced with disappointment. He gives his brother one last look, sharp and tired, then turns and steps outside, leaving the door open behind him.

The silence that follows is thick.

You turn to Joel. Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Joel… are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the floor. Then they lift to meet yours, and they’re full of something raw and breaking. Almost glassy.

“I—I can’t let you go,” he says, voice cracking, shaking his head.

You step closer, your hand brushing his arm. “I have to,” you whisper. “He won’t leave us alone. He won’t leave you alone.” You know Joel kept you safe—again and again, without hesitation. He stood between you and the worst of it, even when he didn’t have to.

But now it’s your turn.

You won’t let your father drag Joel into this mess. You won’t let him twist things, poison the air around something this good. Something that makes you feel alive.

It’s scary, thinking about what might happen when you walk through that door again. You could tell Tommy the truth—lay it all out, every ugly piece of it—but that would only make things harder than they already are.

You know how this town works.

How people talk. How fast things spread.

And with your father already telling folks Joel kidnapped you…you can’t pour more gasoline on a fire that’s already burning.

Even if it terrifies you. Even if staying quiet feels like swallowing glass.

Joel’s jaw clenches. He looks like he wants to finally say something—stay, don’t go, I’ll protect you—but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because he knows what it would mean to say those things. He knows what it would make him.

And he won’t be like your father.

He won’t be another man who cages you.

So he just nods, barely. His hands are fists at his sides.

You reach for the doorknob, then pause. You look back at him one last time.

And then…you’re gone.

—

Joel doesn’t move.

He just stands there, staring at the door. Staring at the spot where your hand brushed the wood on your way out. The silence that follows is gutting, uncomfortable. The silence that follows is gutting—thick and uncomfortable, like the kind that clung to Joel when he first moved into the house. Back then, he was still just a vessel of a man, hollowed out by loss, unable to hold onto the things he loved. Still only a shadow of what he truly wanted.

He turns, slow, and walks back into the kitchen.

The warm and sweet smell of pancakes cling in the air and they land in Joel’s nose, not letting him go. The bowl’s still on the counter, batter half-mixed, spoon resting like you only just stepped away for a second.

But you didn’t. You’re gone.

Joel exhales, rough and shaky. Picks up the spoon. Puts it down. His hands feel too big, too useless. He moves through the kitchen like a ghost—opening cabinets, closing them, touching things just to feel something. The coffee you made him sits cold on the table. He stares at the ring it left behind.

You were here. You were laughing at the way he called you ‘honey bun’. Humming. Kissing his cheek, touching his hand.

And he let you go while he promised to keep you safe.

Back to the father who spends his time picking you apart. Who doesn’t see anything other than the bar.

He presses his palms to the counter, head bowed. His shoulders shake once, barely. “Should’ve kept you,” he mutters. “Should’ve just…kept you.”

But you asked him not to be like your father. And he promised.

Promised he’d never take your choices from you. Never silence your voice. Never make you feel small just to keep you close. And even now—when everything in him is begging to run after you, to drag you back and lock the door and keep you safe—he doesn’t move.

Because he knows what it would mean if he did.

He also knows that this is different. That what your father does isn’t just cruel—it’s dangerous. That silence, in his case, is a kind of violence too. That someone should speak up. That someone should save you.

But he also knows this:

You didn’t ask him to save you.

You asked him to trust you.

There’s nothing to do but think—just think—looping through the same scenes over and over. What might be happening right now. What might be happening to you. Joel flinches. Stands up too fast. His body already moving towards the door, towards your house. But halfway there, he stops. Stares at the path. And then slumps back inside, like the weight of it all is too much to carry.

And when the morning breaks, pale and cold, Joel wakes to the same silence. No footsteps. No humming. No trace of you in the air.

Just compete absence.

He sits up slow, body aching, heart even heavier than before. The kitchen is still a mess—batter dried in the bowl, flour dusted near the rug. He couldn’t possibly bring himself to lay a hand on the last thing you held.

He rubs his face, mutters, “Christ.”

He leans back, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. He can’t believe the position he’s in. Can’t believe how fast everything spun out. One minute you were in his arms, warm and safe and smiling. The next, you were walking out the door with Tommy, and he just stood there. Frozen.

He swallows hard.

She trusted me.

And I let her down.

He stands there, staring out at the path that leads to your house. The distance between them feels longer than it should. Like a canyon.

Joel breathes in deep. Holds it. Lets it out slow.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, already grabbing his jacket off the hook and putting it on.

He’s not going to drag you out, nor is he going to make a scene. He just needs to see you. To look into your eyes and to know that you’re okey.

That’s all. And that’s enough for him.

He pulls the door open, steps out into the cold morning air, and starts walking with big deliberate steps.

The porch creaks under Joel’s boots as he stops at your door. The morning is still, but he can already hear the town whispering. He stands there for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the windows. Curtains drawn. No movement. Absolute no sound.

He can’t tell if that’s a good sign, or a bad one.

He shifts his weight, breathes in deep through his nose, and exhales real slow. He knows he is not here to fight. At least, that’s what he tells himself over and over.

But his fists are already tight besides his hips.

He knocks—three times. Firm. And for a second, he lets himself hope it’ll be you who answers. That you’ll open the door, sleepy eyed and safe, so he can breathe again.

But the door swings open, and the smell hits him first.

Liquor. Sharp and sour. It clings to the air like rot and makes his way into Joel’s nose. Your father stands there, already scowling, eyes bloodshot and already looking to pick up a fight.

“Well, well,” he mutters, voice thick. “Look who finally grew a pair.”

Joel swallows hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “Mornin’. Just stoppin’ by. Everything alright?”

Your father leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Joel nods, eyes flicking past him, trying to see into the house. “She around?”

“She’s sleepin’,” your father snaps. “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “She’s got patrol tomorrow. Five am. I just came to let her know.”

“That so?” Your father smirks. “Funny. Thought that was Maria’s job. Or Tommy’s.”

Joel forces a shrug, trying to piece together a lie in his head. “Tommy sent me.”

“Bullshit,” your father spits. “You think I don’t see what’s goin’ on? You think I’m stupid?”

This is what he feared the most: that your father would test Joel’s nerves—and that Joel wouldn’t walk out of here a saint.

Joel’s eyes narrow. “I think you’re drunk.”

Your father steps forward, his face just inches away from Joel, breath hot and sour. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doin’ with my daughter, but it ends now. You hear me? You stay the fuck away from her.”

Joel’s voice drops, low and dangerous. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“You’re a goddamn predator,” your father growls. “Sixty years old and sniffin’ around a girl half your age. You think that’s love? You think that’s real?”

Joel’s fists clench again. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His heart starts to beat faster. He already feels the tingling beneath his skin, like he wants to just put a fist through his god damn head.

“You don’t know a damn thing about her,” he says, voice slightly shaking. “You don’t know what she’s really like. What you’ve done to her.”

Your father laughs, bitter and loud. “Oh, I know exactly what I’ve done. I raised her. Fed her. Kept her in line. You? You’re just some washed up old man who can’t keep it in his pants.”

And in that moment, Joel decides the best thing he can do is turn around and walk out of the house. He knows his anger—knows how it builds, how it blinds—and he’s certain that if he stays, he might do something he can’t take back.

“That’s what I thought,” your father sneers. “Go be a pedo somewhere else, you sick fuck.”

Joel stops.

The world goes quiet. The pulsing in his ear go louder. His breath catches. His vision narrows. The porch, the trees, the sky—they all blur.

And then he turns.

Three strides. That’s all it takes.

His fist connects with your father’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the air. The man stumbles back, hits the floorboards hard.

And Joel doesn’t stop.

He drops to his knees, one knee on each side of his body and slams his fist down again. And again. Blood splatters across the porch, across his knuckles, across his face.

“You don’t talk about her like that,” Joel growls, voice ragged. “You don’t touch her. You don’t look at her.”

Your father tries to raise an arm, but Joel knocks it aside and drives another punch into his ribs. The man wheezes, starting to cough blood, the fluid running down his face. Joel’s face is twisted, eyes wild. He’s not thinking. He is feeling every bruise on your body that he saw, every tear that you cried, every single time you came into his house and every time he stayed silent when he should’ve spoken up.

“You think you’re a man?” Joel snarls, breathing out loudly. “You think beatin’ her makes you strong?”

He grabs the man’s collar, slams him back down. “You’re not a father. You’re a fuckin’ coward!”

You should be horrified.

You should be screaming, begging him to stop, turning away from the blood and the violence that unfolds in front of you. From the sound of your father’s ribs cracking and Joels fists connecting with his face.

But you’re not. You’re still. Watching. Just besides the staircase.

Because for the first time in your life, someone is fighting for you. Not to control you. Not to punish you. But to protect you.

And it’s not just anyone.

It’s Joel.

The man who held you like you were something fragile. Who kissed your bruises like they were sacred. Who let you go when it broke him to do it—because you asked. And now he’s here, beating for you. Burning for you. Ignoring consequences, ignoring everything just to keep you safe.

And all you can feel is this strange, aching warmth in your chest. Not fear. Not guilt. But something like relief. Like justice. Like finally, finally, someone sees you—and they’re not turning away.

You step forward, barefoot on the porch, heart pounding.

“Joel.”

Your voice.

It cuts through the haze like a blade.

Joel freezes, fist still in the air, blood dripping from his knuckles. His chest heaves, while his ears ring loud. He breaths to his mouth like a wild animal.

He slowly turns his head.

And there you are. Standing in the doorway, barefoot, wrapped in a sweatshirt too big for you. Your eyes are wide, lips parted but you look unfazed of the bleeding body that’s lying and coughing under Joel. There’s a bruise on your cheek. Another on your arm.

Joel sees them. And everything else disappears.

He doesn’t see your father anymore. Doesn’t feel the blood on his hands. All he sees is you.

“Fuckin’—” he mutters, and slams one last punch into the man’s face. The hardest of them all. Joel then stands up, stumbling back.

You rush to him, hands reaching to his chest.

He looks at you, dazed. “Oh, honey bun…”

You step into him, arms wrapping around him. His arms wrap around you, strong and tight. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like if he lets go, the world will fall apart again.

“Joel,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You came.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek with a bloodied hand, the metallic smell filling your nose. “I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry. That I let you go. That I didn’t stop him. That I—”

“Joel,” you say again, firmer this time, interrupting him.

And then you kiss him.

Soft. Shaky. Your lips press to his like you’re trying to breathe him in.

Joel stiffens beneath you, caught off guard, his breath hitching against your mouth. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move—like he’s afraid to believe this is real. But then he exhales, low and shaky, and something in him gives.

He kisses you back, slow and aching, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hand rises to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding himself in the feel of you. His other hand settles at your waist, not pulling, not pushing—just there, steady and warm.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“You’re safe now,” he whispers.

And this time, he means it.

Your father suddenly groans, face swollen, lip split, one eye already purpling. He shifts, coughing, and mutters through cracked teeth:

“You’re dead, Miller…I’m goin’ to the council. You’re fuckin’ done.”

Joel doesn’t look at him.

He just says: “C’mon, let’s get you outta here.”

—

When you reach his house, he opens the door for you, lets you step inside first. The warmth hits you like a wave. It finally feels like peace again.

“Sit down,” he says gently. “I’ll be right there.”

You nod softly, and sink onto his couch, pulling your knees up, wrapping your arms around them while Joel disappears into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft scrape of soap against skin. You know he’s scrubbing the blood from his hands. Hard. Like he’s trying to erase the memory of it.

And you feel it, all at once.

Not guilt. Not fear. But a deep, aching sadness that settles behind your ribs like something bruised. Not for yourself—but for him. For what he had to become in that moment. For the fury he had to unleash just to make the world safe for you, even for a second.

When he comes back, his knuckles are raw and red, but clean. He dries them on a towel, then tosses it aside and walks over to you.

He crouches down in front of the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“You warm enough?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, silently.

He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face. Then he takes a breath.

“You know I’d never ask you to do something you don’t want to,” he says. “You know that, right?”

You glance at him, wary. “Yeah.”

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause I need to talk to you about somethin’. And I need you to know it’s comin’ from a place of care. Not pressure.”

You shift slightly, pulling your pullover tighter around you.

Joel’s voice softens. “I think… I think we should tell Tommy.”

You go still. “Joel—”

He holds up a hand, gentle. “Just hear me out, bun.”

“I know you didn’t want anyone to know,” he says. “And I kept that promise. I did. But after what I saw today… after what he said, what he did—” Joel’s voice catches. He swallows. “I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t keep quiet and watch you go back to that house like nothin’s wrong.”

You look down at your hands. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I know it ain’t. But Tommy—he’s not like your dad. He listens. He cares. And if he knew the truth, he’d help. He’d want to help.”

You shake your head. “What if he doesn’t believe me?”

Joel leans in, voice low and steady. “Then I’ll believe you loud enough for the both of us.”

You blink, tears welling.

“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore,” he says, hand landing on top of your thigh—squeezing once. “You’ve been strong for so long. Too long. Let someone else be strong for you now.”

You sniff, wiping your cheek with your sleeve. “I’m scared.”

Joel nods, he stands up and sits down besides you. He takes you into his arms. “I know, baby. I know. But you’re not doin’ this alone. I’ll be right there. Every second. You just say the word.”

You pull away to look at him, really look. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel small. You feel held.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”

Joel exhales, slow and shaky. He reaches for your hand, cradles it in his own.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

You squeeze his hand, then look at him, eyes searching.

“What about you?” you ask quietly. “You beat him…they won’t understand.”

Joel rubs his forehead, sighs. “We’ll somehow handle this, yeah? The most important thing is now that you speak up.” You nod, but your eyes stay on him.

“I don’t want them to hurt you for protecting me.”

Joel leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “If there’s a price to pay, I’ll pay it. But I ain’t lettin’ you go through this alone. Not again.”

—

The expected knock comes like a ripple through still water—three slow, deliberate thuds against the door just thirty minutes after.

Even while it’s expected your fingers still tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your lap while hour heart begins thudding in your chest, not from fear exactly, but from the weight of what’s about to happen.

Joel doesn’t move at first. He’s standing near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight. His knuckles are still raw, the skin split and crusted with dried blood. He glances at you, his eyes softening just a little.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice low and steady. “We’ll just tell them.”

You nod, but your throat is too tight to speak.

He walks to the door and opens it without a word. Tommy and Maria stand on the porch, framed by the pale morning light. Tommy’s face is hard, unreadable. Maria’s eyes flick past Joel immediately, scanning the room until they land on you.

Joel steps aside.

And they walk in without being asked.

Tommy’s boots thud against the floorboards, heavy and slow. Maria’s steps are quieter, but no less certain. They don’t speak right away. Tommy’s eyes land on you—sitting small and on the couch, blanket clutched around your shoulders—and something shifts in his face. Not surprise. Not quite anger. Something heavier.

He and Maria sit down on the opposite couch, facing you. Joel stays behind you, standing like a wall between you and the rest of the world.

“You wanna tell me what the hell happened?” Tommy says, eyes locked on Joel. His voice isn’t raised, but it’s sharp. Accusing. Protective.

Maria reaches out and touches his arm—just a light press of her fingers. A silent reminder to breathe.

“Look—I know how this looks,” he says, voice rough. “But she came to me cryin’. Bruised up. From that goddamned scum that her father is.”

Tommy’s eyes narrow. He scans Joel’s face like he’s trying to read between the lines.

Maria’s gaze drops to your arms. You hadn’t realized the blanket had slipped down a little, exposing the edge of a bruise near your wrist. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks. Quietly. Carefully. Analysing.

Then she murmurs, almost to herself, but loud enough for Tommy to hear: “I told you.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, but says nothing while Maria turns to you, her voice softer now. Measured. “You wanna tell us what happened, sweetheart?”

You glance up at Joel. He gives you a small nod—barely there, but enough. His eyes say it all: You’re safe. Say what you need to say.

“He gets drunk… really often. And—and he takes it out on me.” Your voice is shaky. Small.

You swallow hard. Your hands tremble as you push the sleeve of your pullover up, revealing the bruises along your forearm. Some are old. Some are newer. All of them are ugly.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you whisper. “I was scared.”

Maria nods slowly. Her eyes are glassy, but she doesn’t cry. She just reaches across the space between you and rests her hand gently on your knee. Tommy rubs his forehead, sighing deep from his chest.

“I should’ve looked better,” he mutters. “Hell, I. knew he was too often in that damn bar. I just… I didn’t think…” He trails off.

Maria squeezes your knee gently.

“You’re okay now,” she says. “He’s already in a cell. All the other details—we can talk about them when you’re feeling stronger, okay?” She glances at Tommy, who nods.

“Probably best to let the folks vote on what happens with him,” he says, voice low.

Maria agrees with a quiet hum.

You take a breath. Then another. And then you speak again, a little louder this time. “And Joel didn’t do anything wrong. He protected me. He kept me safe. That’s why he beat him.”

Tommy’s eyes flicker to Joel, who’s still standing behind the couch. His jaw is clenched, his eyes downturned. He looks like he’s holding something in—something sharp and heavy.

“I couldn’t possibly look away,” Joel murmurs.

Tommy leans back, arms crossed. “Alright. Ain’t gonna get you off the hook that easy, Joel. You beat a goddamn man bloody.”

Joel nods once. “I know.”

Maria glances at Tommy, then back at Joel.

“Nothing harsh, probably,” she says. “It still falls under defense. I’d say… community hours. Longer patrols. Something useful.” She smiles—just a little. It’s the first warmth in the room.

Then she turns to you. “And you, sweetheart,” she starts, her voice lifting, “you can have the house now.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

Maria nods. “Yeah. Until everything’s settled, it’s yours. I’ll come by a few times, check in on you—if you’d like.”

You nod, stunned. “I’d like that.”

Maria’s smile softens. “And I have to say—you’re incredibly brave. For talking about it. For surviving it.”

Tommy grunts in agreement. “Yeah,” he says. “Takes a fuckin’ mountain of braveness to speak up like that, hon.”

You laugh—just a little. It slips out before you can stop it. A small, breathy sound. But it’s real.

Tommy stands, stretching his back with a groan.

“And you, old man,” he says to Joel, “you can rest now.” He winks.

Joel swallows hard. Nods. Doesn’t say anything.

But you see it—the way his shoulders drop just slightly. The way his hand brushes the back of the couch, like he needs something to hold onto. Then Maria gives your knee one last gentle squeeze before pulling her hand back. She straightens, smoothing the front of her coat, and glances at Tommy.

He meets her eyes. Nods.

“We’ll let you two be,” Maria says softly, her voice careful not to disturb the fragile quiet.

Tommy lingers a second longer, eyes flicking between you and Joel. There’s something unreadable in his face—something that looks a little like worry, and a little like understanding.

Tommy steps towards the door, but then pauses. He turns back to Joel, looks at him. Maria pauses too when she sees him turn back. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at Joel—really looks at him.

Then he steps closer.

Tommy rests a hand on Joel’s shoulder. Not rough. Not soft either. Just…solid.

“I ain’t blind, you know,” Tommy says, voice low. “I see what’s goin’ on.”

Joel doesn’t answer. His jaw ticks once. His eyes flicker, but he holds Tommy’s gaze.

“I see the way you look at her,” Tommy continues. “And I see the way she looks at you.”

You feel your breath catch, but you don’t look away. You just watch them—two men who’ve seen too much, lost too much, and still somehow keep showing up.

“I ain’t here to judge it,” Tommy says. “Ain’t my place. And hell, I know you, Joel. Better than most.” He squeezes Joel’s shoulder once. “You’re a stubborn bastard. But you don’t give your heart easy. And when you do… you don’t let go.”

Joel’s throat works around something he doesn’t say.

“So I’m gonna say this once,” Tommy says. “I trust you. I trust you to keep her safe. To do right by her. No matter what anyone else says.”

Joel’s voice is hoarse. “I will.”

Tommy nods. “Good. Don’t let me down, brother.”

He lets go of Joel’s shoulder and turns to you. His expression softens. “You got someone who’d burn the world down for you,” he says. “That’s rare. Don’t let it scare you.”

You nod, eyes stinging again.

Maria opens the door, but before she steps out, she looks back at Joel. “You’re not alone either, you know,” she says. “Don’t carry all this by yourself, old man.”

Joel gives a small nod. It’s all he can manage.

Then they’re gone.

The door clicks shut behind them.

—

Two weeks pass.

The house is yours now.

It still smells faintly of him—of old tobacco and something with liquor—but each day, that scent fades just a little more. You’ve thrown open the windows, let the wind sweep through the rooms for a cleansing. Maria brought you new curtains. And you decorated the walls so they’re no longer bare. You’ve hung little things—pressed flowers in frames, a sketch Maria gave you, a string of dried herbs above the kitchen window. The silence here is different now. Not hollow. Not haunted. Just quiet. Peaceful.

Your bruises are slowly but surely fading. The deep purple has softened to yellow, then to nothing. Your ribs don’t ache when you breathe anymore. You are finally able to sleep through the night.

Maria comes by every few days. She never stays long—just enough to drop off a basket of food, or a new blanket she stitched, or a book she thinks you might like. Her presence makes the whole place feel more alive. She never asks too many questions. Just smiles, touches your arm, gives you greetings from tommy, and reminds you that you’re not alone.

And Joel…

Joel stays away.

Not because he wants to. You know that. You can feel it in the way he lingers just a little too long when he passes your house on patrol. In the way you find things on your porch in the morning—wildflowers bundled in twine, a tiny wooden fox carved with careful hands, a jar of honey with a note that just says “for your tea.”

He’s giving you space, you know that too. He hasn’t knocked, hasn’t asked to come in. But he’s there. Always just close enough.

You see him sometimes, working his community hours. Fixing fences. Hauling lumber. Splitting logs behind the stables, sweat glistening on his brow, his shirt clinging to his back. That poor old man, you think. But then you see his arms flexing with every swing of the axe, and you catch yourself staring. Too long. Too openly.

Sometimes he catches you.

He never says anything. Just gives you that look—quiet, unreadable, but warm. Like he’s glad you’re there. Like he’s relieved you’re still looking.

You always look away first.

Your father is still in the cell. The town will vote next week on what happens to him. You hear whispers when you walk through the town—some sympathetic, some sharp. But you never listen too closely.

And the guilt…the guilt still lingers. It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the kettle whistles or when you fold laundry and your hands remember flinching. You think about the years you lost. The girl you had to become just to survive.

But you also feel something else now.

Freedom.

It’s in the way you walk barefoot across your own floor. In the way you hum while you sweep. In the way you leave the door open just because you can.

You’re not healed. Not yet, but you’re healing.

And for the first time in your life, you feel like you.

But on one particular night, the quiet feels too loud.

You miss him. Dearly.

Not just his voice or his hands or the way he made you feel safe. You miss the way he looked at you like you were something fragile. You miss the way his presence filled a room without ever demanding it. You miss the way he said your name like it meant something.

And you missed the way he made you feel—inside.

So you go to him.

You don’t knock. You know he wouldn’t mind.

You tip toe into his house like stray cat once again.

You tiptoe across the floor, heart thudding in your chest. His bedroom door is open. You pause in the doorway.

He’s asleep.

One arm thrown over his chest, the other resting besides him. His face is turned slightly towards the window, shining in moonlight. He looks older like this. Softer. The lines around his eyes are deeper, but his mouth is relaxed. Peaceful.

You step closer.

The floor creaks beneath your foot, and he stirs—just a little. His brow furrow, but he doesn’t wake. You slip quielty under the blanket.

It smells like him. Feels like him. Warm and worn and safe.

You press yourself against his side, burying your face into his chest. Your hand finds the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it, needy. “Missed you,” you whisper.

His breath catches.

Then his arm moves—slowly, sleepily—wrapping around you. Pulling you in.

“Oh, bunny…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another, softer one to your temple. His lips linger there, as if he is taking in your warmth.

You tilt your head up.

And he kisses you—just a brush of lips. Gentle. Testing if you’re really here and if it’s not just a dream he is having.

You kiss him back, feeling his soft lips on you, his hands exploring your body. You missed the immediate calmness Joel radiates. The one where every inch of your body melts to him, and your mind goes all hazy, thinking about nothing but Joeljoeljoel.

Joel pulls away, groaning while his hands pull you up so your body is on top of him.

“How are you doin’, babygirl?” He asks, gently brushing through your hair.

“It was strange,” you say, voice low. “Being alone. I thought I’d hate it. But… I didn’t. I liked the quiet. The space. I needed it.”

Joel nods, watching you carefully.

“But I missed you,” you add, glancing at him. “Missed your voice. Your coffee. You’re everything.”

He smiles, just barely. “Missed you too, bun. So fuckin’ much.” He places a kiss on your forehead. “But you needed that time. After everything… I didn’t want to crowd you. I figured you’d come back when you were ready.”

You look at him, eyes soft. “And now I’m here.”

He nods, quiet for a beat.

“Yeah. Now you’re here. Makin’ me one happy bastard”

You giggle at that, and you look up, brushing your nose against his.

Then you kiss him again—real slow, real unhurried, like you’ve got all the time in the world. His hands settle on your hips, grounding you, then they move on your back. He draws big, soft circles on there. You deepen the kiss, just a little. And then your hips begin shift—tentative at first, a slow press of warmth against his crotch.

His breath hitches.

“Bug…” he warns, voice low.

You lean down, your hair brushing his cheek.

“Take me,” you whisper. “Please.”

He freezes.

You don’t know what possessed you to say that. Maybe it was the silence, thick and humming with everything you couldn’t say. Maybe it was the way your body still remembered the heat of his hands, the sound of your name in his mouth, the way he looked at you like you were something precious while trembling because of his hands.

His hands tighten on your hips, then still. He reaches over, flicks on the nightstand lamp. The soft amber light spills across your face.

He looks at you. Really looks.

Your cheeks are flushed. Your lips parted. Your eyes wide and glassy with something between nerves and need. You look like you did that first night—when he found you trembling and desperate and burning all at once.

He exhales, a low, rough sound from deep in his chest. “I see you picked up right where we left off with ruinin’ me,” he mutters.

You pout, just a little. “You like it.”

“Babygirl…” he groans, sitting up slowly, pulling you into his lap. His hands settle on your waist. “That ain’t no small thing. Literally.” He tries to lighten the mood with a sarcastic line but fails.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re about to say it.”

“You’re young,” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You’re young, I’m old, i’ve made mistakes, blah blah blah, ugh.” you say, rolling your eyes.

His eyebrows shoot up, his voice firm. “Now watch your tone. I’m serious.”

You go quiet.

He sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “Ain’t somethin’ quick. Ain’t somethin’ you just ask for, hell—you’re still a virgin.”

You look down, cheeks burning, maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all.

“No, baby,” he says quickly, voice softening. “I didn’t mean it like that. Hey—look at me.” His hands find your face, and they cradle you. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it. Nothin’ wrong with wantin’ it.”

“Then what’s the problem?” you ask, voice small.

He leans back, runs a hand through his hair. His fingers tremble.

“The problem’s me,” he says. “Already had trouble holdin’ myself back two weeks ago. And now… if you want to take it a step further, I’ll break.”

His voice cracks.

“And?” you ask.

He looks down.

“And I’ll be the old man who ruins your first time.”

You shake your head. “Joel,” you whisper. “I don’t want to hear that anymore. Seriously.”

You cup his face in your hands. “I don’t care how old you are. You think those boys my age wouldn’t ruin it? You think I’d be here if I didn’t feel safe?”

You kiss his cheek. Then his forehead. “You told me I’m yours.”

He nods, voice barely audible. “I did.” A beat. “And you are,” he says, pulling you closer. His hands slide up your back, holding you like you might vanish. “You are.”

You rest your forehead on his shoulder, breathing him in.

“Then please,” you whisper. “Don’t hold back. I want it all.”

And you do. All of him.

He shudders. His arms tighten around you. “This is your first time, bug. This ain’t just a night.” he mutters, voice breaking again. You roll your eyes, sit up slightly, your hand on his chest, your eyes steady on his.

“Joel,” you say softly. “Do you want me?”

He freezes.

“Baby…” he breathes, like it hurts to even hear the question.

“No,” you say, firmer now. “Tell me. Do you want to take me?”

His eyes close. His jaw clenches. And then, finally, he exhales—like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. “God,” he says, voice breaking. “There’s nothin’ I want more than that.”

You feel your insides warming at his words. You look at him—really look—and he’s already looking back. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he’s terrified and in awe all at once.

You reach for his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “Then do it, Joel,” you whisper. “Without guilt. I’m right here.”

He exhales, slow and heavy.

His hand dips lower, landing on the underwear beneath your shorts. His fingertips slowly caress the dampness on the fabric making you close your eyes and breathe.

“…You haven’t touched her since, have you?” His voice is low, almost disbelieving. His fingers press gently over the damp fabric. “You’ve been neglectin’ her… waitin’ on me.”

You nod, barely, your voice a whisper. “Mhm. Waited for you.” Joel stills, like the words hit somewhere deep. You swallow, eyes flicking to his. “Every time I saw you working… the way your hands moved, the way you looked…”

You trail off, breath catching. “I wanted to. I did. But I—I wanted it to be your hands.”

His breath leaves him in a shudder, he releases a sigh.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “If we’re doin’ this… we’re doin’ it slow. Real slow.”

You nod against his chest.

“I mean it, bug,” he says, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him. His eyes are soft, but serious. “I ain’t gonna rush you. Not a damn second of this.”

You nod again, and he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“There’s some things we gotta talk about first,” he says. “Not to scare you. Just…so you know.”

You sit up a little, still straddling his lap, your hands resting on his chest.

“It might hurt,” he says gently. “First time usually does. Might be some bleedin’. That’s normal. But if it’s too much—if you wanna stop at any point, you tell me, alright?”

You nod, but he waits.

“Say it,” he says softly.

“I’ll tell you,” you whisper. “If I want to stop.”

He nods, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

His hand moves to the drawer besides the bed. He pulls out a small foil packet and holds it up between two fingers.

“We’ll use one of these,” he says. “Condom. Keeps things safe. Clean. I’ll take care of it.”

You blink, then squint at him. “Wait… why do you even have those?”

Joel clears his throat, suddenly looking sheepish. “Tommy gave ‘em to me. Said I should…y’know. Get outta my shell.”

You stare at him—then giggle, the sound bubbling up before you can stop it.

Joel groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Ain’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” you whisper, still smiling. “You’re blushing.”

“I ain’t—” He scowls, but his ears are pink. “You’re impossible.”

He kisses your cheek, then his eyes turn serious again. “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ you don’t want,” he says. “Not ever. You say stop, I stop. You say slow down, I slow down. You say not tonight, I’ll hold you and that’s it.”

You smile, eyes stinging a little. “I know,” you whisper. “That’s why I’m here.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You really sure?” he asks. “Not just ‘cause you think I want it. Not ‘cause you feel like you owe me.”

“I’m sure,” you say. “I want this…and it’s not because I have to, Joel. It’s because I can finally feel like I can choose.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. There’s something in his expression—something raw and aching. Like he’s trying to hold back a tide of emotion and failing, just a little.

“Alright,” he says, voice rough, a little broken. “Then I’m yours. However you want me.”

So, he kisses you first.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just slow. Reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the way your breath catches when he deepens the kiss, the soft sound you make when his tongue brushes yours. His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking gently, and you melt into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Then, carefully, he shifts.

His hands slide to your hips, guiding you as he rolls, easing you beneath him with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, eyes searching yours.

“Wanna see you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Wanna take my time.”

You nod, breathless, and he leans in again—this time kissing your neck, your collarbone, the soft skin just below your ear. Each press of his lips is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you. His stubble scrapes lightly against your skin, and you shiver, your hands sliding up his back.

His hand starts to trail lower, slow and sure, until his fingers land inside your underwear and brush through the slick heat. You gasp, hips twitching, and he stills—not pulling away, just waiting.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re alright.”

You nod, breath shaky, and he strokes again—featherlight, just enough to make your breath catch. Then his thumb circles your clit, and your whole body jolts.

“There she is,” he murmurs, smiling against your neck. “Still so sensitive.”

You whimper, your hips rocking without thinking.

“My poor bun is so needy, huh?” He asks, placing a breathy kiss on your cheek. You can’t do anything but nod needly, a whine leaving your lips.

Then his fingers trail lower, teasing your entrance, and he pauses.

“Gonna put one in,” he says. “Just like last time. Let’s see how you take it, yea?”

You nod, breathless, and he eases in—slow, careful, watching your face the whole time. The stretch is still unusual but not painful. Just…full.

You gasp when Joel starts to thrust in, your thighs trembling, and his free hand comes up to cradle your cheek.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “Doin’ so good, baby.”

He starts to move, slow and shallow at first, letting you adjust. Then he curls his finger just slightly, and your back arches when he brushes something deep inside you that makes your whole body light up.

“There,” he says, voice low and rough. “Remember what this is called?”

You gasp, eyes fluttering. “G-spot.”

He grins, presses a kiss to your jaw. “That’s my girl. Knew you’d remember.”

He curls his finger again, slow and deliberate, and your breath stutters, rubbing over that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll.

“Feels good, don’t it?” he murmurs.

You nod, barely able to speak. “So good.”

“Yeah,” he says, watching your face twist with pleasure. “She’s been waitin’ on this. On me.”

His fingers move with a rhythm inside you, slow and steady, when his other hand slides up your side. He pushes your dress higher, bunching it around your ribs, and then he sees you.

His breath catches.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, voice cracking. “They’re hard already, bun…” His thumb brushes over your nipple, featherlight, and you shiver. “You ever touched these before?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “No.”

He groans, like the answer physically hurts him.

His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing again, slower this time. “Saw ‘em that first night,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “You remember? You were sittin’ in front of the mirror, that little dress on… they were already perked up. Couldn’t stop starin’.”

You nod, breath catching. “You touched them. Through the fabric.”

“I did,” he whispers. “Rubbed my thumb right over ‘em. You gasped so sweet, like you didn’t even know they could feel that good.”

He leans down, mouth brushing your skin. “Been thinkin’ about this ever since. About how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

He kisses the swell of your breast, then the peak, lips soft and reverent.

“So fuckin’ soft,” he breathes. “So warm. You’re killin’ me, bun. You really are.”

His mouth closes around your nipple, slow and deep, and you cry out, your back arching. His fingers inside you curl just right, and your whole body tightens.

“Joel—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “I know. I’m right here. Just let me love on you a little longer.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His fingers keep moving, slow and sure, curling deep inside you with a rhythm that’s just right—like he’s listening to your body more than your words.

You clutch at his shoulders, your thighs trembling.

“Close—” you breathe, voice cracking.

“I know, bug,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin. “I got you. Just let go.”

The pressure builds, hot and unbearable, and this time you don’t fight it. You let it crest, let it take you. Your body arches, a cry slipping from your lips as you come around his fingers—tight and pulsing and overwhelming. It’s not loud, not wild. It’s deep. Shaking. Like something breaking open inside you.

Joel holds you through it, his hand never faltering, his mouth still soft on your chest.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe. “That’s it.”

You collapse against the mattress, breathless, your skin flushed and damp. He slows his hand, easing you down, then stills completely, just holding you.

You feel his forehead press to your shoulder, his breath warm and shaky. “You alright?” he asks, barely audible.

“Yea—yeah. That was good.” You say breathless.

He smiles softly, brushing the damp hair out of your face.

He watches you for a beat longer, then leans over to the nightstand. You hear the soft crinkle of foil as he grabs the condom, and he glances back at you.

“You ever seen how these are used before?” he asks, not teasing—just checking.

You shake your head. “Not up close.”

He nods, then tears the packet open slowly, deliberately. “Alright. Watch, then. Just so you know how it works.”

You do. You watch as he pulls down his shorts, his cock jumping free—once again, droplets of pre-cum formed on the tip. He rolls the condom on, his movements careful, precise. And there’s something strangely intimate about it—not clinical, not awkward. Just…real. Human.

When he’s done, he settles between your thighs again, his hand trailing down your side. He softly pulls down your panties, placing a kiss just above your mound.

“Still okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Then, he leans in, kisses you—soft and slow then shifts his weight, one hand sliding between your legs. His fingers find your clit again, rubbing in slow, gentle circles, and you gasp, hips twitching.

“Just wanna make sure you’re still nice and ready,” he murmurs. “Don’t want nothin’ to hurt.”

You nod, breath catching.

He lines himself up, the head of him nudging against your entrance. He pauses, eyes locked on yours. “Gonna go slow,” he says. “Just the tip, baby. Let’s get you used to it, yea?”

You nod again, and he begins to press in — slow, careful, inch by inch. The stretch is intense, unfamiliar, and your breath catches in your throat.

You gasp, your hands tightening on his arms.

Joel stills immediately. “S’only the tip, baby,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You nod, but he waits. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Just…full.”

He leans down, kisses your cheek. “I know. You’re doin’ so good.”

He stays still for a moment, just the tip of him inside you, his breath coming in shallow pulls. His eyes are locked on yours, searching, waiting.

“You’re squeezin’ me so sweet, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe. “Can’t believe this is real.”

Joel leans down, presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

“Gonna go a little deeper,” he whispers. “You tell me if it’s too much.”

You nod, and he shifts his weight, one hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours. He squeezes gently, grounding you, and then he starts to mov—slow, careful, easing in inch by inch.

You gasp, your brows knitting, and he stills again.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes flicking to your face. “Talk to me, bun.”

You nod, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just…so full.”

That’s the only thing you can say about his length inside you. Full. Stretching you to the brim.

“Oh, baby.” he says softly. “You’re doin’ so good.”

He kisses your temple, then your shoulder, and with one more slow push, he sinks the rest of the way in. You whine out, your body arching, and he groans—low and broken against your skin.

“All the way inside now, bun,” he breathes. “You’ve got me. Every inch.”

You cling to him, your heart pounding, your body adjusting around him. He doesn’t move, just holds you—one hand in yours, the other stroking your side, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod, eyes glassy. “Yeah.”

He exhales, shaky and slow. “Okay. We’ll stay right here. Just breathe with me.”

You’re still adjusting, your body wrapped around him, in a way that makes your breath catch. Joel hasn’t moved—not really. He’s just holding you, breathing with you, his forehead resting against yours.

And then you whisper, voice barely there, “Move. Please.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low and frayed.

“Already feelin’ good, hm?” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek. “S’alright. Just tell me—”

“Just tell me if it’s too much, if you wanna stop, if anything don’t feel right,” you cut in, mimicking his voice with a breathless little grin.

Joel stills.

Then he lifts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“That’s the second time you interrupted me, honey,” he says, voice low and tight.

Before you can answer, he draws his hips back —just a little and thrusts into you once, slow but deep. You gasp, your eyes widen, your whole body jolting.

“Not gonna stay nice if you do it again.”

His voice is rough, teeth gritted, but his hand is still holding yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles. He’s still there—still Joel, but something’s cracked open now. The hunger. The heat. The part of him that’s been waiting too long to feel this.

He watches your face as he starts to move—slow at first, just a gentle roll of his hips, easing in and out with careful precision. You gasp, your fingers tightening around his, and he groans low in his throat.

“There it is… yeah. You’re startin’ to melt around me, huh?”

You can do nothing but mindlessly nod.

He finds a rhythm, steady, deep, unhurried—and your body responds before you can think. Your thighs tremble, your breath stutters, and he feels it.

He breathes, voice rough. “You’re takin’ me so sweet, bun. So fuckin’ sweet.

You whimper, your back arching, and he leans down, kissing your neck, your shoulder, your jaw.

His thrusts stay slow, but deeper now, more deliberate. He watches every flicker of your expression, the way your mouth falls open, the way your brows knit, the way your eyes flutter shut.

The whole room fills with your moans.

“You okay?” he asks, voice strained.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Feels…so good.”

He exhales, shaky. “Good. Just hold on to me.”

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand still gripping yours tight, and keeps thrusting slow.

“Joel.”

His rhythm falters for just a second when you say his name like that—soft, wrecked, barely a breath. He lifts his head, eyes locking on yours, and nods, his jaw tight, his breath ragged.

“I know, bun,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I know.”

But he doesn’t stop. He can’t.

His hips keep moving, slow and deep, and you feel every inch of him, every careful thrusts like a promise.

He reaches down now, feeling himself getting close. His fingers find your clit—slow, careful—and the second he touches your bud, you whine out loud, high and helpless.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft here,” he breathes, voice low and frayed. “So swollen. S’good?”

“Mhm, Joel.” All you can do is nod, eyes fluttering shut.

Then he thrusts a little deeper, a little firmer, making you moan louder around him.

“Didn’t know it could feel so good…” your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Yeah? S’posed to, baby. I’ve got you.”

Every thrust makes your breath catch. His hand is still laced with yours, his forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel the tension in his body. Every muscle tight. Every breath ragged.

But then he stills, just for a second, and you feel it—the way he’s holding himself back.

“Joel?” you whisper.

He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, baby… it’s been a long time.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re close?”

He nods, jaw clenched. “Too close. But I want you to come first.”

You open your mouth to speak, but then his hand on your clit starts to rub tighter and faster circles, making your body jolt.

“Joel—” you gasp, hips twitching.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, bun. Just let me take care of you.”

He keeps moving inside you, just enough to keep the rhythm, while his fingers work you with quiet precision. His eyes are locked on your face, watching every flicker of sensation, every gasp, every tremble.

“You’re so close,” he breathes. “I can feel it. You’re squeezin’ me so tight, baby…”

You whimper, your body arching, and he groans—low and broken. “God, you’re gonna undo me,” he mutters. “But I need to feel you come first. Need to feel you fall apart around me.”

You cry out, hips jerking.

“Please”

“Shh, baby,” he breathes, voice shaking. “I know. I’m right there too.”

His fingers move in slow, steady circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. You’re already so close—the pressure building again, tighter this time, sharper.

“Gonna come… I think,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

Joel groans, forehead pressing to yours. “Good, baby. Gooood,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. “That’s it.”

His thumb moves just right, coaxing, guiding. “Remember to chase it,” he whispers. “Feel it, bun. Don’t hold back.”

You cling to him, your body trembling, and then it hits—hot and deep and overwhelming. You cry out, your body clenching around him, and Joel curses under his breath, his rhythm faltering.

“Fuck—” he groans. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You feel him lose control then—his hips snapping forward, deeper, rougher, and he gasps against your neck.

“Can’t—can’t hold it,” he chokes out. “You feel too fuckin’ good.”

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his whole body shuddering as he thrusts deep one final time. You feel it—the way he stills, the way his muscles lock, the low, guttural sound he makes as he comes, spilling into the condom with a broken gasp.

His weight settles over you, heavy and warm, both of you slick with sweat, your chests rising and falling in sync. The room is filled with nothing but your breathing—ragged, uneven, real.

You slide your hand up, fingers threading into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. You stroke gently, grounding him, and he melts into it, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your throat.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to.

He stays there, wrapped around you, his lips brushing your skin like a prayer, like a thank you. And you just hold him, your fingers in his hair, your heart still racing.

Joel hasn’t moved much—just shifted enough to ease his weight off you, but he’s still close, still inside the moment. His fingers brush your cheek, tentative. “Was that…okay?” he asks, voice low, uncertain. “I didn’t go too far?”

You blink up at him, stunned. “Are you kidding?”

He looks down, brows drawn, like he’s bracing for something.

You smile, soft and a little dazed. “Joel…that was more than okay.”

He exhales, shaky, and leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Good,” he murmurs. “Just…didn’t wanna mess it up. Didn’t wanna hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “You made me feel safe. Wanted. Like I mattered.”

His throat works around something he doesn’t say. Instead, he presses another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

He swallows. “You’re mine now,” he says, voice low, almost shy. “Forever… if you want.”

You smile, fingers still stroking the back of his neck.

“You’re mine too, old man.”

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound muffled against your skin. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Guess I am.”

And then he just holds you tighter, like he’s never letting go.

You weren’t a stray cat anymore.

Joel kept you now. Forever.

OH MY GOD🥹 this took sooo long but i’m proud of it. Hope it meets yalls expectations!! Also my last fic for this year😭😭

(No pressure tags) if you liked the first part, you may like the second: @mabelmiller @furiousprincesskingdom @elkenenvy @alpacinolover1213 @claredevee @lambs-fav-fics @spicytunarolllll @zoot3577 @cuteanimalmama @pookiewrldfics @zeida

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24

[impurefawn]

so not very excited for nolan’s odyssey. i’ve had a bad feeling about it since it was announced and seeing the costumes so far… yuck

[m3tiendes]

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Be careful peeps, the scam is still going around. Do NOT click on anything you are sent

[diaryofateenagebunny]

Stay safe pookies 🫂

[nadas-dirthalen]

my dream for tumblr is that we all relearn the phrase "it's not for me" and we remember that this is different from "it should not exist."

something something likes charge reblogs cast

[gutsby]

Smaller Inside

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You regret giving Joel your virginity.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Creampie. Age gap. Reader feels shame associated with losing her virginity. ANGST (!) but it all turns out OK in the end (!!). Assplay. Daddy kink. Soft dom!Joel. Some discomfort during sex.

Note: This is a semi-sequel to ‘Bigger in Texas’ 🤠

Word count: 5.0k

You woke up sore.

You woke up alone.

There was a glaring want of warmth in your bones, like the night might’ve stolen the heat, and you were here in this bed, curled on your side and wishing he were there.

He said he would be. Just four hours ago he’d had your hips pinned under his and his breath on your neck and something thick and leaking between your legs—‘Just trust me, baby, it’ll feel real good. Won’t hurt but a bit’—and in that moment, you’d believed him. You had no reason to doubt a word that came out of Joel Miller’s mouth because the man was honest. Accomplished. Old.

It didn’t strike you just how many years he had you beat by until he tugged down his jeans. Pinched your chin with his thick forefinger and thumb and told you, in the tenderest of tones, it wasn’t right for a thing as pretty and sweet and young as you to be snagged in his sheets.

Maybe he was right.

You’d never even seen a man’s cock before his—not in real life, anyway—and, to put it mildly, Joel was huge. The experience was all on his side; the hurt was yours. While he’d prepared you more than enough with his lips, tongue, and fingers, the intrusion had made you sore. Worse than that, the mental impression it left was raw. You didn’t want to believe in old norms perpetuated by a purity-driven world, didn’t honestly think you’d changed from one man’s dick, no matter how big. But you ached.

You felt empty.

A little dirty, too.

Would he want you after this? Had he wanted you at all? Was it simply a cruel ploy to breach the spot between your legs and then…leave? You folded in on yourself. You pulled your knees up to your chest and winced at the absence you felt. You blinked harder into the dark.

Your nose stung, but you refused to cry now.

He just stepped out for some air. He’ll be back.

I’m all alone in this big, cold bed, but he’ll be back.

I gave Joel Miller my virginity, and he has to come back.

Nothing assuaged your fears. Your eyes burned even worse than your nose, and before you knew it, you felt hot tears start to slide down your cheeks. Unlike before, when you’d cried from the pleasure the first time he’d sank inside, Joel wasn’t there to kiss the moisture away.

No, the man had left you here alone.

He’d gotten what he wanted, after all.

You sobbed. You scrubbed at your face, uselessly, then slipped out of bed. While tears blurred your vision, you made your way downstairs. The house was cool and dark

Outside, the front porch was pitch black too. You stuck your head through the door, hoping to find your old man sat out in one of the rocking chairs, but when you checked, the place was empty. Your heart clenched in your chest, and you inhaled a breath that felt ragged. Restless. Turning perilously and pathetically on your weak, trembling heels, you strode over to the kitchen.

The backyard beyond was small, and Joel didn’t like it much. He’d taken you out there once, beneath the shade of the trees, and he’d let you straddle one thigh while he bounced you on his leg. You’d never cum rubbing your cunt on denim before, but Joel had made it seem easy.

He wasn’t here. You cast a look across the lawn, remembering the pleasure, and felt it again: guilt.

You tried shaking it away with one turn of your head, but the longer Joel was gone, the worse it got. He’s not here.

Chiding yourself quietly, “You are so fucking stupid.”

And gross. You walked and felt the heft of Joel’s last load leak slowly out of your cunt. You descended the three steps to the grass, sensed it trickling down your thighs, and silently wished he hadn’t let you wear his boxers. Or his shirt. You smelled him, you felt him, you swatted him aggressively from between your legs, and you rounded the side of the house. The warmth in your gut simmered.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too cold out that night, so you could walk home without your shoes and not expect frostbite.

You could cry at home, alone. You’d soothe the ache at the apex of your legs with your own hands, in your own bed. You didn’t need a man Joel’s age to make you feel pleasure—or any man, for that matter. He’d shown you what it was to get fucked. Nothing more, nothing less.

You’d just passed Joel’s truck in the driveway and were about to hit the pavement of the road, when these ideas thrummed through your skull. You felt silly, and defiled, still, but at least you weren’t spewing tears. You walked.

And just when your feet reached the edge of the drive, you heard it. You stopped briefly, then, but kept going.

“Honey?”

The voice was confused.

How fucking puzzled could he be? He’d been gone for hours and just now decided to drop by to say hello?

Probably just wanted another round. You stalked ahead.

You felt a little childish for it, but you ignored him.

When footsteps echoed hot on your heels, and boots landed coolly on the ground, and he caught up fast, you pretended not to hear. You shrugged him off when he touched you, brushed his hand away once it tugged—trying to pull you back—and you turned to face him.

“What?” you spat.

Joel’s eyes widened.

“Wh— what do you mean, ‘what’?”

His grip tightened on your sleeve—his sleeve.

You tried freeing your body from it.

“Let go. I’m going home.”

“Like hell you are.”

Joel’s words stung spoken aloud, but they seemed to be tinged with something else, too. You pushed at his hand.

“If you wanted to go that bad, you could’ve just told me.”

“Oh, sweetheart…”

That was what it was: light amusement. Or a hint of it.

“Stop laughing,” you snapped.

“I’m not laughing!”

“You’re about to.”

“Well—”

“If I am so damn funny, why don’t you laugh your ass back inside? I’m sure you have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Ain’t doin’ nothin’, honey. Except you.”

“Yeah? And ditch me right after?”

“I was only gone an hour, baby.”

“And left me here, alone—”

“Darlin’, please, just…”

“—doing whatever.”

“…listen to me.”

“Or whoever—”

“Honey, I just went over to your place to make SOUP!”

It amazed him how quickly food could change your mind.

Thirty minutes ago, you’d been fully prepared to fight.

Now, with your feet warmed up and your belly full again—the ingredients he’d needed had been at your place, so he’d decided to cook there after he woke up at 4 AM and couldn’t fall back asleep—you were back to being sweet.

Affectionate, even.

And forward, if Joel were being perfectly honest.

Never before had he seen you make a move on him, at least not directly. Not like this, with your legs clambering over his and your thighs coming to rest on either side of his hips, on the sofa. Joel rarely wanted to fuck after eating a meal, but for you, he could make an exception.

His eyes were heavy-lidded as he watched you rub your groin against him. He thought of the time you’d rode his thigh out in the backyard, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Two times in one night is more than your old man can take, I think,” he told you, trying to sound extra sleepy.

He figured you knew better. You rubbed harder.

“I don’t care. I— I need the other…five.”

Inches, you meant.

Joel had fucked you with the first five earlier that night, and now you wanted the other half. You’d scarcely been able to fit what he’d given you, had had to tap out after just one round, but here you were. Begging for more.

He liked it.

Joel was old and weary and his belly sloshed with soup every time he moved now, but he reckoned you could convince him of just about anything with the way your hips were grinding down. Give him one, two—no, it was here, he was almost fully erect through his pants—and he could do you again. He wanted to. He watched you.

But when his hands slid to your hips, you swatted him.

“Let me do it, daddy.”

Alright.

He was hard, and he was more than aroused, and fuck—your hands got him unzipped and in your grasp so quick. Joel barely had the chance to blink or breathe before he felt you shed your bottoms and brush him between your legs. You aligned him well enough. You seemed to be pretending to know more than you did, moving too fast to be really self-assured in doing all of this, but he sat back all the same and drank you in with a lopsided smirk.

“Give it a sec, hon. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Joel’s eyes flitted to his lap, where you were presently trying to level your own hips and get him just right. You huffed a little, then you squeezed his shoulder and tightened your legs.

You shook your head.

“I know,” you bit out.

That sounded angrier than he’d expected—or wanted to hear. His own expression hardened some, considering words in his mind that he might try and say to you while you hovered over him, but then you were sinking down.

Taking him in. Meeting resistance and forcing it anyway.

“Hey—” Joel started, words promptly swallowed by a moan when your tight, wet, clenching heat nearly strangled the head of him. You were taut as a fist.

You couldn’t get more than an inch before your body was rejecting the stretch and your face screwed up in pain.

“Baby,” Joel croaked. Shaking his head. “You’re gonna hurt yourself goin’ in like that. Why don’t I—I, ah, shit.”

You were taking him anyway. You were impaling yourself on his dick, like this was something you felt determined to do, and Joel wasn’t sure if he should groan with pleasure or push you off of him. Your brows pinched.

“I— I wanna make it…good,” you whimpered.

One arm was bracing itself on the sofa cushion behind him, and your head was lolling against the side of his. Your whines were soft and pitchy, and your entrance, though wet, was impossibly tight. This wasn’t working. You were pushing him in, but the friction was too much.

You let out a soft, pained cry into his shoulder, and that was when Joel moved off completely. He leaned back.

“‘S’alright, darlin’, ‘s’alrigh—”

“Just let me do it!” you cried.

Joel’s gaze leapt from where your bodies had been trying to connect to your face, and he was shocked to find tears brimming in your eyes. They were starting to slide down, one by one, and you hurried to brush them off. You shook your head and let out a sound trapped between a sob and a hiccup, fighting hard to hide your frustration.

It wasn’t working.

Joel pulled you into his arms.

“Hey, hey…” he started gently. His eyes searched further. “What’s wrong, honey? Talk to me. Tell me what’s the—”

“I thought it would feel different than this!” you sobbed.

There was a tinge of ire to your tone, but mostly, the emotion suffusing those words was sadness. Distress. Joel didn’t have the first idea where it had come from. Quickly, he moved his hands from your sides to your face. He cupped tear-stained cheeks and drew closer.

“What feels different? What’s wrong?”

You blinked harder, and more tears flowed.

“Sex. It— I can’t do anything right. I can’t make it good.”

Joel opened his mouth to speak, but you went on.

“I feel dirty. And— and we— we won’t even fit!”

Then your palms were clamping over your eyes, like this was the single most embarrassing thing that could’ve happened, and Joel’s heart clenched in his chest. He pulled your face down to his, tugged your hands away, and wanted to kiss every last tear. You were shaking.

“It’s alright. Hey, don’t— don’t cry. It’s hard startin’ out.”

Joel knew it well himself, and it still didn’t soothe the ache inside from seeing you like this. It made it worse.

He should’ve prepared you more. Made you comfortable. Taken you back to his bed, for fuck’s sake—and not let you feel like this was something to be ashamed of doing.

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken you so soon. Or suddenly

“Why do you feel dirty? Sex ain’t a bad thing, baby.”

He hoped it wasn’t his fault you’d felt like it was.

“I know, but you…you said you loved how sweet I was. And then we did those things, and I don’t feel the same.” You bit your bottom lip, and it was enough to send him spiraling. “I feel…dirty. Like I’m different. And I can’t even do the things you like, and I’m scared you won’t wann—”

“Sweetheart,” Joel exhaled a breath and a groan at once.

How could you even think that?

How could you imagine him anything less than in love?

He’d never said it—was too scared to say it, particularly after you’d just made yourself so vulnerable and offered your virginity to him, when he felt he hadn’t deserved it.

He didn’t deserve it. And here you were thinking that you’d done something wrong. Joel leaned closer again.

The man snaked his arms around your waist and buried his face in your shoulder like you’d done to him before. In a gentle breath and a slightly muffled voice, he managed:

“You mean everything to me, hon…I didn’t think of you any different after we done it that one time, and I ain’t gonna think any different of you if we do it again. You’re still the same sweet girl you always were. Y’know that?”

He hoped you did.

You sucked in a soft breath of your own and held it.

Then slowly, shakily, you exhaled. Joel swallowed.

“Please say you do, darlin’. I…I need to hear it.”

Now he was the needy one. He didn’t care.

He squeezed you tighter to him and lifted his head to meet your gaze when your chin tipped down to his. That felt almost more intimate than sex—just locking eyes with one another and letting the truths trickle out.

“I know,” you said, after a beat. “I—I think so, anyway.”

“Know so, honey. Don’t think. Know that I…”

I love you.

He wanted to say it. But something got lodged in his throat, and the second slipped away. A smile was starting to tug at the edges of your lips, and he swiftly got lost in the expression. You were feeling better.

You slid up his legs, and he hardly even noticed it.

He intended to use his fingers when you were ready. Maybe lay you back on the couch, spread your legs, and have himself a time with his lips and tongue until you were a shaking mess above him. But you didn’t let him.

Eager as you seemed before, you took him in your hand again. You lifted your hips. Before Joel could utter a word of his own protest, you were already rubbing back and forth, up and down his shaft with the seam of your cunt.

You were still wet, of course. You slicked him easily, made him feel like you were ready for this, even if you weren’t. But Joel knew better now; he grabbed your hips.

“Baby,” he said. Gentle. “We’re gonna take things slow.”

He watched you wrinkle your nose at the idea. It was both the most maddening and adorable thing to see.

“Slow,” you repeated.

“Slow,” he confirmed.

Though you didn’t seem crazy about the idea, you did want him inside you, apparently. You were patient enough to let him replace your touch gripping his base and wiping his tip back and forth, again and again. You whimpered. Joel nodded, holding your gaze to make sure that this wouldn’t be painful. When your knees trembled against him and you keened, he pressed his free hand to your back to support your weight. Then he kept teasing.

“Don’t it feel nice?” he hummed.

“Uh-huh.”

You weren’t quite used to his touch. Or anyone’s, really.

Your eyelids were fluttering shut, and Joel could tell you were succumbing to the feeling—not needing to be filled but relishing the moment instead, savoring every second his tip was gliding through your folds and smearing your wetness. It was a beautiful thing to see. In all the long decades Joel had been doing this himself, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to experience pleasure for the first time. You’d done this before, but it was all still new.

Your teeth had trapped your bottom lip, and your hand was squeezing his shoulder. The other must’ve been fisting the fabric of the sofa, because Joel heard a soft scraping noise. He felt your nails on his skin along with it; you were reveling in the warmth, the wet, sticky head of his cock pushing your folds apart, and the tiny jolts of sensitivity that came when he grazed your throbbing clit. He could tell because you’d grip him even harder and roll your hips with every motion, as if trying to meet him in it.

Joel could stay like this for hours.

He wouldn’t need to penetrate you an inch if it meant getting a view like this and seeing you shiver with every soft, tender brush of his cockhead. He kissed your cheek.

“My sweet girl,” he murmured. “My sweet, perfect girl.”

Through the teeth that had snagged your lip, you smiled.

Your eyes were still closed, but you nodded as if to say, ‘Yes, I am.’ And the heat continued to swell and drip.

And then you were fitting him in at your entrance again.

Joel knew you needed more prep: more time to get your still-tight walls to loosen up and learn to accept his girth, but you were insistent. Small as you were inside, your need was triple any limitation. You wanted him now.

“I—fuck.” Joel groaned as you pressed him in.

It was only an inch. His tip stretched the slick, fleshy rim of your cunt with alarming ease. When he looked up, he could see it wasn’t that easy, though. You were wincing.

“Honey,” he choked out. Swallowing pleasure and what modicum of his restraint remained. “Slow, slow, slow…”

“I know,” you said gently.

You bore down again. Engulfed another inch. Your eyes popped open at the feeling—perhaps your first real pang of discomfort—but to Joel’s surprise, you didn’t slow.

You sank lower, letting out a throaty little sound.

“Oh, Joel.”

He gripped your hip. Held it tight. Gritted his teeth as your walls clenched even tighter and a shockwave of pleasure seized his limbs. He helped hold you up, but each faculty he possessed seemed to be dwindling fast with every downward slide of your heat. He dropped his head back on the couch and groaned at the feel of you.

He was sheathed nearly halfway inside, and every inch of you that he touched was pure ecstasy. You felt incredible

One palm slid to your ass, and he grabbed the flesh.

You stopped where you were—or, more likely, you had to. You’d reached the thickest part of his member, and your weeping, needy hole had stretched as far as it would go. Spit glistened at the corners of your lips. Shallow breaths racked through your chest and made it rise and fall in rapid succession. You were whimpering all over again, and Joel wasn’t sure if he could handle much more of it.

“In, daddy, in.”

Joel wanted in. Badly.

“Deeper, sweetie? Is that it?”

You nodded your head.

He almost did. His hand slid down your ass to cup the back of your thigh, or close to it, and squeezed. You were about to sink down again when something sharp crossed your features, and as that happened, his grasp slipped.

Your knees gave in.

Instead of being allowed to go slow, you slid the last five or so inches in one quick, downward motion. You hadn’t meant to, and Joel could tell. Immediately, your mouth fell open, and a cry fell past your lips. At the same time, the hand that had been gripping your ass had slipped down as well, and suddenly, his fingers were pressed inside of that little cleft. His index brushed something soft—a spot he was yet unacquainted with on your body.

You gasped. Your eyes widened at the new sensation prodding behind the hole being penetrated. You looked to Joel, as if positing a question and a command at once.

“That’s…” you started softly.

“‘M’sorry,” Joel said, preparing to retract his hand.

You stopped him. You held it there with one of your own. He caught a glint of intrigue flash in your eyes, and it should’ve come as no great shock when you pressed his digits further. Pushing his fingertips to that one place.

It was as if the discomfort of his cock stretching you was forgotten, momentarily. You didn’t look to be in pain, and your throat instead was working, making sounds of soft pleasure as Joel teased your ring of muscles with his middle and forefinger. His touch was light but deliberate.

“Y’like that?” He couldn’t help it. He grinned. “Dirty girl.”

Another look flashed in your eyes—worry, it seemed.

Quickly, you shook your head. N-No, Joel, I don’t.

Joel kicked himself for the word he had used.

“Oh no, no, sweetheart, that ain’t what I meant. That’s a good thing. I…I like that you like it. No one’s ever touched you back here, have they?” Joel’s smile turned sheepish.

Your own look softened with a tinge of embarrassment.

You didn’t need to answer. By the whine that pushed past your lips the second one finger dipped in half an inch, Joel could tell you’d never had someone play with your ass. The walls of your pussy involuntarily clamped down around his length, and he groaned. He liked that.

You liked it more, evidently.

The sensitivity around that puckered ring seemed to have distracted you from the discomfort of being impaled on a cock so big. Your jaw slackened; more whimpers tumbled out, growing in pitch and shrillness with every twist of that finger. For now, Joel was just plunging the tip of his index in and out and feeling how your body responded, but he wasn’t going for depth.

Suddenly, you rose on your knees, and you slid up his cock. You winced at the strain of his girth—warm, pulsing, and aching for friction—and you exhaled. Just as you were about slide back down the three or so inches, Joel was back to prodding your back entrance, teasing the little ring of muscle with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Focus on my finger, baby. That’s it,” he mumbled.

Your eyes met his, and you seemed to question it.

He felt your walls flutter again, and he pushed in.

“You’re doing so good for daddy, baby. So good. This pussy, those sweet, soft moans, that tight little ass—”

“Joel.”

Your throat appeared to constrict at the last word.

Was that another forbidden, ‘dirty’ thing?

Probably, yes.

Joel worked his index even deeper.

And, as he’d predicted, you let out a shuddering moan. You leaned forward to grind your hips in place, and that act gave some added friction to your clit. Your lips parted, and you whined as you ground yourself harder.

This also gave Joel greater access with his hand—he worked his finger back and forth, gently, and got to gauge how you felt every step of the way. He spit in his free hand. He brought it to help lubricate that little hole.

“It’s OK to let daddy touch you here, honey,” he assured you. A wet schlick aided a second finger sliding in, and you moaned against him. “You look beautiful like this.”

And that was the truth. Joel had never been so turned on seeing you turned on, and he loved the needy movements of your hips. You were drenching his lap, sliding back and forth and sometimes up and down, softly, and the noises that came out were obscene.

You were fucking him now.

With his cock planted deep in your cunt and two fingers pushed up inside your ass, you were fully riding him. Taut, pulsing walls seemed to suffocate his length, and it was one of the greatest sensations he’d ever felt. You were stuffed full of him and enjoying this. Forgetting the shame you’d associated with sex, if only momentarily, you let yourself feed good, too. You leaned into him.

“That’s my girl,” Joel managed through gritted teeth. Pleasure choked his words, but he wanted you to know that you were doing a good thing—it was OK to do this. “Ain’t never seen anything sweet as you, y’know that?”

Your cheeks heated under his gaze. He could feel it.

Slowly, you nodded your head.

“Yeah…you— you like this?”

It sounded so innocent and yet full of lewd promise. Like you were readying yourself to do something worse. Dirty.

Joel wanted that.

He needed to see you enjoying yourself, so he bared his teeth in a crooked sort of grin, and he pushed his fingers deeper. He watched your mouth fall open all over again, and he drank in the sounds of shrill whines tumbling out.

“I…fuckin’…love it, honey,” Joel hissed back, words punctuated with each needy bounce against him.

Your warmth was soaking him now. It made taking you by the hip and thrusting in deeper from below even easier. Joel figured your knees must be tiring out by now, so he helped you slide up and down on his cock, and he drew your chest in toward his. He let your head loll onto his shoulder and heard your soft, pleasure-drunk whimpers crawl out past your lips. They tickled his neck.

As close as he was himself, he couldn’t help what he did.

He pushed his index and middle fingers in to the knuckle and felt your ring of muscles choke them. He groaned.

“Sweet girl likes gettin’ both holes stuffed, does she?”

You gritted your teeth against his neck and nodded vigorously. Helplessly. Whimpering, ‘Yes, Joel, please.’

He couldn’t stop there.

He bounced you even quicker in his lap, plunging his fingers in and out faster still, and he drew back to make you face him. Your lips grazed his; your eyes went wide.

Then, in a deliberate effort, Joel thrust in to the hilt.

He made you swallow all ten inches of his cock while he fingered your ass, and he kept your gaze locked on his.

You were about to break—come undone all over him in a harsh, shuddering climax—when he leaned in even more.

His lips were so close he only had to whisper it.

He all but breathed the idea into your mouth:

“You want my dick in your ass, sweet girl?”

In answer to that, you shattered. You let loose the reins of restraint and came all over his cock. You pulsed. Pushed. Gushed in wet, sticky streams of arousal you likely had no idea were even possible for your body to make. Your lips crashed over his, and you wrapped your arms tight around his neck, like you were terrified of that feeling.

This time, Joel knew what to do.

He wouldn’t fuck up again.

Hugging you back, and letting you ride out each mind-numbing wave, he lifted a hand and cupped the back of your head—it’s okay, you’re okay, hold on tight to daddy, now, I promise it’s fine. He didn’t want you thinking for a second that any of this was wrong or shameful. He wedged the fingers of his other hand deeper inside you and felt that taut band of muscles clench with each new throb of your climax. He smiled.

And, without fully realizing it, he was spilling his seed. Filling your insides. Holding you close and letting the throes of his own pleasure paint your pretty walls with a warmth he hoped you liked. Dimly, he hoped that that vasectomy he’d gotten all those years back was still doing its job. He pictured what his cum would look like sliding out and felt another spurt pulse out from his tip.

You sat in silence for a while.

Neither one of you moved, except to hold the other tighter or else drop your head in fatigue and bliss.

Joel wasn’t sure how long this lasted. All he knew was that by the time you two were moving again, the sun’s first rays were starting to spill through the cracks in the living room window’s curtains. You’d quite literally fucked until the sun had come up. He let out a contented sigh.

And just as he was about to draw back and check in to see how you were holding up, if you needed anything from him, you were leaning back, too. You met his gaze.

The smile on your face told him all he needed to know.

It was soft and lazy and no longer burdened by shame. For the first time in your life, it seemed, you could savor the moment. You breathed gently, albeit in quick, panting breaths, and seeing you this way, Joel thought he’d never seen a more dizzying picture of your beauty. The sight gave him purpose. Assurance, or simply the ability to speak from the heart like he should have before

Now he spoke in the exact, candid manner he meant to.

What he’d intended to tell you earlier, but hadn’t had the nerve to say, he was pressing ahead and diving right in.

Without pretense or pause, he said it:

“I love you.”

[bunnnycore]

house tour!! dbf joel miller and his sweet neighbour's daughter

joel miller x innocent! reader, 18+ mdni, big fat legal age gap between reader and joel (reader is 24, joel is..in his late 40s, you decide) FUN DYNAMICS!!! innocent reader. virgin reader. reader just wants to be taken care of. so bad. joel calls reader a slut....she likes it. piv sex, f!ngering, you're staring at him through the window, he's staring at you through the window...there's yearning in here. thank you for the support on the draft....this is the longest thing i've ever written. so much plot.... pumpkin pie and cookouts.... w.c 5.5k this is pure self indulgence if anyone wants i'll write a sequel.

DESCRIPTION: you’ve always been sheltered, a little too sheltered. straightlaced, no parties and certainly no boys. you graduated with a 4.0 and as a virgin, to your embarrassment. you come back to your hometown with flowers in your hair and a newfound crush on your father’s best friend and neighbour. sweaty, hot, your eyes wander when he’s working on his car, that you can see from your bedroom. you always don’t realise he looks back. on your 24th birthday, your friends get you a cutesy little lace set to wear, pastel blue, for your “husband” they say, whenever you find him.  it is sort of your fault for wearing it with no curtains closed. and it isn’t joel’s fault for seeing...

you have flowers twisted into your hair, that’s what he sees first. little buttercups twisted into the braid in your hair, chin tucked over your knees. you’re wearing a summerdress, the sort of gingham he’s seen you in all the time when you came back from college. 

it’s a bright day in early september, too early that summer still lingers, but late enough that the party was almost rescheduled because of a shower. 

he doesn’t really know you, hasn’t ever really known you. he’d moved in the year you left for college, and he’s only seen photos of you in his neighbour’s house. grinning achievements, awkward family photos. your father’s a lovely man, someone he can play pool with and talk cars about. there’s not much else to talk about, the neighbourhood full of WASP moms and dad’s that were always on business trips – but your dad is there, a wave whilst mowing the lawn, a chat over the fence. 

you’re back from college, and it’s your 24th birthday today. and you’re not off in tampa partying with your friends, you’re here in texas, in your hometown, watching your father flip patties on his barbeque whilst your mother pours jugs of lemonade. sipping your glass timidly. your hair is loose, and there are flowers in the braid, like you’ve lovingly placed them there, a decoration given to you by nature herself. 

it’s a simple neighbourhood barbeque, and of course joel’s there too. why wouldn’t he be there? your dad makes amazing burgers, and there are some perks to living in this neighbourhood after all.

the other perk is you, waving to him politely as he walks in, something strained in your smile behind your glasses. he takes a cup from your mother, the lemonade sweet and tart. and then takes in you, sweet in your gingham dress, but never tart. it flowed down to your ankles, the checks sweet againt your skin.  joel’s eyes linger on the locket on your neck, a small silver heart that’s tarnished with wear, always seen you wear it in every photo in the house, every time you’ve come to visit. a silver heart that’s beautiful, just like you.

“guess i should say happy birthday.” he nods at you, and you see his brown eyes sparkle. delightful, with his crows feet creased around them. he looks rather handsome, he always has, from all the days you’ve spent back home from college, gazing at him through your bedroom window as he worked on his car. a dreamboat, a man. one that would always treat you right, stop you from falling with his broad shoulders and big arms. 

you stand up, brushing your knees. crumbs from the burger you ate. you blush, it’s ridiculous how someone like joel – your neighbour joel, your dad’s friend joel could make you blush this easy, but you blush anyway. 

you look into your cup, and miss the way his eyes linger on your neckline too long, frills and a square, enough to show enough, but not enough to show quite nearly as enough as he wanted to see. you’re pretty, pretty in a way that doesn’t seem real. hazy like summer afternoons, hazy like a memory joel thinks.

“thank you.” you say quietly, looking back up, seeing his eyes again. he sees yours, wide, like a deer. doe eyed, looking up at him like his compliment means the world to you. 

he shifts on a foot, he feels like a blushing teenager again but he’s pushing fifty.. “so, any plans?” he means any plans for your birthday, anything that you’ll do with your friends, things a 24 year old should be doing. getting drunk at a bar, having a one night stand, not standing here in her parents’ backyard, making small talk with an old man like him.

your nose twitches like a little bunny, and you tilt your head at him, “yeah, of course, the phd programme starts in mid september, now that the holidays are nearly over.”

it’s pitying, the look he gives you. but maybe there’s something else, awe. he remembers 24, or more like he doesn’t remember it. blackout drunk in a bar, and a hookup in the bar’s bathrooms. you are standing here, lemonade in hand, smiling shyly up to him behind your glasses like he hangs the moon. 

your dad walks over, and claps you on the shoulder, “ain’t i just proud of her, 24 and already in a phd programme.” a wince, his voice is so loud, his hands are so heavy. joel laughs with him good naturedly, friends, that’s what they are. they’re equals and you with your head behind a book, are not. 

“not in the phd programme yet,” you raise an eyebrow, “i’ll be in  phd programme when i move in, when it’s all confirmed.” voice small, slow and careful, like your steps are, like your smile is. his eyes linger on your chest again, the swell of your breasts under the gingham dress, cut modestly so that it’s innocent, you’re barely ever looking to impress anyone anyway. but he gets impressed, bubbles in his stomach where he wishes he could gently pull the straps down, and worship you. 

you don’t catch his gaze, silly and innocent as your eyes linger on the grass too long. when you look up, he’s already looking away, you two are like paralell lines that never meet. home, life, everything suffocates you - there is a pressure to be perfect in the eyes of everyone you meet, a pressure to perform like they want you to be. your father with his kind eyes and strict rules, grad school, college, the phd. he’s proud of you, you can hear it drip from his voice, “proud of my girl, doing so well for herself.” 

you aren’t proud of yourself. not a single party, not a sip of alcohol, never a smoke from a friend however many times they offered. no boys, no dates, just sitting behind a desk and working. working in high school, working in college, working through grad school, and then your damn phd. your mother always told you the best things happened to those who wait, but there was never a good thing that happened with you. 

“thanks dad.” you smile, a lie. for some reason, joel can hear it. your hips curve in your dress, he can see them as the window blows, making your dress flutter against you like a butterfly’s wings. there’s a misery in your eyes, one he can feel, “enjoy the party joel.” you smile at him. your smiles are always freely given, all soft and sweet with your plush lips curving upwards. he can see the lip gloss glisten in the sunlight, pink and pretty. just like you. 

he tears his eyes from your lips, forcing himself to imagine anything but his best friend’s daughter’s lips ghosting over his neck. pouting at him as he leaned in for a kiss, the pink tinted lipgloss leaving kiss marks on his shirt, marking him as yours, “thanks.” he clears his throat, “you too.”

“you want me to get anything for you?” you ask, because of course you do. however hard you worked in college, you had always been taught to serve, quietly and sweetly. there was nothing wrong in being a good host, and you always saw your mother being gracious with serving your father. it was an act of love, drilled into you that a woman must serve her husband. joel wasn’t that, but your heart beat faster when you spoke to him, and in your life with no boys and no dates, that was enough. 

“yeah, okay, i’d like a beer, if that’s okay?” he asked, and you nodded, dress swishing around your legs as you walk to the cooler. you’ve always picked up beer bottles for people, never asked for a sip though, the smell makes you feel heady, it tastes disgusting, and you don’t know why anyone would put themselves through that.

the condensation on the bottle is dripping when you hand it to him, your hands touch, almost. his big fingers brushing against yours, a spark. you swear you felt a current jolt through you, but it might have been the coolness of your fingertips against his warm ones. 

the party is nothing much, grill burgers and pickles and onions. you help out your mother plate the food, graciously, like some angel feeding the hungry in a gingham dress and bright eyes. the good daughter, the good wife. that’s what you’d been taught, to study, but to serve. but he remembers the brush of your fingertips, and hopes you do too.

it becomes a thing, afterwards. his eyes seeking you out in the early days of september. you’re often on your porch, reading about your subject. it’s ridiculous how much time you pour over it, and he runs a business, a whole business. when he leaves for his office in the mornings, he waves at you. you always wave back, nose still buried in your book, glasses slipping off your nose. 

plain, ordinary. he’s dated a string of women before, but you’re shy and sweet. always politely calling out, “good morning mr miller!” over the fence when he walked to his car. wearing your shirt and sweatpants, always a little baggy so your right shoulder slipped off. and he always noticed the bra strap against your skin. pointelle blue, velvet green, flower patterned white. your knees up under your chin in the swinging porch chair. book laid in front of you on the table, that you go back to, again. 

one night, when summer doesn’t seem to be slipping away, you knock on his door. his house is silent, his old house was filled with the ghost of his daughter’s laughter, but this new house is silent. he doesn’t speak much to people, but he opens it to you.

you wear another dress, this time blue, with white polka dots and puffed sleeves. the square neckline stays modest, the silver heart still resting delicately against your collarbone. you’re nervous, he can smell that on you. the way your eyes dart back to your house, like this is a wolf’s den. 

24 and you shouldn’t be acting like this, not really. but you’ve never knocked at a man’s door before. no boys, no boyfriends, no nothing. that was the rule your dad gave you when he agreed to pay for your education, you’d never had a chance to between lectures and studying and exams. not a single date, not a single party. being a blushing virgin at 24, something so embarassing. 

and here you were, blushing as you waited for your dad’s best friend and neighbour to open the door for you, calling out from somewhere inside the house to “yeah yeah, wait a minute f’me!”

his voice, was so low. it made you want to clench your thighs, cross them pathetically. you needed him like plants needed the sun, dreamed about the few moments you’d seen him when you came home from college over the years. he opens the door to you, all grizzled, in grey sweatpants and a tight black tshirt. your eyes can’t help but shift below to see his bulge against the grey sweatpants. it’s just a quick look, but god does it make you wetter. 

he’s big in there, in those unassuming sweatpants, and your shy eyes move back to the glass tupperware in your hands. “here, i made pie.” you hold it out to him, and he stares at you like you’re the prettiest thing in the world. the moon glows behind you like a halo, your dress’s neckline has slipped slightly to show the dip of your breasts, and you hold out the box to him. “we have leftovers, i felt like you should have it.”

“jee, thanks, y’gonna make an old man like me blush.” he rubs his neck gently, and you laugh at that, your other hand going to cover your mouth.

“i don’t think you’re that old.” the words slip past your tongue, and you shut your mouth after that before you make a fool of yourself. he doesn’t want you, couldn’t want you. you were too young, too fucking stupid about love, too naive about sex, and you weren’t even here that often, “not as old as my dad anyway.”

the words are heavy between you, and then he takes the box from your hand, “glad i got someone in my corner at least.” he gives a small smile, and you swear you can see something twitch in his loose grey sweatpants. 

“heat it up before you eat it, mr miller.” you say, all polite again, like you didn’t just see the imprint of his cock inside his sweatpants. 

“ ‘course i will.” he says, swallowing, watching you walk away, your pert ass against the cotton of the summerdress, one that flowed to your knees. he wants to hear you talk again, “what pie is it?”

you turn back, and tilt your head, “pumpkin, made it myself using mom’s recipie.” 

when he closes the door, his cock is half hard, and he jerks off at night to the thoughts of you. you in your pretty dresses, looking like sin, your eyes focused the pages of a book. he imagines his cum spurting inside you, fucking you so hard the ache that sits behind your eyes vanishes in a haze of pain, cockdumb and drooling.

he’s working on his car when you see him through your bedroom window. your next door neighbour, your father’s friend. joel miller is working on his car, half in and half out of the garage. he’s sweat through his shirt, the outline of his muscles imprinted on the grey fabric. your chin is propped up on your hands, and you can see him through the window, back against you as he bends down to work on the engine. 

grey sweatpants, he wears grey sweatpants, and you can feel your heart quicken in your chest. after the night when you gave him the pie, you’ve been looking at him more, daring to look at him more. he’s working on his car, and you can see it from your bedroom window, making grunts as he bent over the hood of the car, rumaging around in it.

a distraction from your book, making you drool a little as he looks so damn good. distraction from studying, distraction from worrying about your phd. he looks so. damn. good. working on his car or leaving for work in the mornings, or even walking out in his backyard without his shirt on, after his shower. he looks good, too good to be true. 

a man. you don’t know anything about men, kept as far away from them as possible. your dad’s rules, your mom’s warnings. not a single party, not a single nightclub. your roomie used to laugh at you, invites fell through, you were frumpy and that was that. you didn’t even touch yourself, couldn’t bring yourself to. the shame of wanting to touch yourself, the shame of not being the good girl you’d spent your entire life being. 

but joel, he made you want to cross and uncross your legs, clench weakly against nothing. you needed him, desperately. and there was never a reason to look at you. 

yet your panties get damp, and your hips buck at the air, at nothing, at the thought of him shirtless, sweaty, with his grey sweatpants on. you need him.

the box arrives at your house a week after your birthday, a little brown box with your friends’ handwriting on it. sophie and alexa from los angeles, you’d been the odd one out of the three, but they liked you, parties or no parties. you’d missed them in grad school, one of them taking a job as a PA in LA and one a housewife, missed them because they made you feel whole. never made you feel bad about abstaining from boys and parties, waiting for the one. waiting for marriage, like a ‘good woman’ should.

a box in your hands, and your father asks who it’s from. “from sophie and alexa!” you shout back, opening it softly in your room. 

a package falls out, wrapped in wrapping paper, ome cute pens that you liked from that one stationary shop you saw when you went to visit sophie last, and a crochet frog that alexa made you. then a note. 

“happy birthday baby, can’t believe you’ve hit 24 now. 24 years old, and nearly a PHD GIRL! we’re so fucking proud of you, always knew someone like you could do it. you sacrificed so much, drove us out of so many clubs. we’re so proud of you for getting into that phd programme, and finally realising how damn cute you look in those summerdresses. now you need to get dicked down, where’s the husband girl, where’s the wedding invite!!! i hope it’s soon, and to sweeten the deal, we pooled our money together to get you something cute for you and your husband, whenever you find that special guy. i hope you like it, hope it fits."

love you so much girl, sophie + alexa

the package. you feel for the package. soft, small, and you open it to reveal a set of blue lingere. a lace set, pastel blue with roses stiched onto the center. plain in a way that fitted you so dearly, but lacy on the trims. you’ve never had any fancy lingere, never a reason to be cute, nobody was seeing you like this, were they? and you could imagine the heartbreak on your mother’s face if she found anything like that in the laundry, the shame on your father’s. no, you could never get somehting like this, but they’d thought it would be nice for you. 

it’s cutesy, all pastel like the clothes you usually wear. you put it on with shaking hands, fastening the ribbons on the hips.your hands pull your shirt and bra off, and slip the top on, it’s a simple cami top that cups your breasts and cuts off halfway through your stomach, leaving the curve of your waist bare. 

it’s funny, you look good. all sweet like this, but it feels weird on you, like a costume you’re wearing. you don’t look anything like this person. you’re not this person, you’re still you. 24, grad school, your eyes are still behind your glasses, hair still in that sloppy ponytail, but god does it fit you well. at least sophie and alexa meant well and did well — not that it would be used anytime soon.

you look at yourself in the mirror, a little strange, a little awkwardly. the  one man you wanted to see look at you like this barely cared, barely looked at you when you’d been dreaming about him for years.

meanwhile the man you want, joel miller, forty seven, working on his goddamn car, looks up. he’s looking at the clouds, hoping that the grey passes over soon and the clear skies shine through. he’s looking at the clouds, then his eyes skirt over your window.

he sees you in the lace, and his mouth goes dry. you with your soft curves and those doe eyes, looking at yourself in the mirror. the lace bralette on you, fitting your breasts well. 

fuck. you looked good like that, all lace and pastel blue that looked so pretty against your skin. you turned from side to side, and he could do nothing but watch, eyes moving before his brain did. but not before his dick.

he could feel himself getting hard in his jeans as he kept watching, sure it didn’t seem right, but you looked so pretty. like a sin he was willing to indulge in over and over again. he couldn’t look away, couldn’t look away from the show he was seeing behind the glare of glass and the sunlight. 

your curtains aren’t closed, they’re wide open, and you’re admiring yourself from your window, turning and twisting, adjusting the lace so it looks half decent on you. you hear a toolbox drop, and so does your fucking heart.

you shut them suddenly, and the show is over. there’s an embarrassing wet patch on his jeans from where his cock has leaked precome, and he walks inside. he’s seen you, all soft and pretty, in something soft and pretty again. ribbons on your lace, hot hot, and the memory will stay etched in his mind.

your breath hitches, and you pray he didn’t see. he probably thought you were some sort of slut, prancing around in your lingerie, hoping someone would see you. fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck….you can’t stop swearing, pulling your jeans up your legs and throwing a shirt on. 

he’d tell your dad, and you’d loose everything. the money your dad was giving you for the phd, the shit you’d worked so hard to get. 

worse still, joel saw you like that. all stupid and silly looking, ugly even, in something that didn’t even suit you. 

your heart thuds out of your chest as you run downstairs, out the door, down the porch steps, and into his garage. 

closed. it’s  closed now, but you knock on it with tentative hands. to plead, desperate. to tell him you aren’t like that, to tell him- to tell him. 

it opens as you press your hands against it, and you hear grunts. heavy, breathy grunts. the rhythm of his hand, the slick sounds filling up the room. it sounds like what your roommate’s boyfriend did in the bathroom that one time in senior year, when she was asleep and you were unfortunately awake. 

a pause as the door creams, and then he continues, moaning, desperate. your footsteps against the wood, a pause.

“fuck.” he swears.

“mr miller?” you call  out, still polite, then, swallowing, “joel?”

“fuck!” he runs into the garage, forehead sweaty, hair sticking to it, on shaking legs and a stricken expression on his face. his mind is screaming a thousand thoughts a second, but you can smell him, manly and musky, and something in your brain just cracks.

“joel, please—“ you reach out to him as his expression panics, falling to your knees in front of him, “i wanna help you.”

“you don’t.” he says, swallowing. he’s older than you, lived a life before you, you’ve got the world ahead of you, phd, research, bright eyes and beautiful smiles. a soft wedding in white, petals being thrown in the air.

your hands clutch at the denim of his trousers, “please joel, i do.” and you’re fumbling with his zipper like you’ve dreamed of, your pussy slicking with arousal and need, but you’re laser focused on his letting his half hard dick out. and it does, springing out with beads of precome on top, red and angry.

your hands fumble at it, and there’s nothing more you know to do. fingers shaking, this is the first time you’ve seen a cock. ever. it looks beautiful, his is so big, you wonder how it’ll fit in you, if he ever does that. you feel too old to never have done something like this, embarrassed you’ve never done anything with a man before. 

tentative hands grip his length, and slick with the precome beading out, and you rub it awkwardly.

“y’acting like you’ve never seen a cock before.” he laughs as you touch it like you would pet an animal, and you look up at him. with your doe eyes. there’s disappointment in them, and then you let go to show off the lace top you’re wearing underneath the tshirt. the one he saw through the window, is better up close, all fitting to your curves, and it makes his breath quicker. 

you cough, and then try touching it again, “my friends got this for me, think it’s good?” he lets out a moan, but your angle is all wrong, the grip too loose. 

“look beautiful baby,” he lets out a sigh, “y’technique needs a little fixin’, all that time in college and you haven’t even figured out how to do this?”

you blush, closing your eyes as he steps closer to you, boots heavy,, then his breath hitches. “so you’re sayin’…” he starts, his mouth dry, voice rough. a virgin, you were a virgin, that’s why you had no idea what to do after you fumbled pathetically with his zipper. 

fuck, of course you were. 24, college degree, 4.0 gpa, grad school lined up. no parties, no boys, you with your smile and a head stuck in books, you. you, shy eyes behind glasses, you who waved at him through on the porch when he mowed the lawn. you, the daughter of his best friend he barely saw. no one that felt you up, no stupid frat boy that got to take what was in front of him. lace blue, a ribbon’s rose stitched onto the straps, a silly gift from some silly friends. kneeling in front of him on wobbly legs, hands hovering over his half throbbing cock.

“no.” he shakes his head, and holds your arm, hauling you up so you see a little more eye to eye, “not gonna do it like this.” he pushes his dick back into his underwear, then zips up his fly. “not here in the garage, not with someone like you.”

“not with me?” you ask, voice all small. rejection. like you’d seen this before, your hands shaking for your shirt.

“no babygirl,” he smiles, a little wry, “not here, not with someone like you.” he places a firm hand on your ass, you can feel it through your thin sweatpants, “c’mon, let me give you the house tour, i gotta bedroom for nice girls like you.”

“you listen to sabrina carpenter?” you look at him, tilting your head.

“...who?” he looks at you, squinting, crows feet around his eyes. handsome.

“i’ll show you, after.” you can’t wait. nor can he, with how quickly he leads you to his bedroom, the first floor, wooden, mahogany. it smells of him, flannel and softness, and he has a hand on the little of your back the whole time.

“you really want f’me to be your first?” he says, in the quiet, and when you breathe you smell him. 

“dream about you in grad school,” your hips buck against him, cunt desperate and drooling, “remember the time you were washing your car with no shirt on.”

he smiles at that, and pushes you onto the bed, “you could have anyone. pure as a lily you are.” your lace lingerie is doing nothing to hide the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples pebble at his touch. 

“i only want you joel.” you pout at him, fuck you’re beautiful. your legs buck into the air again, like you don’t know how to relieve yourself, and then his body is there, and you’re grinding against him. desperate, so so desperate to get rid of the itch between your legs.

“come here my girl, i’ll be soft f’you the first time.” he gently pulls down your jeans, and then sees the lace panties that were part of your set. you look so good like this, shy and sweet up from your hair and so sinfully real. 

“all this, f’me?” he grunts, feeling the stickiness of your arousal, the damp of the lace, and he pushes it down too with two thick fingertips.

“always, only for you.” you let out a sigh as he circles at your clit with his thumb, and it’s true. it is only for him, the only man to ever see you like this, and it makes his cock leak harder. you were so…untouched, a flower nobody had crumpled yet. 

he pushes a finger inside you, and your cunt takes him in almost immediately, sucking at his finger with greedy lips. you’re desperate, so desperate but his fingers make you so full. it’s so slow as he does, his finger stretching your tight hole out. 

you grind against him again, and he laughs — “ ‘s it too much?” he asks, all worried. you shake your head, and he adds in another finger, the stretch is almost painful, but it burns in a way that feels so good. you need him, more than body and soul. you need him in you.

“need - ah -  you.” you gasp out, between breathy moans, he’s pumping his fingers in you to a steady rhythm he curls his fingers inside you, to hit that one spot that felt so good you saw stars. but you needed him.

“ already got me.” he whispers into your ear, and you could almost come like that, with his voice in your ear and his fingers in you. your cunt drools more, sloppy, tight. “this cunt’s got me forever, if you’d take me.”

declarations of love? two fingers in? god he was in deep. 

you whine as he takes away his fingers out of you, sticky with you and brushing against your clit to make your toes curl. “no joel, i want you in me.”

he laughs, “you’ve seen how big it is,” a frown, “i doubt she can take it.”

“i can.” you look up, pleading, but with that firmness in your voice that lets you win debates in college. firmness or not, he’s a sucker for your doe eyes, and so he unbuckles his trousers, leaking cock jumping out again.

“ s’bigger than my fingers.” he grunts, jerking it once or twice to have it hard again, “are you sure?” and he’s worried, worried about you. 

“i’m sure.” you want him to ruin you. and he parts your thighs gently. he doesn’t even need to push the way your virgin cunt sucks him up, inch by inch until he’s half buried in you. 

he rolls his hips slow, and your eyes roll back into their head, you can barely form words as you’re impaled by his cock, each thrust rougher and rougher. “like being filled huh?” he asks, a little unkindly, but you’re too far gone to care. your cunt is choking him so tightly, that he’ll loose his mind if he doesn’t orgasm. 

your walls throb, squeezing him, wringing him as he thrusts into you. you can feel his pubic hair graze against your clit, and you let out a loud moan, “y’like being filled only by me.” he growls into your skin. he’s possessive, and a wave of pleasure passes over him knowing that he’s who’s making you feel this way.  

your eyes roll in pleasure as he bottoms out, and he has to let out a laugh at that. so smart behind all those books and so desperately dumb with his cock in you. your legs jerk in such a pathetic way, it’s embarrassing, twitching with overstimulation. he rubs at your swollen clit one last time, and you’re coming on his cock, gushing, sticky, all on him. 

“you okay?” he asks, looking down at you, but you can’t form words, heady pleasure in your eyes as you look up at him.

“ cockbrained,” he laughs, “ cockdumb slut.” he taps at your cheek and you let out another moan, it’s so desperate, so whiny that he barely remembers to pull out before he’s cumming all over you, all over the pretty lace set you got, painting your breasts with ropes of his thick cum. 

your chin is covered with his spend, some of it even on your lips, in your mouth from how much you’d been gasping. he pulls out of you with heavy breaths, and you choke on air until you blink back to him.

“fuck.” you look at him, “been missing out on all this?”

“only with me.” he gathers you up in his arms, and you two sit there, watching the sunset. 

“should’a seen you there, all dumb with a cock in you.” he laughs, after a few minutes of silence, with his cum drying on you like a brand. like he’s marked you as his.  

virginity, you’ve given your virginity to him, that might be the biggest brand yet.

you were supposed to save that, this felt right, having him call you a slut, it felt like the weight of academic being lifted off you. 

“i liked it.” you lick your lips, tasting him, salty and musky. it’s good, he’s good, “felt nice being taken care of.”

“mmm.” a beat, “felt nice taking care of you, all soft, though your pussy’s a treasure, eh?”

you poke him in the stomach, “ain’t letting anyone else see it.” you mumble, tired from your orgasm, you could nuzzle on his chest and sleep like this, having him hold you all tight and warm, “ only for you.”

“better be.” he squeezes your ass playfully, “ i don’t want my girl being a slut f’anyone but me.”

“course joel.” maybe you’ll let him kiss you, one day. your virgin cunt his now. 

endnotes: i need him. desperately. i need him pumpkin pie and all. tagging people who were interested @itsjustemilygrace @millerlowlite @armandispunk @prettyferalphilosophy @isimpforfictionalmen @lovelyladiess @shesservingcvnt

[diaryofateenagebunny]

Die Your Daughter ☁️

Both characters are consenting adults!

I do not condone the actions in this fic. Read at your own discretion. Don't like, don't read.

Tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, INCEST, pervy dad!Joel, Joel Miller x Reader, inexperienced/virgin reader, oral (f!receiving), no outbreak, sorta dubcon

It had always been just you and Joel.

Father and daughter.

The way it was supposed to be.

You’d always been close; you could often be found cuddled into him, head on his chest.

His fingers ran through your hair the same way they did when you were little.

Even when you hit your teenage years and began to change and develop into a young woman, you never drifted from him.

Never had an interest in boys.

There was no denying your father was a handsome man; it wasn’t uncommon for young women to flirt with him.

There was no denying that, as you got older, you began to feel something when your father would flirt back.

It couldn’t be jealousy, that would be wrong, to feel jealous of those young women, not much older than yourself.

But, not that you ever really had to worry, Dad swore up and down that you were the only girl in his life.

“You’re always goin’ to be my girl, my only girl.” He would say in his rough Texan accent.

Things were never awkward between you two, not when he accidentally walked in on you changing, not when his towel slipped after he got out of the shower with you waiting outside, not when he accidentally brushed your ass when he walked past you.

Little accidents. Not that you ever complained or protested.

There was a line, and you never crossed it.

Not until that night in the summer, it was warm, you were half asleep in your little sleep shorts after a long day at your summer job.

You were saving up between your years at university.

You were stirred by a light knock on your door, the sound of it opening, and someone stepping inside.

“Wha’s happenin?” You slur, half asleep.

“Shh, ’s okay babygirl, ’s jus’ dad.”

You roll over onto your back to look at him properly.

He walks over to you. He’s wearing his pyjama pants, nothing on his top half.

You swear to yourself that you’re not blushing. No, that would be wrong.

It isn’t until he moves the duvet off your body that you recoil.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Your voice comes out nervous and uncertain.

“’s okay, I’m just checking something”

“W.. what?”

He reaches for the waistband of your shorts and begins to tug them down.

Sudden understanding rushes into your half-asleep mind.

You push his hands away.

“N.. no.. what are you doing?”

“Baby, ’s alright, you trust me?”

You nod. Your heart starting to hammer in your chest.

He pulls them down along with your underwear, you lie still, watching him with wide eyes and hastened breathing.

“Dad…”

It isn’t until he takes the backs of your knees into his hand and pulls them apart that you really understand.

His breath is hot on the exposed flesh; you don’t push him away. 

He looks up at you.

“I haven’t done this before, Dad.”

Joel feels a surge of pride at that, his good girl, saving herself for him.

“That’s okay, baby girl, Dad’ll take care of ya, yeah?”

You nod. 

You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable.

But, you suppose that if there’s anybody you want to feel this way with, it’s the man you trust the most.

The man who was there to clean your scratches when you fell off your bike.

The man who was there to remove splinters from the playground.

The man who held your hand when you got your vaccines.

Who helped you through your first period, let you sleep in his bed when you had nightmares, was at all your school plays.

You watch that same man lower his head to your cunt and lick a long stripe through your folds, reaching your untouched clit.

You whine, back arching at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Dad..” 

He places his thumbs on your mound, pulling your folds back, exposing the more sensitive areas of your clit to him.

You moan as he flicks his tongue over your clit.

The sensation was foreign but welcome.

You could feel his beard, rough against your thighs. You reached down to cling to the hand that was exposing your core to him.

“My girl tastes so sweet. Knew I’d made you perfect.”

All you could do was moan as he continued his assault on your pussy, letting the tip of his tongue work over your clit.

Your legs began to twitch as he slowly worked you closer and closer to the edge.

“Oh, daddy..” You moaned.

When was the last time you’d called him daddy? Your first day of school, maybe? 

Waving him goodbye, in your school shirt, lovingly ironed by him, your pigtails gently braided by him, your laces tied by him.

His grown-up girl.

When he sucked your clit into his mouth, you were a goner.

Your legs shook around his head as your back arched, only pushing your cunt further into your father's mouth.

Your moans reached a higher pitch, and he didn’t let up until you were pushing his head away.

“Daddy, ‘m done, ’s too much.”

He pulled away, looking up at you with dazed, loving eyes.

You looked down at him panting, noticing the shine of your arousal on his beard.

You didn’t know how you felt, how you should feel.

On the one hand, everything about that was wrong, from how he pulled your shorts down to your nod, to finishing on his tongue.

But it felt so right. He was as gentle and loving with you as ever. What could be wrong about that?

He helped your trembling legs back into your shorts and came and lay next to you.

You were held by him as you always were, your head on his chest, his arms around your waist, holding you close to him.

You couldn’t ignore the bulge in his pyjamas.

“Alright, babygirl?” He asked, his voice had more of a drawl to it than usual.

“Mhm.” You nodded. Still processing what had happened.

“’s okay, you know? Not hurtin’ anybody. It’s jus’ between us.”

You nodded. You couldn’t really argue with that.

You weren’t hurting anybody; it was just between you two.

You both fell asleep feeling closer than ever.

Divider: @cafekitsune

[sweetonsin]

PUNCHLINE

pairings: dbf! joel miller x innocent! reader.

SUMMARY: Always the quiet one. The virgin. Too sweet. Too soft. The kind of girl who couldn’t even say “sex” without blushing. Her so-called friends never let her forget it. So when they joked one too many times, when the laughter stuck in her throat and burned hot in her cheeks, she made a decision. She went to him. Joel Miller.

warnings: nsfw,  18+.  au! no outbreak. implied large age gap (19 and 40s), porn  w/  little  to  no  plot, unprotected  pinv, finger fucking, orgasms, creampies, kinda pervy, teasing, swearing, virgin!reader, female and male anatomy descriptions, no y/n

WC: 3.9K

The girls were on their second bottle of wine, sprawled across mismatched couches and the floor, half-tipsy and mean in the way girls get when they’re bored and comfortable enough to prod at each other’s soft spots.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching a red solo cup full of something too sweet. You didn’t drink. Didn’t party, didn’t flirt. You came tonight because they’d begged, and you were tired of always saying no.

“Aight,” Casey said, holding up her phone like a mic. “Time for the lightning round. Most guys you’ve hooked up with—go.”

Laughter. A few bold answers. One exaggerated moan.

“Does second base count?” Tasha giggled, already halfway through her third pour.

Someone nudged you. “Your turn, sweet thing.”

You looked up, startled. “What?”

“How many guys have you been with?”

The room quieted—not entirely, but just enough to feel heavy. Casey’s smirk widened like she already knew the answer. “Like… done anything yet?”

Your stomach twisted. “No,” you said softly.

A beat.

Then they all laughed.

Not cruel, not exactly. But loud enough. One of them clutched her chest dramatically, “Oh my god. You’re still—?”

"No way," another giggled. "Like—not even once? Nothing?"

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out small and tight.

"You’ve never had someone go down on you?"

"Or touched a dick at all?"

"Oh my god, you're like a virgin-virgin.”

“Damn, we gotta find you a man, girl.”

You laughed a little, again. Your throat felt tight, palms damp around your cup. You looked down into it like it held the exit.

They moved on quickly—talking about hookups and exes and who they’d do if they had to pick someone older—but you didn’t hear any of it. Your mind was elsewhere.

On the burn in your cheeks. On the lump in your throat.

The heat in your chest didn’t fade.

It stayed with you the rest of the night.

All the way home.

Even as you crawled into bed, still hearing their laughter echo behind your eyes.

——

There was a knock at the door just after 9 a.m.

You were still in the oversized sleep shirt you’d thrown on the night before—no bra, legs bare, hair messy. You hadn’t planned on being seen by anyone.

When you opened the door, Joel Miller stood on your porch, one hand braced on the frame, the other curled loosely around a travel mug.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and scratchy like he hadn’t been up long either. “Your dad around?”

You blinked at him, heart skipping a beat. “Uh—no. He left early this morning. Something at the shop, I think.”

Joel nodded, squinting slightly in the morning sun. He didn’t move to leave.

You felt his gaze flicker—just for a second. Barely there. A split-second glance down. Not lingering, but not accidental either.

You looked down and realized why.

Your nipples pressed clearly through the thin, pale fabric of your shirt. Chilled from the A/C and utterly visible. You crossed your arms quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks.

His eyes were back on your face, unreadable now.

“It’s—uh—it’s cold in here,” you mumbled stupidly.

He nodded again, awkward silence settling between you.

The girls' laughter echoed back in your mind, cruel and sharp.

You’ve never had someone go down on you?

Or touched a dick at all?

You swallowed.

“Do you… want coffee?” you offered, stepping back, pretending like nothing just happened. “I can make some.”

He hesitated, then gave a slow shrug. “Sure.”

The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the corner. Joel sat at the table with his arms crossed while you busied yourself with mugs and sugar, hyper-aware of every movement. You could feel him watching you—quiet, curious.

Your hands shook slightly as you reached for the milk. You were still braless. Still flushed. Still full of something restless and reckless, your chest tight with leftover shame from last night.

You thought about his eyes. That flicker. The way they’d dropped without meaning to.

He was a man. He noticed.

You didn’t let yourself think. You just turned.

“Joel,” you said, too fast.

Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear yourself.

“I—I want to ask you something.”

He raised an eyebrow, cautious. “What’s goin’ on?”

You looked down at him, jaw clenched, lips parting like you had something important to say—but instead, you just moved.

You stepped between his legs where he sat in the old wooden chair. Awkwardly. Bold and shaking all at once. Your hands landed on his chest, tentative, unsure.

And then—like you’d seen in a movie or read in a book—you started to climb into his lap.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked, voice low. Rough.

“I just—I want—” you stammered, and then you tried to kiss him.

Tried.

It was clumsy. Off-kilter. Your lips missed his at first, nose bumping his, and one of your hands clutched his shirt too tight like you were afraid of falling.

Joel pulled back immediately, hands firm but not rough as he gripped your waist and eased you back.

“Hey—” His voice was gentle but serious. “What’s this about?”

You were frozen. Embarrassment crashed over you in a wave. You scrambled off his lap, stepping back like you’d touched a stove.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I didn’t mean—..”

“Sweetheart,” he said softly. “Don’t be sorry. Just… talk to me.”

You couldn’t look at him. You crossed your arms again, staring at the floor, shame bubbling up your throat.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. “They were laughing at me.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“My friends,” you whispered. “Last night. They all found out I’ve never done anything. Like—anything. And they just… kept laughing. Like I was a kid or something.”

He was quiet.

You dared to glance up.

“They made me feel so stupid,” you said. “Like I’m broken or behind or—or less. And I just wanted—” Your eyes welled with tears, and you blinked them away fast. “I wanted to not feel that way anymore.”

Joel exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

“I thought maybe if I just…” you gestured vaguely toward him, face flushing darker, “then maybe it’d go away.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not with pity. Not with judgment.

Just quiet understanding.

“I ain’t mad,” he said finally. “But this ain’t the way to fix that kind of hurt.”

You nodded, lips pressed together, throat tight.

Joel stood, stepping forward. Reaching out, careful, like you were glass.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I’m not gonna laugh at you,” he said. “And if you really want this—if you really want me to be the one—then I’m gonna show you right. Not like this. Not all twisted up with shame and hurt

You swallowed. “Then how?”

His hand brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers rough and warm.

“I’ll take you upstairs,” he said softly. “And I’ll show you slow. Real slow. You say stop, I stop. You say wait, I wait.”

You nodded—small, trembling.

Your bedroom looked suddenly different with Joel standing in it.

Smaller. Warmer. Too intimate.

You watched him cross the threshold slowly, his broad frame filling the doorway, calloused hands still at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them yet. You could barely breathe.

He shut the door gently behind him.

You stood awkwardly near the bed, fingers twisting together, skin flushed with heat and nerves.

He looked at you for a long moment—his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. Not just lustful, but careful. Curious. Patient.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”

You nodded.

“Need to hear it, sweetheart.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered.

Joel moved toward you slowly, like approaching something fragile.

His hand came up, warm and solid, fingertips brushing along your jaw. You leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

“You’re nervous,” he murmured.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted.

“That’s alright.” He tilted your chin gently, guiding your eyes to his. “You don’t have to.”

His lips brushed yours, barely there—just a test, a promise, not a demand. You exhaled shakily. He kissed you again, a little deeper this time, his hand steady at your jaw, the other moving to your waist.

You clung to his shirt again, just like you had downstairs, but this time he didn’t pull away. He let you hold on.

“Lay back for me,” he said quietly.

You climbed onto the bed, heart thundering, laying down against the pillows, legs stretched out and trembling.

Joel followed, kneeling beside you on the mattress, looking down like he didn’t want to rush a single second of this.

“Pretty thing,” he murmured. His hand rested on your knee, and even that felt electric. “You ever been touched at all?”

You shook your head.

He gave a slow, grounding nod. “Alright. I’m gonna go real slow. Just keep lookin’ at me, yeah?”

You nodded.

He leaned down again, kissing you soft and patient. His hand moved up your thigh, under the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing skin.

Your breath hitched as his hand brushed the edge of your underwear.

“Let me take these off?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

He slipped them down, slow and careful, watching your face the whole time. When he saw you tremble, his hand found yours and squeezed.

“You’re doin’ so good, baby,” he whispered.

He kissed your inner thigh, your hip, your stomach—worshipping every inch of you without rushing.

By the time his fingers slid between your legs, you were already aching—more from the attention, the tenderness, the feeling of being seen than anything else.

“God,” Joel muttered, voice thick and low. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”

Your face burned, but you didn’t look away.

He touched you with patience. With reverence. One thick finger sliding through your folds, circling your clit just enough to make you arch.

“Tell me if anything don’t feel good, alright?”

“It does,” you whispered, already breathless.

His lips kissed your temple, then your cheek, his finger slipping inside slowly—just one, stretching you gently while his thumb worked soft circles.

It was overwhelming. Not the touch, but the kindness. The way he whispered praise against your skin.

Joel’s touch was reverent—his hands patient, rough in all the ways that made your skin burn. He eased a single finger into you, watching your face the whole time.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, voice gravel-soft. “You’re tight, baby. Real tight.”

You let out a shaky breath, thighs instinctively tensing around his hand. He stilled immediately, his thumb brushing soothing circles into your hip.

“Breathe for me,” he said softly. “You’re okay. You’re doin’ so good.”

Your eyes fluttered open. He kissed your knee, gentle and slow, like you had all the time in the world.

“Gonna have to get you used to me,” Joel said. “Stretch you a little. Just with my fingers for now, alright?”

You nodded, lips parted, every nerve in your body already alight.

He moved again, just slightly—his finger curling inside you, searching, testing.

You gasped when he brushed something deep and unfamiliar.

“There she is,” Joel whispered, lips curving into a grin. “Right there’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

He added a second finger.

It was more, thicker, and you winced—not from pain exactly, but pressure, fullness.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

He worked slowly—fingers moving in and out with a careful rhythm, his other hand stroking your thigh, calming you with soft murmurs.

“You feel that?”

“So fuckin’ wet for me. You didn’t even know you could get this messy, did you?”

“Gonna make you feel good, baby. Gonna show you how it’s supposed to be.”

You whimpered, hips rocking instinctively against his hand, chasing friction.

Joel leaned over you, voice rough at your ear. “You’re takin’ my fingers so sweet, sugar. Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock—gonna split you open so slow, you’ll be beggin’ me for more.”

You clenched around him at the words, moaning softly. His pace didn’t change. He was unshakable, grounded, like he was never in a rush.

Your thighs were trembling. That tight, unbearable pressure was building in your belly, high and hot and close—

And then he pulled his fingers out.

You whined in protest, hips lifting, chasing him.

Joel just smirked, sliding down the bed with a low, approving sound.

“Not done with you yet, baby,”

He pressed your thighs apart, kissing the inside of your knee again. Then lower. Then lower.

You couldn’t look. You couldn’t breathe.

When his mouth finally met you, you cried out—quiet and broken and raw. His tongue slid through your folds, slow and deliberate, lips sealing around your clit with just enough suction to make your whole body tense.

He groaned low in his throat, like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You fisted the sheets.

He licked you like he had nowhere else to be—long, slow strokes of his tongue, teasing circles over your clit, and then dipping lower again to fuck you with his mouth.

When his fingers joined in—pressing deep inside while his tongue kept working you—you lost all sense of time.

“Let go for me,” Joel murmured against you, voice muffled and thick with heat. “Wanna feel you come, baby. Just for me.”

That was all it took.

You shattered with a cry, back arching off the bed, legs clamping around his head as the orgasm hit you like a wave. It rolled through you in long, stuttering pulses, every inch of your body flushed and twitching under his touch.

He didn’t stop until you begged. Didn’t stop kissing you, licking you, whispering softly against your skin as you trembled in his hands.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was there, hovering above you, lips glistening, pupils dark and wide.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, dazed and flushed. “I—yeah. That was…”

Joel smiled. “Yeah. It was.”

Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling in little shudders as Joel moved back up your body.

He kissed your stomach on the way—soft, slow presses of his lips to damp skin. Then your ribs. The curve of your breast, just under the fabric of your sleep shirt.

When his face hovered over yours again, his lips were wet, beard damp with you, and his eyes—God—his eyes looked like they could ruin you all over again.

“Didn’t know you could make sounds like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with something deeper than lust. “That pretty little mouth, always so quiet—‘til now.”

You flushed, instinctively trying to cover your face, but Joel caught your wrist, grinning as he pinned it gently to the mattress.

“Nuh-uh,” he said, low and warm. “You don’t get to hide from me now.”

You whimpered softly, still reeling, still trembling under him.

“Didn’t even touch my cock yet and you’re already fallin’ apart for me,” he said, tone teasing but fond. “That sweet little pussy just sucked my fingers right in—like she missed me.”

Your thighs squeezed together. Joel chuckled, amused and smug, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look like this, do you?” he said, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “All wrecked and shy, all soaked for me.”

You could hardly answer—too overwhelmed, too dizzy with the softness and the burn.

“I should make you come again,” he murmured, kissing down your throat slowly. “Just ‘cause I can. Bet I could keep you in this bed all day, make you forget your name before I even fuck you.”

"Joel—” you gasped, barely holding it together.

He smiled against your skin. “There’s my girl. Say my name again.”

You did. Breathless. Shaking.

Joel kissed your jaw, your temple, then leaned his forehead gently against yours.

“You still want more?” he asked. “Want me to take it further?”

You nodded. “Please.”

He ran a hand slowly down your side, over the curve of your hip, then between your legs again—touching you lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Still drippin’ for me,” he said. “You ready to be filled up, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

Joel’s body hovered over yours, solid and warm, his hand cradling your cheek while the other smoothed down your side. You watched him through heavy eyes, heart beating so fast it was hard to breathe.

"You sure, baby?" he asked again, voice soft as cotton but low with need. "I need you to tell me."

"I’m sure," you whispered, fingers curled in his shirt like you needed to hold onto something. "I want it. I want you."

He kissed you—slow and sweet—then murmured against your mouth, "Gonna make you mine, sweetheart. Real slow. Gonna take my time with you."

You felt him reach down between your bodies, shifting just enough to line himself up. His tip brushed your entrance, and even that light contact made your body jolt, hips twitching up without meaning to.

Joel groaned softly. "Fuck. You feel that, baby? You’re already squeezin’ me and I haven’t even pushed in yet."

You bit your lip, trembling. "Will it hurt?"

"A little," he said honestly. "But not for long. I’ll go slow, let you adjust. You tell me if you need to stop, okay?"

You nodded.

He kissed you again—calming, grounding—then started to press in.

Slow.

So, so slow.

You gasped. Not in pain, but in pressure—stretching, fullness, heat. He was thick, bigger than you'd expected. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, eyes wide as your breath caught in your throat.

Joel’s voice was right at your ear, warm and steady. "That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ tight around me—Jesus."

Your eyes fluttered. "I—I feel full."

He smiled softly. "You are full. That sweet little pussy’s never had anything like this, has she?"

You shook your head, breath stuttering.

He pressed in deeper, inch by inch, until he was only halfway, then stilled.

"Doing okay?" he asked, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

You nodded quickly. "It’s… a lot."

"I know, baby. You’re doin’ perfect." He kissed you again. "You’re so good for me. So fuckin’ good."

His hips rolled just a little, enough to make your breath hitch again.

"That okay?"

"Y-yeah," you whispered.

"Feels good bein’ stretched by me, huh?"

You hid your face in his neck, flushed and overwhelmed. "It’s… weird. But not— mmph..bad."

Joel chuckled softly, rocking his hips again—slow, careful. "That’s your body getting used to mine. She’s learnin’. Givin’ it all up to me.”

He slid in deeper.

You moaned, body twitching, overwhelmed in every way.

He paused, voice gentle. "That hurt?"

"No," you gasped. "Just… full. It’s so much."

Joel’s hand slid under your thigh, lifting it slightly, opening you just a little more. "Gonna help you take it all, sweetheart. Let me guide you, yeah?"

You nodded, dizzy.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, “Open up f’me.”

He rolled his hips again, and this time he bottomed out—slow and steady, until you felt every inch of him buried inside you. Your mouth fell open in a soft cry.

Joel groaned, head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck. You feel like heaven, baby. So warm. So tight."

He stayed still, letting you adjust, kissing your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

Then he moved.

Just a little.

A slow pull, then a roll of his hips that made your legs tighten around him, your voice catch again in your throat.

“That’s it,” he said, pace still slow and tender. “Let me show you how good this can feel. Let me show you what you’ve been missin’.”

His hand trailed down between your bodies again, thumb circling your clit in soft, steady strokes as he began to move in earnest—deep, slow thrusts that filled you completely each time.

You cried out—quiet, breathy.

"That feel good, baby?"

"Y-yeah," you whimpered. "So good…Joel..."

Joel kissed your forehead, your lips, moving just a little faster now, just enough to make the sounds of skin and slick heat fill the room.

"You’re doin’ so good for me," he growled. "Takin’ it like a good girl. My good girl."

You couldn’t speak—you were floating.

You felt your climax creeping up again, faster this time, deeper.

"Joel—"

"I got you," he whispered. "Come for me, baby. Let it happen. You’re safe. I’m right here."

You shattered again—softer this time, but no less intense. You clung to him as your body locked up, pulsing around him, mouth falling open on a helpless moan.

Joel grunted, hips stuttering as he chased his own release—but he didn’t stop praising you.

"That’s it. God, you’re perfect. Fuckin’ perfect."

He groaned loud into your neck as he spilled into you, slow and deep, his whole body shaking above yours.

He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard against your skin.

Then he kissed you.

Soft, slow, worshipful.

"That’s how it’s supposed to feel, sweetheart," he murmured. "Not shame. Not guilt. Just this."

You nodded, still dazed, still wrapped around him.

Your legs were tangled with his, bare skin still warm and slick from where your bodies had met. The room was quiet now, lit only by the soft glow of morning leaking through your curtains.

Joel was holding you against his chest, one hand rubbing slow circles on your lower back while the other stroked through your hair.

You felt like a puddle. A mess.

And you never wanted to move again.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, your jaw—slow, lingering presses of his mouth that made your insides melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice rough from sex and sleepiness.

You nodded into his shoulder. “Yeah.”

His lips curved into a faint smile against your skin.

"You were so good, baby. Real good for me," he murmured. “Took it so sweet, like your body was made for it.”

You flushed again, even now.

Joel leaned back just far enough to look at you, fingers still lazily tracing down your spine.

“You know what I think?” he asked, eyes gleaming just a little.

“What?” you whispered.

“I think next time those little smartass friends of yours try to tease you,” he drawled, “you oughta tell ’em you ain’t a virgin anymore.”

Your face burned.

Joel smirked, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth.

“In fact,” he added, “you should tell ’em you got fucked. And fucked good.”

You covered your face with both hands, groaning softly.

“Joel,” you whined, half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

“What?” he said, amused. “Ain’t a lie, is it?”

You peeked up at him through your fingers.

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

“Damn right it’s not.”

He kissed you again—slow and deep and full of something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.

[millermouth]

Cherry Picker 🍒

summary: You'd survived twenty years without much thought for romance. But Jackson was safe, and safety had a way of making people act in strange ways—priorities change, rumors spread. Which happens to be how you uncover your patrol partner's best kept secret. || smut MDNI 18+ virginity loss, virginity kink, age gap (reader is 25, joel is in his 50s), jackson!joel, unnamed best friend, dual pov, drinking, nervous!reader, prudish!reader, virgin!reader, overthinking, swearing, pinv, kissing, like nasty kissing hell yeah, grinding, joel teaching you how to take 🍆, he talks you through it, f!receiving oral, handjob, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink, joel refers to himself as daddy, some pussy pronouns used, Joel We'll-Make-It-Fit Miller || a/n: my fellow freaks will understand. is joel kind of a perv for this? suuuure. but it's hot and consensual so who cares :)

wc: 11k sry

You, now

Your hand was practically shaking off its hinges by the time you lifted your knuckles to the wooden door.

You blamed the freezing temperature as you gathered your courage. Just the cold. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a weak yellow ring around the doorframe. It made the wood look darker than usual, older. Maybe it had always looked like that. Maybe you were just seeing it differently tonight. You glanced down at your shoes. Snow was really caked around the rubber soles, slush seeping in through the canvas seams, dampening your socks. You weren’t entirely sure if you still had toes anymore; they were so numb. Just the cold, you told yourself again, that was why you were trembling so badly. Just the fact that Jackson’s first winter storm decided to roll in the exact same morning you decided to… well…

Adjusting your stance instead, you smoothed a wrinkle in your coat, then reached up, but dropped your hand again.

Ridiculous. You were acting absolutely ridiculous. It’s not like you were some lost kid on a stranger’s porch. You knew this man. You’d walked patrols with him, ate silent breakfasts across from him before said patrols at the mess hall, both of you always quiet with each other. A comfortable quiet you’d enjoyed, actually. And you’d been to his house before—once, last spring, when you’d offered to trade him the coffee beans some folks had passed through town with. In exchange, he’d carved you a little likeness of your favorite mare from the stables, sanded smooth and small enough to fit in your palm. You’d thanked him twice, though he’d just nodded once, gruff as ever. 

But that had been broad daylight. And this was… 

Before you could talk yourself out of it again, before you could check the stitch in your glove a third time or flatten the nonexistent wrinkle in your coat, you lifted your knuckles and quickly rapped on the door. 

Nothing happened. 

You supposed that was normal. It’s not like he’d be waiting on the other side of the door for you. He wasn’t expecting anyone, at least you’d hoped. So you stared at the grain in the wood, the little green wreath hanging there, memorizing the leaves and pine needles that decorated the braided branches, and then—

You heard the footsteps, quiet and shuffling, but heavy on the other side. Your stomach dipped as they grew closer. You knew the sound of them by heart, etched in your mind as the sound of safety. Camaraderie.  They followed behind you on trails, echoed in supply rooms, paused beside you at the watch post just before he would offer you the last thermos of coffee.

Your mouth was dry. You licked your bottom lip without thinking and immediately cursed at yourself—chapped. You’d forgotten balm. You never forgot your lip balm.

The footsteps stopped just on the other side.

You held your breath.

You, before

It had started—as many bad ideas do—in the Tipsy Bison one Friday night. 

The place was humming with music and chatter, the lowlights of sconces bringing an amber warmth to every surface. Someone was playing a Fleetwood Mac song on their acoustic guitar, a gentle strumming meeting your ears across the way. A couple men just off patrol were clinking pints a little half-heartedly after a long day out in the early winter frost at the bar. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, a loud crackle punctuating the room now and again, and you could feel the heat rising in soft waves against your back from where you sat.

And beside you, smug as ever with a grin on her lips, cheeks flushed from her whiskey sour, was your best friend. Her glass was sweating onto the wooden table beside her, and her fingers tapped lightly against the rim as she watched you. 

You knew that look. You had a complicated relationship with that look. Secrets, trouble, you name it. Whenever she had a drink or two in her and she looked at you like that, you knew something was afoot. And usually it involved her over-interest in your love life. Or… lack thereof.

“I’m just saying,” she drawled, dragging her words out with that infuriating mix of innocence and glee, “if you’re so worried about it being awkward the first time, there are options. Experienced options.”

You made a face, tugging at the sleeve of your cardigan, already regretting letting her steer the conversation this way. “Like who? There isn’t exactly a whole sea of fish to choose from here. Half these people are partnered up and have kids now. And I swear, these guys born during the outbreak have zero game. ”

She let out a cackle. “Uh-huh. Like little five-year-old you really learned anything before the world went to shit.”

“Okay, fine. Enlighten me, oh wise one.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, lilting up, amused. 

She leaned in, elbow creaking against the table, voice suddenly lower. “Do you know who took mine?”

You tensed. “Oh my god. Please don’t do this to me. I don’t want to know, I really—”

“Joel Miller.”

You nearly choked. You did choke, actually, spluttering on the air you’d inhaled, spit gone down the wrong lung. A few people around you turned to glance in concern as your hand went to cover your open mouth. “What!?”

She grinned wide, completely unbothered. “Don’t get all worked up! He’s hot.”

“Joel?” you hissed, voice already pitching with disbelief. “My Joel—but he’s—he’s my…he’s my patrol partner!”

“Your grumpy, brooding, carved-from-stone, sexy patrol partner,” she corrected smoothly, nodding. “Yep. That one. It was a little over a year ago, I was still kinda new to town. I don’t even remember how it started. But it’s like… a thing,” she insisted, her voice dropping again as she scanned the room conspiratorily. “His thing. He’s like Jackson’s Cherry Picker.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She nodded, lips twitching around the rim of her glass. “I’m serious. I’d heard rumors, okay? I was so desperate to get rid of this… this thing that made me feel like I had a target on my back. Like hello! Town virgin over here!” she laughed as you covered her ever-growing loud mouth, and she quieted down, waving you off, “and then one girl told me he’d done the favor for her and her friend. I don’t know. He was really sweet though. He did this thing with his tongue and—”

You slapped your hands over your ears. “Oh my god, stop, I don’t want to hear any more—”

She laughed loudly and downed her drink, “Okay, miss prude. I’m just sayin’, if you could choose anyone, I’d go with him. Haven’t you ever wondered? Haven’t you guys gotten stuck out there together and had to cuddle up real close, and oh no, there was only one bed!”

You rolled your eyes, “Actually, we tend to be just fine thank you. Joel takes good care of us if we’re—”

She was grinning, teeth gleaming, her brows doing a ridiculous little dance.

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, tossing a napkin at her across the table, trying to ignore the way your heart was thudding just a little faster than before.

Because the truth was—yes. 

You had wondered.

You, now

And then, the door was opening. 

A thick hand appeared first, resting on the wood as it pulled inward. The rest of him followed a beat later, somehow even broader, taller than you remembered. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a flannel sleep shirt that hung open at the collar. His hair was mussed like he’d just come from rest, or something close to it. It felt too intimate. 

“Mr. Miller—” you started, and immediately winced. “Joel. Hi. I—sorry, maybe this was… I might’ve picked a bad time.”

“S’alright, darlin’,” he said, voice low, rough from disuse. “Took me by surprise is all. What can I do for ya?”

You opened your mouth and promptly forgot how to speak.

Because how the hell were you supposed to explain this? That your best friend had told you between giggles and sips of her second whiskey about the favor he offered. That there were girls, maybe a few, maybe more than a few, who’d come before you for the same thing. That you were here asking for something he offered unbeknownst to most, passed along in rumors and blushing confessions. Never outwardly known or spoken of, but something only understood by the women who’d needed it once. Was it only once? And what did that make them to him, exactly? They weren’t partners, that much was clear. Not flings, either, at least you didn’t think so. He never talked about having partners or girlfriends. He probably wouldn’t even if given the chance. 

You wondered if he remembered them individually, or if they blurred together to him. God, what if he thought of them like a collection—trophies he’d caught and taken first place, people he’d…he’d conquered? What would it mean for your relationship going forward? The patrols that were usually comfortable and easy, would they be suddenly full of awkward silences, or worse, would he refuse to patrol with you at all?

There was a little smile spreading across his face at how god damn red you must’ve been turning. 

“S’a bit cold out there, ain’t it? All this snow.” he said, looking around outside, hazel eyes gleaming in the soft light, “Why don’t you come on in.” he offered, opening the door wider, spreading his hand out welcomingly into his abode. 

“Okay,” you barely managed.

Stepping inside, you felt more like an intruder than ever. The warmth hit you first, thick with the smell of firewood and something faintly herbal in the air. The hearth was already going, the flames crackling in a steady rhythm, casting deep shadows across the living room. A pair of reading glasses sat neatly on top of a copy of An Idiot’s Guide to Space on the side table, the title catching the light just enough to be legible.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Joel said, voice low and even, his hand brushing lightly against your back as he guided you forward. “I’ll get ya somethin’ to drink.”

You nodded but couldn’t speak, your mouth still dry, throat tight. Your body moved before your thoughts could catch up, sinking onto the couch opposite his recliner. The cushions gave easily beneath you, soft and lived in. The heat of the fire reached your skin slowly, unthawing your face, your toes, the stiffness along your spine that hadn’t unclenched since you’d stepped onto his porch. You took your time peeling off your gloves and setting them aside, pins and needles prickling the tips of them as they warmed beside the heat.

He returned a minute later, though you didn’t notice him right away—your eyes fixed on the fire, the way it danced behind the grate, and your mind had gone thin and fast with thoughts you couldn’t quite hold down. You startled only slightly when he appeared beside you and set the mug into your hands. It was tan, with a little owl stamped on the front. You stared at it for a long moment before lifting it to your mouth. Lemon and honey with a sprig of cinnamon. Your  favorite. 

You swallowed the first sip slowly, letting it move through you, letting the heat settle low in your stomach like you could track its path through every nerve. You tried to focus on that instead of everything else.

Across from you, Joel groaned softly as he eased into his chair. It wasn’t reclined now as he leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, mug balanced in both hands as he took a sip.

“Everythin’ okay?” he asked, eyes on you now.

“What?” you squeaked, then cleared your throat before continuing, “Oh, yeah, yeah, everything is fine.”

He kept looking at you, quiet, and you worried you’d turn red again before he lowered his gaze to the tea in his hands and gave a small nod, like he didn’t fully believe you but wasn’t going to press. “You just seem a little nervous, is all. Somethin’ happen?”

You shook your head and turned away, not wanting to meet his eyes. The lemon peel floated in a lazy spiral near the rim of your cup, and the rising steam pressed gently against your face, a kind of soft shield between you and whatever came next. You still held yourself stiffly, spine straight, shoulders squared like you were bracing for something, though you kept reminding yourself there was no reason to. This was Joel. You’d spent more time with him out of anyone, even your own best friend. You knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was a good man.

You took another sip. Then another.

“I just…” you began, the words thick in your throat. You exhaled, tried again. “I heard a rumor.”

Joel let out a short huff of amusement, his shoulders shifting as he leaned back more comfortably into the chair. “Oh yeah? What’s goin’ around the rumor mill these days?”

You watched him settle in, the way his hands stayed on the mug even as he relaxed. For a second, you wondered if he’d actually been worried. If he thought something had happened to you. If he’d been ready to help.

“It’s probably nothing,” you said quickly. “Just… something someone mentioned.”

He didn’t say anything.

You glanced up, half-hoping he’d read your mind. Maybe he’d say it first. Maybe he’d change the subject entirely and save you from the humiliation of asking him to take your virginity. But no, he was still watching you, still waiting, his face calm, unreadable in the firelight.

You looked away again.

“I guess I just—I heard that you… help people. Sometimes.”

There was a pause, only joined by a quiet sound as he set his mug down. You heard the shift of fabric, the creak of the recliner beneath him. When you looked up again, he’d settled back, legs spread slightly, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. Still composed, still listening.

“Help how?” he asked, but the tone had changed, lower now. Softer, careful and measured. Like he was giving you the space to choose your words. Like he already knew which ones were coming. He must’ve known, after all. He had to. Maybe he wanted to see you squirm.

You swallowed.

“Girls,” you said, and your voice nearly cracked, not from emotion but from how tightly you were holding yourself together. “Women, I mean. I heard that sometimes, if someone’s… nervous, or if it’s their… that you’re… that you’ve helped.”

There. It was out, more or less. Maybe a few words left unsaid, but it was there now, between you. A live wire, humming, waiting.

Joel didn’t lean back, didn’t shift, didn’t even glance away. He was just staring at you, barely blinking or moving. And then, after a long enough pause that you nearly opened your mouth again just to fill it, he spoke.

“Are you askin’ me somethin’, darlin’?”

You swallowed again, willing your courage, forcing the up and down of your head, nodding at him, eyes glued to his face, watching his expression. 

“I’m gonna need to hear you say it,” he told you, softly and without judgement, “And then we can talk about it.”

You set the mug down with careful hands, fingers lingering along the rim like they weren’t quite ready to let go. Your palms found each other in your lap, squeezing once, then flattening against your thighs. Courage, you told yourself. Be brave. You were twenty-five, for God’s sake. Frontal lobe fully developed, capable of decision-making, of risk, of owning the weight of your own choices. You’d killed infected, harvested crops, patched up fences, pulled your weight in every way that counted in Jackson. You’d grown up out of necessity, carried yourself through the years without needing anyone to hold your hand.

This shouldn’t have to be so hard. But it was. And still…this was the moment. You could feel it waiting there in the silence between you.

So you sat up a little straighter. Pressed your palms into your legs, just for the feeling of grounding, and tried to be brave.

“I’m asking you to take my virginity, Joel.” 

You did your best to sound determined, sure of yourself, some small reserve of confidence rising as you looked at him, eyes locked on his face. You furrowed your brow to keep yourself from faltering, zipped your mouth shut to keep yourself from over-explaining, even though every part of you wanted to fill the silence. But the plain and simple truth of it laid bare between you now. 

After a long moment of sitting there like that, the two of you watching each other carefully, he finally spoke.

“Why?”

The question caught you off guard. Your face faltered, your fingers tightened against your thighs, unsure you’d heard him right.

“W–Why?”

He nodded, very serious now. 

You hesitated. “Because… don’t you? I heard you… you do this thing. For women.”

“But why do you want it?”

Your face burned. You weren’t sure if it was the fire in the hearth or the question or how quiet the room had gotten now, but suddenly you could feel the heat rising into your scalp, behind your ears, into the hollows of your throat. Your fingers were tangled in your lap again, squeezing one hand with the other like you could press the answer into your skin.

You sat up a little straighter, and let your hands fall still once again. Brave. Be brave. 

“Because I don’t want it to be careless,” you said, “I don’t want it to feel like something I just let happen. And I don’t want to be with someone who only cares about what they’re getting out of it.”

You looked at him then, made yourself hold his gaze.

“I’ve waited a long time. And it hasn’t really been on purpose, but now that I’m here, I don’t want it to be meaningless. I want it to feel… like I chose it. Like I chose the right person.”

You felt your chest tighten. Your heart wouldn’t stop moving around inside you like it was trying to warn you of something, but it was too late for that.

“I trust you,” you said, quieter now, the truest thing you’ve ever said. “I think I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

Joel let out a long breath, the kind that sounded like it had been sitting on his chest this whole time. He looked away from you then, toward the fireplace, the orange glow flickering against the lines in his face. One hand rubbed slowly against his knee, the heel of his palm dragging in a steady circle, over and over, like it helped him sort through whatever was moving behind his eyes.

You didn’t dare say anything.

You watched him, studied him. He was so handsome, after all. And something had changed, not that he had, not really. He was the same man who walked beside you on patrols, who shared granola bars and poured your coffee before his own. He checked your boots before a long route. Adjusted your gaiter once without asking, gloved fingers gentle against your jaw. You’d always chalked these things up to kindness, to the sort of responsibility a man like Joel Miller shouldered without complaint. But now, sitting here in his home, the fire warming your skin and the tension curling thick between you, you didn’t know how you’d ever seen them as simple gestures.

Your eyes traced the slope of his nose, the graying in his beard, how his hair had grown longer this winter and streaked with more silver. His thick fingers moved slowly against the fabric of his sweatpants, flexing, working some silent thought through his palm. You remembered those hands—gripping the handle of his revolver, steady and unshakable. Reaching back to stop you short with a firm grip at your elbow. Pushing you behind him when an infected got too close, machete already raised in his other hand, swinging hard through mold-thick bone. He’d protected you more times than you could count. And it had always felt… safe. Never like a performance. He didn’t ask for gratitude. He just... did it.

And then a thought struck you again, unwelcome, as you watched him—what if he said no? Could things ever go back to the way they were before? This was a line, a big one that you were crossing now. You didn’t know how to take it back, not now that you’d looked him in the eye and asked for something you’d barely ever admit to yourself was a want, not a need. You weren’t sure what you’d done, only that there was no coming back now. 

You weren’t afraid of him. But you were afraid of what this all meant, how different it felt now that he knew.

But still, you wouldn’t look away.

He sat there for a long time, staring into the fire. And then finally, he turned back to you. His eyes found yours, steady, clear.

“Okay,” he said.

Joel, now

Joel didn’t have very many rules left that he hadn’t broken.

He’d repented for his sins, said his sorries—more or less—and moved on. He knew there were still notches on his soul, marks he’d carry to the grave, but he held fast to a few rules he’d made for himself, lines he’d drawn in the sand and did his damndest not to step over. He liked what he did, took a special liking to the women who came to him, nervous, wide-eyed, asking for something they didn’t want to get from someone careless. It was never more than they bargained for, never more than they asked for. But he still enjoyed it.

He was open to just about anyone that came around, regardless if they were twenty or fifty, as long as they asked kindly and seemed like they were doing it for a reason that made sense. Not that it really mattered—if they were offering, he was taking. And he loved to take. Selfish, he knew that about himself by now. And still, he loved it.

But here he was, crossing the last line he’d drawn a few springs back, back when he first met you in Jackson.

You were the exception. Always.

From the beginning, he’d known he wouldn’t touch you, not in that way. No matter how much he wanted to. And he did, God, he did. Dreamed of you, thought of you, let his mind go places it shouldn’t, wondered how you’d taste, how you’d sound, what you'd look like beneath him. And on the nights when patrol took too long, when you had to share a tent or squeeze into the corner of some half-collapsed building, curled up together in the cold, your breath ghosting against his neck—he’d nearly lose his mind with your closeness and sweet scent. 

He wouldn’t take from you. He told himself you were off limits. You were so sweet, so good. He didn’t even realize you were a virgin, truth be told. And it sure didn’t help the way you were mustering up your courage in front of him, all doe eyed and nervous and trusting. But no, Joel never wanted to take this from you. Or anything, for that matter. All he ever wanted was to give. He always gave you the last sip of water or coffee, the last strip of jerky and the better seat when the fire got too smokey. He even made you that little horse out of pine because you kept choosing her for patrols, and you’d wept when it was her last ride before her retirement. He liked doing things like that for you. Liked to give. He would not take.

Joel would see you around with your best friend—hell, he’d picked her, when she came asking. She took as she wanted and went on her way, same as the rest. He saw you hanging around Jesse too, and that’s when he really had to keep himself in check. But when he brought it up one day, asked about it quietly on the trail, you’d brushed him off. You’d told him Jesse wasn’t your type. Joel remembered the way something small and mean and smug had sparked in his chest when you said it, right before the bigger wave of guilt rolled in. 

But here you were now. 

Looking like that. Fidgeting like hell, eyes darting around, nervous in a way he’d never seen before. It rattled him when you’d appeared on his porch. His first thought had been that someone hurt you. That something bad had happened. He was already halfway to grabbing the shovel by the door, ready to ask where the body was. Anything you asked, he’d do it. He knew he would. No question. 

And then you’d come out with the real reason you were here. 

It took you some coaxing, sure, you were nervous and trembling like a trapped fawn in a wolf’s maw. And once the words were out his blood surged before he could control himself. He had to breathe, distract himself, try to collect his thoughts and put them into neat little boxes before the wrong one burst open and he scared you off. He needed to be careful. He needed to think about what it would mean to break that last rule. If it would ruin what the two of you had, if you would look at him differently. If you’d regret it. 

But the truth was already there, pounding its way through his chest. He’d known the second you said the words that he didn’t give two shits about those rules. 

That was the last clear thought he had before he turned to you and said, “Okay.”

He watched your eyes widen, watched your tongue sweep across your bottom lip, and the last thread of his control nearly split just then.

“Okay?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, lifted his hand, palm up, a quiet invitation.

You hesitated, only for a second, then stood with that same purposeful grace you always carried when you moved ahead on a patrol. Not rushed or uncertain. Chosen. Like your feet knew where to go before your head did. You crossed the room slowly, your breath held, and when your soft hand found his, it was like some invisible thread finally went taut.

Joel tugged you gently between his knees, both of your hands in his. He looked up at you like he wasn’t sure this part was real. The warmth of you so close, the gentle weight of your fingers resting in his, how your fingers still trembled.

“Are you sure?” he asked, breathless, quiet. He needed to be soft and gentle, your sweet face so pretty with how it was looking at him now, sure of yourself, but still nervous. 

You nodded, your thumbs tracing the thick of his knuckles. It made his skin pebble in goosebumps. 

“Usually when someone asks,” he murmured, “I make ‘em wait.”

He had to get through this part. Had to muzzle himself back into control, to know for certain. As much as he wanted to take, he would be good for you. For you, for you. Always for you. Like prayer, like penance, like something sacred in his keeping.

“Why?” you asked, quiet as a mouse, your brows furrowing. You really were adorable. Sweet enough to eat.

“To make sure they ain’t ovulatin’,” he said, and the line was meant to tease, but his voice came out tighter than he wanted. “Don’t need any mini-Joels walkin’ around, do we?”

He tried to smile, but thought it probably looked more like a leer, animal in the way his teeth shown in the firelight. 

Oh, was all you seemed to manage. 

Joel exhaled slow, like he could let some of the heat in him go that way, like he hadn’t just undone every restraint he’d spent years building. His hands slid up your arms, slow and steady, your sweater sleeves in the way. He wanted to feel you, your skin, your heat. He’d make himself wait.

“Don’t think I can do that with you, though,” he said, voice gone quiet again, “Been waitin’ a long time for this, baby.”

Your gaze flicked to his, searching. “You have?”

He nodded, “Christ, it’s all I’ve ever thought about.”

There was a long moment of quiet, of only the crack of the fire. As if waiting. Both of you, waiting for the other, held in the suspended moment before everything changed.

“I think about you too.” you confessed then, “All the time, Joel.”

The leash on the beast in him flew from his hands, and he was squeezing your arms harder, pulling you down into his lap. You yelped at the sudden movement, and it made him force himself to soften again, coaxing, to be gentle with his hands. He smoothed them up and down your arms, though the closeness of your thighs bracketing his turned his brain to mush. 

“I’m sorry, don't be scared, I’m sorry,” Gentle, be gentle, he scolded himself, “It’s just…you think about me, huh?” He cooed. “What do you think about, baby?”

You were nibbling at your lip again, eyes flicking down like you didn’t know what to do with yourself now that you’d said it aloud. He caught your hands and pulled them to his chest, pressing them flat so you could feel the thud of his heart beneath your palms.

“You can touch me, darlin’,” he said, almost a whisper. “It’s okay if I touch you?”

You nodded, wordlessly, eyes eager in their nervousness.

His hand reached up, careful, and brushed a piece of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear, taking his time.

“So tell me,” he said again, “what you think about.”

Your voice came soft and certain. “Kissing you.”

His breath faltered, fingers twitching against your cheek, forcing them down and to settle on your hips. Something deep in his chest raged against his ribs  to be let out—this was the night, he was sure of it now, the night he finally snapped, lost every inch of control he’d ever clung to. He might go insane with you, here, in his lap, telling him about your dreams, your wants, your desires for him. 

“Do you wanna kiss me now?” he asked. 

You nodded. 

“Before you do,” he said, hands squeezing, “we need to talk.”

Your face shifted, the subtle kind of worry that made you look child-like, almost scolded. He saw your shoulders inch up like you were bracing for a lecture, and he hated that. He slid his thumbs under the hem of your sweater instead, just enough to brush the warm skin of your waist, soothing whatever tension lie beneath the surface.

“Have ya ever done anythin' before?” he asked, dipping his head slightly, trying to catch your eye. When you met his gaze, you shrugged, sheepish.

“I’ve kissed a boy before. Not like…” You sighed, glanced off to the side. “Not like with tongue or anything. And it was a dare.”

Joel chuckled at that, “A dare, huh?” 

You gave him a mock glare, your nose wrinkling in protest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he murmured, the smile still tugging at the edge of his mouth. He let the air settle for a second, then took another breath, slower this time. 

“You’re gonna need to tell me when somethin’ don’t feel good. When you want me to stop, alright?” He watched you closely now, his thumbs still rubbing careful, slow lines against your skin. “Pick a word that means stop. Don’t matter what it is, but you say it, and everything stops. We talk, figure it out. You won’t be in trouble, I just need to know you’re okay.”

You opened your mouth like you were about to argue, and he could see the protest already brewing, the way your brows pulled together, the way your lip started to tuck between your teeth.

“I don’t want you to stop just because—I know, er—-I’ve heard it hurts, a little, the first time,” you said, your voice quiet, almost defensive.

He shook his head gently. “It’s not about that,” he said. “This ain’t for little discomfort. I know you’re tough, I know you can handle that. But this—” he softened his voice again, “this is for if somethin’ don’t feel right in your gut. If you change your mind, or I do somethin’ you don’t like. You don’t owe me anythin’, you understand? I ain’t gonna be mad.”

Your teeth were worrying your lip again, eyes darting like you were thinking hard, weighing something heavy. He watched it all and felt the pull in his chest that came from how goddamn much he wanted to reach up and kiss the thought right out of your head. But this came first. You deserved this part too.

After a moment, you nodded. “Okay. Okay… what about… pickleback?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Like the shot?”

You nodded again, smiling this time, your eyes downturned. “I love them.”

Joel huffed a low laugh. That smile…it had his belly doing flips like some kid. You were so sweet and shy, like you didn’t know what it did to him.

“Alright then,” he said, brushing his hands up your waist again, savoring the heat of your skin, the way you felt under his hands, “Pickleback it is.”

And god, you were so warm. He took a long breath through his nose, collecting himself, trying to keep his thoughts grounded instead of letting them scatter into the fire like ash.

“Alright,” he said softly, almost to himself. “C’mere, baby.”

One of his hands abandoned the skin beneath your sweater to slide up your spine, tracing each vertebrae to the base of your neck, just under the edge of your hair, and he felt the tremble in your body like a secret only he got to keep. Your eyes were so wide, mouth parted like you were bracing for something. But you didn’t look scared. Just... expectant. Waiting. Brave.

Joel tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing yours, and his breath was warm when it hit your cheek.

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he said softly, his thumb brushing under your jaw. “And I want you to relax. Don’t worry about what you’re s’posed to do. You don’t have to do a thing, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, breath hitching just a little, and he waited until he felt the tiny flex of your fingers on his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

Then he kissed you.

He pressed his mouth to yours with a slow, aching tenderness, just warmth and patience and the softness of your lips beneath his. He felt you gasp, just a little, and he moved slow as molasses, letting you settle into it. His hand at your neck stayed firm, thumb stroking over your jaw. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d imagined this moment until now, until your mouth pressed harder against his, until your hands were sliding up to grip at his collar as if you didn’t want him going anywhere. 

He pulled back then, a fraction, close enough that you were still breathing his air.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded again, lips a little wet, your eyes flicking down to his mouth, and Joel felt something in his chest cave.

“Good girl,” he said under his breath. “Let’s try that again.”

​​And he kissed you a second time, this one deeper, more certain—his lips parting slightly, coaxing you to follow. When your mouth opened under his, he groaned softly, chest tightening. You tasted sweet, like honey and lemon from the tea, and something else too. Something that was just you. Your hands gripped his hair now, fingers curling tight at the nape. He felt your tongue poke out between your lips, discovering and curious, and he met it with his own. You squeaked a little at that, and he couldn’t help but smile, pulling away once again. 

“Gimme your tongue, baby, let me see your tongue,” he coaxed, fingers tightening in your hair. 

You did as you were told, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out at him. He couldn’t help but smile at you with fondness. “Relax, like this,” he murmured, showing you how, his own tongue flat in his mouth, patient. You mirrored him, and he reached up, licking at your waiting tongue, honey and lemon and cinnamon and a burn of desire filling his mouth, making it water, his stomach clench.

You let out the softest sound, a little hum deep in your chest, and Joel answered before he even thought about it. He wrapped his lips around your tongue, pulling just slightly: gentle, savoring you. Your eyes shuttered closed, sighing into him, your hips rocking involuntarily. He felt, beneath layers of clothing, a little pulse between your legs. 

“Oh, she likes that, don’t she, darlin’?” Joel asked when he pulled away again.

“You—” your voice was hoarse, almost drunk with desire, licking your lips, “you could feel that?”

He nodded, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Can you feel me?” he asked, quieter now. “Feel how much I want you?”

You nodded, cheeks heating, “I like it.”

Joel didn’t wait. He kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, and you melted into him with confidence. Your arms looped around his neck, your breasts pressing to his chest beneath your sweater, body giving into him. His hands slipped beneath your top again, finding your skin, your back warm and smooth beneath his palms. He pulled you in closer, like you weren’t close enough already. He thought he could kiss you for hours. He thought he might go insane if he couldn’t. 

And between the moans and whimpers, you murmured to him between a kiss.

“Can I have your tongue, Joel? Please?”

Joel’s brain was so scrambled, monopolized by desire, that he did as he was told before he could think. And then his brain really did snap in half as your lips sealed around his tongue, and you suckled on the muscle, moaning, tasting, wanting. 

Joel groaned loudly, eyes rolling to the back of his skull, his hands beginning to dig into your skin. He needed you closer, closer. 

And when you released your gentle hold of him, lips connected again for another kiss, he was dragging your hips against him harder, sawing your little center across his thickening length beneath his sweatpants. It just wasn’t enough, not nearly as close as he needed you. 

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, kissing you harder, unable to take anymore, “fuck, baby, you’re killin’ me, grind on my cock some more, it feels so damn good, little thing wants me bad, huh?”

You gasped at his dirty mouth, but he couldn’t help himself, he was gone. Lost to it, hungry, hungrier than he thought he’d ever been for anything. All Joel could think about now was your pulsing, wet, puffy cunt beneath your clothes. How it would feel to not take, but give. And he’d give it to you so damn good. 

You pushed your hips down, and he guided you, hands back on your hips, pushing and sawing you on top of him. It was damn near heaven, friction and heat, everything he’d wanted. 

“Take this off, baby, please, is that okay?” he asked, pulling at your sweater. 

You were already moving, hasty, as undone as he was, both of you chasing the same edge. The fabric came over your head with shaking fingers, and suddenly you were bare in front of him, breathing hard, flushed all over. No bra. So that was it. The final nail in his coffin. The quiet, damning proof that you hadn’t just come over hoping he’d give you what you wanted—you’d known he would.

You’d decided. You’d trusted him. You’d made up your mind long before he opened the door.

“Joel,” you murmured, shirt off. 

He was staring. He knew he was staring. His brain was blank, white space as his mouth parted. His eyes drank you in like he’d never seen anything more perfect. He wasn’t sure he ever had, truth be told. 

As he shook his head to unscramble the thoughts, he heard his voice from far away: “Yeah, baby?” 

“I think I might go insane,” you said, your voice so soft it was almost a confession. “I feel—”

You wrapped your arms around yourself suddenly, like you needed to hold it all in, covering yourself, pushing your breasts together, fingers brushing your throat, your eyes darting away as if you didn’t know where to land.

He forced himself back to the present, maybe he’d been too quick, too forceful, too willing to give over all control to the beast in him that wanted so badly it made him blind. “What is it? Are you okay?”

You nodded—then shook your head, “I want you so bad I think I might…It hurts, Joel. I might cry if you don’t do something.”

Joel’s hands came up to your face, palms warm against your jaw, his thumb stroking the corner of your mouth. Your bare chest pressed to his shirt, burning him through the cotton. His breath stuttered in his throat.

“Don’t cry, hunny,” he murmured, kissing the tip of your nose, nuzzling into your cheek, “don’t cry, daddy is here, daddy is gonna take care of you. I want you so bad, just wanna take it slow for ya, is all.”

You were gripping his arms, rocking your hips harder, chasing that friction in his lap. Joel forced himself to keep his eyes open on you, as much as they wanted to roll back into his head again. Everything just felt so damn good when it came to you. He clenched his jaw, his hands anchored on you, guiding you. 

“I need more,” you whined, breath hot against his neck. 

“Okay, okay, what about this?” he said, voice rough with restraint, though he was smiling a bit.  He lowered his head to your chest, kissing your clavicle, licking a broad stripe between the valley of your breasts. So heavy and pretty, his for the taking. His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue flattening against it, and you gasped, arching into him like your body knew what to do before your mind caught up. Your fingers dove into his hair, tangling, tugging, your body trembling against his.

He sucked and pulled and bit on your pert nipple, inhaling your perfume, the smell of the hearth, the heat of your skin. Everything was a blur of a dream and reality, his memories of his fist around his cock just thinking of you like this mixing with the reality of it happening here and now. 

He was going insane. That was the plain truth.

He kissed up your neck again, tongue flat against your skin as he licked and nibbled his way to your jaw. Your sweet little moans filled his lungs, breathless sighs spilling out against his cheek, feeding something wild in him. He wrapped his arms beneath you and lifted you with ease, and you giggled as your legs locked around his waist, clinging tight while he started toward the hallway.

“No, no,” you whined, petulant, “want to do it here, in front of the fire,” 

“S’not right, baby,” he muttered, the sound breaking as he groaned and held you aloft, looking up at you, “should take you in the bed, where you’ll be comfortable.”

But you shook your head, tugged his hair, eyes wide and pleading, still shining with that sex drunk look in them. “Want you here,” you said again. “It’s warm… and it’s nice in here.”

“Alright,” he breathed, giving in without a fight. You were kissing him before he even settled you back down, greedy wet mouth pressing up into his, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He lowered you onto the couch, eased you onto your back, and your legs opened for him, letting him into the cradle of you. You moaned as he pressed down into you, grinding slow and teasing.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he murmured, lips wandering lower again, down your throat, your collarbone. He kissed everywhere, licked and tasted, needing to map every inch of your skin. “Gonna take these off now,” he said, gaze flicking up to meet yours as his fingers slipped under your waistband. “That okay?”

You nodded, chest heaving, lips parted and kiss bitten.

“Words, baby, let me hear your pretty voice too.”

“Yes, please—please,”

“Atta girl,” he praised, and it rumbled deep in his chest. He began pulling your layers off, slowly, gently. Socks went first, plucked only with his forefinger and thumb, and he kissed the insole of your foot, his hand covering your frozen toes to warm them. He pulled off the rest, unwrapping his gift. His jaw nearly unhinged at the sight of you laid bare in front of him. He dragged his palms along your thighs, taking in the sight before him. Glistening, puffy, nearly dripping onto his sofa in front of him. You pretty pussy just waiting for him to devour. He could feel his cock answer in earnest, twitching, pre cum dribbling down the inseam of his thigh. 

“Oh, hunny,” he sighed, leaning the side of his head on your propped up knee, bringing you closer, dragging you up before him so he could get a better look. It felt like he might’ve started drooling, completely entranced by the way your perfect pussy clenched on nothing, begging for something that wasn’t there yet. Torture, that’s what it was, to leave her untouched this entire night.

“Are you going to…to touch me?” he heard you ask, so fragile and yet so brave. He looked up at you then, and watched, enamored, at your sweet face, your nervous eyes that were heavy lidded. 

“You want me to?”

You nodded vigorously, lifting your foot to rest on his shoulder, pulling him closer. Suddenly so confident in your want for him. 

He took your leg, kissed the inside of your calf, then bit into the meat of it in a playful little warning. You yelped, giggled, and kicked him lightly in the chest. “Bad,” he scolded, though there wasn’t a trace of real reprimand in his voice.

“You’re taking so lonngggg,” you whined, dramatic.

“Let me savor this,” he said playfully, kissing your skin again, warm mouth against warmer flesh, the heat of the two of you seeping into ever pore. He moved slowly, lips pressing, tongue tasting, his beard dragging in little teasing strokes along your thigh that made your skin pebble. He took his time climbing the soft inside of your legs, and he could feel you trembling, tightening in anticipation.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he stopped to stare, because the firelight had turned you into something unreal. Glistening, soft, swollen with want. The smell rising from you was honey and sweat and something sweetly feral, and it pulled at him like gravity. He laid one hand gently over your pubic bone, the other hooking under your thigh to pull you closer, closer, until you couldn’t move away even if you wanted. He leaned in and blew across your glistening folds. 

You whined, hips jerking in his hold. “Hurts, Joel,” you whimpered.

“What does, baby?” he asked softly, voice teasing at the edges. “This?” He blew again, gentle and warm, and your puffy pussy twitched in response.

You shook your head, “Waiting—it hurts, she wants you. I want you.” 

She. As if his brain wasn’t already scrambled enough, you were using pronouns for your sweet, velvet keep. He felt his pulse pounding in his fingertips. Humming in a sort of understanding, he lowered his head. 

“Might feel a little weird, okay? You ever touch yourself before, hunny?” He asked.

You nodded, nibbling on the nails of your right hand. He kissed the top of your mound, eyes on your sweet face. “Have you ever had an orgasm before?”

“Yes,” you sighed, eyes beginning to close as he kissed along your soft thatch of curls. 

Joel let out a deep breath, reverent in his hunger, the sound shaking through his chest. He lowered his face until the bridge of his nose rested just above your entrance. He knew he was torturing you, stringing you along like this. But what if this was the only time he ever got to touch you like this? Every other woman had come to him once and left satisfied, done with him. If they returned, he always turned them away, told them he wasn’t built for more than the favor he gave. But you… you were different. He wanted to keep this. To savor this.

He wanted to remember how you looked right now for the rest of his life.

“S’gonna feel a little different,” he promised, voice rough as gravel. “But daddy’ll make it feel good. I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathed, reaching down to pet your fingers through his hair. The moment your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, another sound rumbled out of him, low and almost pleased enough to be a purr.

He could no longer deny you. He could no longer deny her. If he held himself back another second, he didn’t think he’d survive it. And he’d never be able to call himself a good man again if he dragged out this torture.

He started slow, a kiss to your little pearl, and it pulsed between his lips when he kissed again, suckling gently, your soft whines and breathy sighs rising above him like a symphony.  He licked a fat stripe from your perineum, his tongue like a basin for catching your nectar, drinking you, inhaling you, eating you. He tried to be kind, gentle, but once he’d had a taste, he couldn’t stop himself. 

Joel was a menace. He knew it. Growling under his breath, his breathing heavy and ragged, the beast in him was closer to the surface than he’d let it get in years. Muzzle off but leash tight, he licked and drank and sounded like he’d never eat again. He moaned into you, harmonizing with your sweet, desperate sounds, both of you moving without thinking, your hips pushing into his mouth while he rocked up against the bottom of the couch, the precum from his cock already staining the fabric of his pants.

“Oh,” you mewled, trembling, “oh, Joel—Joel, I think… oh god—”

The sound of his name like that on your lips, pleading and filled with want was a blow to his gut. He paused his grinding, knowing full well he could finish in his pants if he let himself go even one inch further.

He couldn’t take his mouth away from you. He wanted to tell you everything, wanted to praise you, to worship you, to admit how beautiful you were, how unreal you tasted, sweet and warm and soft like velvet against his tongue. He was losing his mind, forcing his heavy‑lidded eyes to stay open, to watch you fall apart for him. 

The hand that was placed upon your mound had started thrumming at your little clit so he could fuck your keep with his tongue, pushing and drinking you in, forcing your back to arch, your lungs to heave, throat crying out. And that’s when he felt the pulsing swell of your orgasm crest and rush through you, thighs shaking, heels pulling him in, digging into his shoulder blades as you brought him closer.

“Yes,” he swore, “That’s it, baby, fucking soak me, come all over my face, atta girl,” his voice was raw with desire, aching for it, and you let out one final scream of pleasure as he kept you there to ride it out, tongue pushing in, thumb circling your clit.

And as you settled, thighs trembling, he saw your throat bobbing, hoarse, eyes heavy and moist as you looked at him again, “Holy shit,” you whispered, giggling a bit. 

Joel wasn’t in the mood for playfulness anymore. Not with the way that feral, starving thing in him was thrashing now, begging, snapping at its leash. His cock strained violently through his sweatpants, painful and insistent, and he crawled over you like gravity had taken hold of him. His hands cupped the bowl of your skull, holding you steady as he kissed you, deep and claiming, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he commanded between breaths, “taste how fuckin’ good you are,”

You moaned into his mouth, and he thought he might scare you with how badly he wanted you, it scared him a little too. But you could feel his cock, and you were grinding on the outline of it, creamy folds pulsing around the cotton covered mold of him. He was groaning and pushing into you, sawing his hips hard into your cradle. 

“That feels so good, Joel, oh god, please, I want it, I’m ready, I’m ready,” you babbled, mouth soft and open for him as he kissed down your chin, along your jaw, to the shell of your ear. He sat back on his haunches, fingers shaking as he tugged his waistband down. He didn’t care to discard them fully, he was too lost in his need, his hunger. Monopolized by it, it’s all he could think of, giving you this. Giving you him. 

But as he brought his cock to lay across your belly, too heavy to bob up against his own, your eyes widened, a prickle of fear through them as you looked up at him. 

His hand slid to the crease of your hip and thigh, thumb settling right into that soft pocket of skin. He stroked you there, slow, reassuring. “S’alright, baby. You ever seen a cock before?”

You shook your head. “In pictures,” you whispered. “But not… not—” You lifted your hands to your face, peeking through your fingers like you were bracing for a jump scare. “It’s not gonna fit, Joel. Absolutely not.”

He chuckled before he could stop himself, but it wasn’t soft. It sounded rough, a little feral, like something wrenched out of him without permission. "We'll make it fit, honey," he said with finality.

He tried to school that feral part of him back, but then your hand moved.

You were reaching down, touching, your finger tracing the ridge of the head, making him hiss. You jerked your hand away, startled, but he caught your wrist with surprising gentleness. “S’okay,” he breathed, eyes falling shut as he tried not to lose what little control he had left. “Feels good. Maybe too good.” He guided your hand back, lacing his fingers over yours, helping you cup the weight of him. He rocked into your hand, slow and tight.

“So warm,” you whispered to yourself, “Soft, too, like velvet,” 

Joel hummed, lost to the way your delicate fingers felt around him as he rucked against you. The friction wasn’t enough, and he brought your hand to his mouth, spit into it, your eyes wider, and brought your hand back down. His head thrown back and mouth open, he let you play, no longer guiding, letting you explore. Your wet fingers traced him, teased him, wrapped around him, and he felt his vision spark white at the edges. He wanted to watch so badly but couldn’t, the feeling of your wet exploration, your learning of him, far too delicious to focus on anything but touch alone. 

“I want to try,” you said at last, “maybe just…just be slow,” 

Joel looked back down at you, but you weren’t looking at him, instead, you were staring at your own hand, enraptured by the way it moved over him, touching him like you were trying to memorize every vein and ridge. When you reached further, cupping his balls gently, he let out a groan that tore through him, a sound he couldn’t have held back if he tried. 

He gripped himself, shifting so he could slide through the slick honey you made for him, his cock jumping at the feeling of your warm keep. 

You moaned at the contact, hands flying to his forearms, gripping as you whimpered at the notch of when he finally prodded the entrance. 

“M’nervous,” you whispered. 

Joel leaned down immediately, cupping your cheeks in both hands again, kissing your mouth once, soft and grounding, trying to soothe the tremble running through your body. “I got you, baby. Daddy’s got you. Gonna take it slow, I promise. You ready?”

You nodded, arms slipping around his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him close like you couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

Joel’s mouth fell open, jaw coming unhinged as he pushed, slowly, like molasses, through your walls. They clenched down, as nervous as you were to his intrusion. He kissed you again, distracting you with his tongue, coaxing you through it, letting you mewl sweetly into his mouth as your body adjusted around him.

“Oh!” you squealed, “you’re—you’re in my belly,” you hissed as he pulled back a little, settling there. 

He pushed your hair back, your forehead dappling in sweat, “It’s alright,” he murmured, over and over, his voice a low litany. “It’s alright. Gonna hurt for just a minute. That’s halfway, baby. Only halfway. You’re doin’ so good. She feels like heaven.”

You were moaning, whether in pleasure or pain, Joel knew he needed to wait. He felt your walls pulling and pushing, constricting like a fist, all the blood in the thick vein that rushed along his shaft pulsing. He kissed your neck, your jaw, all to keep himself in line, to keep that shred of restraint, waiting. 

“Bein’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, “How you feelin’, hm? Talk to me.”

You drew in a deep breath. “Feels funny,” you admitted, “but better.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering. “Keep going. Please. I want to feel all of you.”

Joel looked into your eyes then, searching, both of you a mirror of desire, of nerves, of want, “Okay, okay,” he cooed, pushing in a few more inches. Your neck arched back, eyes squeezing shut, and he tapped his thumb against your jaw, “Look at me, honey, daddy’s got ya,”

Your eyes opened, and your breath came heavier, and soon your grimace was turning into an ‘o’ of pleasure as he seated himself fully, his balls pushing into the cheeks of your ass. 

“Ohhh…” Joel groaned, “Ain’t that so good, sugar?” 

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck,” you were whispering. 

Joel eased back just enough to look down between your bodies. You followed his gaze, chest heaving, watching with him as his cock slid out, slick with your release, veins streaked with white cream, the thick length glistening under the low light. His hair was damp, peppered with sweat and ecstasy.

“Holy fucking shit,” you breathed, eyes wide, watching him push back in, your neck arching with the stretch, head tipping helplessly into the pillows. “Please, please don’t stop—it feels—oh my god—it feels so fucking good—”

And finally, fucking finally, after what felt like ages of restraint, of being good, of holding himself and muzzling that mean dog in him, Joel let go of the leash.

He started fucking into you with full force, sawing deep, hard, relentless, watching the way his cock disappeared and reappeared inside you, dripping with slick. His jaw clenched, his body shuddering as he gave in to the hunger.

“You’ve got no fuckin’ clue,” he growled, “how long I’ve wanted this.” His hands moved to grip your hips so hard his knuckles blanched. “How long I’ve thought about you like this. Moanin’ my name with my cock deep in you.”

Your eyes were wide as you watched him, moaning his praises. Oh, god, oh god, tell me, daddy please tell me—

He couldn’t stop looking, watching himself move in and out of you like it was the only thing left in the world, and his mouth spilled every unclean thought he'd ever had. “You got no idea, baby. Wanted to fuck your throat every time you gave me lip. Wanted to bend you over the cabin floor that time we got snowed in, make her cry for me. God, I wanted you so bad.”

Sweat was dripping from his forehead, falling onto your belly, hot against hot. The room blurred at the edges, fire and muscle and want, just you taking everything he gave.

“Ain’t my fault,” he murmured, a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect. This ass. That face. You’re perfect, baby. All mine now. My perfect girl.”

“Yes, Joel, I’m yours—I wanna be—it’s all I’ve ever—” you were gasping, hiccuping on a moan, nails dragging down his arms. “Please, come here, closer—”

He dropped over you again in an instant, kissing you hard, bellies sliding together, soaked in sweat, his rhythm never slowing. The couch rocked beneath you as he kept fucking into you, kissing you as if it might kill him if he stopped.

“I’m yours,” you whispered against his mouth, nails scraping into his scalp. “Fuck me like I’m yours, Joel.”

He bit into your neck, rough and deep, and you wailed, body tightening as he sawed into you. He forced himself to keep a steady rhythm, he would not ruin this by being an animal. He told himself he’d teach you one day how to take a good fucking, maybe bent over the armchair or over his kitchen counter, or maybe in the shower, but tonight he needed to still be gentle and good, keeping it steady for only you. 

His thumb found your clit and you jolted like you’d been shocked.

“N–n–no, too much,” you cried out, writhing, your hands pushing at him weakly.

“Say your word n’ I’ll stop, baby girl, come on, know you’re tough, know you can take it,” he growled, “wanna feel how fuckin’ tight she’ll get when she comes around me, come on now, be daddy’s girl and come for me.”

You were wailing, tears beading in your eyes, but you didn’t say your word, you nodded, kissing him, salt and wet and delicious as your breath came shorter and shorter. And then you froze, legs widening until your thighs were planted on the bed, taking your orgasm, letting him fuck you through it, your velvet keep a vice around his cock, a fist, threatening to choke the life out of him as you came. 

"I'm gonna come inside," he wanted, "I have to, I can't—"

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered.

He was babbling praise in your ear as he held on through sheer force before his own body went taut and he was coming inside of you, unable to talk himself into pulling away. That’s a good girl, atta girl, what a sweet little thing takin’ daddy’s cock so good, that’s it, that’s it, yes.

And in the after, the two of you lay like that, bodies tangled and unwound, catching your breath while the sweat cooled and soaked into the old couch cushions beneath you. He kept his mouth on your shoulder, slow open kisses that tasted of salt and the faintest sweetness of your skin. Your fingers stroked gently at his hair, a soft and steady petting that calmed him. He felt the heavy rise and fall of your chest begin to ease, your heartbeat settling back into its natural rhythm, the thrum of it against his sternum.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words faint and almost shy.

Joel hummed against your skin, his lips still wandering, kissing whatever they could reach. He did not know how to answer you without saying too much.

“What happens now?” you asked even quieter. 

He lifted his head, brushing a kiss to your chin, then the swell of your bottom lip, then the tip of your nose, giving himself time to think. “We’ll get you cleaned up, and you can...” He paused when he saw your brow crease, the worry clouding the softness that had been there a moment ago. “What is it?”

“I don’t wanna go home,” you whispered. “I don’t want this to be the last time. I want…I meant what I said, Joel. I’m yours, if you’d have me.”

He went still, just for a moment, watching the worry flicker behind your eyes. He hated that worry. Hated that he might be the cause of it. You were brave enough to say it, and he knew what that cost.

He’d lived a long time doing favors for folks, keeping to himself, giving women what they asked for without stepping past the boundaries they laid down. Jackson’s Cherry Picker. That stupid little nickname had stuck, and maybe he’d earned it. But he never took what wasn’t offered, they never stayed long after, and he never asked for more. They came to him wanting a lesson, a night, a rite of passage, and he’d give them exactly that. No promises. No expectations. 

And most days he convinced himself he liked it that way. It kept him unbound, kept things simple. And it kept him from wanting what he’d already lost too many times.

But simple had turned into lonely long before tonight, and he hadn’t even noticed until now, with you in his arms. You had been the exception from the beginning. But now…now…

He lifted his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing the heat there, and saw how much you meant every word you’d said. It would be the easiest thing in the world to tell you to go, to stick to the script he always used, to keep his life small and untouched.

But he couldn’t picture you leaving. Not after this. This was mind altering, a seismic change, like fault lines rearranged in his heart for you. A spell cast between you, irreversible and unseen. Whatever line you’d crossed together, it wouldn’t be uncrossed. And that’s what he wanted. He wanted to keep giving, to let himself soften and offer and pour whatever he had into your hands, if you chose that path with him.

“Stay here,” he said, more certain than he had felt in years, “Stay with me.”